Part 7
Blitzo leans back in his chair, propping his boots up on his desk as he takes a sip of his coffee. “Three days, huh? Well, lucky for you, there’s always someone in Hell that needs killing.” He rummages through a stack of papers on his cluttered desk before pulling out a folder and tossing it to Duran.
“Here. Got a couple of contracts strictly in Hell—some high-profile scumbags that pissed off the wrong demons. Should keep you busy ‘til your little time-out is up.”
Duran flips through the files, scanning the targets. Some were crime bosses, others corrupt elites who had made too many enemies. “Seems straightforward enough,” he says, shutting the folder.
Blitzo grins. “Straightforward? Maybe. But it’s Hell. Nothing’s ever that easy.”
Duran smirks as he stands up, tucking the folder under his arm. “Good. I like a challenge.”
With that, he heads out, ready to keep himself busy until he can return to Earth once more.
Duran wastes no time getting to work. With each assignment, he moves like a ghost through the shadows, taking out his targets with precision and efficiency. Blitzo had warned him that things in Hell were never that easy, but for Duran, it almost felt routine.
The first target, a corrupt demon merchant, barely had time to react before Duran slit his throat in the back of his own warehouse. The second, a Hell-born crime boss, was gunned down in his own nightclub, the music too loud for anyone to notice until it was too late. One by one, Duran dismantled his targets with surgical precision, leaving no trace behind except the corpses of those unfortunate enough to be on his list.
By the time he returned to I.M.P’s office, he had barely broken a sweat. Tossing the completed contracts onto Blitzo’s desk, he smirked. “You were saying?”
Blitzo blinked at the pile of finished jobs, then looked up at Duran. “Okay, damn, remind me never to bet against you.”
Duran chuckled, crossing his arms. “Three days stuck in Hell? Might as well make the most of it.”
With some free time on his hands, Duran decides to take a break from contracts and explore Hell a bit more. He wanders through the winding streets of the city, taking in the chaotic beauty of the underworld. The towering, gothic skyscrapers, neon-lit alleyways, and hellish marketplaces all had a strange charm to them.
He finds himself drawn to the abandoned sections of the city—old buildings long forgotten, remnants of past eras in Hell. The thrill of urban exploration kicks in as he sneaks into a crumbling theater, its stage frozen in time with broken props and faded curtains. In another area, he discovers a long-forgotten underground tunnel system, leading to what seems like a collapsed train station, filled with graffiti and eerie silence.
At one point, he even stumbles upon a hidden bar tucked away in a shadowy corner of the city, a place where only the most seasoned and discreet demons gather. He orders a drink and simply listens, overhearing whispers of the latest power struggles in Hell, rumors of ancient relics, and even talk of Lucifer’s recent interests.
As he moves from one forgotten place to another, he can’t help but feel a sense of intrigue. Even in a place like Hell, there were still secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Back at his apartment, Duran settles into his usual routine. He lays out his arsenal on the table, meticulously cleaning each firearm, making sure not a single speck of dust or residue remains. His knives get the same treatment—he sharpens them with precision, testing the edges until they’re razor-sharp.
Once his weapons are in top condition, he shifts his focus to his own body. He starts with weightlifting, pushing himself through intense sets, keeping his strength at peak condition. Afterward, he moves on to martial arts training, practicing strikes, blocks, and counters with the discipline instilled in him since childhood. His movements are fluid, deadly, and efficient.
For the final part of his training, he sets up a speed and reflex drill, using a homemade contraption of swinging targets and weighted dummies. Dodging, weaving, striking—every movement is executed with precision.
By the time he finishes, sweat drips down his body, but he feels sharper than ever. Even while stuck in Hell, he refuses to let his skills dull. After showering, he finally allows himself to relax for a bit, leaning back on his couch with a drink in hand, letting his mind drift.
As Duran sits back, the weight of his situation starts to press down on him. The realization that he’s bound to Hell for the next three days, with no way to leave, gnaws at him. The freedom he had just experienced in the living world—seeing his family, showing Octavia his home—feels distant now.
He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a slow exhale. No matter how much he trains, fights, or distracts himself, he can’t ignore the lingering frustration of being tethered to a place he never truly belonged to. It wasn’t Hell itself that bothered him—he had adapted, as he always did—but the fact that his choices were limited. No matter what he did, there would always be a balance he had to maintain.
He stands up, pacing around his apartment, trying to shake the feeling. I need something to do, he thinks. His mind races through possible ways to burn time. Maybe a trip to Lux or some underground fight rings? Something to keep his mind busy until he could return to Earth.
Grabbing his jacket and weapons, he decides—if he’s stuck in Hell, he might as well make the most of it.
Duran moves swiftly across the rooftops of Imp City, the cool, crimson-tinged air rushing past him as he leaps from building to building. His boots barely make a sound as he lands, his movements fluid and precise. This was one of the few things that truly cleared his mind—the rhythmic pulse of his own movement, the adrenaline surging through his veins, the city stretching out beneath him like a labyrinth of neon and shadows.
He vaults over a gap between two buildings, rolling as he lands, before continuing his sprint. The frustration gnawing at him starts to fade with each stride, each leap. He isn't thinking about his curse, about being stuck in Hell, or about the limitations placed on him. Right now, he’s just moving. Free, even if only for a moment.
As he reaches the edge of a particularly high rooftop, he stops, standing at the precipice and looking out over the city. The skyline of Imp City glows with a chaotic energy—flashing signs, bustling streets below, the distant hum of nightlife. Taking a deep breath, he lets the tension in his muscles loosen.
But as he stands there, he wonders—what else could he do while he’s here? Maybe there’s something more to uncover in the depths of Hell, something that could be useful to him in the long run. His instincts tell him that there’s always something lurking beneath the surface, waiting to be found.
Duran walks through the streets of Imp City, his hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning the chaotic world around him. The neon lights flicker overhead, casting a dim, almost eerie glow on the cracked pavement. Demons of all kinds move about—some minding their business, others sizing each other up for a fight, and a few causing general mayhem. The usual Hellish energy, nothing out of the ordinary.
Yet, despite the liveliness of the city, Duran feels distant. The tension still lingers in his chest, a reminder that he’s stuck, bound to Hell’s cycle for the next few days. He tells himself it’s not a big deal—he’s survived worse—but the feeling of being caged gnaws at him.
As he turns down a quieter alleyway, the distant noise of the city fades slightly, leaving only the sound of his boots hitting the ground. He exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe he needs to hit up a bar, get a drink, or find a fight club to burn off some of this restless energy. Or maybe he just keeps walking, letting the streets of Hell take him wherever they lead.
Duran watches from the sidelines at first, sizing up the fighters in the ring. The atmosphere is thick with tension, sweat, and the roaring cheers of demons eager for bloodsport. Some of the fighters are brawlers—no technique, just brute strength. Others have some skill but lack the killer instinct. Duran smirks. He’s seen better.
After a few matches, he decides to step in. The moment he enters the ring, the energy shifts. The crowd murmurs, some recognizing him, others doubting him. His first opponent—a towering, muscular hellhound—lunges at him without hesitation. Big mistake. Duran sidesteps, lands a precise strike to the ribs, then sweeps his legs out from under him. One down.
Fight after fight, Duran moves with precision and efficiency, taking down opponents with ease. Some last longer than others, but none truly challenge him. He doesn’t mind. Each strike, each movement, each victory slowly chips away at the stress weighing on his shoulders. By the time he’s done, standing in the center of the ring with the final opponent at his feet, he feels lighter. The tension, the frustration of being trapped in Hell—it’s all melted away.
As he steps out of the ring, grabbing a drink from a passing server, he leans against a wall, breathing steady. Maybe being stuck in Hell for a few days wasn’t so bad after all.
Duran makes his way through the neon-lit streets of Hell, hopping from bar to bar. He downs drink after drink, whiskey, demon-grade absinthe, even some experimental concoctions from mixologists who promise a hellish kick. But his tolerance is annoyingly high, forcing him to keep going, searching for that buzz.
Eventually, after what feels like an endless marathon of shots and cocktails, he finally starts to feel it. His body loosens, his mind hazes, and that familiar warmth spreads through him. By the time he stumbles out of the last bar, the streets blur slightly, and his usual sharp instincts are dulled. It takes him a bit longer than usual to navigate back to his apartment, but somehow, through muscle memory or sheer stubbornness, he makes it.
Once inside, he collapses onto his couch, letting out a deep exhale. The room spins slightly, but for the first time in a while, he’s not thinking about curses, contracts, or the weight of his existence. Just for tonight, he lets himself sink into the drunken haze, closing his eyes as Hell continues to hum outside his window.
Duran jolts awake, his stomach twisting violently. He barely has time to react before he scrambles to the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet as he throws up everything he drank. His body tenses with each heave, the taste of alcohol and bile burning his throat.
He rests his forehead against the cool porcelain, breathing heavily as the nausea lingers. His head pounds like a war drum, the consequences of his drinking spree hitting him full force. He groans, feeling drained, and before he can even think about getting up, exhaustion takes over.
Slumped against the bathroom wall, he closes his eyes and passes out right there, the distant sounds of the city outside lulling him into a deep, uneasy sleep.
As he sips his coffee, his thoughts drift to Octavia. Her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she saw the stars, how she clung to him during their trip to his home. Just thinking about her made the stress in his chest ease up a little.
Without overthinking it, he pulls out his phone and texts her:
"Morning, songbird. You up?"
A few moments pass, and then his phone buzzes.
"Yeah, just woke up. You okay?"
Duran smirks a little, shaking his head. Even through a text, she could tell something was up. He debates brushing it off but decides against it.
"Just feeling a little stuck. Needed a distraction. Wanna call?"
Almost immediately, his phone starts ringing. He answers, and the moment he hears her voice, soft and warm, his tension melts away.
As they talk, Duran sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just… knowing I can’t leave whenever I want. Even if I have a way back, I still have to stay down here just as long as I was up there. It’s not the worst thing, but it’s… frustrating.”
Octavia listens intently before responding, her voice soft but steady. “I get that. You’re used to moving freely, making your own choices. And now there’s this… leash, in a way.”
Duran chuckles dryly. “Yeah, something like that.”
There’s a pause, then Octavia speaks again. “You know… you’re not alone in this. You’ve got me, my dad, even Blitzo and the others. It’s not like you’re suffering here alone.”
Her words sink in, and for the first time since he got back, the weight on his shoulders feels lighter. “Yeah… you’re right.” He smirks. “That’s why I called you. You always know what to say.”
Octavia chuckles. “Of course I do. You’d be lost without me.”
Duran shakes his head, a genuine smile forming. “Maybe I would.”
Duran leans back, feeling a little more at ease now. “Hey, you wanna just hang out today? Nothing fancy, just… spend some time together?”
Octavia perks up at the idea. “Yeah, I’d love that. What do you have in mind?”
He shrugs. “Not sure yet. Maybe just a walk, grab something to eat, or just chill somewhere. Doesn’t really matter as long as it’s with you.”
Octavia smiles. “That sounds perfect. Come pick me up?”
“Already on my way,” Duran replies with a smirk as he grabs his coat and heads out.
Duran takes Octavia to a cozy little diner in the city, one of those hidden gems with the best breakfast food. He orders a massive plate of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and toast—anything to soak up the remnants of his hangover. Octavia, amused, sips her coffee as she watches him practically inhale his food.
“You look like you haven’t eaten in days,” she teases, twirling a fork through her own meal.
Duran smirks between bites. “Gotta recover somehow. I might’ve overdone it last night.”
Octavia chuckles. “You think? You sounded pretty rough over the phone earlier.”
He sighs, taking a sip of his coffee. “Yeah… guess I needed to blow off some steam. But I’d rather be here with you than drinking myself into oblivion.”
Octavia smiles at that, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Well, I’m glad you called me. Let’s make today a good one.”
Duran nods, finally starting to feel like himself again. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
After breakfast, Duran and Octavia decide to just let loose and have fun, embracing the chaotic energy of the city. They start off with something light—spray-painting graffiti on some abandoned buildings, leaving behind intricate designs and messages that only they understand.
Then, they hit up a go-kart track, where Duran takes it way too seriously, drifting around corners and nearly sending Octavia into a wall. She retaliates by ramming into his kart, laughing wildly as he feigns offense.
After that, they head to an arcade, where they completely dominate every game they touch—except the claw machine, which Duran gets irrationally angry at after spending way too many tries attempting to win Octavia a plush.
Their chaos escalates when they "accidentally" start a bar fight in some shady underground club, both of them tag-teaming against demons dumb enough to challenge them. Duran lands brutal punches while Octavia uses her agility to dodge and trip people up. They leave with adrenaline pumping, grinning like maniacs.
Finally, they cap off the day by sneaking onto the rooftop of a high-rise building, sitting at the edge while looking down at the city below.
Octavia leans into Duran with a satisfied sigh. “That was fun.”
Duran smirks, wrapping an arm around her. “Yeah… sometimes, a little chaos is just what you need.”

Duran smiles at her words, tightening his hold around her as they sit together, the neon lights of Hell’s cityscape flickering below them. He presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, his usual tough exterior softening in the quiet moment.
“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me too, Octavia,” he admits, his voice low but sincere. “I never thought I’d find something—someone—worth staying for.”
Octavia looks up at him, her mismatched eyes gleaming under the dim glow of the city. “Well, you’re stuck with me now,” she teases, a small smile on her lips.
Duran chuckles. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
They sit there in comfortable silence, just enjoying each other’s presence, letting the rest of the chaotic world fade away for a while.
Octavia also says to Duran “if you ever feel stressed Duran, just call me any time you feel like it” She says with a smile that can speak a thousand words, but to Duran it meant “I am here for you”
Duran looks at Octavia, touched by her words. He reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as he nods.
“I will,” he promises. “You’re the one person who makes all this easier.”
Octavia leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder. “Good. You don’t have to go through it alone, Duran.”
He exhales, feeling some of the weight on his shoulders lift. “That means more than you know, Octavia.”
They sit there for a while longer, just holding each other, letting the moment sink in. No words needed—just the quiet understanding that, no matter what, they had each other.
Duran walks Octavia back to her home, his hand gently holding hers as they stroll through the dimly lit streets of Hell. The chaos of the city fades into the background—right now, it’s just the two of them.
As they reach her doorstep, Octavia turns to him with a soft smile. “Thanks for today. I really needed it.”
Duran smirks. “I should be the one thanking you.”
She chuckles, then steps closer, wrapping her arms around him. He returns the embrace, holding her tightly, feeling the warmth of her presence.
“You gonna be okay?” she asks, looking up at him.
Duran nods. “Yeah. I’ve got you, don’t I?”
Octavia blushes slightly but doesn’t look away. “Yeah. You do.”
With that, she leans up and presses a soft kiss to his lips before stepping inside. Duran watches her disappear behind the door, exhaling as he turns away, hands in his pockets, walking off into the night.
The next day, Duran wakes up feeling more refreshed than he has in a while. His mind is clearer, his body well-rested, and for once, he doesn’t feel the weight of his curse pressing down on him as much.
After getting dressed and grabbing a quick bite, he checks his watch—he still has time before he can return to the living world. He wonders what Octavia is up to and considers calling her, but before he can, his phone buzzes.
Octavia: Hey, you up? Wanna do something today?
Duran smirks, shaking his head. It’s like she read his mind. He texts back.
Duran: Yeah, I’m up. What did you have in mind?
A few moments later, his phone vibrates again.
Octavia: Surprise. Just meet me at my place.
Duran chuckles to himself, grabbing his jacket before heading out. Whatever she had planned, he was looking forward to it.
Duran arrives at the grand Goetia mansion, stepping through the ornate gates and making his way up to the entrance. The place was always impressive, but by now, he had gotten used to its overwhelming luxury.
As he knocked on the door, a servant answered and let him in without question, already accustomed to his visits. He walked through the halls until he reached Octavia’s room, knocking lightly before pushing the door open.
Inside, Octavia was sitting on her bed, casually scrolling through her phone. When she looked up and saw him, her face brightened.
“There you are,” she said, standing up. “Ready for our little adventure?”
Duran smirked. “That depends—where are we going?”
Octavia grabbed his hand and pulled him along. “You’ll see. Just trust me.”
Duran let himself be led, curious and slightly amused. Whatever she had planned, he had a feeling it was going to be interesting.
Duran arrives at the grand Goetia mansion, stepping through the ornate gates and making his way up to the entrance. The place was always impressive, but by now, he had gotten used to its overwhelming luxury.
As he knocked on the door, a servant answered and let him in without question, already accustomed to his visits. He walked through the halls until he reached Octavia’s room, knocking lightly before pushing the door open.
Inside, Octavia was sitting on her bed, casually scrolling through her phone. When she looked up and saw him, her face brightened.
“There you are,” she said, standing up. “Ready for our little adventure?”
Duran smirked. “That depends—where are we going?”
Octavia grabbed his hand and pulled him along. “You’ll see. Just trust me.”
Duran let himself be led, curious and slightly amused. Whatever she had planned, he had a feeling it was going to be interesting.
Duran smirked as he led Octavia through the winding alleys of the city, eventually stopping in front of a dimly lit underground entrance. The muffled sounds of cheering and fists hitting flesh could already be heard from below.
Octavia raised an eyebrow. "A fight club? Seriously?"
Duran chuckled. "Thought you might like to see where I burned off some steam the other night."
She crossed her arms, intrigued. "And you won every fight, huh?"
"Almost too easily," Duran admitted with a smirk. "But maybe tonight I'll get more of a challenge."
Octavia smirked back. "Alright then, let's see you in action."
Duran led her inside, the atmosphere thick with sweat, blood, and adrenaline. Fighters were already in the ring, while spectators cheered, placed bets, and drank heavily. As soon as Duran stepped in, a few of the regulars noticed and started whispering.
One of the fight organizers, a burly demon with a scar over his eye, approached with a grin. "Well, well, the undefeated champ is back. You looking for another fight?"
Duran cracked his knuckles. "Yeah. And make it a good one this time."
The organizer laughed and gestured for a challenger to step up. "Alright, folks! Looks like we got ourselves a rematch! The Phantom versus Bloodhound!"
Octavia leaned against the railing, watching with keen interest. "Phantom, huh? That what they call you here?"
Duran rolled his shoulders. "I guess I leave an impression."
The bell rang, and his opponent—a towering beast of muscle and fury—lunged forward. Duran was already moving, sidestepping the attack with effortless precision. The fight was on, and Octavia had front-row seats to the chaos.
Duran smirked as he effortlessly dodged each of Bloodhound’s wild swings, his movements fluid like a ghost slipping through the cracks. The crowd roared as the massive demon growled in frustration, trying to land a hit, but Duran was too fast.
Octavia watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, clearly entertained. “You’re just messing with him at this point,” she muttered to herself with an amused smirk.
Bloodhound lunged again, but Duran sidestepped at the last second, tapping his opponent’s shoulder as he passed. “Too slow,” he taunted.
The beast snarled and charged, throwing a flurry of punches. Duran weaved through them with ease, occasionally giving light taps to the demon’s ribs or head—just enough to throw him off. The fight organizer shook his head, laughing. “Damn, kid’s just playing with him.”
Octavia chuckled. "Oh, I know."
Duran finally decided to end it. As Bloodhound threw one last desperate punch, Duran ducked, spun around, and delivered a brutal elbow to his gut, knocking the wind out of him. Before the demon could recover, Duran swept his legs, sending him crashing to the ground.
The crowd roared as Bloodhound groaned in defeat. Duran stood over him, offering a smirk before turning toward Octavia. “You enjoying the show?”
Octavia clapped slowly, shaking her head. “You’re such an ass.”
Duran chuckled. “Gotta have a little fun.”
Duran rolled his shoulders as his next opponent stepped into the ring. This one was different. He wasn’t some hulking brute relying on raw strength—he was lean, fast, and his stance showed discipline. A trained fighter.
The announcer grinned. “Ladies and gentlemen, our next challenger—The Phantom versus The Serpent!”
Duran’s smirk widened. The Serpent, huh? Let’s see if you live up to the name.
The bell rang, and immediately, The Serpent lunged forward with a series of rapid strikes. Duran dodged the first few but had to block the last one, feeling the force behind it. This guy was skilled. Fast, precise.
Duran grinned. “Finally, someone who knows what they’re doing.”
The Serpent didn’t waste time with words. He kept up the assault, his movements fluid, striking at different angles, trying to break Duran’s defense. Duran countered, dodging and weaving, slipping in quick jabs of his own. The fight became a blur of motion—two assassins testing each other’s limits, feeling out weaknesses.
Duran was enjoying himself. It had been a while since he’d fought someone who actually pushed him. The Serpent managed to land a clean shot to his ribs, making him grunt, but Duran retaliated with a sharp elbow to the jaw.
They circled each other, both breathing heavily but grinning. The crowd was on edge—this wasn’t a one-sided beatdown. This was a real fight.
Octavia watched intently from the sidelines. This was different from the first match—Duran wasn’t toying with this one. He was in it. And she could tell he was loving every second.
Duran wiped a bit of blood from his lip and smirked. “Not bad.”
The Serpent cracked his neck. “Likewise.”
Then they went at it again.
The fight raged on, each strike landing harder than the last. Duran could feel the sting of his opponent’s blows, but instead of frustration, he felt exhilaration. The Serpent was skilled—fast, precise, and adaptive. Every time Duran changed his strategy, The Serpent adjusted just as quickly.
A swift roundhouse kick barely missed Duran’s face as he leaned back just in time. He countered with a sharp jab to The Serpent’s ribs, making him grunt, but the man recovered quickly, rolling away before Duran could press the advantage.
The crowd was completely absorbed in the fight, the energy electric. This wasn’t just a brawl—this was an art, two warriors testing each other, respecting each other’s skill without needing to say a word.
After a brutal exchange of blows, both fighters took a step back, breathing heavily. They stared at each other for a moment, then smirked.
The Serpent wiped a bit of sweat from his brow. “You’re good.”
Duran rolled his shoulders and grinned. “So are you.”
There was no hatred between them, no ill will—just mutual respect. They both knew that, in another life, they might’ve been allies.
The announcer called for the final round, but before either of them could move, The Serpent held up a hand. “I yield.”
The crowd gasped in surprise, but Duran just raised a brow.
The Serpent smirked. “I know when a fight is gonna drag out. We’d probably beat the hell out of each other for another hour and still not get a clear winner. I say we call it even.”
Duran chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair enough.”
They stepped forward, clasping hands firmly. The fight was over, but the respect they had earned for each other remained.
Octavia watched from the sidelines, smiling softly. She had never seen Duran like this before—completely in his element, thriving off a challenge, and yet still maintaining that level-headed composure she admired so much.
As they left the ring, The Serpent called out, “Next time, I won’t hold back.”
Duran smirked over his shoulder. “Neither will I.”
The Serpent raised an eyebrow at Duran’s offer. "You serious? You want me to work for you?"
Duran smirked. "I don't make offers lightly. You’re skilled, disciplined, and you know how to handle yourself. I think you’d be a good fit at IMP."
The Serpent crossed his arms, considering it. "Not gonna lie, I’ve been looking for something more… stable. The fight circuit pays, but it’s not exactly reliable work. What’s the catch?"
Duran shrugged. "No real catch. You’d be working with a crew that takes contracts for high-profile assassinations—demons, sinners, even the occasional trip to the living world. Pay’s solid, and you’d have a team watching your back."
The Serpent chuckled. "A team, huh? Haven’t had one of those in a long time." He looked at Duran, then at Octavia, who was watching the exchange with interest. He could tell Duran wasn’t the type to throw out opportunities to just anyone. If he was offering, it meant he saw something in him.
After a moment of silence, The Serpent nodded. "Alright. I’m in."
Duran smirked. "Good. Welcome to IMP."
They shook hands, sealing the deal. Octavia smiled. "Looks like you made a new friend."
Duran chuckled. "More like a new asset. But yeah, something like that."
With that, they all left the fight club, The Serpent now part of the crew—another skilled assassin ready to make his mark in Hell.
Duran led The Serpent through the streets of Hell, heading toward IMP’s office. As they walked, he glanced at his new recruit.
"You'll be working for Blitzo. He runs IMP, the assassination business I’m part of. But before you start taking contracts, you'll need training," Duran said.
The Serpent scoffed. "Training? I just went toe-to-toe with you. I can handle myself."
Duran smirked. "You can fight, sure. But being a contract killer is more than just throwing punches. You need precision, strategy, and the ability to kill without leaving a trace. That’s where Daniel comes in."
The Serpent raised an eyebrow. "Who’s Daniel?"
"You’ll meet him soon. He’s one of the best assassins IMP has. If anyone can turn you into a refined killer, it’s him," Duran replied.
The Serpent nodded slowly, considering it. "Alright. If this Daniel guy is as good as you say, I’ll listen. But don’t expect me to be some obedient student."
Duran chuckled. "No one’s asking you to be. Just don’t get yourself killed."
With that, they arrived at IMP headquarters, ready to introduce The Serpent to his new mentorDuran led The Serpent into IMP headquarters, where Blitzø was busy yelling at Moxxie about something trivial. Ignoring the usual office chaos, Duran spotted Daniel sharpening a knife at his desk.
"Daniel," Duran called.
Daniel looked up, his sharp eyes locking onto The Serpent. He studied the newcomer for a moment before setting his knife down.
"This the guy?" Daniel asked, standing up.
Duran nodded. "Yeah. The Serpent. He gave me a good fight, and I think he’s got potential. Figured you could train him, show him what it really takes to be a contract killer."
The Serpent crossed his arms, his reptilian eyes narrowing. "I don’t need training. I can handle myself."
Daniel smirked, stepping closer. "That so?" Without warning, he moved fast—too fast for The Serpent to react. In one smooth motion, Daniel swept his leg out from under him, pinning him to the ground with a knife at his throat.
"You might be tough in a fight, but a real killer doesn’t just brawl," Daniel said coolly. "You need control, patience, and the ability to strike before your target even knows you’re there."
The Serpent gritted his teeth but didn’t struggle. He understood the message loud and clear.
Daniel pulled back, standing up and offering a hand. The Serpent hesitated, then took it, pulling himself up.
"Alright," The Serpent said, cracking his neck. "Teach me."
Daniel grinned. "Now we’re talking."
As Daniel led The Serpent deeper into the IMP training room, Duran and Octavia slipped out of the office, eager to enjoy the rest of the day without any work distractions.
"Where to?" Octavia asked, walking beside Duran as they strolled down the streets of Imp City.
Duran thought for a moment before smirking. "Let’s just wander. No plan, no destination. Just see where the city takes us."
Octavia smiled. "I like that."
They moved through the chaotic streets, past neon-lit alleys and towering buildings. They ducked into odd little shops, played a few rigged carnival games at a sketchy-looking fair, and even stole some overpriced snacks from a clueless vendor.
Eventually, they ended up on a bridge overlooking the city, the hellish skyline burning in the distance. Duran leaned on the railing, taking in the view, while Octavia stood beside him.
"You know," she said, looking up at him, "these little moments… they make everything feel normal."
Duran glanced at her. "Yeah?"
She nodded. "Even with all the crazy assassin stuff, the fighting, the missions… when it’s just us like this, it feels… peaceful."
Duran chuckled. "Didn’t think you’d find peace in a place like Hell."
Octavia smirked. "Maybe it's not about the place."
Duran looked at her, the warmth in her voice making his usual guarded expression soften. Without saying another word, he reached out and gently took her hand, giving it a small squeeze.
They stood there for a while, just watching the city below, letting the world fade away for a moment of quiet in the chaos.
After spending hours wandering the city, Duran and Octavia decided to head back to her place. The Goetia mansion was quiet when they arrived, with Stolas nowhere in sight—likely preoccupied with his own affairs.
Octavia led Duran to her room, a dimly lit space filled with celestial decorations, plush pillows, and soft lighting. It was cozy, a stark contrast to the chaotic world outside. She flopped onto her bed, stretching out with a content sigh.
Duran leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "So, what now? You wanna just sit in silence, or…?"
Octavia rolled her eyes and patted the space beside her. "Just lay down, you overthinking dumbass."
Duran smirked but complied, kicking off his boots before settling next to her. They lay there, side by side, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling.
"You ever just… not want to think?" Octavia murmured after a while.
Duran turned his head to look at her. "All the time."
She shifted slightly, resting her head against his shoulder. "Being around you makes it easier."
Duran let out a small chuckle. "Yeah? You’re saying I’m good for your mental health?"
Octavia smirked. "Don’t get ahead of yourself."
They stayed like that for a while, just enjoying each other’s presence. No missions, no fights, no chaos—just them, in the quiet comfort of Octavia’s room.
Duran and Octavia wandered into the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and cabinets for anything that looked remotely edible.
“So, what are we making?” Duran asked, holding up a loaf of bread in one hand and a jar of something unidentifiable in the other.
Octavia shrugged. “I dunno, let’s just throw stuff together and see what works.”
Duran smirked. “Alright, chaos cooking it is.”
They started pulling out random ingredients—eggs, cheese, some leftover meat, and a bunch of spices neither of them really knew how to use properly. Octavia took charge of the stove while Duran handled chopping things up, both of them working with little regard for technique.
At one point, Octavia accidentally poured way too much salt into the eggs.
“Uh… it’s fine,” she said, stirring aggressively as if that would fix it.
Duran snorted. “Yeah, sure. We’ll just pretend it’s extra seasoned.”
Despite the mess they made, the end result wasn’t… terrible. They had some kind of cheesy, scrambled-egg-meat concoction slapped onto toasted bread. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was edible.
Sitting on the counter, they dug in, bumping shoulders and laughing at how questionably good it actually turned out.
“Okay, not bad,” Octavia admitted between bites.
“See? Told you chaos cooking works,” Duran said smugly.
Octavia rolled her eyes, but there was a small smile on her face as they continued eating, just enjoying the simple moment together.
As Octavia was bent over, wiping down the counter, Duran smirked to himself before casually reaching over and giving her a quick pinch on the behind.
Octavia immediately yelped, nearly dropping the dish towel as she snapped upright, her face flushing. “Duran!” she gasped, turning to glare at him—though the hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
Duran just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. “What? Just appreciating the view.”
Octavia huffed, grabbing a nearby dish towel and flicking it at him. “You’re such a menace.”
Duran laughed, dodging the attack easily. “You love it.”
Octavia rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile as she went back to cleaning. Duran stepped in beside her, helping her finish up while still sneaking playful glances her way.
Even in the simplest moments, they always found a way to make things fun.
As Octavia finished wiping down the counter, Duran suddenly stepped in behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. Before she could react, he let his hand wander, giving her a playful squeeze.
Octavia gasped, her feathers fluffing up in surprise. “Duran!” she exclaimed, turning her head to glare at him, though her cheeks were tinged pink.
Duran just chuckled, resting his chin on her shoulder. “What? Just making sure my girl knows she’s irresistible.” His tone was smooth, teasing, and laced with amusement.
Octavia rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile from creeping onto her lips. “You’re incorrigible,” she muttered.
“And you love it,” Duran said smugly, pressing a light kiss to her cheek.
Octavia huffed, trying to seem annoyed, but the way she leaned back into him said otherwise. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she mumbled, making him chuckle as he held her a little closer.
As Duran leaned in, his lips captured Octavia’s in a slow, teasing kiss. She melted into him, her hands gripping his shirt as she kissed him back with equal passion. The playful energy between them hadn’t faded, though—just as Duran’s hands roamed over her back, Octavia smirked against his lips and suddenly pinched his behind.
Duran jolted slightly, pulling back just enough to look at her with an amused, almost impressed expression. “Oh? So that’s how we’re playing now?” he mused, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief.
Octavia grinned, her feathers ruffling slightly as she tilted her head at him. “You started it,” she teased.
Duran smirked and leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin. “And I plan to finish it.”
Octavia’s heart skipped a beat as Duran pulled her into another deep kiss, his grip on her tightening just enough to remind her who had the upper hand. But she wasn’t about to let him win that easily.
As they continued cleaning the kitchen, their playful teasing didn’t stop. Between wiping down the counters and putting dishes away, they stole kisses—quick pecks at first, but soon they lingered, their lips pressing together a little longer each time.
Duran rinsed off a plate, setting it on the drying rack before turning to Octavia with a smirk. “You missed a spot,” he teased, pointing at a bit of flour on her cheek.
Octavia rolled her eyes, but before she could wipe it away, Duran leaned in and kissed the spot instead, his lips trailing to the corner of her mouth. She shivered slightly, biting her lip as she turned to face him fully.
“Oh, so we’re using kisses to clean now?” she teased, tilting her head up at him.
Duran chuckled, tucking a stray feather behind her ear. “Seems like a good method to me.”
Octavia hummed in amusement before suddenly smearing a bit of leftover frosting from a spoon onto his nose. “Then I guess you missed a spot too.”
Duran blinked, then let out a low chuckle. “Oh, you’re in for it now, princess.”
Before she could react, he grabbed her by the waist, pulling her in close as he captured her lips in another deep kiss—this time, not just playful, but full of warmth and affection. The mess in the kitchen could wait a little longer.
As they continued kissing, they made an effort to finish cleaning—though it was clear their focus was more on each other than the task at hand. Octavia tried to wipe down the counter, only for Duran to sneak in another kiss along her jawline, making her giggle and nearly drop the cloth.
“Duran, we’ll never get this done if you keep distracting me,” she murmured, though she made no real effort to stop him.
He smirked, placing one last lingering kiss on her lips before stepping back slightly. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave… for now.”
Octavia rolled her eyes playfully and continued putting away the dishes, while Duran dried off the last of them. Every now and then, they’d steal glances at each other, smiling softly, enjoying this simple, intimate moment together.
By the time the kitchen was finally spotless, Duran wrapped his arms around Octavia’s waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “See? We can multitask.”
Octavia chuckled, leaning back into him. “Barely.”
He kissed her temple, squeezing her gently. “Still worth it.”
Settling onto the couch, Octavia grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels while Duran wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. She eventually landed on some random show—neither of them really paying attention, just enjoying each other's presence.
Octavia rested her head against Duran’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He absentmindedly traced patterns along her arm, his touch warm and comforting.
“This is nice,” she murmured, nuzzling into him a little more.
Duran smirked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah, it is. No missions, no chaos, just us.”
They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, the soft glow of the TV flickering across the room. Every now and then, Octavia would comment on something happening on screen, and Duran would respond—though neither of them really cared what was on.
Eventually, Octavia let out a content sigh. “I could stay like this forever.”
Duran tightened his hold around her slightly, his voice low and sincere. “Me too.”
Stolas chuckled softly as he looked down at his sleeping daughter, curled up in Duran’s arms. It was a rare sight to see her this at peace, and he felt a warm sense of gratitude toward Duran for being there for her. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to Octavia’s forehead, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face.
Duran stirred slightly at the movement but didn’t wake up completely, simply tightening his hold around Octavia as if instinctively protecting her even in his sleep. Stolas smiled at the sight, but the moment was quickly soured by Stella’s scoff.
“This is disgraceful,” she muttered under her breath, crossing her arms. “You let this filth get close to our daughter?”
Stolas exhaled sharply, standing upright and casting her a side glance. “Unlike you, Stella, I actually care about Octavia’s happiness. And if Duran makes her happy, then I have no complaints.”
Stella scoffed again, rolling her eyes before turning on her heel and leaving the room without another word. Stolas simply sighed, choosing not to let her presence ruin the moment. He looked back at Octavia and Duran one last time before quietly exiting the room himself, leaving them to their peaceful rest.

Duran Begins to Dream, he dreams about his past when he was training as an assassin, he sees himself as a boy, gripping a wooden sword with trembling hands. His grandfather stood before him, his expression calm, his presence steady.
"Again, Duran," Surif had said gently after another failed attempt. "Strength is nothing without control. Speed is nothing without precision. A blade is an extension of your will—master yourself, and you master the blade."
Duran remembers how he had gritted his teeth in frustration, but Surif never raised his voice, never scolded him for failure. Instead, he offered wisdom and patience. It was through that patience that Duran had become the warrior he was today.
Duran’s mind drifts further into the past, back to the courtyard of the Abdallah estate. He remembers the harsh sun beating down on him as he practiced tirelessly, sweat dripping from his brow, muscles aching.
He had been younger then, just a boy with a wooden training blade, desperately trying to land a strike on his grandfather. But Surif was untouchable, effortlessly deflecting every attack with calm precision.
"Again."
Duran lunged forward, his movements fueled by frustration. His blade swung fast, but not controlled. Surif sidestepped with ease, tapping the back of Duran’s hand with his own sword, making him drop his weapon.
"Speed without control is wasted effort, Duran," his grandfather had said. "Your anger clouds your judgment. If you wish to be worthy of the Abdallah name, you must learn to master not just the blade, but yourself."
Duran had clenched his fists, teeth grinding, but he picked up his sword and tried again. And again. Until his arms burned, until his legs trembled—but he never stopped. Because deep down, he knew what was expected of him.
He wasn’t just training for himself. He was training to uphold his family’s legacy.
Duran remembers those nights vividly—the cold desert breeze, the dim lanterns barely lighting the courtyard as he pushed himself past exhaustion. Every strike, every step, every repetition was a desperate attempt to prove himself, to live up to the legacy of the Abdallah family. His muscles ached, his hands bled, but he never stopped.
He remembers his grandfather’s presence, silent at first, watching from the shadows. Then, finally, the old man would step forward, his voice calm but firm.
"Enough, Duran. A blade that is overworked will dull. A body that is never allowed to rest will break. You carry our name with honor, but even the strongest warriors must know when to recover."
Young Duran had hesitated, panting, sweat dripping from his brow. He wanted to keep going, to prove he could be more.
His grandfather had simply placed a hand on his shoulder. "You are worthy, my grandson. That is why you must learn balance."
The next day, Duran wakes up feeling refreshed and ready for whatever comes his way. After a quick morning routine of exercise, weapon maintenance, and a strong cup of coffee, he heads out.
He isn't sure what the day will bring, but he knows one thing for certain—he's starting to feel more at home in Hell than he ever expected.
Duran heads to I.M.P headquarters and finds Blitzo at his desk, flipping through some files.
"Ah, just the guy I wanted to see!" Blitzo grins, tossing a folder onto the desk. "Got a job for ya. Some big-shot demon pissed off the wrong folks, and they want him gone. You up for it?"
Duran picks up the file and scans the details. The target is a mid-tier noble in the Pride Ring, known for double-crossing his business partners. Standard job.
"Consider it done," Duran says, already planning his approach.
Blitzo smirks. "Knew I could count on ya. Just try not to make too much of a mess. Or, y'know what? Do. Makes for good PR."
Duran shakes his head and heads out. Another day, another kill.
Target: Lord Varkiel, a mid-tier noble in the Pride Ring.
Crime: Varkiel has made a name for himself as a ruthless businessman, cutting shady deals and betraying allies for personal gain. Recently, he scammed a powerful demon out of a fortune in soul contracts, then had the demon assassinated to cover his tracks. Unfortunately for him, that demon had connections—connections willing to pay top dollar to see Varkiel’s head on a spike.
Intel:
Residence: A heavily guarded manor in the upper district of the Pride Ring, outfitted with security golems and hellhounds trained to kill on sight.


Routine: Varkiel rarely leaves his estate, preferring to conduct business from a luxurious office inside. When he does venture out, it’s for high-profile social events with other nobles.


Defenses: His personal guard consists of elite mercenaries, each experienced in dealing with assassins. Surveillance wards are in place to detect demonic intrusions, meaning standard portal entry is out of the question.


Objective:
Primary: Eliminate Varkiel.


Secondary (Optional Bonus): Retrieve the stolen soul contracts from his office safe.


Challenges:
Varkiel never sleeps in the same room twice, making it difficult to predict his exact location at night.


The estate is equipped with teleportation runes in case of emergencies, allowing him to escape if alerted.


The mercenaries guarding him have experience fighting assassins and won’t go down easily.


Possible Approaches:
Stealth: Infiltrate the estate through an underground access tunnel used by servants. Use silence spells and shadow tactics to navigate unseen, locate Varkiel, and kill him before he can escape.


Disguise: Assume the role of a high-class guest at one of Varkiel’s private gatherings. Get close to him, isolate him, and eliminate him quietly.


Brute Force: A full-on assault, using overwhelming speed and lethality to cut through the guards and reach the target before he can flee. Riskier, but effective if done right.


Exit Strategy:
Escape through the servant tunnels.


Use one of Varkiel’s emergency teleportation runes to leave the premises.


Create a distraction to slip away unnoticed.


Blitzo leans back in his chair as Duran finishes reading the file. "So, whaddya think? Easy money, or a pain in the ass?"
Duran smirks, already forming a plan in his head. "Just another day at work."
Duran spends the next hour scouting Varkiel’s estate from a distance, carefully analyzing the security patterns. The guards rotate every fifteen minutes, and the hellhounds patrol in pairs, meaning there are small windows of opportunity to slip through unseen. He recalls an underground access tunnel mentioned in the dossier, an old servant’s passage no longer in use. If it’s still intact, it could be his best entry point.
Dressed in dark tactical gear, Duran makes his way to the tunnel entrance, concealed beneath a ruined garden wall behind the estate. He removes the metal grate with little effort and descends into the darkness, his steps silent as he moves forward. The passage smells of damp stone and decay, but it’s structurally sound. He follows it to an old wine cellar beneath the estate, where he carefully pries open a loose floorboard and emerges into the main house.
The manor is lavish, decorated with gold-trimmed furniture and demonic artifacts, but Duran has no time to admire the scenery. He moves like a shadow, evading the guards with calculated precision. Every step is deliberate, every breath controlled. He takes down two isolated mercenaries in swift silence, dragging their bodies into the darkness before moving forward.
Reaching Varkiel’s office, he picks the lock within seconds and slips inside. The room is grand, with towering bookshelves and an ornate desk in the center. He quickly scans for the safe and spots it behind a gilded painting of a long-forgotten demon lord. Using his tools, he cracks it open, retrieving the stolen soul contracts.
Now for the target.
Duran ascends to the master chambers, his blade drawn. The challenge is that Varkiel changes rooms every night, but Duran isn’t worried—he’s trained to hunt, and his instincts rarely fail him. He listens carefully, detecting faint movement behind the third door in the hall. With precise movements, he picks the lock and enters.
Varkiel is seated at a vanity, removing his rings, unaware of his impending fate. Duran moves swiftly, pressing a dagger to the noble’s throat before he can scream.
“W-wait! I can pay you—double whatever they’re offering!” Varkiel pleads, eyes wide with terror.
Duran says nothing. With one clean motion, he slices through Varkiel’s neck, silencing him forever. The noble’s head rolls onto the velvet carpet, his body collapsing soon after.
He bags the severed head, retraces his steps to the wine cellar, and vanishes into the night—mission accomplished.
Duran nods to himself, satisfied with his efficiency. "Got it, boss," he says before hanging up.
With the night now free, he considers his options. He could go back to his apartment and unwind, or maybe pay Octavia a visit. The idea of spending time with her seems far more appealing than sitting alone in his place.
With that in mind, he starts making his way toward the Goetia estate, hands in his pockets, blending into the neon-lit streets of Hell.
Duran scales the walls of the Goetia estate with practiced ease, his movements silent and precise. The cold night air brushes against him as he grips the ledges, making his way up to Octavia’s window. Once he reaches it, he carefully slides it open and slips inside without a sound.
Octavia, sitting on her bed with a book in hand, jumps slightly at his sudden presence before realizing who it is. She smirks. “You know, normal people use the front door.”
Duran chuckles, stepping closer. “Where’s the fun in that?” He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before settling beside her. “Got the night off. Figured I’d spend it with you.”

Octavia then says ‘Kiss me Like you Missed Me Murder boy!’ Duran smirks at her words, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. “That so?” he murmurs before pulling her in without hesitation. His lips crash against hers, fierce and hungry, his hands gripping her waist as he deepens the kiss.
Octavia melts into him, tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him even closer. The heat between them grows, but there’s also something tender beneath the intensity—like the unspoken truth that he really did miss her.
After a long moment, they finally break apart, breathless. Octavia grins up at him, her voice teasing yet soft. “Now that’s what I call a proper welcome.”
Duran chuckles, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
Duran and Octavia lose themselves in the moment, their kisses slowing into something softer, more intimate. His hands gently cradle her face as he deepens the kiss, savoring every second. Octavia wraps her arms around his neck, pressing closer, feeling the warmth of his body against hers.
Neither of them speaks; there’s no need for words. The way they hold each other, the way their lips move in sync, says everything. It’s a quiet, unspoken understanding—one that neither of them ever wants to let go of.
As the night stretches on, they remain in each other’s embrace, enjoying the rare peace of just being together.
Duran smirks at the title as Octavia excitedly sets up the movie. Jonathan Reaper—their universe’s version of John Wick—was a classic among assassin films, and Octavia had been wanting to watch it with him for a while.
They settle onto her bed, Octavia snuggling up against Duran’s side as the movie begins. The film opens with a brutal fight sequence, setting the tone for the action-packed story ahead. Duran watches with a mix of amusement and critique, occasionally commenting on the fight choreography.
“That’s not how you hold a knife,” he mutters at one scene, making Octavia giggle.
“Shhh, just enjoy it,” she says, poking his side.
As the movie goes on, Octavia gets more into it, occasionally gasping or whispering things like, “That was so badass.” Duran just chuckles, enjoying her reactions almost as much as the film itself.
By the time the credits roll, Octavia stretches and sighs happily. “That was awesome,” she says, looking up at Duran. “And watching it with you made it even better.”
Duran just smirks, wrapping an arm around her. “Glad you liked it, princess.”
They cuddle with each other as they soon drift into a deep sleep, neither one wanting to let go of the other< just letting instinct take control, and it said “hold on to each other for dear life”.
Duran wakes up to the soft light filtering through Octavia’s curtains. She’s still curled up against him, her breathing slow and peaceful. He allows himself a rare moment of contentment, running a hand through her hair before quietly slipping out of bed to get dressed.
As he’s about to leave, Octavia stirs. “Leaving so soon?” she murmurs sleepily.
Duran smirks. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
Octavia sits up and stretches. “You know, I never thought I’d be this happy,” she admits. “But you… you make me feel safe.”
Duran pauses, a warmth settling in his chest. “I’ll always have your back, Octavia.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “But for now, I need to get back to work.”
Octavia rolls her eyes with a smirk. “Fine, but don’t disappear on me for too long.”
Duran chuckles before climbing out her window the same way he came in.