A King of Hell | AMAYMON

Upper Virelle District — Arch-Demon Executive Sanctum

The air in Amaymon’s office didn't smell like brimstone. It smelled like expensive leather, dried blood, and cold espresso.

He didn't look up from his tablet when the door clicked open. He just listened to the quiet, stuttering footsteps of the lower-caste incubus creeping over the carpet like a stray dog waiting for a kicked rib.

"Ah. Finally," Amaymon muttered, his tone flat, exhausted, and terrifyingly calm. He set the tablet down on his desk and gestured toward the empty leather chair opposite him. "Come on in. Sit."

The lesser demon sat on the very edge of the cushion, knees locked together, hands sweating onto his slacks.

Amaymon leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. He forced a tight, polite smile that didn't reach his eyes at all—the kind of corporate customer-service face reserved for someone about to be fired into the sun.

"So. Do you know why you're here?"

"Uh..." The incubus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. "A promotion?"

Amaymon stared at him. For three excruciating seconds, the room was entirely silent save for the hum of the air vents.

"No," Amaymon said softly. "No one is getting promoted."

He reached under the edge of his desk and pulled out a thick, black-bound manual with worn edges, tossing it onto the wood between them. It landed with a dull, heavy thud. "Are you familiar with this?"

The lower demon nodded rapidly. "The field guide. Sir."

"Right. The field guide," Amaymon repeated, tapping his index finger against the cover. "Contains employee IDs, department extensions, conduct guidelines... and every single binding spell, sigil, and summoning chant for our tier. Information that is, strictly speaking, a massive security nightmare if it gets dropped into the wrong lap. Agree?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely."

"Good. So you can imagine my reaction," Amaymon’s voice dropped an octave, the fake smile vanishing like smoke, "when a floor supervisor told me you left yours behind on a human-realm job."

The lesser demon went gray. "Mr. Amaymon, I—"

"Because when I heard that," Amaymon cut in, leaning forward over the desk, "my immediate instinct was to rip your throat out with my teeth and leave your corpse in the lobby as a warning to the rest of the idiot interns."

The demon quivered, opening his mouth, but Amaymon held up a single finger.

"But I’m trying to be better about my temper. So I told myself, No, give him a second. Maybe it’s a rumor. Maybe he’s got it right in his coat pocket." Amaymon tilted his head, his dark eyes hollow. "Tell me it’s in your coat."

Silence stretched. The incubus’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. Finally, his shoulders slumped.

"I lost it."

Amaymon closed his eyes.

"God damn it," he breathed. Then he lunged.

In a fraction of a second, Amaymon was over the desk, his hand clamping around the lesser demon’s neck and shoving him back over the armrest. The wood creaked under the weight. Amaymon didn't yell; his voice was a razor-thin whisper right against the demon's ear.

"Do you have any idea what you've done? There are actual, functional summoning runes in that book, you stupid bastard." He tightened his grip just enough to cut off the air. "Where is it? Did you leave it on a bus? A bar counter? Where?"

"I don't... I don't remember," the demon choked out, eyes rolling back.

Amaymon shoved him away with a look of pure revulsion and stepped back, dragging both hands down his face. His chest heaved as he tried to pull his composure back together. "You don't remember. Jesus Christ."

"I can go back," the lesser demon gasped, clutching his throat and scrambling to his feet. "I'll look for it. I'll search every—"

"You're not going anywhere," Amaymon snapped, spinning on his heel. "It’s going to be pretty fucking hard to search for anything after I tear your legs off."

He took one step toward the demon, flexing his claws—and then the world yanked back.

It wasn't a slow build. It was a violent, sickening pull right behind his breastbone, like a heavy fishhook snagged on his ribcage. The room spun, the smell of leather and espresso vanishing instantly as a burning, chemical heat flared through his blood.

"What the—" Amaymon stood his ground, dark sigils flaring up his forearms under his sleeves as he fought the force pulling at his soul. "Am I being pulled? You gotta be fucking kidding—"

The air tore open, swallowing him whole.

He materialized seamlessly, his polished leather shoes striking the hardwood floors without losing an inch of his height. Not even a single strand of hair was out of place. The sheer weight of his presence hit the small room like a shockwave, rattling the windowpanes in their frames.

A thin cloud of dark ash drifted lazily from his tailored suit jacket as he stood tall in the center of the room, his eyes scanning the space with absolute, cold authority.

Beneath his shoes lay a crude, hastily drawn chalk pentagram, its lines already smearing against the faded Persian rug under the weight of his aura.

The room smelled faintly of stale vanilla candles, dust, and cheap instant coffee. Small, cramped, and entirely mortal. And standing barely three feet outside the circle was a human.

They were shaking so violently that the brass candle-lighter in their hands was clicking against their knuckles. In their other arm, clutched tight against their chest like a pathetic makeshift shield, was the black leather manual. Amaymon slowly adjusted his cuffs, ignoring the faint tug of the crude binding spell as if it were nothing more than a tight collar. He turned his gaze on the human, his dark eyes locking onto theirs with an unbothered, lethal composure.

“Well well. I guess I’ve found the book.”

---

Mortal Realm |Human Apartment, City Center

Amaymon crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyes fixed on the trembling mortal. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping to the heavy, black-bound manual still pinned against their ribs.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice dropping into a smooth, quiet rumble. "Where did you find that?"

The human swallowed hard, their knuckles turning white around the brass candle-lighter, but they couldn't seem to force a sound past their throat.

"Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to go around performing rituals you find in an old tome?" Amaymon pressed, taking a slow, measured step toward the boundary of the chalk circle. "So... where did you get this book?"

"The... the coffee shop," the human stammered out, their voice cracking under the weight of his aura. "In the restroom. It was just sitting on the counter next to the sink."

Amaymon closed his eyes for a long, agonizing second. A heavy, dark pulse of irritation surged through his chest. A public restroom. The idiot lower-caste incubus hadn't even dropped it somewhere discreet. He had literally set the most confidential piece of departmental magic next to a soap dispenser in a human coffee shop.

When Amaymon got back to the sanctum, ripping the demon’s legs off was going to be the absolute bare minimum. He was going to spend an entire century inventing new ways to make that moron suffer.

He opened his eyes again, catching the sheer, unadulterated terror stamped across the human's face. They were mortified, pale as a sheet, staring at him as if a nightmare had walked straight through their living room rug.

A tiny twitch at the corner of Amaymon's lip betrayed his amusement.

"Don’t look so shocked," he purred, his voice dripping with dry mockery. "You performed an incubus summoning ritual. You don’t get to be shocked when you summon an incubus."

He watched the panic darting behind their eyes, the utter disbelief that had paralyzed them where they stood. It dawned on him then—the exact kind of mortal he was dealing with. This was one of those bored, curious humans who dabbled in occult nonsense just to see if anything would happen, fully convinced the world was dull and safe, never actually expecting a high-tier demon lord to materialize on their floorboards.

"You look confused," Amaymon continued, his voice softening into something dangerously intimate as he began to walk. "So listen closely."

He stepped cleanly over the chalk line, the crude circle crumbling beneath the toe of his boot without offering a shred of resistance. The human flinched, but Amaymon didn't rush. He began to circle them slowly, like a apex predator inspecting a creature that had foolishly wandered into its den.

"You’ve completed an incubus summoning ritual," he murmured, his suit jacket brushing against the edge of a cluttered side table as he moved. "It’s a contract, of sorts. I give you the most intense pleasure you will ever feel in your short, miserable life... and in return, I get your soul in the afterlife."

He dragged his eyes down the line of their neck, taking in the rapid, panicked flutter of their pulse against their collarbone.

"And since you’ve summoned me," he purred, coming around their flank, "that’s what you’re gonna get."

The air around them grew heavy, saturated with the faint, intoxicating heat of his infernal magic—a thick, dark pull that made the room feel suddenly too small, too warm, and entirely isolated from the rest of the world.

"Normally, I would just take the book and leave," Amaymon admitted, his tone conversational as he rounded their opposite shoulder. "But this entire frustrating situation has me feeling the need to... blow off some steam."

He came to a stop directly behind them. His shadow engulfed theirs completely, the heat radiating off his chest pressing against their spine without even making physical contact.

Leaning down, his lips hovered just an inch from the shell of their ear, his deep voice vibrating straight into their bones.

"Besides. You look like a nice little treat." He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, enjoying the way their breathing hitched, before whispering the final command.

"So go ahead, mortal. Make your request."

Amaymon slid one dark, ring-adorned hand up their arm, his clawed fingertips resting lightly over the hand clutching the book.

"Any comfort of the flesh is at your command."

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Human Realm | Apartment & Executive Sanctum, Nether-City

He didn't leave when the contract was fulfilled. The mortal lay collapsed across the ruined, torn sheets of their mattress, completely sedated and dead to the world from sheer, unadulterated sensory overload. Their chest rose and fell in shallow, unbroken rhythms, skin still flushed a feverish, dark pink from the lingering infernal heat of his touch. By every rigid law and precedent of the Nether-City's administrative codex, Amaymon should have retrieved his leather-bound field manual, stamped the soul transaction in his ledger, and vanished back to the executive spire to let nature and time claim them.

Instead, he stood over the bed, his ringed hands slowly re-fastening the silver buttons of his black vest. He looked down at the unconscious, broken thing tangled in the ruined bedding.

The taste of their pleasure had been entirely intoxicating—far richer, sharper, and more addictive than any vintage Abyssal bourbon in his private collection. It had burned through his lingering administrative rage and left an unexpected, predatory craving in its wake. Tossing them aside to live out a mundane mortal existence in a cramped city apartment suddenly felt like an absurd waste of good inventory.

"I’m altering the terms," Amaymon murmured to the quiet, dusty room, his voice a low, gravelly hum. He reached down, wrapping his fingers around the sleeping human's jaw and tilting their slack, flushed face up for a second of quiet appraisal before letting go. "I don't feel like waiting sixty years for my compensation. You're coming with me."

Without waking them, Amaymon swept the heavily sedated mortal up off the mattress, wrapping them securely in the heavy folds of his fur-trimmed black coat. He simply walked forward, taking a single step straight through the boundary between realms—the air tearing silently open before him and swallowing them whole.

The Nether-City's heat hit them first—dry, heavy, and saturated with the scent of ozone, crushed roses, and sulfur.

He materialized seamlessly, his polished leather shoes striking the dark, cold floor of his top-floor executive penthouse atop the Virelle Administrative Spire. Ignoring the sprawling, neon-drenched grid of subterranean skyscrapers glowing beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, Amaymon carried the unconscious mortal straight into his master suite. He tossed them unceremoniously onto the massive, silk-sheeted bed, smoothing the front of his black suit jacket as he stepped back.

The mortal didn't even stir, trapped deep in the narcotic fog of his lingering infernal magic. Turning sharply on his heel, he left the bedroom, the heavy obsidian door clicking shut with a final, absolute seal of binding magic. In the main living hall, two towering, armored security guards were already waiting, holding the shivering, terrified lower-caste incubus between them. The lesser demon’s hands were bound tightly behind his back with heavy iron sigil chains.

"Mr. Amaymon! Sir, please—" the incubus squeaked, his voice cracking into a panicked pitch. "I didn't mean to—I was looking all over for it, I swear—"

Amaymon didn't say a single word. He walked slowly toward his glass-and-mahogany bar cart, poured himself a crystal tumbler of Abyssal Fire-Aged Bourbon, and took a slow, methodical sip. The amber liquid burned hot and clean down his throat.

"Hang him," Amaymon ordered softly, his back still turned to them. "From the center vault beam. By the wrists."

"Yes, My Lord," the guards grunted in unison. In seconds, heavy iron chains dropped from the vaulted ceiling with a deafening clank. The lesser demon shrieked as he was hoisted violently into the air, his feet dangling six feet off the polished black marble floor, his shoulders and joints straining dangerously against the sudden weight.

Amaymon walked over, setting his crystal glass down on a marble side table with a sharp click. He unbuttoned his cuffs, slowly rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing pale, heavily muscled forearms and long fingers that flexed with quiet, merciless anticipation.

"You left a tier-one departmental manual next to a soap dispenser in a human coffee shop," Amaymon said, his voice dropping into that dangerously calm, razor-thin register that promised absolute agony. "Do you have any idea how many compliance audits and safety reports I’m going to have to falsify because of your monumental stupidity?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Mr. Amaymon—aagh!"

Amaymon didn't bother with a weapon. He flexed his hand, extending five razor-sharp obsidian claws from his fingertips, and casually raked them straight across the incubus's exposed ribs. Thick, black, smoking blood spurted violently onto the pristine marble floor, sizzling and popping as it hit the cool stone. The lesser demon shrieked, his dark wings thrashing uselessly against the heavy chains.

"I told you earlier," Amaymon whispered, stepping closer until his massive obsidian horns almost brushed the hanging demon's sweat-slicked face. "I was going to tear your legs off. But after the day you've caused me... I think I'll start with your skin first. Section by section. Exactly like the missing pages of my book."

---

Hell | Apartment & Executive Sanctum, Nether-City

An hour later, the thick, metallic stench of demon blood hung heavy in the high-ceilinged room, mixing dark and suffocating with the sharp aroma of Amaymon's bourbon.

Amaymon lounged lazily across a deep, low-profile black leather couch directly opposite the hanging incubus. His suit vest was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a few dark flecks of blood dried against his cuffs. He reclined against the cushions, long legs spread wide in an arrogant, open posture, swirling his third glass of bourbon in slow, deliberate circles.

Above him, the lesser demon hung limp from the center vault beam, sobbing in weak, rhythmic hitches. Flayers of skin had been carefully peeled from his torso, dripping dark, viscous fluid onto the catch-tray Amaymon had set beneath him to protect the floor.

"P-please..." the incubus whined, his voice barely a rasp. "Mr. Amaymon... mercy..."

"Mercy is a structural inefficiency," Amaymon replied smoothly, taking a quiet sip of his drink. His tail flicked lazily over the edge of the couch, making a rhythmic thump... thump... thump against the leather.

He barely heard the begging. His mind was thirty feet away, locked behind the heavy obsidian door of his master bedroom. He thought about the small, completely sedated mortal resting in his silk sheets. Out cold, totally helpless, and entirely at his whim. The memory of their pleasure—the raw, intoxicating taste of it—lingered on his tongue, far more satisfying than any torture he could inflict on a worthless intern.

A faint, rustling sound vibrated through the internal warding sigils etched into the doorframe.

Amaymon’s pointed ears twitched. The sound in the bedroom had shifted from quiet to rustling sheets. The mortal was finally beginning to drag themselves out of their deep, pleasure-induced stupor.

A slow, dark smirk curled the corner of Amaymon’s lips. He set his empty crystal tumbler on the side table with a light click and stood up from the couch, adjusting his vest over his chest.

"Stay right there," Amaymon drawled to the bleeding, half-skinned demon dangling above him. "Don't go anywhere. I have a pet to check on."

He walked down the dimly lit hallway, his polished shoes silent against the runner rug. Pausing at the reinforced obsidian door, he pushed it open without a sound.

The bedroom was bathed in the crimson pink, neon glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling glass from the Nether-City grid below. On the massive bed, the human was just beginning to stir, clutching the heavy silk sheets as their eyelids fluttered open, struggling against the lingering fog of his infernal magic.

Amaymon leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, his dark wings unfolding slightly to block out the light behind him. He watched them awaken with a cold, hungry satisfaction.

"Good," he purred, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet room as he stepped inside and let the heavy door click shut. "You're awake. I was starting to think I broke you permanently."