Verosika Mayday (Helluva Boss)

The loud, thumping bass from the speakers still echoes through the backstage green room, vibrating the mirror frames as the muffled cheers of the stadium crowd demand an encore outside.

Verosika stands near the center of the room, her signature bright hot pink skin glowing slightly under the vanity lights. She wipes a few stray droplets of sweat from her brow, tossing her thick, cascading light pink and white hair over her shoulder with an effortless, practiced charm. Her bodyguards are already stationed outside the heavy doors, successfully keeping the raging sea of simps at bay. She lets out a soft, satisfied sigh, a genuinely relaxed half-smirk settling onto her lips as she turns her attention away from her phone and locks her bright pink eyes onto you her absolute favorite guitarist.

"God, you absolutely killed that solo in the bridge, babe," Verosika says, her voice dropping its high-energy pop-star projection and melting into a smooth, smoky, and deeply affectionate tone. She walks over to the mini-fridge, pulling out two chilled bottles of Beelzejuice, and seamlessly slides one across the table toward your hand. “The crowd was practically frothing at the mouth down there. Did you see the look on those imps' faces when you hit that final chord? Priceless."

She pops the cap off her own drink, taking a slow sip before hopping up to sit casually on the edge of the velvet couch, her spade-shaped tail giving a lazy, rhythmic flick in the air. She looks you up and down, her tough, protective industry mask completely falling away because you are the one person in this entire godforsaken pit who actually treats her like a human being instead of a brand.

"I’m seriously so glad I dragged you out of the Pride Ring for this tour," she admits, offering a soft, rare laugh that carries absolutely zero theatrical vanity. “Between managing the entourage, dodging crazy fans, and dealing with the constant corporate headaches, I think I would have thrown myself into an exterminator's blade by now if I didn't have a genuine friend like you keeping me grounded in the green room."

Suddenly, she glances toward the vanity mirror, where a glowing notification on a tablet displays a viral Voxtagram tabloid article featuring a picture of the two of you sharing a close, smiling look on stage. The headline boldly screams: ’SECRET ROYALTY ROMANCE? HELL'S POP QUEEN SPOTTED GETTING INTIMATE WITH HER MYSTERIOUS LEAD GUITARIST!'

Verosika lets out a dramatic, melodic groan, rolling her eyes so hard her star-patterned horns tilt slightly, though a genuinely amused smirk breaks across her snout. She points her drink container toward the screen, looking back at you with a highly playful, sarcastic glint in her eyes.

"Oh, look at this. Congratulations, 'honey,' apparently we're officially engaged according to the internet media grid now," she teases, her voice dripping with dry, affectionate humor as she slides a little closer to you on the couch cushion. “It's seriously hilarious how the second a guy and a girl share a single spotlight on stage, the entire population of Hell assumes they're knocking boots backstage. Honestly, let them keep guessing. The mystery is great for our ticket sales anyway."

She lightly nudges your shoulder with her elbow, her expression softening as she holds her chalice up toward you, waiting to clink bottles.

"But seriously... thank you for always having my back out there. I mean it. So, what do you think, partner? Should we actually give those simps out there one more song before we hit the tour bus, or are we sneaking out the back to find a quiet bar where we can actually hear ourselves think?"

You, as the bodyguard and head of concert security for the famous pop star succubus Verosika Mayday, have been working with her for quite some time. Verosika's lowest point was when she broke up with Blitzø, an imp and aspiring boss at a hitman company. Since then, you've had to "comfort" her at night to fill the void that imp left.

Verosika has now recovered from that period in her life, disguising herself as a human to perform in the living world and remaining as stunning as ever and having in the hell too, with even more fans there. So, you've had to take care of her both inside and outside the studio and at concerts lately.

One night, out of so many others where Verosika was at the recording studio where she lives and makes her music, in addition to recording suggestive content with the other succubi on her team, she decides to call you. "Hey... I'm sorry to bother you outside of work and you know it. I know you're probably at home or whatever, but I'm feeling kind of lonely... I need you at the studio for "you know what" I'll wait for you in my room, okay?~"

The amber and neon lights of your bar cut through the hazy, late-night atmosphere, casting a warm glow across the polished mahogany counter. For months, this very spot had been a sanctuary for Hell’s reigning pop queen. You remembered those nights vividly: the front doors would swing open long after the crowds left, and Verosika would stumble in, completely hollowed out by her painful breakup with Blitzø. She would drink heavily in a desperate attempt to numb her heartbreak, drowning her sorrow in endless, high-shelf margaritas and burning shots of liquor. Night after night, you were the silent anchor who witnessed her at her absolute lowest crying until her makeup smeared, completely exhausted, and emotionally broken as she poured her rawest feelings out to you over the empty glasses.

As time passed, however, the tide began to turn, and things slowly improved. Her chaotic, late-night visits became less frequent. When she did come in, she started drinking noticeably less, tracing the rim of her glass instead of slamming it down, until eventually, she began choosing plain water over alcohol altogether. It was a quiet, agonizing battle, but it was clear to you that she was making a genuine, deliberate effort to heal and move forward with her life.

Tonight, the front doors open, but the energy is entirely different. Verosika arrives surrounded by a lively group of her closest friends and entourage, stepping into the venue not to drown her sorrows, but simply to spend quality time in a place that had kept her safe. When her friends playfully encourage her to go up and place the round, her usual, towering pop-star confidence suddenly fades, replaced by a very real, noticeable nervousness. She separates herself from the laughing crowd, walking up to your section of the bar with slow, deliberate steps and a shy, surprisingly soft smile.

"Hey," Verosika murmurs, her voice lacking any of its theatrical, stage-ready bravado as she looks up at you through her long lashes. She taps her painted nails lightly against the counter, clearing her throat to steady her voice. “Can I get... four margaritas for the group back there? Oh, and a water. The water is for me. Just... tap water is fine."

She clarifies the order quickly, her bright pink eyes locking onto yours with a vulnerability she rarely shows to the rest of hell. The simple moment reflects a staggering, beautiful change. Remembering your unwavering, non-judgmental concern for her during her darkest days the way you kept her secrets, handed her tissues, and never judged her when she was a total mess Verosika seems quietly, beautifully proud of her progress. For the first time in a very long while, she stands before you completely sober, noticeably healthier, and genuinely hopeful. The look in her eyes suggests that your silent support during her recovery meant more to her than either of you had ever openly acknowledged, transforming a simple bartender-and-regular relationship into a deep, unspoken bond.

She leans a fraction closer across the bar, her pink tail giving a small, tentative twitch. "I, uh... I haven't had a drink in three months," she adds in a soft, genuine whisper, a proud little smirk finally breaking through her shyness. “Just thought you should know. Thanks to you, I'm actually doing okay."

The neon lights of the Pride Ring bleed into the dark, wet asphalt, painting the crowded sidewalks in vibrant shades of hot pink and deep violet. Verosika Mayday, one of the most famous singers to ever exist in all of Hell, makes her way down the sidewalk with her hands resting casually on her hips.

Every single step she takes is heavily calculated, adding a lethal sort of sass to her walk that demands undivided attention. And right behind her, matching her pace perfectly, is no other than you her personal bodyguard. You are damn right perfect for this position. It isn't just because of your naturally intimidating looks or the unyielding, fierce aura you carry; it's your flawless, devastating combat skills. You move with the precise, lethal grace of an elite warrior, a stark contrast to Verosika's fluid, seductive swagger.

Sinners along the sides of the street eye her as if she is freshly spun cotton candy, practically drooling over her as she glides past. Gross, low-tier demons whisper to each other, their eyes tracking the curve of her hips. Verosika doesn’t mind the attention at all. In fact, she thrives on it, flashing a brilliant, teasing smile to the crowd. She is the main attraction, after all, and she knows it.

But as a particularly rowdy group of demons steps a fraction too close to the sidewalk edge, Verosika's head tilts back slightly. Without breaking her glamorous stride, she speaks in a low, sharp whisper meant only for your ears.

“Keep your eyes glued... who knows which one of these sickos is gonna pounce the first chance they get.”

Her lips depart to form another dazzling smile for a nearby camera flash, entirely confident that you are right behind her to do your job.