written by: gooberlanes13

"So, how does this work?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as Bri and I dropped onto a pair of barstools at the far end of the Underbar.

The place looked like a Victorian parlor had mated with a crime scene. Gilt-edged wallpaper. Low amber lighting. Chandeliers made of bones—not decorative. Actual bones.

I glared down at the wood. Etchings. Sigils. Something that looked like it pulsed if you stared too long.

Crowley wedged himself between us with the smug elegance of a man who always knew he was the most interesting person in the room. He beamed up at the menu hanging over the wall-sized mirror behind the bar like it was a Michelin-starred tasting list instead of a catalog of trauma.

"To put it simply?" he purred, glancing between me and Bri with a lazy curl of his lip. "The Underbar is Hell's answer to therapy—if your therapist wanted you to scream into your drink and wake up bleeding."

"Sounds fun," I muttered, resting my elbows on the bar. Bri mirrored me, her expression guarded.

Crowley nodded toward the bartender—an androgynous demon with slick obsidian eyes and a mouth stitched shut with gold wire. Bottles began floating behind them like they had minds of their own.

"Memory-distilled liquor," Crowley said. "Each pour is aged in regret and served with a chaser of soul-bile. Drink it, and you get a front-row seat to your worst moment. Fully immersive. All five senses. No refunds."

Bri's brows furrowed. "Why the hell would anyone order that?"

Crowley grinned. "Because down here, darling, pain is currency. And memory is flavor."

The first shot hit the bar—black glass, rimmed in salt that shimmered like crushed bone. It pulsed faintly.

The second followed, darker still. Mine.

I didn't ask what it was. I already knew.

Crowley gestured toward the drinks like a game show host unveiling our prize. "Cheers, ladies. Bottoms up."

Bri shot me a look. "You good?"

I hesitated. Then reached for the glass. "Only one way to find out."

I downed it in a single breath. Cold. Then burning.

Bri tilted her head as Crowley raised both eyebrows, impressed. I winced at the burn and shook my head with a cough and a sigh.

"Anything?" Bri pushed, picking up her own shot, eyeing it like it personally offended her.

"Uh..." I blinked hard, glancing between Crowley and Bri before everything started pulsing into a black cloud.

The bar vanished.

I was twenty-two. Still in uniform. Still naive enough to think love could survive the Army. It was late—two a.m. maybe—raining so hard the walls sweated.

The motel we shared was cheap, the kind you book when you're both too proud to stay on base but too broke to go anywhere else. Cigarette burns on the curtains. The floor smelled like bleach and blood.

Nick was already inside when I walked in.

Shirtless. Silent. Sitting on the edge of the bed holding my knife—my knife, the one I kept hidden in my boot. His knuckles were white around the hilt.

I barely got the door shut before he stood up.

"Is it true?"

He was breathing like he'd run ten miles. Hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide and dark like he hadn't blinked in hours.

"What?" I asked.

"The guy at the gate," he snarled. "Said he spent the night with you last weekend while I was pulling recon. Said you called him baby. Said you moaned his name."

I blinked. Literally stunned stupid. "Who the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb, Eve!" He stepped toward me. The knife pointed low, but not forgotten.

I held my ground. "I don't even know who—"

He snapped. The blade clattered to the floor. His hand came up. Fast. It cracked across my face so hard my vision went white. My teeth cut into my lip.

I hit the floor sideways, head slamming against the motel dresser, breath knocked clean out of my lungs. Taste of blood hit my tongue like copper lightning.

I didn't stay down.

With a trimmer erupting through my body, I shoved myself up on one elbow, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and spat blood at his bare feet. It splattered.

Then I looked him in the eye and smiled.

"Is that all you got?"

His face twisted. Not in rage. In regret. Like he'd only just realized what he did.

But I didn't care.

I stood. Slow. Deliberate. Still smiling.

I came out of the memory like I'd been dragged up from the bottom of a lake. Gasping. Shaking. Half-waiting for blood to be on my tongue again.

It wasn't. But the taste still lingered.

The glass in my hand shattered.

Bri was already on her feet, gently passing behind Crowley to get to me. Her hand was on my shoulder before I could think—grounding, eyes scanning for a threat. "Eve?"

"I'm fine," I muttered. "Just—fuck. I forgot how cold that floor was."

Crowley gave a low, impressed whistle. "That one had layers. Rage. Romance. Misogyny. And a satisfying little vengeance kicker at the end. Aged beautifully."

I ignored him.

I could still feel the bruise blooming across my cheek like it was fresh. My jaw ached like memory had muscle.

Around us, the demons kept staring—but now it felt different.

Like they'd seen it too.

Bri sat back down slowly, her voice lower. "You've never told me about that time. Not like that."

I stared at my hands, the blood from the broken glass beading across my palm like punctuation.

"He didn't start out like that," I said. "But he ended that way. And I let him. For too long."

Bri didn't try to make it okay. That's why I trusted her.

Instead, she slid her shot glass toward me. "You want mine?"

I snorted. "Hell no."

Crowley clapped once. "Excellent. Now that we've opened your respective trauma closets, who's ready for round two?"

I looked at Bri, then back at the bar.

"Depends," I said, voice flat. "Does it come with salt, or do we just lick the regret off the rim?"

"Oi."

The snarl came from behind us, low and bristling.

Bri and I turned just in time to see Urzin striding through the Underbar like an overgrown, horned bouncer who'd just realized two teenagers had graffiti'd his throne.

His leather jacket creaked as he stopped a few feet from our stools, jaw tight, eyes glowing like banked coals.

"You ditched me," he growled.

Crowley, still perched elegantly between us like a smug little goblin, didn't even flinch. "I led them to a culturally significant location. You were brooding over the lighting in your torture gallery. I call that a scheduling conflict."

Urzin's nostrils flared. "You led my bargains into the Underbar?"

"Technically," Crowley said, swirling his glass. "They walked. I merely accessorized the outing."

Bri choked back a laugh. I snorted into my wrist.

Urzin's glare could've melted the walls. "They're under my protection."

Crowley sipped from his drink like Urzin hadn't spoken. "Oh, don't get your soul-straps in a twist. They're still alive. Mostly."

With an audible snarl, Urzin snatched Bri's untouched shot off the bar and tossed it back like water.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Bri jolted. "Wait—what the hell—?"

"You mean, what the here?" I shot, earning a side eye from Crowley.

The bar fell silent.

Every demon around us stopped to stare. The bartender froze, mid-polish. A drop of black liquor rolled down Urzin's chin like a tear from a corpse.

Bri and I stared at him. Then at the glass. Then at each other.

"...Did he just drink your trauma?" I asked.

Urzin stood still, glass dangling from his fingers. Then he blinked. Once. Slowly. Like someone who had no idea what a hangover was but suspected it might be happening to his atoms.

Nothing happened.

No memory-whiplash. No rage spiral. No screaming.

He just set the glass down and shrugged. "Tastes like salt and fear."

Bri's face scrunched. "That was mine."

"Not anymore," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of one armored hand. "You left it unclaimed."

We both turned to Crowley.

He didn't even look up from his drink. "Knights of Hell don't have memories," he said casually. "Never human. No soul. No trauma to relive. No past to pull from. Just... void wrapped in muscle and entitlement."

Urzin glared at him. "I can still hear you."

"Yes," Crowley said sweetly, "and I'm bravely choosing to continue."

I coughed into my hand, barely holding in a snort.

Bri gave him the most deadpan look imaginable. "So you brought us to Hell's worst bar knowing he can't be emotionally wrecked but we can?"

Crowley shrugged. "You came for drinks, not therapy. Besides, I find watching your personal descent into sardonic bitterness delightfully educational."

Urzin growled low again. "I will not be undermined by a posh flea with a wine problem."

"Oh, sweetheart," Crowley said, patting his arm condescendingly, "if I had a wine problem, you'd be in a bottle by now."

That did it.

Bri full-on laughed. I cracked a grin wide enough to draw attention again.

Urzin crossed his arms, cloak steaming behind him. "Enjoy your drinks. You won't like where we're headed next."

I gestured around at the firelit speakeasy packed with demons and trauma shots. "We're already in Hell. How much worse can it get?"

He gave a slow, crooked grin. "You haven't seen the basement."

Then he turned and stalked off. It was the kind of exit that practically screamed "cue the ominous string section."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was loaded.

"Wait," I blinked, turning back to the bar as Crowley and Bri mirrored me. "Hell has a basement?"

"Oh love, you haven't seen anything yet," Crowley casually lifted his glass. "To field trips with emotionally constipated death monsters."

Bri and I clinked ours against his.

"To Hell's worst bar crawl," I muttered.

Bri smirked. "And the fact that we're still vertical."

"Barely," I added, swallowing the rest of my drink. It burned like old memories and bad choices.

Crowley raised his brow, smug. "Now that's the spirit."

The corridor beneath the Underbar spiraled like a vein into Hell's throat—walls pulsing with heat, stone sweat glistening on the ceiling. The deeper we went, the thicker the air became, metallic and sharp. Like breathing in the edge of a blade.

Urzin led, broad-shouldered and silent. He didn't speak, but his tension was visible—like something coiled too tight beneath the surface. Like even he didn't like what came next.

Crowley walked beside me, annoyingly relaxed, hands clasped behind his back like we were heading into a bloody art exhibit instead of whatever fresh nightmare waited at the bottom.

Bri caught my eye briefly. "Place gives 'underground fight club' a whole new feel."

"You've got no idea," Crowley said, with a grin that made it sound like he invented the original.

We stepped through a wide arch—and Hell exhaled.

The Arena wasn't a room. It was a wound.

A black cathedral carved into the earth, half molten, half bone. Chains dangled from the ceiling in webs. The floor was scorched glass, smeared with dried blood and something that pulsed faintly beneath the surface—not lava. Something worse.

Crowds lined the balconies above—demons of every breed, snarling, leering, drinking from skulls. The air buzzed with sick anticipation.

In the center: the Pit. Round, jagged-edged. Like something had chewed a hole in the world and decided to keep it open for sport.

Urzin stopped at the edge, arms crossed. "This is the Crucible," he said. "Where power earns rank. Where weakness earns death."

"Bit dramatic," I muttered.

"Bit accurate," Crowley replied cheerfully. "This is Hell's version of corporate promotions. Just more teeth."

Bri narrowed her eyes at the pit. "And we're here because...?"

"To observe," Urzin said gruffly. "And to be seen."

Crowley leaned toward me, voice low and rich with glee. "Translation: he wants to parade you like prize mares at auction. But I brought popcorn."

I smirked. "You always this charming to your clients?"

Crowley winked. "Only the pretty, stabby ones."

Before I could respond, a demon swaggered past—skin red-leathered and cracked, fangs yellow, eyes like burnt copper. He gave Bri a long, lingering once-over, then slapped her ass hard enough to echo across the chamber.

Time stilled.

I didn't think.

I moved, fangs out and adrenaline skyrocketed.

One second he was walking. The next, I had him by the throat, slammed against a wall hard enough to shake dust loose from the rafters. Chains clattered overhead. His boots kicked at the air.

"You want your claws?" I hissed. "Learn to fucking ask."

The crowd went silent, eyes pivoting in unison.

Bri stood behind me, still, calm—but her fists were clenched.

Before I could deliver a hit, Urzin's shadow loomed behind me.

His hand came down—not to stop me, but to steady my back.

"That one belongs to the pit now," he said coldly. His voice dropped an octave, rumbling across the walls. "Mark him. Let them all see what happens when they touch what's under my protection."

I let the demon go. He crumpled to the floor, coughing blood, scrabbling backwards.

Urzin stepped past me, placing one heavy boot on the demon's chest.

"Apologize," he growled.

The demon wheezed. "I—I didn't—"

Urzin's claws flexed. "You did."

There was no apology, just a scream as Urzin kicked him into the pit like a bag of trash. The crowd roared. Bloodthirsty approval. Currency in the form of violence.

Crowley let out a low whistle. "Oh, I do love it when Daddy plays rough."

I turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "You're not remotely normal."

"Thank you, darling. I do try."

Bri exhaled slowly, stepping closer to my side. Her voice was dry. "Well. We made an impression."

A demon in the stands leaned forward, whispering to another.

"Is that her? The Blade in Boots?"

"The other's the Catalyst."

Crowley preened. "Told you the branding would catch on."

Urzin returned to our side, popping his knuckles. His gaze swept over us—not harsh, not cold. Calculating.

Protective.

"You fight fast," he said to me. "And without hesitation. Good."

"Wasn't about fighting," I said. "It was about respect."

"Same thing, down here."

His eyes flicked to Bri next. "You held back. Why?"

Bri tilted her head. "Because she didn't."

Urzin gave a short, approving nod. "Efficient."

Crowley clapped his hands once. "Well, now that we've traumatized the locals and escalated the rumors, shall we continue the tour?"

I turned toward the pit, watching as new fighters emerged below—snarling, wild, weapons glinting under helllight.

The crowd cheered again.

"I think we're already part of the show," I murmured.

Bri glanced down. "Think we're going in?"

Crowley smirked. "Oh, not today."

Urzin, however, said nothing.

Which meant yes.

"Can I just say," Bri drawled, stepping slightly ahead of me to fall in step with Urzin as we started back down the corridor, "it's a little ironic—maybe even hypocritical—that you, a Knight of Hell, just jumped in to defend a stranger's honor. Then backed up another like it was protocol."

Urzin didn't answer right away.

Beside me, Crowley's voice dropped, low and amused. "You're not strangers."

"No," Urzin said at last, his voice like steel dragged through coals. He pushed open the backdoor of the Underbar and held it without looking at us.

As we passed, his eyes flicked over our shoulders—assessing the pit still echoing behind us, the whispers in the crowd, the scent of power and potential still lingering in our wake.

Then, quietly—dangerously:

"You're not strangers. You're prophecy wrapped in skin. And Hell's already memorized your names."