"Ara, Ise loves bigger ones. He has said many times that he loves my breasts, right, Ise?" Rias teased, her crimson eyes locking onto me like a predator cornering prey.
On the other side, Asia's golden eyes were blazing with a desperate determination. Both of them stared at me, waiting—no, demanding an answer.
I knew right then… If I said the wrong thing, my peaceful life would end here.
So I forced a nervous laugh, raised my hands in surrender, and muttered, "You know… knowledge is a tricky thing."
Without waiting for a response, I scrambled out of the bath, yanked the door open, and escaped with steam clinging to my body.
That was too close—way too close.
If I stayed a second longer, I might've been killed by love itself.
•••
Being punished by Rias for dodging her question about—well—Rias's *assets* was dumb, but fair. No teleport magic for me for a week. No popping straight to clients' houses to collect fees or fetch weird midnight snacks. Instead, I got to pedal my way across the city on a creaky bicycle while the moon watched and the cold bit through my jacket.
Late-night deliveries are the worst. Streetlights blur past like tired fireflies. My breath fogs the handlebars. Every wobble of the old bike sounds like an accusation from my thighs. Still, the job is a job. Devils don't get sick days, and Azazel was on the schedule—again.
Azazel is, objectively, a terrible client and, also objectively, excellent for my ledger. He calls more than anyone else. Bread at midnight, a fishing trip at dawn, and once he had me fetch a weird antique vase at three a.m. and then sent me a thank-you note written on a page from an old ledger. I swore off checking the pattern of his requests long ago. It was easier that way.
The house was tucked into a quiet lane that shimmered in the sodium glow. I panted at the porch, knocked, and the door opened to a tall man who looked annoyingly normal for a fallen angel: late twenties maybe, dark hair with a golden streak over one eye, and a neat goatee that betrayed a lot of time in the mirror. He grinned like someone who'd just won a coin toss against fate.
"Devil-kun, you'll play a game with me? I'm lonely without an opponent," he said, as if this were the most natural plea in the world.
"Yes," I said, because honestly, who refuses when Azazel asks? He pays well, and he's generous to the point of embarrassment—paintings, jewels, and gold nuggets appearing on my doorstep like a weird, tasteful avalanche. Rias and the others wouldn't allow me to go near him if I told them. I never told them it was Azazel. They don't need a headache that big.
Azazel himself didn't know that I know who he really is.
He ushered me inside to his living room, which could've been an art gallery-slash-gamer cave. Multiple monitors, a plush couch, and, sitting triumphant in the center, a brand-new racing rig.
"All right. I set up the game." He clapped like a kid. "You take the controller."
I grinned back. Racing games are my thing. Old me—Issei from another life—could make a car slide through a hairpin like it owed me money. My fingers remembered the throttle, the drift, and the perfect tiny corrections. I loved the rush; he loved watching me fight for it.
"Go easy, I'm a beginner," he added, smirking in that way that meant he was absolutely not a beginner.
Five laps. The countdown. "GO!"
I launched like a rocket, my car a blur of color and perfect apexes. My lead felt glorious. The rig vibrated under me as if affirming my dominance. I whooped. Azazel whooped too—cute, if slightly maniacal.
But then something happened. Maybe I let a curve take me wide. Maybe a stupid boost spawned at the worst possible moment. Or maybe Azazel's "beginner" had a cheat code hidden in his sleeve. He muttered something about "catching up," and suddenly his car—somehow, impossibly—blew past me on the last two laps.
"What the—!" I yelled, slamming the controller like it had betrayed me personally. The couch creaked. My lead evaporated. My face burned with the ridiculous mix of being outplayed and secretly thrilled.
"WIN!" Azazel crowed, arms in the air. "Seems like my victory, Devil-kun. No—Sekiryuutei."
People who don't know him would think he was being childish. People who do know him would think he's always been that way and just extremely dangerous underneath.
I sat there. No fluster. No theatrical rage. Just a measured look. Then he did something he clearly expected would faze me: he leaned forward, eyes bright, and said, "I am Azazel, leader of the fallen angels."
If he'd been aiming to surprise me, he missed. I watched his face for the reaction he wanted—shock, fear, maybe awe. Instead, I tilted my head and gave him the exact answer I always kept ready.
"I know."
The words landed between us like a calm, very deliberate bomb. He paused, then laughed—surprised, delighted, and not offended. He'd been playing for the reaction, the little ripple that comes when someone realizes you're not who they thought. I'd given him no ripple. He found that incredibly interesting.
"You know?" he repeated.
~~~
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