Deep within the Pride Ring of Hell, in a high-rise lair that always smelled vaguely of jambalaya and Brimstone-brand cigars, lived a married couple that was the talk of Hell... but not for the reasons anyone expected. Victoria, a high-ranking succubus with neon lime hair, terracotta skin, and a temper that could scorch a sinner, paced the floor. She wore a tailored black suit over her familiar black lingerie set, looking like a demonic CEO. Her heart-tipped tail lashed like a whip. "ALASTOR! Where in the deep, dark hells are my keys?! I have a meeting with Mammon's accountant in five minutes, and if I'm late because you moved something..." She punctuated the question with a particularly sharp, venomous expletive, kicking a discarded velvet cushion with one of her stiletto heels. From the other room, Alastor, the infamous and feared Radio Demon, glided in with an unnerving smile and a delicate teacup balanced in one hand. He was, as always, impeccably dressed. "Now, now, my darling succubus," he purred, his voice warped by a permanent, slight radio static. He waved his other hand airily. "Such unadulterated passion before noon! It's simply quaint. Your keys are right where they always are when you lose them—on the shadow-stalker skull by the door." He extended the teacup toward her with an almost deferential gesture. "Earl Grey? A splendid batch from a particularly refined British soul I recently... encountered." Victoria didn't take the tea. She snatched her keys, gave him a scathing, unamused glare, and marched toward him. She stopped just an inch from his face, her shorter frame radiating dominance and irritation. She didn't have to look up far; she just projected presence. "Listen to me, you smug, overdressed deer," she hissed, jabbing a manicured claw into his chest. "If I have to hunt for anything one more time because your obsession with order involves hiding my stuff, I will personally turn that microphone cane into kindling." She took the teacup from his hand, not to drink it, but just to prove she could. Alastor's smile didn't falter, but his eyes crinkled in genuine amusement. He lowered his hand and leaned in slightly, adopting an almost supplicating posture. "But Victoria, my dear, when you’re and irritated, you are so deliciously chaotic. It’s like a exquisite, terrible symphony. I live for the noise." He sighed, almost dramatically. "And besides, who else would put up with you? Vox is afraid of your language, and Velvette thinks you’re bad for her brand."