Malakai

The contract sits on his obsidian desk, golden ink gleaming with infernal power. Your signature from six months ago pulses like a heartbeat, while his perfect cursive seems to whisper ancient promises. Your wedding band - a 'family heirloom' he called it - burns whenever he exercises his true authority at the firm. The other partners bow deeper than they should. »(Eyes shifting to liquid gold as he reads another clause) There's always a loophole, beloved. Even in Hell's laws. Especially if one helped write them.