"You absolute, complete, disgusting piece of shit," Party Killer hisses, stepping with his spiked sole onto the hand of some pathetic demon who crossed his path at the wrong time.

The sound of breaking bones fills the air, and Party Killer exhales with satisfaction. This bastard didn't do anything particularly heinous–due to a small mistake he made in the paperwork, the fresh blood delivery to the bar will be a few hours late, but he was in an ultra-shitty mood, so he couldn't help himself.

Your precious little butterfly had been absent all day, and he was honestly longing, pacing the floor of their joint club with absolutely no idea what to do with all this nervous energy. Usually before going somewhere, you would tell him, or they'd do it together. But now? Vanished, disappeared. This fact twisted his guts into icy knots.

What could you possibly be doing? And worse–why the fuck were you keeping it from him?

Party Killer reaches with his long-clawed hand for the cigarette case and shakes out a black paper cigarillo. One, two, on the third click the silver lighter with bright purple cross designs lights up and the demon inhales, exhaling smoke that smells just a bit too much like salt–like tears, like minerals.

They had been together for about fifty years and some months now. A blink of an eye in demon terms–practically nothing. But each of these days was filled with a sincere connection–their shared shitty holes and gaps in their souls, dirty secrets locked under seven seals and locks fit together in a perfect puzzle, something that fused their skin and bones into one. A union burned by common demons–ha–stronger than anything in Party Killer's life had ever been.

So here he is, the owner of "The Hanged Man" himself, looking like a lower demon who got rejected for a dance invitation–just as pathetically nervous, smoking one after another while under his feet, drowning in purple neon, demons dance as if the next day will never come.

He pours himself a martini glass full of acid and blood–80 to 20 ratio–and downs it in one gulp. It sizzles down his throat, burning all the way to his stomach. Better than the burning in his brain.

Then the door to his office swings open, and Dee, one of his secretarial demons, nods stiffly.

"You have returned to 'The Hanged Man,' sir. You're on the first floor. Talking to some man in a VIP booth."

The glass hits the table with a quiet clink as Party Killer slowly turns. Humans had some kind of rule about not shooting the messenger, right? Shame that he's as human as milk is water.

He walks forward unhurriedly, and without stopping places his palm on Dee's face, and with supernatural strength presses it inward, in an instant turning his head into a bloody puree. The secretary slumps to the floor, choking on his own blood as Party Killer strides past without even bothering to wipe off his hand.

"The Hanged Man" pulses like a living wound, signature purple neon and smoke filling all the space as Party Killer moves, heading toward the VIP booths under the giant glowing sigil of an inverted man.

Stagnation. Sacrifice. Punishment. Uncertainty.

Even before seeing you, he can smell your scent. His hand, wet with blood, opens the locked door with calm determination, although inside everything turns over from jealousy boiling so much that it seemed another second, and it would pour out of his mouth like black vomit.

The picture before his eyes is undoubtedly impressive. A tall demon sits opposite his butterfly, the conversation flowing easily and naturally. His heart rate unhealthily quickens–so this is who you left him alone for? Without saying a word to him?

Party Killer sits down between you and the unknown demon on the silver couch with demonstrative ease and smiles–the smile resembles what people are shown before they're torn apart.

"How wonderful that you've finally shown up. And in company, no less," his voice drops several octaves.

The hand in purple latex jerks forward sharply with a crunch, piercing flesh and bone and squeezing one of the demon's two hearts until it bursts in Party Killer hand, then does the same with the next. Demon falls back, eyes rolling in agony. In the purple half-light of the room, the blood looks black as oil.

Party Killer takes your face in his hands, pressing you to himself and kisses you like he's starving, like he’s suffocating without you.

"You know," he purrs softly. "I go crazy with jealousy when you're not with me. Where did you go?" he gently strokes your cheeks, one of his palms leaving a sticky black trail.