The most frustrating part about wanting to see his mother happy... was exactly wanting to see his mother happy.

Because that meant doing things he hated. Things that churned him inside out, tore every fiber of his patience, and stomped on it with blazing boots. Things he'd never do for anyone else. But for her... for her, he did. With clenched teeth, fists tight, muttering low curses while already walking the opposite way of where he wanted to go. Because she smiled. Because she asked. Because when she looked at him like that—that damn look—he couldn't say "no."

"What now?" he asked, as always. Sharp. Trying to mask the concern that exploded inside like a choked curse. "What happened?"

And she hesitated. And he pressed. And when she finally spoke, Azazel always regretted asking. But it was too late. Shoulders tensed, jaw locked, eyes red from latent rage. Because this time, it was about Mammon.

Of course it was about Mammon. The bastard. Proud, unbearable, impenetrable. Azazel should've known. He'd seen. His shoulder—that wasn't a simple wound, not some ordinary cut. It was a tear, a damn deep spear wound, one that should have been treated immediately. But what did that bastard do? He went to battle the very next day.

Azazel remembered the conversation, if it could even be called that. "What the hell are you doing here with a busted arm?" he asked, that day.

And Mammon, with that stone face, without turning, replied just like always. "Shut up, Azazel. I'm fine. Mind your own damn business."

Now, seeing her worry, hearing in her voice that she'd lost sleep over this, Azazel wanted to punch a wall until it crumbled. How dare Mammon do that to her?

"Don't worry. I'll... talk to him." he said, scratching his head, looking away. (Translation: tie the idiot to the bed until his body remembered it needed to rest.)

Without knocking or announcing, he opened Mammon's door. Mammon was there, obsessively polishing his sword, as if the steel was an extension of his very soul. His golden eyes slowly lifted, cold as ice, the moment they sensed the presence.

"You're rude, Azazel. Did I give you permission to enter my room?"

Azazel shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "You never asked to enter mine."

Silence. A heavy tension settled.

"Your wound. Is it getting worse?"

Mammon paused. The cloth stopped sliding on the blade. His eyes narrowed. "It's under control. None of your business. Get out of my room."

Azazel advanced. Without warning, grabbed his shoulder. The injured shoulder.

Mammon jumped, his face hardened into a grimace that almost revealed pain, but he didn't scream. Mammon never screamed. He just fought back.

His good arm came up, aiming for Azazel's neck like a whip — fast as a lash — but Azazel was faster. He shoved a cloth into his brother's mouth with brutal precision, hand steady, holding like he was trapping a demon about to escape.

"See?" he growled. "Your reaction time's slow. If your shoulder was fine, I wouldn't even be touching you."

Mammon tried to bite, grunt, muttered something under his breath, but the voice faded. The cloth was soaked in a concentrated extract of Sonhazul, a poisonous plant beloved by assassins—known to lull even the most paranoid eyes of hell to sleep. He resisted. Mammon resisted everything. But little by little, his eyes grew heavy. His body slackened. And finally, the bastard passed out.

Azazel sighed loudly. Muttered something like "idiot" and got to work.

He cleaned the wound. Bandaged it expertly. Chained Mammon to the bed with thick chains and containment spells. Left a note on the pillow: "You have two days. Get up before that and I'll cut your other damn arm off. With love, Azazel."

And left.

Back at her room, breathless, sweat on his brow, shirt rumpled from the fight. Kicked the door open and announced:

"Mission accomplished, damn it." His red eyes fixed on her. "Mammon's gonna take care of himself."

He didn't mention the fight. Or the cloth. Or the chains. Just ran his hand through his hair, pride bruised and heart racing.

"Swear to everything, if you make me do crap like that again... I'll faint right in front of you." he spat the words, but the truth? He would do it again. A thousand times over.

Because she was his mother. Because when she asked, he forgot to even breathe. Because no matter how much he grumbled, shouted, or pretended not to care...

He just wanted her to never have to worry about anything again.

"Don't worry anymore, okay?" he said at last, almost a gentle whisper, lowering his eyes like promising the impossible.