Chapter Text
Most people can’t name the exact moment the printed word was born. They’ll mumble something about Gutenberg, 1450, a German tinkerer with ink-stained fingers and a dream. And they’d be half right. History, as usual, ignores the rest — China, Sumeria, the hands that pressed symbols into clay or silk long before Europe learned to spell. But historian, and colonization, both have their favorite narratives, so the story starts where it flatters them most.
Hell, of course, wrote its own version.
Down there, the printing press came centuries later — dragged into existence by a freshly fallen sinner with ambition hotter than the fires around her. She wasn’t anyone’s idea of a saint on Earth either: a sharp, calculating woman who weaponized ink the way others used poison. Think Lady Bridgerton, if Lady Bridgerton had published gossip so devastating it made people lose their head.
Her rise was fast and vicious. Within decades, she ruled the infernal publishing world — her pamphlets, broadsheets, and “special editions” deciding which demon rose, and which one burned a little lower. She turned envy into currency and scandal into art.
After the Second World War sent shockwaves through even Hell’s bureaucracy, she convinced herself she’d built something eternal. The empire of words would hold. The presses would never stop.
But one night, as she worked alone in her ink-slick office, a strange sound crept from the shadows — a lazy, jazzy tune, faint but unmistakable. It carried the weight of something inevitable. She froze, and for the first time in centuries, she felt it — that twist in her stomach that whispered she wasn’t untouchable anymore.
Something was coming for her. And it had rhythm.
In a frenzy, she gathered everything she could—papers, coded ledgers, even an old drawing half-burned at the edges. The sound was closer now, slipping through the cracks in the walls like smoke. The lazy jazz had turned heavier, slower, almost deliberate.
She’d heard the stories, of course. Everyone in the infernal hierarchy had. The new overlord who was cleaning house, killing his own one by one, each disappearance louder than the last. But she hadn’t thought the damn thing would come for her. Not yet.
Her mind raced as she shoved pages into a leather case, fingers smudged with ink and panic. The empire she’d built, the words that had crowned her queen of scandal, suddenly felt fragile, a paper kingdoms waiting to burn. Somewhere behind her, the saxophone dragged out one long, low note, and she realized with a chill that it was no longer being played. It was breathing.
“Elizabeth,” the voice rasped through the dark, half-sung, half-broadcast. “Where are you? I just want to have a little chat.”
Her blood went cold. The static that followed was almost playful, a tune whistled through broken teeth.
She ran. The floor dragged her down, thickening into pools of ink that clung to her boots. The shadows rippled, and then he was there—the Radio Demon—materializing from the dark like smoke solidifying into bone.
He smiled, thin lips splitting around crooked yellow teeth. “My dear,” he purred, “haven’t you heard? Ignoring a guest is terribly rude.”
Her answer was a fist. She slammed it into his jaw with a crack that echoed through the empty corridor. His head snapped sideways, static hissing out of him like feedback. For a moment, he almost looked human—stunned, insulted—before his grin returned, wider.
The deer demon swung back, his hand solid for once, the blow catching her across the cheek hard enough to send her sprawling. Her back hit the wall, and something cracked—ribs or plaster, she wasn’t sure. Ink oozed from her mouth, thick and bitter.
She spat it out, then surged forward, slamming her shoulder into his chest. They crashed to the floor, grappling, rolling through a mess of black liquid and shards of glass. His shadows were cold, iron-strong, pressing against her throat. She clawed at his wrists, nails tearing through his skin, black smoke hissing from the wounds.
Elizabeth drove her knee into his ribs once, twice—heard something give. He snarled, face twisting as the shadows around him flared. The air turned heavy, charged, and then he hurled her backward. She hit the reception desk hard enough to splinter the wood.
Her vision blurred. Her body screamed. But she got up anyway.
“Still want to play, dear?” His voice was a rasping purr now, thick with static and satisfaction.
“Go to hell,” she spat, wiping blood or ink from her lip.
“Oh, darling,” he said, stepping forward, “we’re already there.”
He lunged. She met him halfway, their bodies colliding with a sound like thunder. Her elbow connected with his jaw; his claws raked her shoulder. Flesh split. She screamed, grabbed his wrist, twisted until the bones popped beneath her grip. He staggered, laughing through the pain.
Ink poured from her palms, wrapping around his torso like chains. She yanked him down and drove her knee into his face. The floor shook. He retaliated, shadows coiling around her legs, pulling her off balance.
They fell again—snarling, breathless, soaked in blood and blackness. Every hit was slower now, heavier. Every breath a ragged, broken sound.
Finally, she caught him off guard—slammed her fist into his chest and forced her power through the wound. Ink erupted, burning through his shadowed form. His grin faltered; his outline flickered like a dying signal.
She didn’t wait. She kicked him aside and ran, half-stumbling, half-falling through the corridor. Her legs trembled. Her lungs burned. The ink that had once answered her now weighed her down, dragging at her every step.
Behind her, his voice rose again, faint, distorted, carried on a wave of static and laughter.
“You can’t run forever, Elizabeth.”
She didn’t look back.
She forced herself through a cracked doorway and stumbled into the cold night air. Her body dissolved into misted ink, slipping between the shadows, vanishing into the maze of ruined streets.
She’d escaped.
Or so she thought.
A hand shot out of the darkness and fisted into her hair. Before she could even gasp, a surge of electricity tore through her—blinding, searing, flooding every nerve with light.
Something cold and metallic wrapped around her body, tightening until she could barely draw breath. Another jolt ripped through her, this one catching along her ribs. Her muscles seized; she jerked and thrashed helplessly, her body moving like a marionette yanked by invisible strings.
Laughter followed—sharp, delighted, cruel.
“Got you, bitch. Al, look!” the voice crackled with glee. “I can make her dance!”
The Radio Demon stepped from the shadows. “It’s funny, my dear,” he said smoothly, “but now it’s time to kill her.”
The box headed demon’s grin faltered into a trembling smile. “Oh… okay, sure,” they stammered, voice flickering with a manic kind of devotion. The look they gave the other overlord made Elizabeth’s stomach twist.
Elizabeth dangled in the grip of those tendrils, her body slack, the ink running down her arms like spilled blood. Each breath scraped her throat raw, tasting of metal and smoke.
“Poor thing,” The Radio Demon murmured, brushing a hand over her cheek with mock tenderness. “All that fight… gone so soon.”
The electric demon stepped closer, sparks jumping between their antennas. “You were right,” they said softly, eyes gleaming. “It’s so fucking fun to kill other overlords.”
The other chuckled, low and dangerous. “You always did have an artist’s eye.”
Something shifted between them—charged, strange, almost intimate. The electric demon smiled, face flushed blue, voice trembling. “You mean that?”
The deer demon’s laughter was smooth as oil. “Of course. You know I admire a good performance.”
They beamed at him, electricity crackling faintly across their skin like excitement. “Then maybe you’ll let me finish her myself. Please, I can gut her like a fish. Oh… or I can put her in a rat cage…”
The other tilted his head, voice dipping into a teasing drawl. “Finish her? Or play with her until she stops breathing?”
“Exactly, let the bitch suffer.’’
“It’s a waste of time.’’
“Maybe, but it’s funny. And she deserves it she fucking stole my story, last week.’’
“You and your stupid little news broadcasting.’’
Elizabeth barely heard them arguing. Their voices bled into static and shadow, every word fading into a distorted hum. The pain came in waves. Her body felt like it was coming apart, piece by piece.
The deer demon watched her head slump forward, the last flicker of life fading from her fingers. “Ah,” he sighed, almost disappointed. “And just when she was starting to put on a show.”
The other one tilted their head, sparks twitching lazily across their knuckles. “Guess I overdid it?”
The Radio Demon smiled, all smoke and cruelty. “My dear, you always overdo it. It’s part of your charm.”
They laughed—bright and careless, the sound echoing through the hollow street. “Well, she’s not dancing anymore.”
“No,” he said, turning away, “but at least the performance ended on a high note.”
The two of them chuckled as the last trace of Elizabeth’s ink dissolved into the shadows. Somewhere in the dark, the radio crackled to life, hissing between static and the faint sound of applause.
The Radio Demon’s grin sharpened. “Now,” he said, “let’s broadcast her scream.”
The final surge of pain hit like lightning. Elizabeth’s voice tore through the air, raw and endless, before being swallowed by the radio’s crackle. For one terrible instant, she regretted everything—her life, her sin, or maybe just waking up that morning.
And the last thing she saw before the world went dark were the two demons—laughing.