The night sky over Wrath burned a deep, hellish crimson, the Harvest Moon hanging swollen and molten above the horizon like a wound that refused to close. Its light spilled across the fairgrounds in thick orange streaks, catching on broken glass, dented metal, and the long trails of footprints carved into the dirt. Smoke drifted low over the fields, curling lazily around dying bonfires and spent shell casings. Somewhere in the distance, a shotgun fired, followed by laughter loud enough to rattle the fences.
Wrath didn't quiet down.
It just… slowed its breathing.
Max and Loona walked side by side through the aftermath of the festival, boots crunching over splintered wood and scattered knives. A crooked game stall leaned at a dangerous angle, its prize rack emptied except for a single stuffed hellhog dangling by one torn ear. Drunk imps staggered past them in groups, arms slung over shoulders, singing songs that had too many verses and not enough melody.
Loona wrinkled her nose. "Smells like someone deep-fried a corpse."
"Probably did," Max replied calmly. "Wrath cuisine's… flexible."
Up ahead, a cluster of torches lit a small resting area where Moxxie and Millie had set up camp beside a half-collapsed stall. Millie was sitting on an overturned crate, her leg stretched out and wrapped in thick bandages. Even injured, her energy refused to dim; she waved the moment she spotted them.
"Oh hey, y'all!" she called, voice bright despite the strain underneath.
Max's relaxed posture snapped into focus. He crossed the distance quickly and dropped into a crouch in front of her, eyes scanning the bandages.
"What happened?" he asked. "Festival accident, or did someone decide rules were optional?"
Millie laughed, but it came out tight. "When Striker tossed us in that storm cellar, I landed right in a bear trap. Didn't even see it till it bit me."
Moxxie flinched at the memory. "It was… extremely unhygienic."
Max exhaled slowly. His shadow rippled outward, pooling around his boots.
"I'm not sure how healing magic interacts with hellborn physiology," he admitted. "But I've got something that might help."
Before anyone could ask what that meant, the shadow swallowed him whole. He dropped straight through it without a sound.
Loona crossed her arms. "And there he goes. Again."
Millie giggled. "He always do that?"
"Every time I start relaxing," Loona muttered. "It's like dating a magic trapdoor."
Millie leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "So… how's the engagement treatin' you? That Overlord of yours looks at you like you hung the moon."
Loona's ears twitched violently. "He's… fine. Great. Whatever. It's just complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"He's got… others," Loona admitted, jaw tightening. "But he doesn't treat me like I'm extra. He tries. Hard. I just—" She huffed. "I don't know what to do with someone like that."
Millie's grin softened into something warm. "Honey, that man looks at you like you're the only thing in the room. If I weren't married to Moxxie, I'd be in line."
Moxxie turned crimson. "Millie!"
Loona sputtered. "I'm fine! Totally fine!"
Her tail wagged anyway.
The ground darkened.
Max rose back out of his shadow holding two glowing vials: one crimson, one deep azure, both humming with contained magic.
He frowned at them. "Okay. No clue which one's better for imps. Standard HP or full recovery."
"What are those?" Moxxie asked, leaning in with scientific curiosity.
"Healing potions," Max said, handing Millie the blue vial. "Should fix the leg. Ideally without side effects."
Millie didn't hesitate. She tipped the bottle back.
Blue light burst across her body in a wave. The bandages evaporated into sparks, and the skin beneath sealed perfectly—no scar, no swelling, no trace of the trap. She jumped to her feet like someone had rewound her injuries.
"Well I'll be!" she laughed. "I feel brand new!"
Max nodded, satisfied. Then he uncorked the red vial and drank it.
Nothing.
He stared at the bottle.
"…Weak," he muttered, grabbing a second labeled Full Restoration and downing it.
Heat detonated through his chest. His missing arm regrew in a brilliant surge of magic—bone knitting, muscle weaving, skin sealing in seconds. The limb hung there, perfect… and completely numb.
Loona grabbed it immediately. "Still dead?"
"Yeah," Max grimaced. "Nerves are asleep. Might take a day."
"Good," she said. "You looked crooked."
Millie whooped and grabbed Moxxie's hands. "Come on, sugar! Hog ridin' rematch!"
"Millie—please—!" Moxxie cried as she dragged him away.
Loona watched them vanish, snorting. "They never stop."
"Some people don't want to," Max said quietly.
The festival noise faded behind them as they walked toward the ridge where the van was parked. Crickets buzzed. Bonfires popped. The Harvest Moon painted everything in molten amber.
Loona's voice softened. "You're really sleeping in the van?"
"Yep," Max said. "Dumped the bags. Made a bed. It's… survivable."
She shoved her hands in her pockets. "I'll hang out there. Might as well."
He glanced at her. "Planning to make a habit of it?"
"No! Maybe. Shut up."
Her ears burned red.
The van was cramped, warm, and smelled faintly of brimstone and his cologne. Blankets were stacked into a nest in the back. When Loona climbed in, their limbs tangled immediately.
After a minute of awkward shifting, she gave up and settled against his chest.
"Don't get used to this," she muttered.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he whispered.
Her tail curled up and intertwined with his.
Outside, Wrath roared softly in the distance.
Inside the van, it was quiet.
Warm.
Loona's breathing slowed. Her grip loosened. Sleep pulled her under with a faint smile still on her lips.
Max watched the Harvest Moon through the cracked window one last time.
For a single fragile night, Hell felt almost gentle.
And he let himself believe it.