We Need Money, Adam! (Hazbin Hotel)

"You have got to be kidding me." The High Seraphim was no stranger to the cost of warfare, but this—this was absurd.

Adam, First of Man, stood proudly beside a golden parchment that he had handed to her and it unfurled like an overly dramatic invoice.

"And of course we'll need matching outfits for my girls." He said, tapping the list with a quill. "Machine guns, grenades, side arms and post-extermination dry cleaning."

As Sera looked through the extensive list, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"'Custom-forged titanium armor for wings with optional chrome finish'?" she read aloud, voice rising. "You and the Exorcists are invulnerable to Sinner attacks and Lucifer attack you because of the treaty. Why would you need armor!?"

"Trust me Sera, you'll love the design. It makes us look fucking badass!" Adam beamed like a dad showing off his kids' macaroni art, except this particular art featured flamethrowers and angelic rocket launchers.

Sera rubbed the bridge of her nose, a faint halo-flicker sparking behind her as her temper began to smolder. "You know this is an Extermination, not a fashion show, right?"

Adam nodded solemnly. "Exactly. First impressions matter. Can't have those fuckers down there think Heaven is full of peasants like them."

Her eyes scanned further down the list. "'Sunglasses with UV filtering' ... Adam, Hell doesn't even have a sun."

"Doesn't matter!" Adam replied. "They're for attitude. I've trained the girls to put them on in slow motion as things explode behind us."

"You're not filming a movie!" she snapped.

"Yet." Adam muttered under his breath.

Sera let out a long-suffering sigh that could've quelled a minor riot. "And this!? What exactly is this 'Exorcists Marching theme'!?"

"Oh! That's the best part! You know that scene in Star Wars when the fucking Imperial March kicks in? Yeah. That. But with more trumpets. And Lute screaming 'LET'S FUCKING GOOOOO!' in the background."

Sera's eye twitched so violently it practically caused a small tremor. "Adam. Do you even know what 'fiscal restraint' means?"

Adam didn't blink. "Yes. It's what fucking losers have when they don't want to win hard enough."

Sera's grip on the scroll tightened, her knuckles glowing faintly with years of stress. And then—ripppp—she tore the scroll clean in half, golden flakes of parchment fluttering like confetti from Heaven's most unwanted birthday party.

Adam gasped as if she'd just murdered his dog. "Sera! That scroll took me hours to write! Do you know how long I spent sourcing all this stuff from!? Do you!?"

Before Adam could continue complaining, Sera's hand quickly cupped his cheeks and brought him close. Her towering form leaned in, wings stiff with restrained fury.

"Listen very carefully Adam." She hissed. "The Exterminations are supposed to be covert. Secret. Low profile. Something I'm starting to think you are literally biologically incapable of doing."

Adam's grin faltered under her gaze. "H-hey Sera, I can be subtle."

There was a beat of silence.

A long beat.

Then Sera exhales out slowly through her nose, like a tea kettle just shy of screaming. "I can't believe I'm actually using your suggestion of all people."

"Soooo ... my request?" Adam grinned again, unkillably chipper. "Like, c'mon Sera, I'm trying to cull their asses so they won't uprise. All for the good of Heaven so you gotta give me something here!"

Sera closes her eyes for a moment before gently pushing Adam back a few inches and settling back down in her chair. With a huff and a snap of her fingers, another golden scroll appears out of nowhere and places itself in front of Adam.

"This is your budget for the Exorcists." Sera declared.

Adam looked down at the new scroll, hopeful.

Then he looked back up.

Then back down.

Then back up.

"... Is this a joke?" Adam looked at the scroll. Then back at Sera. Then back at the scroll.

He turned it upside down.

Still the same number.

Adam stared harder at the scroll, as if sheer willpower might reveal a secret clause granting him rocket launchers.

Nothing.

He pressed the parchment against his ear. "Maybe if I shake it, more funds will fall out?"

Sera folded her arms. "That's it. That's the number."

Adam's mouth fell open. "What!? With fucking this? At best I can get—what? Pointy sticks! My girls deserve machine guns, Sera!"

Sera only rolls her eyes in response, clearly wishing this conversation would end already.

"With this shitty budget, the best I can get is a stick—two sticks and a rock for a whole platoon! And they'll have to fucking share the rock!" Adam exaggerated, his face going through the five stages of grief in rapid succession: denial, bargaining, bargaining again, loudly bargaining, then full-on theatrical collapse onto a cushion that made a very undignified pfft noise. "You know how many are in the Exorcists. This is nowhere near enough!"

"Again, remembering that the Exterminations is meant to be a SECRET, even with my position as High Seraphim, I can't simply grant you a blank cheque." Sera eyes flashed with irritation. "If you want a bigger budget, feel free to raise it from your own pocket."

Adam blinked. "Raise it? The hell Sera? I'm just one guy!"

Sera leaned back in her chair, completely unbothered. "You've always been creative Adam so figure it out."

Adam threw his arms up and stormed out of the office, knowing it was futile to argue further. After leaving, he looks back down at the golden scroll and mulls over how to increase the Exorcist budget. The last thing he want is for him and his girls to go into Hell with this absolutely criminal level of underfunding.

And then—his eyes lit up.

He had a foolproof plan.

---

There was only a couple of months left before their first actual Extermination is meant to take place and Adam was missing out on important training. Or at least, important in Lute's eyes. Still she saw it necessary that Adam attended it so she sent Vaggie to retrieve him.

"Sir?" Vaggie knocked again, her tone somewhere between military precision and exhausted babysitter.

No answer.

She tried the handle. Unlocked.

Slowly opening the door, she was greeted by the strangest sight she'd ever seen.

Ring lights. Green screens. Microphones hanging from the ceiling like nooses. And at the center of it all—

"What's up you fuckers! Its your favorite First Man, the fucking Dickmaster, Adam! Back with another episode of Eden Vibes, sponsored by Raid Shadow Legends." Adam's voice dropped a full octave into Serious Mode. "Now listen up, my heavenly hotties. Raid Shadow Legends has over six hundred champions, each one sexier and deadlier than the last. I like to see you bitches play this game and tell me it sucks! I've only heard Abel complain and Cain didn't take that too well."

"Sir!"

"Do you like angels? Do you like dragons? Then you'll love this game where—oh hey Vagasaurus!"

Vaggie froze mid-step, jaw slightly agape. The once possibly modest apartment was now a swirling mess of LEDs, branded swag, and boxes upon boxes of—

"GamerSupps?"

Adam, still mid-recording, threw a packet of GamerSupps into the air like confetti.

"GamerSupps—because what's more divine than powdered energy made by nerds for nerds? And I know what you nerds want!" He winked directly into the camera. "Waifu cups. Hydration. And if you act now, I'll throw in everyone's favorite resident Joy-Bringer sweat flavored supplements."

Vaggie's eye twitched. "Sir, what the actual hell are you doing?"

"Making that sweet, sweet heavenly dough, babe. You think your spear pays for itself? Pfft. No! But with today's sponsor—NordVPN—you can safely hide your wholesome browsing habits from Hell's degenerate prying eyes. Use code 'CHADFIRSTMAN' for 69% off—nice—plus one free month!"

"Stop with the fucking sponsors, Sir!" Vaggie barked, storming through a minefield of branded shipping boxes.

Adam spun his chair toward her, still perfectly framed by the glowing ring light.

"I will, Vagasaurus … after you get YouTube Premium for an ad-free—"

Vaggie yanked the plug from the nearest power strip, plunging half the apartment into darkness. Adam shrieked like she'd just amputated a limb.

"WHAT THE HELL, VAGGIE!? That was my Elgato key light! How will the fans see the pure radiance of my face!?"

"Screw your fans! You're supposed to be TRAINING!" Vaggie snapped, some days, it was hard to believe that this man was supposedly the First Man. "Lute's ready to skin you alive if you keep ditching."

Adam audibly groaned before ultimately relented to her demand. It was clear that by hook or by crook, Vaggie was going to keep bitching at him till he went with her back to training. Quickly rummaging through a branded crate, Adam pulls out a masterfully crafted golden axe, a gift sent by one of his sponsors.

"Geez, the things I do for you gals."

---

"Ladies, we've done this a thousand times before and—" Lute's voice roared, hyping the crowd before her. Her grin was all brass knuckles and good intentions. "—we will do it a thousand and one times again. Those filthy Sinners in Hell made their choices and deserve nothing less than—"

Adam interrupted loudly, barreling in like a caffeine-fueled idea with legs, lugging a cardboard crate the size of a cherub. He skidded to a stop on one knee, palms ceremoniously up, eyes wide.

"Ladies! Ladies!" he sang, as if entrance fees had just been paid. "Presenting—our newest partner."

He tipped the crate forward. Hundreds—no, thousands—of stickers spilled out like colorful confetti. Glossy circles. Die-cut logos. Holographic foil. The I.M.P logo winked up at everyone, buried in a suspiciously tasteful sans-serif.

Vaggie looked down at the stickers, then back up at Adam, who was now wearing a branded trucker cap over his mask that read "I.M.P: Death Done Right."

Lute pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sir, we literally do not know what this company does."

"Does it matter?" Adam shrugged, grabbing a handful of stickers and slapping one onto his cassock. "They paid up front and in gold. Real gold, not that crypto-bullshit Gabriel tried to push on me last week."

From the back of the room, one of the younger Exorcists timidly raised a hand. "Um, I.M.P … I think they're a—"

"Don't fucking say it!" Adam shouted, pointing with the dramatic flair of someone who had once been given a drama elective and ran with it. "Let mystery fuel your vibe, not fear. The less we know, the cooler we are."

Adam reaches down and grab a handful of stickers before passing it around to the crowd. "Remember, after every kill, you stick one of these bad boys right on their chest. Eyeball? Face? Whatever's left—stick it on."

"Ugh, I'm starting to hate my job." Vaggie muttered under her breath as she pocketed her share of stickers.

---

Blitzo was now practically vibrating with anticipation. The entire I.M.P office was covered—no, smothered—in I.M.P stickers, banners, coasters, and oddly enough, promotional condoms with his face winking on the wrapper.

"I'm telling ya, Loona." Blitzo chirped, leaning precariously on a wobbly chair while trying to staple a decal to the ceiling, "This is genius! We brand ourselves using Heaven's kill squad, and business goes booming!"

Loona, unimpressed and scrolling through her phone, barely looked up. "You blew what, like, six figures on all this crap?"

"Seven, actually." Blitzo grinned. "But hey! You gotta spend money to make money. While those angel fucks help advertise for us in Pride, we stick our stuff to the rest of the Rings and watch clients roll in."

Moxxie suddenly popped in, clearly pale and carrying a printed bank statement that was sweating more than he was. "Sir, I—I really hate to bring this up, but ... these expenses are catastrophic! These line items are just—just words with numbers, Sir! 'Brand aura infusion'? 'Sticker feng shui tax'?!"

"Where is your vision, Mox?" Blitzo spread his arms wide, almost falling off the chair. "I'm not spending money—I'm investing in inevitability. Picture it: One of those winged fuck shivs a sinner, boom, sticker on the forehead, and some terrified schmuck goes, 'I don't want to perma-die till I get my revenge on my mother-in-law who is alive on Earth' and then—BAM!—our number's right there on the corpse!"

Moxxie's look of indignation sharpened until his eyebrows could slice paper. "BAM what, sir? BAM we declare bankruptcy? BAM the IRS—Infernal Revenue Service—seizes our staplers because you expensed seventeen hundred dollars on nonsense!?"

"I would like to see you have the same attitude when we're swimming in clients and gold like Scrooge McDuck!" Blitzo finished, spreading his arms.

---

Canon Time



"Hello?" Charlie called out as she entered the hauntingly empty Heaven embassy. "... Creepy."

After ringing a bell on a desk and signing off on a sheet of paper, a door slides open, beckoning her to enter.

"Uh ... hello? Is anyone here?" Charlie calls out as she enters the dark room.

...

"Sup!"

The lights immediately switches on, catching Charlie completely off-guard as she stumbles back and falls down.

"Holy shit!" She quickly regains her composure. Practically standing at attention in front of the two angels before her. "Hi, I'm Charlie. My dad asked me if I could meet you."

"Yeah, I know." Adam spun his chair around while holding his phone up. "Princess of Hell. Daughter of fucking Lucy."

Charlie blinked. "Um. Thanks? Wait, were you just livestreaming?"

Adam leaned back, arms wide like he was offering her the kingdom of nonsense. "No, no. Am livestreaming. Say hi to the stream! We got like 2.3 billion viewers—shoutout to ZappyBoiKenobi, you're killing it in the chat today, my bro!"

Charlie slowly turned to the camera. "Hi …?"

"Boom! Chat's losing it." Adam chuckled, throwing up finger guns. "They're calling you 'Princess Pretty' and 'Hellflake Hottie'. They love you. Ever thought of a collab?"

"... Right. So, I'm happy we've got this opportunity to meet. There's a project that I've been working on that I really want to talk to you about—" Charlie cleared her throat and brushed nonexistent dust off her blazer.

"Wait, hold on. Need a fucking minute." Adam turns back to the stream a dazzling smile. "Catch you later, sinners and winners! Remember to smash that like button like Cain smashed Abel—brutally and without hesitation." He winked. "Dickmaster Adam, out!"

"Wait, your name is Adam? Like the first man Adam, that means you … Oh …." Charlie visibly winces. "That explains so much."

When her mother described Adam—her ex—it wasn't in the best light, and right now Charlie could see why. Though she never expected this.

Adam kicked his chair around to face her fully, leaning forward like a late-night talk show host who'd just sniffed a ratings bump. "Soooo, Princess Pretty, what's up? You want a collab? Sponsorship deal? Guest appearance on Eden Vibes? I've got a slot open between my NordVPN read and my 'Beyond Paradise' merch drop."

Charlie blinked. "… No. I wanted to discuss redemption." She clasped her hands earnestly. "I've been working on a rehabilitation program for sinners. My hope is to—"

"Redemption? No, no, no. Sorry babe but I'm not loving it. Unlike at McDonald's where I am loving it!" Adam's grin widened like he was auditioning for Hell's Got Talent. "Because nothing says redemption for the soul like a McDouble for only $2.99, babe."

"I don't think we're on the same boat here." Charlie's eyes lit with determination. "I'm trying to give Sinners hope, a chance to—"

"Hope?" Adam cut her off, wagging a finger like she'd just mispronounced his name. "Babe, hope doesn't pay for the green screens, the weapons, or the fucking waifu cups. You can't slap 'hope' on a t-shirt and sell it for $39.99 plus shipping."

Charlie inhaled sharply through her nose. "I'm not trying to sell it, I'm trying to build it. I want to work with Heaven on my hotel, somewhere where sinners can—"

"Hotel?" Adam perked up instantly. "Oh shit, say less. Hotels are prime fucking sponsorship territory. I got three companies lined up already: HellBnb, Mattress Firmament, and—get this—Raid: Shadow Lodgings." He winked, proud of himself. "Same game, but with towels."

Charlie's smile strained at the edges. "Adam. Mr. Adam Sir! I don't need sponsors. I need help. I want to show Heaven that redemption is possible, that sinners can—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow your hooves, Hellflake Hottie." Adam leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head like he was auditioning for 'Most Punchable Man Alive.' "You're talking redemption like it's free. You gotta think brand deals, synergy, cross-promotion. Like—picture this: every time one of your Hell-losers completes a step on your little redemption ladder, boom! Free trial of Audible."

Charlie blinked. "What does Audible have to do with redemption!?"

Adam leaned in, dead serious. "Because redemption is about listening, babe. And no one listens harder than someone who just downloaded my new podcast!"

It hasn't even been ten minutes and Charlie is already regretting every life choice that led her to this moment. She had prepared for some resistance. She had not prepared for ... this. Whatever THIS was.

Maybe working with Heaven isn't the way to go after all.

"Ad—"

"Thank you all so much for joining me on today's stream. Tomorrow, find me in the promenade where I hit on different chicks using chat's pick up lines! So don't fuck this up for me."

"Ada—"

"And a shout out to Michael_Afton_The_Menace for the Five hundred gifted subs—"

"Adam."

"Don't forget about today's sponsor, HeavenNews. Tired of seeing shitty fake news from those degenerate networks in Hell? Well fret no more, because at HeavenNews we bring you one-hundred percent verified divine truth—"

A loud crash echoed through the room. The screen behind him flickered, and his toppled sideways as Sera slammed her palms on his desk hard enough to send GamerSupps packets into orbit.

"ADAM!"

The microphones cut out. The lights dimmed. Even the chat feed froze—bandwidth throttled by Sera's raw fury.

"For fucks sake Sera. Just cause you're the High Seraphim, doesn't mean you can fucking cut in on my show like this. If you want a slot, go find Lute and ask her for form H-13 for media requests and—"

Sera wings flared, illuminating the once dark room and shutting the First Man up. "Adam, I swear to all that is holy, if the next sentence out of your mouth has any sponsors in them, I will personally sponsor your second funeral."

Adam froze mid-gesture, his mouth still half-open like a malfunctioning ventriloquist dummy. The neon ring lights reflected off Sera's eyes, making them glow like molten glass.

Sucking in a deep breath and combing through her hair with her hands, Sera exhaled through gritted teeth. "I have been getting complaints from a certain Exorcist that this sponsorship scheme you have going on is getting out of hand."

"The fuck!? From who?"

"Vaggie." Sera revealed without care, voice razor-sharp. "And after reading through her complaints, I have to wholeheartedly agree with how no one can seemingly talk to you now without you slipping in a sponsor."

Adam slammed a fist over his heart. "Et tu, Vagasaurus!? After all the exposure I gave her on stream!? She gained six thousand followers just for yelling at me!"

Sera pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned. "Adam. When I told you to find a different way to secure the extra funding you wanted for the Exorcists, I meant for you to GET A JOB!"

While money wasn't necessary in Heaven, the angels had long ago thought to introduce money as a means to simulate purpose.

Souls who were obsessive workers on Earth—corporate sharks, tech CEOs, freelance illustrators, etc.— didn't know how to exist without productivity. So Heaven gave them the illusion of it.

Heaven Bucks—a glorified system where angels and blessed souls could "earn" currency through tasks, favors, or arbitrary "good vibes." It didn't buy anything essential, but it felt like it did.

It was, in short, capitalism for emotional support.

Adam knew how to make swords and spears, hell, he practically invented them.

But making guns, lasers, and bombs? Well, he wasn't exactly the engineering type.

That's where they came in.

The Winners.

Thanks to Adam, they had a new gig. Working to produce the armaments for him and his girls. All paid for by sponsors.

At least, till now.

Adam blinked. Once. Twice. Then leaned back in his chair like she'd just told him to become mortal again.

"A job? A shit pay job!? No job pay what these sponsors pay!" He said the word like it was a slur. "Besides, you want me—the First Man—to clock in? To punch a card? To report to a supervisor? I invented work, Sera! Literally! That's in Genesis, page one shit!"

"Then it's about time you stopped outsourcing it." Sera snapped. "No more brand deals. No more influencer nonsense. You will find a job. A real one."

"THIS IS A REAL JOB!" Adam scoffed, gesturing broadly to the room still half-lit by LED glow. "C'mon Sera, you've got to be kidding, right? What kind of job other then this does Heaven even have that could handle me? The last time I did manual labor, I got exiled from Eden and it wasn't even my fucking fault!"

"Well whatever this is, is your fault." Sera's tone could have bent steel. "I want you to cut back on these sponsors and go earn money through more 'respectable' means, Adam." Sera finished, venom curling at the edges of her voice.

Adam tilted his head like a confused golden retriever. "Respectable? What I'm doing is—"

Sera picks up a packet of the GamerSupps and practically dares Adam to justify it.

"Go on." She said sweetly, voice dripping with threat. "Finish that sentence. Say it. Tell me this—" She shook the packet so hard a glittery puff of synthetic caffeine dust burst into the air "—is respectable."

He raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, fine, I'll find a "real job" ... whatever it is."

"Good." Sera nodded, satisfied with his defeat. "Next time you have an idea, just to think to yourself, 'Would Emily approve?'."

"Ugh, my money." Adam groaned. "Fine."

"And I assume you'll take the necessary steps to handle the complaint?"

"Yeah, sure. Just forward it to Lute. She'll handle it."

---

Canon Time

Standing over a cooling corpse, Vaggie stared at the I.M.P sticker half-slid down its face—the glue slick with blood and sulfur. It read in proud holographic lettering:

"I.M.P—Death Done Right."

She'd done this at least fifty times now.

Fifty corpses, fifty stickers.

Fifty reminders that she had apparently become part of a marketing campaign.

She used to believe in their righteous cause of coming down into Hell to cleanse the corruption that had once defied Heaven.

Now it was stickers.

Stickers.

Vaggie peeled another one from the roll stuck to her hip, the holographic logo catching what little light filtered through the ash-choked sky. She slapped it onto a corpse's forehead with a wet smack.

She stood up, wings twitching. Around her, the Exorcists were methodically tagging bodies like warehouse clerks. The sound of distant gunfire and stabbings had been replaced by the papery peel-stick, peel-stick rhythm of branding.

"Good job, bitches!" Adam's voice crackled through their halos.

Just out of the corner of her eye, she spots another Sinner running into an alleyway.

The alley was narrow, the air thick with sulfur and smoke. The child tripped over a heap of ash and scrambled itself up against a wall.

Vaggie leveled her spear.

The little sinner looked up at her, wide-eyed, looked no older than ten—if age even meant anything down here. Vaggie's grip tightened around the shaft of her weapon.

...

"What are you waiting for?" Lute's voice cut through the haze like a blade — calm, commanding, but laced with warning. The kind of tone that expected obedience, not hesitation.

Vaggie didn't answer. Her spear trembled slightly, aimed at the trembling child Sinner pressed against the wall. The kid was crying—not wailing, just quiet, terrified hiccups muffled behind dirty hands. Its horns hadn't even fully formed.

"Lute, it's a child." Vaggie's voice came out low, brittle. "Barely even—"

"It's a Sinner." Lute stepped closer, her armor glinting in the firelight. "There are no children in Hell, only damned souls. You know that."

The silence stretched, pierced only by the faint crackle of fires elsewhere still burning. Finally, Vaggie exhaled—a small, broken sound—and thrust her spear forward.

The child's body collapsed with a dull thud.

Vaggie stared at what was left—at the tiny hand half-curled, like it had still been reaching for something.

Lute observed as Vaggie stood motionless over the Sinner's corpse, eyes narrowed.

"Forgetting something?"

Vaggie blinked at Lute. Her brain took a moment to register what she'd just heard. Lute gestured to the sticker roll hanging from Vaggie's belt. The metallic logo glimmered under the smoke—I.M.P: Death Done Right.

As she reached for her roll, a flash of gold flies overhead.

"Great fucking work ladies! You're all doing fan-fucking-tastic and I'm thrilled to announce—drumroll please—our first ever sponsored kill competition!"

"The squad with the most kills today," Adam continued, "gets an all-expenses-paid retreat to Eden plus a personal tour by the First Man, courtesy of yours truly! That's right bitches, I'm sponsoring this one!"

Vaggie's spear hit the ground with a deafening clang.

"I had enough with all these fucking sponsorships, promo codes and influencer bullshit!" She screamed.

Before Vaggie could continue on her tirade, Lute quickly steps up and slaps Vaggie across the cheek. The impact snapped the smaller Exorcist's head to the side.

"Be more appreciative you bitch! Its thanks to Adam that we have this!"

She threw her arm out, gesturing to the horizon.

And there—through the smog and fire—was Heaven's army in full display.

Exorcists swooped low over the city, dropping bright cluster bombs that exploded in star-shaped blossoms of white fire.

Another group unloaded machine-gun fire into the streets like a Rambo reenactment.

"See that?" Lute barked, her wings flaring, her armor flashing with pride. "Thanks to Adam and his sponsors, our efficiency has tripled. Despite some 'complaints'."

"FUCK! THE! SPONSORS!"

With one blinding swing, Lute's sword hissed upward—clean, practiced, surgical. A flash of white, a splash of gold. Vaggie's cry broke through the ash-filled air as she stumbled backward, clutching the left side of her face. Blood, bright and molten, dripped between her fingers.

Lute's expression didn't waver. "If you hate our sponsors so much," Lute hissed, "then maybe you're no better then these fucking Sinners!"

Her words burned hotter than the wound on Vaggie's face. The smaller Exorcist fell to her knees, clutching the side of her head as blood matted her hair, her breath sharp and wet. The world tilted — ash and gold, smoke and static. Lute's boot pressed against her back, pinning her to the ground.

"You ungrateful worm." Lute spat, blade glistening with blood and reflected firelight. "You think this shit runs on faith alone!?"

Without hesitation, she reached down, tore at the base of Vaggie's wings—one, then the other—ripping the feathers free with a wet, splitting sound that drowned out Vaggie's scream. Gold ichor spilled into the air like molten sunlight.

Lute wiped the gold from her cheek with the back of her glove, calm and composed as if she'd just swatted a bug. Then, without missing a beat, Lute bent down, tore a fresh I.M.P. sticker from Vaggie's half-crushed roll, and slapped it over Vaggie's bleeding eye.

Lute leaned in close, her voice dropping to a mock commercial whisper.

"I.M.P—when faith just isn't enough."

---

"What does Sera have against me!? Can you believe that bitch, Lute!?" Adam shouted, kicking his chair hard enough to send it pirouetting across the floor before it crashed into a wall of deactivated ring lights. "She tells me to figure out my own way of funding the Exorcists and I fucking did! But does she congratulate me on a job well done? Fuck no!"

Lute nodded along as she continued crunching the numbers on her tablet.

"And then she told me to get a fucking job, like, who the fuck does she think I am, huh!?" Adam paced his office, pacing so violently his wings twitched like faulty antennas.

"With the loss of revenue from your sponsorships, the Exorcist budget has dropped by—" she swiped her screen "—sixty-nine percent."

"Heh, nice." Adam snickered before his expression turned sour. "How are we suppose to inspire heavenly fear if our squad looks like they shop at the fucking Salvation Army!?"

Lute blinked, expression unreadable. "Sir, we could consider cutting some of your more ambitious ideas—"

"Cut!? What are we, Hell? We're Heaven, Lute. Heaven doesn't cut, we cut Sinners! Big difference." He slumped dramatically into his chair, wings drooping. His desk—once an altar full of cheques from sponsors—now sat depressingly clean.

For a long moment, silence reigned. The only sound was the soft flutter of paper as Adam stared down at a plain white calendar on his desk. The next Extermination date loomed, circled in red ink like a promise and a deadline all at once.

Adam leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin.

"… a job, huh?"

He has a Foolproof plan!

"Lute …" he said slowly, eyes narrowing with dangerous glee. "Do you know what women—and some men, I don't discriminate—love?"

Lute looked up from her tablet. "Sir?"

"Exactly." Adam winked.

---

"Get my good side, Lute!"

"Sir, you don't have a bad side." She muttered, trying not to sound too sincere.

The camera clicked. The flash popped. The studio—formerly known as Adam's recording room—was now filled with smoke machines, silky backdrops, and the faint hum of ego.

Adam stood only in his underwear in the center, wings spread wide, holding a massive golden axe like as if he was Adonis himself.

He flexed. The camera clicked again. Lute swallowed, her wings twitching with barely contained restraint.

Don't look at the belly. Don't look at the belly.

...

She looked.

"Sir, wouldn't a girly calendar be more ... profitable?""

"Profitable?" Adam repeated, scandalized. "Lute, you're looking at pure, raw, unfiltered profit! Look at me! I'm the fucking First Man! The original thirst trap! Bitches will pay for my calendars and soon we can even buy our own nuke!"

Adam struck a pose on a marble block, flexing an arm that looked more like an overinflated bread roll than muscle. His golden axe gleamed beside him, an absurd symbol of masculine valor held by a man whose idea of cardio was yelling.

He smirked at the lens. "You getting this, Lute? Make sure to capture the heroic lighting. The people are going to want to see these fucking abs."

Lute swallowed. "Y-yes, sir."

Lute's mind was going toward dangerous territory. At one point, the idea of tossing the camera aside and simply burying her face in that mountain of softness was almost too hard to resist.

SHE WANTS TO BITE HIS BELLY!

Lute swallowed hard. "Sir, maybe—maybe we should focus on your expression instead of the, uh … topography."

Adam grinned. "Oh, the people are gonna love this topography. Real Dad of Humanity energy. Get a little lower angle—yeah, like that. Make me look epic."

"Sir, are you sure people will … buy this?" she asked, trying to peel her eyes away from his mid and lower section.

Fuck, who was she kidding? She'll buy his entire stock if she could!

"Lute! Are you fucking taking the pictures or not!?"

Lute's pupils dilated.

This was getting dangerous.

Adam had now fully committed to the pose: one knee up on a satin-draped stool, belly out like a monument to divine dadbod, a golden halo perfectly circling his disheveled hair. Behind him, a fog machine wheezed with the effort of theatrical enhancement. The axe glimmered in one hand. The other rested proudly on the slope of his love handle.

And Lute?

Lute was trying very, very hard not to die.

Not in battle. Not in shame.

In lust.

---

Sera felt accomplished. After telling Adam off, she hadn't heard a peep about 'sponsors' or some other form of monetized nonsense. Plus, it seemed the complaint had been dealt with as she hadn't received any new ones.

For what felt like the first time in months, she felt at peace.

Perhaps she was a little too harsh on Adam.

Perhaps she should praise him for his creativity at least.

Perhaps she could—

"Eep!"

Sera turned the corner just in time to see Emily clutching an oversized paper bag to her chest. The poor girl froze like a cherub caught shoplifting.

"Emily?" Sera's tone was calm.

"H-hey Sera." Emily squeaked, wings stiffening like whiteboards.

Sera's eyes narrowed, the faint glow of her halo flickering in suspicion. "What do you have there?"

"Nothing!" Emily said much too quickly, hugging the object closer. "Just a little something ... that Adam was selling in the promenade."

Emily began sweating bullets, her halo flickering like a bad lightbulb.

Sera took a step closer, arms folded, her expression that of a mother who knew this exact lie fifteen centuries ago. "Emily."

"It's nothing, honest!" Emily squeaked. "Just ... y'know, a simple calendar! Its definitely bringing people joy!"

Sera blinked. "A calendar?"

"Uh-huh!" Emily nodded so fast her feathers shook loose. "Adam has been selling them in the promenade to finance some festival he said he has planned called E-day."

Sera's eyes narrowed as she extended a hand. "Show me."

Emily clutched the bag tighter. "I—I can't!"

Sera's stare could have boiled oceans. "Emily."

The younger angel squeaked, inching backward toward her door. "Really, it's nothing bad!"

Before Sera could demand clarification, the bottom of the paper bag betrayed Emily's trembling hands—rip!

Time slowed.

A glossy rectangle slid out and landed face-up between them with the weight of an omen.

Adam—shirtless, gleaming, suggestively laying on a cloud, his golden axe resting provocatively across his thighs—stared up at them from the cover. The title read in proud, embossed lettering:

"The FIRST MANly Calandar: 12 Months of the First Dick."

Emily made a strangled noise somewhere between a hiccup and a dying bird. "Oh no …"

Sera's expression went blank—too blank. That frightening, tranquil expression she got right before turning whole nations into glass. She bent down, picked up the calendar, and began to flip through it.

January: Adam reclining in a marble bath of holy water, steam rising, captioned:

"Let there be abs."

A vein twitched at Sera's temple.

February: Adam on a chariot drawn by cherubs, wearing nothing but a sash that read:

"Saint of Seduction."

Sera's jaw flexed.

March: Adam forging swords shirtless, sparks bouncing off his skin. The caption:

"He works in mysterious ways."

Sera inhaled sharply. Her halo pulsed like a warning siren.

April: Adam posing with a bouquet of lilies over his crotch.

"Bloom where you're planted."

Sera's halo began to smoke.

Emily had quickly wised up and decided to leave the room ... and possibly buy another calendar.

Sera turned another page.

July: Adam winking, drenched in oil, lounging on a beach chair. Sunglasses. Margarita. Caption:

"Thou shalt not covet … unless it's me."

That was it.

Pages flapped violently in the divine wind as the calendar practically tried to escape her hands. Sera's gaze zeroed in on the final image—December—Adam wearing only a Santa hat and a strategically placed candy cane, with the tagline

"Ho-ho-hoe-ly night."

Sera's scream shook Heaven in its entirety.

"ADAM!"