IT'S the third dead body I've cleaned up so far this week, and it's only Wednesday.

I scowl, setting my hands on my hips, and tilt my head to the side. This one is a young man—human—naked, covered in his own blood, swept over the formerly white sheets. Someone has carved a heart into his chest. Not a simple design—a biologically-accurate diagram of the organ; valves and all. It's not bad, actually. But the pulmonary artery is a little too narrow.

Loose human hearts are a common sight around the hotel.

"Jesus." I mutter, processing the sight, cracking my knuckles, and setting down my cleaning supplies. Heat flushes through me, veins rising, falling, lit red like lava. The feeling passes. I'm calm. Not full of rage. Calm.

Again, I watch the body. Focus. This one is a little different than the others. He's cut into and posed so carefully.

Superbia—pride demons. They're overconfident, seeing themselves as gods, constantly boasting. Honestly? More annoying than anything else. I imagine that the one who killed this human sees himself as an artist of the flesh.

And here I am, left to clean up the mess.

I hate dead bodies. For one, dealing with their ghosts is a hassle, if they have unfinished business. Two, there are the legalities—the paperwork. Three, the metallic stench of blood doesn't come out from beneath my fingernails well. I smell it for days.

Already a fly is starting to buzz around the man. I need to get moving.

The room is otherwise mostly clean—a simple pool-view, people lounging in chairs, pool surrounded by palm trees; balcony with two chairs and three-too many ashtrays outside; interior décor styled like the 80s. Each room is slightly different, but most share a gaudy, patterned wallpaper; colored sheets, various paintings; strange lamps; bright, tinted lights; and, of course, a disco ball. They've even enchanted the space to have a perpetual film grain, with higher contrast. The neon lights and constant haze make it feel like a movie, sure—but I keep feeling like I need glasses.

No bloodstain on the walls. That's a relief. It's extra-challenging because of that damn wallpaper.

I start with removing dead man. I call up the cleaning crew, who says to deliver him to the 'recycling chute.' There's no recycling at the hotel—the assholes in charge want a hot, dying Earth—but we do recycle dead bodies. Organs, bones, flesh—all important. Heart is delicious on holidays.

This man is thankfully light. I ready a tarp and grab the man's legs, slowly dragging him from his pose. He flops onto the floor with a slick slap—I wince—and pull his arms down. Rigor mortis; he's stiff. And gray. Desaturated, with a bluish tinge. It never gets old. I wince, leaning over his body, trying to yank the arms down. Sweat beads from my temple as I continue to fuss, work. I wrap him up like a present, folding over the sides of the tarp—they close—and prop the door open, dragging him outside, into the hallway full of hotel rooms. The carpet is patterned, meant to look like an ocean of colored waves. Photos of Hell's obsidian-sand beaches and gemstone forests are hung about.

As I lug the body down the hall, a couple—Invidia demons, envious assholes who always want more—laugh as they walk past, wings perpetually out, dragging along the sides of the wall, scratching against them. They wear purple, luxurious clothes; their wrinkled skin is pulled tight from magic. Their eyes shimmer.

The woman—gray hair pulled back, styled flawlessly—spins around once she's past me, sizing me up. "Maid, yes—"

Cleaning lady. I think to myself, but stay quiet, straightening my back. I think of the rules: Don't engage. Don't challenge. Stay calm. The customer is always correct. Don't ask for tips. Don't use magic on the job. Don't get angry. Don't engage in virtues.

"Yes?" I ask her, raising my voice's pitch, forcing a needle-thin smile.

"You're cleaning our room, right? Room 9021?" I nod, and she smiles, brighter. Phonier. "You know who we are, right?"

This is a line I've heard too many times. I shake my head.

"The Andersons. We ran the supermarket chain, And-Mart; my husband here is fifth generation—"

"Cool." I say, pretending to be invested. Nepotism—love it. "And?"

"And you didn't give us the extra two soaps, five of your fluffiest feather pillows, two blankets, two conditioners, and three bottles of lotion. There was no extra-hot tea when we arrived, and no bottle opener for our wine! You also didn't set the temperature to 90 before we arrived! It was freezing." she huffs. I crack my knuckles behind my back, blood bubbling in my veins. Calm. I'm calm. So calm.

"Sorry to hear that, Mrs. Anderson—"

"And the sheets were much too soft! How often are they reused? Cutting costs when this is an exclusive resort for Hell—"

"I'll change the sheets and get you everything you've asked for."

"I expect nothing less. Speaking of expectations...I'm expecting a truly fine red wine tonight, a lovely cabernet, along with some chocolate-covered strawberries, and a discount for this mistake. And don't expect much of a tip—this is a learning experience for you, after all."

My lip twitches. I feel my tongue roll along the roof of my mouth, beginning to fork like a snake's in my rage, but I only swallow, keep my expression cool. "Of course."

I wait for the woman to take her husband and leave, but she sizes me up, gaze trailing me slowly. Her eyes flash serpentine—pupils thinned to slits, skin rising with scales—and she huffs. "A half-demon? No wonder service has been so awful—they staff mutts here? I can smell the stench of prey in your blood...were you born here? On Earth?"

She and her husband were human, once. Very few demons were born demons, nowadays. Shitty humans become good demons. "Can't go to Hell until I'm dead, so yeah. Born on Earth, stuck here." My tone's deeper. Angrier. More annoyed. I focus on the one strand of hair that's loose atop her head, stuck into the air. I'm used to being treated like this, but it never stops stinging.

Mrs. Anderson watches. Waits. "You're lucky, remaining here. I wish I was in your place..."

I exhale, adjusting the tarp. Entertaining Invidia demons on their wants and wishes is a trap; I don't engage. "Is there anything else you need? I'll disinfect extra-well to ensure my half-prey stink doesn't fill up your suite." I force a pleasant smile. Satan Below, I want to slap her. Rip her too-perfect hair off her scalp. Dig deep into her heart, and dig in, and become the monster I cannot be, and—

Bloodlust burns. Badly. I suck in a dagger-sharp breath and twist my head away, letting the woman softly gasp, then spin around, hurrying off with her husband.

***

I complete the room, move to the next. Acedia demons—gluttons, three brothers on a men's trip. Hoarders. Stacks of old food containers, beer cans, drug bags, wine bottles, and watch boxes. Even a few NFT certificates. Idiots. They're 'crypto bros,' it seems—laptops set up while they're gone, sending out automatic messages to their organizations. "Demon-trepreneurs," they call themselves. The place is littered with their enchanted business cards, information, and most importantly, filth.

Palmetto bugs crawl over their things. I shudder and burn a few, which makes me feel better, and sort through the trash, taking a watch for myself. Not like they'll know.

***

Next room, next—permanent tenants. One is friendlier; always leaves a moderate tip. Other would tip damn well, but always asks to watch me clean in his little maid suit. I say no, always, but lately, I've been considering it more and more.

Again, again, again, I repeat, room to room. Each room an imprint and extension of its occupants. I've learned too much, seen too much—

It's only been a few years at this job, and I have 21 more to go. All for a damn virtue. Even devils have laws, and I had broken a grave one.

I distract myself from the past and keep working, grinding away, step by step. I finally get to the last room of the day and reach the final task: cleaning the windows. Spray bottle in-hand, towel in the other, I rise, angle it against the glass, palm trees swaying along the beach view, clear blue sea behind, and—

"Hands up." A voice states, shiny-smooth, clear of the grit and smoke of Hell. I flinch. Scowl. Turn.

The man: pale. Lanky-tall. Skin polished in the harsh sunlight through the window, covered in golden freckles. His hair is feathery and light, gently raked back with a few strands loose, jaw pointed, nose pointed, eyes shimmery like the top of a sun-dappled sea. He's wearing a white suit. He smells and looks like wealth, power—the fragile type. A strong kick to that nose and it'd splinter. Same to his chest.

Demons are darkly gorgeous, handsome, beautiful, whatever—jagged and sharp-edged and clean, sharpened by thin blades. Cheekbones? Always a check. They're supernaturally attractive, often in the same ways...so they change their looks, try to soften themselves.

This man is striking, supernaturally so, almost too perfect—yet in the opposite way. There's a fullness and life to his skin, the shimmer, the glow. Cheekbones not jagged. A slightly soft edge to his brow, chin. He looks kind—deceptively so. Yet alluring. I keep staring, because suddenly, I feel light. I'm entrapped.

The man from the coffeeshop—it's him. No wonder I was staring.

I focus on the rest of him, trying to pull myself free, and my breath tightens in my chest.

The wings. Feathered, white, tucked into his back. A halo atop his head, constant golden glow.

And there's the speargun in his hands. The iron tip, golden base.

It's pointed right at my heart.

God dammit.