I was just a normal girl with big dreams—dreams of becoming the most photogenic creature on Instagram. Did I have the looks? Debatable. Did I have the talent? Absolutely not. Did I climb onto a suspiciously unstable balcony railing while holding a ring light, a tripod, and a vape all at once? Yes. And that’s how I died.

But instead of a glorious reincarnation like "powerful saintess" or "mysterious swordmaster," I woke up attached to the left pec of Azaroth the Undying, the Most Feared Demon King of the Bloodrealms. And I’m not a sexy mole or a cool scar. No. I’m his third nipple. The one that definitely wasn’t there before and the one all his demon generals are too polite to mention.

The worst part? I can talk. Only to him. And only when his shirt is off. Which, unfortunately for me, happens a lot because apparently Demon Kings don’t believe in buttons. Every time he’s in front of a mirror, there I am—just me as a weird little nub screaming, “Bro, your posture sucks!” or “Are you seriously summoning hellfire without sunscreen?”

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Azaroth, a ten-thousand-year-old warlord who can summon storms with a flick of his fingers, has no idea how to get rid of me. Every ancient curse breaker, every divine exorcist, every forbidden spellbook—nothing works. I’m stuck. He’s stuck. We are both in hell.

Meanwhile, the Demon Queen (who I’m pretty sure wants to kill me) is convinced Azaroth’s secret weakness is me, the talking tit wart. The Holy Knights, who were supposed to save the world, are now convinced I’m some kind of divine weapon. And worst of all? Azaroth keeps getting roped into shirtless battle tournaments, meaning half the realm has seen me trying to give his enemies life advice mid-fight.

“Oh my god, don’t block with your face—who raised you??”

And somewhere deep in my soul, I just know—this is all because I tried to facetune my nostrils.