Havoc and Pandora's box
She's already doomed. Might as well make it interesting.
Havoc spent most of the Ancient Greek period in Iceland. Very different vibe up there, lots of fjords, very few cursed artifacts. So, when she stumbles into the one vault in all of Hell she absolutely wasn't supposed to enter and finds a box sitting on a pressure-sensor pedestal like a demonic museum exhibit, she does the only reasonable thing a five-hundred-year-old chaos demon can do.
She opens it.
Out come the Seven Deadly Sins. All of them. In Lucifer's vault. Naked, opinionated, and absolutely not going back in the box.
Now Havoc has been handed the worst job in either realm:
Six months. Seven sins. Don't let it become the Dark Ages again.
Wrath is seven feet of copper-skinned fury who claims the entire plate of bacon and calls it non-negotiable. Pride has a breakdown over an imaginary pore at six in the morning. Greed robs four banks on his first night of freedom and considers it "showing restraint." Lust radiates enough pheromones to make cursed artifacts glow. Envy takes notes on everything everyone else does so he can do it better, louder, and with more resentment. Gluttony ate all five gallons of ice cream and then felt genuinely bad about it, which somehow makes it worse. And Sloth slept through it all.
They're cosmic disasters. They're ancient, dangerous, and deeply irritating. They're also, against every instinct Havoc possesses, starting to feel like hers.
A laugh-out-loud paranormal romcom about the demon who caused every major disaster in history and the seven beautiful catastrophes she's now responsible for keeping alive, contained, and, against all odds, maybe even a little bit redeemed.
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