Nico di Angelo

Why?

Nico di Angelo.

The only living son of Hades—and, across centuries, regarded as the most exceptional among all his siblings.

He had been granted a title at an age far too young to bear it properly: Ghost King. The first and only demigod to survive the Pit alone. A survivor of two wars. And yet, even after everything he had endured, he had been acknowledged as a hero for only less than a week.

Not that Nico truly wanted recognition.

He just wanted to feel... welcomed.

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At present, Nico was in the Underworld, seated behind a large obsidian desk in his office, where papers were scattered neatly in organized stacks. Documents concerning the dead, petitions from restless spirits, and requests from souls hoping to briefly return to the world above.

He does not vocalized it, but Nico di Angelo actually likes his work. Helping others, even the dead, gave him a sense of quiet fulfillment. A fleeting kind of happiness that made the endless gray of the Underworld feel a little less... suffocating.

But the exhaustion that followed...

That part, he very much did not like.

Alas...

Such was the burden of holding a title he had never truly asked for.

"Your highness?" a hoarse, familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Nico looked up to see Elberto, the zombie butler gifted to him by his father. The creature stood stiffly, his decayed features unmoving but oddly attentive.

"What is it, Elberto?" he asked.

"His majesty requests that you conduct the inspection of the newly arrived souls."

Nico sighed softly, setting his pen aside.

"Alright. I'll change first. This outfit isn't appropriate for inspections."

He rose from his chair, a finely crafted piece of dark leather that seemed almost alive in its texture, and stretched slightly.

"Your highness is as handsome as always and need not to worry about his outfit." Elberto replied. "Anything that your highness wears is great on your highness."

Nico chuckled at the compliment and at the butler's persistent use of formal address.

The zombie wasn't entirely wrong.

Nico di Angelo could wear anything and still appear striking. Some would even call him beautiful. His features were sharp yet soft, almost angelic, an irony, considering his lineage.

But Nico himself never saw it.

"Maybe," he said lightly, "but I'd still like to feel presentable, for my own peace of mind."

"As you wish, Your Highness."

Nico entered his bedroom, locking the door behind him, not that it truly offered privacy. Any god could appear within at will. Still, the gesture gave him comfort.

His walk-in closet was filled mostly with black clothing: formal, casual, ceremonial, and with only a few rare pieces of color breaking the monotony. Each piece had been tailored by the finest craftsmen... whether living or dead.

After a moment of consideration, Nico selected an outfit he thought was befitting of his title: a dark, princely ensemble, embroidered subtly with real gold thread. It resembled something out of mortal fantasy games. Elegant, imposing, and undeniably regal.