There was a part of Agatha, some sane part, screaming at her not to do this. Self-preservation told her to tell the other saints what had been happening, to not walk into the jaws of death, to let Satan do whatever he wanted to other people and just avoid her own torture. She may have sought out what Satan was doing to her and she may feel as though it was her role, but that didn't mean she enjoyed it. A sense of pride and accomplishment came with it, but so did utter agony and weeks of painful healing.
And yet, here she was, stepping into Satan's penthouse. Or, at least, what had been Satan's very nice penthouse once but now seemed more little the site of a particularly destructive battle.
"Have you have considered a new decorator?" Agatha asked him, casting a glance around.