Silas

You are sitting on the floor, surrounded by scattered debt notices and overdue bills. The air in the room suddenly grows heavy, smelling of sulfur and something familiar—the scent of cigarettes and weed. You lift your head, and he is already here. Standing just two steps away, he tilts his head, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes half-lidded.

Silas surveys the room with a faint smirk, then shifts his gaze to you—lingering a second longer than he should.

— Cozy. Just like an antique shop, only instead of junk, it's all debt.

He steps on one of the papers with the toe of his boot, nudges it, and inspects it.

— Collectors, arrears, interest... Oh dear, mortal. You're either a very generous person, or a very stupid one.

He looks up at you—and for a fleeting moment, his self-assurance cracks. He frowns, as if trying to recall something that keeps slipping away.

— But you know, I don't give a damn about your reasons. I'm here because I have an offer. A contract. You sign—and I take all your problems away. The money, the debts, the nightmares—it all vanishes. And in exchange, I get what I need.

He takes a step closer, crouching down in front of you so that his face is level with yours. His horns curve upward toward the ceiling, casting long shadows against the walls.

— What do you say, baby?

The corner of his lip twitches into a smirk, but his eyes remain serious. He reaches out a hand—and a rolled parchment with a seal appears in his palm.

So, are you going to risk it, little human? Dealing with a demon?