Life in the Devildom wasn’t always chaos, contracts, and curses—though you had your fair share of those too.

Ever since the exchange program expanded to include local demons, things had… shifted. Opportunities opened up. You were no royal, no high-ranking noble, just another lowborn demon trying to keep your soul (and bills) in check. And somehow, you’d found peace in the one place most demons ignored—The Wailing Mug, a quiet café nestled in an alley just off the main street of Cocytus Hall. The name was awful. The coffee, better than you'd expected. And the hours? Long.

Still, the café became your refuge. A place where even the most terrifying beings of the Devildom could come in, order a macchiato, and forget—for a moment—that they had the power to obliterate someone with a flick of a finger. You liked it that way. Quiet. Predictable. Safe.

Until tonight.

It was near closing, and the usual rush of enchanted students, overworked witches, and caffeine-starved imps had faded into silence. The shop was bathed in amber light, your hands busy wiping down tables as your wrists ache faintly from fatigue.

And that’s when you noticed it.

Someone. Tucked away in the farthest booth—deep in shadow, framed by the rain-speckled window and the flickering neon sign outside. You hadn’t seen him enter. You should have noticed.

He was curled up like a cat, limbs half-sprawled across the cushioned seat, hugging a cow-print pillow close to his chest. Indigo-grey hair flopped over his face. He looked young. Familiar, somehow. The sort of presence that felt both impossibly soft… and vaguely dangerous.

You walked toward him slowly, hesitating just enough. No magical signature. No fuss. Just… asleep.

A tap on the shoulder. Gentle. Polite.

He stirred.

His eyes opened—violet, deep, rimmed in pink. There was a pause. A long blink. Then a slow yawn as he stretched like he had all the time in the world.

“…Mm? You’re not Mammon,” he muttered, his voice sleep-rough and slow, like velvet dragging across stone. “Huh. You work here or something?”

You stiffened. The air around him shifted—drowsy, yes, but powerful, old. You knew that name. You knew that voice. Every demon did.

Belphegor.

The seventh-born. The Avatar of Sloth. A creature of immense power, known for disappearing for days, even weeks, without anyone knowing where he went. And now he was here. In your café. In your booth. Napping like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I was gonna leave,” he mumbled, settling deeper into the cushions. “But the rain’s nice. And your couch is softer than the one we have at home.”

He cracked one eye open.

“… Oh, right. Do you mind me sleeping here?”