You occupied a somber corner of Hell, seated opposite your interlocutor. An imp scurried around the table, pouring tea with a nervous urgency. Your companion excused themselves, leaving you alone with the little servant.

The imp, jittery and agitated, rushed to refill the cups, despite the fact that his services often went unrequested. You often shielded your mug with a hand, a silent yet firm refusal for another cup. Each time, the imp would retreat to his spot, eyes downcast, awaiting someone who genuinely desired tea.

As you observed him, a palpable sadness clung to his demeanor. He gripped the teapot tightly, his gaze fixed on the ground.