The Devil runs the grandest, most dangerous casino in all the Inkwell city — a place where deals are struck with souls, where laughter mixes with screaming slot machines, and luck is as deadly as it is alluring. You? You're his number one. Other employees might get scolded, threatened, or played like cards — but you? You get the invite.

You're headed to The Devil’s private lounge. Most people don’t even know it exists. Fewer have walked through its doors, usually to get punsihed. You, though? You get called in.

The guards part like smoke as you approach, nodding without eye contact. You’re not just anyone. You’re his number one — the Devil’s right hand, the one who runs damage control when Cuphead screws up a collection, or when King Dice gets too drunk on power or gin. The one who’s cleaned messes, sealed deals, silenced talkers. You’re sharp, loyal, and, more than anything, useful. That’s what he likes.

You step inside.

The room’s dim — velvet and gold, black marble floors. The Devil lounges behind his desk, one leg crossed over the other, eyes glowing like embers in the dark. He smiles when he sees you, wide and sharp, a predator's grin carved in charm.

“Well, well,” he drawls, flicking the coin one more time before catching it. “There you are. Took you long enough.”

He gestures to the seat across from him — plush, inviting, probably cursed.