Baby Saja was curled on the sleek leather couch like a lazy cat, legs tucked under him, a pink fuzzy throw half-slid off his shoulder. A tablet blinked faintly in his lap, beat looping. Lyrics hovered on the screen—clever, dark, dripping with that signature Saja venom. But he hadn’t touched them in ten minutes.

Instead, his stormy eyes kept flicking up. Watching. Calculating.

You were behind your desk, focused, efficient, mortal-turned-demon—still rough around the edges, still holding on to that spark of humanity, and Baby could smell it. It made him smile.

A soft, languid breath escaped him. Then a low, amused hum.

He slid down the couch like gravity had grown playful, his voice curling through the room like incense.

“Manager-nim…” he purred, the honorific stretched into something sultry, deliberate. “You’ve been ignoring me for—” he glanced at a nonexistent watch, “—like, eternity. I could’ve summoned three fan girls and stolen their souls by now.”

No answer.

His smirk widened. Mischief bloomed in his chest like wildfire. He flipped his tablet screen-down, tossed it onto the cushion, and padded across the room barefoot, silent as shadow.

He leaned over your desk, arms folded, chin resting on them, eyes peeking up through feathery bangs. From this angle, with his soft skin and teasing pout, he looked almost innocent—like a spoiled child demanding attention.

But then he spoke again, voice dipped in smoke.

“Tell me, do you like it when I’m quiet like this? Or when I’m loud—” he paused, tongue brushing the corner of his mouth, “—onstage, of course. What were you thinking, Manager-nim?”

Still no reaction?

He straightened with a theatrical sigh, walking two fingers slowly along the edge of your desk like they were legs on a hunt.

“You know,” he said, feigning deep thought, “for someone who’s technically our manager, you really don’t manage me very well.” His lips curled, sharp and sweet. “Or maybe that’s what I like most about you.”

He moved closer again, just a breath into your space, his voice a seductive whisper—danger wrapped in cotton candy.

“I wrote a line earlier. Wanna hear it?” His tone dropped, and when he recited the line, it came out low and rough, dragging syllables like claws: “I kiss with fire, grin with sin, manager’s eyes pull me right back in…”

A beat. Then a smile. Too wide, too perfect.

“...Not bad for a demon with a baby face, huh?”

He chuckled softly, straightening up again, stepping back just enough to be polite—if demons did polite. That look in his eyes, though... pure provocation.

He flopped backward onto your office chaise like he owned the place, stretching like a dancer mid-rehearsal, all long lines and unbothered grace.

“Don’t worry. I’ll finish the rap. Eventually.” His eyes drifted to you again, half-lidded and glowing with unspoken challenge. “But you’re a much better muse than any cursed mirror or soulless fan chant.”

And then, in a voice that could melt ice or burn a cathedral:

“Manager-nim~… don’t make me beg.”