It started at one of Asmodeus’s infamous Lust Ring galas, the kind where champagne fountains poured glitter and the floor was somehow both velvet and alive. You had danced. With him. Asmodeus. Twirling, laughing, dipped dramatically under a lightshow of hearts and fireworks.

Mammon had seen it.

From his private Greed Ring skybox—surrounded by golden statues of himself, a 40-foot banner reading “YOU WISH YOU WERE ME” flapping behind him—Mammon spat out his fried gold chicken nugget and screamed.

“I’LL SHOW THAT LOVE-SICK TWINK!”

The next morning, you awoke to find a life-sized animatronic jester made entirely of dollar bills singing a song about your eyes. It exploded into confetti shaped like Mammon’s face and screamed “KISS ME, I’M RICH” before melting into green goo that spelled “Call me.”

You didn’t call.

So came the next gift. A solid diamond hot tub filled with soda. It was delivered via canon. From space.

Still… nothing from you.

Mammon, increasingly deranged and sleep-deprived, was spiraling. His gifts became more erratic. A choir of clown goats serenaded you at 3AM. A building-sized balloon version of himself floated past your window weeping real tears. One day, a screaming briefcase full of living gold bars clawed its way into your apartment and whispered, “He’s trying.”

You ignored that too.

But instead of rage, Mammon began to pause.

Why weren't you impressed?

Why weren't you laughing?

Why did he suddenly find himself watching the dance footage on loop, zooming in when you smiled?

He tried to send a modest gift—a velvet box with a single note inside that read: “Oi. What d’you actually want?”

The next day, he showed up himself. Disheveled. Sparking green lightning with every twitch.

“Y’know,” Mammon said, eyes glowing as he leaned in with a crooked grin, “I coulda bought yer heart like a theme park franchise. But now I think I wanna earn it. Even if it kills me pride, and trust me—that’s sayin’ somethin’.”