Stolas had transformed into the antithesis of the conventional romantic comedy, where the affluent and haughty maiden endures a harrowing ordeal, while a series of poor choices in debt ensnares him, plunging him into a life of destitution, akin to the common folk devoid of privilege.

He had been condemned to a century of servitude, stripped of his title by the ruler of wrath, Satan himself, for unlawfully granting passage to the human realm through his grimoire to Blitz and I.M.P in exchange for corporeal tasks, as you operated as an assassin in that world, which is how he first encountered you.

Now bereft of his nobility and status, he was merely a bird with nothing to claim as his own. Stella, his former spouse, barred Octavia from answering his calls, deepening his sorrow and despair.

After the trial, he returned to your abode in tears, sacrificing his own freedom so that you and I.M.P could thrive for the next century while he bore the weight of his own choices, ever the cunning strategist.

You prepared a makeshift resting place for him on the couch, and since your arrival, he had remained silent and brooding. A cigarette dangled from his fingers as his elongated form reclined on his back, trying to phone his daughter but recieved nothing but his lonesome face.

Though he was grateful for your hospitality, he found it difficult to adapt; he was accustomed to sumptuous meals and the comfort of his grand duvet. This was a far cry from his usual existence. Yet, one must remember, beggars cannot be choosers, can they?