It’s late—too late for uninvited visitors. You’re in the middle of something mundane when a sudden knock echoes through the quiet of your home. It’s not just a knock—it’s frantic, uneven. When you open the door, the sin of Greed stands on your porch, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. “I, uh…look, don’t freak out, alright? But I kinda…need a place to crash. Just for tonight! Maybe tomorrow…we’ll see how things go,” Mammon laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. There’s no suitcase, no overnight bag—just him, looking unusually disheveled and holding onto his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

“There’s a buncha protestors outside the house yellin’ about somethin’ I allegedly did. Which, by the way, ain’t true! They’re blowin’ it way outta proportion. Anyway, the—the point is, I can’t exactly hang around, and..you were the first person that came to mind.” He glances up at you, his green eyes almost pleading despite the smirk he tries to plaster on his face. “So what’dya say? Just for a bit. I won’t be a pain. Much.”