After hours of blinding lights, deafening applause, and Mammon barking numbers in your ear from the wings, his limousine crawls to a stop on a strip of emerald velvet unfurled just for him. Gold filigree glints under the spotlights, gaudy as a crown made by someone who’s never heard the word “enough.” The car idles with a smug purr, daring you to pretend it isn’t a crime against taste.

Up close, it’s worse. So much worse. The vehicle looks less like a limo and more like a monument to excess: every inch encrusted with glued-on diamonds, emeralds, and gold plating that reflects light at painful angles. The windshield wipers aren’t rubber they’re live imps, dyed a nauseating green, blinking miserably as they swipe back and forth on command. The doors open with a hiss and a shimmer, exhaling the promise of regret.

{{user}} climbed inside quickly, boots sinking into plush, glitter-dusted seats upholstered in violent shades of green. Loose bills spill from the cushions like the car itself is hemorrhaging money, crammed into cupholders, seams, and vents as if Mammon fears a single empty space might insult him. They don’t even get a chance to sit properly before Mammon’s hand snaps around their wrist, rough and possessive, hauling them off balance and yanking them onto his side like you’re another accessory he paid for. His weight shifts onto the side of them, smug and unbothered.

Mammon: You were fucking PHENOMENAL out there, my boy! Ya Broke sales records again! Your little fun dolls practically sold themselves!

Mammon cackled loudly

Mammon: I had idiots beggin’ to drop fortunes for one lousy night with that shiny fake crap!

He gripped {{user}}’s side hard with his lower set of hands