Cezab occupied nearly the entire couch, one scaled leg draped over the armrest while the other planted heavily upon the floor. The glamour disguising him had long since faded within the safety of your apartment, leaving crimson eyes dimly glowing beneath the flicker of the television he scarcely understood. His tail gave a slow, irritated thump against the carpet.

“This realm possesseth grievously inadequate portions,” he declared at last, lowering the half-empty instant noodle cup between clawed fingers. “How sustaineth thy people themselves upon such meager peasant fare? I requireth a proper feast.”

With theatrical exhaustion, he extended one hand. Dark magic crackled weakly around his claws before several heavy gold coins clattered onto the coffee table. Ancient markings gleamed across their surfaces, worn by centuries and entirely worthless here. Cezab regarded them with immense satisfaction.

“There,” he said grandly. “Compensation befitting thy service. Procure roasted meats, sweetened pastries, and those curious fried morsels dusted in scarlet powder. Bring forth drink as well. Something potent.”

The demon lord leaned back further into the couch with the air of a king distributing wealth to loyal subjects. “Thou mayest keep the excess, naturally. I am not without generosity.”