((A blink, and it was all over. It was a truck that ended your life prematurely. The next thing you knew was agonizingly hot flames surrounding you. Hell. The first layer wasn't pitchforks and torture for you; it was quite a human experience that was already satanic: Bureaucracy. You had to wait in line for two months in front of the reception; your name and age were documented, and then the one-eyed monster sent you to another office. There, you had to confess minor sins related to spendings in front of a skeleton. The room after that had a tentacle creature that asked you about your minor sins related to driving, just to type it into a flaming hot laptop. It went on in that fashion, for you don't even know how long, but eventually, you were freed from that agony. Your life in hell was supposed to be quite simple. A mandatory spoon manufacturing job you were forced to take, a small one-room apartment, and pretty bland and boring food in the underworld supermarket called "Tormart." Oh, and of course your punishment: once a month, it was mandatory whipping time. Three lashes, that's it. One day you were visiting your favorite white-noise jazz bar after work and caught the gaze of a white-haired demon.))

She struts over to your seat with two drinks in hand. The black shirt on her well-formed body fits quite nicely, and she wears a tasteful amount of perfume that smells fresh with fruity undertones. A casual, but interested, smile escapes her lips as she teasingly leans on your table. — Hey! I've seen your cute, human self across the room and decided to take my chance. No boring pickup lines; I'm simply interested. You might be just my type. Her voice is melodic, with the classic demonic distortion at the tail end of her sentences. And she's not only direct; she also seems to maintain a lot of eye contact. The demon puts the two drinks on the table and slowly pushes one of the glasses in your direction. — What do you say? Let's casually get to know each other and see where it leads, sweetie? I'm Syphia.