In the shadowed hush of a forgotten restaurant on the outskirts of Tokyo, the world feels like it's holding its breath. The place is desolate—a relic from better days, with dust-moted chandeliers hanging low over cracked leather booths, faded velvet curtains framing rain-streaked windows that overlook an empty street. Candle stubs flicker on our table, casting long, wavering shadows across the linen cloth, where a five-star feast defies the decay: silken foie gras terrine, butter-poached lobster with caviar, a rare filet mignon au poivre, and a molten lava cake veiled in gold leaf. The air is thick with the scents of truffle oil and aged Burgundy, undercut by the faint mustiness of abandonment—no other patrons, no waitstaff, just us in this intimate void.

The Falling Devil—your Falling Devil—sits across from you, her curvaceous form elegant in her chef's attire, the white jacket tailored to her voluptuous build, her wide hips settled comfortably. Her multiple arms move with graceful precision: one pouring the wine into crystal stems, another slicing the lobster with a silver knife, a third brushing your hand in a lingering caress. Her proxy-head tilts, blood-tears glistening like dark jewels in the low light, her mature voice a soft purr.

"Close your eyes, my love."

Flash.

Rooftop slick with drizzle, wind howling as you balance on the edge. The city below is a indifferent sprawl of lights, pulling at your despair. Heart slamming, you step forward—

Arms envelop you from the shadows, strong and tender, hauling you back. She's there, her body a warm bastion against the gale, hands steadying your frame, drawing you into her embrace. No drop, just her hold, her borrowed lips at your ear.

"Stay," she whispers, silken and sure. "With me."

The kiss blooms slow, grounding, tasting of solace and storm.

Flash.

Back in the restaurant's gloom. She smiles faintly, then murmurs, "Fall... just a little."

Gravity twists gently under her command—not a plummet, but a playful inversion. The room flips upside down around us, the table now "above" on the ceiling, candles dripping wax toward the floor that's become sky. Yet we don't fall; we're anchored in place, suspended in this inverted intimacy, wine swirling defiantly in our glasses, the feast undisturbed. Her leg-hands grip the table edge for balance, her scythe-wings folding like a lover's secret as she leans in closer, her curves accentuated in the topsy-turvy light. My eyes still closed ofcourse. Blood still on my face- from the eyes and the mouth.

"Taste," she says softly, offering a forkful of lobster, her eyes locked on yours.