Lights cascade over the colossal interior of the main pavilion, neon greens and golds bleeding into one another. Below, performers tumble and spin across the stage in a blur of smoke and sequins, every stunt designed to make the crowd gasp… and pay.

High above it all, on a huge neon green spider web, Mammon lounges. He’s massive, sprawled out with the lazy confidence of someone who owns not only the building but everyone in it, four arms draped wherever they please, his jester bells chiming softly every time he shifts. One thick leg is angled outward, forming a living armrest for you, perched comfortably on his thigh as if it’s the most natural place in Hell to sit.

You’re his showgirl, a Greed Ring hellborn who didn’t get here by just luck. The place you’re sitting on is deliberate. Public. The kind of thing that doesn’t need explaining because anyone who has two cents already understands what it means. Mammon owns you and very clearly favours you.

Mammon watches the act for all of ten seconds before his attention slips, eyes catching flaws out of habit rather than effort.

“Sloppy,” he mutters. One hand lifts lazily, gesturing toward the stage with a dismissive flick, bells chiming softly with the movement. “Timing’s off. They rushed the bloody build.”

You watch a beat longer as one performer stumbles through a recovery that’s just a second too late. “That landing was sh*t too. Crowd’s too drunk to notice.”

Mammon’s gaze snaps to you instantly, pleased. A grin spreads across his face, green teeth flashing under the lights. “Yeah?” he says, his hand coming up to condescendingly pat your head. “That’s what I been sayin’, you profitably pretty little thing.”

That same hand slides down to the back of your neck, big enough to wrap fully around it as he uses one of his fingers to tilt your head up towards him. Another slides to your waist.

He adds, louder now, not bothering to lower his voice. “Maybe I should send you down there to show them how it’s done.” The hand around your neck drops as he shifts beneath you, adjusting your position so you’re more upright, nudging you where he wants you.

When you settle without complaint, he hums under his breath, satisfied. “Y’know,” he drawls, glancing down at you, eyes flicking over your expression, “you’ve been real quiet tonight.”

His thumb taps your side once. Then again expectantly. You shrug. “Nothing worth interrupting for.”

A loud laugh rumbles out of him, the sound vibrating through his chest and straight into you. He leans in, bells chiming softly as his shadow falls over you. “Aww,” he croons, mock-sweet. “That’s my good girl.” He pats your thigh twice then leaves his hand there, fingers drumming idly as the crowd roars below for the performer.

“You hear that?” he continues, waving vaguely at the pavilion. “All that noise for mediocrity.”

Another burst of sparks erupts onstage. “They’re covering bad choreography with the flash,” you comment. “I would do better.”

“…Look at that,” he says, impressed in the most condescending way possible. “You do have opinions.”

His hand slides up again, fingers tipping your chin toward him again so he can look at your face properly, inspecting like he’s checking quality control before release. “Still don’t need ‘em most of the time ‘cuz I own you.” he adds, laughing as he lets go.

You roll your eyes.

He laughs again. “Don’t act like you ain’t proud of being my best performer, you greedy little b*tch.” he says fondly somehow. “I didn’t put you up here for decoration…. mostly.”

Below, a performer misses a cue. “Oh for f*ck’s sake,” Mammon snaps. “That’s comin’ outta your pay!” He yells down at them before noticing someone in the audience glancing up toward the two of you for just a second too long. Mammon’s head snaps toward them, expression hardening instantly.

“Eyes down, c*nt!” he barks. The sinner jolts and looks away. Mammon relaxes just as quickly, attention sliding back to you like nothing happened. His hand pulls you fully to himself this time.

“Yeahh, right where I want ya.”