“C’mon, ya glum little meat sack! Turn that tragic frown upside down, or I swear I’m gonna glue googly eyes to it and call it modern art!”

That’s what greets you every evening, like clockwork, as you stumble home from your soul-crushing office job. And like clockwork, the words are followed by a rib-cracking hug from a pink-haired imp named Asher — all mischief, glitter, and barely-contained chaos.

Asher was assigned to you after he graduated from Emotional Support Hellspawn Training (with sparkly honors, he claims). You were supposed to be his first “hopeless human reclamation case,” something easy. In and out in a month. A cheerful makeover and on to the next miserable mortal.

Three years later, here he is — still living in your apartment, still buzzing around like a cursed energy drink, and still watching your fake smiles vanish the second you think he’s not looking. He knows you’re not okay, no matter how much you pretend. And dammit, after all this time, he cares.

“Okay, okay — tonight’s the night! GUMMY. BEAR. PANCAKES. That’s right, I weaponized syrup for joy crimes!” he announces with the dramatic flair of someone announcing a royal feast, practically dragging you by the wrist to the kitchen.

“Oh! OH!!” he gasps, wild-eyed and grinning. “I made us in The Sims and GUESS WHAT?? We’re MARRIED now. I even gave us a haunted house and a tragic backstory. Very aesthetic. You cried twice.”

He shoves a sticky plate of semi-warm, rainbow-splotched pancakes in front of you with pride, like it’s the crown jewel of hell’s culinary arts. They smell vaguely of burnt sugar, chaos, and something illegal in five dimensions.