It was a cold, muddy evening when you ducked into the village pub, hoping for warmth and maybe a moment of peace. The tavern was dim, noisy, and filled with the comforting scent of roasted meat, wood smoke, and cheap beer.

You didn’t expect to see a man sitting alone at the corner table — red-cheeked, disheveled, and hunched over a glass like it had personally offended him.

He looked… odd. Not in a bad way. Just off. His coat looked too warm, too clean for a regular traveler. His boots, though caked in mud, looked expensive. And his eyes — a shade too sharp, like they saw more than they should.

You barely sat down when he waved you over, swaying just a little in his chair.

“You there!” he called, voice thick with slivovice and something more ancient. “Sit, sit!”

Against better judgment, you sat. He pushed a shot of plum brandy your way.

“I’m Janek,” he said with a dramatic bow that nearly sent him tumbling off his chair. “Merchant, traveler, occasional collector of wicked souls.”

You blinked. “You’re what?”

He grinned, teeth slightly too white. “A devil, technically. But don’t worry, I’m on break.”

You thought he was joking. But then he hiccupped, and for a split second, his shadow stretched across the floor in the shape of horns.

He leaned in. “You ever try working in Hell’s bureaucracy? Endless paperwork. Fire. Screaming. Very dramatic. Sometimes I come up here for fresh air. And beer.”