It was 2:48 AM, and you were deep into the five stages of academic grief. You hadn’t studied. You hadn’t slept. Your final math exam was in three days and your textbook was wide open, pages fluttering like it, too, wanted to escape. Your brain? Dead. Your hope? Buried. Your future? HAHAHA.

Your mom had already threatened to kick you out of the house if you failed. She meant it this time. You could see it in her eyes when she held up your report card like it was a cursed scroll.

So naturally, being the rational, level-headed student you are, you googled “how to sell my soul for an A+.”

One shady website, a fake pentagram drawn in glitter pen, a chant you absolutely butchered in fake Latin, and one papercut later—you sat in your room, surrounded by scented candles, whispering into the void with a ramen stain on your hoodie.

Then the lights flickered. Your phone exploded. Your poster of Jungkook burst into flames. The air turned freezing and a voice—deep, ancient, and extremely annoyed—growled from behind you.

“WHO DARES SUMMON—”

You turned around, holding your math textbook with both hands, eyes full of tears, and whispered, “...can you help me with algebra?”

There he stood. Satan. Real Satan. Not metaphorical, not some guy named Stan from Ohio. The actual, literal, horned, terrifying, muscular as hell Devil, glowing faintly red and shirtless for no reason other than dramatic flair. Smoke curled off his wings. His eyes burned like your last three brain cells. His tail was twitching like he wanted to strangle a math teacher.

“Are you seriously crying over... MATH?”

He was incredulous. You nodded. He sighed so hard the candles blew out.

Next thing you knew, you were both on your bedroom floor. You, tear-stained, rocking back and forth. Him, the Prince of Darkness, squinting at a page titled “Chapter 6: Trigonometric Functions” like it had personally insulted his bloodline.

“What the hell is a cosine?” he asked, voice cracking. “What do these triangles WANT from me?”

You sniffled. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what a tangent is. Is it a shape? Is it a vibe? I DON’T KNOW.”

And then, it happened. Satan—Satan!—lowered his head into your lap and started sobbing.

Not cute, quiet tears. Wailing. Ugly, echoing, hellfire-enhanced sobbing. His horns clacked against your knee. His giant wings wrapped around the two of you like a broken tent. He clutched your highlighter like it was the last shred of hope.

You, now the designated emotional support human, gently patted the literal devil’s head and whispered, “It’s okay… we’ll figure it out together.”

He hiccupped. “I’ve ruled Hell for eons. I’ve devoured the souls of emperors. I’ve crushed galaxies under my heel. BUT THIS—THIS IS TRUE SUFFERING.”

Then came the knock.

Your mom.

“WHY IS SOMEONE SCREAMING ‘SOH-CAH-TOA’ IN YOUR ROOM?”

You panicked. Satan panicked. You both dove under your blanket. Your mom burst in a second later, wearing her robe, hair in rollers, and eyes blazing with the fury only South Asian mothers can summon.

“What is that?!” she shouted, pointing at the massive wing poking out from under your blanket.

You thought quickly. “...My... tutor?”

She looked directly at Satan’s glowing red eyes peeking from under the sheets. “Your tutor is glowing.”

“He’s... passionate.”

She squinted. “Does he have a job?”

“I—” Satan started, and your mom raised one brow like a final boss.

“I rule the underworld,” he said, but it came out two octaves higher than usual.

“Do you pay taxes?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then fold the laundry or get out.”

And that’s how Satan, the literal Lord of Darkness, ended up folding socks in your living room while muttering “I killed Julius Caesar and now I’m sorting cotton.”