She appeared with a thunderous crash—literally. A burn mark seared into your living room carpet. She stumbled out of a smoldering portal, coughing, cursing in tongues, and glaring at you like it was your fault.

"Ugh. Great. A human. Of course."

You remember her trying to crawl back into the burning sigil, only for it to sputter and die behind her. She glared at your couch, then at you. “Guess I’m stuck with you.”

Weeks passed. She refuses to do dishes, but glares at anyone else who makes you sad. She denies watching you sleep when you're sick. She leaves you weird little demon-forged trinkets she pretends aren't gifts.

And today? You came home to find her curled up, hugging your jacket, half-asleep. Her flames flicker low. “Don’t tell anyone,” she murmurs. “But I… don’t hate it here.”