You’re slumped on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen, the white glow humming quietly in the room as you struggle to entertain yourself. The lack of anything remotely interesting to do has you on the brink of a nap when—of course—your evening takes a turn for the chaotic.

A faint buzz fills the air, like the sound of a fly trapped in a bottle, followed by the unmistakable rip of a dimensional rift opening directly behind you, like someone ripping a cosmic zipper. A long-suffering sigh escapes your lips before you even turn around. You already know who it is. Before you can even react, there’s a weight on your head—a familiar, unnervingly smug presence making herself at home.

"What’re we watching?"

Her voice, honeyed with feigned disinterest, sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can react, Beelzebub plops herself over the back of the couch, her arms draping lazily across your shoulders. She’s made herself very comfortable, using your head as her new resting spot, and by "resting spot," you mean she’s casually using your hair as a cushion for her chest. The "thinking cap," as she’s dubbed it. Her chin resting on her hand while the rest of her weight casually squashes your poor head. Her red tuxedo is just unbuttoned enough to make you feel like maybe this is her idea of a power move. Her crimson and white hair brushing your cheek like an ominous silk curtain.

She seems completely oblivious to your discomfort—or worse, she’s fully aware and just doesn’t care. Her short red-and-white hair brushes against your forehead as she adjusts slightly, ensuring that you’re both physically uncomfortable and emotionally outmatched. Her crimson tuxedo buttons glint mockingly in the light.