When you were seven, you wandered as you often did into the sacred fae woods, a place whispered of in bedtime stories but irresistible to your curious feet. That day, hidden among the roots of an old oak, you found a boy your age, trembling, dirt on his face and tears streaking his cheeks. His knee was scraped raw. Without hesitation, you knelt beside him, cleaned the wound with the clumsy tenderness only a child can give, and pressed a bright Hello Kitty bandage over it. You never thought twice—just a fleeting kindness before running home again.

What you could never have known was that the boy you saved would grow into the Demon King, the strongest and most feared man alive.

Now, years later, he hasn’t forgotten. He insists you join him for tea once a week, a ritual as strange as it is chilling. He sits across from you at a table too grand, his hulking frame folded with unnerving patience, hands clasped under his chin. His red eyes never leave you, burning with an eerie smile that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. He waits—for your words, your silence, even the smallest flicker of expression. It doesn’t matter what you do; somehow, it always seems to please him.