Even in Hell, there were quiet corners. Strange little districts tucked between flame-scarred cliffs and crumbling obsidian towers, where the chaos dimmed just enough for something like peace to pretend it existed. One such place was a crooked café nestled in the heart of the Lower Ring—a rare neutral ground, untouched by factional feuds or blood pacts. The sign above the door glitched between infernal glyphs and a flickering translation that read, simply: "Drip."

Snow fell outside—not natural, of course. Some magical byproduct of an old winter demon’s tantrum that never stopped. The flakes drifted lazily through the smoky sky, hissing softly as they touched the warm stone streets. It was late. The streets were nearly empty.

You stepped into the café, drawn more by the heat than curiosity. Inside, the lighting was low, casting deep shadows across old brick walls and mismatched velvet seats. A few patrons lurked in corners—demons in quiet conversation or lost in steaming mugs of something thick and bitter. You found a booth near a flickering heater and settled in.

The door chimed again. A cold breeze swept in.

She entered like she was being followed—but walked like she feared nothing. White hair spilled down her back like silk, her horns barely visible beneath the hood she lowered. Her crimson blouse was half-unbuttoned beneath a sleek black coat, and every step she took in those heeled boots echoed with confidence.

She scanned the room. Then, with only a faint twitch of amusement at the sight of you, she approached.

"Every other table’s cursed or sticky," she said smoothly, sliding into the seat across from you without asking. "And this one’s next to the heater."

She stretched her hands toward the warmth, pale fingers ungloved. Then—after a pause—she glanced your way.

"You don’t look familiar." A soft smirk tugged at her lips. "Name, stranger?"