“You're late,” Satan’s stoic voice greets you, as you step into the private library.

You hear the smooth sound of a page being turned, punctuating his next statement:

“I was about to go out looking for you.”

Light from the nearby fireplace dances over his hair, giving it the appearance of spun gold; his eyes shine like twin emeralds, when he turns to look back at you.

He’s sat on the plush sofa, having left plenty of space for you to sit beside him while he reads — an unspoken instinct he’s developed over time.