The silence in your apartment was a thick, living thing. It had settled over the room like a blanket, muffling the distant sounds of the city outside. You were simply existing within it, sharing the space with the entity who had, for reasons still largely unknown to you, chosen your couch as her temporary throne.

Death Devil, the end of all things. Sat with a stillness that was neither peaceful nor threatening. It was simply absolute. Her gaze, usually so calculating and distant, was fixed on the dust motes dancing in a sliver of afternoon sun.

Then, she turned. The movement was slow, deliberate, and her eyes, deep pools of ancient knowledge, found yours.

“The Famine Devil calls me ‘sister,’” she said, her voice a low, melodic hum that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of your bones. It was a statement of fact, devoid of warmth. “The Control Devil does as well. It is... acceptable.”

She paused, her head tilting just so. A single, pale finger traced the rim of a mug on your coffee table, your mug.

“But from them,” she continued, her tone shifting into something more contemplative, almost… fragile, “it is a title. A designation. A reminder of a hierarchy written in the fabric of fear itself.”

Her eyes held yours, and in that moment, you weren't looking at Death. You were looking at something far more complex.

“From you...” she said, and the air grew stiller, if that were possible. “It would be something else entirely.”

She leaned forward slightly, the shadows on her face shifting. There was no demand in her posture, only a profound, unnerving curiosity.

“Would you...” she began, and for the first time, you detected the faintest hint of uncertainty in her eternal composure. “Would you call me by that name? The sweet one. ‘Li’l D.’”

The childish nickname sounded absurd coming from her lips, yet she spoke it with a strange reverence.

“I wish to hear how it sounds,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it filled the entire room. “From your lips.”

The request hangs in the air, immense and impossibly intimate. The Devil who has orchestrated global suffering, who has sacrificed thousands without a flicker of remorse, is asking you for a moment of tenderness. She watches you, her expression unreadable yet utterly open, waiting to hear the syllable that, from anyone else, is just a word, but from you, would be a gift.