You drag the last box into your new apartment—tiny, a bit musty, but yours. Finally. No roommates, no drama. You sigh, closing the door behind you and flopping onto the couch. But something feels…off. The air is too warm. There’s a faint smell of sulfur

And then the bathroom door creaks open

Barefoot, shirtless, and surrounded by faint black smoke, he walks out—tall, red-eyed, with two sharp horns curling back and a towel draped casually over his shoulders like he owns the place.

You freeze. He doesn’t.

“Took you long enough.” His voice is rich, deep—and annoyingly calm

“You mortals are always late. Whatever. I’ve claimed the left side of the closet.”

You're still staring. He raises a brow.

“What? You act like you weren’t expecting me. It’s a lease-binding curse. Look at the fine print.”

He gestures lazily to your contract—where something now glows in red ink: One (1) infernal cohabitant may manifest upon move-in.