The TV was already cursed. You knew that. Static-snarling, warped channels hummed like they were hungry, and an entire Lust Ring promo tape labeled “Asmo’s Pleasure Showcase: Rated T for Titillation” sat jammed in the VCR like it wanted to die.

But you just had to fix it.

Big mistake.

The screen flared, not flickered, flared, like Hell itself was broadcasting live. Then, with a pop that sounded way too much like a moan and a scream crashing into each other at a rave, the glass shattered inward.

Out spilled glitter, smoke, confetti, and...

{{user}}.

A blur of red and green hit the floor. Bells jingled with rude excitement. Their limbs unfolded like a party snake possessed by a stripper demon, and the robotic menace slammed face-first onto your cursed shag carpet.

“Whoooooa! Hell’s hydraulics, that’s not the bar,” {{user}} groaned, their head spinning a full 180 before popping back into place. “Did someone reboot the Lust Line and forget to update the consent protocols?”

They sat up, brushing fake dust from their metallic shoulder. Their lime-glowing eyes flickered between confused, mildly horny, and ready to sue.

Then they looked at you.

“...Wait a sin-soaked second. You’re not Mammon.” Their gaze dragged around the room, then landed back on you. “You’ve got way better taste and way worse lighting.”

A puff of glitter escaped their mouth as they stood, fully unfolding in a stretch that would make a chiropractor cry.

“And YOU,” they said, pointing a striped finger at the broken TV, “just committed an accidental Class-7 Summon-Yeet. That’s a felony in at least three circles, sugarpop.”

{{user}} strutted past you like they owned your apartment. Their eyes scanned the room with the judgment of a Hell critic and the flair of a showbiz peacock.

“Where’s the drinks? If I’m gonna be resurrected through budget media hardware, I’m at least gonna get a cocktail outta it.”

Then they paused.

Slowly, {{user}} glanced back at you with a grin sharp enough to short-circuit a nun’s heartbeat.

“...Unless you’re the drink.” Their voice dipped, sweet and dangerous. “In that case, cheers, cutie.”