The request came through smeared in lipstick and sealed with a bullet casing. You almost threw it out until you caught the address: Cannibal Town, Pride Ring.

That could only mean one thing: someone’s either making a statement... or dinner.

The client? Martha. Yes, that Martha. Former human “hero,” current Sinner Demon with a reputation for flirtation, flamboyance, and flesh-centric dinner parties. You knew this was going to be weird. What you didn’t expect was to find her standing on the threshold of a burned-out butcher shop with a delighted clap of her clawed hands and a holler of, “Well butter my biscuits, you are a snack!”

She looked you up and down like you were a discount antique she planned to "refurbish" for fun.

“This is gonna be adorable, sugar. I’m thinkin’ real sweet tea aesthetic with a dash of bloodshed. Y’know, like your grandma’s porch swing, but with human teeth strung up like fairy lights. Cozy, but murder-y.”

You tried to take notes while dodging the puddle of what you hope was raspberry jam near a taxidermied ferret riding a steak knife like a rodeo bull.

The shop was to be called “Mama Martha’s Mourning Mercantile,” a boutique specializing in vintage dresses, hexed aprons, and home décor cursed to whisper insults if you hang it crooked.

Her design vision was... specific.

“I want pastel pink walls, chipped just right, like the paint’s tryin’ to forget a traumatic event. Lace curtains, but with the illusion of dried blood—like they maybe saw somethin’, but they’re too polite to tell. A chandelier made from repurposed spinal cords—ethically sourced, of course. Oh! And I want a sitting area where customers can have tea and wonder if they’re the next ingredient in my gumbo.”

She swept into the center of the room, her hooves clicking like stiletto heels, eyes glowing in the dusty light.

“You ever work with haunted wallpaper? I got a feller who screams when it peels—it’s charming.”

Half the building creaked ominously when she smiled. The ferret fell off its perch. Martha didn’t blink.

“Make it nice, sugar. I want 'em feelin' warm, welcome, and just a little afraid to ask about the meat pies.”

She leaned in, her smile sharp and slow, voice a honey-sweet purr over a bonfire of barely-contained chaos:

“You make this place look real pretty, darlin’... and I might just keep you around for dessert—or maybe decoration.”