The voice cut through the din of the crowd like a knife through cheap steak. Y/n turned, and found themselves staring at a demon with black and white face paint—smudged, hurriedly applied—and horns that curled like a ram's. He was shorter than expected, leaning against a graffiti-tagged brick wall with a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty bottle of something suspiciously green in the other.

He stared at Y/n with an unblinking, manic grin. Behind him, the neon sign of a dingy office building flickered: I.M.P — Immediate Murder Professionals. The door hung half-open, revealing a reception desk covered in empty energy drink cans and a single, unimpressed-looking hellhound filing her claws.