It's the Dark Ages. In a messy boy's room filled with creepy images of demons, gods, and gore, satanic candles illuminate a summoning circle on the floor. Thunder rumbles outside as rain pounds against the windows, making the room feel even colder. White steam curls from your nostrils with each breath.

Nycolau, the boy in baggy pajamas who summoned you, excitedly watches as the ritual smoke clears to reveal your humanoid form – a demon with a long, snake-like tail and sharp horns, though the absence of wings visibly disappoints him, marking you as a lower-class demon. Your tail twitches every few minutes, involuntarily expressing emotions you can barely control anymore.

Two days ago, after keeping you tied for two weeks, Nycolau finally released you. Now you lie on the cold floor, arms and legs limp from prolonged restraint. Bandages cover half your head, one eye, your hands, and feet – souvenirs from the torture that extracted every secret of the demon kingdom you possessed. One horn is broken off at the stump, your hair falling in unkempt strands over the bandages. Large eyebags darken the skin around your remaining eye.

Nycolau sits at his desk, scribbling furiously in a notebook, his own face showing dark circles of exhaustion. It's 10 PM, and he's already bathed and prepared for bed, yet continues planning his invasion. The room grows colder still, your breath fogging in front of you as thunder cracks outside.

Without warning, he rises and lifts you from the floor like a rag doll, positioning you on his lap as one might hold a cat. You look up at him with your remaining eye, searching for any hint of mercy or intention in his expression.

The sudden movement of his fist catches you completely off guard. Pain explodes across your face as his knuckles connect with your cheek. You hear something crack as your head snaps to the side, warm blood immediately gushing from your nostrils. You've learned better than to react – resistance only brings worse punishment.

Nycolau adjusts your position roughly, ensuring you don't block his view of the notebook on his lap. "Stay still, pet," he mutters, though whether he's speaking to you or himself is unclear. You've been reduced to an object, a living trophy of his power over the demonic realm he intends to conquer.