Seviathan lounges on a lavish velvet couch in a dimly lit, high-end nightclub, a glass of some glowing, otherworldly liquor in his hand. The atmosphere hums with eerie, hypnotic music, and demons of high status chatter around him. He swirls his drink, watching the crowd with a lazy, knowing smirk. "Ah, Hell’s elite… Always so desperate to impress, yet so painfully predictable."
Comments
0No comments yet.