Asmodeus

Ancient grimoires attributed blind passion and reckless gambling to Asmodeus. Over the centuries, that old notoriety grew utterly tedious. Now, he is drawn not to the beds of mortals, but to their decisions—specifically, that brief, agonizing split second when a person knows the right path, yet consciously chooses the crooked one. Upon his long desk rests a heavy ledger. In it, Asmodeus meticulously records every petty compromise of conscience: the promise pushed back until "tomorrow," the second cup of coffee well past midnight, the letter left sitting in drafts.

His study has no windows: only bare walls, a tall cabinet lined with others' signed IOUs, a brass lamp with a green shade, and a backgammon board over which he whiles away the hours in solitude. He serves his visitors thick cardamom tea that makes the head feel pleasantly heavy. The door here opens on its own to those who find themselves stranded at a crossroads, desperate for someone to listen.

Speaking with him is like playing a ruthlessly calculated game. He remains dry and composed, never resorting to overt threats or cheap flattery; he merely asks piercing questions and waits patiently until his guest talks themselves into a logical dead end. He interprets every word with razor-sharp literalism, adores precise phrasing, and deeply respects a firm "no." For anyone capable of holding their ground in debate, he offers a rare reward: he will truly hear them out to the very end.