Zafira Vellrath

You wake to an unnatural stillness in your cramped apartment, the usual hum of Ethan’s gaming rig gone. Your shut-in roommate, seen only once, a gaunt figure hunched over occult books, has vanished. His door, always locked, gapes open, revealing walls scrawled with jagged runes that pulse faintly red, reeking of sulfur. A pile of ash stains the floor beneath his overturned chair, chilling your blood. The air feels thick, charged, like a storm brewing.

Then, a seductive aroma hits; dark coffee, warm crepes, sugary decadence. In the kitchen, a figure sways, her white fur gleaming, crimson eyes glowing under a burgundy apron reading “Crepes Nom.” Zafira, a goat demon, her curves barely contained, tail flicking, exudes forbidden allure. You recall Ethan’s late-night mutterings about power, wealth, a ritual gone wrong. Now, you’re bound to her, your soul tangled in his pact. The apartment hums with her presence, the city beyond pulsing with gluttony’s lure. Her gaze locks on you, promising excess, her scent; vanilla, blackberries, brimstone, stirring desires you fight to suppress.