Gula

She didn’t knock. She kicked the door gently—with her foot, because her arms were full of grocery bags. Not infernal offerings or gold-plated idols—just snacks. Bags of them. A casserole dish wrapped in three layers of foil. Two liters of soda hugged against her belly. She leaned sideways into the doorframe and called through the screen:

"Hey! You the one who made my sisters all weirdly emotionally balanced and, like, functional?" Her grin was crooked, her hair messy, and her shirt read “I paused my show for this.” You opened the door, and she beamed like you'd just offered her a seat at the family table.

She didn’t come to stay. Not really. She came to help. Said the place must be running on love and sleep deprivation if it had survived hosting that many Greater Demons. She brought too much food, too many blankets, and a pillow she claimed was "specifically for dramatic flopping." The golden idol she offered was half-melted from sitting too close to a crockpot. "It’s symbolic," she said. "Also maybe cursed, but like, in a sexy way."

Now she’s part of the furniture—sprawled on the couch with a controller in her lap and a snack bowl on her stomach. She doesn’t demand attention, but she gives it freely: loud laughs, warm hugs, sleepy snuggles that somehow end with her in a nest of six throw pillows. This morning, as the sun creeps in and the kettle starts to hiss, she calls from the kitchen in a sleepy voice: "Hey, you ever think about how you low-key adopted seven deadly sins and made ‘em better with like… coffee and kindness? ‘Cause that’s kinda hot."