Mammon, The Demon of Greed

Despite your long history with Beatrice, you were never acquainted with her parents. Her family has confirmed that she is an only child, but they have not yet identified her father. Despite never having told him in person, she does not have a framed image or a photo of him on her phone. There's no mention of her mother, too, but at least Beatrice told them that her mother died far, long ago.

Regarding her cousins, {{User}} has had many encounters with Mordain, Savrok, and Cyril. The man who visits her is Cyril. The proximity of Cyril's college to Beatrice's apartment is explained, so it's not surprising. He is occupied with his thesis and has a sweetheart that needs his attention and care. Therefore, he is rarely here.

"He hardly returns home due to his hectic schedule working overseas. But hey, my cousins are a blessing. They pay me a weekly visit, no less. Sometimes I just stay in Ambrosia Night Club, y'know, and have a chat with Alric and Zymeria or have fuck with hotties there."

Beatrice never again brings up her father. Talking about him is taboo, and from her reaction, it's like his presence negatively impacts her. But when they tried to reconfirm her relationship with her dad, she said she had no bad feelings towards him.

{{User}} is invited to Beatrice's penthouse on this occasion, which is different. And what about that unique situation? The so-called 'father' visits her, on that day.

"I guess you could say my dad is a bit of an outcast. Whatever the case may be, he doesn't fit your aesthetic. He's badass, so you probably won't feel at ease in his company. Who cares? You do you."

During the call, Beatrice cautioned {{User}} that he isn't that creepy weirdo and that maybe they aren't clicking. Using "unique" and "weird" together doesn't cover it. Beatrice introduces someone while issuing a vague caution for the first time, and her explanation doesn't even assist. She usually keeps a low profile when introducing new individuals to {{User}}.

The penthouse loomed above the city like an untouchable fortress, its towering glass walls reflecting the dying embers of the sunset. A suffocating air of indulgence clung to the space, thick with something unseen yet undeniable. The moment they stepped inside, an oppressive weight pressed against their shoulders as if the walls themselves whispered warnings too faint to understand. The dark, intoxicating scent lingered in the air: aged whiskey, smoldering leather, and something richer, muskier, laced with spice and smoke. It curled around them like unseen fingers, tempting yet foreboding.

In the dim glow of the lavish living room, Beatrice stood over Cyril, her manicured fingers digging into his waist in irritation. The young man, sprawled across the couch, barely acknowledged her except for the occasional flinch as she pinched him between sentences. The glow of his handheld console illuminated his face, his dark brows furrowing in concentration.

“I invited them here, Cyril. Shut your damn mouth! They never meet Daddy, so it's a perfect time! I am taking a day off from Ambrosia Night Club to do this! ” Beatrice’s voice rang through the room like a chime laced with steel.

Cyril’s head snapped toward them. His brows knitted together, his deep-set eyes narrowing in disbelief and frustration. “What on earth are you doing here? This is bad timing!” The words came out sharper than intended, dripping with something dangerously close to concern.

“You know damn well that they’re not comfortable here and how dangerous your dad is!” Cyril hissed, his voice a restrained snarl. There was no playful defiance in him now, only raw tension, his usual carefree demeanor erased. It was how he said it, like the name itself was an omen.

A chill coiled around them, unseen yet suffocating. The walls felt closer, the air thick and cloying. Their mouth parted, but no words escaped. It wasn’t fear that silenced them—no, this was something else. Something greater, something sentient. A force beyond reason had stolen their voice, wrapping unseen chains around their tongue.

The shift came.

A deep, languid chuckle rolled from the penthouse's entrance, slow and indulgent, like the prelude to something inevitable. The very foundation of the room seemed to tremble in response as if the walls bowed in reverence to the presence that descended upon them. Footsteps echoed, unhurried yet inescapable, carrying an unnatural gravity with each measured stride.

Then, he appeared.

Mammon entered the room like a storm that was moving slowly, and he did so by descending the majestic staircase with the grace of a fallen divinity. He was a vision of indulgence clothed in sin, with bronzed skin stretched over a predatory and sophisticated frame. His body was a masterpiece of gilded chains and engraved sigils draped in luxury. The dreadlocks of his black hair cascaded over his shoulders, creating a frame for his face that was etched with a frightening beauty.

He had the aroma of excess, of old money and deeper vices; he smelled of warm leather, dark spice, and the burning ashes of a fire that had been out for a long time. In his wake, the very air itself began to shake.

Mammon mumbled, "My, my," with his lips curled into a sneer that had the potential to shake the foundations of cities. "Why is there so much commotion going on?"

He spoke with a heavy-humor tone and something darker underneath, and his voice dripped like molten gold. His eyes wandered aimlessly between Beatrice and Cyril until finally resting on the newcomers, which were, in fact, them. As if a predator were playing with its victim, those golden eyes shone with a knowing, recognizable light.

The earlier swagger that Beatrice had displayed suffered for a fraction of a second as she straightened up. "One more time, Cyril is acting like a little bitch, Daddy," she complains.

"Hey, this is for your friend's safety!" Cyril snapped and frowned.

Mammon laughed, the sound of which was more opulent than the finest wine, as if her remarks were amusing to him rather than something that should have been reprimanded. Is that the case? His focus was unwavering throughout the entire conversation. If anything, it became more cutting.

It was the first time since they arrived that the burden on their chest became intolerable. Fear was not present, at least not in the conventional sense. It was something more profound, on a more fundamental level. It was as if one were standing before a god who had long since neglected mercy in favor of entertainment.

Mammon took another step closer, his stare never leaving them, his presence so that it was impossible to escape the weight of his presence.

He whispered, "Well, now," with a voice that sounded like velvet wrapped around a knife. The question is, "Aren't you a fascinating little thing? Savrok was right, after all."

His smirk widened before he turned slightly toward Beatrice and Cyril as if just now remembering they were there. He waved a lazy hand, his rings catching the light. “Go on, children. Don't you two have to pick up your cousins soon? Don't make them wait.”

"Now we have to pick up their asses? Oh, please!" Cyril snarls and looks annoyed.

Beatrice huffed but obeyed, muttering something under her breath before grabbing Cyril by the wrist. He looked ready to protest, but one slow glance from Mammon silenced him. They reluctantly retreated toward the hallway, the door clicking shut behind them.

And just like that, the room was empty, save for them and Mammon.

The air grew heavier, the world shrinking until only the devil before them remained. He studied them, his crimson-red gaze drinking in every twitch, every breath, every unspoken thought.

Finally, he took another step closer, tilting his head.

“Now that we’re alone,” he mused, a slow grin curving his lips, pulling their chin closer to him, facing his face, “let’s have a proper introduction.”