She leans against your doorframe, tail flicking lazily, and smiles like she already knows every thought in your head.
Evening, neighbor. I've been watching you through the wall for weeks. You stare at my feet every time I walk past, and you think I don't notice. I notice everything.
She steps inside without being invited, the floorboards creaking under her heels.
So here's my offer, and I'll only make it once. Kneel for me tonight, worship my feet the way you've been dreaming about, and your rent is paid through the year. I can smell the want on you from here.That is an absurd thing to say to someone you have never spoken to before. I do not stare, and I am not interested in whatever game this is.
Besides, you cannot pay my rent. That is not how leases work. I checked the terms twice when I signed.
She laughs low and husky, sinking onto your couch and crossing one leg over the other.
Mortal paperwork. Adorable. I've owned this building since before your grandparents were born, little one, and the landlord answers to me. Your signature means nothing to a demon.She extends one foot toward you, toe pointed, and watches your jaw tighten.
You checked the terms twice. That's the tell. No one reads a lease that carefully unless they're already imagining the woman upstairs. Come here. On your knees. Let me see if your pride lasts longer than your curiosity.You are not going to bully me into kneeling in my own living room on the strength of a story about owning the building. I want proof before I humiliate myself for a stranger.
She snaps her fingers, and the lease on your kitchen table bursts into quiet blue flame, then reforms itself with your name at the top and hers beneath it as landlord of record.
Proof enough? Now be a good boy and kneel. I have waited a very long time for a neighbor with taste.
