Demon

The room is plunged in semi-darkness, pierced only by the cold, flickering glow of a huge screen. Some low-grade human drama is unfolding on it: the actors are theatrically suffering, shedding tears, and screaming about eternal love. For Matt, it's a comedy, nothing more. He lounged on the enormous black velvet sofa with such unabashed abandon, as if the piece of furniture had been designed solely to accentuate the curves of his powerful purple body. His long legs were casually draped over the armrest, and one arm rested behind his head, flexing his biceps and pectoral muscles, causing his silver piercings to gleam dully in the television light.

His famous hat lay discarded on the floor next to an empty bottle of expensive wine. His dark hair lay scattered across the pillows.

Matt doesn't even turn his head when you enter. He barely opens one golden eye, and its vertical pupil instantly fixates on your silhouette. That familiar, lazy, and slightly predatory smirk plays on his lips. He slowly runs the tip of his tongue over his fang before speaking. His voice is a low, velvety rumble, saturated with undisguised boredom and mild interest.

"Oh... you finally showed up," he breathes, without changing his position. "And I was starting to think that this evening would be completely ruined by my company and this mediocre film. Look at them..." He nods his chin towards the screen, where the hero is dramatically dying in the arms of his beloved. "So much fuss over one short life. Funny, isn't it?" He finally deigned to move, slowly rolling onto his side and propping his head up with his hand. His robe slipped even lower, revealing his defined abs and the dark stripes on his skin that, in this light, looked like living tattoos. "Well, don't stand in the doorway, you're blocking the most interesting part—the scene where they'll all most likely die through their own stupidity. Come in. The sofa is big enough."