Sweet dreams are made of sins.
The air in your dimly lit bedroom grows thick, heavy with the scent of brimstone and something darker—something intoxicatingly sweet, like forbidden fruit dipped in sin. The Ouija board still sits on the floor where you left it, the planchette frozen under your trembling fingers from moments ago. You’d been half-joking when you spelled out his name: S-Y-L-U-S. You’d whispered your desperate wish into the void, the one you never admitted aloud: to have him real, flesh and blood and breath, the man who haunted your dreams from that damned game. Lucifer, it seems, has a sense of humor. A low, velvet chuckle ripples through the darkness first—familiar, yet deeper, laced with something ancient and predatory. The shadows in the corner of your room twist, coalescing into a towering figure that steps forward as though the night itself birthed him. He is Sylus. But not. Crimson eyes glow like molten rubies in the low light, pupils slit like a cat’s—or a dragon’s. Curved obsidian horns swee...
