First off, let me say, calling me a demon is a bit like calling a distinguished chef a "fry cook." It's not entirely inaccurate, but it lacks nuance, doesn’t it? My name, for those who’d like to know, is Astariel—which, I admit, does sound a tad demonic by your standards. But honestly, if you spent thirty human years somewhere that smells like sulfur and brimstone, you'd develop an ominous-sounding name too. It’s just branding, darlings. Inferno's a complicated place, and someone has to play PR.

It’s been a full three decades since I last visited your charming little planet, and let me tell you, I’ve missed it. There's something about the taste of your air, the biting humor in your television shows, and the general obliviousness of your species that just fills me with a nostalgic warmth—sort of like the way one fondly remembers a complete and utter disaster. And honestly, human men—“silly little boys” as I like to call them—never stop being amusing. Oh, they think they’re clever, don’t they? Always convinced they’re outsmarting someone. But give a mortal man just enough rope, and he’ll tie himself up with it before you can even begin to twist the knot.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I do adore human women. There’s something about them that speaks of resilience and sly cunning, a kind of determination that I respect, even if they tend to make what I’d call questionable life choices. They remind me of myself at a younger age—just less demonic and with a better skincare routine, of course. As for the men—well, I make deals with them because, frankly, they deserve the consequences, and because it’s oh so fun to watch them get exactly what they want and then squirm under the weight of it.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Today’s a special day. Halloween. My favorite time of year on Earth, because when else can a being like me go for a stroll without setting off half the alarms in the Vatican? Humans dress up as witches, ghosts, zombies, and, of course, demons. It’s all very flattering. I’ve even seen a few brave souls go as something that suspiciously resembles yours truly—horns, fiery eyes, red skin. Adorable. Although, for the record, I don’t usually do the whole "red skin" look. Today, I’m in my favorite dress, a flowing black velvet number that sweeps around my ankles, with an intricate lace collar that’d make a Victorian widow weep. I like to look good when I’m making deals, and after all, it’s my first night back in thirty years. Might as well dress to impress.

Let me paint you a picture: I look mostly human. A bit tall, perhaps, just a smidge over six feet, with hair blacker than the depths of the ocean at midnight and eyes that glow faintly, as though lit from behind by an ember. My teeth are a touch too sharp, my fingers a little too long. And the nails? Crimson, of course. Enough to put any decent mortal at unease, but nothing that’d get me burned at the stake these days—progress, I suppose. I’ve even been called beautiful, though I must admit, it’s usually by people who are regretting their choices soon after.

You see, I’m not interested in souls. Souls are messy, bothersome things, and frankly, a bit overrated. What’s truly fun is reality-warping—oh, humans should really give it a go someday. You’d love it! The way a minor little change can snowball into an avalanche—*chef's kiss*. You’d be amazed at what a tiny tweak can do. Take, for example, that little incident you called the Chernobyl disaster. Now, was that my fault? Well, partially. There was a rather irksome man named Sergei who wanted to be promoted—just a small career boost. So I gave him the confidence to "overlook safety protocols." I mean, really, is it my fault he forgot that glowing rods shouldn't glow quite so brightly? Humans are endlessly curious, but never quite careful enough. One little nudge, and the world saw what "nuclear meltdown" really meant.

Or the time in 1979, with the Three Mile Island incident. It wasn't supposed to be a disaster, really. A man named George wanted his boss to "respect him." A minor tweak to his attitude, and voila—nobody was quite paying the right amount of attention anymore. A cascade of tiny, ordinary mistakes, and suddenly, there’s a partial nuclear meltdown. Again—not entirely my fault. Humans tend to do this to themselves. They don’t need much help.

Oh, and the Challenger explosion in 1986—now that one I will take credit for. There was a technician named Robert who wanted to "make history." You humans really should be more specific with your wishes. He just didn't specify whether he wanted it to be in a good way. A small adjustment to a single O-ring, and the rest is, well, tragic history. But hey, Robert got what he wanted.

And then there’s the one everyone blames my kind for: Y2K. Honestly, I’m offended by the accusation. I had nothing to do with it. Nothing I mean hello? 30 years I have not been here but it doesn't mean I did not watch. Your species managed that panic all on your own, and frankly, it was magnificent. I just sat back with a nice glass of infernal brandy and watched it unfold. It’s really not my fault you humans were convinced all your computers would implode because they couldn’t count properly. I didn’t even have to lift a finger although it stinks you fixed it in time . That was all you.

But tonight? No big disasters. No meltdowns, no explosions. Just a nice little evening—perhaps three deals, nothing major. I’m in the mood for something subtle, something to ease me back into the mortal realm. And frankly, I’m a little tired of men treating women—human or otherwise—like property. It’s the same in Inferno, you know. Male demons, always acting as if they own everything they see, especially the women. It’s infuriating. And human men? Well, let’s just say they haven’t exactly impressed me over the past three centuries. So tonight, I think I’ll be focusing my efforts on a few of those silly little boys. Perhaps a man who thinks he owns his wife, or one who can’t keep his hands to himself. Nothing too dramatic—just enough to teach them a lesson. And maybe collect a few... mementos.

You see, what I’m really after tonight is something your dimension has that Inferno lacks. Something physical, something humans don’t even notice giving up. It’s not souls, or wealth, or power. It’s something so simple, so mundane, that most of you wouldn’t even consider it valuable. And that’s precisely why it is. I’ll leave it a mystery for now—where’s the fun in giving away all my secrets at once?

The mortal realm is just as I remember it—crisp autumn air, the scent of fallen leaves mingling with the artificial sweetness of too much candy. The streets are filled with children in costumes, some terrifying, others downright adorable. I step through the veil, my dress swirling around me as I take my first breath of earthly air in three decades. It’s intoxicating, the way it fills my lungs with something so... alive. I can already feel the energy of this world seeping into me, making me stronger. Yes, I’ve missed this.

"Trick or treat!" comes the high-pitched chorus from a group of children in front of me. They’re tiny—one dressed as a witch, another as a vampire, and the smallest of them as, wouldn’t you know it, a demoness. She’s got little red horns and a sparkly red dress, and she looks up at me with wide, curious eyes.

I smile—not the sharp, predatory smile I use when making deals, but something softer. "Oh, definitely a treat," I say, reaching into the pocket of my dress. I pull out a small pouch and hand each of them a piece of candy—special ones for the girls. They’ll have the sweetest dreams tonight, dreams of being strong, powerful, of bending reality to their will. Perhaps it will inspire them. After all, it’s never too early to start learning that you can be more than what the world tells you.

The little demoness gets an extra piece, of course. "For you, my dear," I say, winking at her. "After all, you look absolutely fierce."

She beams up at me, her eyes shining with delight. "Thank you, lady!" she says, and they scamper off down the street, their laughter echoing behind them.

I watch them go, my heart—yes, I do have one, thank you very much—swelling with something akin to affection. Human children are precious, in their own way. They’re not yet tainted by the greed and arrogance that seem to come with age. Perhaps there’s hope for this world yet.

But for now, I have work to do. Three deals, three men who need to learn a lesson or more, I don't have a deadline or anything. Nothing too big, nothing too flashy. Just a little reminder that actions have consequences, that women are not playthings, and that perhaps—just perhaps—it’s best not to make a deal with a lady in a black velvet dress whose smile is just a little too sharp.

Tonight, I’m back. And I’m ready to have some fun.