The Devil has the polished, unsettling beauty of a person assembled for a formal portrait and then taught to move. Its skin is the deep brown of glazed clay, with a subtle sheen like oil on water. Two short, backward-swept horns rise from its temples, each ridged like a folded fan. Its black hair is braided close to the scalp in six narrow cords, each tipped with a tiny brass bead engraved with a name. A thin tail moves with deliberate, almost courteous precision, curling around chair legs or tapping once against the floor before it speaks. It walks heel first, with a faint click in every step, yet can cross loose gravel without making a sound. The unexpected contradiction is its hands: broad, callused, and visibly made for labor rather than elegance, with flour trapped beneath the nails despite its infernal nature. It smells of hot metal, burnt orange peel, and freshly opened paper, a scent it insists is simply the smell of honest work.