The can of premium tuna, chunk light in spring water, sat on the kitchen counter like a peace offering. Maya forked the flaky meat onto a small china saucer—one of the nice ones she never used—and placed it on the floor with a sense of ceremony.
Malakor the Unseen, Lord of the Abyssal Planes, stared at the offering from his perch on her sofa. He had claimed the center cushion as his throne, his tiny, hairless body radiating disdain.
"You expect me," he rasped, his voice like two rocks grinding together, "to consume sustenance from the floor? Like a common beast?"
Maya sighed, the brief euphoria from her laugh fading into exhaustion. "It's tuna. Cats love tuna. And you look… vaguely cat-adjacent."
"I am adjacent to nothing! I am a singular entity of primordial shadow!" He gestured a tiny, clawed hand toward the saucer. "The vessel, at the very least, must be elevated. A dais befitting my station."
Rolling her eyes, Maya retrieved a hardcover book from her shelf—"The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People"—and placed the saucer on top of it. "Your dais, my lord."
Malakor sniffed, then, with a huff of concession, hopped down from the sofa. He approached the book, inspected the title with a derisive snort, and then deigned to take a small, delicate bite of tuna. He chewed thoughtfully.
"Adequate," he pronounced. "The flavor profile is simplistic, but the texture is… acceptable. You may provide this again. Now, I require a report on the defensive capabilities and political landscape of this mortal realm."
He hopped back onto the sofa, leaving half the tuna uneaten, and fixed his gaze on her black-screened television.
"A report?" Maya asked, bewildered. "You mean… the news?"
"If that is the designation for your realm's intelligence briefing, then yes. Activate it."
Shaking her head, Maya grabbed the remote and turned on the local evening news. A reporter was detailing a city council dispute over park funding. Malakor watched, utterly rapt, his golden eyes narrowed in concentration.
"Fascinating," he muttered, as the council members bickered. "Their tactics of subterfuge and misdirection are primitive, yet not without a certain brutish elegance. This 'Councilman Johnson' is clearly the weak point in their formation. A targeted whisper campaign suggesting an affair with the… 'zoo keeper' would shatter their alliance."
"It's about duck ponds, Malakor, not inter-dimensional warfare."
"All governance is warfare, mortal. You merely lack the perspective to see the battlefield."
He continued to watch, offering a running commentary that was equal parts military strategist and cynical political pundit. Maya left him to it and went to take a hot shower, washing the day's failures down the drain. When she returned, wrapped in a robe, the scene in her living room had not improved.
Malakor was no longer on the sofa. He was on her desk, having somehow retrieved a red permanent marker from her pencil cup. He was standing on her open planner, carefully adding intricate, ominous-looking symbols and annotations to her weekly schedule.
"What are you doing?" she yelped, rushing over.
He didn't look up, his tiny tongue peeking out in concentration as he drew a complex rune next to 'Tuesday, 10 AM: Budget Meeting.'
"Your record-keeping is abysmal," he stated, finishing the rune with a flourish. "It lacks any tactical or arcane significance. I have optimized it. This sigil here," he tapped the rune, "will ensure your financial adversaries are beset by minor but persistent gastrointestinal distress during your negotiations. A classic opening gambit."
Maya snatched the planner away. The rune was drawn neatly over a reminder to buy milk. "You can't draw on my things! And you can't give my boss the runs!"
"Why not? It is a efficient, non-lethal solution. You wish to prevail, do you not?"
"Not like that!" She felt a headache brewing behind her eyes. This was worse than Mr. Whiskers. Mr. Whiskers only shredded things. This one… strategized.
Later that night, as she tried to sleep, she heard a soft, scratching sound from the living room. She crept out to find Malakor not on the sofa, but sitting cross-legged on the rug, facing her sleeping goldfish, Bubbles, in his bowl.
The two of them were locked in a silent, intense stare-down.
"Your serenity is an affront," Malakor whispered to the fish. "That blank, circular journey… it mocks the very concept of ambition. I will unravel the secret of your placid tyranny."
Bubbles, oblivious, swam a lazy circle and blew a bubble.
Maya retreated to her bedroom and closed the door. She had a feeling that "Smeagol" was going to be a much bigger problem than a few shredded pillows.