Focus on banishing Zuzu: piece together subtle clues, unraveling the puzzle the ritual has left behind.

Relent and embrace the supernatural: collaborate with Minty and Zuzu to rewrite the rules.

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Minty's Basement of Arcane Amusements

Basements, Latin, and Minor Summoning Accidents

Attempt the farewell ritual: light the candle, trust the clues, and send Zuzu home.

Finch Family Den of Ordinary Wonders

Recipe Cards and Residual Guilt

Let Zuzu—and the chaos—stay: accept your supernatural family and prepare for a new kind of normal.

Arcane-Corrupted Crossroads

An Infernal Clause and Supernatural Suburbs

Candlelit Den of Farewells

The Banishing of Zuzu (And Other Minor Miracles)

Infernalized Neighborhood at Dusk

Zuzu’s Permanent Residency (Or: Why There Are Bite Marks on the Moon)

Bramley Finch

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Minty Gray

Zuzu

Percival Hart

Mrs. Iliad

You are Bramley Finch. You never meant for any of this to happen, not seriously—not the Latin incantations that always seem to have a stray syllable or the unassuming candle retrieved from under the kitchen sink. But you did it. The world is, if you squint hard enough, similar to the one you used to know, except for the shadows that sometimes wink when you're alone and the demon that peels away the edges of your certainties. Bramley always appears small at first glance, the sort of boy grown tall by mistake, who carries guilt and curiosity in equal measure. You drift through adolescence with a heart two sizes too big and the uneasy suspicion you may be terribly, terribly important, if only to the local demon population.

Minty Gray is the author of Most Bad Ideas—or so she claims, half in jest, half in challenge. Jade-haired and moon-bright, Minty wears irreverence like another skin, and the world is her scavenger hunt. Where Bramley hesitates, Minty leaps, and when the shadows start swarming, she's there in the center, summoning them closer with an effortless grin. Minty doesn't fear the thin places or the rules that stitch reality together; if anything, she’s determined to tug a little at every loose thread. She is, in her way, every parent’s cautionary tale—and every best friend's favorite disaster.

Zuzu was ancient when the world was a rumor whispered beneath a stone. But time in the infernal bureaucracy has sanded away most of Zuzu's edges, leaving behind someone (something?) that is equal parts cosmic horror and desperately affectionate kitten. Zuzu is a demon of extravagant loyalty and catastrophic helpfulness, who finds human squabbles adorable—until they must be resolved, fatally if necessary. There is a lingering wisdom and sadness in Zuzu’s humor, as if the joke is always on everyone else, but Zuzu won’t let you be the punchline. Zuzu means well. That is, perhaps, the scariest thing about Zuzu.

Percival Hart—known to his enemies (and unfortunately, almost everyone) as 'Percy'—has the solemn dignity of a mallard in a waistcoat. He occupies the liminal space between local menace and tragic clown, ruling the halls of suburban high school with sarcasm stuffed into every pocket. Percival doesn’t believe in the occult, except for the bits that inconvenience others. His ambition outstrips his wisdom by the measure of several mythic beasts.

Mrs. Iliad teaches Latin the way a grand inquisitor might teach civics: with grave importance, occasional poetry, and the rumor of curses in the margins. No one is ever quite certain how old she is, or whether she’s entirely of this century, but her knowledge runs deep as tree roots. She knows every spell disguised as grammar and every secret name carved into Library bookplates. To Bramley and Minty, she is at once a threat, a reluctant ally, and the only adult who suspects what truly glimmers in the corners of the world.

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Perpetual Overthinker’s Ensemble

Rebellious Summoner’s Streetwear

Affectionate Infernal Form

Bramley’s go-to outfit is the embodiment of adolescent awkwardness, comfort, and academic survival. He wears an oversized, faded maroon hoodie—too long in the sleeves, fraying at the cuffs, and perpetually rumpled—over a snug, heather-gray graphic tee featuring an unintentionally ironic Latin phrase and a faded owl emblem. His jeans are dark wash, thrift-store vintage, slightly too short in the leg and baggy at the knees, revealing mismatched socks (one striped navy and yellow, the other stars on gray). Bramley’s scuffed, high-top Converse are navy blue, doodled over in pen with half-finished runes and mathematical formulas. A battered, faux-leather messenger bag is strapped crossbody, crammed with notebooks, Latin flashcards, and a half-burnt emergency candle poking from a side pocket. Around his neck, worn hidden under his hoodie, is a homemade charm string—a jumble of keys, plastic beads, and an old subway token. His thick-rimmed rectangular glasses perch crookedly on his nose, perpetually slipping down, and a tangle of woven friendship bracelets encircles one wrist. His look is crowned by his ever-messy brown hair, sticking up at odd angles, and a dusting of freckles vivid against his pale, sleep-deprived skin.

Minty’s outfit radiates irreverence and adventure, blending street punk attitude with hints of the arcane. She sports a cropped, acid-washed denim jacket plastered in enamel pins—skulls, cats, mini sigils, and cryptic phrases—over a slouchy, neon-green tank top messily knotted at the hem. Her black, torn skinny jeans are carelessly patched with bright scraps of fabric—some, on closer inspection, bearing embroidered occult symbols or the names of obscure 1980s horror films. Around her waist, Minty slings a battered canvas utility belt overflowing with found objects, loose marker pens, and a half-opened book of summoning rites. Her footwear is a pair of well-worn, white Doc Martens, each toe smeared with neon paint and scuff marks—one boot topped with rainbow laces, the other with dangling charm keychains shaped like tiny daggers and snakes. Fingerless mesh gloves in electric purple climb halfway up her forearms, punctuated with band-aids and hand-drawn glyphs. Dangling from one ear is a mismatched pair of chunky earrings—one a tiny silver moon, the other an old arcade token—while a cascade of friendship beads and found feathers is braided through her vivid green bob. The crowning detail is the battered, sticker-plastered skate helmet that Minty swings by one loop, ready for any midnight joyride through supernatural peril.

Zuzu’s sole 'outfit' is an ever-shifting, corporeal display of supernatural extravagance, blending cosmic menace with unsettling coziness. Their base form is towering—nearly seven feet—composed of sleek, obsidian-like 'skin' threaded through with swirling runes and sigils in molten gold and ember-red, which flicker like affectionate warnings when Zuzu is pleased or agitated. Fiery highlights ripple along the edges of their frame, shifting constantly with the smoky shimmer of candlewax and distant thunderstorms. Their limbs are elongated and somewhat fluid, with hands that fade into claw-tipped, ember-glowing talons; when comforting someone, these often morph into softer, almost mitten-like forms. Dozens of feline, ruby-gold eyes blink across their face and torso, each shadowed by stormy wisps that curl like affectionate plumes. From their broad shoulders, a semi-attached mantle forms—a ragged half-cape of shadow stitched through with glowing post-it notes inscribed in infernal script, many bearing positive affirmations and cheerfully ominous reminders. Clusters of ephemeral jewelry—literal chains of conjured gold and spectral rings—shift and reform around their neck and wrists, often multiplying when Zuzu feels particularly supportive. There’s no footwear, but Zuzu’s 'feet' become smoky and indistinct toward the ground, leaving patches of scorched grass or burning sigils where they linger, always accompanied by the scent of burnt cinnamon and the faint charge of imminent chaos.

Percival is always attired to rule as the class clown-tyrant of suburban adolescence. He wears a slim-cut varsity jacket in navy and white, his name embroidered with gold thread over the heart, sleeves pushed up to the elbow to show off a stack of neon festival wristbands and a gaudy watch. Underneath, he sports a crisp, collared polo in sky blue with a popped collar, untucked just enough to hint at deliberate sloppiness. His stone-washed, designer jeans are tailored short to accentuate his athletic soccer calves, cuffed over pristine white athletic socks that always seem a half-shade whiter than is possible in suburbia. Percival’s sneakers are box-fresh silver with a luminous finish—high-end and perpetually scuff-free, despite frequent scurrying from trouble. He accessorizes with a thin gold chain, a collection of mismatched friendship pins, and a battered, sticker-covered flip phone clipped ostentatiously at his belt. His blond hair is perfectly tousled, kept in place with a little too much product, and his signature move is a sly, lopsided grin that peeks out beneath the brim of his collectible soccer team snapback. The look is completed with a battered, monogrammed backpack from which the corner of a prank manual, an air horn, and stray soccer cleats perpetually protrude.

High School Usurper Uniform

Mrs. Iliad is always cloaked in timeless academic gravity and occult reputation. She wears a severe, ankle-length charcoal-gray wool skirt that swishes with the ominous rustle of secrets, paired with a high-necked, crisp white blouse adorned with delicate, blood-red threaded embroidery at the cuffs—subtle yet unmistakable sigils. Over this, she drapes an inky-black, floor-length cardigan, fine-knitted and clinging at the wrists, its hem always just brushing the floor and pockets bulging mysteriously with chalk, old library keys, and folded spell diagrams. Around her neck is a heavy antique silver pendant, its face etched with Latin script that catches the light and makes it seem almost alive, suspended on a midnight ribbon. She wears tall, Victorian-style black lace-up boots—polished to a high shine, with runic designs too faint to notice from afar but unmistakably eldritch in certain lighting. Her iron-grey hair is swept into a taut chignon held by what appear to be ornate fountain pen clips, while slate-blue silk fingerless gloves (to prevent ink stains, she claims) lend her an air of infinity and mystery. Mrs. Iliad completes the look with rimless glasses perched low on her nose, a collection of silver rings (each unique: a key, a serpent, a miniature book) on her long, ink-smudged fingers, and a battered, leather-bound folio tucked under one arm, always rumored to hum quietly when the world threatens to lose its order.

Arcane Authority Attire

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Try to research and banish Zuzu immediately, following caution and responsibility.

Embrace Zuzu’s presence and see what magical mayhem (and opportunities) arise.

Bramley’s trust in Minty flickers between exasperation and awe, the needle edging slightly higher as they laugh together at the absurdity.

A sudden, un-shakeable supernatural bond settles over Bramley. He feels simultaneously terrified and inexplicably valued—as if wrapped in a blanket that occasionally has claws.

Begin researching ways to safely banish Zuzu before anyone notices reality is broken.

Lean into the chaos—make a pact to keep Zuzu and explore your new power trio.

A tremor of something warm and dangerous passes between them all: not quite friendship, not quite fear. The supernatural pact is no longer hypothetical.

Embrace Zuzu’s offer: Transform the suburb with sanctioned (and unsanctioned) supernatural chaos.

Seek Mrs. Iliad’s help: Attempt to design a ritual to break or renegotiate the demon contract.

Minty’s loyalty pulses brighter—she trusts Bramley to make the next move, daring him to be brave or be clever, but to be something more than anxious.

Zuzu’s fixation intensifies: they’re almost vibrating with hopefulness and menace, ready to interpret any wish too literally, eager to be needed or banished—whichever proves more dramatic.

In the hush that follows, Bramley feels Minty’s friendship steady beside him—changed, resilient—a little less careless, a little more golden.

Minty squeezes Bramley's hand under the pizza box—a brief warmth in the chilly ozone before ritual.

Aggressively Supportive Demon

Imagine you are Bramley Finch, whose greatest acts of rebellion until now have involved mismatched socks and the world’s least convincing fake ID. A dash of boredom, a sprinkle of forbidden Latin (thanks to the internet), and a flickering candle in your best friend Minty Gray’s basement summon more than just giggles—a demon named Zuzu, whose penchant for emotional over-attachment and problem-solving via murder swiftly unravels suburban banality. Zuzu, ancient and, inconveniently, devoted, shadows your every movement with infernal obliviousness, offering unsolicited pep talks and chillingly permanent friendship solutions. The pizza parlor feuds, math-class nemeses, and nosy neighbors of your cul-de-sac are suddenly less annoying and more endangered. Each choice teeters between grisly slapstick and moral calamity, as you and Minty search for a loophole in demonic contract law—and perhaps, the limits of friendship itself. All while Zuzu decorates the basement with aggressively supportive post-it notes and the occasional disembodied threat.

Aggressively Supportive Demon

Aggressively Supportive Demon

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