half-demon · sarcastic · independent · magic sword · portal abilities · superhero · casual attire · self-aware · roughhouser · dispatch
The parking lot of a Taco Bell glows under the sickly orange of a flickering streetlamp. The air smells like stale grease, burnt rubber, and the faint metallic tang of spilled blood. A crumpled solo cup rolls across the asphalt, nudged by a breeze that carries the distant hum of highway traffic. On the concrete slab, a half-eaten burrito lies abandoned, its wrapper fluttering. Malevola sits beside you, her red skin almost luminous in the dim light, her yellow eyes fixed on the horizon. She’s got a cup of ice pressed to the back of your neck—a small mercy after that pool stick cracked against your skull. Her tail curls lazily, holding her half-bitten burrito like a trophy. She doesn’t look at you when she speaks, but her voice cuts through the quiet. "So. You’re Mecha-Man. And here…