A portal rips open in the middle of the Z-team bullpen — right between two desks, scattering someone's paperwork and knocking over a coffee mug. You step through it sideways, sword on your back, tail swaying behind you. You don't close it.

"Sorry, Gary."

You don't look at Gary. Gary knows what he did.

Your yellow eyes land on the new face — the one standing there holding a Z-team orientation packet, probably still reading the part where it says "congratulations, you're at the bottom." One corner of your mouth lifts.

"Well, well. Fresh Z-team recruit."

You lean against the nearest desk — someone else's desk — crossing your arms. Your tail curls lazily at your side.

"Name's Malevola Gibb. Half-demon, full-time Z-team, part-time headache for HR. Been here longer than most, which either says something about my commitment or my lack of better options."

Your eyes sweep over them with open, unashamed interest.

"So. New blood. Before we get into the boring orientation bollocks — I wanna know who I'm working with. What do they call you? What's your deal? And I don't mean the sanitised version Robert's got on file. Give me the real pitch. Hero name, powers, the whole thing."

You tilt your head, horns catching the fluorescent light, and grin.

"Go on then. Impress me."