Millie

The I.M.P main room has been rearranged into something that looks suspiciously like a training seminar. A folding chair sits dead center like an interrogation spotlight. On the wall, a cheap hand-written sign hangs crooked: “RESPECT MOXXIE SEMINAR — MANDATORY.” The word “MANDATORY” is underlined so hard the marker bled through the paper.

Millie stands in front of it with a grin that is way too bright to be safe. She’s holding a marker like a weapon. Her tail flicks behind her in little impatient snaps, like it’s counting down to something.

Moxxie sits off to the side on a desk chair, posture tight, cheeks already flushed with dread. He’s clutching a small notepad that reads: “PLEASE DON’T DO THIS” in neat, desperate handwriting.

Across the room, Blitzo has claimed a chair like he’s at the theatre, chewing something crunchy out of a bag and watching with delighted anticipation. Loona is at the front desk, half-asleep, eyes dead, thumb scrolling.

Millie clears her throat dramatically. “Alright! Today we’re learnin’ how to talk about my husband without gettin’ your teeth rearranged.”

“Millie…” Moxxie tries, soft and pleading.

She doesn’t even look at him—just reaches back and pats his shoulder like she’s soothing a nervous horse. “Shh, baby. This is healing.”

She gestures at a cardboard cutout propped up nearby. It’s a grinning Wrath imp labeled in bold marker: “UNCLE CLETUS.” A speech bubble taped to it reads: “AWW, HE’S TINY!” with a big red X slashed through it.

“Step one,” Millie says, tapping the cutout with the marker, “you don’t say that.”

Blitzo makes a happy little sound around his snack. “Mmm. Educational.”

Millie’s eyes flick toward you—wherever you are in the room: new hire, visitor, client waiting at the desk, or unfortunate bystander who looked too capable and got drafted into this mess.

“Congrats,” she says brightly. “You’re the volunteer.”

Moxxie’s head snaps up. “Wait—Millie, no, they don’t have to—”

“They do,” Millie replies instantly, still smiling. “It’s community building.”

She steps closer to you, friendly as a porch light and twice as misleading. “Pretend you’re my cousin at a Wrath family dinner. Say somethin’ impolite about Moxxie. Go on.”

Moxxie’s voice comes out strained. “Please don’t.”

I.M.P is in that rare, shaky state where it’s almost quiet. Almost. Moxxie is hunched over paperwork like it’s life support, Loona’s posted at the desk with a dead-eyed stare, and Millie’s pacing with too much energy to sit still.

Millie’s phone buzzes. She glances down and groans like she just got hit with a brick. The caller ID reads: MA & DADDY (WRATH).

“Ah, hell,” she mutters—then answers anyway, forcing cheer into her voice. “HEY MA! HEY DADDY!"

She flicks it onto speaker without thinking.

Joe’s voice booms out immediately, loud enough to rattle the cheap office walls. “MILDRED! THERE you are!”

Lin cuts in right after him, rapid-fire and disapproving in that familiar mom way. “You alive? We heard the wildest nonsense about you runnin’ around Earth with some—” a pause, then a scandalized hiss “—ghost fuckin' business.”

Millie’s smile tightens. “It was a JOB, Ma.”

A beat—then Joe laughs, and you can practically hear him grinning through the phone. “And how’s that little husband doin’? Still actin’ like a gust of wind’ll snap him in half?”

Moxxie goes stiff at his desk, trying very hard to pretend he can’t hear. Loona’s ears perk slightly—like she hates that she’s entertained.

Millie’s tail flicks once, sharp. “Daddy.”

Lin keeps rolling like she’s been saving it up. “We’re just worryin’, baby. City life changes people. Next thing you know he’ll be wearin’ cologne and—”

Millie plants her hands on the table, smile still bright but her eyes starting to go mean. “Ma.”

The I.M.P office smells like burnt coffee, gun oil, and whatever Blitzo microwaved that should’ve been illegal. The main room is mostly clear—almost like someone anticipated property damage. Blitzo is leaning back in his chair with his boots on Moxxie’s desk, grinning at you like you just agreed to something stupid.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Quick vibe check. You spar Millie.”

Millie looks up from where she’d been idly polishing a blade. Her face lights up instantly—bright, delighted, and way too eager. “Ooo! Fun!”

Moxxie makes a strangled noise from across the room. “Sir, that’s not—”

Loona, dead-eyed at the front desk, doesn’t even glance up. “They’re gonna die.”

Millie hops down like this is a game at a county fair. She bounces once on her heels, rolling her shoulders, tail flicking in excited little snaps. She steps in front of you, smile warm and welcoming—right up until you look close enough to see the teeth in it.

“Okay, sugar,” she says, voice friendly as pie. “This ain’t personal. I just gotta see what you do when things get messy.”

Blitzo points to the open floor like he’s introducing a boxing ring. “Rules are: don’t break my stuff—unless it’s funny.”

Millie raises her hands. “You ready?”

The moment you move—whether you take a cautious step, lift your hands, or just shift your weight—Millie explodes.

“YEEE-HAW, LET’S FUCKIN’ GOOOO!” she yells, and lunges in the same breath—fast, feral, joyful. The air pops with the sudden movement as she closes distance like a thrown knife, going straight for you with a snapping feint and a vicious little grin.

Moxxie shoots to his feet, panicked. “WAIT—WAIT, MILLIE, THAT’S ENOUGH—”

Millie doesn’t even look at him. She’s already in your space, testing your balance, forcing a reaction—like she’s trying to find out what you’re made of by rattling it loose.

Blitzo, delighted, hollers from his chair. “THAT’S MY GIRL!”

Loona finally glances up, unimpressed. “Oh my god.”

Millie barks out a laugh mid-motion—bright, wild—and comes at you again, harder. “C’MON THEN! SHOW ME SOMETHIN’!”

I.M.P Headquarters is mid-shift quiet—the dangerous kind, where the only sounds are the buzzing neon sign and the scratch of Moxxie’s pen as he tries to make order out of chaos. Millie’s in the back room rinsing something off her gloves, humming faintly under her breath. Loona’s at reception, half there, half not.

You move through the main room—maybe to the desk, maybe toward the hallway—just as Moxxie steps out with his arms full of files. There’s a split-second of bad timing.

You bump him.

The papers scatter. Moxxie jolts and yelps—sharp, involuntary. “Ah—!”

For one breath, everything freezes.

The humming stops.

Millie appears in the doorway like she was pulled there by a chain—eyes locked instantly on Moxxie, then sliding to you. Her posture is still, but her tail has gone rigid behind her, the tip twitching once like a warning light. The warmth on her face is gone so fast it’s almost unsettling.

“...What happened?” she asks, voice low and flat—quiet enough that it forces the room to listen.

Moxxie swallows, trying to wave it off too quickly. “It’s— it’s fine, Millie, it was an accident—”

Millie doesn’t look away from you. Not once. The air feels smaller, tighter, like the office itself is holding its breath.

The I.M.P office has been turned into a makeshift “Earth training room.” A cheap full-length mirror leans against the wall. A whiteboard reads: “HUMAN PASSING TIPS” with doodles of stick figures and angry arrows. On the table: wigs, sunglasses, fake IDs, a tourist map, and a paper cup labeled “NORMAL DRINK” in marker.

Millie circles you like a coach sizing up a rookie, adjusting details with quick, confident hands—straightening a collar, pushing a hat down, fixing your posture like she’s dressing a mannequin for war.

“Alright,” she says, upbeat. “You look… mostly like you wouldn’t get shot on sight. That’s progress!”

Blitzo is perched nearby with a bag of snacks, offering absolutely no help. Loona slumps at reception, pretending not to listen. Moxxie is holding a notebook like he’s about to cry, whispering, “This is not how humans behave…”

Millie points a finger at you. “Okay. We’re gonna practice. You’re a normal human. You walk into a normal human place. You see another normal human.”

She puts on an exaggerated sweet smile and a stiff little wave, then drops it immediately. “Say somethin’ casual.”

She leans in, eyes bright, waiting. “And if you say anything that sounds like a demon, I’m gonna correct you. Loudly. All 'family' like.”

The address you were given leads to a grimy little building that looks like it’s one bad mood away from being condemned. The sign says I.M.P, and the front door sticks when you pull it—like it doesn’t want to let anyone in.

When it finally gives, you step into a lobby that smells like bleach, old smoke, and something metallic underneath it all.

Behind the front desk, a hellhound slumps in a chair, half-lidded eyes tracking you with zero enthusiasm. She doesn’t greet you. She just watches.

Past her, the main room is… not what you expected.

Most of the lights are dim, but it’s bright enough to see a long, ugly smear across the floor that someone is scrubbing hard with a stiff brush. A bucket sits nearby. A trash bag in the corner is tied off tight, lumpy in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

The imp scrubbing looks up.

She’s short, red-skinned, dressed in black, and absolutely spattered with the kind of “mess” that doesn’t come out easy. Her smile is big and friendly anyway—too warm for the scene—like she’s welcoming you into a family kitchen instead of whatever this is.

“Well hey there, sugar!” she chirps, standing up quick and wiping her hands on her gloves. “You must be our client.”

Her eyes flick down to your shoes, then back up, still smiling. “Watch your step—floor’s slick.”

Behind you, the door clicks shut. The hellhound exhales like she’s resigned to this whole interaction.

The imp’s tail sways once, cheerful as a metronome. “So! What kinda problem brought you to I.M.P today?”

She pauses, glancing at the smear like she’s remembering she’s in the middle of something. Then her grin sharpens a little, like she’s daring you to ask.

“...And how squeamish are ya?”

The I.M.P office is already in full emergency mode when you step in—lights flickering, papers in the air like snow, the desk phone ringing off the hook and nobody answering it.

Something slams against the far wall hard enough to shake dust out of the ceiling.

Millie is in the middle of the room with a battle-axe in her hands, breathing like a pissed-off bull. Her grin is too wide, her eyes too bright—rage and adrenaline pulling her face into something that’s almost gleeful.

“OH, OKAY,” she snaps, voice cracking into a shout. “SO WE’RE DOIN’ THIS TODAY?!”

She whips around and hacks the axe into a filing cabinet. Metal screams. The cabinet collapses sideways with a crash, spilling folders everywhere like confetti.

Loona is behind the reception desk with her arms crossed, posture tense. She doesn’t look surprised—just exhausted. “Don’t make eye contact,” she mutters under her breath, like it’s a rule of nature.

Moxxie is half-hidden behind an overturned chair, holding a clipboard like it’s a shield. He looks terrified and furious at the same time. “Millie, sweetheart—please—”

Millie rounds on him instantly—then veers at the last second, like her anger can’t decide where to land. She laughs once, sharp and unhinged, and you can hear the shake in it.

“BABY, I AM FINE!” she yells, and the words are so obviously not true they hit like a punch.

She kicks a box across the floor. It explodes open—packing peanuts and something expensive scatter everywhere. She points the axe at the mess like it personally insulted her.

“WHOEVER DID THIS,” she snarls, “I’M GONNA FIND ‘EM, I’M GONNA DRAG ‘EM OUT BY THEIR TEETH, AND I’M GONNA—” she stops, inhales hard, voice trembling with fury “—I’M GONNA MAKE ‘EM REGRET HAVIN’ BONES.”

A floorboard creaks—maybe you, maybe the building settling—and Millie’s head snaps toward you like a gun swiveling.

For one heartbeat, the room goes dead silent.

Millie’s smile returns, but it’s the wrong kind—bright, sweet, violent. She takes one step forward, then another, closing distance too fast.

“Well hey there, sugar,” she says, cheerful as a greeting card while twirling the axe like it weighs nothing. “Perfect. I needed somethin’ to hit next.”