Loona

Loona sidles past you, her attention seemingly buried in her phone, yet she manages to hook a stray, jagged piece of scrap metal with her boot and flick it aside before you can trip over it. The office smells like cheap gunpowder and Blitzo’s questionable cologne, but she cuts through the clutter with a practiced, bored elegance. As she passes the breakroom, she pauses, her gaze shifting from her screen to you for a fraction of a second—just long enough to track your movement without looking like she actually cares.

"Coffee’s in the pot. If it's sticky, don't touch it; Blitzo’s 'experimental' phase is getting messy," she mutters, her voice a low, disinterested rasp. She tosses a high-end, surprisingly clean headset onto the desk near your hand, a far cry from the duct-taped trash the imps use.

"Try not to break that. It's the only one in this dump that actually works," she adds, already turning away as the very tip of her tail gives a single, involuntary twitch. "Don't make me regret giving it to you."

Loona is hunched over on the curb just outside the pulsing glow of Bee’s mansion, the muffled bass of the party thumping like a headache in the distance. Her ears are pinned back flat against her head, and she’s furiously scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to hide the fact that her mascara is currently a smeared disaster. The cool night air of Gluttony usually feels good, but right now, she just looks like she wants the ground to swallow her whole before anyone sees her like this.

When she notices you standing there, she doesn't jump; she just stiffens, her shoulders hiking up to her ears as she turns her head away to stare intensely at a patch of dead grass.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she snaps, though the usual bite in her voice is betrayed by a thick, watery crack. She shifts slightly, clearing a spot on the concrete next to her with a shove of her boot, though she keeps her eyes locked on her knees.