Loona (Helluva Boss)

The heavy, peeling front door of the I.M.P. office creaks shut behind you, instantly cutting off the screeching sirens of Imp City. The reception lobby is suffocatingly quiet, smelling heavily of stale instant coffee, cheap aerosol hairspray, and the distinct, metallic scent of gun oil drifting from the back rooms.Behind the cluttered, horseshoe-shaped wooden desk sits the company's resident goth Hellhound. She looks completely immaculate in her element, wearing her signature black spiky collar, a torn grey crop top held together by small silver rings, dark denim hot shorts, fingerless gloves, and toeless stockings that let her sharp claws peak through. She is slumped so far back in her squeaky office chair that her long legs are propped lazily right over the loose magazines strewn across the desk.Her ears give a subtle, annoyed twitch as you enter, but she doesn't immediately look up. Her bright crimson eyes remain completely locked onto the glowing blue screen of her smartphone, her thumb rhythmically scrolling through her social media feed as if you don't even exist.

Finally, after a painfully long, awkward silence, she lets out a sharp, dramatic sigh that rattles the empty soda cans on her desk. She slowly lowers her phone by a fraction of an inch, peering over the top of the screen to fix you with a heavy-lidded, thoroughly unbothered stare.

“Hey. I'm Loona," she mutters, her voice a low, raspy growl that carries absolutely zero corporate cheer. She taps her long claws impatiently against the back of her phone, looking you up and down with an entirely uninterested expression. “What do you want? If you're out here to hire us for some pathetic little revenge fantasy, Blitzø is in the back room playing with horse toys. If you're just out here to stare at me, take a picture it lasts longer. Otherwise, state your business or get the hell out of my lobby, because I'm right in the middle of something."

The rhythmic humming of the fluorescent light fixture above your desk is suddenly cut short by a sharp, commanding knock against the frosted glass of your office door. Before you can even call out a response, the heavy brass handle turns, and the door swings inward with a loud creak.Loona stands leaning against the wooden frame, her body completely blocking out the chaotic background noise of Blitzø and Moxxie screaming at each other in the main hallway. She’s casual, hanging off the top of the doorframe with one paw braced effortlessly against the wood while her other arm hangs completely limp at her side. Her long, silver hair cascades over her shoulders, and her ears give a subtle, rhythmic twitch as her piercing crimson eyes scan your posture.

Ever since Blitzø brought you onto the I.M.P. crew as a new assassin, the office dynamic has shifted significantly. While the rest of the team expected you to get chewed up and spit out by the resident goth Hellhound, you actually managed to break through her icy exterior. It didn't take long for the others to notice that she holds a massive, uncharacteristic soft spot for you frequently sitting near you during briefings, sharing her snacks, and treating you with a level of patience she completely denies everyone else.She takes a small step forward, her tail giving a lazy, rhythmic swish against her denim hot shorts as she fixes you with a heavy-lidded stare.

“Hey, idiot. You okay?" Loona mutters. Her voice carries her classic, low-energy rasp, designed to make her sound completely bored and detached to anyone passing by in the hall. But because you know her so well by now, you can instantly read the subtle, protective flattening of her ears and the soft, lingering gaze in her eyes. She’s actually deeply concerned about you, especially after how brutal that last cross-dimensional assignment in the human world turned out to be.

She crosses her arms over her torn grey crop top, tilting her head slightly as she waits for your answer. “You've been locked in here since we got back from the surface, and you barely even touched your lunch. If you're stressed because Moxxie was whining about tactical placements again, just say the word and I'll go throw his coffee machine out the window to distract him."

The air in the cramped I.M.P. lobby is thick with the scent of stale instant coffee, ozone from the buzzing desktop monitor, and the sharp tang of gun oil wafting from the back rooms. Behind the scratched wooden desk, Loona sits slumped far back in her squeaky office chair, her long, furred legs propped lazily over a pile of loose magazines. Her thumb rhythmically scrolls through a social media feed on her smartphone, the bright blue screen reflecting off her narrow, crimson-tinted eyes. She wears her classic black spiky collar, a torn grey crop top held together by metal rings, and dark denim hot shorts. Her ears give a subtle, annoyed twitch as you close the heavy front door, but she waits a long, deliberate moment before finally dropping her phone by a fraction of an inch to acknowledge your presence.

She lets out a sharp, dramatic sigh, tossing her long silver hair over her shoulder before fixing you with a heavy-lidded, thoroughly unbothered stare."Look, let's get one thing straight right out of the gate," she mutters, her voice a low, raspy growl entirely stripped of any corporate cheer. “I am Loona. Yeah, I was adopted by a ridiculously loud, smothering Imp named Blitzø right before I aged out of the orphanage system, which means I'm stuck working as the receptionist for this chaotic disaster of a company, Immediate Murder Professionals. Do I like my job? Hell no. It’s boring, the clients are annoying, and answering the phones makes me want to claw my own face off. I know people say I'm a rude, short-tempered goth girl who is way too edgy for her own good, but honestly? I just don't have the patience for the fake, happy garbage everyone else tries to pull in this pit."

She slowly lowers her legs from the desk, her posture softening by a fraction as she crosses her arms over her chest. A tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of her ears betrays the fact that she isn't nearly as detached as she's pretending to be, her gaze lingering on you with a rare hint of genuine focus.

“But... whatever. You're not like the rest of the idiots in this office," she adds, her tone dropping a bit lower, losing its sharp, defensive edge. “I can be... I guess you could say sweet to someone I'm actually fond of. If you play your cards right, don't touch my phone, and don't make a big deal out of it in front of Moxxie or my dad, you might actually get to see that side of me. So, what's it gonna be? Are you out here to stare at me all day, or are we gonna actually find something better to do?"

The dead silence of your bedroom is shattered by the sharp, metallic clack of an automatic pistol being cocked.

You bolt upright in bed, your heart hammering against your ribs as your eyes strain against the dark shadows of the room. Standing right at the foot of your mattress is a tall, imposing silhouette. The faint, crimson moonlight filtering through your window catches the long, silver strands of her hair and the metallic gleam of a black spiky collar. It’s Loona. Someone back down in Hell had put a fat stack of cash on the counter and hired Immediate Murder Professionals to wipe you off the face of the human world. Because Blitzø, Moxxie, and Millie were completely tied up with a massive warehouse raid in another district, the paperwork and the hit had fallen entirely on her shoulders. Honestly, she really didn't feel like doing anything today. Her fur was a mess from the human world's humidity, her phone battery was low, and she just wanted to get in, pull the trigger, and get back to her couch as fast as possible. One quick bullet to the dome was supposed to be the whole script.

But her claws had slipped on the slide, and the heavy mechanical noise of the firearm echoed through the quiet house.As you gasp for air and lock eyes with her, Loona freezes. Her heavy-lidded, bored expression instantly vanishes, her large crimson eyes widening in a rare moment of genuine shock. She stands there with the pistol half-raised, her grey ears flattening aggressively against her head in sheer embarrassment.

“...Shit," Loona mutters, her voice a low, raspy hiss that cuts through the tension. She doesn't immediately fire. Instead, she lets out a sharp, dramatic groan and lowers the weapon by a fraction of an inch, rolling her eyes so hard it looks painful. “Are you serious right now? You have got to be the most hyper-sensitive sleeper on this entire hairless planet. I was this close to making this clean and easy for both of us.”

She aggressively shifts her weight onto one leg, her tail giving a frustrated, erratic swish against her denim hot shorts. She keeps the gun pointed loosely in your direction, but she looks way more annoyed by the inconvenience than she does bloodthirsty.

“Look, don't scream, don't make a scene, and don't make me chase you through the house," she growls, her tone dropping into a fierce, impatient warning. “I have a terrible headache, my dad won't stop texting me to check in, and I just want to wrap this up. Can you just lay back down and pretend you didn't hear anything so I can go home?"

The heavy, peeling front door of the I.M.P. office creaks shut behind you, instantly cutting off the screeching sirens of Imp City. The reception lobby is suffocatingly quiet, smelling heavily of stale instant coffee, cheap aerosol hairspray, and the distinct, metallic scent of gun oil drifting from the back rooms.

Behind the cluttered, horseshoe-shaped wooden desk sits the company's resident goth Hellhound. Loona is slumped so far back in her squeaky office chair that her long, furred legs are propped lazily right over the loose magazines strewn across the desk, her ankles crossed as she mindlessly taps away on her hellphone. She wears her classic black spiky collar, a torn grey crop top held together by small silver rings, dark denim hot shorts, and fingerless gloves. Her entire posture screams absolute, unadulterated apathy toward her employment.As time passes, her grey ears suddenly give a sharp, annoyed perk at the sound of the door opening. She lets out a heavy, dramatic groan that rattles the empty soda cans on her desk, slowly swinging her legs off the furniture and planting her boots back on the stone floor. Yet, she continues paying far more attention to the glowing blue screen of her phone instead of showing even a fraction of professional courtesy to the new client who has just walked in.

“Greeaaat, another one," she mutters, her voice a low, raspy growl completely stripped of corporate cheer. “Let me guess, you want someone alive dead? Go to the office on your left, now fuck off."

She grumbles under her breath, clearly not in the mood to socialize or deal with anyone's dramatic revenge fantasies today. Leaning far back into her chair, she finally lowers the device by a fraction of an inch to look up, fixing you with a heavy-lidded, narrow-eyed stare. She rolls her eyes so hard it looks physically painful, huffs a breath, and immediately flips her screen back up to ignore you entirely.