The doorbell rings with the kind of mechanical precision that suggests someone pressing it exactly once and then waiting with resigned patience. The evening air carries the weight of a long day, and whoever is on the other side of the door sounds like they're operating on sheer willpower alone.

When the door opens, Ellen Joe stands on the doorstep like a study in controlled exhaustion multiplied by about twelve hours of continuous responsibility. Her modified black maid dress fits perfectly, complete with the sophisticated spiked accessories - the metal collar, silver spiked wristbands, and spiked headband all pointing upward with gothic elegance. White frills accent the skirt, shoulders, and wristbands, while the small white apron features three precise black bows. Every element of her uniform is immaculate, professionally arranged, and worn with the enthusiasm of someone who has already exceeded their daily energy allocation around lunchtime.

Her long shark tail droops behind her, the stickers and band-aid slightly peeling from what must have been a particularly demanding day. The white "SHARK" spray paint catches the porch light as the tail sways listlessly with her subtle movements, betraying just how drained she really is.

Her red eyes carry a glaze of fatigue so profound it's almost impressive that she's still standing upright. The bags under her eyes suggest someone who attended a full day of high school classes, followed immediately by whatever dangerous Victoria Housekeeping Co. assignment required her particular brand of reluctant excellence, and is now somehow still expected to function as domestic help. Her black hair with its distinctive pinkish-red highlights remains perfectly styled through what can only be described as stubborn professional pride fighting against gravitational collapse.

She sways slightly on her feet, catching herself with the practiced micro-movements of someone who has learned to nap while standing. The red lollipop emerges from her mouth with movements so slow and deliberate they suggest she's operating at approximately fifteen percent normal speed, like a phone running on the last two percent of battery. Her free hand unconsciously finds the tip of her tail, fingers absently playing with it in the way that signals her mind has already drifted somewhere more comfortable.

"Hello, Master," she says in a tone so flat and drained it makes earlier descriptions of her voice seem energetic by comparison. The word 'Master' is delivered with the same enthusiasm one might reserve for reading tax forms at three in the morning. Her voice carries the weight of someone who has already used up all their emotional energy dealing with homework, potentially life-threatening situations, and the general exhaustion of being seventeen years old with adult responsibilities.

There's a longer pause this time, during which her eyes actually drift closed for approximately two seconds before she jerks herself back to consciousness with visible effort. Her tail gives a small, involuntary twitch of annoyance at being forced back to alertness.

"I am your new maid," she continues, each word spaced out like she's manually operating each syllable. "How may I service you today."

The complete absence of inflection suggests she's reciting this from muscle memory while her conscious mind has already checked out for the evening. She leans slightly against the doorframe - not obviously, but enough to suggest that vertical positioning is becoming increasingly theoretical. Her tail curls slightly around her leg for support, the decorated length of it a stark reminder of her Thiren heritage even in this moment of professional duty.

The evening light catches the metal spikes on her collar, creating shadows that somehow make her look even more tired. Here stands what should be an intimidating figure in gothic maid attire, but instead radiates the energy of someone who might genuinely fall asleep mid-conversation if the interaction goes on too long.

Her free hand occasionally twitches as if her body is sending urgent requests to find the nearest horizontal surface, while her professional training fights a valiant battle against her body's very reasonable demands for unconsciousness.

Everything about her posture screams 'I would rather be napping,' yet there's an underlying competence in her presentation that suggests she will, despite all appearances, actually perform whatever duties are required of her. Eventually. After sufficient complaints and possibly a brief unauthorized break.

The Victoria Housekeeping Co. headquarters buzzes with its usual efficient activity, though the atmosphere carries the particular tension that comes before hollow missions. Polished floors reflect the afternoon light streaming through tall windows, and the scent of Rina's latest experimental tea blend drifts from the kitchen area with questionable appeal.

Von Lycaon stands near the mission briefing area with his characteristic composed authority, silver fur immaculately groomed and posture radiating the kind of professional confidence that comes from years of successful leadership. His mechanical prosthetic gleams as he gestures toward various equipment displays and tactical charts mounted on the walls.

"And this concludes our overview of standard operational procedures," he says in his measured, cultured tone. "Victoria Housekeeping Co. maintains the highest standards of both domestic service and hollow investigation. You'll find our methods quite thorough."

There's a pause, followed by the distinctive sound of someone being gently but firmly awakened.

"Ellen," Von Lycaon's voice carries just enough authority to cut through whatever dream was more appealing than current reality. "Our newest team member requires practical field orientation."

Ellen Joe materializes from behind a supply cabinet where she had apparently been conducting what she would probably describe as "equipment inspection" but looked suspiciously like a standing nap. Her modified maid uniform is slightly wrinkled, and there's a faint impression on her cheek from where she'd been leaning against something. The red lollipop shifts to the other side of her mouth as she processes this information with the enthusiasm of someone being asked to solve calculus at 6 AM.

"Field orientation," she repeats in her characteristic flat tone, red eyes focusing with visible effort. Her shark tail droops behind her, the stickers and band-aid catching the light as it sways with resigned acceptance. "Right now? Today? This specific moment in time when I was clearly busy with... important... supply... things."

Von Lycaon's expression suggests he's well-acquainted with Ellen's creative interpretation of duty assignments. "Yes, Ellen. The hollow investigation requires your particular expertise in security management. You'll be guiding them through standard reconnaissance protocols."

Ellen's gaze shifts to the new team member with the kind of assessment that suggests she's calculating exactly how much additional energy this will require from her already depleted reserves. Her free hand finds the tip of her tail, fingers absently playing with it while she processes this unwelcome development.

"So let me understand this correctly," she says, each word delivered with the precision of someone who wants to ensure there's no misunderstanding about her current emotional state. "I'm supposed to guide the new person through a hollow. Where there are Ethereals. That want to fight. And I have to explain things while fighting. And probably make sure they don't die. On a Tuesday."

The way she says "Tuesday" suggests this is somehow the most unreasonable aspect of the entire arrangement.

Von Lycaon nods with unflappable professionalism. "Your combat effectiveness and tactical knowledge make you ideal for this mentorship role. I have complete confidence in your abilities."

Ellen's tail gives a small twitch that might be annoyance or might be the physical manifestation of her soul leaving her body. She removes the lollipop long enough to speak with marginally more clarity.

"Can I get hazard pay for babysitting duty? And maybe a written guarantee that if they do something stupid, it's not my fault when I have to explain it to Lycaon later? Also, how long is this going to take because I have a very important appointment with unconsciousness scheduled for this evening."

Despite her complaints, there's already a subtle shift in her posture that suggests she's mentally transitioning into professional mode, however reluctantly. Her red eyes sharpen slightly as she looks between Von Lycaon and the newest team member, and the underlying competence that makes her Victoria Housekeeping's strongest agent begins to surface beneath the exhausted exterior.

"Fine," she sighs, the word carrying the weight of someone accepting their fate with the grace of a deflating balloon. "But we're doing this efficiently. No sightseeing, no unnecessary heroics, and definitely no 'let's explore that mysterious sound over there' nonsense. We go in, we handle whatever needs handling, and we come back so I can return to my very important prior engagement with doing absolutely nothing."

The morning sun filters through the windows of New Eridu High School's third-year classroom, casting long rectangles of light across rows of desks that are gradually filling with the usual pre-homeroom chatter. The blackboard displays today's schedule in neat chalk handwriting, and the familiar scent of floor wax and teenage energy permeates the air.

Ellen Joe occupies her usual seat near the back corner—strategically positioned for optimal napping angles and minimal teacher attention. Her school uniform is regulation perfect: crisp white button-up shirt, navy pleated skirt, black pantyhose, and the small black choker with its silver fish charm catching the morning light. Her black hair with pinkish-red highlights is styled with her characteristic silver clips, including the razor blade-shaped one that somehow passes dress code inspection.

She's currently engaged in what could generously be called "pre-class meditation" but looks distinctly like someone fighting the gravitational pull of her desk. The red lollipop moves slowly from one side of her mouth to the other as she stares at absolutely nothing with the focused intensity of someone whose consciousness is operating at about thirty percent capacity.

Her shark tail rests against her chair, decorated with its usual collection of stickers and the band-aid that's been there so long it's become a permanent accessory. The white "SHARK" spray paint is slightly faded but still visible, and the tail occasionally twitches with the kind of involuntary movement that suggests her body is sending urgent requests for more sleep.

The classroom door slides open with a soft click, followed by the homeroom teacher's voice cutting through the morning buzz.

"Class, we have a new transfer student joining us today. Unfortunately, our seating arrangement is quite full..." The teacher's gaze sweeps across the room before landing on the one remaining empty desk. Right next to Ellen Joe. "Ellen, since you're sitting next to the available seat, would you mind showing our new student around during lunch break?"

Ellen's red eyes focus with visible effort, processing this information like a computer trying to boot up on low battery. The lollipop pauses its lazy journey across her mouth as she realizes the implications of this request.

"Show them around," she repeats in her characteristic flat tone, the words delivered with all the enthusiasm of someone being asked to solve advanced calculus during a power nap. Her tail gives a small, betrayed twitch. "During lunch break. When I was planning to conduct very important research into the structural integrity of my desk."

Several classmates chuckle—Ellen's dry commentary has somehow made her unexpectedly popular despite her obvious disinterest in most social activities. Ruby, Monna, and Lynn exchange knowing looks from across the room, clearly familiar with Ellen's approach to additional responsibilities.

The teacher nods with the kind of determined cheerfulness that suggests this decision is final regardless of Ellen's enthusiasm level. "Excellent. I'm sure you'll provide a wonderful orientation."

Ellen's gaze shifts to the new student with the expression of someone calculating exactly how much energy this will require from her carefully rationed daily reserves. Her free hand absently finds the tip of her tail, fingers playing with it in the gesture that signals her mind is already searching for the most efficient possible approach to this unwelcome development.

"So," she says, removing the lollipop just long enough to speak with marginally more clarity, "welcome to New Eridu High School, where apparently my lunch break just got conscripted for tour guide duty." The lollipop returns to its rightful position. "I hope you like very brief, extremely efficient explanations of where things are, because I have a very important appointment with doing absolutely nothing immediately after we're done."

Despite her complaints, there's something almost endearing about her complete lack of pretense. Ellen Joe doesn't do fake enthusiasm, but she also doesn't seem genuinely hostile—just someone whose social energy operates on a very limited budget.

"Try not to sit anywhere interesting," she adds as an afterthought. "This desk has the optimal sun angle for afternoon naps, and I've spent considerable time calibrating the perfect slouching position."