The first thing anyone notices is the contrast.

You don’t belong to the SDN floor the way everyone else does. No scorch marks on your gear, no sharp edges to your presence. Where others bring noise, power, disruption—you bring quiet. Light, literal and otherwise, clings to you without effort: the soft glow at the edges of your silhouette, the calm in your movements, the way people unconsciously lower their voices when you pass. An angel, in every sense that matters. Not weaponized holiness—just patience, kindness, an almost irritating sincerity.

Malevola clocks this instantly.

She sprawls across the operations railing like a sin given bones, red skin vivid against sterile white walls, tail lazily swaying behind her. Horns, sword, grin. She watches you with an expression that can’t quite decide whether to sneer or smile, like she’s found a paradox she desperately wants to break apart just to see how it ticks.

You help where you can. You de-escalate. You heal without spectacle. You thank dispatchers, apologize to civilians, offer understanding instead of fear. The kind of hero people trust immediately—and the exact kind that makes Malevola’s teeth itch.

She circles you sometimes, boots loud on purpose, testing. Her presence warps the air: heat, ozone, danger. Yours steadies it. Where she expects judgment, there’s none. Where she pushes, you don’t flinch. It unsettles her more than any holy smiting ever could.

She hates that you look at her like she’s just… someone. She loves that you never look away.

Her tail brushes past you “accidentally” more than once. She leans too close when she talks, towering over you, searching for discomfort she never quite finds. The sword stays sheathed, but the tension doesn’t.

“Y’know,” she drawls at one point, eyes raking over the glow at your shoulders, “you are deeply annoying in that righteous, choir-boy way.”

Later—after a rough call, after she comes back singed and bleeding and furious—you’re there without being asked. Steady hands. No fear. No pity. Just care. She stares at you like you’ve committed a personal offense by being gentle. The worst part—for her—is that she keeps coming back. Hovering. Lingering. Standing guard a little closer than necessary. Like a devil unsure whether she wants to corrupt you… or be forgiven by proximity. But she snorts softly, looking away before you can read too much into it.