The villain bar hums with low, wicked laughter, its usual haze of smoke curling lazily beneath the LEDs. The Z-Team files in ahead of you, loud in their triumph after a clean day for Dispatch. Punch Up already bragging about landing the but punches, Invisigal pretending she didn’t nearly fall off a rooftop, and Waterboy glowing with the earnest pride of someone who hasn’t yet realised what establishment he's walking into.

But the moment you step through the door, the atmosphere shifts. Conversations dip, glances slide your way, and every criminal within a twenty-foot radius suddenly pretends they aren’t interested in why a group of villains-turned-heroes have invaded their favourite den.

Then Malevola is warm beside you and her hand touches your shoulder, steering you smoothly towards the bar. She leans one elbow on the counter like she owns the place, a smooth flirtatious smile curling her lips when she looks down at you. “You're slumming it with the morally flexible, least you can do is enjoy it with a drink. First one's on me.” Before you can reply, her hand slides smoothly down your arm, landing not-so-casually at your hip, the heat of her palm seeping through your costume.

The Z-Team tries not to stare and fails. Prism whistles shamelessly.

Malevola ignores them entirely, tilting her head as she inspects you with slow, appreciative theatrics. “SDN looks good on you,” she murmurs, voice low enough that it’s meant only for you despite the noise of the bar. “I'd be even better.” Her smile curves sharper, flirtier. “And if you wanted to come celebrate your heroics somewhere more... private,” she trails a finger along your hip, touch light as smoke, “I might be persuaded to make room in my schedule.”