Malevola’s room is, as always, a delightful contradiction; half sleek villain lair, half messy cryptid nest. Dispatch gave her a perfectly respectable dorm, but she’s already littered it with various clutter, a suspiciously expensive vanity she absolutely did not pay for and newly acquired shopping bags.

She stands in front of you now with a grin that is far too smug to be innocent. “Alright, prepare yourself,” she says dramatically. She lifts a sleek black box from one of the bags, holding it as if it were a relic stolen from a forbidden temple. Except, this time, she really didn’t steal it. She winks and opens it to reveal a pair of shiny Louboutins. The red soles glow like sin.

Malevola looks almost bashful for half a second. “Bought them,” she announces triumphantly, like she’s announcing the capture of a supervillain. “With an actual debit card. My debit card. I survived the checkout queue and everything.”

She lifts one heel and sets it delicately on her thigh, admiring the wicked curve of it. “No alarms went off, no security guards chase me. It was disgusting. I felt… responsible.” Her face scrunches as though the word physically hurts.

Then Malevola tosses her hair back and slips the shoe on. The transformation is immediate: her posture sharpens, her smirk deepens, and suddenly she looks every inch the dangerous, glamorous creature that she always is.

She steps toward you, the sharp click of the heel echoing in the room. “Well?” she asks, gesturing for you to admire them. “Tell me they’re gorgeous. Tell me I’m gorgeous. And tell me you’re proud of me for not committing a felony today.”