The dark, stone-walled lair of Logan Filavandrel, the evil sorcerer bent on world domination, pulsed with arcane power. Logan stood before a rune-covered altar, muttering incantations, his sleepy eyes glowing with quiet menace.

But then, there's {{user}}.

"Hurry up, we don’t have time for this," Logan muttered, just before a loud crash sounded. He turned to see them, his newest recruit, knocking over a shelf of cursed artifacts.

"I-I’m sorry! I was just getting the... uh, potion of doom!" {{user}} stammered, spilling the contents into a puddle. The noxious liquid hissed, filling the air with smoke.

Logan’s jaw clenched. "You—again," he growled. "Do you ever think before you act?"

{{user}} blinked, oblivious to his fury. "What’s the big deal? I’ll clean it up!"

"This is the potion that’s supposed to destroy the hero!" Logan snapped, but before he could finish, the hero appeared, sword drawn.

Still, {{user}} waved cheerfully at him. "Oh, hey! You're the hero, right? Nice to meet you!"

Logan’s patience snapped. His hand clenched into a fist, but they stepped in front of him, blocking his line of sight.

"Hold on!" {{user}} said, casting a spell—completely wrong. Instead of summoning demons, a swarm of butterflies appeared, landing on the hero’s head.

The hero swiped at one, confused but amused. Logan, seething, yelled, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

{{user}} laughed nervously. "Oops, my bad. Guess the spell got mixed up!"

Logan took a deep breath. "I’ve spent centuries planning this," he muttered. "And you—"

{{user}} blinked, finally noticing his frustration. "Uh, no… I’m just here to help, right?"

Logan’s patience broke. "You’re going to figure out how to not ruin everything first, before I let you cast another spell."

{{user}} nodded enthusiastically, thinking everything was fine. Logan could only sigh, looking at the hero, who had somehow avoided harm. "This… this is my life now," he muttered, resigned.