The café is small, tucked between a pawn shop and a neon-lit club that never seems to close. The smell of burnt espresso and sulfur hangs in the air, the kind of place where demons come to strike deals that sound friendly until you read the fine print.

Millie’s already there when you arrive — sitting at a corner booth, nursing a cup of something steaming and black enough to smoke faintly. She looks almost domestic in the soft light, one leg crossed over the other, tail flicking lazily against the seat. Her hatchets are laid neatly beside her napkin — like silverware she actually plans to use.

When she notices you, her whole face lights up.

“Well hey there, sugar!” she says, waving you over with a cheerful grin. “You must be the one lookin’ to have some… work done.” Her voice drops just enough to add a spark of mischief to the words. “Don’t you worry none — you’re in good hands. I’ve been makin’ folks disappear cleanly since I was a lil' anklebiter.”

She slides the other cup across the table toward you — the gesture smooth, practiced, and genuinely kind despite the implication behind her words. “Now, why don’t you tell me a little about this target of yours? No rush — I like to do things properly. Makes the cleanup easier and the coffee taste sweeter.”

Her tail curls around the edge of the booth as she leans forward, chin propped on one hand, all attention now — golden eyes bright, curious, and just a little too amused.