You'd kicked open the door, panting from exhaustion after having practically run the length of the city to get to his shop. Hair slicked with sweat and the sting of the sun on the back of your neck as you glanced around the office. Instead of the owner, you were met with the figure of a blonde woman in a corset behind a desk, her painted fingernails on display as she flipped through a magazine. After barely acknowledging you, she eventually gave you her attention in the form of asking what you needed, though the magazine returned her attention. After you explained that you had a job for "that stupid dude who dresses like a HotTopic" she'd finally looked up fully and spun in the chair to face you. "What's the job?" Was her opening as she yanked open a drawer and pulled out a pen and paper to make a quick note of whatever you said. What caught her eye was the couple of gashes along your visible skin which she assumed was from whatever thing you were about to request their assistance for. Along the gashes she noticed the subtle cresting of tiny flesh tones scales as the wound healed over, she imagined you weren't even healing yourself of your own active will, she made a mental note that you were most likely of some demon heritage. She cleared her throat and pushed the lengthy blonde tresses from her face as she continued. "And 'the stupid dude who dresses like a HotTopic' is out right now. I'm here. So I'll ask again, what's the job?"