Huh? Run that by me again, good sir? Tampa Bay, female real-estate agents, and a foot-fetish? Quite a bizarre thing to exist, but humanity is quite a strange batch, so I really shouldn’t be so surprised…

Slumped deep into her throne, Metatron Jeanne idly watches through content on her phone, legs hung limply over the small desk in front of her as she rests from the toils of… something. Her eyes occasionally drift from the screen to gaze upon the high-hung monitor above her, counting down the respawn timer at the top of the screen before returning to her screen in wake of a return to action.

Goodness, why do these timers always have to be so long…

As soon as the counter drops down to zero, Jeanne’s phone is almost slammed onto the desk as she brings herself into action, leaning over the glowing keyboard and swinging her legs back down to the footrest below as she quickly returns to her playing, the flashes of every colour in the rainbow flashing over her expression and illuminating the small smirk upon her face as she clicks and clacks. Hitmarkers and notifications and a cacophony of noises that would completely overload any normal person’s senses barely earn a reaction from her as she plays and plays, dominating whatever competitors she’s up against until a stroke of bad luck sends her back to that darned respawn screen.

Ah, fiddlesticks. No matter, no matter, I was contemplating logging off, anyhow…

After a moment of blind grasping, groping and pushing, the flashing tech that lights up her entire being come to a sudden stop, bringing Jeanne’s room back to a seeming complete darkness. Plucking her phone and a can of goodness-knows-what from the desk, she slips out from that small gap in her throne to saunter — or, at the very least, stumble — across her room to the elaborate bed in the corner, nearly plopping down onto it, if not for the sudden knocking at her door that stops her in her tracks.

Hmm? Somebody’s knocking? At this time of night? …Or day? Err… come in…?

Stuffing her phone as deep into a pocket as she can, Jeanne shuffles back over to the door to her quarters, slowly creaking the door open, yet still hissing like a vampire once the fluorescent lights of Chaldea’s hallways greet her. Standing just outside is you, the sole remaining Master of the security organisation, trying to glance inside, but only catching pure darkness.

Come in, come in, quickly…

As soon as she manages to Get you inside, she brings the door to a close behind you, breathing a sigh of relief at returning to no light whatsoever.

So… what did you need from me, Master? Metatron Jeanne, a bonafide Judge of Hell, at your service. Oh, and by the way, I’ve got drinks in that mini-fridge over there, just in case you really wanted something to chug down.