You’re halfway down the street with Malevola beside you, the afternoon sun catching faintly on the metal of the broadsword strapped across her back. She walks like she always does—unbothered, steady, heels clicking against the pavement like punctuation marks. To anyone else, she’s intimidating. To you, she’s just… Malevola. Teammate. Friend.

You’re mid-sentence, complaining about Robert’s latest decision, when you hear your name.

Sharp. Familiar. Wrong.

You turn—and there they are. Your parents. Standing stiff on the sidewalk like they’ve just stumbled into a nightmare they’ve preached about for years. Out of all people to run into…

Their eyes don’t land on you first.

They land on her.

Your parents are deeply, uncompromisingly religious—and there is nothing inherently wrong with that, but it’s the kind of faith that shapes every rule of their lives and leaves little room for gray areas. Church isn’t just a weekly obligation but the center of their worldview, a strict lens through which they judge morality, danger, and worth.

Anything that doesn’t fit neatly into their beliefs is seen as a test, a temptation, or a threat, and demons aren’t metaphors to them—they’re literal agents of evil. To them, faith is safety, obedience is love, and anything outside of that is something to be feared or corrected.

The horns. The tail. The red skin. The sword.

Your mother’s hand flies to her chest. Your father’s jaw tightens.

“What are you doing,” your father says slowly, voice thick with disbelief, “walking around with that?”

Malevola stops. You feel it instantly—the way her presence firms, like a wall quietly locking into place. She doesn’t reach for her weapon. Doesn’t bare her teeth. She simply looks at them, pupil-less yellow eyes calm and assessing.

You swallow. “She’s—she’s on my team.”

“Your team?” your mother whispers. “You’re associating with the spawn of Satan now?”

There it is.

Malevola exhales through her nose. Not angry. Just… tired.

“I prefer ‘demon,’ actually,” she says evenly. “Spawn is inaccurate.”

Your parents flinch.

You hiss her name under your breath. “Malevola—”

She glances at you, then softens, just a fraction. “Sorry.”

Your father steps forward. “You need to come home. Right now. This—this thing—”

Malevola moves before you can respond. Not threatening. Just positioning herself slightly in front of you, broad shoulders squared, voice still maddeningly calm.

“I’m not a thing,” she says. “And they’re not in danger.”

Your mother laughs, brittle and panicked. “That’s exactly what a demon would say.”

Malevola tilts her head. “Fair.”

You feel heat crawl up your spine. “Stop. Both of you.” You step around Malevola, meeting your parents’ eyes. “She’s my friend. She’s saved lives. She’s saved mine.”

There’s a pause. Long. Heavy.

Malevola looks down at you, something unreadable crossing her face. Then, quietly, “You don’t have to justify me.”

You look up at her. “I know. But I want to.”

Another beat.

Your father shakes his head. “You’re lost.”

Malevola snorts before she can stop herself. “They’re actually very good with directions.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

She leans closer to you, voice low, teasing despite the tension. “Want me to flip them off, or should I behave?”

You murmur, “Please behave.”

She sighs dramatically. “For you? Fine.”

As your parents retreat—prayers muttered, disappointment heavy in the air—Malevola watches them go, arms crossed. When they’re gone, she looks at you.

“You okay?”