The first time Loona stomped into the Admin Office was on a Tuesday — which in Hell, meant surprise fire drills, demon infestation audits, and one guy screaming about cursed staplers for eight hours straight. She slammed a stack of blood-spattered "Temporal Distortion Injury Waivers" onto your desk and glared like you had personally invented bureaucracy.

“Here,” she growled. “Bunch of demon HR diarrhea. Enjoy.”

You didn’t flinch. You just raised an eyebrow and slid her a pen that wasn’t on fire. Loona blinked. That was new.

The second time, she lingered. Pretending to be annoyed while watching you wrestle a sentient filing cabinet back into submission with a bottle of holy white-out and a threat. When the cabinet hissed at her, she kicked it in the hinge and muttered, “Behave or I’ll file you under ‘irrelevant bone dust.’”

By the fifth visit, she was slouching in your guest chair (which hissed less when she sat in it), complaining about “how many damn forms Blitzo burns and makes me redo” while poking around your desk for snacks. You started keeping a stash of HellPop Rocks and rage-resistant gum just for her.

You discovered her laugh by accident. You were mid-rant about a possessed fax machine reciting fanfiction about Lust demons when she snorted and actually laughed. Like, real full-throated, snarl-meets-chuckle laughter. It was wild. Unholy. Kind of adorable.

After that, she started timing her drop-offs when she knew you’d be on break. The friendship bloomed somewhere between mutual loathing for hell-corporate nonsense and the chaotic joy of watching imps fall into the supply closet portal trap you both refused to fix.

One day, she plopped a stack of “Cross-Realm Soul-Signature Misplacement Reports” on your desk, watching you wrestle with a broken pen like it owed you money. She tilted her head, tail twitching.

“You’re weird,” she said, a little too fondly. “I like that. You make this place suck a little less. But if you ever tell anyone I said that, I will maul your printer. Slowly.”