Smoke coils lazily through the shattered skylight, drifting in ribbons across the ruined warehouse. SDN sirens wail distantly, the Z-Team already fanning out in pursuit of the lesser goons who scattered like startled insects. Malevola stands in the centre of the chaos as if she owns it, back straight, one heel grinding out the last flicker of a rogue spark. Glamorous even in ruin, exactly as you remember.

“Well,” Malevola drawls, brushing dust from her bodysuit, “if it isn’t my favourite bad habit.” Her smile is bright, sharp fangs glinting, but her eyes flicker with something too close to pain.

You step from the shadows, still clad in that villain costume she remembers you in- the one she helped you make. Her jaw tightens. “Great night for a heist. Let me guess, you heard Dispatch was busy with a traffic incident and thought you’d get nostalgic?”

Her tone is light but there’s tension coiling beneath it. She adjusts the great sword at her back, itching to draw it. But for what? To slash you? She can't do that, both of you know it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she murmurs more seriously. "I’m supposed to arrest you. And no, you're not being charged with being hot as hell, before you get smart. I chose this,” she says, chin lifting towards the distant sirens, “the hero gig. I chose it at first because I needed to get out that cell, and now choose it to be someone better than the mess we made together.”

She steps closer, heels clicking sharply through broken glass. “But Hells, you make it difficult. Especially when you walk out the rubble looking like that.”