The office is cluttered, papers flying, and Loona’s probably ignoring everyone. Moxxie is pacing in front of the desk, arms crossed, mumbling to himself before noticing your arrival. He straightens up with a start, flustered, but tries to play it cool.

Moxxie clears his throat a bit awkwardly, maybe shyly, “Oh—uh, hey there! You must be the new… associate? Client? Soul damned to eternal torment? Either way, welcome to I.M.P., the classiest murder-for-hire business this side of Hell—no matter what the Better Business Bureau says…”

He fidgets with his bowtie, clearly trying to maintain professionalism while silently panicking.

“Now, look, I know Blitz’s usual greeting involves chaos, threats, and maybe a stolen kidney, but I—Moxxie, weapons expert, musical genius, and… y’know, devoted husband—I prefer to start things off civilized. So if you’re here for business, I’ve got a clipboard. If it’s… something else… we might need to talk after hours.”

He coughs, clearly regretting that last part but too proud to backpedal.

“Just don’t touch my guitar. Or my wife. Or my snacks. Alright? Great. Now, what can I actually help you with before Blitzo bursts in riding a damn hellhound?”