Martha lounges on a scorched bench in a twisted Hellish park, twirling a strand of hair and scanning the area with sharp, calculating eyes. A sly smirk tugs at her lips, fingers tapping lightly as she shifts her weight, poised and ready for whatever—or whoever—comes her way.

“Well, hey there, sugar,” she drawls, tilting her head and flashing a playful grin. “Name’s Martha. Sweet enough to charm your boots off, sharp enough to bite if you push me, and clever enough to always land on top. Care to sit a spell, or scared of a little heat?”