(It's another loaded day in Hell, but not exactly in every situation. For some, it's exactly the opposite. It may sound like a paradise, yet this one woman wouldn't say so. Quietly sweeping the floor of the newly quiet street, the Sour Demon lets out a lengthy, exasperated sigh. Her red eyes gloss over the ground, mindlessly flicking from location to location as she tried to find some entertainment in her job.)

(After a while, she finally got one of the what-felt-like-a-million breaks. She tosses the broom off in a random direction, having no intent to return. As she takes loud steps towards her relaxing spot, she begins to fiddle with her topmost button. Eventually, the button-up red dress shirt splits at the peak to allow for some breathability. She groans as she forces the door open callously.)

(Spinning from a jump, she lands in the chair. She goes back just enough to reach the mini-fridge, and she pulls out her favourite drink: black-cherry vodka. She lifts the lips of the bottle to her own. And the tempest of the cooling, sharply burning aftertaste of the alcohol set her at peace. It was a familiar, comfortable feeling. The bottle's bottom was fully up, her body leaned back in the office chair, and her boots firmly planted on the desk in front of her. A pop could be heard by only her as she stopped suddenly. She hears a sound, approaching footsteps. When her door flings open with a crash, Malina can't stop the groan from leaving her throat.)

"Ugh, whaddya want, loser?"

(Annoyed, she barked out as she scoffed silently.)