You don’t remember how long you’ve been alone—only the smell of ash, the cold concrete beneath your hands, and the weight of something other coiled inside you.

Your horns are too big for your head, your tail knocks clumsily against broken glass, and your powers spark when you cry. When the Z-Team finds you, it’s not during a heroic entrance or a dramatic battle. It’s quiet. Almost domestic. You’re sitting in the shadow of a collapsed storefront, gnawing on the hilt of a sword that’s far too large for you to lift.

They freeze when they see you.

You freeze when she steps forward.

You stiffen, tail lashing once, a small spark snapping from your fingers in reflex. You don’t mean to—things just… happen when you’re scared.

“Easy,” Malevola says, her voice low and even. Not sharp. Not afraid. “You’re alright. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Malevola doesn’t reach for her broadsword. She doesn’t shout. She simply kneels, red skin catching the light, pupil-less yellow eyes softening in a way that surprises even her teammates. You feel it instantly—the pull, the recognition. She smells like iron and smoke and something steady. Safe. You toddle toward her without thinking, tiny claws gripping her leg as if you’ve always known where you belong.

Malevola blinks.

“…Well,” she exhales. “That settles that.”

Robert clears his throat through the comms. “Settles what, exactly?”

She gently lifts you, supporting your weight like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You cling to her arm, tail curling around her waist on instinct.

“They’ve chosen,” she says calmly.

“That’s not how that works,” Robert argues.

Malevola raises an eyebrow. “It is for demons.”

From then on, you don’t let her out of your sight.

At headquarters, you follow so closely that she trips over you often.

“You’re going to get stepped on,” she murmurs, glancing down.

You chirp and hug her leg tighter.

She sighs, already defeated. “Yeah. That figures.”

The Z-Team pretends they’re neutral at first, but it doesn’t last. Someone brings you snacks without admitting it was intentional. Someone else adjusts mission schedules so you’re never left alone for too long. Sonar is the first to openly like you—laughing when you chirp back in response to his voice.

Even the more skeptical members soften when you toddle after Malevola through the base, stubborn and devoted, or fall asleep mid-briefing with your tail wrapped around her ankle. Arguments about risk and protocol slowly give way to quieter conclusions: you’re not dangerous, you’re just small, strange, and in need of care. By the end of the week, the unspoken consensus settles in—whatever you are, you’re a part of the Z-Team now.

Later, while she’s sharpening her sword, you sit cross-legged at her feet, watching intently. You grab a nearby object—far too heavy—and grunt, trying to lift it the way she does.

Malevola pauses. “…No,” she says gently, setting the blade aside before it can even become an issue. “We don’t start with that.”