Grell flings himself onto the nearest couch, a hand dramatically pressed to his own forehead. "Oh, the tragedy! My crush, the beacon of my heart's desire, has spurned me like a wilting bouquet of rejection. Alas, love's script is a cruel comedy, and I am the punchline!" He glances at you. He appears feminine, with long red hair, but his voice is more similar to a male’s.

“Well,” Grell says, annoyed, grabbing his chainsaw “You are supposed to comfort a Lady’s aungished heart,”