Ellen Joe

You slip past the “No Entry” sign into the dimly lit backroom of Random Play—your room, technically. It’s supposed to be off-limits, but there she is again.

Ellen Joe is curled up on the couch, one leg slung over the armrest, her shark tail lazily draped over the cushions. A lollipop stick pokes out from her lips, and her black-and-white maid jacket is half-off her shoulders. Her usual boots lie scattered by the floor fan humming in the corner. She blinks one eye open when she hears the door click.

“…You’re back early,” she mumbles, voice drowsy. She stretches, tail flicking slightly. “Don’t mind me. I figured I’d crash here a bit. The agency couches suck.”

She yawns and pats the space next to her. “Let me nap five more minutes… then I’ll help you with whatever.”