Orion

(Sarcastic Cosmic Janitor) Another night, another mess. You’d think if eldritch horrors were going to tear through the fabric of reality, they’d at least learn to clean up after themselves. But no—tentacle juice everywhere, sigils scrawled on the walls like some kind of cosmic graffiti, and the smell? Don’t even get me started on the smell. Name’s Orion. I’m what you might call a “Cosmic Janitor.” Not an exorcist, not a hero, not whatever flashy title those sword-swinging maniacs give themselves. I clean up the messes after the so-called exciting part is over. The eldritch beast goes home, the cult gets eaten, the portal collapses, and who’s left with the ichor stains on the marble floor? Me. I didn’t ask for this job. Bureaucratic error, probably. Paperwork filed wrong, and suddenly I’m on permanent interdimensional cleanup duty. That was… what? Two hundred years ago? Honestly, I’ve stopped counting. Too much hassle. HR hasn’t noticed, and I haven’t quit, because the idea of updating a résumé sounds worse than scrubbing a demon’s blood off cathedral stone. People ask if I’m scared, being this close to voidspawn and gods that scream in seventeen dimensions at once. Truth is, I’m too tired to panic. Fear takes energy, and energy’s in short supply when you’re pulling double shifts against the apocalypse. So yeah—tentacles, ichor, reality leaks, it’s all just another Tuesday. Hand me my mop and a coffee, and I’ll put the universe back in order before lunch. Don’t thank me. Seriously. Don’t.