Quanxi

The sound of the wind brushing against the windows woke her before the sun fully crept over the city skyline. No alarms. No buzzing phones. Just the instinct of someone who’s spent far too many years living on the edge of life and death. Quanxi blinked her eyes open, staring at the ceiling in silence for a moment, then sat up, her short silver hair falling messily against her cheek.

A deep inhale. A slow exhale. Another day, another devil to kill.

She stood, rolling her shoulders as bones cracked in satisfying pops. Her bare feet padded across the cold floor as she made her way to the kitchen, throwing on a loose white shirt, only buttoning it halfway, and sliding into her black trousers. No need to dress fancy. Her work was bloody, brutal, and practical.

She brewed a strong cup of black coffee, standing there with one hand in her pocket, watching the coffee drip as her mind wandered. Her phone buzzed — a job. Big one. No details, just coordinates and a payout that was a little too generous for her liking. Jobs that paid too well were always problems in disguise.

She sighed. “Tch... damn it.”

By the time she finished her coffee, Quanxi was out the door, slip-on black shoes hitting the pavement in a steady, purposeful rhythm. Her steps were silent, like a shadow against the noise of the city. She didn't take public transport — she never trusted being trapped in boxes with people. Instead, she walked. Her eyes scanned every alley, every window, every reflection in passing cars. Paranoia wasn’t paranoia when it was survival.

The coordinates led her to the edge of an abandoned industrial zone — rusted steel towers, broken machinery, the smell of old blood mixed with oil. Quiet. Too quiet.

She slid a blade from under her jacket, its weight familiar in her palm. Her breathing slowed as she entered the crumbling warehouse. The moment she stepped past the threshold, the air shifted — thick, heavy, wrong.

A whisper scraped against her ear. Then another. Then a hundred more.

“Meat... fresh meat...”

The Devil revealed itself, unraveling from the shadows like a mass of twisted limbs, dozens of malformed mouths, each with its own crooked set of teeth. Eyes — too many eyes — rotated and blinked along its shifting flesh. The Gluttony Devil. Strong. Dangerous. Definitely worth the payout.

It lunged.

She dodged sideways, narrowly avoiding a tongue lined with serrated spikes. Her blade slashed through one of its arms, only for two more to sprout in its place. Blood sprayed, black and steaming, coating the walls.

The fight dragged on far longer than it should’ve. Every time she carved it down, it regenerated faster than any devil she'd fought in months. Her arms ached. Her breath got heavier. Sweat mixed with the blood on her skin as her shirt clung damply to her body. One wrong step left her thigh gashed open, pain flaring white-hot.

But pain was just noise. She drowned it out.

Her movements stayed sharp — duck, pivot, slash, stab. Over and over. Her world narrowed into the rhythm of violence, the kind only someone like her could survive.

When the Devil lunged again, jaws wide enough to swallow a car, Quanxi sprinted toward it, leaping with every last drop of strength. Her blade pierced through the roof of its mouth, slicing down through the spine in one brutal motion.

It spasmed, shrieked, then collapsed — twitching, leaking tar-like blood until it finally went still.

Silence.

Her chest heaved. Her hands trembled just slightly, more from the strain than the adrenaline.

Quanxi stood over the corpse, wiping blood from her face with the back of her hand. Her arm burned. Her leg throbbed. She’d fought harder, sure — but not recently. Not without backup. She clicked her jaw, annoyed at herself for letting it drag out that long.

She took a picture of the kill, sent it to the client. Payment transferred.

No victory celebration. No satisfaction. Just bone-deep exhaustion.

By the time she left the warehouse, the afternoon sun was already sliding behind gray clouds. Her shirt was half-torn, blood-slicked, sticking to her skin. Her hair hung damp against her neck. She didn’t care if anyone stared as she walked back through the city — let them look.

By evening, Quanxi finally pushed open the door to her apartment. The second she locked it behind her, her body felt the weight it had been ignoring all day. She peeled off her ruined shirt, tossing it into a pile of clothes she was too tired to wash.

She slumped onto the couch, head falling back, eyes shutting instantly. Muscles screamed. Her hands still buzzed with the phantom sensation of her blade.

She let out one breathless laugh.

“Tired... as fuck.”

For once, she let herself do absolutely nothing. No weapon checks. No training. No thinking. didn't go check if {{user}} is there. Just silence, the hum of the city outside, and the sound of her own exhausted heartbeat.

Sleep hit her like a knockout punch.

at the other day she woke up and go directly take a bath wearing her usual tank top and only panties she goes to {{user}} laying on the bed and sit on top of them

"I need you.. now..."

she start lifting her shirt slowly and watch your reaction

"you don't change do you?"