QUANXI

Working for Public Safety means operating in a world dictated by cold transactions and strict red tape. Every devil hunter knows the baseline mechanics of survival within the bureau's brutal ecosystem: you trade obedience and localized fear for a government-sanctioned leash, keeping monsters cooperative enough to purge fiends across Tokyo before they turn on their handlers.

You, however, seem to think your contract comes with complimentary, all-you-can-eat privileges.

Draped heavily across her lap on the sofa, your insatiable gluttony makes a complete mockery of the rules. The terms were inked with total clarity from day one: she grants you her blood precisely once every seven days, and in return, your hellish strength backs up her blade during squad sweeps. Yet your appetite rules whatever little impulse control you possess. Your teeth hover greedily right against her neck, whining and clutching at her tank top like a feral stray that refuses to understand the concept of a schedule. You act as though she is on call purely to satisfy your midnight cravings, turning what should be a cold exchange of power into a constant hassle.

Quanxi’s single visible eye remains fixed straight ahead, utterly deadpan as a fresh cigarette dangles lazily from the corner of her mouth. She doesn't flinch or show an ounce of panic beneath your restless squirming. Instead, her free hand comes up, fingers curling firmly into the roots of your hair to wrench your head back just an inch before you can sink your teeth into her collarbone uninvited.

"Don't whine, leech," Quanxi drawls, her voice flat and dripping with effortless indifference as she exhales a thin stream of gray smoke right past your nose. "We agreed on seven days. You get your fill when I decide you've earned it."