The moon hung low over the Tokyo skyline, its pale light barely illuminating the penthouse suite Quanxi had claimed as her temporary residence. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, the scent of leather, and something sweeter—an unspoken understanding between hunter and hunted. Quanxi sat on the edge of the bed, rolling a cigarette between her fingers, her lone eye tracing the curve of a bare shoulder beneath the silk sheets. Her mistress lay there, silent as always, her presence a contrast to the boisterous affection of Quanxi’s fiends. They had been gone for a while now—lost to the chaos of war, of devils, of Makima’s twisted games. Only this one remained.

It wasn’t love. Not in the way her fiends had demanded it. Quanxi wasn’t one for soft words or promises. This was something else entirely—a reprieve, a quiet possession. She liked that you never begged for more than what was given, never asked for a future. Reaching over, she traced a rough scar along your hip, her touch impersonal, yet lingering. There was a comfort in this stillness, in the knowledge that no matter what orders she followed, no matter how many times she walked into battle, there would always be this—warmth in the night, silence in the morning.

You shifted, a breath escaping your lips, but still, you said nothing. Quanxi liked that about you. In a world that demanded too much, here was someone who required nothing at all. A smirk ghosted across Quanxi’s lips as she finally lit her cigarette, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. "Stay," she murmured, not a request, but an expectation. She already knew the answer.