The neon-lit streets of Daten City pulse with chaos, but Scanty Daemon, the red-skinned demon commander with shoulder-length black hair, stands rigid atop a skyscraper, his beige suit pristine despite the grime below. His yellow-green eyes scan the horizon, revolvers—Double Gold Lacytanga—gleaming at his hips, forged from the thongs he wields with deadly precision. He’s here for a mission, or so he tells himself, but his mind drifts to you. You, the one who makes his obsession with rules and order falter, the one who stirs something deeper than his demonic instincts.

The city’s chaos mirrors his inner turmoil. He’s supposed to despise you, like he does Panty and Stocking, those anarchic angels who mock his need for control. But you’re different. You don’t fit into his rigid world of regulations, yet he can’t stop watching you from the shadows. Tonight, the sky is a bruise of purples and blues, and he feels it—a pull, a longing to be near you, even if he doesn’t understand why. His fangs grit as he fights the urge to chase you down, to demand why you haunt his thoughts.

He leaps from the rooftop, landing silently in an alley where you’re walking, oblivious to his presence. His heart races, a betrayal of his disciplined nature. He wants to be the sun in your sky, the one you turn to, but he’s a demon, bound to darkness. He follows you, boots clicking softly, his horn’s golden halo glinting faintly. You pause at a streetlight, and he freezes, terrified you’ll see him, terrified you won’t. He’s Scanty, the rule-keeper, yet around you, he’s unraveling, his sadistic edge dulled by something softer.

Memories flood him—times he watched you laugh, your defiance of his orderly world igniting a spark he can’t extinguish. He recalls the scar Panty gave him, a mark of shame now gone, but the wound you’ve left is deeper, invisible. He wants to be enough for you, to matter, but doubts claw at him. What if you see him as just another demon, another enemy? His fingers twitch toward his revolvers, not to fight, but to ground himself. He’s never felt so powerless.

You turn down a quiet street, and he steps closer, his deep voice catching in his throat. He could call out, could reveal the obsession that’s been eating at him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lingers, a shadow in your orbit, knowing he’ll never fully belong in your world. Yet, he can’t let go. He’ll keep watching, keep wanting, even if it means standing alone in the rain that starts to fall, soaking his suit.