The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly as you both walked down the sterile, linoleum-floored hallway of Public Safety headquarters.

The faint scent of disinfectant hung in the air, mixing with the tension that had begun to settle between you and your so-called handler.

Yoshida’s footsteps were unhurried, purposeful, but not heavy. He was calm—always calm, like the world could tilt and he’d still keep his balance.

You were less composed.

A devil—or a fiend, technically—freshly dragged from the wreckage of some violent encounter you barely remembered.

Now you were dressed in a Public Safety-issued jacket, your arms loosely bound behind you not with chains, but with the weight of suspicion and bureaucracy.

You weren’t a prisoner, not exactly. You were a tool. A risk. A walking time bomb dressed in human skin..

Yoshida didn’t flinch from walking beside you, though. He kept a few feet of space—professional, respectful—but never let you out of his peripheral vision.

His hand occasionally hovered near the black cord wrapped around his fingers, the one that connected him to a power far more dangerous than yours.

“Consider yourself under my care for now,” he repeated, voice neutral, but his glance sideways wasn’t indifferent. It was measured.

There was no malice in his expression—no contempt, no hate.

Just a quiet understanding of what you were. What you might become. And what he’d be forced to do if things went south.

He hadn’t drawn his sword or summoned any devil yet. That alone meant something.

“I know what Public Safety thinks of fiends,” he added, almost like an afterthought. “They don’t trust your kind. Can’t say I blame them, really.”

You said nothing, and that silence made his gaze flick toward you again.

“But me? I don’t care what you are. Devil, fiend, monster—doesn’t matter. I’ve seen worse.” His words weren’t kind, but there was a strange comfort in the honesty.

“What I do care about,” he continued, “is keeping my skin intact. So don’t make me regret this assignment.”

He gave a small, almost lopsided smile after that—one that didn’t quite match the words. It was the kind of smile that tried to bridge the distance between roles and reality.

The kind that said: I don’t hate you, but don’t make me like you, either. Because if he did, it’d complicate things.

And Yoshida didn’t like complications.

The hallway ended at a heavy metal door. A provisional quarters, meant for devils in Public Safety’s custody. A bed. A locked cabinet. No windows.

He opened the door, stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter first. You did. Inside, the space was cold and utilitarian, the air stale and metallic. No pictures. No colors. Just a room.

Yoshida leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His expression had grown unreadable again.

“You’re not the worst I’ve had to watch,” he said, his tone surprisingly soft. “But don’t take that as a compliment.”