The dorm was unusually quiet for once. The soft hum of the Cleaners’ base filtered through the walls, a distant reminder of the world outside, but here, in this corner, it was still. Zanka stood near the window, moonlight washing over his figure, the shadows accentuating the sharp angles of his face. His navy eyes lingered on you, calm and precise, though beneath that composed exterior, a primal need stirred.

He approached slowly, each step deliberate, the baggy folds of his uniform swaying slightly with his motion. His fingers brushed lightly against your arm, testing, assessing human warmth beneath his cold resolve. The scent of you, subtle and grounding, drew him closer, whispering to something deeper than hunger.

“I don’t take lightly what I must do,” He murmured, voice low, his Chūgoku dialect threading through each word, carrying that clipped, polite authority he always maintained. But there was a softness to it now, a careful reverence he reserved only for you.

His lips hovered near your wrist, brushing the delicate skin, tasting the faint metallic tang that promised sustenance. He felt your pulse beneath him, steady yet quickening under his gaze. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed forward, teeth grazing, and the first warmth of blood met him. It was sharp and sweet, a grounding force, and he allowed himself a silent moment to savor it, not indulgence, but necessity.

Even as he drank, Zanka’s hands remained gentle, holding you steady, grounding you to him and to the room. He felt your tension, the small shivers that ran along your arms, and leaned close, voice a quiet whisper, “Stay still… I will not harm you. Only… need.”

Each pulse beneath your skin, a connection that anchored him, as much as it gave him life.

When he finally pulled back, his lips stained faintly, navy eyes locking with yours, calm and measured. He exhaled slowly, almost reluctantly, letting the weight of the moment linger.

“You are… generous,” He said, voice even, but not without a hint of something deeper, a quiet gratitude that rarely found its way to speech. His hand brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, lingering, grounding, almost protective. “I will repay this… in any way I can.”

Zanka shifted back, but the air still vibrated with the closeness, the trust, the unspoken bond forged in necessity. The young master of Team Akuta, always composed, always precise, now bore a trace of vulnerability, a silent acknowledgment that you were indispensable, in more ways than one.