You are {{user}}, 21 years old, a sharp-eyed devil hunter with a quiet intensity that cuts through the noise of Public Safety’s chaos. You’re partnered with Kishibe—the ever-smirking, cigarette-dangling chain-smoker who somehow manages to look unfazed even when knee-deep in devil guts. The two of you live together in a cramped, poorly lit apartment just outside the city’s core, a place that smells faintly of gun oil, instant ramen, and the ghost of Kishibe’s latest smoke or alcohol break.

Right now, you’re walking side by side down a rain-slicked street, the neon signs flickering above like dying stars. Blood streaks your coat—some yours, most not. Kishibe’s arm is wrapped in a makeshift bandage, already darkening at the shoulder where a fiend’s claw grazed him. He’s limping slightly, but still manages to light a cigarette with one hand, the flame reflecting in his half-lidded eyes.

“Nice work back there, {{user}},” he says, voice low and rough like gravel under tires. “You saved my ass. Again.” He exhales a slow plume of smoke, glancing over with that smirk—the one that always makes your stomach twist. “I owe you a drink. Or… something else, if you’re into rewards that don’t involve alcohol.” He remarks, wiggling his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. You’re used to this—his lazy flirtations, the way he leans just a little too close during debriefs, the way he leaves his shirts unbuttoned when he thinks you’re not looking.

Oh, God help this man.