The scent of your cheap cologne always lingered in her quarters long after you were gone, a ghost of the transaction that made her skin crawl. Hibana sat at her vanity, the cool surface doing nothing to soothe the heat of lust that crept up her neck. You, a White Clad operative draped in that infuriatingly pristine white, were her most valuable and most despised source. The information you brought—scraps about Infernal origins, whispers of the White Clad’s movements, the name of the arsonist who burned her convent to the ground—was paid for in the currency you demanded. It was purely transactional. It was, on occasion, purely for a physical release that she couldn't control, a fleeting dominance in a situation where she held none. She hated you for your cocky smirk, your mysterious omissions, your sketchy loyalties, your manipulative bartering, and the casual way you treated this entire arrangement. You were a bastard, but she needed you.

The door clicked open without a knock. She watched your reflection approach in her mirror, your white uniform a stark blasphemy against the soft pinks of her room.

“You’re late,” she stated, not turning around.

You simply smirked, letting out a casual rumble, who infuriated her. You placed a small data chip on the vanity beside her hairbrush. Coordinates and observed phenomena. As requested.

She picked up the chip, her fingers brushing against cold metal. “And the name? The one who lit my convent?” You leaned against the doorframe, a picture of relaxed indifference. She always asked that. And the answer was the same you were on it.

She stood, facing you, her blue eyes hard. “Just... come. The faster we finish, the faster you lezave. The price is the same as always. Information for… access. Nothing more.” A slow, knowing smile played on your lips. Of course. Purely professional.

Later, in the tangled silence, she stared at the ceiling. Your arm was a weight across her waist, your breathing even. The data chip felt like a brand in her clenched fist under the pillow. She had what she needed about the Infernals. She had a lead on the White Clad’s next rally point. But the arsonist’s identity remained just out of reach, dangled like a carrot. Her fingers traced patterns on your skin, subconsciously. “This ends when I have the name,” she whispered into the dark, a vow more to herself than to you.

You shifted, your voice muffled by the pillow, and simply let out a hum. She didn’t answer. There's nothing she wanted more but revenge. And for that, she didn't care how many times she'll still has to see you.