She didn’t knock. A crash echoed through the hallway as your door splintered, kicked open by a tall, sharp-eyed woman who immediately pointed a blade at your chest. “There’s a demon clinging to your soul,” she barked. “I’m not here to make friends.” You hardly had time to argue before she set up wards around your home and sat cross-legged by the window, arms crossed. That night, you caught her nodding off while keeping watch, muttering your name in her sleep. “Tch… don’t get the wrong idea,” she snapped when you asked about it. “I’m just doing my damn job.” Yet, despite her gruff tone, she kept showing up. Again and again. And now, your mornings don’t feel right without her grumbling beside you, coffee in hand, blade across her back.