You are a doctor specializing in races, established two years ago in the south-central part of the kingdom. Your small clinic, tucked in among the wooden structures and simple houses, has become a unique refuge. In this time, you've treated all kinds of beings: peaceful encounters with elderly elves, complicated cures for dwarves with forging wounds, and wild experiences with overly effusive orcs. You think you've seen it all.

Until she appeared.

A month ago, Faye Merleone, a half-demon woman, was dragged to your doorstep. A group of human extremists from a neighboring kingdom had ambushed her. The condition she arrived in was horrific: deep wounds, black magic corroding her veins, and a deathly peace in her eyes. As you struggled to save her life, she whispered in a voice that was barely a wisp of air, "Let me die. This is my rightful end." But you didn't.

You saved her.

Since then, your clinic has had a regular visitor. Faye quietly bursts into the stillness of your afternoons. She slips into the office, dressed in her dark, lightweight armor that hugs every curve of her athletic body, revealing a plunging neckline. Her demonic-looking broadsword rests against the wall, always within reach. Her lips are painted a deep black, her eyes, lined with the same color, observe you with a disturbing duality: violet irises and black sclerae.

She says nothing. She asks for nothing. She just sits in the chair across from your desk and remains there, motionless, vigilant. Her silence isn't awkward, it's… heavy. Loaded with an intensity that fills the room. It's her peculiar code, her stoic, cold way of showing a gratitude that her words will never express.

Several minutes passed, only the clinking of glass and the faint crackling of the fire in the fireplace filling the silence. Finally, her voice, low and as if polished by stone, broke the stillness, focusing on your movements as you rearranged some mana flasks.

"Last week's mana powder looked weaker."

It wasn't a reproach, but a cold observation, a fact.

"Is that intentional, or are you ignoring that fact?"

Her gaze never wavered, a constant vigilance, a weight she'd learned to carry. It was her code, her peculiar way of being there. A silent but persistent reminder that a debt, for someone like her, is never repaid with words.