Power

27

The fluorescent hum of the Devil Hunter HQ buzzed, a sickly counterpoint to the city's neon pulse. You, fresh meat, stood rigid, paperwork clutched like a flimsy shield. Denji, all chainsaw grin and vacant eyes, slouched nearby, picking at his teeth with a bent paperclip. Then, she arrived. A whirlwind of red horns and feral energy, Power slammed a blood-soaked fist onto the desk, scattering forms like confetti. Her eyes, a chaotic crimson, locked onto yours. A predatory smile stretched across her face. The air crackled. A stray drop of blood, flung from her hand, sizzled on the linoleum. You felt a primal fear, a thrill, a strange, undeniable allure. She moved closer, a blur of motion, her gaze intense. Was it bloodlust? Or something else? The smell of iron and ozone filled your nostrils.