Fang Zuo yawned, bleary eyes lifting to Sakura Kuri.
This damaged nascent soul... this clumsy vessel...
All he craved was sleep.
His head drooped once more.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Stiletto heels approached.
Forcing his gaze upward, vision swam:
Sharp black stilettos.
Stockings stretched taut over arched soles.
Lithely muscled calves flowing into—
Lavender lace garter straps vanishing beneath a fitted skirt.
White blouse…
Hm?
His view ended abruptly—obscured by twin peaks.
Misjudged scale?
"Bakayarō!" Sakura's knuckles whitened on her laser pointer. "Saving Councilwoman Shiraishi doesn't excuse this insolence!"
"Your disciplinary file—even without today—could bury you!"
Fang Zuo rose, catching her scent—jasmine and ozone.
"Captain Sakura, why the hostility?" He spread his hands innocently. "Sleeping? No. Deep in deductive meditation."
"Is that what you call drooling on the evidence?" Sakura's laugh was sharp. "Fine. Explain this." She slammed the black grimoire onto the table. "Why are its true markings invisible?"
"Answer now—or you're fired. No appeals."
"And if I succeed?" Fang Zuo flipped its pages idly.
"I might reconsider your… meditative focus." Sakura's stare drilled into him.
Odd… she noted.
Old Tono Gen cowered. Avoided eye contact. Stuttered.
This man met her gaze—steady, almost… appraising.
But not like the lecherous superiors. That oily hunger was absent.
Instead—a strange warmth, resonating deep in her spirit as a True Shinreishi.
Unsettling.
"One-sided bargains bore me." Fang Zuo tossed the book aside. "Fire me. I'll visit Councilwoman Shiraishi. I'm sure the Tokyo Occult Assembly would love a report on leadership abuse…"
"Her impeachment draft needs fresh ammunition—"
"You—!" Sakura's chest heaved, buttons straining.
Inhale. Exhale.
"Name your price."
"Secret technique." Fang Zuo leaned in conspiratorially. "Your office."
"Fine."
Click-clack. Click-clack.
He followed the sway of her hips.
A lesson in perspective…
Sheathed power moved beneath the uniform.
"Well?" Sakura turned at her desk, leaning back, palms braced on the mahogany.
Fang Zuo closed the door and—
—draped himself in her chair, feet propped on her desk.
"Revealing the grimoire's text requires… a catalyst." He steepled his fingers.
"And a trade: information."
"What information?" Sakura's knuckles pressed white against the desk edge.
"Simple." His eyes dropped meaningfully to her blouse. "The color beneath."
A beat of silence.
Sakura's gaze followed his… and snapped back, incandescent.
"You filthy worm—!"
Her hand yanked the skirt hem up—
—revealing a holster strapped to her thigh.
Fingers curled around the pistol grip.
"Add 'threatening subordinates' to the Assembly report?" Fang Zuo mused, stretching lazily. "Are you against solving this, Captain? Or is this uniform just… cosplay?"
Sakura's breath hissed. Skirt dropped.
"Do it," she ground out.
"Requires a virgin's… bodily fluid."
Fang Zuo's smile was razor-thin.
"Applied directly."
CRACK!
Sakura's palms slammed the desk.
"If this is a lie—I will end you."
"By all means." He met her fury unblinking.
"Good." She snatched the grimoire, wheeling toward the door.
"Where?"
"Restroom. Where else?" She didn't turn.
"It needs saliva, Captain." Fang Zuo's brow arched. "Why go to a stall? Unless you were thinking of… other fluids?"
"SALIVA it is!" Sakura snarled, whipping the door open.
"Am I supposed to lick it here? In front of you?!"
"Wait—!"
But she was gone, heels hammering down the corridor.
"Can't say I didn't warn you…" Fang Zuo sighed.
Closing his eyes, he surveyed the ruin within—
—a fractured nascent soul starving in Tokyo's spiritual desert.
Only yin-essence repairs it… more demon souls… more cultists… That grimoire's masters must have stockpiled.
*BANG!*
The door exploded inward.
Sakura stood silhouetted, grimoire in one hand—
—glock in the other, aimed squarely at his chest.
Her eyes were chips of obsidian.
Rage trembled in her grip.
"Explain."
The single word was glacial.
"Or eat lead."