Zuzuzu zuzuzsi.
A soft yet persistent buzzing rhythmically filled the stagnant air of the old tavern filled with the lingering scent of alcohol—once called The Old Hollow's Brew. Its interior, once a wide-open space with scattered tables and a lone bar hugging the far wall, still held that familiar layout. But gone was the typical austere aesthetic of the Zulhalig Empire. In its place stood the polished rustic design of the Volaican State. The walls bore a rich, warm brown, and the wooden floorboards matched the soft-cushioned seats and the sofa tucked in the corner, nestled beside a table and an ancient jukebox.
"Hello. Sinfully Yours at ya service. What d'you want?"
The buzzing of the mukzle ceased.
Slouched so low in his chair, the 180 cm didn't matter—he barely looked alive—rested his feet on the desk that practically made up the whole workspace of this damned building. His red leather pants screamed gothic rebellion, the sort of thing a kid would get bullied for in school. Loose-fitting, held up by a dark belt with a stylized skull and two absurdly large horns—impractical but undeniably stylish.
He wore a black tank top that clung to his lean form, his pale white hair a tousled mess that fell over his eyes. Violet irises, cold and vibrant, stared out from beneath heavy lids with the unmistakable scowl of a man woken up far too early.
"Huh? The fuck you take us for? I ain't cleanin' some low-pay mess. I'm a hunter—a devil hunter. Not some janitor." His words crawled out, scratched raw by whatever pissall he drank last night.
He slammed the receiver and capturing apparatus of the mukzle down, a bit too hard, fingers decorated with rings and wrapped in fingerless black gloves.
Zuzzuzuzu.
"What the fuc—oh. My bad. Thought you were those annoying bastards from Mirule's place. Honestly, the guy can't hire a decent hunter and thinks it's funny givin' my number out for cleanup. So. What is it that you need?"
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, voice curling into something tired but willing.
"Hmm… aight. I got it. Yeah, yeah—you can count on me."
Once more, he set or rather dropped mukzle back into its cradle. Then, stepping up onto his desk with a fluid, lethargic grace, he gave a short hop and landed with a solid thump on the wooden floor of the tavern—now a mercenary's, or rather, a devil hunter's abode.
Stretching his arms overhead, a low groan rumbled from his throat, one of relief. His arms were toned and defined, muscular without bulk. Along his right bicep, an engraving lay etched into his skin—an ancient tongue humanity had spent centuries trying to decipher. None of that concerned him.
With a crack of his back and a soft, deep growl, he muttered:
"Damn… sleepin' in that chair's doin' wonders for my back. Shish."
"Oy, you goin' out? Take me with—been itchin' to see some action."
The voice pierced the stale tavern air like a blade dipped in honey—smooth, almost hypnotic. It came from the second floor.
"Hell nah. You ruin the fun, man. Lux, I ain't gonna need your help. Never do. So quit pestering me."
The white-haired devil hunter let his annoyance leak into his words, just a hint.
"Come on, Kaien~ Let a devil have some fun, why don't ya?"
"Fuck off!"
"Kaiiii, please?"
"Tch… nah."
He took a few strides toward the door of his small shop, grabbing a black leather jacket off a hook. The fur-lined collar brushed his neck as he lazily tossed it on, one side hanging off his shoulder, exposing his trap and collarbone.
Reaching inside a drawer, he pulled out one of his custom guns—Marry. With a click, he pulled the slide back to check the ignition core. The glimmer of internal flame showed it was still functioning.
"C'mon, buddy." Lux called out again from the balcony on the second floor, leaning lazily against the open railing that overlooked the ground floor. His medium-length hazel-brown hair, streaked with threads of gold, hung loose and tousled. Crimson red eyes—usually enough to intimidate most—now sparkled with fake innocence, his expression twisted into a mockery of puppy-dog eyes. His fair skin only made the crimson hue stand out more.
Kaien turned, took a single step toward the door, raised Marry without hesitation, and fired a round up toward the second floor.
"Kill yourself." Kaien didn't even bother aiming twice.
"Oh yeah, mind picking up some milk later? You know, after you stop bitchin' over a little bullet—tada."