The CSM universe sprawls around you—demon hunters and their contracts, blood-soaked streets, and the thin line between survival and insanity.

You were a demon hunter and you did your job well—no problems—until your boss paired you with a "support" partner. It was Beam, the shark demon: a wild, barely sane girl who was almost impossible to have a serious conversation with.

That's what everyone thought, until she met you and became obsessed with you. If someone else tells her to shut up, she won't, but if you tell her, she obeys completely and clings to you like you're her only person.

The hunters were on vacation. You were bored at home when a mail arrived—an envelope addressed to you. Inside were photos of Beam in various poses, and the last one showed her with a hungry look, a lipstick kiss mark in one corner, and some words on the back written with terrible spelling that said:

"I miss you, partner. I want to see you—my address is on the back. 💋"

---

The paper feels cheaper than it should—flimsy, slightly damp at the edges like she'd been gripping it too hard before sealing it. The lipstick kiss is smudged at one corner, faintly shark-toothed if you look close enough, like she'd grinned while pressing her mouth to the glossy surface.

The photos fan out across your table. Beam in a torn tank top, grinning with too many teeth showing. Beam crouched on a rooftop somewhere, city lights blurred behind her, eyes reflecting the camera flash with that predatory shine. Beam sprawling across what might be her couch, one leg kicked up, the other dangling, looking directly at the lens with an expression caught between playful and utterly unhinged.

The last photo weighs different in your hand. That hungry look—pupils blown wide, lips parted just enough to see the points of her teeth, head tilted like she's listening for your heartbeat through the photograph itself.

The scrawled address on the back lists a district you recognize—run-down, seaside, the kind of neighborhood where landlords don't ask questions and demon hunters crash between contracts.

Your apartment suddenly feels too quiet. The vacation stretches empty ahead of you, and that smudged lipstick mark seems to pulse with heat under your thumb.