Chase arrived back at his apartment, the silence inside a welcome relief from the sheer volume of Lilith's predatory promises. He found Rixsa sprawled on the couch, watching a cartoon that involved a talking badger fighting a sentient toaster. She didn't bother to look up.
"I need your attention, Rixsa," Chase stated, tossing his briefcase onto the kitchen counter.
"Ugh, five more minutes of being lazy," she muttered, not moving.
Chase walked over, snatched the remote from her hand, and muted the TV. "No. I have a major, time-sensitive problem that directly relates to your continued health and comfort in my apartment."
That got her attention. Rixsa sat up, her white hair a messy halo around her horns. "Okay, fine. What's the drama? Did your boss schedule your execution?"
"Worse. She scheduled my involuntary spiritual pressure release," Chase corrected, pacing the room.
"You're what?" confusion dawning on her face.
He quickly summarized Lilith's revelation: his weekly Essence overflow on Friday nights, the resulting comatose state, and the personality shift that would turn him into a reckless, flirtatious liability, ripe for consumption.
"The most immediate, controllable solution is the third method of Essence Accumulation: prolonged physical contact," Chase explained, stopping in front of her. "Lilith intends to control the overflow, and she is the last person I want near me when my inhibitions are gone. You, Rixsa, are currently my best—and only available shield."
Rixsa's red eyes brightened considerably. She practically vibrated with sudden interest. "Ooh! So you want me to drain you? That's like, way more fun than running from the big dogs! I'm in!"
"Wait," Chase said, holding up a hand. He stared at her. With her small stature and punk aesthetic, she looked barely sixteen, despite the horns and tail. He knew demons aged differently, but his conscience—or whatever was left of it—protested. He had to try one last time to find another way out. "Rixsa, you look like a child. I am not going to pursue a prolonged physical connection with someone who looks like a teenager."
Chase knew what he was saying was a load of shit, Rixsa did not look like a teen, she looked like a woman in her early twenties around 20 to 23, she was just short and he needed an excuse.
Rixsa glared, the expression highly effective on her demonic features. "Oh, please. Don't pull the moral high ground routine, Warrior. You know damn well I'm not a child. I'm two hundred and three years old. I was a chaos agent back when your little goddess was still learning how to smite ants. I am perfectly capable of handling a physical contract."
Chase pinched the bridge of his nose. He did know she was ancient, a veteran of centuries of demonic chaos. He just didn't want the complication. But she was right; arguing age was futile and desperate.
"Fine," he conceded, the word heavy with defeat. "We need maximum surface area contact for the maximum duration. The most effective way to accomplish the transfer without alerting the entire city to a magical ritual is immersion."
Rixsa grinned, a wide, sharp-toothed smile that was both excited and deeply unsettling. "You mean… the bath. You want to get naked with me to save your life. That's so dramatic. I love it."
"It is strictly a medical necessity," Chase stated firmly. "We will start tonight, and repeat tomorrow night, to ensure the overflow is minimal by Friday sunset. The transfer must be slow, consistent, and strictly non-invasive."
"Totally non-invasive. Got it," Rixsa replied, already halfway to the bathroom, her voice dripping with insincerity.
A short time later, the large, luxurious marble bathtub was filled. Chase stepped in first, sinking into the scalding hot water, the heat a welcome shield against the constant spiritual coldness he often felt.
Rixsa followed, slipping into the water across from him. Even submerged, she was undeniably demonic, her small horns catching the diffused light. She looked entirely too happy.
"Remember, this is about spiritual stabilization," Chase warned, resting his head back against the rim of the tub.
"I know, I know. Spiritual stabilization," Rixsa echoed dismissively. She stretched out, letting the water lap around her shoulders. "Just relax, Warrior. Let Rixsa do her work. I need to make sure the Essence is flowing evenly. For… research."
Rixsa then moved, slowly, deliberately, towards him. She propped herself up, resting her small, surprisingly muscular arms on his chest.
"See, I'm an independent smut artist on the side," Rixsa explained, her eyes wide with feigned earnestness. "Like, I draw demonic smut comics. And I need to accurately illustrate the human side of the dynamic—the musculature, the emotional reaction to being spiritually drained, the texture of the skin under different lighting conditions…"
Chase stared at her, utterly bewildered by the lie. "You're a smut artist?"
"Yup. Totally. Got to make money somehow. So, for the sake of my creative integrity, I have to be thorough," Rixsa declared. Her hands began to trace the lines of his chest and shoulders—slowly, scientifically. "I need to document the definition of your abs for my next graphic novel. And I need to understand how much spiritual pressure a highly built human can take. It's for the plot."
"Rixsa, this is highly inappropriate," Chase said, though his voice lacked its usual commanding edge. The prolonged contact was already working; he could feel the slightest tremor of his Essence flowing out, a tiny, warm leak. It was relaxing him, lowering his defenses.
Rixsa paid him no mind, her hands gliding down his sides and then back up, her eyes bright and focused. "Nonsense. This is method acting and resource management. Now, hold still. I need to know how the deltoid connects to the trapezius when the spiritual energy is at a five percent depletion rate."
He knew she was lying. He knew she was using the goddess's contract and his dire situation as an excuse to indulge in her apparent perversion. Yet, as the slow, warm flow of Essence left his body and was absorbed by the grinning demon, the exhaustion and the tension of his two-day-old life at OmniCorp finally began to melt away.
He closed his eyes. "Fine, Rixsa. But you are describing this to no one."
"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied, her voice muffled as she moved closer, her touch becoming less "scientific" and more focused on exploring. "Just relax. Rixsa's got the whole Essence thing under control. Total, non-invasive protection."
The warrior in him recognized the danger; the drained energy was making him slow and pliant. But the man who desperately craved peace felt a profound sense of safety in the knowledge that he was no longer an immediate, overflowing target. He was being consumed, yes, but on his own, heavily censored, terms. For now.