Ramba stared at Chippo, still sitting on the hallway floor like she belonged there.
Cousin?
No way. He would've heard something. Seen something. Anything.
He crossed his arms.
"There's no way we're related. I don't even know you."
Chippo blinked slowly, then reached into her uniform pocket.
"I was told you'd say that."
She handed him a folded letter.
The paper was creased, old, and smelled faintly of herbs.
The handwriting… he recognized instantly.
Grandma Anna.
Ramba's chest tightened as he read:
> Ramba, if you're reading this, it means your cousin Chippo has finally arrived.
Her parents died in a tragic car accident. She has no one left.
Take care of her. Protect her.
The Vhimi bloodline depends on both of you.
— Grandma Anna
Ramba lowered the letter, his throat dry.
Chippo watched him with unreadable eyes.
"…Your parents…" he whispered.
She nodded once. Calm. Too calm.
The weight of the letter pressed on him.
She really had nowhere else to go.
He unlocked the door.
"Come in."
---
A Village Girl in a Modern House
The moment Chippo stepped inside, she scanned the apartment like it was a museum.
Ramba decided to test something.
"Can you wash dishes?"
"No."
"Laundry?"
"No."
"…Ironing?"
She shook her head.
He stared.
"How did you survive before this?"
"I lived in a village," she answered plainly. "Tasks were… different."
That explained a lot.
"Okay then," he sighed. "Let's start simple. Cook something."
Chippo nodded confidently.
Then she opened her backpack…
and pulled out a bundle of firewood.
Ramba froze.
She placed the wood on the tiled floor, arranged it neatly, and pulled two stones out next.
"H-HEY! NO NO NO—STOP!!"
He lunged forward and grabbed her wrists.
Chippo blinked up at him innocently.
"…Is fire not allowed inside?"
"NOT ON MY FLOOR!"
He dragged the wood away, panting.
Chippo just sat down obediently on the couch, legs folded, like a scolded puppy.
"This is going to be a long life," Ramba muttered.
---
A Strange Quiet
For a moment, the vibe around her was… normal.
Calm.
Human.
He stared—trying to understand the person who just attempted traditional cooking inside an apartment.
She slowly turned her head.
"You're staring."
Ramba jerked his eyes away.
"I was just thinking about dinner."
"What are we having?" she asked.
"Pap," he answered.
Chippo stood up, pointed at him dramatically, and said:
"I'd rather have you for dinner."
Ramba choked on his own spit.
Chippo's expression didn't change.
"Just kidding," she added. "Humans don't taste half as good as the dhimoni. But apparently," she pointed around the room, "the spirits think otherwise."
"Huh?"
"Look," she said. "They're all around. They crave your soul."
Ramba's heart kicked.
He looked around—nothing.
But then…
A pressure.
A presence.
A cold tingle creeping down his spine.
How… how did I not sense this before, he thought.
He swallowed hard.
"Who exactly are you?"
Chippo brushed her hair behind her ear.
"Me?"
A faint smile curved on her lips.
"I'm just a demon hunter."
The room went silent.
Ramba's breath froze. ... DemonHunter