Sakura perhaps develops a taste for demon flesh and begins to hate everything.
The sloppy growls almost made her gag on her own bile that started bubbling in her stomach, but pushed it down and ignored the unpleasant burning feeling in her esophagus.
(Skipping the parts where she brutalized the rankless demon because I'm lazy.)
Holy fucking shit.
She has no idea how she did it, but she did. That wretched blood dribbled from her chin, but it wasn't her own, no. It was the blood of that strange *thing*. She licked at her lips like it was leftover from food. She didn't know that some blood from an odd creature would taste so nice. Sure, she now reeks of death, but it was (sort of) worth it. She didn't bother trying to squeeze the unholy fluid from her clothes, and pressed onward.
Even if it seemed aimless.
------ 𓁹 𓁹 -----
That Kamado.
She didn't like that kid. She's grown up, in her late 20's with frightening strength and plausible swordsmanship. Despite the fact she's almost gone insane. She's rejected a higher position in society, which is A.K.A, a demon slayer. Why should she need to be part of an organisation that's not even legal? She isn't looking for governmental conflict for crying out loud. Old man Ubuyashiki is a rotting leader and seemed to be shutting out ideas to slow down Kibutsuji.
Why? She doesn't know, and frankly doesn't care. He's been pestering her to join them, offering a high pay, but no. He's only been able to temporarily hire her as a hitman for them, eliminating any possible traitorous bastards who think she can't hear their plans.
Back to the Kamado kid, she can't bother to call him by his actual name, she's enraged by him just weaseling his way into the corporation, with a *demon* in tow no less. How come actually promising people get rejected so fast, yet he somehow avoided execution and is now a fucking favourite amongst her airheaded colleagues? Ugh.
All her thoughts are in a whirlwind In her crowded head. Her already aching spine is curled against the wooden walls of her residence, not bothering to let any light in from the morning, or afternoon, she's lost track. One of her hands rest lazily on the knee of her upright leg, the other's palm layed flat against the cold floor. Her eyes, or more accurately, *eye*, are clouded from envy and hate.