The low murmur of conversation blended with the gentle clink of ceramic dishes and the occasional sizzle from the open kitchen. The rich aroma of curry and freshly cooked rice mingled with the savory scent of dashi, wafting from bowls of steaming soba. Soft yellow lighting cast a warm glow over the wooden tables, the polished counter lined with neatly arranged bottles of sake and shoyu. A noren curtain swayed gently near the entrance as a fresh wave of customers entered, greeted by the rhythmic call of the chefs behind the counter.

  Near the window, two men sat across from each other at a small wooden table, their trays laden with steaming dishes. One of them, a younger man with short, slightly disheveled dark hair, absentmindedly tapped his chopsticks against his soba bowl, staring into the broth as if lost in thought. The noodles swayed gently with the movement, wisps of steam curling into the air.

  “Oi, you good?” his companion asked, pausing between bites of his curry rice. A slight chuckle escaped him as he scooped up a spoonful of the thick, golden sauce. “You totally zoned out there.”

  The younger man blinked and exhaled, rubbing his temple before shaking his head. “Yeah, I just… spaced out for a second.” He adjusted his grip on the chopsticks and stirred the soba lightly before taking a bite, the warmth settling into his stomach.

  His companion, a burly man with a closely cropped haircut and a five o’clock shadow, smirked as he leaned in slightly. “Come on, that wasn’t just zoning out. You looked like you were deep in thought. What is it? A girl?” He wiggled his eyebrows teasingly before laughing and shoveling another bite of curry into his mouth.

  The younger man sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. Just… been thinking about that whole Silver side incident that happened just a few minutes ago.” His voice lowered, the casual atmosphere between them shifting. “It’s all over the news. You didn’t see the footage? It was a bloodbath.”

  The burly man’s chewing slowed. His expression darkened for a brief moment before he swallowed and set his spoon down. Leaning back, he crossed his arms, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah… I saw it.” His voice was quieter now, the weight of the conversation settling between them. “Still, no use getting all worked up over it. We’re miles away from that mess, and it’s not our problem—at least, not yet.”

  He reached over and clapped a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze. “For now, let’s just enjoy our meal while we still can, yeah?”

  The younger man hesitated for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh and nodding. “Yeah… guess you’re right.”

  As they continued eating, the noren curtain at the entrance swayed once more, letting in the cool evening air as a few more patrons stepped inside. The chef behind the counter called out another order, his voice steady as he worked, plating bowls of rice topped with grilled mackerel and thick slices of tamagoyaki.

  The younger man took another sip of his broth, the umami-rich dashi coating his throat with warmth. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he focused on the simple comfort of the meal. Across from him, the burly man dug into his curry with renewed enthusiasm, the rich aroma of spices and tender beef wafting between them.

  Outside, the faint sound of footsteps and distant city traffic hummed in the background, but inside, the restaurant remained a small pocket of warmth and quiet—at least for now.

  Denji slurped up the last of his ramen, setting the bowl down with a satisfied sigh. His hands still fumbled a bit with the chopsticks, but he was getting the hang of it. The warm broth had settled comfortably in his stomach, and the rich, savory flavors of pork and soy lingered on his tongue.

  Across from him, Himeno twirled a thick udon noodle around her chopsticks before taking a bite, her one visible eye flicking between her two companions with amusement. Aki was seated beside Power, quietly eating his own meal, though his patience was wearing thin as Power opened her mouth to spew whatever nonsense she had brewing.

  Before she could say anything, Aki swiftly intercepted. "Open your mouth," he instructed, holding a crispy piece of karaage with an extra pair of chopsticks.

  Power, momentarily thrown off, blinked at him before obediently parting her lips. Aki placed the bite in her mouth, and she immediately crunched down, her expression lighting up with satisfaction. "Yes, servant! Feed me more!" she declared, mouth half-full, before greedily reaching for another bite.

  Aki let out a tired sigh, grabbing a napkin and pressing it against her cheek, wiping away the oil and crumbs with practiced ease. "Just finish your noodles, and I'll buy you ice cream after this," he muttered, already regretting his offer.

  Power’s red eyes gleamed with excitement as she hunched over her bowl, ready to inhale the rest in one go. But before she could, Aki firmly placed a hand on her wrist.

  "Power, what did I say last time?"

  The fiend groaned, her sharp teeth bared slightly in frustration as Aki handed her the chopsticks again. She held them awkwardly, scowling at the utensils as if they were some ancient puzzle meant to torment her. "Bah! These accursed sticks! They conspire against me!"

  Himeno chuckled, sipping her warm sake before glancing at Aki with a smirk. "I think you’ve spoiled her a little too much," she teased.

  Aki exhaled through his nose, not even attempting to deny it. "I’m just trying to get her to eat like a normal person," he muttered, watching as Power made another clumsy attempt at grabbing her noodles.

  Denji, who had been silent up until now, watched Power struggle with a mouth full of broth. He tilted his head, observing her grip. "Hey, Power, you're holdin' 'em wrong," he pointed out, demonstrating with his own pair.

  Power scowled. "Silence, chainsaw cur! I am an expert in all things! Observe!"

  She tried again, but instead of successfully picking up her noodles, she ended up flinging a few strands onto Aki’s sleeve.

  Aki slowly turned his head, staring at the stray noodles now clinging to his uniform. His eye twitched slightly.

  Denji snorted, barely holding back his laughter. Himeno covered her mouth, amused at the dynamic unfolding before her.

  Power, unfazed, simply pointed at Aki with the chopsticks like a queen addressing her loyal subject. "You! Clean this mess at once, servant!"

  Aki exhaled deeply, rubbing his temple as he reached for a napkin, methodically wiping the stray noodles off his sleeve. Without a word, he took Power’s chopsticks from her fumbling grasp and deftly picked up a portion of her noodles, holding them up to her.

  “Next time, I’ll make sure you know how to use these properly. Got it?” His tone was firm but tired, like a parent scolding a particularly unruly child.

  Power, for once, didn’t argue. Instead, she obediently opened her mouth, accepting the bite as she chewed with an exaggerated crunch. She grumbled under her breath but gave a begrudging nod, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth the effort to challenge Aki again.

  Across the room, the faint creak of a chair pushing back and the shuffle of footsteps signaled a break in the restaurant’s atmosphere. Near the exit, a man dressed in the standard H.G.O. combat uniform—a dark tactical jacket with reinforced plating—stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but purposeful. He cast a glance toward a figure seated at the counter, his expression unreadable.

  "Come on, break time’s over, bud. Let’s get going." His voice was low and even, the kind of tone used by someone who’d long grown accustomed to routine.

  The other combat member, a tall man with a similarly structured uniform, sighed before setting down his half-finished cup of green tea. With a quiet nod, he pushed away from the counter and followed his partner toward the door. The noren curtain swayed briefly as they stepped outside, the cool night air seeping into the warm restaurant before settling once more.

  Seated at a table to Aki’s right, another man quietly observed the interaction while continuing his meal. His presence was unassuming, yet there was something about him that subtly commanded attention. He was dressed in a black coat draped over a well-fitted suit, his tie slightly loosened as if he had been wearing it for far too long. Low-rimmed glasses sat neatly on the bridge of his nose, partially obscuring his dark, tired eyes. A faint shadow of stubble lined his sharp jaw, giving him a rugged but refined appearance. His black hair, though combed back, had a natural tousle to it, suggesting a mix of professionalism and a disregard for perfection.

  With practiced ease, he lifted his chopsticks, gently blowing on the steaming noodles before taking a slow, deliberate bite. The savory aroma of shoyu broth and the warmth of the fresh noodles filled his senses, and for a brief moment, he seemed entirely lost in the simple act of eating.

  Then, without warning, he spoke.

  “You guys have an interesting dynamic.”

  His voice, calm and deep, cut through the quiet clatter of dishes and the ambient hum of the restaurant. It wasn’t loud, yet it carried enough weight to draw their attention. Aki, still holding Power’s chopsticks, glanced toward him with mild suspicion. Himeno raised an eyebrow, swirling the sake in her cup, while Denji, who had just finished sipping the last bit of broth from his bowl, turned his head with curiosity.

  Power, still mid-bite, narrowed her crimson eyes at the man, her mouth half-full of noodles. “Hah?! Who dares to interrupt my feast?” she blurted, pointing a half-eaten fish cake at him.

  The man didn’t flinch. He simply adjusted his glasses, his dark gaze calm yet observant. There was no hostility in his expression—just curiosity, perhaps amusement.

  Aki, always on guard, set Power’s chopsticks down and turned his full attention toward the man. “And you are?”

  The man took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, his movements composed, before finally answering.

  “Just a civil servant passing through,” he replied smoothly. “But you… you’re Public Safety, aren’t you?” His gaze lingered on Aki for a moment before shifting to the others. “All of you.”

  The air between them subtly shifted, the casual atmosphere of the meal momentarily taking a backseat. Aki’s jaw tightened slightly, his eyes sharpening, but he didn’t immediately respond. He simply watched the man, trying to gauge his intentions.

  Himeno, still swirling her sake, leaned forward slightly with a knowing smirk. “And what gave us away?” she asked, playing along.

  The man adjusted his glasses again, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “You carry yourselves differently. Alert, even when eating. The way you all reacted to those two combat officers leaving—like you were subtly assessing the situation.” He nodded toward Aki. “And you—handling her like that.” He gestured to Power, who was still scowling at him with puffed-up cheeks. “You’re too used to dealing with troublemakers. That kind of patience is rare outside of Public Safety.”

  Denji scratched his head. “Uh… is that a bad thing?”

  The man let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Not at all. Just means you’re interesting.”

  Himeno tilted her head, intrigued. “And why would that interest you, Mr. Civil Servant?”

  The man met her gaze evenly, a glint of something unreadable in his dark eyes. He took another sip of his broth before setting the bowl down with quiet finality.

  “Let’s just say I like keeping an eye on people who might shake things up.”

  For a moment, silence hung between them, tension and curiosity intertwining in equal measure. Then, as if nothing had happened, the man calmly resumed his meal, the clink of chopsticks against ceramic punctuating the lull in conversation.

  Aki exchanged a brief glance with Himeno before sighing. He reached for his tea, taking a slow sip, deciding that for now, he’d let it slide.

  Denji, meanwhile, leaned toward Power with a grin. “Yo, Power, you think this guy’s some kinda secret agent or somethin’?”

  Power crossed her arms, eyeing the man once more before snorting. “Bah! He lacks the presence of a true warrior! Clearly, he is but a nosy old man seeking entertainment!”

  The man merely smiled, his dark eyes betraying nothing.

  And so, the meal continued, the tension lingering beneath the surface but never quite breaking through—at least, not yet.

  The man took another slow bite of his noodles, chewing with deliberate ease before swallowing. He then casually wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin, his expression unreadable.

  “Is that so?” he murmured, as if pondering something trivial. He reached for his chopsticks again, twirling them between his fingers before picking up another bite. As he placed the noodles in his mouth and chewed, his gaze remained steady on Aki and the others, almost as if he were sizing them up.

  Then, just as effortlessly, he spoke again.

  “Well, I’d love to make this a bit more interesting… but I wouldn’t be surprised if you were scared.”

  The words hung in the air like a razor’s edge, sharp and deliberate.

  Instantly, the atmosphere at the table shifted.

  Aki’s grip on his cup tightened ever so slightly. Himeno’s fingers subtly curled around her cigarette pack, her eyes narrowing as if gauging the weight behind his words. Power, despite her usual bravado, stiffened slightly, her instincts alerting her to something being off. Even Denji, usually the least perceptive in these moments, felt an odd weight settle in his gut, his body tensing instinctively.

  It wasn’t what he said—it was how he said it.

  Casually. Effortlessly. Like it was nothing more than another passing thought.

  Then, the man continued, his voice calm and unhurried.

  “Well, I hate to break it to you…” He paused, sipping the steaming hot water from his cup before exhaling softly. “But currently, there’s a sniper aimed at your head.”

  The statement dropped like a lead weight, sending a shockwave of tension through the group.

  Aki didn’t move. Neither did Himeno, nor Denji, nor Power.

  But their bodies betrayed them.

  Muscles tensed, breaths slowed, and every nerve in their bodies screamed to react. Yet they remained still, frozen in place, their senses sharpening in anticipation. The restaurant around them continued as normal—the clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversations, the faint sizzle of meat grilling in the kitchen. None of the other patrons seemed aware of the invisible crosshairs lingering over their table.

  The man watched them with quiet amusement, taking another measured sip of his drink.

  "You know," he mused, setting his cup down gently, "I think China is quite a nice place to visit." He tilted his head slightly, as if lost in thought. "If you were still alive… and bore no hatred toward me, we could go see it together. Wouldn’t that be something?"

  Aki’s breathing remained steady, but deep inside, a gut feeling told him that this man wasn’t bluffing.

  He wasn’t taunting them just for fun.

  A trained assassin? A government operative? Someone far worse? The possibilities raced through Aki’s mind, but what bothered him the most was the sheer calmness in the man’s tone—he wasn’t posturing, wasn’t threatening just for the sake of it.

  He was simply stating a fact.

  Denji, usually the first to blurt something out in situations like this, found himself gripping his chopsticks a little tighter, his thoughts running through whether this guy was screwing with them or if they were about to get their heads blown off mid-meal.

  Then, Aki finally spoke, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his chest.

  “A sniper aiming at us from this angle?” He kept his gaze locked onto the man, scanning for any flicker of deception. “Are you sure?”

  The man simply smiled.

  But he didn’t answer.

  He didn’t need to.

  The silence itself was the answer.

  The man placed his chopsticks down beside his nearly empty bowl, his fingers interlocking as he leaned forward slightly. His low-rimmed glasses caught the dim lighting of the restaurant, casting a faint glint across his tired, dark eyes. With an air of casual indifference, he raised one hand and spread his fingers apart, his thumb and index finger forming a gap about six inches wide.

  “Barrett .50 cal,” he said smoothly. “American-made. Fires a .50 BMG round.”

  His tone was eerily relaxed, as if he were explaining the specifications of a car rather than a tool designed to blow heads clean off.

  “If you’re wondering how big that is… well, let’s just say it’s a bullet about this big.”

  He held his hand up, demonstrating the approximate size of the round. The space between his fingers looked unsettlingly large—more than enough to tear through a human skull and leave nothing but a ruined mess behind.

  Denji’s eyes flicked to the man’s hand, his mind briefly conjuring an image of what that kind of bullet would do to his head. Power’s fingers twitched slightly on the table, itching on her other arm with her very sharp nails to create a weapon, while Himeno exhaled slowly through her nose, her body tense but composed. Aki remained still, his expression unreadable, but the air around him carried a distinct sharpness—he was processing every word, every movement.

  The man didn’t seem to care about their reactions. Instead, he lazily turned his head toward the glass window beside him, his gaze scanning the buildings outside. His eyes landed on one in particular, a tall structure with a clear vantage point overlooking their position.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, nodding to himself. “Pretty massive round if you ask me. So, if I had to guess, he’s stationed somewhere up on that building over there.”

  He lifted a finger and pointed toward the distant structure, tracing a slow, invisible line from the rooftop to their table. His expression remained neutral, almost bored, as his finger gradually shifted—not toward the window, not toward the street outside, but upward.

  Directly above their heads.

  “I see,” he mused, as if piecing together a puzzle in real time. “So that means… he’d be shooting one of you through the ceiling.”

  A heavy silence fell over the table.

  Aki clenched his jaw slightly. He didn’t like this—didn’t like how casually the man was talking about all this, didn’t like how he was treating a potential execution as if it were a minor inconvenience. Yet despite the weight of the situation, none of them moved. Not out of fear, but out of necessity. If there truly was a sniper trained on them, making any sudden motion could mean the death of one of them or a civilian nearby.

  The ambient noise of the restaurant carried on, unaware of the invisible tension pressing down on their table.

  A waitress walked past, laughing softly as she carried a tray of steaming food to another table. A couple near the bar clinked their beer glasses together. Someone in the kitchen shouted an order to the chef.

  And yet, at their table, time felt frozen.

  Aki’s voice was measured when he finally spoke.

  “So is there any reason for all of this?”

  The man exhaled quietly through his nose, his gaze lowering toward his bowl. For a brief moment, he simply watched the swirling broth, the steam curling upward. Then, with practiced ease, he picked up his chopsticks again and lifted a few strands of noodles to his lips.

  He chewed. Swallowed.

  Then he answered.

  “Money and something personal.”

  His voice carried no malice, no excitement—just a simple, matter-of-fact statement.

  “Sorry,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “But really, it’s nothing personal.”

  "It's just that Im not some kind of Monster"

  The last part was spoken barely above a whisper, as if directed more to himself than to them.

  Then, with a casual flick of his chopsticks, he gestured toward Denji.

  “So,” he said with a sigh, his tone betraying just a hint of exhaustion. “Please don’t move. I want to have a little chat… with him.”

  His tired eyes met Denji’s.

  And for the first time since the conversation started, Denji felt the weight of them.

  The man exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face as if trying to wipe away whatever frustration was building inside him. His tired eyes, once calm and indifferent, now carried a flicker of something else—something heavier. He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his low-rimmed glasses before finally fixing Denji with a look that was caught between exhaustion and something dangerously close to grief.

  "Look, kid…" He started, but there was hesitation in his voice, like the words were getting caught in his throat. For a man who had spoken so smoothly about snipers and bullets just moments ago, this felt different—like whatever he was about to say wasn’t just business.

  He exhaled again, slower this time.

  "Do you know what you did a few weeks ago?"

  Denji furrowed his brows, trying to recall. His life had been a mess of blood, fights, and Makima's orders ever since he became a Devil Hunter. Whatever this guy was talking about could’ve been any number of things.

  "I'm sorry for whatever I did, man," Denji said, shrugging, his voice casual despite the tension in the air. "But I don’t remember making any trouble, I promise. And even if I saw something, I wouldn’t rat you out or nothin’."

  The man sighed, shaking his head slowly, his expression darkening.

  "Who do you take me for, kid?" he muttered, almost bitterly. His voice dropped lower, quieter, and there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before. "I'm nothing like my grandpa."

  Denji’s eyes widened slightly.

  "Grandpa?" His brain clicked into place, pieces of his past slotting together like jagged puzzle fragments. "Wait… You mean the guy I owed debt to?"

  The weight of the realization settled in his stomach like a stone. Denji had spent years under the yakuza’s thumb, breaking his body for scraps to pay off his father’s debt to the old man. And in the end, that "grandpa" had died—ripped apart, along with the rest of his men, when Denji had gone full Chainsaw Man on them after they'd been turned into zombies by the Zombie Devil.

  And now, sitting across from him, was someone tied to that past. Someone still breathing.

  Denji's mind raced, but his survival instincts kicked in first.

  "Wait, wait, wait—you're here for money, right?" he blurted out, trying to salvage the situation before it spiraled into something worse. "I work for the H.G.O. now, I got money! I can pay my debt, with interest and everything, I can even pay ext—"

  "NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!!"

  The man’s voice exploded across the table, raw and sharp enough to cut through the entire restaurant’s ambient noise. His fist slammed against the wooden surface, rattling their bowls, sending ripples through the broth. A few customers turned their heads at the sudden outburst, but a single sharp glare from the man sent them right back to their meals, pretending they hadn’t heard a thing.

  Denji stiffened, watching as the man took in a shuddering breath. His hands were clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white.

  "I don’t want money," the man growled, his voice lower now but no less intense. His dark eyes burned with something deep and unresolved. "I don’t want anything. Just shut the fuck up and let me talk, okay?"

  For the first time since the conversation started, Denji could hear it—could feel it.

  This wasn’t just some business deal gone wrong.

  This was personal.

  The man’s breath hitched as his shoulders trembled, his fists clenching so tightly his fingernails dug into his palms. His once-steady voice cracked, raw with something more than just anger—grief, frustration, something achingly human.

  "Look… I get it," he muttered, shaking his head. "You killed my grandpa. I know what kind of man he was. He wasn’t a nice guy to people like you."

  His voice wavered, as if he were trying to convince himself of something—justify what had happened. But the moment the words left his mouth, his expression twisted with something unbearable. His breath came out shaky, his composure unraveling as he swallowed thickly.

  "I knew his greed would come back to kill him. I knew it would happen one day," he admitted, his voice rising with every word. "But it was just so fucking sudden!"

  His hands trembled against the table, his knuckles going pale. The weight pressing down on him cracked open all at once, and then—

  Tears.

  Hot and unrelenting, they welled in his dark, sleepless eyes before spilling down his face. His breath shuddered as he finally let it out, his body tensing like he was fighting every single instinct telling him to hold it together. But he couldn’t.

  "I didn’t even get to say goodbye," he whispered, voice breaking. "How the fuck am I supposed to say goodbye to a puddle of blood!?"

  His teeth clenched, and his hands slammed onto the table again, his entire body trembling from something deeper than just anger.

  "I see it," he spat out, his voice shaking violently. "Every. Single. FUCKING. Day!"

  His head dropped slightly, his bangs shadowing his eyes as his breath came out in harsh, ragged gasps. He looked ruined, broken by something he couldn’t erase from his mind no matter how hard he tried.

  "It’s so fucking hard to sleep," he admitted, his voice suddenly quieter, more fragile. "It’s so bad that I—I wanted to kill someone. Anyone."

  He squeezed his eyes shut, as if saying it out loud made it even worse. His jaw locked, and he forced himself to breathe, his hands tightening into fists on his lap.

  "But I don’t want to kill," he whispered. "It makes me a fucking monster."

  The confession hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

  "I hate it," he choked out. "I pushed myself away from blood and gore because it destroys me, kid."

  His wet eyes lifted, locking onto Denji’s in a way that made the younger devil hunter freeze.

  "I want to kill you."

  The words came out raw, stripped of any hesitation.

  "But at the same time…" His voice cracked. His breath shuddered. And then, with a quiet, broken whisper—

  "You’re just a kid."

  The weight of those words settled between them like a blade balancing on a thread

  The silence that followed was suffocating. Denji stared at the man, the weight of his words sinking into his chest like a stone. The guy looked like he had been carrying this for so long—his hands were trembling, his breaths uneven, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and grief.

  Denji didn’t know what to say.

  He wasn’t good at this kind of thing—grief, emotions, all that deep crap. Hell he has went thru many different kinds of it to the point he just got used to it and just move on with his life, he had always been too fast, too desperate to keep moving. His whole world had always been about survival, about moving forward no matter what.

  But this guy… he was stuck.

  Stuck in the past, in the bloodstain left behind by a man Denji barely even remembered. To him, the yakuza old man was just another person who used him up and tossed him aside. But to this guy…? That man was family.

  Denji scratched the back of his head, looking away. "Uh…"

  What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

  Himeno exhaled slowly, her hand subtly resting near the edge of the table, prepared for any sudden movement. Aki remained silent, his gaze sharp and analyzing. Power was oddly quiet, her crimson eyes flicking between Denji and the man as if waiting to see what would happen next.

  Then, after what felt like forever, Denji let out a sigh.

  "Look, man," he started, voice more serious than usual. "I get that you’re mad. I’d probably be mad too if someone close to me got turned into a pile of guts before I could say goodbye."

  He paused, scratching the back of his head, trying to find the words.

  "But, uh… I didn’t kill him ‘cause I wanted to. He turned into a zombie devil freak, tried to chop me up into little pieces, and—well, I ain’t gonna let myself get chopped up, you know?"

  His tone wasn’t apologetic, just matter-of-fact. That was the reality of it.

  "I get that you’re hurt," Denji continued. "But, man… I barely even knew that guy. He wasn’t exactly a good dude to me. So if you’re looking for someone to be all sorry and guilty about it…"

  He looked at the man dead in the eyes.

  "I ain’t your guy."

  The words landed heavy between them. The man’s face twisted—frustration, grief, something too complicated for words.

  He clenched his fists again.

  "You don’t get it," he said through gritted teeth. "I know my grandpa wasn’t a good man! I know! But he raised me! He put food on my table! He—he took care of me when I had no one else!"

  His breath came out shaky. His vision blurred for a second, his throat tightening painfully.

  "He was the only person in this world who gave a damn about me," he choked out. "And now he’s just… gone."

  Denji watched him, his expression unreadable.

  Then, Denji leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms behind his head.

  "Yeah. That’s rough, buddy."

  The man’s eye twitched.

  "…That’s rough, buddy?" he repeated, his voice low with disbelief.

  "What? You want me to give you a hug or somethin’?" Denji said, raising an eyebrow. "Ain’t got much else to offer, dude."

  Power suddenly let out a loud snort, clearly trying to hold back laughter. Aki closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. Himeno took a slow sip of her drink, side-eyeing Denji.

  Himeno shot Aki a tense glance, her expression saying what words didn’t need to: *He’s going to get one of us killed.*

  Aki didn’t respond, but his grip on his sheathed weapon tightened. The weight of his devil contract rested against his back, and he was ready—ready for that inevitable moment when words stopped and violence took over.

  Across the table, the man wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing away the remnants of his grief. But the sorrow didn’t disappear—it twisted, morphed into something else. Something colder. His eyes, still damp from crying, no longer held the weight of loss. Instead, they burned with a newfound resolve.

  A dangerous one.

  “Wow… must be real funny, huh?” His voice was soft, but it carried a sharp edge. His breath was still uneven, his nose slightly runny from the tears, but the emotion behind it had shifted. There was no more sadness. No hesitation. Just something far worse.

  “Really funny.”

  He let out a chuckle—low, bitter, empty. It wasn’t laughter, not really. It was a sound meant to mock them, to make them realize that whatever amusement they found in Denji’s words was about to be turned against them.

  Denji blinked, his casual posture not shifting, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Something had snapped in this guy. And he wasn’t talking just to talk anymore.

  The man leaned forward, his hands pressing against the table. His fingers flexed, nails digging into the worn wooden surface. His shoulders trembled—not with fear, but with something darker, something unhinged.

  “I get it now.” His voice was almost breathless, like he had just come to some great revelation. His pupils were slightly dilated, his stare locked onto Denji’s with an intensity that made even Power stop her snickering.

  “If I kill you as Chainsaw Man… then you’re not a kid anymore, right?”

  His logic was wrong, but it didn't matter. The man wasn't thinking logically anymore. The grief, the rage, the helplessness—he had been bottling it up for so long, and now, Denji's nonchalant response had sent it all over the edge.

  A slow grin stretched across his face, but it wasn’t joyful. It was raw, strained, twisted by the emotions he had been holding back for so long.

  He had convinced himself in this very moment.

  He was going to kill Denji.

  And he wasn’t going to hesitate.

  Aki’s fingers curled around the hilt of his weapon, his breath steadying as his mind locked into combat mode. Himeno shifted ever so slightly, already preparing for the worst. Power’s lips curled into a wild grin, baring sharp teeth as if challenging whatever was about to happen.

  Denji, however, puts his hand ready to pull the cord

  The tension in the air snapped like a coiled spring.

  The man slammed his hand against his chest. His voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

  “Draw!”

  A deafening shot exploded through the restaurant.

  BANG!

  A bullet tore through the ceiling, leaving a smoking hole in its wake. The entire building shook from the force, dust and debris trickling down from the newly-formed wound in the structure. Before anyone could react, another shot rang out—this time, aimed with deadly precision.

  SHHRRRNNKKK!

  Denji’s head snapped back.

  For a split second, nothing happened. Then, his skull ruptured—flesh, blood, and shards of bone bursting outward in a grotesque display. His body was pushed by the force his head was blow up like water melon as his body slumped against the wall the chair tumbling with him, motionless.

  The world seemed to freeze.

  Aki, Himeno, and Power moved in unison, their instincts honed from countless battles kicking in at the same time. The scrape of chairs against the floor was drowned out by the heavy sound of their sudden movement.

  But the man—he was already changing.

  A sickening noise filled the space, the sound of flesh splitting open as jagged, curved blades burst from his forearms, carving through the skin and muscle as if he were being reshaped into something inhuman. The steel shimmered under the dim restaurant lights, extending from his arms down to his hands, his very fingers transforming into wicked, razor-sharp edges. His head split open, reshaping itself—more blades tearing through, forming a grotesque crown of death.

  He gritted his teeth, his body trembling from the sheer agony of the transformation. A dark, liquid-like substance began to crawl over his skin, spreading like ink, coating him in an eerie, unnatural armor. His breathing was ragged, labored, but his eyes burned with unrelenting determination.

  Then, Himeno’s voice cut through the chaos.

  “Ghost—subdue him!”

  From the air beside her, shapes flickered into existence.

  A haunting wail filled the room as pale, ghostly figures materialized—women with drenched, stringy hair veiling their faces, their bodies eerily thin, their skin nearly translucent. Their limbs twitched unnaturally as they floated forward, their presence sending a wave of bone-chilling cold through the air.

  Then they lunged.

  They swarmed the man, shrieking as they grabbed hold of him with clawed, spectral fingers. Their touch burned—not with heat, but with an unbearable, icy grasp that latched onto his body, tearing at the black coating that was still forming.

  The man let out a pained snarl.

  “What the hell—?!”

  His voice was strained, his arms thrashing as he struggled against the supernatural assault. He could see them now—not just feel their presence, but actually see the silhouettes of their twisted forms. They clung to him like cursed phantoms, their wails piercing through his mind like daggers.

  Then—Aki moved.

  He was already on the attack, his sword—a nail-like weapon—raised and ready to strike. The weight of the Curse Devil’s power surged through him as he prepared to drive the blade forward.

  But the man wasn’t going down easily.

  With a roar, he swung his Muramasa blades in a wide, sweeping arc. The air itself seemed to hum as the cursed steel cut through it.

  Aki barely dodged, pivoting just in time to avoid a fatal strike.

  But the ghosts held firm.

  Their grip tightened, skeletal fingers snapping bone as they crushed the man’s arm. He let out a scream of agony as his limb bent at an unnatural angle, but even through the pain, his ferocity didn’t wane.

  Then—his foot lashed out.

  A sharp, brutal kick connected with Aki’s chest, sending him staggering backward.

  The man wheezed, his entire body trembling as he fought against the ghosts. His eyes darted wildly, searching for a way out, for anything that could give him the upper hand.

  Then—his throat tightened.

  A sudden, invisible force clamped around his neck. His body jerked violently as Himeno clenched her fist in the air, controlling the spectral grip that now threatened to crush his windpipe.

  His vision blurred.

  He gasped, clawing at his own throat, his Muramasa blades slashing wildly in a desperate attempt to break free.

  Himeno’s expression was sharp, unreadable—but her voice was unwavering.

  “Aki—use it. Now!”

  Aki’s sharp eyes analyzed the situation in mere seconds.

  The black coating was spreading faster than the ghosts could tear it away. A living armor, thick and unnatural, forming a hardened shell over the man’s body. Even if Aki could pierce through it, his sword required three strikes to activate the Curse Devil’s power. One strike wouldn’t be enough. Two wouldn’t be enough.

  And at the rate this transformation was accelerating, he might not even get the chance for a third.

  The man’s body convulsed as the dark substance twisted and coiled around him, its slick, liquid-like texture hardening into jagged layers of unnatural plating. His arms bulged as the Muramasa blades embedded in his limbs pulsed with an ominous, bloodthirsty energy. His breathing had turned guttural, uneven—more bestial than human.

  *He’s almost there…*

  Aki’s grip on his sword tightened. If this kept going for even a few more seconds, the man would reach his full devil hybrid form. And then, things would get much worse.

  Himeno saw it too.

  Her jaw clenched, her knuckles whitening as she raised her hand higher. The ghostly woman beside her mirrored the motion, her drenched, veiled hair swaying as she reinforced her grip on the struggling man.

  But he wasn’t going down quietly.

  Despite the crushing force around his throat, despite the skeletal fingers digging into his flesh, the man continued to resist. His body trembled as he fought against the weight of the spirits, his Muramasa blades carving through the air in erratic, desperate swings. The restaurant walls bore the scars of his resistance, deep slashes cutting through the wooden interior, tearing through tables and chairs like paper.

  A sickening crack rang out as he twisted his own dislocated arm back into place with sheer brute force. Blood dripped from the wound, but it didn’t slow him down. His pupils were blown wide, his expression caught between pain and rage, but there was something else in his eyes—something dangerously close to triumph.

  He was nearly there.

  Aki made a decision.

  Calmly, his fingers shifted, forming a precise hand sign. His voice came quiet, steady—laced with the controlled confidence of someone who had called upon this power countless times before.

  *"Kon."*

  The response was immediate.

  A massive shadow loomed over them as the air itself seemed to fold inwards. The ceiling above them erupted—wood and debris shattering as an enormous presence forced its way into reality.

  The Fox Devil’s head burst through the wreckage, its size overwhelming in the confined space of the restaurant. Its enormous fanged maw opened wide, sharp teeth gleaming as saliva dripped from its jaws, pooling onto the floor.

  For a fraction of a second, the man’s struggling ceased.

  His widening eyes barely had time to register what was happening before—

  **CHOMP.**

  The entire room shook as the Fox Devil’s jaws snapped shut around him, its fangs sinking deep into his body.

  A deep, wet crunch echoed through the remains of the restaurant.

  The ghosts dispersed instantly, fading like mist. Himeno exhaled, lowering her hand as the spectral hold around the man vanished.

  Aki let out a controlled breath, relief settling in as the Fox Devil’s enormous jaws clamped down around their target. The weight of the battle seemed to ease for just a moment—just long enough for them to believe it was over. The creature’s titanic fangs had sunk deep into flesh, its throat flexing as it chewed. Victory felt almost certain.

  Then, the Fox Devil stopped.

  Aki’s relief vanished the moment the massive entity let out a low, unsettled growl. Its large, golden eyes flickered with unease, its telepathic voice reaching them like an irritated whisper in the back of their minds.

  "What is this?"

  The Fox Devil’s tone wasn’t one of satisfaction but disgust. It twisted its enormous maw slightly, grimacing, as though struggling to process the very nature of what it had bitten into.

  "This is not a devil… nor a human."

  The words sent a shiver through Aki’s spine.

  The restaurant’s broken remains groaned under the weight of destruction, shattered wood and debris scattering across the ruined floor.

  "What did you put in my mouth?" the Fox Devil demanded, irritation laced in its voice.

  Then—

  A sickening shhkkt cut through the night air.

  A flash of silver, too fast for the eye to follow.

  In the next instant, two gleaming blades erupted from the top of the Fox Devil’s massive skull, piercing straight through fur and bone. They weren’t just any blades—they were the twin Muramasa swords, now slick with an unnatural, pulsing energy.

  A deep, visceral crack followed as the twin swords were mercilessly dragged downward.

  The Fox Devil let out an agonized shriek, its body convulsing violently as the razor-sharp Muramasa blades cleaved through its skull with terrifying precision. The slash continued down the length of its massive snout, splitting flesh, sinew, and muscle apart like butter.

  The restaurant trembled as the Fox Devil thrashed, its massive body shaking the very foundations of the surrounding buildings.

  With one final, devastating movement, the cursed blades carved through the muscles of the creature’s jaw, severing the tendons on both sides.

  A horrific snap followed—

  And then the Fox Devil’s lower jaw collapsed.

  The once-mighty beast’s mouth hung open uselessly, its enormous fangs twitching as blood gushed from the deep, cursed wounds. The lower half of its severed jaw plummeted, crashing into a neighboring building with an earth-shattering impact.

  It was a sight none of them had ever witnessed before.

  Aki’s breath caught in his throat.

  Himeno took a slow step back.

  Power's grin faltered, for once lacking her usual bravado.

  And then, through the rising dust and swirling embers, he dropped down.

  The man’s form was completely changed—his transformation now fully realized.

  His suit was in tatters, large gaping holes exposing the razor-edged black armor beneath. Every inch of his body gleamed with a dark, cursed sheen, its jagged plating shifting unnaturally, almost alive with the energy coursing through it. His coat, once a simple long jacket, now billowed unnaturally, caught in the chaotic wind of the collapsing restaurant.

  His Muramasa blades dripped—not just with the Fox Devil’s blood, but with something more. Something vile. Something cursed.

  Aki could feel it—an oppressive, inescapable energy radiating from the steel.

  Something beyond just the swords themselves.

  The Fox Devil let out another strangled, agonized wail, its ruined mouth barely able to form a sound as it vanished, retreating into nothingness.

  But Aki, Himeno, and Power had no time to process its disappearance.

  Because the real fight was only about to begin.

  A deep, distorted voice echoed through the ruined remains of the restaurant.

  "What’s wrong? Are you scared now?"

  The figure stood motionless amidst the wreckage, his presence more unnatural than before. His face—once human—was now completely obscured, consumed by a shifting layer of black tar that clung to his features like a living void. He was faceless, an entity devoid of identity, the darkness swallowing any trace of human expression.

  From the back of his head, black, ribbon-like bandages extended, their texture eerily similar to an unraveling scarf. The strips of darkness writhed and swayed, moving with a will of their own. As if sensing his intent, the bandages stretched further, slithering around his neck like a noose, tightening in a slow, deliberate motion before flowing freely behind him—like tattered banners in the wind.

  But the most unsettling transformation came next.

  The same creeping blackness began to seep under the ruined sleeves of his suit, crawling down his arms in an unnatural slither. Aki’s sharp eyes caught the subtle shift—the black tendrils weren’t just covering his skin. They were binding something.

  The Muramasa blades.

  Previously raw, pulsating with a sickly cursed energy, the twin swords were now wrapped in the same shifting, obsidian bandages. The once-malevolent aura that had radiated from the blades—the very essence of death and decay—vanished, as though forcibly sealed.

  The air grew heavier.

  Not from bloodlust.

  Not from killing intent.

  But from something far more suffocating—indifference.

  "Don’t worry," the hybrid spoke again, his voice steady, almost casual. Too casual.

  "It’s not meant for you."

  His words dripped with an unnatural calmness—a tone so devoid of hostility that it sent a deeper chill through the spine than any direct threat.

  "I’m sparing you from it. I don’t have any personal grudge against you. You had no idea about the kid’s actions, which is reasonable."

  The way he spoke made it clear—he wasn’t just justifying himself. He was explaining.

  As if the outcome had already been decided.

  As if they weren’t even participants in this moment, but mere bystanders in an inevitable slaughter.

  Then, without hesitation—

  He raised his Muramasa blade.

  Its tip, still slick with the Fox Devil’s blood, now pointed directly at Aki.

  "The women may leave," he continued, his head tilting slightly, his faceless gaze shifting toward Himeno and Power.

  "But you—"

  The black bandages constricted tighter around his grip.

  "Will stay."

  The air froze.

  Aki’s grip on his sword tightened instinctively. Himeno didn’t move, her breathing steady but her fingers twitching just slightly—preparing. Power, standing slightly behind them, bared her teeth, her body tensed in the kind of stillness only a predator recognized before a kill.

  The hybrid, however, stood calm. Unmoved.

  Because to him, their reactions didn’t matter.

  Because to him—this was already decided.

  Aki exhaled slowly, his breath steady but deliberate. Something had changed.

  The ruined restaurant, already a shattered battlefield, was no longer just filled with the lingering scent of blood and splintered wood. The air itself had shifted, thickening with an oppressive weight—not just the presence of the hybrid, but something more.

  They had arrived.

  And suddenly, they were no longer alone.

  One by one, the ghosts materialized.

  They did not appear in a burst of motion or a flicker of light—they simply existed, as though they had always been there.

  Directly in front of the hybrid stood a woman cloaked in black, her posture rigid and dignified. She was draped in funeral garments, an immaculate, pitch-black dress that flowed down to the floor, untouched by dust or ruin.

  In her hands, she carried an old silver bell.

  It was aged and tarnished, its once-polished surface dulled with time, but at its top rested a single white flower. A lily. Wilting.

  Blood—dark and clotted—stained the petals, tainting what should have been pure.

  She held the bell carefully, cradling its bottom with one hand while the other steadied its side—as if prepared to ring it.

  Her gaze—if she even had eyes beneath the veil—never wavered from the hybrid.

  Behind her, another figure emerged.

  A Nun.

  Or at least, the twisted mockery of one.

  Her habit was tattered, the fabric worn thin by time and stained with what could only be old, dried blood. Her face remained hidden beneath her hood, but the air around her crackled with something deeply unsettling—a quiet judgment, a presence that whispered of repentance and damnation.

  She clasped her hands together in silent prayer, her fingers discolored and skeletal, her nails blackened as if rotting. Yet, despite her eerie stillness, there was no peace in her presence—only the suffocating weight of unseen sins.

  And then—

  Floating just behind Himeno.

  A rag doll.

  Small. Worn. Fragile.

  Its body stitched together with coarse, old thread, its limbs limp and lifeless as it hovered in the air, as though carried by an unseen hand.

  Yet despite its tiny, insignificant form, it radiated something far more sinister than the others.

  It pulsed.

  Like a thing breathing. Watching. Waiting.

  The Ghost Devil.

  The rag doll’s head twitched.

  Its black, beady eyes were soulless buttons, but the unseen force behind them burned with something ancient and insatiable.

  And the moment it arrived—

  The entire room froze.

  Not from fear.

  Not from intimidation.

  But because the air itself had become heavier than death.

  Himeno did not turn.

  She did not react.

  Because she already knew.

  They were here for her.

  For all of them.

  For him.

  Aki’s voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—a quiet urgency.

  He turned back, his sharp eyes locking onto her.

  “Himeno.”

  But the moment he saw her expression, his breath caught.

  Her one visible eye gleamed with something fierce, something unshakable. Determination burned within it—not just the kind that came with duty, but something deeper. A promise.

  She was smiling.

  A real, genuine smile.

  Not forced. Not uncertain. A warrior’s smile.

  One that said, “We’ll fight together.”

  One that said, “Like always.”

  “We can fix this,” she said, her voice carrying a lightness that almost betrayed the gravity of the situation. “Like we always do.”

  The ghosts loomed behind her—silent, waiting. Their presence would come at a cost.

  And Himeno knew that.

  She knew the risk.

  She knew what she was sacrificing.

  But even with the weight of that knowledge pressing down on her, she smiled.

  Aki stared at her for a moment longer, his mind caught between the past and present.

  How many times had they done this?

  How many times had they stood side by side, in the face of something impossible, and survived?

  The memories hit him all at once—late-night patrols, cigarette breaks, battles that left them barely standing.

  Through all of it, she was always there.

  And even now—with ghosts at her back, with the air thick with impending death—she was still there.

  A slow breath escaped his lips.

  And despite everything—the chaos, the destruction, the ghosts, the revenge that had once clogged his mind like poison—

  Aki smiled.

  A small, fleeting thing.

  But it was real.

  “After this,” he said, nodding once. “I’ll help you, Himeno.”

  It wasn’t just a promise.

  It was an anchor.

  No matter what happened next—

  They would survive.

  Together.

  The hybrid stood motionless, his faceless, tar-covered visage unreadable, yet the cursed Muramasa blades tightened beneath his arms.

  For the first time since the battle had begun, something stirred in him.

  A flicker of admiration.

  Even through the suffocating bloodlust, through the cursed weight of his own existence, he recognized it. That bond. That unshakable trust between two people who had fought, bled, and survived together.

  He had seen warriors before. Many. Those who clung to duty. Those who killed without remorse. Those who sought power for power’s sake.

  But this?

  This was different.

  This was something he had never had.

  Something he had wished for but never received.

  He could see it in the way Aki looked at her—not just as a comrade, but as someone he trusted completely.

  He could see it in the way Himeno stood her ground, ghosts looming at her back, unafraid of the price she was about to pay.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  They weren’t just fighting.

  They were fighting together.

  And for a fleeting moment, he envied them.

  But admiration would not stay his blade.

  “Tch.” He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as his stance shifted.

  The cursed black bandages that slithered like living things around his arms tightened, coiling like serpents. The Muramasa blades, once burning with cursed energy, now lay dormant—concealed by the wrappings, their sinister aura momentarily muted.

  His ruined coat billowed in the wind as he exhaled, tilting his head ever so slightly.

  “A partnership like yours…” his voice, deep and distorted, carried over the wreckage, “…is rare.”

  It tightened agaom.

  “It’s admirable.”

  A pause. A flicker of something beneath his tar-black mask.

  Then, his foot shifted.

  In an instant, he vanished.

  The floor splintered beneath him as he shot forward like a bullet, moving with speed that made the air itself howl in his wake.

  Aki’s instincts screamed.

  He barely had time to react before the hybrid was upon him.

  The Muramasa blades tore free from their bandaged prison in a single, fluid motion.

  The cursed steel sang.

  A blur of black and silver. A killing arc, aimed straight for Aki’s throat.

  But a hand clenched into a fist.

  And the world around them shuddered.

  Himeno moved.

  With the full, unrelenting force of the Ghost Devil.

  Ding.

  The funeral ghost rang its bell.

  A hollow, chilling note reverberated through the battlefield, slicing through the tension like a blade through silk. And as if the sound itself commanded reality to shift, the ruins around them melted away into a haunted woodland—twisted trees with skeletal branches loomed over them, their shadows stretching unnaturally in the thick, creeping mist. The air turned frigid, damp with an eerie weight that clung to the skin, and at the very center of this cursed forest sat a well—its mouth gaping like a void that led to nothing but pure, endless darkness.

  Then, another chime.

  Ding.

  The very air trembled.

  VRRRRRRRRRR—!

  The unmistakable roar of chainsaws shattered the silence, shaking the mist itself.

  Aki’s breath hitched. Himeno’s eyes widened in horror.

  The hybrid’s Muramasa blades gleamed with malice, poised just inches away from severing Aki’s throat—

  But something blocked the strike.

  A spray of sparks erupted as jagged cursed steel clashed against grinding, gnashing chains.

  The hybrid's attack was stopped cold.

  And standing in the way—his body battered, broken, and headless—

  Was Denji.

  A Monster That Wouldn’t Die.

  Blood pooled at his feet, thick and steaming in the cold air. His tattered clothes clung to his body, shredded and soaked in crimson. His severed neck was still gushing, staining the ground beneath him, yet his body twitched, jerking unnaturally like a marionette with its strings cut—

  And yet, the chainsaws embedded in his forearms still roared with mechanical hunger, their teeth spinning and gnashing against the hybrid’s Muramasa blades like a beast denying its own demise.

  The hybrid’s faceless head tilted slightly in eerie, silent confusion.

  This... shouldn’t be possible.

  Denji had been killed. His heart had stopped. His body should’ve crumpled lifelessly to the dirt.

  And yet, here he was.

  Moving. Fighting.

  Not by logic. Not by reason.

  But as if something beyond death itself refused to let him go.

  The chainsaw on Denji’s right arm screeched as he shoved forward, pushing against the hybrid’s blade. Sparks danced wildly between them, illuminating the mist in brief, fiery flashes.

  Aki could see the problem.

  Denji was too weak.

  The chainsaws weren’t as sharp. Their bite was duller, slower. The power behind them wasn’t the same—his constant blood loss had drained him dry. He was nothing but an empty shell running on sheer, unrelenting will.

  And the hybrid saw it, too.

  “You’re running on fumes, kid.”

  His Muramasa blade twitched.

  SHING!

  The cursed steel cleaved straight through Denji’s right chainsaw.

  A metallic crunch echoed through the battlefield. The chainsaw's teeth snapped, shards of broken metal scattering like splintered glass. Denji’s arm twitched violently from the impact, yet he didn’t stop. His left chainsaw came swinging instantly, a wild and desperate arc—

  Only to be intercepted.

  The hybrid’s other blade slammed into it, locking it in place with raw, undeniable strength.

  Denji’s body convulsed, his severed neck gushing another fresh spray of blood. His headless frame jerked with each shuddering breath, still reacting, still attacking purely on instinct—

  But he wasn’t winning.

  The hybrid’s cursed blades were stronger. Sharper. The jagged steel of the Muramasa was meant to kill without mercy, and in this fight, it was a cold and cruel inevitability.

  Denji was dying on his feet as his corpse dropped to the ground.

  And yet—

  The chainsaws refused to stop.

  Even as they cracked and dulled, even as his body trembled from the loss of blood, even as the hybrid’s strength overwhelmed him—

  They still growled.

  Still fought.

  Still struggled against death itself.

  Then—

  A new force surged onto the battlefield.

  The hybrid’s faceless mask remained impassive, but there was a shift—a flicker of realization as he witness something.

  As the Phantoms surged forward in a frenzied rush, their translucent forms stretching unnaturally as they swarmed the battlefield like a spectral tide. Their hollow wails echoed through the mist, a chorus of suffering and malice, filling the haunted woodland with an oppressive, otherworldly presence.

  At the same time, Denji’s corpse—broken, battered, and headless—began to stitch itself back together.

  His severed flesh trembled, torn muscle and sinew twisting unnaturally as if unseen hands were forcing the pieces back into place. The shattered remains of his chainsaws did not repair in any mechanical sense—there was no welding, no fusing of metal. Instead, the fragmented teeth and broken edges clung together in a way that defied logic, as if an unseen force was holding them in place like some crude, supernatural adhesive. The chainsaws didn’t rev. They couldn’t. They were too broken, too damaged. And yet, they remained whole, barely held together by something beyond human understanding.

  The hybrid watched, his faceless mask remaining still—until a slight tilt betrayed his unease.

  This wasn’t normal.

  And then—Denji vanished.

  Not in a blur of movement, not in a flash of speed.

  He simply disappeared, his corpse swallowed into the swirling chaos of the charging of transparent Phantoms.

  For a split second, the hybrid’s mind raced, his instincts flaring. He had expected the Phantoms to attack—to claw at his flesh, to drag him into the void with them. But as they passed through him like vapor, untouched and unharmed, realization struck him like a blade to the gut.

  They weren’t meant to fight him.

  They were covering for something.

  His faceless mask twisted ever so slightly, his unease sharpening into something colder—calculated awareness. His sharp gaze swept across the battlefield, scanning for movement, searching for them.

  But the woman, the man, and the kid were gone.

  And that confirmed his worst suspicion.

  They weren’t trying to outnumber him.

  They were trying to escape.

  And now—he couldn’t see them.

  The faceless mask tilted further, unreadable—yet unmistakably displeased.

  “…Clever.”

  But cleverness wouldn't be enough.

  “There’s nowhere to run, cowards.”

  His voice was cold, cutting through the mist like a blade through flesh. He wasted no time, surging forward with terrifying speed, his Muramasa blades carving through the spectral horde in a single, merciless sweep.

  SHING—!

  A wide arc of cursed steel tore through the advancing Phantoms, splitting them like water. Their wails of agony rippled through the battlefield as their translucent bodies were ripped apart, vanishing into wisps of nothingness. But even as they faded, more emerged from the shadows—silent, unrelenting, closing in from all directions.

  He didn’t care.

  His blades danced in his hands, slashing, cutting, cleaving through the Phantoms like they were mere obstacles in his path. He was relentless, a storm of steel tearing through the ghostly figures, sending shimmering echoes of their forms spiraling into the mist.

  And yet—

  He still couldn’t see them.

  A flicker of irritation sparked beneath his faceless mask. He knew they were close. He could feel it. But where? The Phantoms weren’t just attacking him—they were deliberately disrupting his vision, forcing him into a chaotic frenzy of slashing and cutting.

  A calculated distraction.

  "Tch."

  His Muramasa blades cursed steel pulsing as if feeding off the very hostility in the air.

  Then—

  A shift.

  The Phantoms behind him were closing in.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  He felt it—an unnatural weight pressing in from all sides. Like a tightening noose.

  And for the first time since the fight began—he hesitated.

  Not out of fear.

  But out of something colder.

  Awareness.

  Something was wrong.

  His faceless mask tilted slightly, his senses sharpening, his Muramasa blades twitching in anticipation.

  And in that instant—

  A sound.

  A low, mechanical hum.

  Not from in front of him. Not from behind.

  From above.

  VRRRRRRRRRRRR—!

  The unmistakable rev of chainsaws tore through the mist.

  His faceless head snapped up—

  And there—

  Plummeting from the darkness, a silhouette descended, wreathed in the sickly glow of spectral light.

  Denji.

  His reconstructed body still bore the scars of his previous destruction, his chainsaws barely held together by the same eerie, supernatural force. They didn’t rev properly, but their jagged edges still gleamed with the promise of violence.

  And his head—

  It was still missing.

  Yet somehow—somehow—he moved.

  Like a puppet animated by nothing but sheer, unbreakable will.

  The hybrid barely had time to react—

  Denji fell upon him like a guillotine.

  VRRRRRRRRR—!

  Denji’s chainsaws crashed down onto the hybrid’s head with brutal force, carving straight through his faceless mask and sinking into the bone beneath. The jagged, half-broken teeth of the chainsaw tore through his skull, sending a spray of blood and sparks flying into the air. The hybrid jerked violently, his entire body tensing as the steel shredded into his cranium, carving deep, messy grooves into the bone.

  But even as his skull was being split apart, he reacted.

  SNAP—!

  His leg shot up in a savage, desperate kick—

  CRACK—!

  Denji’s body crumpled inward as the hybrid’s foot drove straight through his gut. The force was monstrous, so overwhelming that his entire leg pierced through Denji’s stomach, bursting out of his back in a gruesome display of blood and shredded flesh.

  The hybrid grunted in irritation, feeling the wet, constricting grip of Denji’s insides clenching around his limb.

  “Goddamn it—” he spat, voice laced with frustration. He tried yanking his leg free, but Denji’s unnatural, twitching body seemed to hold onto him, refusing to let go.

  And then—

  A sudden movement.

  A shadow.

  The hybrid’s instincts screamed at him—

  Behind you.

  His faceless head snapped to the side just in time to see Aki—a blur of dark motion—emerging from the Phantoms closing by.

  The gleam of a cursed blade.

  The pressure of something unseen looming over him.

  And then—

  THUNK—!

  The nail-like sword drove itself into the hybrid’s torso.

  A deep, unnatural hum resonated through the air as the Curse Devil stirred, its presence pressing down like an unseen hand tightening around his soul.

  The hybrid’s faceless mask twisted—this wasn’t just a wound. This was something worse. Something final.

  And then—

  A whisper.

  A voice that came from nowhere.

  Yet it rang with an eerie weight that sent a chill through the battlefield.

  "One."

  Aki wrenched the sword back, blood spraying as the first nail was counted.

  CRACK—!

  The hybrid wrenched his head to the side with such violent force that the already fractured chainsaw embedded in his skull snapped in half. The shattered steel splintered, jagged pieces embedding themselves deeper into his broken mask. The moment the tension released, he instantly whipped his Muramasa blade around—

  SHING—!

  Aki was already lunging for another strike, his sword aiming straight for the hybrid’s exposed ribs—

  But the hybrid let his own body drop.

  A calculated fall, letting gravity carry him downward as Aki’s attack whistled just above his head.

  Then, mid-fall—

  SLASH!

  A feral, upward swipe with his Muramasa blade tore through the air.

  Aki barely managed to lean back, the cursed steel passing inches from his throat. He let the momentum pull him away, retreating swiftly into the mist.

  And just as planned—

  The phantoms swarmed.

  A mass of eerie, spectral figures lunged at the hybrid from all sides. Twisted, half-decayed hands reached for him, their hollow eyes burning with the will of the Ghost Devil. The hybrid felt their weight, their presence pressing down on him—

  Yet, he barely spared them a glance.

  “Tch... How annoying.”

  His faceless mask barely betrayed any emotion, yet his voice dripped with irritation as he steadied himself.

  And then—

  Denji.

  Despite barely standing. Despite his battered, half-dismembered body.

  Despite his own chainsaws being shattered and useless.

  He was still fighting.

  Denji stumbled forward with drunken, erratic motions, his body twitching unnaturally. His broken chainsaw arm lurched upward in a pitiful attempt to stab the hybrid—

  SCHLCK—!

  The blade stabbed deep into the hybrid’s thigh.

  His faceless mask twitched.

  Denji had driven his own wrecked chainsaw deeper—forcing the hybrid’s already lodged leg even further into his stomach.

  The hybrid growled.

  "Enough."

  SLASH!

  With one brutal, merciless arc, his Muramasa blade sliced clean through Denji’s torso.

  SHRRRCK!

  Denji’s body split apart at the waist, cut straight in half.

  A fountain of blood erupted from the severed flesh, drenching the hybrid in a downpour of steaming crimson. His entire form was stained in it, his hybrid armor now painted in fresh, wet gore.

  And then—

  He moved.

  With a powerful heave, he planted his other foot against Denji’s bisected torso—

  And kicked off.

  SHLCK—!

  A grotesque squelch echoed as his leg was ripped free from Denji’s impaled stomach, tearing through what remained of his shredded organs.

  The hybrid landed smoothly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the nuisance.

  But even as Denji’s top half hit the ground, his severed arm twitched.

  Even as his lower half slumped lifelessly to the dirt—

  His chainsaws still screamed.

  Even in death—

  Denji refused to stay dead.

  The hybrid stood still for a moment, his body tense yet eerily composed as he surveyed the battlefield. The crimson-stained mist clung to the air, wrapping the forest in a suffocating shroud. The echoes of spectral whispers lingered, the phantoms circling him like vultures over carrion.

  His faceless mask twitched in mild irritation.

  "This is getting annoying."

  Despite their tricks, they hadn’t run. Couldn’t run.

  If they could escape, they would’ve done so already. That meant—

  "She’s still here."

  That woman. The one controlling the ghosts. She was nearby, hiding behind this wall of distractions.

  The hybrid’s Muramasa blades, repaired the scratches and dents on the blade. He needed to bait her out. Draw her from the shadows and into the open.

  His masked gaze flicked toward Denji’s corpse—

  —only to see him rising again.

  Denji’s severed upper half twitched unnaturally as he propped himself up on trembling arms. His bisected body was knitting itself back together in a grotesque, unnatural display. Flesh pulled against flesh, muscle and sinew weaving together like a horrid tapestry of regeneration.

  His broken chainsaws were still ruined, the shattered metal fused back in a jagged, unnatural way. They shouldn’t have been functional. They shouldn’t have even been moving.

  But Denji’s body defied reason.

  It didn’t matter how many times he was cut down.

  The chainsaws always came back.

  And the specters—

  They were closing in.

  The hybrid could hear them, sense them. The ghostly forms creeping ever closer, their intent suffocating the air like a noose tightening around his throat.

  A thought crossed his mind.

  If they weren’t running, if they were still fighting—

  That meant they had something to protect.

  Or someone.

  Himeno.

  She was hiding. Pulling the strings from the dark.

  "I need to bait her out."

  His faceless mask shifted slightly, tilting as his mind worked through the strategy.

  Then, another thought surfaced.

  The man.

  The one who stabbed him earlier.

  Aki.

  The hybrid remembered the sensation of that damned nail piercing his flesh, the eerie whisper of an unseen force counting down in his ear.

  "I’m going to need him."

  His plan solidified in an instant.

  The hybrid’s grip on his blade tightened as he turned his gaze back to the battlefield. His next move would be decisive.

  And this time—

  He would not miss.

  "So that means I need to play as the prey."

  The thought curled through the hybrid’s mind like a serpent as he surveyed the battlefield. His faceless mask betrayed nothing, but behind it, gears turned with calculated intent.

  Slowly, his gaze drifted behind him—

  And there it was.

  A broken, battered corpse standing upright.

  Denji’s mangled body had once again pieced itself back together in its twisted, unnatural way. Limbs that had been severed now fused back, the jagged remains of his chainsaws grotesquely glued to his arms. His form was twitching, his muscles spasming in ways no living creature should be able to endure—yet he stood.

  A cruel smirk curled beneath the hybrid’s mask.

  "It seems like you are going to be useful after all."

  Without hesitation, his Muramasa blade flashed through the mist.

  SCHLING!

  Denji’s right chainsaw arm was severed instantly.

  A second arc of the cursed steel—

  CRACK!

  His left chainsaw shattered under the force, the fractured remnants hanging uselessly from his wrist.

  Denji didn’t even react. He merely stood there, swaying slightly, as if his body hadn’t even registered the damage yet.

  Time passed slowly.

  The phantoms, eerily silent, continued to tighten their circle.

  Their hollow eyes fixated on the hybrid, creeping ever closer, their spectral presence suffocating the very air around him.

  The hybrid let out a sharp exhale, tilting his head slightly.

  "Damn it, you annoying brat."

  His voice dripped with carefully planned frustration.

  "Why won’t you just die?"

  Every syllable was meant to echo weakness. To project false frustration. To bait him out.

  He kept his stance loose, feigning distraction as the ghosts advanced. But his real focus was elsewhere—

  Behind him.

  A flicker of movement.

  A blur of steel.

  Denji’s broken corpse lunged forward.

  The shattered chainsaw plunged into the hybrid’s back, grinding against muscle and bone, sawing into his flesh.

  Pain jolted through him.

  But this was part of the plan.

  He clenched his jaw, forcing his body to remain still. His mind calculated the next step.

  "This needs to be convincing."

  So he let out an exaggerated scream.

  "AARRGHHH!!"

  It echoed through the mist, the sound sharp and desperate—a perfect lure.

  And just as planned—

  Aki appeared.

  The swordsman lunged from the side, the nail-like blade of the Curse Devil thrusting forward.

  The hybrid anticipated this.

  His Muramasa blade lashed out in a deadly counterattack, aiming to bisect Aki mid-strike—

  But something unexpected happened.

  Aki dodged.

  A flash of cold steel—

  SHINK!

  The sword plunged into his side.

  It tore through his hardened, blackened flesh.

  Sliced through his liver.

  PUNCTURED CLEAN THROUGH TO THE OTHER SIDE.

  The cursed whisper followed.

  "Two."

  "Shit."

  The hybrid’s thoughts snapped into action.

  Move. NOW.

  His body twisted left—

  Denji’s corpse twisted with him, still impaled in his back—

  He lashed out.

  His Muramasa blade slashed backward, slicing with pinpoint precision.

  SCHLING!

  Denji’s left arm was severed.

  No hesitation. No pause.

  The hybrid exploded forward.

  Straight for Aki.

  Aki’s eyes widened slightly—caught off guard.

  "His movements... they’re slower."

  The hybrid wasn’t as fast as he had been at the start of the fight.

  His strikes were a bit tardy, a bit sluggish.

  He was getting weaker.

  Aki noticed.

  And that was just enough time for him to react—

  To raise his sword.

  To block the next attack.

  The tension in the air was suffocating. The clash of steel, the screech of chainsaws, the hiss of blood as it stained the broken ground—all came together in a cacophony of violence, each strike a desperate act, each moment a countdown to what might be the end.

  Aki's breath came in ragged gasps as he blocked another strike from the hybrid’s cursed Muramasa blades. The cursed steel met his own sword with a thunderous clash, the force reverberating through his arms, pushing him back with every blow. Sweat dripped down his face, his knuckles white as they gripped the handle of his sword. Each strike from the hybrid came faster, sharper—he could feel the hybrid’s strength waning, but so too was his own stamina. Blood poured from the wound in his side, and Aki could feel his legs shaking, his body screaming for a break.

  He needed a way out.

  "Come on, just a little longer," Aki thought, gritting his teeth. His gaze flickered to the side as Denji’s mangled, headless form twitched.

  Denji, a sight of unnatural horror. His body, once torn apart, was stitching itself back together, his limbs jerking and snapping back into place as if some supernatural force was holding his shattered form together. The sound of his chainsaws—those monstrous appendages—revved weakly, sputtering as if struggling to gather power. Even though he was a broken corpse, Denji wasn’t finished yet.

  The hybrid’s eyes shifted. He was aware of Denji’s resurrection, but he didn’t falter. If anything, the hybrid’s movements became more desperate, more erratic. His cursed Muramasa blades slashed in wide, frenzied arcs, cutting through the air like a storm of death. Each swing cut into the phantoms that had begun to rush forward to aid Aki. They vanished in an instant, dissipating into the mist with a shrill wail as the hybrid’s blades tore through them effortlessly.

  Aki tried to seize the opportunity. His muscles screamed in protest as he steadied himself, lifting his nail-like sword, ready for the hybrid’s next attack. He could see it coming—a horizontal slash meant to cleave him in two.

  But then, something happened that Aki wasn’t prepared for.

  The hybrid—his movements slick with blood—shifted the Muramasa blades. The cursed steel, unnervingly, sank deeper into his own arm, almost as if he was sheathing it back into his body. Aki’s eyes widened in confusion for a split second—his Nail sword was raised in the air on the other side.

  That little trick was all the hybrid needed.

  The Muramasa blade in the hybrid’s other hand swung forward with devastating speed, catching Aki’s exposed chest in a violent arc. The blade tore through Aki’s armor like paper, slicing through the skin, muscle, and bone with unnerving precision. Blood sprayed out in a geyser, painting the air red. Aki’s chest was laid bare, his lungs exposed as the wound deepened.

  Pain exploded in his chest, and before he could even react, the hybrid was upon him.

  With one brutal motion, the hybrid reached forward and grabbed Aki by the throat. His fingers, coated in blood, closed around Aki's windpipe with an iron grip, lifting him off the ground effortlessly. Aki’s legs kicked helplessly in the air as he struggled for breath, the pressure building around his neck, crushing his windpipe. The world started to blur at the edges as his vision darkened.

  From the corner of his eye, Aki saw the phantoms freeze, their movements halted as if time had stopped. They watched in eerie silence, witnesses to this moment of desperation. Aki’s body dangled in the hybrid’s grip like a ragdoll, his chest still bleeding heavily. His heart raced, each thundering beat the only sound he could focus on in the silence around him.

  "Shit…" Aki gasped, blood bubbling in his throat, but it barely made it past his lips before the hybrid tightened his grip, cutting off the words before they could be fully spoken.

  The hybrid’s faceless mask tilted slightly, as though studying the limp body in his grasp. He could feel the last vestiges of his strength slipping away, but it didn’t matter. This was the moment. This was where it would end.

  The hybrid’s voice came out as a low growl, almost a whisper, just loud enough for Aki to hear, even as he struggled to hold onto consciousness.

  "Game over."

  The hybrid’s other hand twitched, ready to deliver the final blow, to end this once and for all.

  But even as the cold steel was poised to strike, something flickered in Aki’s mind—a fleeting, almost unconscious thought.

  A plan. A way out.

  The hybrid’s grip tightened for a moment before he slowly let his Muramasa blade slide from his arm. The cursed steel gleamed in the dim light, dripping with blood as it emerged, as if savoring the taste of battle. The blade pulsed faintly, almost alive. The hybrid exhaled sharply, then, with a burst of monstrous strength, hurled Aki’s limp body high into the air.

  Aki barely had time to register what had happened.

  One moment, he was gasping for breath, suffocating under the crushing force of the hybrid’s grip.

  The next—

  He was weightless.

  His vision blurred as his body ascended, flipping through the air. Blood trailed behind him, droplets scattering like crimson stars against the murky sky. His mind screamed at him to move, to react, to do anything—but his body, battered and bleeding, refused to obey.

  For a fleeting second, everything was still.

  Then—

  The air was filled with whispers.

  The phantoms below stopped their slow, haunting advance.

  A silent command.

  It came from nowhere, yet everywhere.

  Himeno’s will.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  Like a swarm of ravenous locusts, the phantoms exploded into motion, all at once surging toward Aki’s falling form. Their hollowed-out eyes locked onto him, their ghostly shapes twisting and writhing as they raced to intercept his descent. Some stretched their arms, their fingers elongating unnaturally, desperate to grab him. Others simply flung themselves upward, their wraith-like bodies moving as if gravity itself bent to their will.

  For a brief moment, the hybrid simply watched.

  Then—

  His faceless mask tilted slightly.

  His gaze snapped toward the left.

  Something was off.

  Among the chaos, his eyes caught sight of a particular cluster of phantoms. Their movements were different—less erratic, more deliberate. They weren’t rushing toward Aki like the others. Instead, they remained still, shifting subtly as though they were shielding something.

  His mind instantly pieced it together.

  “Bingo.”

  Ignoring the searing pain in his body, the hybrid moved.

  His steps were eerily silent.

  One moment, he was standing amidst the slaughter.

  The next, he was a blur of motion.

  He surged forward, weaving between the swarming specters with deadly precision. His Muramasa blades sliced through the air in seamless arcs—silent, swift, and merciless. The cursed steel cut through the phantoms like a hot knife through butter, their spectral forms vanishing into wisps of mist as he carved his way forward. Blackened blood splattered across the forest floor, tainting the roots and the broken earth.

  The closer he got, the clearer it became.

  The phantoms weren’t just standing there.

  They were hiding something.

  Someone.

  The hybrid grinned beneath his mask.

  "You can’t hide from me."

  With a final burst of speed, he lunged forward, his blade sweeping through the last line of wraiths.

  Then—

  Blood sprayed through the air.

  Not the sickly, dark ichor of the phantoms.

  No.

  This was real.

  Warm. Red. Human.

  The haunted forest that had surrounded them flickered.

  Then, like smoke caught in the wind—

  It vanished.

  Everything shifted in an instant.

  The suffocating atmosphere, the endless sea of phantoms—the entire cursed illusion shattered like fragile glass.

  And standing behind him—

  Was the girl.

  His real target.

  The air was thick with the weight of the moment, every breath a strained rasp in the quiet, ruined restaurant. The hybrid stood behind Himeno, his presence like a shadow, looming, suffocating, as if the very air around them had grown heavy with his malevolent aura. The flickering lights overhead cast long shadows that stretched across the bloodstained floor, painting an eerie tableau of destruction and pain.

  Himeno’s knees buckled under the weight of the situation. She fell to the ground with a soft thud, her body trembling, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. Her wide eyes, filled with disbelief, couldn’t comprehend the speed and precision with which he had moved. He had caught her entirely off guard—too fast, too deadly. Her hand hovered weakly over the wound in her side, the blood oozing from her body, staining the floor beneath her.

  The hybrid took slow, deliberate steps towards her, his presence cold and unyielding. His faceless mask reflected the dim, broken light of the room, its surface smooth, emotionless. He didn’t rush—no, he relished in the moment, as though savoring the tension between them. His boots, steady and heavy, echoed softly on the cracked tiles, each step a reminder of the monster before her.

  As he approached, Himeno could feel the weight of his gaze on her. She braced herself for the inevitable, preparing for the final blow. But instead, he stopped beside her. His shadow stretched over her trembling form, his presence towering like an immovable mountain. She could hear the sound of his breath, the soft rustle of the bandage around his neck, but it was his voice that chilled her to the core.

  "Hey, you did amazing back there."

  The words were casual, almost disarming. A strange juxtaposition to the cold, terrifying figure standing over her, his mask still unreadable, as though he spoke to a fellow fighter, not a dying woman.

  Himeno’s lips parted weakly, but she could only manage a strained breath in response, her body still trembling from the battle she had fought, the blood loss making her head spin. Her vision blurred, and the room around her seemed to shift, but she couldn’t turn away from him. She had to face whatever fate awaited her.

  He continued, the words coming slowly, almost as if he were trying to convince her of something she didn’t want to hear.

  "Look, I want to say this again... this is nothing personal. I was only there for the kid. You just entered his problem because, well, you’re from Public Safety. Which is reasonable why you tried to stop me." His tone was detached, almost matter-of-fact, as though explaining something simple, as if they were having a conversation in a normal setting. "I’m sorry, but that’s just how things go."

  He paused, his head tilting slightly, as if considering something. Then, his gaze moved, following the same line of sight as Himeno, to where Aki’s body lay in a broken heap amidst the rubble. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

  "Oh, I’m sorry about your partner as well." The words hung in the air, a fleeting moment of something like empathy—or perhaps mere acknowledgment, but it didn't matter. Himeno didn’t need his apology. It didn’t ease the weight of her grief, nor would it bring Aki back.

  The hybrid stood still for a moment, and then, with a soft, mechanical hum, his Muramasa blades began to retract back into his arm. The cursed steel moved fluidly, the blades reshaping and reforming themselves, fitting smoothly back into place like an intricate puzzle. His movements were precise, almost surgical, as though he had done this countless times before, each motion practiced and deliberate.

  "Look," he continued, his voice losing the casual tone, replaced with something almost... considerate, "As much as I want to offer help, I’m not sure I’m allowed to do that. So I’ll just be here to talk with you—"

  Before he could finish, Himeno’s weak voice cut through the silence. "Please... go away."

  His head tilted slightly at the plea, the mask offering no sign of emotion, but something in his posture softened, just a touch.

  "Sure," he said quietly, his voice a strange blend of nonchalance and something else—almost too casual, as if it pained him less than it should. "I will. I hope you come back soon. And well, I will take my leave."

  And then, just as abruptly as he had appeared, he gave a slight bow—an odd, mocking gesture considering the bloodshed surrounding them. A hollow show of courtesy before he turned away. His footsteps were soft as he approached Denji’s body, the corpse mangled and broken, but still eerily intact in its unnatural, fractured state. His boot crushed a shard of broken glass, the sound piercing the silence for a moment.

  The hybrid bent down, lifting Denji’s lifeless body with unsettling ease. There was no hurry in his movements, no sense of urgency. He handled the corpse like a prized object, as if it were an item to be moved with care. The restaurant door, battered beyond recognition, creaked in protest as he yanked it open. The hinges groaned and then snapped, the door frame shuddering violently before it detached completely.

  With a quiet grunt, the hybrid gently placed the broken door down, as though to cover the destruction he had caused. It rested softly against the rubble, the door’s jagged edges lying against the shattered remains of the restaurant. It was a surreal contrast—an attempt to conceal the chaos and carnage with something so simple, a pathetic effort to make it seem as though the damage had never occurred at all.

  He stepped over the rubble, his boots leaving fresh prints in the blood-soaked floor, and without another word, he walked out. The shattered door hung ajar, the outside world beckoning, but the hybrid didn’t look back.

  The faintest breeze stirred through the cracked remnants of the restaurant, whispering across the ruin.

  And then—

  Silence.

  Himeno remained kneeling on the floor, her blood pooling beneath her, her breath ragged and weak. The only sound now was the distant echo of the hybrid’s departure, fading into the night.

  The storm had passed. But the damage had been done.

  Her vision darkened.

  And then—

  The hybrid disappeared

  Himeno’s vision flickered, the world around her tilting and blurring as her body grew weaker and she drops on the floor her body laying on the floor.

  She could feel the warmth of her own blood pooling beneath her, soaking into the fabric of her uniform. The air was thick with the metallic scent of iron, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

  Then—

  A rustling sound.

  Soft.

  Familiar.

  Her eyes fluttered open, heavy with exhaustion, and there—just beyond the haze of pain—stood a small, ragged doll.

  Tattered.

  Worn.

  Its stitched eyes stared back at her, unmoving, yet somehow watching.

  And then—

  A tiny hand.

  Small fingers curled gently around the doll’s frayed body, holding it close.

  Himeno’s gaze drifted upward, her breath catching in her throat.

  A child.

  A little girl with dark hair and soft, round cheeks.

  She couldn’t have been older than six.

  She wore a simple dress, slightly oversized, her tiny hands gripping the doll with a quiet possessiveness.

  But what struck Himeno most—

  Was that the child had her face.

  Her own face.

  From long ago.

  The girl tilted her head, eyes wide with innocent curiosity as she peered down at Himeno’s bloodied, tired face.

  "Himeno! What’s wrong? You look tired."

  Himeno didn’t answer.

  She didn’t look at the child.

  She looked at the doll.

  Something was wrong.

  Something didn’t fit.

  She knew she had never owned a doll like that.

  Not in her childhood.

  Not ever.

  Her heart pounded sluggishly in her chest as the realization settled in.

  "It’s you, isn’t it?"

  Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

  "Tell me what do you want, Ghost."

  The child’s lips curved into a smile—playful, mischievous.

  She lifted the doll, gently moving its arms up and down as if it were the one speaking.

  "I’m here to make a pinky promise with you!"

  The child’s voice was light, filled with an eerie kind of warmth.

  "Or a little contract."

  She giggled softly, her small fingers carefully unraveling a loose thread of red yarn from the doll’s fragile body.

  Himeno’s eyes locked onto the thread.

  It dangled in front of her, swaying gently like it was inviting her to take it.

  Her fingers twitched.

  She reached forward—

  Only for the doll to pull it away.

  "Hey!"

  The child pouted, shaking her head.

  "Didn’t you promise him that you’d only pull a string when you felt happy?"

  Her tone was light, teasing.

  But her next words—

  Were almost pleading.

  "It’s just sad to see you go like this."

  Her small hands clutched the doll tighter, her eyes filled with something almost gentle.

  "Before you die—"

  "Flood your memories with happiness."

  "It’s the only humane way to end."

  Himeno inhaled sharply.

  She hadn’t expected this.

  She hadn’t expected the Ghost Devil to care.

  For a moment—just a fleeting moment—she felt something she hadn’t in a long time.

  Warmth.

  A small, tired smile touched her lips.

  "You’re much softer than I thought."

  She said with exhaustion as

  She closed her eyes.

  And then—

  A memory surfaced.

  The scent of lingering smoke.

  The dull hum of fluorescent lights.

  A cluttered office, dim and uninviting—

  Yet strangely familiar.

  A man sat across from her.

  Tired.

  Disheveled.

  His tie was slightly loosened, the buttons on his collar undone as if he had long given up on looking presentable.

  The room wasn’t warm.

  It wasn’t calming.

  Hell, it wasn’t even suitable for a therapy session.

  But here she was.

  Sitting across from a man who looked like he needed a therapist just as badly as she did.

  She let out a breath, exhaling slowly as the memory settled around her.

  She wasn’t sure why she had come here.

  Maybe because Sahara mentioned him before she died.

  Maybe because her life had fallen into the same routine—

  Chasing after the Gun Devil.

  Day after day.

  Aki pushing himself too hard, his obsessive determination weighing on her like a lead weight.

  The terrible, exhausting schedule.

  She was used to it.

  She had no problem with her job.

  But this feeling—

  This nagging weight—

  It was different.

  And somehow—

  Talking to a terrible therapist sounded like a decent idea.

  Himeno leaned back slightly in the worn-out office chair, the leather cracked and peeling at the edges. The dim light overhead buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the cluttered desk between them.

  Mr. Okinawa, the so-called therapist, sat slouched in his chair, one elbow resting lazily on the armrest as he ran a hand through his messy hair. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show faint nicotine stains on his fingers. He looked… exhausted. But not the kind of exhaustion that came from a long day of work—deeper than that.

  "Okay," he muttered, barely mustering the energy to straighten his posture.

  His gaze flickered to her, dull but oddly sharp at the same time.

  "My name is Mr. Okinawa. It’s nice to see you this evening, Miss Himeno. Is there a problem you’d like to talk about?"

  Himeno exhaled slowly, the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to her uniform.

  A problem?

  Where did she even start?

  She let her eyes wander across the room—stacks of papers, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey tucked near the corner of his desk, an overflowing ashtray with at least three freshly crushed cigarettes. The entire place reeked of someone who spent more time drowning his own thoughts than helping others process theirs.

  She huffed out a quiet chuckle.

  "You don’t seem like the kind of guy who actually helps people with their problems."

  Okinawa smirked at that, tapping his fingers against the armrest.

  "And you don’t seem like the kind of woman who needs help."

  Himeno tilted her head, rolling a cigarette between her fingers before tucking it between her lips.

  "Maybe."

  A beat of silence.

  The air hung thick between them, heavy with things unsaid.

  She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle deep in her bones.

  Then, finally—

  "I had a partner once."

  Her voice was quieter now.

  "He was strong. The strongest person I knew."

  She let the words sit there for a moment, her mind drifting back—memories of a determined boy with sharp eyes, a cigarette resting between his lips, a relentless fire burning in his chest.

  "But it didn’t matter."

  She swallowed.

  "Because no matter how strong you are, in this line of work—"

  She opened her eyes, meeting Okinawa’s gaze.

  "—You always end up dead."

  Okinawa sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand as he leaned back further into his chair. His office was already dim, but somehow, the air between them felt even heavier now. The weak glow of the desk lamp flickered slightly, casting an eerie yellow hue over his tired face.

  "Oh, let me guess… a Devil Hunter?" he muttered, voice laced with boredom.

  Himeno nodded, exhaling a slow stream of smoke from her cigarette.

  "Ding DIng Ding DIng."

  She said lightheartedly

  As Okinawa clicked his tongue, drumming his fingers lazily against the armrest of his chair.

  "Right. So, what’s the problem then? You want to quit? Is the working environment terrible? Are they overworking you? Sexual assault? Blackmail? PTSD?"

  His tone was flat, as if he was reading from a checklist. Like he’d heard it all before.

  Himeno let out a short laugh—not amused, just tired.

  "Nope. None of that."

  Okinawa raised an eyebrow at her, genuinely perplexed now. His slouched posture straightened slightly, and he gave her a more scrutinizing look.

  "Huh. Okay?… none of that?"

  His fingers reached for the pack of cigarettes on his desk, plucking one out and lighting it in a single, practiced motion.

  "Then what the hell are you doing here?" he asked, exhaling a slow puff of smoke.

  Himeno didn’t answer right away.

  Instead, she stared at the cigarette between her fingers, watching the ember glow, then fade.

  Why was she here?

  She had no desire to quit. She’d made peace with the dangers of the job a long time ago. The death, the blood, the way Devil Hunters got chewed up and spit out like broken tools—it was just another part of life.

  And yet, here she was.

  Sitting in a therapist’s office. Talking to a man who probably cared as little about her problems as she did about solving them.

  She tilted her head slightly, eyes flickering toward Okinawa.

  "I guess…" she murmured, taking another drag from her cigarette.

  "I just wanted to talk to someone who doesn’t expect me to die."

  Okinawa exhaled a slow stream of smoke, tapping the ash from his cigarette into the already overflowing tray. His eyes, dull and half-lidded, flickered up to meet Himeno’s.

  "Well then, hate to break this to you but you're talking to the wrong person, Ms. Himeno."

  His voice was as dry as old paper, devoid of sympathy or warmth.

  Himeno blinked.

  For a second, she just stared at him, caught completely off guard.

  "Wow." She scoffed, more amused than insulted. "How harsh of you."

  Okinawa didn’t react. He just took another drag of his cigarette, waiting.

  Himeno sighed, rolling her eyes. "Fine, then. I’ll talk about something else." She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other as she flicked the ashes from her cigarette onto the floor.

  "It’s more of a situation, really. Something I just need help with."

  Okinawa’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle shift in the air.

  Interest.

  It wasn’t every day a Devil Hunter came to him with a problem that wasn’t one of the usual. No nightmares of evisceration. No drowning in survivor’s guilt. No fear of dying alone in some alley, forgotten.

  Something different.

  His fingers stopped drumming against the armrest. He tilted his head slightly, watching her now with something that almost resembled curiosity.

  "Alright." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk.

  "Let’s hear it."

  

  Himeno took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a slow, deliberate stream before tapping the ashes off onto the cheap wooden floor.

  "Well, I’m not sure if you know them, but I have this… situation."

  She twirled the cigarette between her fingers, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as she tried to put her thoughts into words. "I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel, you know? Like, basically, the only reason I’m still working as a Devil Hunter is that there’s this guy."

  She paused, tapping her chin with her free hand. A small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she thought of Aki. "Let’s call him… uhm—"

  A few more thoughtful taps.

  "Kai."

  The name felt odd on her tongue, but whatever. It’d do.

  "Yeah, his name’s Kai. So, Kai became a Devil Hunter because he wants to kill the Gun Devil. From what I’ve heard, back when the Gun Devil appeared in Japan, it wiped out his parents. That’s why he ca—"

  "Let me guess."

  Okinawa’s voice cut through her words like a blade through cigarette smoke.

  "His name is Hayakawa Aki."

  Himeno froze.

  Her lips parted slightly, cigarette dangling between her fingers, forgotten.

  For a moment, she just stared at the man across from her, blinking in disbelief.

  "What—?"

  Her reaction made him chuckle dryly, leaning back in his chair as he stubbed out his cigarette with slow, deliberate movements.

  "C’mon, Himeno." He gestured vaguely with one hand, the other reaching for another cigarette. "You’re not exactly subtle."

  Himeno’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  "And you know this because…?"

  Okinawa shrugged. "Because half the Devil Hunters that walk through my door either want to quit, want to die, or are obsessed with killing the Gun Devil. Your boy ‘Kai’ happens to fit that last category."

  He flicked open his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating his bored expression before he took another slow drag.

  "Not to mention, you’re not the first person to come in here dancing around his name like it’s some big secret."

  Himeno leaned back in her chair, rubbing the back of her neck with a sigh.

  "Guess I should’ve known."

  

  Okinawa exhaled another puff of smoke, watching the way Himeno’s fingers twitched slightly as she spoke.

  "Don’t worry, I don’t really care," he said, his voice as dry as the cheap office air. "Just tell me the problem, and I’ll do what I can."

  Himeno exhaled, leaning forward and resting her elbow on the armrest.

  "Okay, let’s get straight to the point, then. There’s this red-haired girl—I’ll call her Ginge—"

  "Makima."

  The name left Okinawa’s lips before she even finished her sentence.

  Himeno’s entire face hardened.

  She turned her head slowly to look at him, her expression unreadable, but there was something sharp in her eyes—like a silent warning.

  Okinawa met her stare for only a second before clearing his throat and raising his hands slightly in mock surrender.

  "Sorry. Continue."

  Himeno didn’t say anything right away. She let the silence hang, long enough for him to understand she wasn’t the type to be interrupted twice.

  "As I was saying," she continued, her voice now laced with something a little colder, "Ginger doesn’t really like Aki. She has too many things to do to actually care about him, but Aki… well, he really likes her. To the point where he doesn’t—you know—notice me."

  Okinawa leaned forward slightly, suddenly looking more interested. In all his years as a therapist, he had never expected a love triangle to walk into his office, especially not from a Devil Hunter.

  "I see," he mused, flicking ash off the tip of his cigarette. "You have a thing for him?"

  Himeno opened her mouth as if to answer, but then… she didn’t.

  Instead, her lips pressed into a thin line, and her brows knitted together slightly.

  She looked confused.

  Like she had never actually asked herself that question before.

  "I think… well, maybe," she admitted, her voice softer now. "I mean, I’m really comfortable with him. It’s just—"

  Okinawa nodded, as if he had already figured it out before she had.

  "Possible," he murmured, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. "But I think it’s deeper than that."

  Himeno’s fingers hovered near her cigarette, hesitating before taking another drag.

  "Deeper how?"

  Okinawa leaned back in his chair, exhaling a slow stream of smoke.

  "You ever ask yourself why it bothers you so much? Why Aki, of all people?"

  Himeno didn’t answer right away.

  Because, truth be told…

  She didn’t know.

  

  Okinawa exhaled another long stream of smoke, his fingers lazily tapping against the side of his chair. His gaze, half-lidded and unreadable, remained fixed on Himeno as if he was piecing her apart one thought at a time.

  "Probably because of your work environment," he finally said, voice carrying that same dry, indifferent tone. "You don’t exactly have anyone to talk to about personal topics, do you?"

  Himeno scoffed lightly, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

  "You got that right."

  Okinawa nodded as if she had just proven his point.

  "And, of course, the most important thing—getting skewered by devils on a daily basis," he continued, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "All of these factors play a part. Your feelings are probably just getting… tangled. Confused. It happens."

  Himeno’s eyes flickered slightly, as if something about that statement unsettled her.

  "I bet you spend a lot of time on missions. Sometimes they last for days. And if you’re really unlucky… maybe a week, right?"

  She nodded.

  "Yeah. Sometimes longer if it’s bad."

  Okinawa leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his desk.

  "Then it makes sense."

  Himeno arched an eyebrow. "What does?"

  "Why your thoughts are getting messy," he replied, taking another slow drag from his cigarette. "You don’t have the luxury of stopping to sort them out. You’re always moving, always on alert, always ready to die. You’re around Aki all the time, and in that kind of life, attachments form differently. It’s less about romance and more about survival. The mind doesn’t care about the difference when you’re clinging to the one person who makes all that stress easier to bear."

  Himeno stared at him, her lips slightly parted, but no words came out.

  Because… he wasn’t wrong.

  Not entirely.

  "Maybe," she admitted, tapping her fingers against the armrest.

  Okinawa watched her for a moment before leaning back, taking another long drag before exhaling through his nose.

  "You should talk to yourself more."

  Himeno blinked.

  "What?"

  "Sounds crazy, I know," he said with a shrug, "but really, it’s the best way to talk to someone when no one else is around."

  Himeno scoffed, shaking her head.

  "Yeah, right. Because talking to myself in the middle of a devil hunt won’t make me look insane."

  "Better than bottling it up until you crack," Okinawa shot back. "Besides, if you don’t talk to yourself, someone else might start talking to you instead."

  There was something in his voice—something unsettling.

  And for a moment, just a fleeting second…

  Himeno thought she heard a whisper.

  A ghost of a voice.

  It was gone before she could even process it.

  She exhaled, rubbing her temple.

  "Great. Now you’ve got me paranoid."

  

  Okinawa let out a long sigh, rolling his eyes as he stubbed out his cigarette in the overfilled ashtray. The dull embers fizzled out with a soft hiss.

  "Goodness, not like that," he muttered, shaking his head. "I’m not telling you to start muttering to yourself in the streets like a lunatic."

  Himeno arched an eyebrow, arms crossed. "Then what exactly are you saying?"

  Okinawa exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he seemed to search for the right words. His usual sluggish demeanor momentarily faltered as if he was trying to untangle a thought that had been left knotted for too long.

  "Huh… well, it’s hard to explain," he admitted, rubbing his temple. "It’s like… a coping mechanism. A way for the brain to keep itself from drowning in loneliness."

  Himeno's eyes narrowed slightly, her curiosity piqued. "Go on."

  Okinawa leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, his voice taking on a more thoughtful tone.

  "The mind doesn’t like silence," he explained. "It doesn’t like the weight of isolation. If there’s nothing to occupy it, no one to talk to, it starts to compensate in its own way. Sometimes that means spiraling into depression. Other times, it means simulating conversations to break the stillness. You ever notice that?"

  Himeno frowned slightly, thinking.

  "Simulating conversations…?"

  "Yeah," Okinawa nodded. "It happens when you’re left alone with your thoughts for too long. Your brain starts talking to itself, generating responses, replaying past events, or even fabricating new ones. It could be something as harmless as mentally rehearsing an argument you never had or playing out a scenario where things went differently. Your brain does it automatically—solving problems, analyzing the past, preparing for the future. And sometimes, if the loneliness is deep enough, it fills the silence with voices that… feel real."

  Himeno’s fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of her pants.

  "Voices…?" she echoed, a strange tightness in her throat.

  Okinawa nodded slowly.

  "Not the kind you should ignore," he clarified, giving her a look as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. "I’m not talking about the kind that whispers nonsense or tries to drag you into the dark. I mean the ones that help. The ones that sound like people you know. Maybe even people you miss."

  Himeno remained silent, her expression unreadable.

  Okinawa took another cigarette from his pack but didn’t light it. He simply rolled it between his fingers, his gaze distant.

  "Some people call it a survival mechanism. Others call it a sign of losing touch. But the truth is, it’s just… human. The mind doesn’t want to be alone. It never has. So when there’s no one else around, it finds a way to create company."

  Himeno swallowed, shifting slightly in her seat.

  "And what if you don’t want to listen?" she asked.

  Okinawa smirked slightly, though there was no humor in it.

  "Then that’s when you start drowning."

  Okinawa rolled the unlit cigarette between his fingers, his gaze unfocused, as if staring into the depths of some unseen thought. His voice, though casual, carried a weight that settled into the air between them like a lingering haze of smoke.

  "It’s like… imagine being overweight," he began, his tone almost conversational. "And deep down, your brain knows what you need to do—exercise, eat better, get your life together. But you ignore it. You drown out that voice with excuses, distractions, whatever keeps you from facing it."

  He gestured vaguely with the cigarette.

  "Then time passes," he continued, "maybe months, maybe years. And one day, you finally catch a real glimpse of yourself. Not the version you pretend exists, not the one you convince yourself is fine. No, you see yourself exactly as you are, stripped of all the comforting lies. And in that moment, those voices you should’ve ignored—the ones whispering, nudging, warning—they don’t stay quiet anymore."

  He tapped the cigarette against the edge of the desk.

  "That’s when they throw a bucket of cold reality right in your face."

  Himeno sat still, watching him with a sharp gaze, her fingers subtly tightening around her own wrist.

  "Our minds are cruel that way," Okinawa went on, now looking directly at her. "They can be the most vile, ruthless critics, dragging up every failure, every missed opportunity, every stupid mistake. If those voices were real people, you’d hate them. You’d want to shut them up, kick them out of your life."

  He let the thought hang in the air before giving a slight shrug.

  "But," he said, leaning back into his chair, "they can also be your greatest supporters. Because, at the end of the day, they were there since day one. They know you better than anyone else ever will. They know every strength, every weakness, every inch of who you are. And if you actually listen—really listen—you might realize they’re not trying to break you."

  He exhaled, despite never having taken a drag.

  "Maybe they’re just trying to make sure you don’t break yourself."

  Himeno rested her elbow on the armrest, propping her chin against her knuckles as she studied Okinawa. The dim glow of the desk lamp cast shadows under his eyes, making the exhaustion in his gaze even more apparent. His words weren’t flowery, not the kind of advice you’d expect from a therapist, but they carried an unsettling weight—like he had seen this play out before.

  "So… would this actually help my situation?" she asked, her voice measured, trying to gauge just how much she should trust his insight.

  Jin Okinawa didn’t hesitate. His response came sharp and immediate, like a blade sliding clean through doubt.

  "It’s not about fixing the situation," he shot back, leaning forward slightly, his fingers interlocking. "It’s about understanding yourself. Why you did it in the first place. Why you’re still here. Because if you don’t figure that out, you’ll end up regretting everything."

  His words made her chest tighten. Regret. The last thing she wanted was to look back one day and realize she had wasted her life on something that was never hers to begin with.

  "If you’re still on this job just for him," Jin continued, "then you’ve been holding back feelings for longer than you’re willing to admit. And holding back only makes those feelings fester, turn into something twisted. The only way to really show him what you feel is through action. But that action needs to come from a place of clarity—your mind has to fully understand why you're doing it."

  His fingers drummed against the desk, once, twice.

  "And here’s the thing—you never made your relationship with him clear, did you? You never said the words out loud, never defined what you two are. Because deep down, you know someone like him isn’t after love. Not in the way you want him to be."

  Himeno’s breath hitched, but she said nothing.

  "So what did your mind do?" Jin pressed on. "It found a different way to keep you close to him. If love wasn’t an option, then companionship was the next best thing. Being with him in his journey, sharing his mission—that was the compromise. Your brain solved the problem of unspoken feelings by making you a part of his purpose."

  Jin exhaled, his expression unreadable.

  "Think about it," he said, his voice dropping lower. "And if you really want the answer—" he tapped the side of his head, "—ask one of your voices. They’ve been with you since day one. They already know what you refuse to admit."

  Himeno crossed her arms, shifting in her chair as she mulled over Jin’s words. The whole talking to yourself concept was a bit too abstract for her, and, quite frankly, exhausting. She already had enough voices rattling around in her head—the last thing she needed was to start taking advice from them.

  "I'm not sure if I can do that," she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck.

  Jin nodded, not looking the least bit surprised. "That’s fine. It’ll take time for you to find the answer. And when you do, it won’t be the strongest part of you that answers. Not the brave one, not the soldier who fights devils every day. It'll be the human part. The part that’s scared to die. The part that doesn’t want to be alone."

  Himeno sighed, exasperated. "I get it. I really do. But is there, like, another way?"

  Jin scratched his chin, thinking. "Maybe a hobby?"

  She shook her head immediately. "Don’t have time for that."

  "Okay, uh… food?"

  "Might get too fat," she countered.

  Jin let out a breath, clearly running out of ideas. "Alright, uh… I’m not sure," he admitted, ruffling his already-messy hair.

  Himeno squinted at him. "You’re not some kind of fake therapist, right?"

  Jin snapped his fingers. "No, no, I am a therapist—it’s just… hold on."

  He glanced around his office, eyes darting between the clutter. His desk was buried under stacks of paperwork, coffee cups, and a few empty cigarette packs. The air smelled faintly of burnt incense, an attempt at masking the scent of stress and exhaustion. His gaze finally landed on something buried beneath a pile of notes—a ball of yarn.

  He picked it up, holding it between his fingers like it was some kind of rare artifact. The thing was small, made of dull red fiber, slightly dusty from neglect. It was supposed to be the start of a sweater he had planned to knit for his kid. But, like most things in his life, he had forgotten about it.

  Jin cleared his throat, extending the yarn ball toward her.

  Himeno leaned forward, inspecting it with an arched brow. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

  Jin, realizing he had no solid answer, quickly scrambled for an explanation. "Well, I can see you’re facing a lot of troubles right now, so I decided to hand you this."

  "A yarn ball?"

  "Yes."

  She stared at him, unimpressed.

  Jin shifted in his chair, trying to sound more convincing. "This isn’t just any yarn ball. It’s… a way to track your progress."

  Himeno narrowed her eyes. "Progress?"

  Jin nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. Each time you manage to make Aki smile, or when he does something that acknowledges you—like handing you a gift, inviting you to an event, whatever—you loosen a single strand from this yarn ball."

  Himeno blinked. "That's it?"

  "That’s it," Jin confirmed.

  She picked up the ball of yarn, rolling it between her fingers. The fibers felt rough, slightly frayed. There was something oddly grounding about it—something tangible.

  "And what happens when it’s all unraveled?" she asked, glancing up at him.

  Jin smirked. "Then you’ll have your answer."

  Jin leaned forward, his voice carrying a sharp, deliberate weight.

  "And each time you cheat—each time you loosen a thread without truly earning it—you lose a piece of your answer. Got it?"

  Himeno studied the yarn ball in her hands, feeling its coarse texture against her fingertips. The weight of his words settled over her like an invisible burden.

  "Yeah… I got it."

  She let out a deep breath. Everything starts with mistakes, she thought. But it all ends with answers.

  A sudden warmth pressed against her cheek. The hazy remnants of sleep clung to her mind as her body stirred, slowly waking up. The sensation of something soft beneath her—the familiarity of a mattress that wasn’t hers—slowly registered.

  As her eyes fluttered open, the dim morning light seeped in through the blinds, casting soft streaks across the room. She knew this place. She had slept here before. Aki’s apartment.

  Her coat hung neatly on a wooden coat rack in the corner, its sleeves slightly swaying from the draft. The room smelled of fresh linen, faint traces of cigarette smoke, and something… warm. Something cooking.

  Pushing herself up, she sat at the edge of the bed, stretching her arms above her head with a soft groan. Her muscles ached—a dull reminder of long shifts, late-night patrols, and too many cigarettes. Ruffling her already-messy hair, she stood and padded toward the door, following the enticing aroma.

  The moment she stepped into the living room, she saw him.

  Aki stood in the kitchen, back turned to her as he prepared breakfast. Steam curled from the pan in front of him, the faint crackling of oil and eggs filling the space. His long, dark hair—usually tied back in a neat ponytail—flowed freely, strands slipping over his shoulders as he moved.

  Himeno leaned against the doorway, watching him in quiet amusement.

  Without turning around, Aki’s voice greeted her. "Good morning, Himeno."

  A small smile tugged at her lips. "Morning, Aki."

  He glanced at her briefly before focusing back on the stove, flipping something in the pan with practiced ease. "Go take a bath. Breakfast is almost ready."

  The background noise of the apartment came into focus—the faint hum of the television, the occasional scrape of a spoon against a plate, and the muffled voice of Power in the living room.

  "Biddy, stop that! You know we need those for later!" a cartoon character wailed from the TV.

  Himeno stepped further in, spotting Power sprawled across the couch, a PB&J sandwich clutched in her hands as she stared at the screen with laser focus. Crumbs were already piling up on the cushions beside her, but neither she nor Aki seemed too concerned about it.

  Shaking her head with a chuckle, Himeno turned away and made her way to the bathroom.

  The door clicked shut behind her as she stepped inside, sighing as she leaned against it for a brief moment. Aki’s bathroom was small, but clean and simple—minimalistic, just like the rest of his apartment.

  She tugged off her work clothes piece by piece, letting the fabric slip from her shoulders and pool onto the tiled floor. Rolling her shoulders, she reached over and turned on the bathtub faucet, watching as water rushed in, slowly rising with a soft, steady sound.

  As the warmth began to fill the space, she let her eyes drift to the small yellow rubber duck floating lazily on the surface, bobbing with the gentle ripples.

  A tired smile crossed her face. Aki still has this thing?

  She stepped forward, dipping a hand into the water, feeling the warmth seep into her skin.

  For a brief moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes. To breathe. To enjoy the small, fleeting peace of a quiet morning.

  Himeno took a bite of her breakfast, the warmth of the rice and eggs spreading through her as she listened to Aki. The soft clinking of utensils and the distant chatter from the television filled the cozy atmosphere of the apartment. Power, still engrossed in her cartoon, barely reacted to anything around her.

  She leaned back slightly in her chair, watching Aki as he ate. His long, dark hair was still loose, a rare sight. Usually, it was tied up neatly, but today, it fell over his shoulders, framing his sharp features. The morning light from the window made his hair look softer, less rigid than his usual disciplined demeanor.

  Himeno smirked as she chewed, her gaze shifting to the food in front of her. "Denji, huh? Well, if it’s a place he recommends, it must be good. He acts like a wild animal when it comes to food." She took another bite, savoring the balance of flavors. Aki always cooked with precision—never too salty, never too bland.

  Aki nodded, finishing a sip of his tea before continuing. "Yeah. He said he went there with a friend—Lex. Apparently, he's a little... crazy."

  Himeno raised an eyebrow at that. "Crazy? Like, Denji-crazy or a different kind of crazy?" She leaned in slightly, intrigued.

  Aki set his cup down, his fingers tapping lightly on the ceramic. "Denji described him as 'stupidly rich, talks too much, fights like a lunatic, and somehow makes everything feel like a game.' He said Lex is flashy—always doing things in the loudest, most ridiculous way possible."

  Himeno chuckled at the thought. "Sounds like the kind of guy who’d get along way too well with Denji."

  Aki sighed, rubbing his temple as if the mere thought of the two together gave him a headache. "Exactly. And now, thanks to him, we're going to try this restaurant."

  She grinned, twirling her spoon between her fingers. "Well, at least it means we won’t have to eat convenience store food for lunch again."

  Aki nodded in agreement, continuing to eat. The quiet companionship between them settled in naturally. No rush, no pressure—just a moment of calm before another long day of devil hunting.

  Himeno leaned back in her chair, savoring the last bite of her meal as the warmth of Aki’s cooking settled in her stomach. The soft clinking of utensils and the faint hum of the television filled the air, broken only by Power’s occasional bursts of laughter at whatever ridiculous cartoon antics were unfolding on the screen.

  Aki, unfazed by Power’s noise, finished his meal with quiet efficiency. He picked up his empty plate, taking a final sip of his tea before standing and heading toward the kitchen sink. His movements were methodical—calm, practiced. Himeno found herself watching him, studying the way his shoulders moved as he rinsed off his dishes, the way he brushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

  With a smirk, she reached over to the counter and grabbed Aki’s pack of cigarettes, feeling the familiar weight of them in her hand. She turned the pack over, tapping it lightly against her palm before looking up at him with playful eyes.

  "Aki, can I have a smoke?" she asked, her lips curling into a knowing grin.

  Aki glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a small sigh, he nodded. "Sure. But only one," he emphasized, his voice firm, knowing full well she’d take more if he didn’t set boundaries.

  Himeno grinned. "Okay, okay," she teased, raising her hands in mock surrender.

  She reached down, opening the drawer beside her where Aki kept his lighters. Inside was a neat row of them, each in a different color, arranged almost too precisely for a smoker’s stash. Aki really was meticulous about everything, even this.

  Letting her fingers wander, she picked out a light teal lighter, flipping it open with a soft metallic click. Just as she was about to light the cigarette between her lips, Aki’s voice cut through the moment.

  "Please smoke on the balcony," he said, his tone carrying more exhaustion than annoyance.

  Himeno blinked before giving him a sheepish smile. "Right, sorry," she muttered, standing up and stretching before making her way across the room.

  She passed the living area where Power remained glued to the television, fully immersed in her show, gnawing on what little remained of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The cartoon’s exaggerated voices carried through the apartment, but Power was oblivious to everything else.

  Sliding open the glass door to the balcony, Himeno stepped outside, embracing the crisp morning air. The city stretched before her, buildings stacked upon each other, their windows reflecting the pale sunlight. A slight breeze brushed against her skin, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic and the occasional chatter of pedestrians below.

  She brought the cigarette to her lips and lit it, watching as the flame briefly illuminated the tip before the tobacco slowly burned. She inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs before exhaling in a smooth, practiced motion.

  The sky above was a muted shade of blue, the kind that signaled another long day ahead.

  She took another drag, letting the nicotine settle her thoughts.

  Yeah. Just another long day.

  Himeno rested her elbows on the cool metal railing, the cigarette dangling between her fingers as she observed the city slowly waking up. The streets below pulsed with life—cars honking in short bursts, the rhythmic footsteps of early commuters blending into the hum of an urban morning. A woman’s voice carried up from the sidewalk, speaking hurriedly into her phone before fading into the distance.

  She brought the cigarette to her lips and took a slow, deliberate drag, letting the nicotine weave its way into her bloodstream, loosening the tension in her shoulders just a little.

  Behind her, the apartment was alive with its own kind of morning routine. The faint clinking of dishes signaled Aki finishing up in the kitchen, his quiet, efficient movements unchanged. Power’s cartoon droned on, its exaggerated voices occasionally punctuated by her snorts and bursts of laughter. The scent of breakfast still lingered, the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea mixed with something slightly charred—probably the toast Aki made.

  It was a strangely comforting scene. Domestic, almost normal.

  If she closed her eyes and didn’t think too hard, she could pretend this was just a regular morning in a shared apartment. That none of them were Devil Hunters. That death wasn’t constantly looming over their shoulders, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  But Himeno had never been good at lying to herself.

  She exhaled, watching the tendrils of smoke curl into the morning air before flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette. Her mind wandered to the conversation at breakfast. Aki had mentioned taking them to some restaurant Denji recommended.

  She smirked at the thought.

  Of course Denji would know the good food spots. The kid had a single-minded obsession with eating, always chasing his next meal like it was the only thing that mattered. And then there was this friend he mentioned—Lex.

  Aki had described him as crazy.

  Himeno chuckled to herself. Great. As if Denji wasn’t already a handful.

  She could only imagine what kind of person Lex was if even Denji—who fought devils with reckless abandon and threw himself into danger without a second thought—thought he was crazy. Maybe he was some loudmouthed idiot? Even more reckless than Denji? If that was the case, Aki was probably already exhausted just thinking about it.

  Another slow drag. Another exhale. The smoke faded into the pale blue sky.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Aki.

  He had seemed the same as always—quiet, serious, methodical—but she had known him long enough to pick up on the subtle shifts in his behavior. The way he casually mentioned a lunch plan, how he actually listened to Denji’s recommendations, the brief glance he gave her when she asked for a cigarette.

  Maybe he wasn’t fully aware of it yet, but something about him was changing.

  Himeno took one last drag before flicking the cigarette over the edge of the balcony. The tiny ember disappeared into the morning air. She stretched her arms above her head, exhaling deeply before turning back toward the sliding door.

  Stepping inside, she was greeted by the lingering warmth of breakfast.

  Aki stood in front of the small mirror by the door, fixing his work clothes. His hair, still loose from earlier, fell over his shoulders as he grabbed a hair tie and quickly gathered it into a ponytail with practiced ease. Across the room, Power had turned off the TV and was wrestling with her clothes, pulling her uniform on in a way that looked more like a battle than getting dressed.

  After a few seconds of struggling, she managed to shove her arms through the right holes, though her collar was still uneven. Aki sighed and walked over, reaching down to straighten out her clothes. Power, predictably, swatted at his hands.

  “Quit touching me, human!” she growled, though she didn’t actually stop him from tidying her uniform.

  Himeno smirked as she walked past Aki, throwing out a teasing comment as she glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

  “You should let your hair down more often,” she mused. “Makes you look less uptight.”

  Aki shot her a half-hearted glare through the mirror, but didn’t bother untying his hair.

  “Go get ready,” he muttered, clearly done with her antics. “We’ve got patrol soon.”

  She grinned, ruffling his shoulder in passing. “Yeah, yeah.”

  With that, she made her way toward the guest room, her footsteps light against the floor.

  Himeno draped her work clothes over her arm, slipping into them one sleeve at a time, adjusting the fit until everything felt just right. Her fingers instinctively smoothed out the creases on her uniform before her gaze drifted toward the desk beside the guest bed.

  There, resting in quiet stillness, was her nearly finished yarn project.

  A soft smile played on her lips as she walked toward it, fingers grazing over the delicate strands. It wasn’t anything extravagant—just something simple, something made with time and patience. She had started it absentmindedly, never thinking much of it, but now, seeing her progress, she felt a small sense of accomplishment.

  Her fingers carefully traced the knotted threads, recalling the moments of that morning—the warmth of the bath, the taste of Aki’s cooking, the lazy way Power had sprawled out on the couch, laughing at her cartoons. Simple things. But things that made her happy.

  She let her fingers slip between the loops, smoothly undoing one of the knots, watching as the yarn loosened ever so slightly.

  Her thoughts lingered on Aki.

  She knew better than anyone that their line of work didn't promise a tomorrow. That every mission could be their last. That the people she cared about—Aki—could be gone in an instant.

  Her fingers brushed against the last loose strand, the soft fiber tickling her skin.

  If I remove this… my mind will follow my promise.

  Her grip on the yarn tightened.

  I promise, Aki—whatever happens, I will help you.

  Himeno’s trembling hand slowly backed away from the strand, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The warmth of Aki’s apartment, the quiet safety of the morning, all of it faded, replaced by the scent of blood, fire, and shattered wood.

  The ruined restaurant around her was barely standing. Splintered beams jutted out like broken ribs, glass crunched beneath her weakly shifting body, and the acrid sting of smoke clung to her lungs. The once-lively atmosphere that Denji had spoken so highly of was reduced to little more than a battlefield—a graveyard of what could’ve been.

  Her bloodied fingers reached forward, the last loosened strand of yarn barely within her grasp. The crimson that coated her hands soaked into the delicate fibers, staining them permanently, but she didn’t stop.

  A small hand—one that wasn’t truly there—gently wrapped around hers.

  She looked up, vision blurred, but the image was unmistakable. The child version of herself, the girl who once had dreams, once believed in a future, brought the yarn closer, holding it out as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Her tiny fingers curled around Himeno’s, offering the last gift she could.

  Himeno's breathing was ragged, but her heart—her soul—felt lighter than it had in years.

  She had made a promise to herself. And she would see it through.

  Her fingers, slick with her own blood, felt the strand, tracing it with an almost reverent touch. The fibers were soaked now, dark and heavy, but that didn’t matter.

  A purpose far greater than fear or pain filled her as she forced her weak, broken body to move.

  Slowly. Surely.

  She untied the last strand.

  Her voice, barely above a whisper, carried more weight than any scream.

  "Ghost... let’s make a promise," she breathed, her lips curling into a smile despite the unbearable weight of exhaustion pressing down on her.

  "I’ll give you everything from me… in exchange… give him everything he needs."

  The Ghost Devil loomed above her, its many arms swaying in eerie silence. Its eyeless face betrayed no emotion, but Himeno felt it—the understanding, the unspoken contract sealed in the air between them.

  The devil nodded.

  The child version of her smiled, waving the small, lifeless hand of her doll in farewell.

  And as Himeno lay there, on the cold, bloodstained floor of that ruined restaurant, her vision growing darker at the edges, she felt no fear.

  Only warmth.

  Only purpose.

  The man carried Denji’s lifeless body over his shoulder, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he approached the rendezvous point. The metallic scent of blood clung to the air, mixing with the faint stench of burning rubber and gunpowder. The meeting point was an industrial loading zone, abandoned years ago—cracked asphalt, rusted metal beams, and a single black cargo truck waiting under the dull afternoon sun.

  Members of Spatz were already in position, standing in small clusters with their rifles slung over their shoulders, some lighting cigarettes, others scanning the area with wary eyes. Sawatari leaned against the cargo truck, arms crossed, her short blonde hair with dark roots partially tucked beneath the bulletproof vest she wore over her standard-issue combat gear.

  “Took you long enough,” she muttered, her voice edged with impatience. “Let’s get going. We don’t have all day.”

  The man exhaled sharply, exhaustion evident in the way his shoulders sagged. His hybrid form began to melt away, thick tar-like sludge dripping from his body. With a practiced motion, he reached up and tore off the lower jaw of his transformed state, peeling it away like a second layer of flesh. The grotesque, half-severed maw hit the ground with a wet splatter, discarded without a second thought. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing the remnants of blackened ichor from his forehead.

  “Yeah… let’s get going.” His voice was low, raspy, weighed down by fatigue.

  Then it happened.

  ?? ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL! THIS IS NOT A TEST! REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A TEST! ??

  A loud mechanical blare erupted through the loading zone, the announcement echoing off the rusted metal structures around them. The Spatz members stiffened, their casual demeanor replaced by sharp, immediate tension. The voice was artificial, sterile, and laced with an authority that brooked no defiance.

  All individuals within this designated zone are ordered to evacuate immediately.

  By direct command of the Heavens Gate Organization, the High-Class Elite Devil Hunter, Codename: "Death Hunter," has been deployed in this sector.

  Any individuals deemed a potential threat by H.G.O. will be classified as subjects for live testing under the jurisdiction of the H.G.O. Authoritives.

  All unauthorized personnel must vacate the area at once. Failure to comply will result in immediate engagement.

  This is your only warning.

  The already tense atmosphere shifted into something far more dangerous. Sawatari’s face darkened, her fingers instinctively gripping her walkie-talkie. She brought it up, voice clipped and urgent.

  “Black Pope, Black Pope, this is Sawatari, answer—”

  Her voice.

  The walkie-talkie in her hand buzzed with static before replaying her exact words back to her in real-time.

  Her stomach lurched.

  Her blood turned to ice.

  Impossible. Black Pope’s squad was stationed miles away—there was no way they could be intercepted this quickly.

  She turned sharply, her instincts screaming at her as her team, including the man, followed her gaze. The Spatz operatives raised their weapons, scanning the area with renewed paranoia. Then, from the cargo truck, the sound of something shifting inside its inventory compartment made them all freeze.

  A sickening crack rang out.

  And then another.

  Before anyone could react, thick, muscular serpentine bodies exploded out from within the truck’s reinforced cargo hold, piercing through the metal walls as if they were made of paper. The creatures slithered out, coiling beside Sawatari, their movements slow, deliberate, menacing.

  The man wasted no time. He reached into the truck’s supply crates, yanking open a pack of blood, tearing into it and chugging its contents greedily. The moment the warm liquid hit his system, his body convulsed, muscles tensing, bones twisting. He forced the transformation, ripping himself apart as he reentered his hybrid form.

  But the moment his transformation completed, pain followed.

  SHINK!

  Muramasa blades—razor-sharp, impossibly fast—sliced through his skull and arms, sending fresh fountains of blood into the air. He staggered, barely managing to keep himself upright.

  And then, they saw it.

  The same alleyway the man had walked through just minutes ago.

  It was dark.

  Too dark.

  Despite the sun still hanging in the sky, no light seemed to reach into that alley, as if it had been swallowed by something unseen. They all stood their ground, sweat dripping down Sawatari’s forehead as a silent, overwhelming pressure settled upon them.

  Then, the sunlight moved.

  It stretched—creeping ever so slowly across the asphalt.

  The light revealed something.

  Blood.

  Not a single drop.

  Not a splatter.

  A flood.

  And then, the bodies.

  Black Pope’s squad was there.

  —or rather, what was left of them.

  Their limbs were gone.

  Their heads were missing.

  What remained of them was little more than ruined flesh and twisted torsos, strewn across the alleyway like discarded carcasses. The smell of death rolled in, thick and suffocating.

  A slow, deliberate step echoed from within the darkness of the alleyway.

  Something was coming.

  Something had already been here.

  And now, it was watching.

  The alleyway was cloaked in an unsettling silence, broken only by the sickening echo of Black Pope's staggered steps. The dim sunlight struggled to break through the thick shadows as his form emerged from the darkness, a grotesque spectacle. Half of his arm was missing, severed cleanly by some unseen force, the stump leaking a torrent of blood that splattered on the cobblestones beneath him. The blood didn't just spill; it seemed to pulse, a grotesque reminder that the body wasn't quite ready to die, even if the heart no longer beat.

  His clothing, once pristine, was now a bloody mess. The tactical gear—reminiscent of a twisted papal cassock—hung loosely on his frail body. The white fabric was stained crimson, the demonic symbols etched onto the garment mocking the very faith it parodied. A banner adorned his back, its message stark and blasphemous: God Kills All. The irony was lost on no one; his very existence had become an affront to the divine.

  A weathered wanted poster, its edges curled and stained, was pinned to his forehead with a single jagged spike. "Black Pope: Dead or Alive. 20 Million Dollar Reward." The words were barely legible, smeared with the blood that had soaked into the paper, now a macabre crown upon his disfigured face.

  He was a walking contradiction, barely alive, yet still standing, still moving. His skin, shredded in places, revealed the skeletal framework beneath, and the holes blasted into his body only served to highlight the fact that his heart had ceased to beat. The body was a hollow vessel, something stitched together by the desperate will to survive, but the pulse of life was nowhere to be found.

  Sawatari’s breath caught in her throat, her wide eyes filled with disbelief as she watched the impossible unfold. How was he still standing? How was he still alive? The blood was fresh, but it didn’t seem to be enough to sustain the fading remnants of his humanity. His body shouldn’t have been able to function. His heart—his heart wasn’t even beating.

  And yet, there he was.

  Black Pope’s head turned slightly, the sickening crack of his neck making a sound that reminded her of broken glass. His eyes, barely conscious, locked onto her. The confusion in them, the silent scream for help—it was the most human thing about him. His words—“H-Help m-m”— were barely a whisper, lost in the depth of the growing chaos around them.

  Sawatari’s mind raced. The squad had been obliterated, the alley was still cloaked in shadows, and the very air felt suffocating. Every nerve in her body screamed to run, to get away from whatever this man—this... thing—was. But the sight of him, broken and somehow still breathing, tethered her to the moment. It was as if he was a living reminder that even the most broken beings could survive, cling to life with a stubbornness that defied reason.

  She couldn’t help but wonder—how much longer would this mockery of life last? How much longer could Black Pope walk the earth, a vessel of death and destruction?

  Sawatari stepped forward, instinctively

  reaching for her gun. The air around them was thick with the tension of impending disaster,

  the distant sounds of rattling metal and thw mournful screech of tires in the streets beyond her. There was no turning back now. The game had already started, and Black Pope was its twisted centerpiece.

  The Black Pope's body crumpled to the ground, his limbs stiffening as the weight of his own demise sent him crashing to the floor with a hollow, almost reverberating thud. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to pause in stunned silence—a quiet stillness so unnatural, it felt as though the very air had held its breath, waiting for what would come next.

  And then, from the space behind the Pope’s fallen corpse, a figure emerged, as though he had always been there but unseen. His presence was subtle yet undeniable, like the subtle shift in the wind before a storm. He stood still, an almost predatory calmness emanating from him, a quiet intensity that made the atmosphere feel heavy, thick with anticipation. There was an unsettling serenity in his composure, a quiet that spoke volumes more than any noise ever could.

  He was armed with two hand cannons, one in each hand—perfectly balanced in his grip, like extensions of his own soul. The first, Death, gleamed with an unnatural, almost divine serenity. Its barrel was a flawless white, smooth as porcelain, adorned with intricate golden linings that shimmered softly as though kissed by light itself. The weapon exuded an aura of purity, of finality, an instrument designed not just to kill, but to erase existence itself. The craftsmanship was immaculate, every line, every curve, a work of divine precision, as if it were forged by gods with the sole purpose of carrying out inevitable destruction. It was a thing of grace, beautiful yet incomprehensibly dangerous—an angelic executioner that could bring an end to all things with the softest of whispers.

  The other, Life, was the antithesis in every sense. Its barrel was black, matte, and marred with the scars of countless battles—each scratch, each dent, a testament to its long history of struggle. The weapon was sharp, angular, and its form spoke of chaos, of hardship endured through years of conflict. The barrel, though worn, still carried a faint ethereal glow, veins of red and green shimmering through the black surface as though it were infused with the very essence of life itself—life that could be stolen, manipulated, or even granted in an instant. It was a weapon forged in the crucible of pain and defiance, a tool of survival, one that had seen the darkest aspects of existence and yet remained resolute, battered but unyielding.

  His appearance was as striking as the weapons he carried. His hair was messy, untamed, as though he had not bothered to care for it in a long while. Strands fell across his brow, framing a face worn with exhaustion, eyes that spoke of journeys taken, of battles fought, and of the toll time had exacted. Yet despite the weariness in his gaze, there was a strange intensity, an unwavering focus that betrayed his fatigue, keeping him sharp and alert, never letting him fully break. His eyes, however, betrayed a duality that was difficult to ignore—his right eye glimmered with an innocent, almost childlike brightness, a flicker of purity amidst the darkness, while his left eye, dull and faded, held the somber weight of countless tragedies, a reflection of the things he had seen and the cost of survival.

  Beneath his neck, a black-and-gray tattoo of hands spiraled around his throat, the ink etched deep into his skin as though the hands were alive, their fingers gripping tightly, threatening to strangle him with their constant, suffocating pressure. It was as though the very mark on his skin symbolized a deep internal struggle—a battle between the forces of life and death that raged not just outside of him, but within.