Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Reze stood on the train station platform, rolling the cardinal red daisy between her fingers.

“Train to Yamagata, now departing from Platform 2.” The announcement echoed across the station. The words ringing in her ears.

If she just boarded the on to the train. A salvation that could whisk her away from it all. Disappear into the peaceful countryside. Live quietly, safely, no more targets on her back. No more lives to take. It was everything she thought she had wanted.

But still, there was the other path she could live out. The life her heart kept dragging her toward. The one her heart yearned for. The idiot with yellow hair. The boy who was supposed to be her target. The boy more interesting than any she’d ever met. The boy she wanted more than freedom. The boy who captured her heart.

The train hissed.
Doors closing shut.
Her last chance.

The train roared into motion, wheels reeling against the tracks. Moving with a predictable hum, each passing car wooshing by, erasing the easy future she could have chosen. When the last carriage vanished, she was still there, staring down at the daisy glowing red in her hand. His reflection staring back at her.

This was the life she wanted.
The real one.

She turned and walked toward the gates, exiting out into the warmth of the sun shine. Beginning her journey down the street, passing the phone booth where she had first met him under the rain. Her pace quickened. She took the familiar street, climbing the steps that called out to her to turn around. Turning down the narrow alley that faced toward the cafe. A pit forming in her stomach, every fiber of her being screaming at her to turn around and take the easy way out.

A single thud from the heart in the sea of noise drowning it all out, breaking out into a full sprint, her hand gripping tightly to the diasy.

Crows watched from the ledges above as she sprinted, but could not pay them any less attention.
She saw him.
A flash of messy blond through the window. He was so close.

A warm sensation hitting her as she entered back into the sunlights stage as she burst onto the street. Her nearly colliding with two cars, as they honked at her, but kept running. One breath. One heartbeat. Her hand closed around the cafe door handle. Taking a single moment to collect herself, the moment broken by a foot step coming from behind her.

________________________________________________________________

Denji sat alone at the cafe table, staring into a cup of coffee he had barely touched, though he was sure it'd taste awful. The steam had already faded. His reflection in the dark liquid looked as uncertain as he felt.

What was he even doing here.

She wasn’t coming.

Why would she.

He was just a dumb weapon they pointed at a target. Nothing more. Nothing worth choosing.

His knee bounced under the table. His fingers drummed against the ceramic. His grip on the bouquet of white daisies tightening. His mind incessantly demanding he leave with every second that passed, but his body refused to move. *She'd come for him*

Aki’s voice cut through his skull first. Calm. Disappointed.
“You really think she cares about you. Dont be so gullible, she only wants your heart”

Then Power’s shriek. Annoyed and mocking.
“Human, you are so stupid. She will kill you again.”

Kishibe’s gravel tone followed. Cold and blunt.
“This is how fools die.”

Pochita’s voice hurt the most. Not angry. Just sad.
“Denji… please don’t get hurt anymore.”

Makima’s voice wrapped around the others like chains.
“You belong to me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his chest like he could keep his heart from tearing itself apart. Everything in his head told him to run back, pretend none of this happened, be a good dog again. Safe. Obedient. Alone.

He hated how much sense it made. The world did not get quiet. It only screamed at him louder.

Beam’s voice came last. Bright. Loyal. Full of absolute faith in him.
“Lord Chainsaw will be loved. Lord Chainsaw deserves happiness.”

That one hurt the most, because he wanted to believe it.

You are nothing.
She chose her mission.
You should not have hoped.

Denji stood suddenly, hands shaking. Chair legs scraped the ground. He would walk out that door and forget her. This never happened. He never cared.

The hazlenut door opened into the the golden bell, it swinging violently.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Denji’s attention snapped toward the door. A figure emerging from the light. Breath held, feeling every pulse and palpation coursing through his body. Please be her.

Purple hair. A brilliant gleaming smile. A red daisy clutched in her hands.

Reze

Her hand tucking strands of hair behind her ear, “Did I keep you waiting too long?”

Denji stared in awe. His heart slammed against his ribs.

“I would have waited all day for you.”

Chapter Text

Reze stepped forward. Each click of her heels on the tile sounded louder than her heartbeat. She told herself to breathe, though the air felt too thick in her lungs. Denji stood from his seat, chair legs scraping the floor, eyes wide and disbelieving.

Only then did she notice what he was holding.
A bouquet.
Dozens of white daisies, wrapped awkwardly in cheap paper. He must have grabbed the entire bucket from a convenience store.

He looked at the flowers, then at the red daisy in her hands, and swallowed hard.

“You came back,” he said, as though the words might undo reality if spoken too softly.

Reze nodded. Her voice tangled with the rush of everything she finally allowed herself to feel. Fear. Hope. The longing she could no longer reason away.

Denji saw her shaking. His rough fingers reached for hers without thinking, steadying her. She squeezed back, unable to hide how much that steadiness meant.

“Uh… sit with me?” he said, cheeks flushing.

Her laugh came out soft and real, releasing some of the pressure in her chest.

She sat beside him, not across, sliding close enough that their shoulders touched. The sunlight fell behind her like a spotlight. Denji struggled to look anywhere else.

The world around them faded into a distant blur. Conversations drifted. Dishes clinked. None of it reached them.

The space between them disappeared slowly. Neither rushed. Neither looked away.

Reze felt the heat of his shoulder against hers. It was grounding and terrifying all at once. She had always been told that love was a weakness. Right now it felt like the only strength she had left. Her pulse fluttered in her throat, yet she leaned closer anyway. If she pulled back now, she knew she would never forgive herself.

Denji stared into her eyes, searching for any sign this was a trap or a joke. Except all he found was someone who looked just as scared as he was. The fear did not push him away. It made him braver. He wanted to wipe away every doubt she ever had about him.

Her hand rested on the bouquet. His rested over hers. Neither moved. Neither needed to. The warmth of their touch did the talking for them.

Reze thought of every order she had followed. Every life she had taken. Every night she felt hollow afterward. Yet with Denji looking at her like she mattered more than any mission, the emptiness cracked open. Light slipped in.

Denji thought of every time he had been used. Manipulated. Controlled. He did not know how to trust the good things life handed him. Trusting her felt dangerous. It also felt right. He would rather be hurt than live another day believing he did not deserve happiness.

Their foreheads almost brushed. His breath tickled her lips. If either leaned even a fraction closer, the gap would be gone.

This was the fragile moment that could have rewritten both of their lives. A tiny, perfect pause where the world stopped spinning.

Just them.

Just one heartbeat shared between two people who never expected to feel loved.

Just this moment.

Reze placed her red daisy into the sea of the white bouquet. The single burst of color felt like a promise buried in purity. He looked at it like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“I chose this,” she whispered. “I chose you.”

Denji’s breath caught. He was not good with big words, so he gave her the truth in the only way he knew.

“I’ll protect that choice. No matter what.”

Her heart twisted. For the first time, she let herself believe she could have something better. Something human.

He moved a little closer, wanting to say more. Their faces inches apart, eyes locked, the world truly gone for a fleeting heartbeat.

Then the bell above the door chimed.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Cold air spilled into the room. Two men in long black coats stepped inside, scanning the cafe with calculated focus.

Reze’s smile died in an instant.

Denji’s gaze flickered past them and caught something that made his stomach drop. A hint of red hair behind those trench coats.

Reze leaned in, voice barely a breath.

“We have to go. Right now.”

Denji didn’t question. He shoved the bouquet under his arm, snatched her hand, and stood.

They ran.

Chapter Text

Denji gripped Reze’s hand tight, refusing to let anything separate them again. A sharp whistle cut through the cafe air. The two men in trench coats lunged forward, shoving tables aside, knocking coffee cups to the floor as startled customers yelled.

“Go.” Reze hissed. The bouquet dropped to the ground, petals spreading across the ground

They burst through the back hallway. The back door slammed against the wall as they barreled into the alley. The cafe owner, holding a trash bag, stared wide-eyed at the pair sprinting past.

“Hey, what are you kids—”

The rest of his question was crushed under the sound of the door behind them splintering apart. The trench coat men shoved the owner aside like an obstacle, sending him crashing into the garbage cans.

Denji and Reze hit the alley corner at full speed, only to skid to a stop when a black car screeched in front of them. Tires skidded. Doors flew open. Three more men stepped out, guns already drawn.

They were boxed in. No escape.

Denji’s panic spiked. Instinct kicked in as his hand flew to his chest, reaching for the cord that would turn the world into blood and metal.

Reze caught his wrist fast, shaking her head once. Her eyes were steady in a way that told him everything.

Trust me

She stepped ahead, keeping him behind her. Her fingers found the pin in her neck. One quick pull.

Boom

Light and force erupted as her body exploded into the Bomb Devil. Denji stumbled, but Reze scooped him up without missing a beat.

Gunshots cracked across the alley. Bullets sliced through smoke and sparks, but Reze blasted skyward, leaving only scorched pavement where they once stood.

Wind whipped around them. Denji looked back down, heart pounding.

“Guns. I thought guns,” he yelled against the rushing air. “I thought only Public Safety and police could have guns.”

Reze did not answer. Her jaw was set, eyes focused ahead.

Denji followed her gaze. The black cars. The precision. The red hair he had glimpsed behind the trench coats.

The truth hit him like a punch to the gut.

Makima

The world below shrank as they flew, but the threat felt closer than ever.

The wind tore at Denji’s clothes as Reze soared through the sky, carrying him effortlessly. Below, the city blurred into streaks of gray and brown. He tried to catch his breath, but every heartbeat was a drum of panic.

A shadow passed over them. Dark shapes against the clouds—hundreds of crows, even thousands, black as ink, descending like a living storm. Blooting out he sun, threatening to shroud the two in darkness.

“Reze…” he started, reaching instinctively toward the cord at his chest, ready to fight, to protect her.

“DON’T!” Her voice sliced through the wind. Denji froze mid-motion. His hand snapped back to his side. “Why?” he shouted against the roar of the sky.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the swarm ahead. “Don't transform,” she yelled her tone paniced, "Trust me" her tone leaving no room for argument.

Denji felt the rush of adrenaline mix with confusion. He had never hesitated to transform when the time called. Now, the hesitation burned him from the inside out. He gritted his teeth and held on tighter, letting her take the lead.

The crows dove. Reze twisted midair, blasting outwards, each explosion scattering the birds in every direction, but more surged from the streets below. They weren’t just animals—they were weapons, controlled, coordinated, and relentless.

“Public Safety!” Denji realized too late as armored trucks screeched onto the streets beneath them. The top hatches popped open. Sharpshooters aimed directly at them. Reze’s bombs detonated near the first volley, sending fragments flying, but more rounds came immediately.

Denji’s heart thumped in terror and awe. Reze had become a hurricane, her dome shaped head burst through the smoke, the red daisy’s memory burning bright in his mind. He wanted to help—he needed to help—but her hand clenched over his like an anchor.

Another wave of crows swirled around them, even denser, cawing and shrieking in a deafening chorus. Denji caught glimpses of other shapes—hawks, ravens, maybe even dogs and rats—pouring into the chase, all somehow guided by Makima’s red hair gleaming in the distance.

Each explosion she set off threw them further from the ground, but the swarm adapted, closing in faster than they moved. Denji gripped her tighter, trusting her instincts even though his mind screamed he should act.

“Almost there,” she shouted. Her bombs cracked open alleyways below, creating jagged gaps and smoke, buying them slivers of time, but each moment felt like a heartbeat closer to disaster.

Denji’s thoughts raced: We can’t keep this up. We’ll run out of space. We’ll run out of bombs. I have to do something. But every time he reached for the cord, her sharp voice cut through the panic, “DON’T!”

He stayed still. He watched. He learned to follow her lead. And in that fleeting trust, something inside him shifted—he realized survival wasn’t just about fighting; it was about knowing when to let someone else guide you.

Below, the city’s chaos multiplied. Public Safety units swarmed the streets. Crows and animals attacked in unpredictable patterns. Reze and Denji weren’t just running—they were dancing through a storm crafted by a single master.

Two sharp cracks split the air. Denji barely had time to register them before a searing pain tore through Reze’s legs. She cried out, and gravity took them both with brutal speed.

“Hold on!” Denji shouted, wrapping an arm around her as they plummeted.

A warehouse loomed beneath them, its rusted metal and broken windows rushing up to meet them. They smashed through the roof, splintered wood and shattered beams raining around them. Dust choked the air. Metal groaned and tumbled.

Denji groaned, a metallic taste in his mouth, but forced himself upright. He blinked through the haze, heart hammering. “Reze… you okay?”

Her form shimmered through the dust. She pushed herself up, favoring one leg, wincing, but managing to stand. Not fully healed, but enough to keep moving. Her purple hair hung in clumps around her face, her eyes sharp despite the pain.

No time to think.

From the shadows of the warehouse floor, squeaks and scratching echoed. A tide of rats and mice spilled from the corners, over crates, across broken floorboards. Their numbers swelled unnaturally, eyes glinting red in the gloom. Denji’s pulse jumped.

Then the creatures began to twist, contorting unnaturally, their fur and limbs merging into a massive humanoid form. It shuddered, then dissipated. And standing in its place, calm and impossible, was Makima. Her red hair gleamed like a warning flare.

Denji instinctively stepped in front of Reze. “You… you again,” he muttered, jaw tight, his chest heaving.

Makima’s smile was slow, measured, like she had all the time in the world to toy with them. “You’re persistent,” she said, voice silk over steel. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d learn your place.”

Denji’s hands shook, but he forced himself to meet her gaze. “Makima… you don’t have to do this. She’s not evil! I love her! She’s not a threat to you!”

Makima tilted her head, the red hair gleaming like a warning in the dim warehouse light. “I thought you loved me,” she said, eyes narrowing.

“I… I love both of you!” Denji shouted, his voice cracking. “I don’t have to choose! I just… I just want you both safe!”

Makima’s smile didn’t falter. She ignored his pleas, letting the words hang uselessly in the air. Her gaze shifted to Reze. “You’ve done well to keep up your end of the agreement,” she said, voice cold and precise. “Let’s see how much longer you can keep it up.”

Reze’s eyes sharpened. She clenched her fists, pain forgotten, and her fingers went to the pin at her neck. She pulled it with decisive force, ready to fight.

Denji’s brow furrowed. “Agreement? What agreement?” he whispered, confused, glancing at her as she transformed, realizing she had been holding something back all along.

But he didn’t hesitate. He stayed in front of her, arms spread just enough to shield her, his expression fierce. “Not letting anyone touch you!”

Reze, now in her bomb devil form, flared with energy, standing tall despite her still-healing legs.

Makima’s red-haired silhouette loomed, the hum of rats and unseen animals growing louder, filling the warehouse with the scent of metal and filth. Denji’s heart hammered.

In that instant, Denji realized something he had known deep down all along: no matter the danger, no matter the odds, he would follow Reze anywhere—even into the jaws of the devil standing before them.

Denji’s hand shot for the cord again. This has to be the moment, he thought. If any time called for me to transform, it’s now. She—Reze—she can’t take all of this alone.

“Denji, no!” Reze’s sharp voice cut through the chaos, snapping him back. He froze mid-reach, fingers inches from the cord.

“Why not?!” he shouted, eyes wide. “It’s me or we die!”

“You can’t intervene in this fight!” Reze barked, her body flaring with explosive energy. Sparks of light danced across the warehouse as she hovered in front of him, eyes blazing. “If you transform, it will ruin everything!”

Denji faltered, confusion clouding his panic. “Everything? What are you even talking about? What agreement?”

Her gaze hardened. “The agreement… it involves you. Just… trust me.”

Denji’s mind spun. She hadn’t fully explained it, but a cold realization started to crystallize: whatever Makima had set up, whatever deal Reze had agreed to—it had to involve him transforming. That’s why she’s holding me back. That’s why she’s risking herself.

Makima watched silently, her red hair like a beacon, her arms crossed. Rats and mice scuttled around the warehouse floor, forming unnerving shapes as they waited for a command. Denji’s heart pounded. This is insane. Why would I have to stay out of it?

But he trusted Reze. He had no choice.

Reze pivoted midair, her form radiating explosive energy as she hurled herself toward Makima’s humanoid rat construct. Each step left scorched marks on the floor, and debris rattled off the walls. Denji followed, not with power, but by staying close, shielding her where he could and watching the enemy’s movements.

The warehouse shook as bullets and claws rained down. Sparks flew as Reze dodged and countered, weaving through the assault with precision. Denji could barely keep his eyes on everything, his mind racing to figure out the agreement she had hinted at.

It’s me… it’s about me transforming. That has to be it…

And then Reze leapt high, pin ready in her hand, every ounce of her strength focused on one decisive strike. Denji’s chest tightened, helplessness and awe colliding in his gut. He wanted to act, wanted to pull the cord and tear through the warehouse, but he stayed frozen, holding his breath, trusting her plan—even if he didn’t understand it yet.

Makima’s voice cut through the chaos, cold and taunting: “You’ve done well to keep up your end, Reze. Let’s see how long you can keep it up.”

Denji’s jaw clenched. Whatever she means, I’m not letting her take her alone. He adjusted his stance, ready to shield, ready to jump in—but this time, letting Reze lead the fight.

The storm of rats, bullets, and Makima’s looming presence closed in, but for the first time, Denji realized something: we can survive this—together.

Chapter Text

The warehouse trembled with every blow. Reze fired through the air again, her explosions lighting up the dark, while Makima walked forward as if the chaos could never touch her. Rats surged, formed shields, dissolved, and crawled back together without a single command spoken.

Denji’s hand hovered near his chest again, the urge to transform coiling through him like a live wire.
Reze’s warning still echoed in his head.
He forced his hand away.

I can help without it.

Gunfire sliced through the rafters. Denji snagged a loose pipe and hurled it with a grunt. It clanged against the shooter’s nest, throwing off the aim just long enough for Reze to dodge clean.

Reze didn’t look back, but he heard her voice above the explosions.
“Good. Keep that up.”

Makima’s eyes shifted toward him for a brief second.
Measured. Familiar. Possessive.

Denji’s stomach twisted. He remembered that look from every moment she told him he belonged somewhere. Belonged to something.
It was the kind of look that said she was the only one who knew what was best for him.

Reze hit the ground, rolled, and blasted upward again, fighting with a desperation that came from love, not duty. Her movements grew less precise. Pain caught her midair. She stumbled.

Denji sprinted to her side and grabbed her arm.
“You’re hurt. We look for an escape”

She held him in place by his shirt, eyes locked to his.
“If I stop, this ends. You stay behind me. Always.”

His heart thudded. He nodded.
“I’m right here.”

Reze shot forward once more, reckless and radiant. Dust rained from the ceiling. Bullets sparked behind her. Makima never rushed. She watched every move, every breath, like she had studied Reze long before this moment.

Rats paused again, the entire room holding its breath at an unseen signal.

Makima’s gaze drifted to Denji.
There was a softness in her eyes that did not match the violence around them.
A softness he recognized. One that once made him feel chosen.

Reze charged. The pin glowed beneath her fingers.
She was ready to destroy everything between them and freedom.

Makima finally spoke, her voice quiet enough that only Denji could hear.
“I told you I would take care of everything.”

Denji’s pulse stopped for a second.
Because he understood what she meant.
She had been watching.
Waiting.
Shaping his world to keep him under her protection.

Reze was fighting not just to survive.
She was fighting the woman who believed Denji belonged to nobody else.

Denji clenched his fists.
No cord. No devil.
Only courage.

I choose her. No matter what you think is best for me.

Explosions blasted through the warehouse in rapid succession. Reze moved like a streak of light, each detonation lighting up the shadows, each strike bringing her closer to Makima. For a moment Denji believed she had her on the ropes. A sharp burst caught Makima across the cheek, a thin line of red trailing down.

Makima paused. Her fingers brushed the blood, then she tasted it with a slow, satisfied smile. The kind of smile that said this was entertainment. The kind that said she had never been worried.

Rain fell.

Not from the broken ceiling.
It started everywhere at once.
Cold. Heavy. Perfectly timed.

Reze’s next explosion barely cracked the floor. The sparks sputtered out uselessly against the moisture. Her eyes widened. Her body weakened as steam rolled off her skin.

Makima tilted her head.
“I decide the conditions. I always have.”

Reze tried to take a step back, but she was launched sideways by a force Denji could not see. She smashed into a shipping crate, then another. Invisible blades carved across her arms and legs, cutting deeper than bullets. She tried to ignite again, but the rain swallowed every attempt.

Gunshots echoed from above. Denji threw a metal beam toward the muzzle flash, cursing under his breath. He grabbed anything he could lift, flinging crates and tools and broken concrete to disrupt their aim.

“Leave her alone! This ain't a fair fight” he shouted, voice cracking.

Reze staggered upright, wobbling. Makima did not relent. Another unseen strike whipped her across the floor, sliding through puddles streaked with her own blood.

Denji ran toward her, catching her before she fell completely.

She could barely stand now. Her breaths were short and sharp, each one burned more than the last. Rain dripped from her lashes. Explosions flickered weakly under her skin, like a lighter running out of fuel.

Makima approached calmly through the storm she called down.
The rats followed behind her like soldiers.

“You were never a threat,” she said, voice steady. “This was only about making sure he understands.”

Denji glared, fury shaking his entire body.
“I understand that I love her.”

Makima’s expression did not change.
“It will not matter.”

More bullets tore through the air. Denji shielded Reze with his body, feeling the sting of concrete chips pelting his skin as shots shredded the walls around them.

Reze tried to push herself forward again.
She could still fight.
She had to.

Denji held her steady, rain running down his face like tears he refused to shed.

I won’t lose her. Not to you.

He dug his shoes into the soaked ground.
Human or not, he would not move.

Makima’s steps slowed. She studied them with an unsettling quiet.

The storm had shifted.
Control was fully in her hands now.

And she was not done.

Makima advanced without a sound, the rain parting around her like it feared to touch her. In a heartbeat, Denji felt the air shift and suddenly he was no longer between them. She had moved him aside like he was just… in the way. A piece to rearrange on her board. A pawn to be disposed of and sacrificed.

Reze lay exposed. Her breaths were tiny, her skin carved open by invisible blades, her body folding wrongly over itself. Still, she clawed at the ground, refusing to give up. Putting any

Denji’s hand hovered over his cord. Pull it. Don’t. Pull it. Don’t.

If he transformed, she would think he lied. She would think he never trusted her. That he never believed they could run away together like they promised. All that effort to reach her heart would be for nothing.

If he didn’t… he would lose her forever.

He pictured Reze smiling at him in the pool at the school. That smile. That moment. The only time he ever felt like he was more than a pet or a pawn. Could he really throw that away just to save her life?

What good is a promise if the person it’s for dies?

His chest tightened. His legs twitched like they wanted to sprint, but fear glued him to the spot. Makima didn’t walk like someone with killer intent or animosity. She walked like someone correcting an error.

He forced himself to think through the panic. Could he get to Reze before Makima’s hand fell? Could he grab her? Shield her? Take the hit himself? Every idea ended the same way. He wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t enough.

A guilty thought slashed through him. If he saved Reze, Makima would be angry. Angry at him. What if that made everything worse? What if he made Makima decide he wasn’t worth even keeping alive?

His head screamed two names at once. Reze. Makima. Reze. Makima.

The voices and thoughts running through his mind distracting him from a fin snaking its way through the ground.

Denji froze, eyes wide as Beam surged forward beneath the surface. Makima raised her arm for the finishing blow. He opened his mouth to shout but nothing came out.

Reze vanished in a spray of water and broken concrete.

Beam emerged a few meters away, her limp body gathered carefully in his arms like she weighed nothing at all.

“Lord Chainsaw, we must run.”

Denji staggered closer. Relief hit first. Then fear. Then another surge of guilt that nearly knocked him over. She was alive, but not because of him. Not because he chose anything.

Makima turned. Rain streaked down her cheeks like tears she would never shed. Her lips curled, just slightly.

Annoyance.

She looked at Denji as if to say: You were supposed to let me finish.

Denji swallowed hard. Every thought inside him tangled into one truth.

Nothing he did from now on would ever be simple. But it didn't linger long on his mind.

Beam did not hesitate. He pressed Reze into Denji’s arms before his body elongated and split into jagged scales and teeth. A second later they were both inside his massive shark maw, held carefully on his tongue like precious cargo. Then he was off, tearing across the broken pier toward the ocean.

Denji tried to shield Reze from the jolting movement. Her head lolled against his chest. He cupped her cheek with a shaking hand.

“Hey. Hey, stay awake. We are getting out of here. I promise.”

She blinked, slow, as if her eyelids weighed more than her whole body. Blood smeared her lips when she whispered, “D…Denji… you shouldn’t… have come back…”

He shook his head, voice cracking. “Don’t talk like that. I came back for you. I’m not letting you go.”

Beam crashed through a half-collapsed building. Chunks of concrete rained down, but he twisted midair to keep his mouth steady. He could feel the pressure building behind him. A command. A force. Makima was giving chase.

“Faster. Faster,” he growled to himself, jaws clenched tight around his passengers. The sea was close. He could feel the salt in the air.

Denji pressed his forehead to Reze’s.

“You are going to be fine. I’m right here. I am not losing you again.”

Her fingers twitched weakly against his shirt. “You… are such an idiot…” She tried to smile. “I told you not to… interfere…”

“I’m not transforming.” He swallowed hard. “See? I listened. I just… I can help like this. I can help you stay alive.”

Makima’s invisible strike carved through the pavement behind them, chasing like a blade of wind. Beam ducked into a sewer tunnel, water splashing high with every stride. The darkness gave them seconds, maybe.

Denji brushed Reze’s hair away from her eyes, trying to wipe the blood without making things worse. His heart slammed against his ribs.

“Stay with me, Reze. Please.”

She winced, breathing sharp. “It hurts…”

“I know. Just focus on me. Look at me.” He squeezed her hand. “Remember the school. Remember the pool. You said you were going to teach me new things. That wasn’t a lie, right?”

Her watering eyes locked onto his.

“Never… a lie.”

Beam burst back into the open. The shoreline glimmered beneath the moonlight. He roared triumphantly.

“Sea ahead. Lord Chainsaw, hold tight.”

A bullet of compressed air slammed into Beam’s side. He stumbled, but did not fall. He dug his claws into the asphalt and powered forward. The water was twenty meters away. Ten.

Makima’s silhouette appeared at the edge of a rooftop, looking down with perfect calm. She raised two fingers.

Reze gasped. “Denji…”

“I’ve got you. You are safe. We are almost out. Just breathe.”

Beam launched himself forward with everything he had left. His body arced over the last stretch of sand.

Makima snapped her fingers.

A shockwave chased them midair. Beam twisted. The blast grazed his tail and tore through the surf. Salt spray exploded around them.

Then they were under the water.

Beam kicked into the depths, the darkness swallowing them whole.

Denji held Reze close, feeling her heartbeat flutter like a trapped bird. He refused to let go.

Above them, Makima watched the ocean with a small, cold smile.

Beam moved like a torpedo through the dark water, finally free to use the speed and strength his shark form granted. Every stroke pushed them farther from the shore, farther from Makima. Denji allowed himself a fragile breath of hope.

“We made it. We’re safe now ther—”

The entire world lurched sideways. Beam’s body whipped sharply as something massive slammed into his flank.

Denji tightened his hold on Reze, heart pounding. He could hear grinding teeth and thrashing water all around them. Shapes circled outside Beam’s jaws, too quick to identify. Something scraped across his scales with the scream of metal on bone.

Beam snarled through clenched teeth. “Fish. Sea beasts. Under control of her power.”

A slick shadow rammed them again. Denji felt the shock vibrate through Reze’s weakened frame. He cupped the back of her head, trying to shield her from the shaking.

“You still with me? Look at me.” His voice trembled. “I’m not letting you go.”

She blinked, struggling to focus. “Denji… you shouldn’t… worry about me so much…”

He ignored that. “You matter. That’s it. You matter.”

Beam dove lower. Schools of unnatural fish closed in like a living net. Their eyes shared that same glassy emptiness Denji recognized from too many battles.

One huge silhouette lunged out of the murk. A whale. No. A devil wearing the shape of one. Its mouth opened wide, rows of jagged teeth eager to swallow them whole.

Beam twisted and bit down on its snout, ripping free flesh and clouding the water with blood. He spun again, tail smashing aside a swarm of barracuda-like creatures. He fought like an animal driven by pure devotion.

“Lord Chainsaw must live,” he muttered between bites. “Beam will never fail.”

Denji held Reze tighter. He whispered into her hair to drown out the tearing and thrashing outside. “Almost there. Beam’s got us.”

Another strike came from below. Something with tentacles dragged across Beam’s belly, squeezing with crushing force. Denji felt Reze gasp when the pressure tightened. The ocean around them cracked with violent sound as Beam’s bones creaked.

He roared in pain and fury. “No… one… touches… LORD CHAINSAW…!”

He burst upward, accelerating with reckless momentum. The tentacles loosened but did not let go. Beam slammed their attacker into a jagged rock formation on the seafloor. Stone shattered. The creature loosened. Beam tore it apart with one final snap of his jaws.

Silence fell for a breath. Then Beam’s body jerked hard. The final attacker revealed itself in the dark behind them.

A shark. Gigantic. Wrong. Its mouth clamped down on Beam’s tail and twisted sharply.

Denji nearly dropped Reze as they spun. Teeth scraped past the corner of Beam’s mouth, inches from Denji’s legs.

Beam howled, the water trembling with his voice. He whirled in a violent corkscrew and sank his fangs into the monster’s eye. It released him with a burst of blood and bubbles.

Beam finished the beast with one decisive bite. The last threat drifted away into the black.

His breaths now came ragged. Blood trailed behind him in crimson ribbons. His tail hung limp, mangled. Muscles trembled with every kick.

Still, his voice stayed firm.

“Almost… safe. Lord Chainsaw. Do not fear.”

Denji looked down at Reze, her skin pale, her breaths faint. Then he looked toward the fading surface light above them.

Hope was small. Fragile. Alive.

He whispered, almost like a prayer.

“Hold on. Stay with me. We are getting through this.”

Beam kept moving forward, even as the ocean around them grew darker, and the future ahead looked equally uncertain.

Chapter Text

Beam had been swimming through the murky abyss for what felt like hours, blood trailing in long, drifting ribbons behind him. His movements were slower now, the powerful strokes that once cut through the sea reduced to strained thrusts. The pain was catching up with him; every kick sent a shock through his mangled tail.

Still, he pushed forward. The faint shimmer of the shore teased him in the distance. “Lord Chainsaw… we’re almost there,” Beam rasped, his voice trembling through the water.

Denji held Reze tight, her body limp in his arms. “You hear that?” he said, forcing his voice to stay calm. “Just a little further. Then we’re free.”

Reze’s eyelids fluttered, her lips parting in a faint smile that barely reached her eyes. “Free…” she whispered, the word lost beneath the churning sea.

Beam surged once more, every muscle screaming, and finally broke through the waves near the shore. His body convulsed as he spat the pair out, collapsing into his human form. The water around him turned pink with his blood.

Denji burst to the surface, gasping. His lungs burned as he scanned the dark expanse around him. No sign of Beam. No sign of Reze.

“Reze!” he shouted, panic slicing through the fatigue. Without another thought, he dove back under.

The moonlight cut through the water in silver streaks, illuminating two still figures sinking toward the seabed. Blood clouds swirled around them like ink. Denji’s chest tightened.

He kicked hard, reaching Reze first, his arm wrapping around her waist. Then he grabbed Beam by the collar with his free hand, dragging both upward with desperate, uneven strokes. His lungs screamed for air. The surface felt impossibly far.

Just as his vision began to blur, he broke through. He coughed violently, sucking in air like it was life itself, then turned to the two beside him.

Beam was alive — barely, but breathing. Reze wasn’t.

“Reze?” he said, voice shaking. “Hey. Come on. You gotta wake up.”

No response. Her head lolled in his arms, face pale under the moonlight.

Panic flooded him. He kicked toward the shore, each motion more frantic than the last. Fighting against the current as is pulled and pushed him to and fro from the shore. “No, no, no—stay with me!” he shouted, dragging her body through the surf.

By the time his knees hit sand, he was trembling from exhaustion. He pulled them both onto the beach, collapsing beside them, waves lapping at their feet.

Denji looked down at Reze’s still face, his hands shaking as he brushed wet hair from her eyes. She wasn’t breathing.

“Don’t do this to me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Not now. Not after everything.”

The night was silent except for the sound of the waves.

__________________________________________________________

The docks were empty except for the sound of waves slapping against the retaining walls. Makima stood at the edge, rain dripping from her hair, her clothes clinging perfectly in place as if even the storm bent to her will.

In her hand, a small mouse squirmed. She stroked its back gently with her thumb, eyes fixed on the black horizon.

A magpie swept in from the darkness, wings slicing through the rain, and landed on her shoulder. It leaned close to her ear, chattering in short, precise bursts — reporting.

Makima smiled, slow and knowing. “Shame,” she murmured, eyes still on the sea. “Her flame burned too bright. She could have been useful.”

Headlights rolled across the slick pavement behind her as a black car pulled up. The driver stepped out, umbrella in hand, opening the rear door.

Makima turned, giving the magpie one last stroke before it flew off into the rain. She slipped into the back seat, crossing her legs gracefully.

“He’ll come back to me,” she said softly, almost fondly. “Like the loyal dog he is.”

Her gaze shifted to the side window, the reflection of her faint smile rippling against the glass.

“I don’t need to worry about it.”

She rested her chin on her hand, eyes drifting toward the open sea. “Now… what to do with the shark fiend?”

The car pulled away, taillights fading into the rain. Behind her, the waves kept moving — restless, endless, and watched.
_____________________________________________________

Denji’s hands trembled as he pressed down on Reze’s chest, the rhythm uneven and frantic. The waves crashed against the shore, each one echoing like a countdown in his head. “Breathe… come on, breathe!” His voice cracked, half-choked by panic. He tilted her head back, remembering that stupid video Aki made him watch—“You never know when you’ll need it, idiot.” He thought it was pointless back then. Now, it was all he had.

He pinched her nose and forced air into her lungs. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. His pulse hammered in his ears. “Don’t do this to me,” he muttered, voice trembling. “You’re supposed to be tough, right? Bomb girl… unkillable, yeah?” He hit her chest again, harder, as if his strength alone could force life back into her.

His mind started to fracture under the weight of it all. This is my fault. I dragged her into this. If I’d been faster, stronger, smarter— He shook the thoughts away and pressed his forehead against hers. “You said you wanted the country mouse” he whispered. “Then live, damn it!”

He could still feel the ghost of her smile in his hands, the warmth of her body fading against his. Memories blurred together—her teasing laugh, the spark in her eyes when she called him “stupid,” that half-second of peace before the world always found a way to ruin it.

He gave another desperate breath, lungs aching. “You still owe me that date, remember?” His voice broke, raw and small. “We were supposed to eat together… just once without all this blood and crap.” His fingers brushed her cheek, cold now, and he felt something inside him start to splinter.

“I didn’t even get to properly tell you…” His words faded into a whisper. “That I liked you.”

He pressed another breath into her, then another, tears spilling freely now, mixing with the water and blood on her skin. “Please… just wake up. Don’t leave me like everyone else.”

The world around him went quiet, save for the trembling sound of his own breath. But he couldn't stop, continuing the chest compressions.
____________________________________________________________

Reze’s eyes snapped open with a sharp gasp, lungs filling with air like she was surfacing from the bottom of the ocean. She blinked rapidly, scanning her surroundings. The smell of iron and salt was gone. Instead, she was sitting on a train.

The seat beneath her was plush and warm, the hum of the engine steady and soothing. Soft sunlight streamed through the window, casting golden streaks across her lap. Outside, a calm landscape passed by—rolling hills, quiet streams, and trees swaying in the breeze. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

A conductor walked down the aisle past her, tipping his cap. “Come on… breathe!” he said casually.

Reze’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

He paused, confused. “Your ticket, ma’am.”

Her brow furrowed. She dug into her pocket and handed it over. He punched it, smiled, and moved on. She sat back, exhaling shakily. Did I mishear him? she thought. Her reflection flickered faintly in the glass.

Outside, a deer stood by the tracks, watching the train pass. For a brief moment, its mouth moved—“Don’t do this to me.”

Reze pushing up against the glass as the deer scampered of. She blinked hard. I’m imagining things. Just tired.

The PA system crackled to life: “Now arriving at Yamagata.”
Though to her, it sounded garbled and distant—“You’re supposed to be tough, right? Bomb girl… unkillable, yeah?”

She rubbed her ears, shaking her head. “What the hell…”

Across from her sat a kind-looking older woman who smiled gently. “You said you wanted the country mouse,” the woman said.

Reze froze. heart thudding at the words a little. “I-I-I-I never said that to you.”

The woman’s eyes darkened just slightly. “Then live, damn it!”

Reze flinched, startled by the sudden volume. “What’s wrong with you?” she snapped, then quickly softened when the woman looked hurt. “Sorry, I just… thought you said something else.”

The woman smiled again. “Oh, that’s alright, dear. Is the next stop Yamagata?”

“Yes,” Reze said quietly, staring down into her lap. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the window beside her.

Then she heard his voice. Denji’s voice.

“You still owe me that date, remember?”

Her head jerked up. In the reflection, Denji sat in a café booth on the other side of the glass, sipping coffee like nothing was wrong.

Reze’s lips parted. “Now I know I’m going crazy,” she muttered. Passengers glanced at her, but she didn’t care.

“We were supposed to eat together,” Denji said softly, the reflection blurring like tears on glass. “Just once. Without all this blood and crap.”

Her throat tightened. “It’s better this way,” she whispered. “Me leaving is the best for both of us.” She hesitated, then added under her breath, “It hurts less this way.”

The brakes screeched as the train slowed. She grabbed her bag and rose to her feet, ready to step off.

Then Denji appeared in the seat directly ahead of her. His eyes met hers, full of something she couldn’t bear to face. “I didn’t even get to tell you…”

“Please don’t,” she said, voice shaking.

He didn’t stop. “That I liked you.”

Her chest ached. She turned away, heart pounding, and rushed toward the doors as they hissed open. Head down, not willing to deal with this. But his voice followed, raw and desperate.

“Please… just wake up. Don’t leave me like everyone else.”

Her foot hovered over the platform. She froze. The world around her blurred, the noise fading to a heartbeat. Even if she turned back and he wasn't, she needed to face him. She turned back and he was standing there, cocky smile and all. She had to do this for herself and ran back to him, tears streaming down her face, collapsing into his arms.

Chapter Text

A violent cough tore through the silence. Reze’s body convulsed as she reeled back to life, choking up a mixture of water and blood. Her lungs burned as air finally filled them again, her eyes wide and frantic, the world snapping sharply back into focus.

She blinked, dazed, her vision swimming until she could just make out Denji’s face hovering above her. His cheeks were streaked with tears. He’d been crying.

“Reze…” he breathed, voice trembling with relief. He pulled her into his arms without thinking, holding her so tightly she could feel his heartbeat hammering against her chest. The warmth of him anchored her, grounding her in the chaos.

He leaned close, whispering between shaky breaths, words tumbling out in a mix of laughter and disbelief. “I thought—I thought you were gone. Guess those pool lessons paid off, huh?”

A faint laugh escaped her, weak but real. It loosened something heavy in his chest, and he let out a broken, relieved chuckle of his own.

Then she winced, her body reminding them both of the damage still done. Denji eased her back down gently onto the sand, brushing wet hair from her face.

Her body was a wreck—deep cuts, bruises that bloomed dark against her pale skin, blood still leaking from open wounds. Her breathing was shallow, her expression glassy, exhaustion carving into every feature.

Denji sat beside her, silent now, eyes darting helplessly over her injuries. The sound of the waves filled the space between them, steady and indifferent.

For the first time in a long while, Denji didn’t know what to do next.

Reze shivered, her lips turning pale. Denji didn’t think—he tore off his shirt, wrung it out, and draped it over her trembling body. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

He looked around, searching for anything to start a fire. The shoreline offered only wet branches and damp sand. Nothing. His stomach dropped.

Then he remembered. BEAM

The fiend lay half-buried in the surf, blood pooling around him, his breathing shallow. Huge chunks were missing from his calf and torso—too deep, too much. Denji’s heart pounded as he stumbled toward him.

“Beam! Hey—come on, stay with me, man!”

A faint gurgle was the only reply. Denji’s hands clawed through his hair. What am I supposed to do? How do I fix this? His mind raced through useless thoughts, every one leading back to the same truth: both of them were dying.

Then it hit him. Blood.

Denji’s jaw clenched. He reached for the cord and yanked. The familiar roar came alive—but only in his right arm. It was enough.

He knelt beside Beam and dangled his left arm over the fiend’s mouth. With a sharp inhale, he dragged the chainsaw across his own skin. The pain was instant and white-hot, a searing rush that made his vision blur.

Blood poured freely, splattering the sand before trickling into Beam’s mouth. Denji gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to scream. Slowly, Beam’s breathing steadied, his wounds twitching as faint regeneration began.

“That’s it,” Denji muttered through clenched teeth. “Just take what you need.”

When he saw Beam stir, he turned toward Reze, his vision swimming from blood loss. He dragged himself to her side and let the stream flow into her mouth next. Her body twitched, color faintly returning to her skin. Some cuts began to close, her breathing smoothing out.

Denji tightened the torn remains of his shirt around his arm, cinching it into a makeshift tourniquet. His pulse thudded weakly in his ears.

He slumped beside them, dizzy but determined, watching their faint signs of life with the hollow relief of someone who’d given everything he had left.

Denji sat still for a moment, just breathing. His chest heaved as he tried to think—about what came next, about how to keep them alive for one more night.

He scanned the shoreline again. Nothing useful. No shelter, no warmth, just wet sand and broken driftwood.

Pushing himself up, he gathered what branches and sticks he could find. They were damp, covered in moss, the kind of wood that mocked you for even trying to burn it. He stared at the pile, then up at the moon, muttering under his breath like he was praying to it.

That’s when something caught his eye—a faint glint in the sand.

He brushed away the grit and pulled out a half-buried lighter, its metal rusted and cold. He thumbed the wheel, but it refused to turn. Dead. Still, when he shook it, he could hear the faint slosh of lighter fluid inside.

“Guess you’re not totally useless,” he mumbled.

He hauled the pile of soggy wood closer and knelt beside it. The lighter fluid might help, but it wouldn’t be enough on its own. He frowned, glancing down at his soaked pants, and an idea hit him—a very Denji idea.

He stripped them off, wrung out as much water as he could, and draped them over the pile. Then he smashed the lighter open with a rock, spilling its contents across the fabric.

Now came the tricky part.

Denji yanked his cord again, the buzz of a small chainsaw bursting from his right arm. He pressed the blade against the rock, grinding it hard, sparks flying in every direction.

“Come on… come on…” he muttered, eyes wide, sweat mixing with the seawater on his skin.

A single spark hit the lighter fluid. A hiss, then a flicker. Fire.

Denji froze for half a second, then quickly cupped his hands around the flame, shielding it from the breeze like it was his last heartbeat. Slowly, it grew—first a timid glow, then a steady blaze that crackled and spat warmth into the night.

He let out a shaky laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “Heh… told ya I could do it.”

Dragging Beam and Reze closer to the fire, he sat back on his knees, watching the glow wash over their faces. The faint rise and fall of their chests gave him a sliver of hope.

One problem solved. One more to go.

Denji’s eyes drooped. His body felt heavy, sluggish—the fatigue and blood loss finally catching up. He smacked his cheeks hard enough to sting, forcing himself awake.

“Come on… not now,” he muttered. “Still got one more problem.”

Blood.

He glanced at his arms, the crude tourniquet biting into his skin. He couldn’t take any more from himself without collapsing for good. His eyes swept across the shore. Nothing. No birds, no crabs, no stray animals. Just endless sand and black water stretching into the dark.

He looked back once—at Reze and Beam, unconscious by the fire—and then toward the sea.

“Guess it’s just you and me, ocean.”

He stepped forward. The first touch of water on his feet made him flinch. It was ice, sharp enough to sting. Each step sank him deeper until the chill reached his waist, his ribs, his chest. He shivered violently but didn’t stop.

When the waves lapped at his shoulders, he pulled the cord.

RRRRRrrrRrr!

All three saws burst to life, cutting through the silence—the twin arm blades and the one screaming from his skull. Sea spray hissed against the heated metal.

Denji dove in.

The water swallowed him whole, darkness and pressure crushing from all sides. He could barely see more than the faint shimmer of moonlight above, his saws dragging like anchors. Every stroke was slower here, every move heavier.

He kicked downward, deeper, using the faint light as his guide until he saw movement—a shifting shadow cutting through the black.

A tiger shark.

Big. Too big.

Denji grimaced, bubbles rising from his teeth. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. Outta every fish in the sea…”

He spun in place, looking for anything smaller, anything easier—hell, he would’ve settled for a sardine. Nothing. The ocean around him was empty but for that predator, circling closer, curious about the noise.

The vibrations from his chainsaws must’ve sounded like a challenge.

Fine. He’d make it one.

Denji kicked against the cold, dark water, his body trembling from exhaustion and blood loss. The tiger shark circled, eyes glinting, sensing the vibrations from his chainsaws. Every movement he made was sluggish, slowed by the dense sea, every twist and turn resisted by the current. He could barely see past the dark green haze of water, the moonlight diffused and muted, giving only fleeting silhouettes of the shark’s massive form.

He couldn’t afford mistakes. One deep cut and the shark might bleed out too fast, leaving him without the blood he so desperately needed. One heavy blow to himself, and he’d pass out, dragged down by the cold and the current. This wasn’t about rage—it was about precision. Survival.

The shark lunged, teeth snapping just inches from his arm. Denji twisted, swinging the right-arm chainsaw in a sharp, controlled arc, catching only the tip of its dorsal fin. Pain lanced through his own arm as the chainsaw met resistance, but he held firm. Blood clouded the water immediately, and the shark recoiled slightly, startled by the sting—but it was enough.

Denji counted his breaths, kicking to stay afloat. He darted downward, slicing at the base of the shark’s tail, careful not to cripple it entirely. The shark thrashed violently, tail whipping water into his face, but he adapted, curling around its movements, using the current to guide his own momentum instead of fighting it directly. Every attack was calculated, minimal—enough to draw blood, enough to assert dominance, not enough to fatally wound the creature.

The shark circled again, faster this time, eyes narrowing. Denji let it come to him, staying low and angled to minimize the surface area exposed. When the shark snapped, he ducked under the attack, swinging both chainsaws in tandem—his left arm now joining the fight. Sparks of resistance flashed through the water as blades met muscle and scale. Blood tinted the currents, but he kept track, mentally measuring how much was lost and how much remained to be gained.

The fight dragged on. Denji’s lungs burned, each ascent to the surface for air stealing precious seconds. He timed them carefully, darting upward, taking a quick gasp, then plunging back down. Every maneuver accounted for the shark’s turns, his limited vision, and his own slowing reflexes.

He realized the key was to use the shark’s aggression against it. The creature lunged repeatedly, overcommitting with each strike. Denji adapted, baiting it into tight turns, slicing only where he needed to draw blood: a precise nick along the flank, a shallow gash at the base of the tail, a puncture to the dorsal ridge. Each cut was deliberate, measured, and controlled.

Pain seared his arms and chest from the constant exertion, his blood mixing with the seawater. The cold gnawed at his muscles, threatening to paralyze him mid-fight. But he persisted, each movement a balance of risk and reward. A single miscalculation could end both his hunt and his life.

Finally, after what felt like endless cycles of lunge, dodge, slice, and ascend, the shark slowed. Its energy sapped by repeated strikes and blood loss, it faltered, circling wide and hesitant. Denji seized the moment, aiming a final precise cut near its gill, enough to make it passively bleed without collapsing outright. The creature shivered, then slowly sank, leaving a wake of red in the dark water.

Denji hovered there, chest burning, arms heavy as lead. Saltwater and blood stung his eyes. He kicked up toward the surface, bursting through with a sharp gasp, the cold air biting his lungs. For a long moment, he just floated—half alive, half dead, staring up at the moon that shimmered across the black sea.

“Sorry, buddy,” he muttered, voice raw, “but I needed that more than you.”

The ocean hissed and frothed around them, moonlight glinting off the slick curve of the shark’s flank. His arms trembled as he tried to keep himself afloat, the weight of the kill threatening to pull him back under.

Each breath burned, every muscle screamed, but he refused to let go. The shark’s body was still twitching faintly—alive enough for the blood to stay warm. That was all that mattered. He hooked his arm around its dorsal fin and began to kick, slow and uneven, toward the faint outline of the shore.

Salt stung his eyes, blood filled his mouth, but he didn’t stop. “C’mon… just a little more,” he muttered through chattering teeth. The thought of Reze and Beam waiting on the sand was the only thing keeping him moving.

Behind him, the sea began to calm, the ripples fading until only the rhythmic slap of water against the shark’s body remained. The moon watched, silent and cold, as Denji pulled his prize through the dark waves—one desperate survivor hauling another toward the edge of life.

When the sand finally met his hands, he collapsed beside the shark, panting and shaking uncontrollably. The moon hung high and silent, the tide washing over his body like it was trying to pull him back in. He laughed weakly, somewhere between relief and disbelief.

“Now… let’s see if this was worth it.”

Chapter Text

Denji stumbled across the sand, dragging the shark’s heavy carcass behind him. Every step sank deeper, like the beach was trying to pull him under. His breath came out in broken gasps, his vision dimming at the edges. The chainsaws had taken everything out of him—every drop of blood, every ounce of strength—but he couldn’t stop.

“C’mon, just a little more,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself, to Reze, or to the corpse he was hauling.

The shark’s skin scraped across the rocks, leaving a long crimson trail behind him. The sound of the surf mixed with the hammering of his pulse. His arms trembled, threatening to give out. Why am I even still doing this? he thought. They’re gone. I’m next. This is stupid.

Then he looked at them—Beam, broken and pale, barely breathing. Reze, motionless, her skin ghost-white under the moonlight. The sight tore through the haze in his head. He clenched his teeth so hard it hurt. No. Not again. Not like everyone else.

He dropped to his knees beside Beam, forcing the shark’s body up just high enough for the blood to spill into the fiend’s mouth. “You gotta live, man. You’re the only one who still calls me ‘Lord.’ Don’t you die on me too.” He forced the carcass higher, his arms trembling as the blood of Beam’s kin trickled into his mouth.

The crimson trickled in. Beam twitched, then gasped. His wounds began to close, muscle reknitting, gashes fading. Denji blinked through the blur, half-conscious but smiling anyway. “Yeah… that’s it. Good boy.”

He barely remembered standing, but somehow, he did. He turned to Reze, the shark’s body nearly slipping from his grip. His arms felt like lead, his bones buzzing with fatigue. Every motion sent sparks of pain through his limbs, but he kept going.

He tilted the carcass over her lips. The crimson gold dripped in slow, heavy drops. For a few seconds, nothing happened. His heart sank. Come on. Come on, please. Don’t do this to me.

Then—her fingers twitched. Her chest rose faintly. Her lips parted as her body took in the blood, life seeping back into her like the tide returning to shore.

Relief hit him so hard it almost knocked him out. “That’s it… you’re okay now,” he whispered, voice trembling.

He wanted to laugh. To cry. To scream. Maybe all three. Instead, his knees buckled, his body finally shutting down.

He hit the sand, face first, but didn’t feel the impact. The world spun and dimmed as he heard her voice—faint, weak, but real.

“Denji…”

Then everything went quiet.

When he came to, his head was resting in her lap. The firelight flickered over her face—pale, bruised, but alive. She brushed the hair from his forehead with a shaking hand.

“Idiot,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together.

Beam’s ragged breathing filled the silence nearby, the sound steadying with every second.

Denji exhaled, the first real breath he’d taken since the fight. He didn’t know if they were safe. He didn’t know if Makima was still coming. All he knew was that—for now—they were still here.

And for him, that was enough.

He let his eyes drift shut again, the weight of exhaustion washing over him. The warmth of her legs beneath his head felt unreal, like a dream he didn’t deserve but refused to let slip away. For once, there was no screaming, no fighting, no chainsaw roar.

Just her heartbeat. The waves. The faint crackle of fire.

Denji smiled faintly, a tired, human smile. Then he let himself go completely, sinking into the quiet and allowing sleep to take him at last—peaceful, safe, and for the first time in a long time, content.

____________________________________________________

Warmth. That’s the first thing she feels. Not the fire kind of warmth—this one seeps into her skin and quiets the ache in her bones. Reze stands barefoot in ankle-deep water, sunlight bending over the waves. Kingfishers flying overhead, their brilliant light blue feathers, contrasting with the lorax orange under belly. The sea isn’t roaring, just breathing—soft and steady, like it’s alive.The sea isn’t roaring, just breathing—soft and steady, like it’s alive.

Denji’s there ahead of her, the tide brushing around his legs. He’s holding two ice creams, one half-melted, dripping down his fingers. His clothes are dry somehow, his grin easy and careless.

“Hey, you’re late,” he calls, voice carried by a wind that doesn’t quite exist.

She tries to answer, but her voice doesn’t reach him. Still, he laughs, like he heard her anyway. She walks closer, the sand smooth beneath her feet, not a shell or stone in sight. The horizon never seems to come any nearer.

When she reaches him, he lifts one of the cones toward her. “Yours is strawberry. I ate half already.”

She smiles despite herself, taking it from him. “Figures.”

They stand there together, ice cream melting, waves curling around them. It’s peaceful—unnaturally so. She wants to ask how long they can stay like this, but before she can, the world blurs, the water turns dark, and the warmth drains away.

A sharp chill pierces her lungs. The dream shatters into cold reality. Her eyes crack open to darkness and the crash of waves. Her vision swims, barely making sense of shapes. She sees Denji—his silhouette framed by the moonlight—as he dives headfirst into the black ocean. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. The world tilts, and she slips away again.

She tries to move, to call out, but her body won’t listen. Her vision swims, her pulse slowing. The ocean swallows him whole, and she fades again.

Now she’s somewhere else. A rooftop. Twilight air. The rooftop was quiet, save for the hum of the city below—a distant rhythm of cars, chatter, and wind. Reze leaned back on her hands, eyes tracing the scattered jewels above. The night stretched endlessly, a velvet sea pierced with light. Beside her, Denji lay flat on his back, his jacket tucked beneath his head, the faint scent of oil and rain still clinging to him.

Reze lifted her arm and pointed to the sky. “That one there,” she said softly, “that’s Aquila—the eagle. They say it carries the thunderbolt of Zeus.”

Denji squinted, trying to follow her finger. “Looks more like a crooked kite,” he muttered.

She laughed, the sound light, blending into the night air. “You just have no imagination.”

He turned his head toward her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Oh yeah? What about that one?” He pointed somewhere vaguely upward. “That one’s the Chainsaw constellation.”

She turned to him, a half-smile curling at her lips. “That’s not a thing.”

“Could be,” he said, with the kind of conviction that makes her almost believe him.

Reze shook her head but smiled anyway. Her finger drifted to another patch of sky. “Ursa Major,” she whispered. “The Great Bear. My mom used to tell me it was watching over travelers, making sure they never got lost.”

Denji’s gaze softened. “Guess that one’s been doing overtime for me.”

Reze lowered her hand, her voice gentler now. “Maybe it’s doing its job then.”

They sat in silence for a while, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled. The breeze played with Reze’s hair, carrying the scent of smoke and steel, of the world they’d both come from. She rested her head on his shoulder and pointed again—this time toward the horizon. “See that faint one, low near the edge? That’s Lepus, the hare. Always running, always just ahead of the hunter.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Denji murmured.

“It is,” she said quietly. “But it keeps running anyway.”

A moment passed before she traced her finger toward the flowing band of stars descending like a river. “And that—” she whispered “—is Eridanus. The river. It flows from up there near Orion, winding down into the horizon. Endless and quiet. I used to imagine it carried all the things people lost… memories, regrets, dreams.”

Denji stared, his usual restlessness fading under the weight of her words. “You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

She hummed softly. “When I couldn’t sleep, I’d name the stars. It made the world feel less empty.”

He turned to her then, catching the glint of starlight in her eyes. “It doesn’t feel empty right now.”

Reze smiled, a slow, fragile thing that reached her eyes this time. “No,” she whispered. “It doesn’t.”

He smiled faintly, not answering, just letting the stars speak for him.

Reze lay back beside him, the night sky spilling across her vision. The stars pulsed faintly, almost alive, as if the world itself was breathing with them. For a brief, fragile moment, everything felt still—like the universe had folded itself around them, quiet and safe.

Then Denji reached out, brushing his fingers against hers, and the distance between them vanished.She closes her eyes for a second, feeling the cool breeze trace her face. She listens to him talk—about nothing, about snacks he misses, about wanting a place where no one’s trying to kill him. The words blur into a rhythm, like wind through power lines. When she opens her eyes again, he’s gone. The stars smear into streaks of white.

—but the warmth fades again.

Her eyelids flutter open. The fire crackles nearby, its orange glow dancing across the sand. She turns her head left, every muscle screaming. Beam’s lying there, chest rising shallowly, eyes half-lidded but alive. The fire’s heat brushes her skin, pushing back the cold, keeping her tethered. For a second, she lets herself think maybe they made it. Then the darkness takes her again.

The apartment was small—too small for two people, really—but it felt alive in a way Reze hadn’t known a space could. The lights hummed faintly, casting a soft amber glow over the chipped walls and the mismatched furniture. The window was cracked open, letting in the sound of the rain as it pattered gently against the glass, filling every pause with a steady rhythm.

Denji sat cross-legged on the floor, brow furrowed, poking at a broken radio with the concentration of a surgeon. A halo of lamplight caught the strands of his hair, and she couldn’t help but watch him, that stubborn way he refused to give up on anything, even junk.

She lay stretched across the old couch, a thin blanket over her legs, the fabric warm from the nearby heater. The air smelled like rain and instant noodles—the scent of a home built from little victories.

“When I get this thing working,” Denji muttered, still fiddling with the wires, “I’m putting on love songs first.”

She smiled faintly, her voice quiet but teasing. “Why love songs?”

“So we can dance,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He didn’t look up when he said it, but his tone carried no joke. Just a simple truth.

The words hung between them, gentle and absurdly human. She imagined the two of them swaying awkwardly in that cramped space, bumping into the coffee table and laughing until the neighbors complained. The thought made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t quite name.

He finally looked up, eyes tired but bright, a smudge of grease on his cheek. “What?” he asked, catching her staring.

“Nothing,” she said, smiling softer now. “Just… feels nice here.”

Outside the window, the night stretched endlessly, the rain easing into a soft mist. Between drifting clouds, faint stars appeared—tiny, trembling lights. High above them, the constellation Apus perched near the edge of the sky, a wingless bird tracing its quiet path through the dark. Reze’s eyes lingered on it for a moment. There was something bittersweet in the sight, something about finding grace even after falling.

Denji grinned at that, not fully understanding, but liking that she said it. He leaned back, hands resting on the floor, head tilted toward the ceiling as if the rain itself was music enough.

Denji grinned at that, not fully understanding, but liking that she said it. He leaned back, hands resting on the floor, head tilted toward the ceiling as if the rain itself was music enough.

The radio crackled once—no song, just static—but it filled the silence perfectly.

Reze closed her eyes, letting that sound and the soft hum of the city below wrap around her. The heater ticked, the rain slowed, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like the world had stopped trying to hurt them.

There was no fear, no mission, no blood—just warmth, two breaths, and a broken radio whispering life into the room.

For once, that was enough.

The sound of the radio static filling the room gradually shifting, to a soft crackle threading through the quiet. Denji looked down at the radio, half expecting it to die again—but then, faintly, the tune came through. A slow, tender melody, the kind that wrapped itself around you instead of demanding to be heard.

A voice followed, low and wistful, singing 'I would never fall in love again until I found her' The words carried through the little apartment, fragile and warm.

Denji’s head tilted, 'I said, I would never fall unless it's you I fall into' his lips twitching into a grin. “Guess it works,” he said, pretending not to care that it was a love song, though his ears were tinged red.

Reze watched him quietly from the couch, her smile softening as the music filled the space between them. 'I was lost within the darkness, but then I found her' The song seemed to know something they didn’t want to say out loud. Every note lingered in the air like a heartbeat, steady and close.

She caught his eyes for a moment—really caught them—and something inside her eased. The walls didn’t feel small anymore. The world outside didn’t feel cruel. It was just him, this little room, and the faint sound of love songs playing through broken speakers.

Reze leaned her head against the back of the couch, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s perfect,” she said.

Denji didn’t answer, only smiled, letting the music play them into silence. 'I found you'

The radio hissed softly, the melody carrying on, and for a heartbeat longer, everything felt right.

Then, another pull. Reality striking again, but this time it wasn't so bad.

Her eyes open just enough to see him—Denji, bloodied, smiling weakly. The metallic tang hits her tongue, faintly fishy. His body sways, knees buckling. She forces herself up, her muscles trembling, catching him before he hits the ground.

“Denji…” The word escapes her as a breath, soft, desperate.

She lays him in her lap, her fingers finding his hair, brushing the blood and sand away. His face looks so peaceful, so human, it almost breaks her. She strokes his head, humming something low and tuneless, something she thinks she used to know.

He shivers, and she slips off the shirt he had placed on her, laying it over him, tucking it close to his body. The fire flickers, and the night hums around them, everything quiet but alive.

She watches him, thoughts spinning—how he fought for her, how he never gave up, how stupid and kind and impossible he is. It hurts to care about him this much. It hurts worse to think she almost never got the chance.

When his eyes flutter open again, she meets them with a tired, teary smile.

“Idiot,” she whispers, her voice barely holding together.

He exhales, long and heavy, like the world just lifted off him. His eyes close once more, this time not from pain but peace.

Reze keeps stroking his hair, slow and gentle, her thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. She leans down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

The fire pops. The tide rolls in and out.

She hums again, quiet and steady, holding him there in her lap until the night forgets to be cold.

Chapter Text

Beam was in heaven.

Not the kind with harps and halos—no, no, no—this was his heaven. A never-ending red ocean under a golden sun the size of a whale’s head, the waves glittering with blood instead of saltwater. Sharks of every size and species swam circles around him, bowing in reverence. Hammerheads, makos, tiger sharks, even a hammerhead wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt—they were all there for him.

At the center of it all, Beam sat upon a throne made of coral, kelp, and the jawbones of his enemies. His crown was a rusted anchor bent into shape and encrusted with pearls and a few barnacles. In his hands? A trident made of three sharpened surfboards.

“ALL HAIL LORD BEAM, SHARK KING OF EVERYTHING BLOODY AND AWESOME!” cried the ocean itself.

Beam puffed out his chest, baring his teeth in a grin wide enough to split his face. “Yessss! Beam reigns supreme, baby! Let there be blood tides and eternal snacking!”

Thunder struck—not from the sky, but from a colossal sea turtle that beat on a set of drums made of conch shells. Orcas danced in perfect rhythm, doing synchronized spins. A school of jellyfish lit up like disco lights. From the sky descended the Blood Moon itself, donning sunglasses and holding a microphone.

“Yooo Beam,” said the moon in a deep baritone, “you ready for your coronation concert?”

Beam gasped. “Concert?! Beam loves concerts! Especially when snacks are provided!”

The sea erupted with fireworks made of glowing squid ink. The sharks cheered as Denji surfed in on a massive chainsaw blade, cutting a wave clean in half before landing beside Beam in slow motion. “Sup, my aquatic bro?”

“DENJI-SENPAI!” Beam squealed, tears of pure joy streaming down his cheeks. “You made it! You didn’t miss the snacks this time!”

Denji, wearing a pair of aviator shades and a life jacket for no reason, handed him a massive drumstick the size of a swordfish. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, man.”

Behind them, Power rode a sea serpent, screaming, “I AM THE QUEEN OF CRABS!” while smacking the surface with a giant spatula. A crab orchestra backed her up, claws clicking in perfect rhythm.
Beam laughed so hard his gills bubbled. “This... this is perfect! Beam’s greatest dream! Friends! Sharks! Snacks! And no one telling Beam to shut up!”

A trumpet sounded from somewhere under the crimson sea. The waves parted dramatically. Out stepped Reze, her hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing a sundress patterned with tiny sharks. The water didn’t even wet her feet.

“Lord Beam,” she said with a sly smirk, “I heard there’s dancing at this royal event?”

Beam froze. His jaw dropped. “Reze... Beam didn’t plan that far ahead! But—YES! DANCING NOW!”

The sky cracked open again, this time revealing an enormous golden tuna—divine and glowing—its voice booming like a thousand waves.

“BEAM, LOYAL DEVIL OF THE SEA. YOUR TIME OF CELEBRATION HAS COME. YOU SHALL RECEIVE THE BLESSING OF ETERNAL BLOOD!”

Beam dropped to his knees, clutching his chest. “Eternal... blood?! Oh, mighty tuna god, Beam is not worthy!”

The moment compounded by a golden staircase emerging from the sea, each step glowing brighter than the last. At the top stood Makima.

She wore a long red dress that fluttered even without wind, her eyes gleaming like twin suns. Every shark in the ocean went silent, bowing low. Even the Blood Moon dipped in respect.

“Lord Beam,” she said, her voice echoing through the water like a song, “you have served well. For your loyalty, I shall grant you… eternal snacks.”

Beam fell to his knees, sobbing. “MAKIMA-SAMA! You are too kind! Beam shall cherish this forever!”

Makima smiled—too serene, too calm—and raised her hand. The sky split open.

“YOU ARE, BEAM. FOR YOUR LOYALTY TO THE CHAINSAW HERO, THE BLOOD SHALL RAIN FOREVER!”

He looked up, eyes wide with joy. “Yes! Rain blood upon me, Lord Tuna! Rain snacks from the sky! Let Beam be sticky with glory!”

And then—crimson drops began to fall.

At first, it was gentle. Warm. Sweet. The sea turned darker, richer, as the blood mingled with the waves. Beam lifted his face toward the sky, mouth open wide, spinning with joy.

“YES! BEAM DRINKS THE GIFT OF THE GODS!”

Then it wasn’t gentle anymore.

The rain became a downpour—a tidal storm of blood crashing down in torrents. The sky screamed, the sharks scattered, and the coral throne shattered beneath him. Beam laughed even as the waves crushed him, his voice echoing through the chaos. “DENJI-SENPAI, LOOK! BEAM ASCENDS!”

The ocean began to twist, his world collapsing in on itself. Denji reached out from across the waves—his voice distant now, muffled like through glass.
“C’mon, Beam… wake up.”

The blood around him turned real—thicker, heavier, pressing into his lungs. His crown slipped away, his throne dissolved, the sea faded into black.

Then—warmth. The unmistakable warmth of blood entering his mouth, real and alive. His body twitched, his lungs convulsed, and he coughed, sputtering. His gills flared open again.
Beam’s eyes shot open to the sound of crackling fire and the faint scent of smoke. For a second, he didn’t know where he was—still halfway between paradise and reality—but he could taste it. Shark’s blood?

He blinked slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, goofy grin. “Lord Chainsaw… Beam... knew you wouldn’t forget the snacks.”

Then he drifted again, not quite asleep, not quite awake—his dreams still swimming with sharks and laughter fading into the quiet of the night.
__________________________________________________________

Rain fell in thin, deliberate lines as Makima stepped out of the car before the driver could even circle around to open her door. Her heels clicked against the pavement, each step slicing clean through the puddles. The driver called out faintly after her, but she didn’t slow. The air was damp, heavy, and the rain clung to her hair, running down her collar in small, deliberate streams.

She hated when it rained like this—messy, unpredictable.

The heavy wooden doors to the Public Safety Bureau swung open before she reached them. Agents bowed their heads slightly as she passed through, offering quiet greetings she didn’t acknowledge. Her expression didn’t change, but the annoyance sat just behind her eyes.

Inside, the building hummed with sterile light and the soft tapping of distant keyboards. She walked through the main floor, the sound of her wet shoes echoing sharp and steady against the polished tile. Everyone moved out of her path instinctively, as if drawn aside by some invisible current.

By the time she reached her personal office, the rain had darkened the fabric of her coat completely. She didn’t bother taking it off as she entered. Aki, Power, and Galgali were already there, waiting in their usual uneven formation.

Power had her legs up on the armrest of a chair, Galgali sat too still, and Aki—ever the soldier—stood until she gestured for him to sit.

Makima moved behind her desk, the scent of damp leather and rain filling the air. She leaned forward, resting her chin lightly atop her folded hands. Water still clung to the ends of her hair, dripping onto the dark wood below.

“I thought I summoned all of Special Division 4,” she said evenly.

Aki was the first to speak. “Most of the division is still deployed, ma’am. The rest are finishing assignments.”

A quiet nod. “I see.”

Her tone carried no accusation, but the air in the room grew heavier. Aki’s posture stiffened. Power, for once, stopped fidgeting.

Aki broke the silence again. “May I ask the reason for the meeting?”

Makima’s gaze flicked to him, unblinking. “I’ve let Denji off his leash for a while.”

Power’s head snapped up. “WHAT? You—you let the mutt off on his own?”

Makima didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers tapped once against the desk before folding together again. “He’ll be unavailable for missions. Temporarily.”

She turned her head slightly toward Power. “You’ll be paired with Aki until then.”

Power’s mouth fell open, horrified. “EH? HIM? The boring one?”

Aki exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering, “This is going to be hell.”

“Language,” Makima said softly, and both went silent.

Power crossed her arms, pouting. “When does the fool come back? Power misses her underling!”

Makima smiled faintly, though her eyes didn’t. “Soon. In due time.”

Galgali, who had been quiet the whole time, raised a careful hand. “Is that all, Makima?”

“Yes,” she said simply, giving a single nod.

The three stood. Aki gave a curt bow before turning for the door. Power dragged her feet the whole way out, muttering under her breath about “the stinky human,” and Galgali followed silently behind them.
Once the door clicked shut, the sound of the rain outside filled the office again. Makima turned her chair slowly toward the window. The city lights were faint, blurred by the storm.

A small movement caught her eye—a mouse, perched on the window sill, its fur slick from the rain. It looked at her, unflinching.

She watched it for a moment, then spoke softly, her voice so calm it almost blended with the rain.

“He’ll come back.”

Her hand rose, tracing one finger down the glass. The mouse twitched but didn’t flee.

“And if he doesn’t,” she murmured, the faintest smile curling her lips, “I’ll make him.”

The mouse blinked once, still as stone. Then, as if understanding, it turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Makima leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the storm outside, her reflection caught faintly in the window—a ghost of control, patience, and quiet hunger.
__________________________________________________________

The three of them walked down the long corridor of the bureau, the click of Aki’s boots echoing against the tile. Power was the first to break the silence, throwing her arms up dramatically. “What does she mean ‘let Denji loose’!? What kind of nonsense is that!? He’s probably out there eating garbage or something!”

Aki sighed, keeping his hands in his pockets. “You’re being loud again. If Makima says he’s fine, he’s fine.” His tone was firm, but even he couldn’t hide the slight tension in his shoulders.

Power leaned closer, eyes narrowed. “You don’t actually believe that, do you, human? He’s probably exploded or something ridiculous like that. I demand my buddy back!”

Galgali chuckled quietly beneath his mask. “You two fight like siblings. Still… I have to admit, that meeting was strange. Makima doesn’t usually dismiss us so fast.”

“Exactly!” Power snapped, jabbing a finger into Galgali’s chest. “Something’s off! Maybe Denji ran away! Maybe he’s finally realized my greatness and gone to get me a feast!”

Aki shot her a flat look. “You mean the same Denji who can barely remember to feed himself?”

Power crossed her arms and turned away with a “hmph.” “I’d still be a better partner than you!”

Aki ignored her, walking toward the elevator. “Whatever Makima’s doing, it’s not our concern. She has a reason for everything.”

Galgali followed a few paces behind, his voice thoughtful. “Maybe. But I can’t shake the feeling that this time… her reason might not be one we’d understand.”

The elevator doors slid open. Aki stepped inside first, Power stomping in after him, still muttering about blood and stupidity. Galgali lingered for a second, glancing back down the hall where they’d just come from.

The corridor was empty now, eerily so, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. He tilted his head slightly, then stepped into the elevator.

As the doors closed, he murmured just loud enough for the others to hear, “Wherever Denji is… I hope he’s all right.”

Power scoffed. “He’s probably bathing in blood somewhere, the idiot.”

Aki said nothing, his eyes fixed straight ahead, though for a brief second, even he looked uncertain. as he called for the elevator, its doors opening up breaking his chain of thought.

The elevator hummed quietly as it descended, the dim light flickering above them. For a while, no one spoke. Then Galgali broke the silence, his tone calm but curious.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about the Bomb Devil incident. There was something… strange about it. About Denji.”

Aki looked over. “Strange how?”

Galgali folded his arms. “Just the way he fought her. It didn’t feel like any of his other fights. Almost like he knew her. Or cared.” He paused, glancing between them. “You think there was something between them?”

Power blinked. “Between who and who?”

“The Bomb Devil,” Galgali said.

Power frowned, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, that explosion woman? Pfft. I never met her! All I know is Denji and that shark freak nearly leveled half the city fighting her and the big swirly water monster. I had to clean up the aftermath! Do you know how disgusting that was!?”

Aki pinched the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t clean anything.”

Power smirked. “I supervised.”

Galgali gave a soft chuckle beneath his mask. “Still, you didn’t notice anything odd about how Makima handled it afterward?”

Aki thought for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s not the first time she’s been secretive about Denji. Whatever connection he had with that devil, it doesn’t change much. She’s got plans for him.”

“Plans that require letting him ‘loose’?” Galgali asked.

Aki exhaled slowly through his nose. “If she’s letting him rest or keeping him somewhere safe, that’s her call. He’s useful, and she knows it.”

Power stretched her arms, yawning loudly. “Blah, boring talk. If Denji’s not dead, he’ll come crawling back soon enough, begging for my company and my blood!”

Galgali tilted his head slightly. “You seem fond of him.”

Power looked offended. “I am not! He’s just my underling! My faithful blood servant! That’s all!”

Aki shot her a tired look. “Sure.”

As the elevator doors slid open to the lobby, the rain’s distant patter echoed through the entranceway. Aki stepped out first, glancing toward the gray sky beyond the wooden doors.

“Whatever happened between him and that Bomb Devil… it’s over now,” he said finally. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Power followed with a dramatic sigh. “Fine, but if he’s off doing something stupid, I expect rewards for putting up with this nonsense.”

Galgali lingered for a moment longer, his voice low as the doors started to close behind him. “Still… I wonder if she’s the reason he hasn’t come back yet.”

The doors opened again, and standing behind them was Kisihibe, umbrella in hand, his expression calm but alert. “Evening,” he greeted, nodding to the trio. Without another word, he stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid shut behind him.

Chapter Text

The morning light crept across the shoreline, soft and golden, catching on the small waves as they rolled in and out. The fire from the night before had long died, reduced to a shallow pit of charcoal and ash, its final warmth stolen by the sea breeze. A pack of brilliant red cardinals perched on the rock formations around.

Reze stirred first. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—only that there was a quiet weight resting against her thighs. Then she looked down and saw him.

Denji lay with his head in her lap, his breathing slow, his face at peace in a way she had never seen before. The faint rise and fall of his chest, the soft flicker of light tracing his scars—it was fragile, almost unreal. She didn’t move. She didn’t dare. There was something sacred about the stillness, and she wanted to keep it untouched, even for a little while longer.

The sound of the waves filled the silence, rhythmic and steady. She felt the coarse texture of the sand under her fingers, the air tasting faintly of salt and smoke. For the first time in a long while, she let herself simply exist—no missions, no orders, no blood. Just the boy asleep in her lap, and the ocean humming softly beside them.

Denji stirred with a faint groan, blinking against the morning light. His eyes found hers, still heavy with sleep, and he looked briefly confused, as if waking up into a dream. Reze smiled, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead.

“Morning,” she whispered.

He grunted in reply, voice hoarse. “You look weird upside down.”

That earned a laugh from her—quiet, melodic, full of relief. The sound made him smile without meaning to. She leaned down then, just a little, close enough that he could see the faint salt stains on her cheeks, the softness in her eyes.

Before he could speak, she kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. Just gentle—like a promise she didn’t have words for. When she pulled away, Denji blinked, dazed, his expression stuck somewhere between awe and confusion.

She tilted her head, teasing. “Was that your first kiss?”

His mind stuttered, flashing back to that awful, drunken memory—the vomit, the taste, the embarrassment—and he shook his head hard, face scrunching up. “Nope. Definitely not.”

Reze raised an eyebrow, smiling faintly. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Don’t wanna talk about it,” he muttered, rolling onto his back and staring up at the sky as if it might spare him.

Her laughter came again, lighter this time, chasing away the awkwardness. She followed his gaze for a while, then he glanced to the side—where Beam lay sprawled out half-buried in sand, mouth open, snoring loud enough to scare the gulls away.

Denji sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess he’s still alive.”

“Barely,” Reze said, smirking.

He sat up, dusting sand off his arms, then reached over to give Beam a halfhearted shake. “Wake up, fish brain. The tide’s gonna drag you back out.”

Beam snorted awake with a gasp, eyes wide. “Lord Denji! The ocean tried to eat me again!”

Reze chuckled under her breath, watching the two of them bicker, the morning light painting them in soft gold. For the first time since everything had gone to hell, it felt almost… normal.

Denji and Beam bickered for a bit—mostly about who snored louder and who smelled worse—before Denji finally threw his hands up. “I’m hungry. Time for breakfast.”

He scanned the beach, squinting like the answer might be hidden in the sand. “Beam… where are we?”

Beam tilted his head, scratching at the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Lord Denji! I just swam as far as I could until the water stopped trying to murder us!”

“That’s real helpful,” Denji muttered, rubbing his stomach.

Reze, still sitting on the sand with the oversized shirt draped around her shoulders, glanced over at him and tried not to laugh. “You realize you’re only wearing underwear, right?”

Denji froze, looking down at himself. The realization hit slow and painful. “Oh. Right.” He rubbed the back of his head, remembering the fire, the ruined clothes, and the fact that he’d handed her his shirt without thinking.

He pointed lazily. “Well, you’ve got my shirt. Can I have it back?”

Reze clutched it tighter around her, a playful pout forming. “No. You gave it to me.”

He blinked at her. “That’s not how giving works.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, pulling it on properly, the hem hanging halfway down her thighs.

Denji sighed. “Whatever. I don’t really care about clothes anyway.”

That made her grin—bright and sincere, the kind of smile that made the morning feel lighter. “Then I’ll keep it,” she said, spinning once, just to feel the fabric move.

Beam gave a toothy nod of approval. “Lady Reze looks most splendid in Lord Denji’s garb!”

“Don’t make it weird,” Denji muttered, though his ears went pink.

The three of them started walking inland, their footprints trailing along the wet sand until they reached the treeline. The air was cool, the forest thick with dew, birdsong trickling between the branches. After a few minutes, they stumbled across a dirt access road that wound up from the shore.

A weathered wooden sign stood crooked beside it, the paint faded but legible enough. Denji squatted in front of it, squinting hard. “Uh… Oto… something beach? I think?”

Reze leaned over his shoulder, teasing. “Forgot how to read Kanji again?”

He scowled. “No, I just… it’s early.”

She smiled, brushing her hair out of her eyes as she read it aloud. “Otomegahama Beach, Hamaguchiura Bay.”

“See? That’s what I was gonna say,” Denji said, popping up from his squat like he’d solved it first. “Guess we just follow the road, then.”

They did, walking side by side, sometimes in silence, sometimes with Beam humming a made-up sea shanty about “the glorious Chainsaw Lord and his radiant shark knight.” The forest slowly gave way to farmland, the smell of salt giving way to damp earth and morning mist.

After about fifteen minutes, the quiet rumble of an engine grew behind them. An old kei truck rolled into view, the driver an older man with sun-weathered skin and a farmer’s hat tilted low. He slowed to a stop, eyeing the trio with mild disbelief—especially Denji, barefoot and half-naked, and Beam, whose head still looked a little too shark-like for comfort.

Still, the man just sighed, muttering something about “Tokyo kids and their weird fashion trends,” before leaning out the window. “You three lost?”

Denji grinned. “Kinda.”

The man nodded once. “Hop in. I’ll take you into town.”

Reze climbed into the passenger seat, offering a polite thanks, while Denji and Beam climbed into the bed of the truck. Beam immediately lay flat, arms spread wide, shouting over the wind, “We ride to glory, Lord Denji!”

Denji just shook his head, flopping down beside him, the sun warm on his face as the truck rumbled down the road.

For the first time in what felt like forever, they were headed somewhere—anywhere—that wasn’t running or bleeding.

The truck rattled along the dirt path until the trees began to thin, and the thick shade of the forest gave way to open air. The sudden burst of light made Reze squint, blinking at the wide stretch before them. The land rolled gently into a sea of green and gold, dotted with small houses and distant windmills. From this height, they could see the edge of the island—a faint glimmer of the ocean meeting the horizon.

Reze leaned forward, elbows on the dash. “Where… are we?” Her voice was soft, like she was afraid of breaking the stillness.

The older man with a face carved by years of sun, glanced at her through the mirror. “Miyagi Prefecture,” he said, smiling faintly. “Strange place to find kids like you.” He thought, they were much stranger than he let on but harmless enough.

Denji blinked, half out the window, hair whipping in the wind. “We’re on an island?”

The man gave a small laugh. “Aye. Never left Tokyo, huh?”

Reze shook her head, eyes wide. She looked out again, taking in the sight of distant rice paddies, glassy with water that reflected the sky like mirrors. Birds glided over the fields, their shadows sliding across the ground.

They crossed a wooden bridge creaking under the truck’s weight, the river below glistening with sunlight. A fisherman waved as they passed; Beam waved back enthusiastically, tongue flopping out like a happy retriever.

The air was clean, the kind of clean that made Denji feel like he hadn’t been breathing right his whole life. “Smells weird,” he muttered.

“That’s grass,” the driver said. “Real grass. Not the kind that grows through concrete.”

Reze laughed softly. “It’s nice.”

For the next twenty minutes, they rode through a landscape that looked too peaceful to be real—rolling fields, the occasional old farmhouse with laundry flapping in the wind, a scarecrow watching over a small plot. Denji had seen rural life before, but not like this. His countryside was poverty and rot. This was… alive.

“We’ll be stopping in the Ono area, Higashimatsushima City,” the driver announced as they crossed a broad river on a steel bridge. His tone softened after a pause. “You kids got a place to stay?”

They looked at one another—three fugitives with no plan, only the clothes on their backs and the weight of what they’d done.

The man chuckled before they could answer. “Didn’t think so.” He reached into his coat and handed over a few folded bills. “You can stay at my place for now. Use this if you need anything.”

Reze bowed deeply. “Thank you. Really.”

Beam shouted his gratitude with a salute, and Denji mumbled his thanks, awkward but genuine.

The old man smiled at them through the mirror. “You three are a strange bunch,” he said, chuckling. “But you look like you needed a break.”

Reze leaned back against the seat, still staring out at the endless fields as the truck carried them deeper into the quiet countryside.

The countryside slowly gave way to scattered homes and narrow paved roads. Before long, the fields were gone, replaced by rows of shops and the hum of quiet traffic. They’d entered Higashimatsushima City. It wasn’t like Tokyo at all—no skyscrapers cutting into the clouds, no high-rise apartments stacked like blocks. Most buildings were two stories tall, shops below with homes perched above them.

For Denji, the change was jarring. Tokyo had burned its rhythm into him: neon signs flashing over crowded crossings, the constant blare of horns, the press of people on every street. Here, the streets were calm. Conversations replaced car horns, and the only lights came from paper lanterns hanging above storefronts. He almost didn’t know what to do with the quiet.

Reze, on the other hand, looked enchanted. Her face lit up as she watched people walking their dogs, shopkeepers sweeping the fronts of their stores, and children laughing as they ran ahead of their parents. She waved to a pair of elderly women passing by, who returned her greeting with warm smiles and a small bow. “Everyone’s so friendly here,” she said, her voice filled with wonder.

They passed a grocery store with its doors propped open, the smell of fresh fruit drifting into the street. A tire repair shop buzzed with the sound of an air compressor. Next came an auto body shop, a small row of restaurants with steaming pots outside, a travel agency with posters of scenic mountains, and a flower shop bursting with color. Denji leaned against the truck bed, watching it all go by—life, ordinary and unbothered.

A bakery’s scent of bread rolled through the air, followed by the sweet chill of an ice-cream parlor on the corner. Across the street stood a large school, children running across the yard in neat uniforms. Beyond it rose the town’s tallest building, a five-story hospital, modest but sturdy. A few blocks later came a convenience store, the last landmark before they turned off the main road.

The old man guided the truck down a narrow paved driveway, leading to a house that looked like something from a postcard. Three stories tall, built in traditional Japanese style with sloped tile roofing and wooden lattice windows. A private garden wrapped around the side, blooming with chrysanthemums and trimmed bonsai.

Denji’s eyes went wide. “Old man, you’re loaded!”

The driver chuckled as he parked. “Made a few good investments, that’s all.”

He turned off the engine and glanced at them. “Well then, you three—what should I call you?”

“Denji,” he said simply.
“Reze,” she added, still staring at the garden.
“BEAM!” the shark-headed fiend announced proudly.

“Alright then,” the old man nodded. “Lights out at eleven. Be back by then and you’ll be fine.”

They hopped out of the truck, stretching their legs. Reze turned back, curiosity bright in her eyes. “Hey, what’s your name?”

He smiled. “Name’s Fuku.”

The three of them waved at Fuku as he slid open the front door, stepping inside and disappearing for a few seconds before his voice called out, “Denji, Beam.”

Something came flying out the door—two pairs of pants and two shirts landing perfectly on top of their heads. “I might not find it too weird that you two are half-naked,” Fuku said, leaning against the doorframe, “but the rest of the city probably would. So put those on.”

Denji nodded in appreciation. “Thanks, old man.”

Beam picked up his clothes reluctantly, muttering something about not liking “human wrapping” before forcing them on. Fuku gave a small chuckle, then turned and disappeared back into the house, sliding the door closed behind him.

Denji tied his pants and glanced over at the others. “Well then, what should we do now?”

Reze’s eyes lit up instantly. “We should go explore the city!” she said, bouncing on her heels like an eager puppy.

She pulled out the few bills Fuku had given them, counting with neat precision before handing Beam ten thousand yen. Beam pushed her hand away. “Keep it,” he said, waving them off. “The sea provides.”

Both Denji and Reze stared at him. “You sure?” Denji asked.

Beam flashed a toothy grin, threw them a thumbs-up, and took off sprinting down the road, his bare feet slapping against the pavement until he vanished around the corner.

“Well,” Denji said, watching him go, “that’s one way to start the morning.”

Reze laughed softly, folding the money back into her pocket.

Denji turned toward her with a grin. “You do still owe me a date, and I’m starving.” He nudged her playfully.

Reze smiled, her expression softening. “Then let’s fix that.”

Without hesitation, she took his hand, catching him completely off guard. He blinked, heat rising in his face as she tugged him gently toward the road.

“Come on,” she said, her voice bright. “There’s a bakery calling our name.”

The little bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside, a soft ting that cut through the quiet hum of the morning. The air was warm, almost buttery, thick with the smell of baked bread and sugar melting into pastry crusts. It wrapped around them instantly—cozy, comforting, real.

The bakery wasn’t crowded, just a few locals chatting in low tones over their breakfasts. The hiss of the espresso machine filled the air, followed by the rhythmic clink of porcelain cups against saucers. A small radio on the counter played an old pop tune, its volume low.

Wooden shelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly arranged loaves and pastries: melon bread dusted with sugar, red bean buns still steaming, croissants glazed to a golden sheen, and small cakes decorated with bright fruit. Behind the counter sat a glass display case full of delicate sweets—cream puffs, strawberry shortcakes, roll cakes with perfect spirals of whipped cream.

Denji pressed his face a little too close to the glass, his breath fogging it. “Holy crap,” he muttered. “Everything looks good.”

Reze giggled softly. “Then let’s try a bit of everything.”

They placed their order with the woman behind the counter—two coffees, a croissant, an apple tart, a cream bun, and a slice of shortcake to share. When the tray came out, Denji carried it like treasure, balancing it carefully as they took a seat by the window. The light from outside had turned soft gold, pooling across the table, catching Reze’s hair as she brushed it back from her face.

Denji bit into the croissant first. It crunched like a whisper, buttery flakes scattering onto the table. His eyes widened. “Oh man, this is insane.”

Reze smiled, tearing off a piece for herself. “See? Told you it was worth it.”

They moved through the tray slowly—sharing bites, laughing when powdered sugar dusted Denji’s nose, letting themselves exist without any pressure. The apple tart was tart and sweet all at once, the cream bun soft enough to melt on their tongues, the shortcake impossibly light.

Then came the coffee. God how he hated the flavour, why do people even drink this.

Denji took a sip, trying to mirror Reze’s calm, delicate hold on her cup. The bitterness hit instantly. He forced a smile, trying to play it off, but his grimace gave him away.

Reze noticed immediately, trying not to laugh. “Still not a coffee guy, huh?”

“It’s… fine,” Denji lied, taking another sip like it might somehow improve on the second try. It didn’t.

She giggled again, shaking her head, and slid her cup toward him. “Here. Try mine.”

He blinked at her. “It’s the same thing.”

“Maybe not,” she said, lifting the cup and holding it to his lips.

He hesitated, but leaned forward and took a sip. The taste hit him—still bitter, still coffee—but something felt different. Maybe it was the warmth of the cup against her hands, or how close she was when she offered it, or the faint sweetness of her smile lingering in his mind. Whatever it was, it didn’t taste bad anymore.

He swallowed and looked at her, almost dazed. “Okay… yeah, that’s better.”

Reze smirked, eyes glinting. “Told you.”

They sat there for a while longer, the world outside moving at its own quiet pace. The smell of roasted beans and sugar lingered in the air, the radio played something soft and nostalgic, 'Slowly learning that life is okay'

__________________________________________________________

Beam watched them go, hands on his hips, the morning breeze catching his hair-fin.
“Fine!” he said aloud to no one. “Let lovers do their boring human things! Beam shall go on a holy mission!”

He struck a pose in the middle of the road, head tilted toward the horizon. Somewhere out there, he was sure, the world was waiting for him to perform something magnificent.

Beam stood on the street waiting for something, the sun glinting off puddles left behind by a recent rainstorm. Each shimmer caught his attention like divine signs. To anyone else, it was just runoff and grime, but to Beam, every reflection was a portal.

“The holy puddle… where sharks ascend to heaven,” he whispered, eyes wide with fanatic devotion. “Glorious, noble puddle… Beam will find you!”

He darted from one puddle to another, splashing through them like a child on a sugar rush. Civilians stepped back, confused and mildly disgusted, watching as this strange man with a weird 'shark helmet' sniffed puddles and declared each one “unworthy.”

At one point, he knelt before a particularly murky puddle behind a ramen stand. “Ah! This one smells of destiny!” he cried—just as a vendor dumped out his dirty dishwater, flooding Beam’s chosen spot with noodle scraps.

“Blasphemy!” Beam roared, spinning toward the vendor, who blinked back in terror.

“You! Mortal! Have you desecrated the sacred waters!?”

“I—I was just cleaning up, man!”

Beam paused, squinting. “Cleaning… purifying…” He nodded sagely. “Yes. You are a disciple and did not even know it. Beam approves!”

He grabbed a spare ladle from the stall and raised it like a relic. “Beam shall continue his holy mission with this sacred scoop!” Then he sprinted off again, the vendor calling after him, “Hey! That’s my ladle!”

Unfazed, Beam laughed triumphantly, sloshing the ladle full of street water like it was liquid gold. “Holy puddle, reveal yourself to Beam! Sharks must ascend!”
__________________________________________________________

“I’m stuffed… and we’ve got—” Denji paused, scanning the café for a clock. “Twelve hours till we need to be back at Fuku’s house. Where do you wanna go next?”

Reze tapped her cheek, eyes flicking toward the window as she thought. “I want to see some animals.”

Denji grinned. He remembered passing a pet store when they first entered the village. “Then we’ll see some animals.” He stood, rubbing his palms together nervously before reaching for her hand. She accepted it without hesitation, her fingers light and warm in his.

The two stepped into the streets, the air rich with the scent of baked bread and street food, still lingering from the morning markets. The sun had climbed high, glazing the rooftops in gold. People moved unhurriedly—couples walking hand in hand, kids chasing each other between stalls, and dog owners letting their pets sniff every patch of grass.

Reze couldn’t resist. Each time a dog passed, she stopped, crouched down, and greeted it with a gentle laugh that made Denji’s chest tighten. A fluffy Shiba rolled over for belly rubs, a dachshund tangled itself in her legs, and every time, she looked up at him with that same soft grin that made everything else fade away.

When a muscular bloodhound lumbered by, Denji instinctively stepped between her and the dog. “Uh, maybe skip this one,” he muttered.

Reze just smiled and knelt in front of it. The hound sniffed her hand once before leaning its heavy head into her palm, sighing like a tired old man. Denji blinked. She really did have a way with everything alive.

He caught sight of a flower shop behind them, its windows fogged from the humid air. Bouquets hung upside down inside, drying in the warm light. For a second, he imagined her in there, surrounded by colors and petals, smiling the same way she smiled at the dogs.

Then she tugged his hand, pulling him back to the moment. “C’mon, you said there was a pet store!”

The shop wasn’t quite what either of them expected. Inside, it was dim, lit mostly by the glow of dozens of fish tanks that lined the walls. The air was thick with humidity and the steady hum of water filters. Each tank was alive with motion—flashes of color and light that danced across Reze’s face as she stepped closer.

“Look at them, Denji!” she said, pressing her hands to the glass. “They’re so tiny, but they look like they’ve got personalities.”

He leaned over her shoulder, squinting. The fish shimmered like living jewels—siamese bettas with flowing fins that looked like silk scarves underwater, schools of guppies darting in bursts of blue and orange, zebra fish slicing through the water in perfect rhythm, and black phantom tetras hovering like ghosts in the low light.

“They’re alright,” Denji said, scratching his head. “Wish they did tricks or something.”

Reze laughed softly, not looking away. “You just don’t get it.”

After a while, Denji drifted toward the back of the shop and found a dusty guitar propped against a shelf. He plucked a few strings—horribly out of tune—but something about the sound caught his attention. He fumbled with a few chords, not that he knew any, and imagined what it’d be like to play something that made Reze smile like that. Maybe he’d learn someday.

Reze stopped in front of the largest tank in the shop, where three koi drifted in slow, hypnotic circles. One was black as ink, its scales absorbing the light; another was a deep, molten red that seemed to pulse like a living ember; the last shimmered gold, each movement scattering flecks of sunlight across the rippling surface.

She crouched close to the glass, her breath fogging it faintly. The water hummed with soft current, the filter whispering like distant rain. The koi glided through it all, unhurried, brushing past each other in a silent, graceful rhythm. Their tails fanned out like silk banners, catching the light in bursts of color that painted her face.

Something in her chest stirred as she watched them. It wasn’t memory exactly, more like the ghost of one—the feeling of a place she couldn’t name, a face she couldn’t quite recall. A warmth and a heaviness mixed together. She felt small, like she was looking through a window into another life entirely.

Her reflection blurred against the glass, merging with the koi as they passed. For a fleeting moment, she felt as though they were moving through her too—cutting through her thoughts, weaving between pieces of herself she hadn’t touched in years.

She leaned closer, eyes following the gold one as it circled back toward her. It swam beneath the black and red pair, gliding upward, a soft ripple of color rising like breath. The sight tugged at her chest. There was something almost human in the way it moved—calm, sure, unbothered by the world beyond its tank.

Reze couldn’t look away. The soft hum of the shop faded, the air thick with stillness. For a few minutes—or maybe longer—time didn’t seem to exist. Just the koi, and the faint ache of something lost but beautiful, drifting just out of reach.

Denji eventually walked up behind her and tapped her shoulder. “Hey, uh… you’ve been staring at those fish for four hours.”

She blinked, the trance breaking. “Wait, really?” Her voice was soft, almost embarrassed.

“Yeah. I didn’t mind,” he said. “As long as they made you happy.”

She smiled, eyes still lingering on the koi. “Very.”

__________________________________________________________

Beam wandered through the streets, ladle still clutched proudly like a knight’s scepter. His feet slapped against the pavement, leaving wet footprints behind from his earlier “holy puddle” expedition. The morning pedestrians parted instinctively around him—some curious, others mildly alarmed by the now half-dressed man mumbling about “sacred water flow.”

His shark nose twitched at a smell that made his eyes widen. Fish. Fresh, glorious, divine fish. He turned the corner and found a street vendor with a table full of glistening catch—mackerel, snapper, sardines—laid neatly on crushed ice. A small crowd had gathered, chatting as the vendor gutted and prepared his stock with quick, rhythmic movements.

Beam froze. His gills fluttered. “So many fallen brothers…” he whispered dramatically. “They hold ceremony for the sea folk.”

The vendor smiled politely, unaware of the misunderstanding. “Good morning! Fresh fish from the coast! Want some grilled?”

Beam blinked, tears forming. “You honor them by fire! A fine burial rite!” He raised the ladle over his head like a relic. “I shall join the procession!”

Before the vendor could reply, Beam began chanting some half-coherent “shark hymn,” swinging the ladle in circles like a censer. The crowd backed up fast, laughing and whispering.

The vendor tried to calm him. “No, no, this isn’t a funeral—these are for sale!”

Beam paused, eyes wide. “For…sale? You sell the spirits of my kin?” He gasped and clutched his chest dramatically. “You fiend!”

The vendor held up a fish nervously. “Would you like…one?”

Beam’s mood flipped instantly. “Yes! I will take this fallen warrior and give him proper passage!” He slammed the ladle down onto the counter, using it as payment. The vendor sighed, gave him the fish, and watched in bewilderment as Beam cradled it gently like a newborn. The vendor inspecting the ladle thinking that he'd seen it before, not being able to place it.

He marched off toward the nearest fountain, holding the fish high, chanting under his breath. “Swim free, my scaled brethren. Return to the eternal current.”

__________________________________________________________

He smiled at her answer, "very" the answer lingering in his head and tightened his grip on her hand—this time steady, not shy. They stepped out into the street, the heat of midday wrapping around them instantly. The sunlight bounced off shop signs and windshields, the cicadas screaming from unseen corners. Denji shielded his eyes with his forearm, half squinting up at the sky. Reze’s hand gave a small squeeze, grounding him. He looked back down and smirked.

They walked without hurry. Denji led through narrow backstreets, cutting past laundry lines that swayed in the hot air. Reze didn’t ask where they were going; she just trailed her fingers across leaves and flower petals as they passed, her touch light and unhurried. The air smelled faintly of soil and sugar. When Denji made one last turn, they came face-to-face with a pastel-painted storefront crowned by a sign shaped like a cone.

The ice cream parlor’s bell jingled softly as they entered. A burst of cold air brushed against their faces, melting the sweat from their skin. The interior was cozy, with polished wood counters and a faint hum from the freezers. Behind the glass display, rows of colors gleamed like jewels—shades of pink, green, gold, and cream swirling in neat mounds.

Denji pressed his palms to the cold glass, eyes wide. “There’s too many,” he muttered.

Reze leaned in beside him, scanning the labels aloud with a little wonder in her voice. “Chocolate, vanilla, matcha, black sesame, strawberry, yuzu, soy sauce—wait, really?—mango, coffee, squid ink…” She snorted at that one. “Who eats squid ink ice cream?”

Denji shrugged. “Maybe sharks.”

Their laughter blended with the faint pop song playing over the speakers. When it was their turn, Denji didn’t hesitate—two scoops, chocolate and vanilla. Simple, safe, and sweet. He knew what he liked.

But Reze lingered in front of the glass. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she looked from one color to the next. “I can’t decide,” she admitted finally, glancing at him. “You pick for me.”

That threw him off. Denji crossed his arms and leaned over the counter, squinting at the lineup like he was choosing a weapon. He wanted it to be perfect—not too weird, not too boring, just… her. The worker behind the counter cleared his throat politely after a few minutes, but Denji didn’t budge.

“Hang on,” he mumbled, rubbing his chin like he was solving a math problem. “She’s kinda sweet but tough, so maybe something fruity… but not too fruity…”

Five minutes later, he straightened up with a grin and slapped his hand on the counter. “I got it! Half strawberry, half sakura, half mango, half sea salt caramel—with black sesame on top.”

The scooper blinked. “That’s… five halves.”

“I’ll pay double,” Denji said without missing a beat.

The scooper stared for a second, then shrugged. “Can’t argue with that logic.” He went to work, muttering something about “romantics and their math.”

Reze watched the whole thing, hiding her smile behind her hand. When he handed her the cup, she took it carefully, studying the chaotic but oddly beautiful swirl of colors. “It looks like a sunset,” she said softly.

Denji grinned, proud of himself. “Yeah. Kinda does.”

They stepped back out into the sunlight, both clutching their ice cream cups. The air outside hit them like a soft wall of warmth, but the cold in their hands made it bearable. Reze’s spoon tapped lightly against the rim of her cup as they walked, Denji leading the way without really knowing where he was going until they reached a small park near the school they’d passed earlier.

A wide bench faced a grassy football pitch, the sound of distant shouts and the rhythmic thud of a ball echoing from below. Students in their uniforms were running drills, the whistle of a coach cutting through the air. The breeze carried the smell of fresh-cut grass and chalk. It was peaceful in a way neither of them had felt in a long time.

Denji sat first, slouching comfortably, legs stretched out. “Alright, let’s see if I picked good.” He scooped a mouthful of his own ice cream—chocolate and vanilla melting together—and his eyes went half-lidded with satisfaction. “Man, that hits different. It’s, like… perfect.”

Reze laughed softly. “You always talk like food’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”

“Most of the time it is,” he said, spooning another bite before looking at her expectantly. “Now come on, try yours.”

She swirled her spoon through the mismatched flavors, watching them blend into a soft, marbled mess. The first taste hit her tongue—a rush of fruit and cream, the sharp brightness of mango and strawberry melting into the gentle floral sakura, all tied together by the salt-sweet caramel and the nutty crunch of black sesame. Her eyes widened slightly.

“Well?” Denji leaned forward, eyebrows raised like a kid waiting for praise.

Reze smiled, the kind that started slow and stayed. “It’s… really good.” She took another spoonful, slower this time, savoring it. “You’ve got weird taste, but it works.”

“Yeah?” His grin spread, proud and toothy. “I know flavors.”

They sat in easy silence for a bit, spoons clinking softly against their cups. Denji’s ice cream was gone fast—he scraped at the bottom and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “That was amazing.” Then cheekily snuck a bit of her ice cream with his spoon, her not noticing. A burst of flavour hit his tongue

Reze was still working on hers, smaller bites, watching the players on the field between spoonfuls. The way the light hit her hair, the way her shoulders relaxed—it all made something in Denji’s chest feel weirdly light. He couldn’t look away.

Finally, he noticed she was halfway done and grinned mischievously. “You gonna finish that?”

She turned toward him, spoon still in her mouth, pretending to guard the cup. “No chance.”

“C’mon, just a little—”

She pulled the spoon out and held it out toward him suddenly. “Fine. One bite.”

Denji leaned forward eagerly, mouth open. She fed him the spoon, and he tasted the mix she’d just eaten. It was the same flavors—exactly the same—but it was different. Softer, sweeter, like it carried something of her warmth in it.

He blinked, a little stunned. “Huh. That one actually tasted better.”

Reze tilted her head. “Better?”

Denji's looking from side to side, "I might have snuck a taste that you didn't notice."

She glared a little at him then softened her expression, "Well It’s the same thing you apparently just tasted, Denji.'

He shrugged, smiling. “Guess it’s just better when it’s from you.”

She laughed, shaking her head, but didn’t look away. The breeze picked up, carrying the faint cheers from the pitch below. The moment lingered quietly between them, sun dipping just a little west, the ice cream melting in her cup, them not really caring.

Denji jumped up so suddenly the bench creaked, nearly spilling the rest of his melted ice cream.

“Where are you—?” Reze started, but before she could finish, he was already halfway down the hill, waving both arms like an excited kid.

He sprinted straight toward the group of players on the field, shouting something they clearly didn’t understand at first. There was a pause, some laughter from the students, and then one of them tossed him the ball. Denji fumbled the first touch, tripped over his own feet, and landed flat on his back.

Reze’s laugh broke out so suddenly she had to cover her mouth. It wasn’t just a chuckle—it was full, bright, and unrestrained. Denji popped back up, brushing grass off his legs, and waved back up at her like nothing happened.

The players decided to let him in for real, and chaos followed immediately. Denji charged down the field, shouting something about “getting the goal,” only to be stripped of the ball by a kid half his size. He chased after it again, arms pumping wildly, determination burning through pure incompetence.

He wasn’t graceful—he wasn’t even close—but he was radiant. Every slip, every stumble, every hopeless attempt to keep up just made him look more alive than she’d ever seen him. The sunlight caught in his hair, his grin stretched wide as he yelled out triumphs that didn’t really exist.

From the bench, Reze leaned forward, chin on her hand, eyes locked on him. The laughter faded into a quiet smile that she couldn’t shake. Watching him run, seeing that kind of pure, unfiltered joy—it stirred something deep inside her chest, something she hadn’t felt in years. Maybe ever.

He waved again, goofy and breathless, before trying another run and missing the net entirely. She laughed again, softer this time, almost tenderly.

In that moment, surrounded by the calm of the countryside, the sound of children’s laughter, and the warm air of early afternoon, Reze thought to herself how strange it felt—how impossible it seemed—to see Denji like this. Happy. Free. Human.

And she couldn’t look away.

__________________________________________________________

Beam strutted away from the sushi vendor, still convinced he had just participated in a sacred ritual of trade and blessing. The vendor—a bewildered older man still holding the ladle Beam had offered as payment—shook his head in disbelief as Beam disappeared into the crowd.

Now free of ladle and purpose, Beam wandered aimlessly, humming some half-remembered sea shanty to himself. He stopped every few meters to inspect things like a child seeing land for the first time: a puddle reflecting the sky (“mini ocean!”), a cat grooming itself (“tiny predator of the depths!”), and a traffic cone (“strange coral!”).

That’s when he spotted her—an elderly woman struggling to lift two overflowing grocery bags onto a small cart. Beam froze. Her trembling hands, her bent posture, the faint wobble in her knees—it looked to him like a dire emergency.

Without hesitation, he sprinted toward her, skidding to a halt beside the cart. “Fear not, elder of the land!” he announced with heroic conviction.

The old woman jumped. “Goodness! You scared me, sonny!”

“I shall bear your burdens! You have fought the tides long enough!” Beam said, already grabbing both bags before she could protest. The woman blinked, unsure whether to thank him or call for help.

“Uh—thank you?” she managed.

Beam nodded solemnly, balancing the bags with reverence. “These fruits of the earth and sea will reach their nest safely, I swear it upon the ocean’s honor.”

They began walking—well, Beam walked; she shuffled beside him, clutching her purse tightly. Every few steps, he looked around suspiciously, muttering about “land pirates” and “bag-snatchers.” A group of teenagers snickered nearby, filming the scene, but Beam ignored them entirely. His focus was absolute.

When they reached the woman’s apartment building, Beam gently set the bags down at her doorstep like sacred offerings. He stood tall, beaming. “The mission is complete!”

The old woman smiled, partly amused, partly touched. “You’re a strange one, but… thank you. You really didn’t have to.”

Beam pressed a hand to his chest. “Helping others is the duty of all who swim under the same sun.”

She laughed softly. “You talk funny, kid. Want a snack? I’ve got rice crackers.”

Beam’s eyes lit up. “Grain of the land! Yes, please!”

She handed him a small pack, and Beam accepted it with the seriousness of a knight receiving a royal token. Also recieving a balloon, it tied to his wrist. He gave a deep, clumsy bow before marching off, crumbs already on his lips, feeling the warm satisfaction of having done good in a world that still didn’t quite make sense to him.

A small act of kindness. A bigger misunderstanding. But, in his heart, Beam had once again made the world just a bit brighter.

__________________________________________________________

The sun had started to slip behind the rooftops, painting the village in a deep orange haze. Denji was still out on the field, shirt soaked through, hair stuck to his forehead as he pushed himself past exhaustion. The final call—more of a half-hearted shout than a whistle—rang out across the pitch. The score didn’t matter. Neither of them had been keeping track.

From her seat on the hill, Reze watched him double over, hands on his knees, laughter spilling between his breaths. A few players clapped him on the back before he looked up at her, grinning and pointing her way. She smiled back, straightening up as he jogged toward her.

“What was that about?” she asked when he reached her.

He scratched his head, sweat glistening along his jaw. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

She tilted her head, amused. “Okay. So, are you hungry?”

“Exhausted and starving after that,” he said, stretching his arms and cracking a tired smile.

She took his hand before he could wipe the sweat away. “Then let’s fix that.”

Her fingers slipped between his, warm and sure. He mumbled an apology about being sweaty, but she didn’t let go. They walked together until the street opened into the main road, the fading sunlight bouncing off shop windows. Just as they were about to join the crowd, she tugged him sharply down a narrow side alley.

Denji frowned. “Uh… I think we missed the street.”

“Trust me,” she said, pointing ahead. A single paper lantern swayed at the far end, its orange glow breathing life into the cracked walls. The scent of broth and soy drifted toward them, heavy and comforting. Denji’s stomach growled like it had been waiting for that smell all day.

They stepped through the doorway beneath the lantern. The shop was tiny—three stools, a counter, and an old man standing behind it, his sleeves rolled up and eyes half-lidded in quiet focus. There were no menus, no chatter, just the gentle symphony of boiling broth and clattering pans.

They sat side by side. Reze leaned forward on the counter, chin resting on her hand, watching the chef’s movements with silent curiosity. Denji, though, couldn’t take his eyes off her.

In the warm lamplight, her purple hair shimmered with streaks of violet and lilac, like silk brushed with moonlight. It framed her face perfectly, soft against her skin, with a few stray strands catching on the steam rising from the pots. Her emerald-green eyes reflected the lantern’s glow, steady and deep, and every time she blinked, it felt like the light around her shifted. Her expression was calm, yet there was a flicker of thought behind her gaze—something private, unreachable.

He watched the small curve of her smile as the chef placed two bowls in front of them. The broth glistened golden beneath the rising steam.

Reze turned to him, catching his stare before he could look away. “You’re staring,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Denji froze, caught red-handed. “I—uh—I was just checking if you were hungry.”

Her smile widened. “Then let’s eat.”

Steam curled upward, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of pork and garlic. The bowl was simple—tonkotsu ramen with three neat slices of chashu, one piece of dried seaweed, a halved egg with its yolk glowing like liquid gold, finely diced green onions scattered on top, and a touch of minced garlic melting into the broth.

Denji and Reze didn’t waste a second. They picked up their chopsticks almost in sync, breaking through the surface of the broth. The first bite hit like a quiet revelation. The noodles were thick, springy, and chewy, the kind that snapped lightly between the teeth before soaking up the flavor of the soup. The broth itself wasn’t heavy or greasy—it was smooth and balanced, savory without being overpowering, each sip coating the tongue in warmth.

The chashu melted instantly, tender and rich, its edges slightly charred so that every bite carried a trace of smoke. The soft-boiled egg was perfect, the yolk creamy and still warm, mixing with the broth to make it silkier with every stir. The garlic brought a low hum of heat that lingered, and the green onions added a small spark of freshness that cut through the richness.

Neither of them said anything at first. There wasn’t a need to. The air was filled only with the quiet clink of chopsticks and the occasional satisfied slurp. Reze leaned forward, her eyes half-closed, savoring the balance of flavors. Denji didn’t bother pretending to be polite—he devoured the ramen with pure, childlike joy, breathing between bites just to laugh softly and shake his head.

When they finally slowed down, both bowls were nearly empty, just traces of golden broth left at the bottom. Reze tilted hers slightly, watching the oil shimmer on the surface, then whispered, almost to herself, “I don’t think I’ve ever had something this good.”

Denji nodded, still chewing, his mouth too full to talk but his grin saying enough.

__________________________________________________________

Beam strolled through the evening streets, the last traces of sunset painting the clouds coral and violet. He was humming a strange tune—something about sharks and destiny—as he wandered aimlessly, balloon string still wrapped around his wrist. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. There was something more important on his mind. “Beam must do more good deeds! Lord Denji will be proud!”

That’s when he spotted it: a small commotion by a streetlight. A cat, scruffy and orange, was stuck halfway up a tree, meowing in desperation while an old shopkeeper waved a broom from below, shouting, “Come down, you little menace!”

Beam gasped. “A tree beast has captured the feline!” He ran full sprint across the street—ignoring the honk of a passing scooter—and planted himself at the base of the tree. “Do not fear, small land-fish! Beam will save thee!”

The shopkeeper blinked. “Land-fish?”

Before the man could stop him, Beam wrapped his arms around the trunk and began to climb—badly. He slipped halfway up, face-planting into the bark, but somehow kept ascending, thrashing like he was swimming through the air. “Almost there… heroic shark… never gives up!”

The cat looked down at him, unimpressed. Beam reached the branch, grabbed the cat by the scruff, and lost his balance immediately. Both tumbled down into a bush, the cat landing safely on its feet while Beam groaned in triumph. “Ha! Freed! The beast is slain!”

The shopkeeper ran over, clutching the cat and muttering something between thanks and disbelief. He pressed a small rice cracker into Beam’s hand. “You’re… something else, kid. Here. For helping.”

Beam held the cracker like it was sacred treasure. “A divine offering! Beam is blessed this day!” He bowed deeply, crumbs already spilling as he took an enormous bite. “Mmm! Salty! Crunchy! The flavor of victory!”

The shopkeeper just sighed and walked off, shaking his head.

As the sky darkened, the streets grew quieter. Beam wandered on, licking the crumbs from his fingers. His mind began to drift to Lord Denji—his fearless leader—and Lady Reze, whose kindness he found mystifying, even though she had beat him to a pulp before. “They will be so happy,” he said proudly. “Beam did many noble acts today! Stopped a shark funeral, saved a cat, stopped an old woman’s groceries from escaping into the wild…”

He grinned wide, his sharp teeth glinting under a streetlight. “Lord Denji will surely promote Beam! Maybe to Duke of Sharks! Or… Shark Saint!”

He puffed up his chest at the thought, marching down the street toward Fuku’s house with heroic purpose. When he arrived, the lights were still off. The air was cool and smelled faintly of rain and salt. He crouched by the gate again, tying his balloon to the fence post, and folded his arms, proud and patient.

“They will return soon,” he murmured to himself. “And Beam will tell them all about his glorious deeds!”

He yawned, stretching his fins before settling cross-legged on the ground. His eyes fluttered shut, and within minutes he was asleep, snoring softly, still smiling like a child after a long, wonderful day. The balloon bobbed gently above him, swaying in rhythm with his breath.

__________________________________________________________

They paid for their meals, the chef still silent except for a low, satisfied grunt before giving them a small bow. They returned it with quiet respect and stepped out into the night. The city had changed since they first entered the ramen shop—the sky now a deep indigo, the last streaks of orange fading beyond the rooftops. Street lamps cast golden pools of light along the narrow road, and the air was thick with the faint aroma of soy, smoke, and the distant sea. It was around 7:30, the kind of hour when the world felt calm but alive.

Reze took the lead, her hands clasped behind her back, humming softly while tilting her head up to the stars beginning to bloom overhead. Denji trailed behind, watching the way her purple hair caught the light, strands shifting between shadow and shimmer as she walked. Then, with a sudden grin, he stepped forward, overtaking her. He clasped his hands behind his head and began whistling in tune with her melody. She smiled at the gesture, and their voices—one humming, one whistling—wove together as they wandered through the softly glowing streets.

The pavement soon gave way to cobblestones, then to a dirt path lined with tall, whispering grass. Lights faded behind them, replaced by the rhythmic song of crickets and the rustle of leaves overhead. The walk uphill was steady but unhurried. Every few steps, Reze would glance up at the sky, tracing constellations with her eyes, while Denji kicked small pebbles along the trail. Their tune never broke, even as the city lights grew smaller and the air turned cooler.

When they finally reached the top, a quiet temple stood before them, its wooden beams aged but strong, the roof glinting faintly under the moonlight. Paper lanterns swayed gently from the eaves, their faint glow mingling with the soft silver light of the stars. The torii gate framed the entrance perfectly, and beneath it, a small patch of violet caught Reze’s eye.

Denji walked toward it, crouched down, and reached behind the stone steps, pulling out a neatly wrapped bouquet of lilacs, tied together with a simple white ribbon. When he turned around, he was holding them carefully in both hands, their soft purple hue reflecting the night sky.

“These are for you,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “The color reminded me of your hair.”

Reze blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile as she accepted the bouquet. “When did you have the time to do this?” she asked, brushing a few petals with her fingers.

Denji scratched his head and smirked. “That’s my secret to keep.”

Reze laughed under her breath, bringing the flowers close to her nose, their fragrance light and sweet. “You’ll have to tell me that secret one day,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer, only grinned wider. Together they stood before the temple, bathed in the gentle glow of lanterns and starlight, the lilacs between them like a shared secret. The city lights twinkled faintly below, distant and small, while the quiet of the hilltop wrapped around them like a held breath.

They wandered deeper into the temple grounds, the gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes. The air was cooler now, the cicadas quieting as the night deepened. Stone lanterns lined the path, their faint orange glow guiding them toward a small open courtyard behind the main hall. Moss-covered steps led up to a raised patch of grass where they finally settled, lying side by side beneath the vast stretch of stars.

Reze rested her hands on her stomach, eyes tracing the endless specks of light. “Do you know what constellations are?” she asked quietly.

Denji shook his head, his gaze still fixed upward. “Uh… stars that make pictures?”

She smiled softly. “Kind of. They’re groups of stars that people long ago connected with stories—heroes, gods, and creatures. Every one of them has a tale.”

Denji hummed, pretending to understand, then pointed up eagerly. “That one looks like a chainsaw. And that one—” he gestured wildly to another cluster “—that’s totally a hamburger.”

Reze laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “I wish that’s how it worked.”

Reze turned her face up to the sky, the stars spread wide and bright above them, and focused her voice into the darkness like telling an old secret.

“Cancer,” she began, “is one of those constellations that comes with a whole sad little legend.” She pointed with a finger, tracing the faint curve of stars. “There are a couple of versions, but they all center on a crab called Karkinos.”

She let the name hang for a beat, then dove in. “Hera was mad—always meddling in the labors Heracles had to do. When Heracles fought the Lernaean Hydra, that terrible multi-headed snake, Hera didn’t just sit and watch. She sent Karkinos, a crab, to crawl out of the swamp and nip at Heracles’ feet to distract him.” Reze’s tone turned theatrical, like she was painting the scene with motion: “Imagine Heracles hacking and slashing at the Hydra’s heads and this tiny crab just keeps biting at his toes. Annoying, right?”

Denji snorted a laugh. “That’s… mean for a crab.”

“Right?” Reze smiled. “Heracles, being Heracles, booted the crab away—kicked it so hard in one version that it was flung up into the sky. In another version, he crushed it underfoot. Either way, Hera, feeling either triumphant or pitying—depends on the telling—raised the crab into the heavens as a constellation.” She tapped the dark patch of stars again. “So the crab gets immortality. Small thing, but put on a giant, eternal stage.”

She watched Denji follow the arc of her finger, then kept talking, softer now, folding meaning into the myth. “Some people say that’s the point: the crab’s stubbornness. Karkinos isn’t powerful like Heracles, but it tries anyway. It interferes where it can, even if the result is awful for it. Hera’s act—whether out of malice or mercy—turns that stubborn little struggle into something lasting. Kind of weird, but also kind of beautiful.”

Denji hummed, thinking. “So, the crab got famous for just being annoying?”

Reze laughed, a small, warm sound. “Not famous—remembered. The story doesn’t make the crab a hero in the same way Heracles is, but it makes it part of the story. It becomes a reminder that even small, clumsy things can leave a mark. Some versions say Hera honored it because it tried to help the Hydra’s enemies. Others say she just wanted to rub Heracles’ nose in it. Either way, the stars keep it there.”

She turned the meaning over in her voice. “There’s a tenderness to it. The crab is tiny and doomed in the face of something massive, but someone—Hera—noticed it. Put it in the sky. So when you look at Cancer, you see a little creature that survived the worst by being impossible to ignore.” Her fingers drew the curve again, as if shaping the crab out of the darkness.

Denji squinted up, imagining the story like a comic in his head. “Kinda like people who try anyway, even when they’re not strong.”

“Exactly.” Reze’s eyes were soft in the lantern glow. “It’s not about winning. It’s about the act of trying, and the strange mercy of being remembered for it.”

They lay there a moment longer, the story stilled between them, the stars above like witnesses. The temple’s night hush made the tale feel older, like it belonged to any place where people stayed awake enough to tell stories to the dark.

They both rose slowly, brushing the grass and dirt from their clothes. The temple courtyard was silent except for the faint song of crickets and the low hum of the night breeze passing through the trees. Reze looked up once more at the constellation of Cancer, then down at Denji, a small smile still playing on her lips.

“Come on,” she said quietly, “we should start heading back.”

Denji nodded, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn before stuffing his hands into his pockets. They started down the sloped path, the stone steps uneven and glinting faintly under the moonlight. Lanterns hung along the trail, their soft orange glow flickering against the surrounding forest. Fireflies drifted between the trees, tiny bursts of light that followed them for a short while before vanishing into the shadows.

As they descended, the distant sounds of the city began to return—cars, laughter, the faint beat of music from an open window. The air grew warmer, heavier with the scent of food and asphalt. Reze walked slightly ahead now, the wrapped bouquet of lilac held close to her chest. Denji watched her silhouette against the glow of the streetlights below, thinking she almost looked like part of the night itself—something gentle and untouchable.

When they reached the edge of the city streets, the quiet of the temple gave way to life again: people chatting outside small shops, neon signs flickering, the hum of scooters passing by. Denji looked over at Reze, her hair catching a hint of purple from the lights overhead.

“Hey,” he said softly, “did you like today?”

She turned to him, that same easy smile returning. “I did. A lot.”

They walked the rest of the way side by side, the rhythm of their footsteps falling in sync as the lights of the village houses began to appear in the distance. The night felt calm, stretched out, almost endless.

By the time they reached the house, the windows glowed faintly from inside. Denji paused at the gate, looking back toward the hills they’d come from, the temple barely visible under the starlight. For once, he didn’t feel like the night was something he had to survive—it just felt right.

Reze noticed his lingering gaze and said quietly, “You’ll have to tell me that secret one day.”

Denji grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… maybe someday.”

They stepped inside together, the door closing softly behind them.

Chapter Text

Beam picked up his clothes reluctantly, muttering something about not liking “human wrapping” before forcing them on. Fuku gave a small chuckle, then turned and disappeared back into the house, sliding the door closed behind him.

Denji tied his pants and glanced over at the others. “Well then, what should we do now?”

Reze’s eyes lit up instantly. “We should go explore the city!” she said, bouncing on her heels like an eager puppy.

She pulled out the few bills Fuku had given them, counting with neat precision before handing Beam ten thousand yen. Beam pushed her hand away. “Keep it,” he said, waving them off. “The sea provides.”

Both Denji and Reze stared at him. “You sure?” Denji asked.

Beam flashed a toothy grin, threw them a thumbs-up, and took off sprinting down the road, his bare feet slapping against the pavement until he vanished around the corner.

“Well,” Denji said, watching him go, “that’s one way to start the morning.”

Reze laughed softly, folding the money back into her pocket.

Denji turned toward her with a grin. “You do still owe me a date, and I’m starving.” He nudged her playfully.

Reze smiled, her expression softening. “Then let’s fix that.”

Without hesitation, she took his hand, catching him completely off guard. He blinked, heat rising in his face as she tugged him gently toward the road.

“Come on,” she said, her voice bright. “There’s a bakery calling our name.”

The little bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside, a soft ting that cut through the quiet hum of the morning. The air was warm, almost buttery, thick with the smell of baked bread and sugar melting into pastry crusts. It wrapped around them instantly—cozy, comforting, real.

The bakery wasn’t crowded, just a few locals chatting in low tones over their breakfasts. The hiss of the espresso machine filled the air, followed by the rhythmic clink of porcelain cups against saucers. A small radio on the counter played an old pop tune, its volume low.

Wooden shelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly arranged loaves and pastries: melon bread dusted with sugar, red bean buns still steaming, croissants glazed to a golden sheen, and small cakes decorated with bright fruit. Behind the counter sat a glass display case full of delicate sweets—cream puffs, strawberry shortcakes, roll cakes with perfect spirals of whipped cream.

Denji pressed his face a little too close to the glass, his breath fogging it. “Holy crap,” he muttered. “Everything looks good.”

Reze giggled softly. “Then let’s try a bit of everything.”

They placed their order with the woman behind the counter—two coffees, a croissant, an apple tart, a cream bun, and a slice of shortcake to share. When the tray came out, Denji carried it like treasure, balancing it carefully as they took a seat by the window. The light from outside had turned soft gold, pooling across the table, catching Reze’s hair as she brushed it back from her face.

Denji bit into the croissant first. It crunched like a whisper, buttery flakes scattering onto the table. His eyes widened. “Oh man, this is insane.”

Reze smiled, tearing off a piece for herself. “See? Told you it was worth it.”

They moved through the tray slowly—sharing bites, laughing when powdered sugar dusted Denji’s nose, letting themselves exist without any pressure. The apple tart was tart and sweet all at once, the cream bun soft enough to melt on their tongues, the shortcake impossibly light.

Then came the coffee. God how he hated the flavour, why do people even drink this.

Denji took a sip, trying to mirror Reze’s calm, delicate hold on her cup. The bitterness hit instantly. He forced a smile, trying to play it off, but his grimace gave him away.

Reze noticed immediately, trying not to laugh. “Still not a coffee guy, huh?”

“It’s… fine,” Denji lied, taking another sip like it might somehow improve on the second try. It didn’t.

She giggled again, shaking her head, and slid her cup toward him. “Here. Try mine.”

He blinked at her. “It’s the same thing.”

“Maybe not,” she said, lifting the cup and holding it to his lips.

He hesitated, but leaned forward and took a sip. The taste hit him—still bitter, still coffee—but something felt different. Maybe it was the warmth of the cup against her hands, or how close she was when she offered it, or the faint sweetness of her smile lingering in his mind. Whatever it was, it didn’t taste bad anymore.

He swallowed and looked at her, almost dazed. “Okay… yeah, that’s better.”

Reze smirked, eyes glinting. “Told you.”

They sat there for a while longer, the world outside moving at its own quiet pace. The smell of roasted beans and sugar lingered in the air, the radio played something soft and nostalgic, 'Slowly learning that life is okay'

Denji felt the food coma setting in, “I’m stuffed… and we’ve got—” he paused, scanning the café for a clock. “Twelve hours till we need to be back at Fuku’s house. Where do you wanna go next?”

Reze tapped her cheek, eyes flicking toward the window as she thought. “I want to see some animals.”

Denji grinned. He remembered passing a pet store when they first entered the village. “Then we’ll see some animals.” He stood, rubbing his palms together nervously before reaching for her hand. She accepted it without hesitation, her fingers light and warm in his.

The two stepped into the streets, the air rich with the scent of baked bread and street food, still lingering from the morning markets. The sun had climbed high, glazing the rooftops in gold. People moved unhurriedly—couples walking hand in hand, kids chasing each other between stalls, and dog owners letting their pets sniff every patch of grass.

Reze couldn’t resist. Each time a dog passed, she stopped, crouched down, and greeted it with a gentle laugh that made Denji’s chest tighten. A fluffy Shiba rolled over for belly rubs, a dachshund tangled itself in her legs, and every time, she looked up at him with that same soft grin that made everything else fade away.

When a muscular bloodhound lumbered by, Denji instinctively stepped between her and the dog. “Uh, maybe skip this one,” he muttered.

Reze just smiled and knelt in front of it. The hound sniffed her hand once before leaning its heavy head into her palm, sighing like a tired old man. Denji blinked. She really did have a way with everything alive.

He caught sight of a flower shop behind them, its windows fogged from the humid air. Bouquets hung upside down inside, drying in the warm light. For a second, he imagined her in there, surrounded by colors and petals, smiling the same way she smiled at the dogs.

Then she tugged his hand, pulling him back to the moment. “C’mon, you said there was a pet store!”

The shop wasn’t quite what either of them expected. Inside, it was dim, lit mostly by the glow of dozens of fish tanks that lined the walls. The air was thick with humidity and the steady hum of water filters. Each tank was alive with motion—flashes of color and light that danced across Reze’s face as she stepped closer.

“Look at them, Denji!” she said, pressing her hands to the glass. “They’re so tiny, but they look like they’ve got personalities.”

He leaned over her shoulder, squinting. The fish shimmered like living jewels—siamese bettas with flowing fins that looked like silk scarves underwater, schools of guppies darting in bursts of blue and orange, zebra fish slicing through the water in perfect rhythm, and black phantom tetras hovering like ghosts in the low light.

“They’re alright,” Denji said, scratching his head. “Wish they did tricks or something.”

Reze laughed softly, not looking away. “You just don’t get it.”

After a while, Denji drifted toward the back of the shop and found a dusty guitar propped against a shelf. He plucked a few strings—horribly out of tune—but something about the sound caught his attention. He fumbled with a few chords, not that he knew any, and imagined what it’d be like to play something that made Reze smile like that. Maybe he’d learn someday.

Reze stopped in front of the largest tank in the shop, where three koi drifted in slow, hypnotic circles. One was black as ink, its scales absorbing the light; another was a deep, molten red that seemed to pulse like a living ember; the last shimmered gold, each movement scattering flecks of sunlight across the rippling surface.

She crouched close to the glass, her breath fogging it faintly. The water hummed with soft current, the filter whispering like distant rain. The koi glided through it all, unhurried, brushing past each other in a silent, graceful rhythm. Their tails fanned out like silk banners, catching the light in bursts of color that painted her face.

Something in her chest stirred as she watched them. It wasn’t memory exactly, more like the ghost of one—the feeling of a place she couldn’t name, a face she couldn’t quite recall. A warmth and a heaviness mixed together. She felt small, like she was looking through a window into another life entirely.

Her reflection blurred against the glass, merging with the koi as they passed. For a fleeting moment, she felt as though they were moving through her too—cutting through her thoughts, weaving between pieces of herself she hadn’t touched in years.

She leaned closer, eyes following the gold one as it circled back toward her. It swam beneath the black and red pair, gliding upward, a soft ripple of color rising like breath. The sight tugged at her chest. There was something almost human in the way it moved—calm, sure, unbothered by the world beyond its tank.

Reze couldn’t look away. The soft hum of the shop faded, the air thick with stillness. For a few minutes—or maybe longer—time didn’t seem to exist. Just the koi, and the faint ache of something lost but beautiful, drifting just out of reach.

Denji eventually walked up behind her and tapped her shoulder. “Hey, uh… you’ve been staring at those fish for four hours.”

She blinked, the trance breaking. “Wait, really?” Her voice was soft, almost embarrassed.

“Yeah. I didn’t mind,” he said. “As long as they made you happy.”

She smiled, eyes still lingering on the koi. “Very.”

He smiled at her answer, and tightened his grip on her hand—this time steady, not shy. They stepped out into the street, the heat of midday wrapping around them instantly. The sunlight bounced off shop signs and windshields, the cicadas screaming from unseen corners. Denji shielded his eyes with his forearm, half squinting up at the sky. Reze’s hand gave a small squeeze, grounding him. He looked back down and smirked.

They walked without hurry. Denji led through narrow backstreets, cutting past laundry lines that swayed in the hot air. Reze didn’t ask where they were going; she just trailed her fingers across leaves and flower petals as they passed, her touch light and unhurried. The air smelled faintly of soil and sugar. When Denji made one last turn, they came face-to-face with a pastel-painted storefront crowned by a sign shaped like a cone.

The ice cream parlor’s bell jingled softly as they entered. A burst of cold air brushed against their faces, melting the sweat from their skin. The interior was cozy, with polished wood counters and a faint hum from the freezers. Behind the glass display, rows of colors gleamed like jewels—shades of pink, green, gold, and cream swirling in neat mounds.

Denji pressed his palms to the cold glass, eyes wide. “There’s too many,” he muttered.

Reze leaned in beside him, scanning the labels aloud with a little wonder in her voice. “Chocolate, vanilla, matcha, black sesame, strawberry, yuzu, soy sauce—wait, really?—mango, coffee, squid ink…” She snorted at that one. “Who eats squid ink ice cream?”

Denji shrugged. “Maybe sharks.”

Their laughter blended with the faint pop song playing over the speakers. When it was their turn, Denji didn’t hesitate—two scoops, chocolate and vanilla. Simple, safe, and sweet. He knew what he liked.

But Reze lingered in front of the glass. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she looked from one color to the next. “I can’t decide,” she admitted finally, glancing at him. “You pick for me.”

That threw him off. Denji crossed his arms and leaned over the counter, squinting at the lineup like he was choosing a weapon. He wanted it to be perfect—not too weird, not too boring, just… her. The worker behind the counter cleared his throat politely after a few minutes, but Denji didn’t budge.

“Hang on,” he mumbled, rubbing his chin like he was solving a math problem. “She’s kinda sweet but tough, so maybe something fruity… but not too fruity…”

Five minutes later, he straightened up with a grin and slapped his hand on the counter. “I got it! Half strawberry, half sakura, half mango, half sea salt caramel—with black sesame on top.”

The scooper blinked. “That’s… five halves.”

“I’ll pay double,” Denji said without missing a beat.

The scooper stared for a second, then shrugged. “Can’t argue with that logic.” He went to work, muttering something about “romantics and their math.”

Reze watched the whole thing, hiding her smile behind her hand. When he handed her the cup, she took it carefully, studying the chaotic but oddly beautiful swirl of colors. “It looks like a sunset,” she said softly.

Denji grinned, proud of himself. “Yeah. Kinda does.”

They stepped back out into the sunlight, both clutching their ice cream cups. The air outside hit them like a soft wall of warmth, but the cold in their hands made it bearable. Reze’s spoon tapped lightly against the rim of her cup as they walked, Denji leading the way without really knowing where he was going until they reached a small park near the school they’d passed earlier.

A wide bench faced a grassy football pitch, the sound of distant shouts and the rhythmic thud of a ball echoing from below. Students in their uniforms were running drills, the whistle of a coach cutting through the air. The breeze carried the smell of fresh-cut grass and chalk. It was peaceful in a way neither of them had felt in a long time.

Denji sat first, slouching comfortably, legs stretched out. “Alright, let’s see if I picked good.” He scooped a mouthful of his own ice cream—chocolate and vanilla melting together—and his eyes went half-lidded with satisfaction. “Man, that hits different. It’s, like… perfect.”

Reze laughed softly. “You always talk like food’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”

“Most of the time it is,” he said, spooning another bite before looking at her expectantly. “Now come on, try yours.”

She swirled her spoon through the mismatched flavors, watching them blend into a soft, marbled mess. The first taste hit her tongue—a rush of fruit and cream, the sharp brightness of mango and strawberry melting into the gentle floral sakura, all tied together by the salt-sweet caramel and the nutty crunch of black sesame. Her eyes widened slightly.

“Well?” Denji leaned forward, eyebrows raised like a kid waiting for praise.

Reze smiled, the kind that started slow and stayed. “It’s… really good.” She took another spoonful, slower this time, savoring it. “You’ve got weird taste, but it works.”

“Yeah?” His grin spread, proud and toothy. “I know flavors.”

They sat in easy silence for a bit, spoons clinking softly against their cups. Denji’s ice cream was gone fast—he scraped at the bottom and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “That was amazing.” Then cheekily snuck a bit of her ice cream with his spoon, her not noticing. A burst of flavour hit his tongue

Reze was still working on hers, smaller bites, watching the players on the field between spoonfuls. The way the light hit her hair, the way her shoulders relaxed—it all made something in Denji’s chest feel weirdly light. He couldn’t look away.

Finally, he noticed she was halfway done and grinned mischievously. “You gonna finish that?”

She turned toward him, spoon still in her mouth, pretending to guard the cup. “No chance.”

“C’mon, just a little—”

She pulled the spoon out and held it out toward him suddenly. “Fine. One bite.”

Denji leaned forward eagerly, mouth open. She fed him the spoon, and he tasted the mix she’d just eaten. It was the same flavors—exactly the same—but it was different. Softer, sweeter, like it carried something of her warmth in it.

He blinked, a little stunned. “Huh. That one actually tasted better.”

Reze tilted her head. “Better?”

Denji's looking from side to side, "I might have snuck a taste that you didn't notice."

She glared a little at him then softened her expression, "Well It’s the same thing you apparently just tasted, Denji.'

He shrugged, smiling. “Guess it’s just better when it’s from you.”

She laughed, shaking her head, but didn’t look away. The breeze picked up, carrying the faint cheers from the pitch below. The moment lingered quietly between them, sun dipping just a little west, the ice cream melting in her cup, them not really caring.

Denji jumped up so suddenly the bench creaked, nearly spilling the rest of his melted ice cream.

“Where are you—?” Reze started, but before she could finish, he was already halfway down the hill, waving both arms like an excited kid.

He sprinted straight toward the group of players on the field, shouting something they clearly didn’t understand at first. There was a pause, some laughter from the students, and then one of them tossed him the ball. Denji fumbled the first touch, tripped over his own feet, and landed flat on his back.

Reze’s laugh broke out so suddenly she had to cover her mouth. It wasn’t just a chuckle—it was full, bright, and unrestrained. Denji popped back up, brushing grass off his legs, and waved back up at her like nothing happened.

The players decided to let him in for real, and chaos followed immediately. Denji charged down the field, shouting something about “getting the goal,” only to be stripped of the ball by a kid half his size. He chased after it again, arms pumping wildly, determination burning through pure incompetence.

He wasn’t graceful—he wasn’t even close—but he was radiant. Every slip, every stumble, every hopeless attempt to keep up just made him look more alive than she’d ever seen him. The sunlight caught in his hair, his grin stretched wide as he yelled out triumphs that didn’t really exist.

From the bench, Reze leaned forward, chin on her hand, eyes locked on him. The laughter faded into a quiet smile that she couldn’t shake. Watching him run, seeing that kind of pure, unfiltered joy—it stirred something deep inside her chest, something she hadn’t felt in years. Maybe ever.

He waved again, goofy and breathless, before trying another run and missing the net entirely. She laughed again, softer this time, almost tenderly.

In that moment, surrounded by the calm of the countryside, the sound of children’s laughter, and the warm air of early afternoon, Reze thought to herself how strange it felt—how impossible it seemed—to see Denji like this. Happy. Free. Human.

And she couldn’t look away.

The sun had started to slip behind the rooftops, painting the village in a deep orange haze. Denji was still out on the field, shirt soaked through, hair stuck to his forehead as he pushed himself past exhaustion. The final call—more of a half-hearted shout than a whistle—rang out across the pitch. The score didn’t matter. Neither of them had been keeping track.

From her seat on the hill, Reze watched him double over, hands on his knees, laughter spilling between his breaths. A few players clapped him on the back before he looked up at her, grinning and pointing her way. She smiled back, straightening up as he jogged toward her.

“What was that about?” she asked when he reached her.

He scratched his head, sweat glistening along his jaw. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

She tilted her head, amused. “Okay. So, are you hungry?”

“Exhausted and starving after that,” he said, stretching his arms and cracking a tired smile.

She took his hand before he could wipe the sweat away. “Then let’s fix that.”

Her fingers slipped between his, warm and sure. He mumbled an apology about being sweaty, but she didn’t let go. They walked together until the street opened into the main road, the fading sunlight bouncing off shop windows. Just as they were about to join the crowd, she tugged him sharply down a narrow side alley.

Denji frowned. “Uh… I think we missed the street.”

“Trust me,” she said, pointing ahead. A single paper lantern swayed at the far end, its orange glow breathing life into the cracked walls. The scent of broth and soy drifted toward them, heavy and comforting. Denji’s stomach growled like it had been waiting for that smell all day.

They stepped through the doorway beneath the lantern. The shop was tiny—three stools, a counter, and an old man standing behind it, his sleeves rolled up and eyes half-lidded in quiet focus. There were no menus, no chatter, just the gentle symphony of boiling broth and clattering pans.

They sat side by side. Reze leaned forward on the counter, chin resting on her hand, watching the chef’s movements with silent curiosity. Denji, though, couldn’t take his eyes off her.

In the warm lamplight, her purple hair shimmered with streaks of violet and lilac, like silk brushed with moonlight. It framed her face perfectly, soft against her skin, with a few stray strands catching on the steam rising from the pots. Her emerald-green eyes reflected the lantern’s glow, steady and deep, and every time she blinked, it felt like the light around her shifted. Her expression was calm, yet there was a flicker of thought behind her gaze—something private, unreachable.

He watched the small curve of her smile as the chef placed two bowls in front of them. The broth glistened golden beneath the rising steam.

Reze turned to him, catching his stare before he could look away. “You’re staring,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Denji froze, caught red-handed. “I—uh—I was just checking if you were hungry.”

Her smile widened. “Then let’s eat.”

Steam curled upward, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of pork and garlic. The bowl was simple—tonkotsu ramen with three neat slices of chashu, one piece of dried seaweed, a halved egg with its yolk glowing like liquid gold, finely diced green onions scattered on top, and a touch of minced garlic melting into the broth.

Denji and Reze didn’t waste a second. They picked up their chopsticks almost in sync, breaking through the surface of the broth. The first bite hit like a quiet revelation. The noodles were thick, springy, and chewy, the kind that snapped lightly between the teeth before soaking up the flavor of the soup. The broth itself wasn’t heavy or greasy—it was smooth and balanced, savory without being overpowering, each sip coating the tongue in warmth.

The chashu melted instantly, tender and rich, its edges slightly charred so that every bite carried a trace of smoke. The soft-boiled egg was perfect, the yolk creamy and still warm, mixing with the broth to make it silkier with every stir. The garlic brought a low hum of heat that lingered, and the green onions added a small spark of freshness that cut through the richness.

Neither of them said anything at first. There wasn’t a need to. The air was filled only with the quiet clink of chopsticks and the occasional satisfied slurp. Reze leaned forward, her eyes half-closed, savoring the balance of flavors. Denji didn’t bother pretending to be polite—he devoured the ramen with pure, childlike joy, breathing between bites just to laugh softly and shake his head.

When they finally slowed down, both bowls were nearly empty, just traces of golden broth left at the bottom. Reze tilted hers slightly, watching the oil shimmer on the surface, then whispered, almost to herself, “I don’t think I’ve ever had something this good.”

Denji nodded, still chewing, his mouth too full to talk but his grin saying enough.

They paid for their meals, the chef still silent except for a low, satisfied grunt before giving them a small bow. They returned it with quiet respect and stepped out into the night. The city had changed since they first entered the ramen shop—the sky now a deep indigo, the last streaks of orange fading beyond the rooftops. Street lamps cast golden pools of light along the narrow road, and the air was thick with the faint aroma of soy, smoke, and the distant sea. It was around 7:30, the kind of hour when the world felt calm but alive.

Reze took the lead, her hands clasped behind her back, humming softly while tilting her head up to the stars beginning to bloom overhead. Denji trailed behind, watching the way her purple hair caught the light, strands shifting between shadow and shimmer as she walked. Then, with a sudden grin, he stepped forward, overtaking her. He clasped his hands behind his head and began whistling in tune with her melody. She smiled at the gesture, and their voices—one humming, one whistling—wove together as they wandered through the softly glowing streets.

The pavement soon gave way to cobblestones, then to a dirt path lined with tall, whispering grass. Lights faded behind them, replaced by the rhythmic song of crickets and the rustle of leaves overhead. The walk uphill was steady but unhurried. Every few steps, Reze would glance up at the sky, tracing constellations with her eyes, while Denji kicked small pebbles along the trail. Their tune never broke, even as the city lights grew smaller and the air turned cooler.

When they finally reached the top, a quiet temple stood before them, its wooden beams aged but strong, the roof glinting faintly under the moonlight. Paper lanterns swayed gently from the eaves, their faint glow mingling with the soft silver light of the stars. The torii gate framed the entrance perfectly, and beneath it, a small patch of violet caught Reze’s eye.

Denji walked toward it, crouched down, and reached behind the stone steps, pulling out a neatly wrapped bouquet of lilacs, tied together with a simple white ribbon. When he turned around, he was holding them carefully in both hands, their soft purple hue reflecting the night sky.

“These are for you,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “The color reminded me of your hair.”

Reze blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile as she accepted the bouquet. “When did you have the time to do this?” she asked, brushing a few petals with her fingers.

Denji scratched his head and smirked. “That’s my secret to keep.”

Reze laughed under her breath, bringing the flowers close to her nose, their fragrance light and sweet. “You’ll have to tell me that secret one day,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer, only grinned wider. Together they stood before the temple, bathed in the gentle glow of lanterns and starlight, the lilacs between them like a shared secret. The city lights twinkled faintly below, distant and small, while the quiet of the hilltop wrapped around them like a held breath.

They wandered deeper into the temple grounds, the gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes. The air was cooler now, the cicadas quieting as the night deepened. Stone lanterns lined the path, their faint orange glow guiding them toward a small open courtyard behind the main hall. Moss-covered steps led up to a raised patch of grass where they finally settled, lying side by side beneath the vast stretch of stars.

Reze rested her hands on her stomach, eyes tracing the endless specks of light. “Do you know what constellations are?” she asked quietly.

Denji shook his head, his gaze still fixed upward. “Uh… stars that make pictures?”

She smiled softly. “Kind of. They’re groups of stars that people long ago connected with stories—heroes, gods, and creatures. Every one of them has a tale.”

Denji hummed, pretending to understand, then pointed up eagerly. “That one looks like a chainsaw. And that one—” he gestured wildly to another cluster “—that’s totally a hamburger.”

Reze laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “I wish that’s how it worked.”

Reze turned her face up to the sky, the stars spread wide and bright above them, and focused her voice into the darkness like telling an old secret.

“Cancer,” she began, “is one of those constellations that comes with a whole sad little legend.” She pointed with a finger, tracing the faint curve of stars. “There are a couple of versions, but they all center on a crab called Karkinos.”

She let the name hang for a beat, then dove in. “Hera was mad—always meddling in the labors Heracles had to do. When Heracles fought the Lernaean Hydra, that terrible multi-headed snake, Hera didn’t just sit and watch. She sent Karkinos, a crab, to crawl out of the swamp and nip at Heracles’ feet to distract him.” Reze’s tone turned theatrical, like she was painting the scene with motion: “Imagine Heracles hacking and slashing at the Hydra’s heads and this tiny crab just keeps biting at his toes. Annoying, right?”

Denji snorted a laugh. “That’s… mean for a crab.”

“Right?” Reze smiled. “Heracles, being Heracles, booted the crab away—kicked it so hard in one version that it was flung up into the sky. In another version, he crushed it underfoot. Either way, Hera, feeling either triumphant or pitying—depends on the telling—raised the crab into the heavens as a constellation.” She tapped the dark patch of stars again. “So the crab gets immortality. Small thing, but put on a giant, eternal stage.”

She watched Denji follow the arc of her finger, then kept talking, softer now, folding meaning into the myth. “Some people say that’s the point: the crab’s stubbornness. Karkinos isn’t powerful like Heracles, but it tries anyway. It interferes where it can, even if the result is awful for it. Hera’s act—whether out of malice or mercy—turns that stubborn little struggle into something lasting. Kind of weird, but also kind of beautiful.”

Denji hummed, thinking. “So, the crab got famous for just being annoying?”

Reze laughed, a small, warm sound. “Not famous—remembered. The story doesn’t make the crab a hero in the same way Heracles is, but it makes it part of the story. It becomes a reminder that even small, clumsy things can leave a mark. Some versions say Hera honored it because it tried to help the Hydra’s enemies. Others say she just wanted to rub Heracles’ nose in it. Either way, the stars keep it there.”

She turned the meaning over in her voice. “There’s a tenderness to it. The crab is tiny and doomed in the face of something massive, but someone—Hera—noticed it. Put it in the sky. So when you look at Cancer, you see a little creature that survived the worst by being impossible to ignore.” Her fingers drew the curve again, as if shaping the crab out of the darkness.

Denji squinted up, imagining the story like a comic in his head. “Kinda like people who try anyway, even when they’re not strong.”

“Exactly.” Reze’s eyes were soft in the lantern glow. “It’s not about winning. It’s about the act of trying, and the strange mercy of being remembered for it.”

They lay there a moment longer, the story stilled between them, the stars above like witnesses. The temple’s night hush made the tale feel older, like it belonged to any place where people stayed awake enough to tell stories to the dark.

They both rose slowly, brushing the grass and dirt from their clothes. The temple courtyard was silent except for the faint song of crickets and the low hum of the night breeze passing through the trees. Reze looked up once more at the constellation of Cancer, then down at Denji, a small smile still playing on her lips.

“Come on,” she said quietly, “we should start heading back.”

Denji nodded, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn before stuffing his hands into his pockets. They started down the sloped path, the stone steps uneven and glinting faintly under the moonlight. Lanterns hung along the trail, their soft orange glow flickering against the surrounding forest. Fireflies drifted between the trees, tiny bursts of light that followed them for a short while before vanishing into the shadows.

As they descended, the distant sounds of the city began to return—cars, laughter, the faint beat of music from an open window. The air grew warmer, heavier with the scent of food and asphalt. Reze walked slightly ahead now, the wrapped bouquet of lilac held close to her chest. Denji watched her silhouette against the glow of the streetlights below, thinking she almost looked like part of the night itself—something gentle and untouchable.

When they reached the edge of the city streets, the quiet of the temple gave way to life again: people chatting outside small shops, neon signs flickering, the hum of scooters passing by. Denji looked over at Reze, her hair catching a hint of purple from the lights overhead.

“Hey,” he said softly, “did you like today?”

She turned to him, that same easy smile returning. “I did. A lot.”

They walked the rest of the way side by side, the rhythm of their footsteps falling in sync as the lights of the village houses began to appear in the distance. The night felt calm, stretched out, almost endless.

By the time they reached the house, the windows glowed faintly from inside. Denji paused at the gate, looking back toward the hills they’d come from, the temple barely visible under the starlight. For once, he didn’t feel like the night was something he had to survive—it just felt right.

Reze noticed his lingering gaze and said quietly, “You’ll have to tell me that secret one day.”

Denji grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… maybe someday.”

They stepped inside together, the door closing softly behind them.

Chapter Text

Beam watched them go, hands on his hips, the morning breeze catching his hair-fin.
“Fine!” he said aloud to no one. “Let lovers do their boring human things! Beam shall go on a holy mission!”

He struck a pose in the middle of the road, head tilted toward the horizon. Somewhere out there, he was sure, the world was waiting for him to perform something magnificent.

Beam stood on the street waiting for something, the sun glinting off puddles left behind by a recent rainstorm. Each shimmer caught his attention like divine signs. To anyone else, it was just runoff and grime, but to Beam, every reflection was a portal.

“The holy puddle… where sharks ascend to heaven,” he whispered, eyes wide with fanatic devotion. “Glorious, noble puddle… Beam will find you!”

He darted from one puddle to another, splashing through them like a child on a sugar rush. Civilians stepped back, confused and mildly disgusted, watching as this strange man with a weird 'shark helmet' sniffed puddles and declared each one “unworthy.”

At one point, he knelt before a particularly murky puddle behind a ramen stand. “Ah! This one smells of destiny!” he cried—just as a vendor dumped out his dirty dishwater, flooding Beam’s chosen spot with noodle scraps.

“Blasphemy!” Beam roared, spinning toward the vendor, who blinked back in terror.

“You! Mortal! Have you desecrated the sacred waters!?”

“I—I was just cleaning up, man!”

Beam paused, squinting. “Cleaning… purifying…” He nodded sagely. “Yes. You are a disciple and did not even know it. Beam approves!”

He grabbed a spare ladle from the stall and raised it like a relic. “Beam shall continue his holy mission with this sacred scoop!” Then he sprinted off again, the vendor calling after him, “Hey! That’s my ladle!”

Unfazed, Beam laughed triumphantly, sloshing the ladle full of street water like it was liquid gold. “Holy puddle, reveal yourself to Beam! Sharks must ascend!”

Beam wandered through the streets, ladle still clutched proudly like a knight’s scepter. His feet slapped against the pavement, leaving wet footprints behind from his earlier “holy puddle” expedition. The morning pedestrians parted instinctively around him—some curious, others mildly alarmed by the now half-dressed man mumbling about “sacred water flow.”

His shark nose twitched at a smell that made his eyes widen. Fish. Fresh, glorious, divine fish. He turned the corner and found a street vendor with a table full of glistening catch—mackerel, snapper, sardines—laid neatly on crushed ice. A small crowd had gathered, chatting as the vendor gutted and prepared his stock with quick, rhythmic movements.

Beam froze. His gills fluttered. “So many fallen brothers…” he whispered dramatically. “They hold ceremony for the sea folk.”

The vendor smiled politely, unaware of the misunderstanding. “Good morning! Fresh fish from the coast! Want some grilled?”

Beam blinked, tears forming. “You honor them by fire! A fine burial rite!” He raised the ladle over his head like a relic. “I shall join the procession!”

Before the vendor could reply, Beam began chanting some half-coherent “shark hymn,” swinging the ladle in circles like a censer. The crowd backed up fast, laughing and whispering.

The vendor tried to calm him. “No, no, this isn’t a funeral—these are for sale!”

Beam paused, eyes wide. “For…sale? You sell the spirits of my kin?” He gasped and clutched his chest dramatically. “You fiend!”

The vendor held up a fish nervously. “Would you like…one?”

Beam’s mood flipped instantly. “Yes! I will take this fallen warrior and give him proper passage!” He slammed the ladle down onto the counter, using it as payment. The vendor sighed, gave him the fish, and watched in bewilderment as Beam cradled it gently like a newborn. The vendor inspecting the ladle thinking that he'd seen it before, not being able to place it.

He marched off toward the nearest fountain, holding the fish high, chanting under his breath. “Swim free, my scaled brethren. Return to the eternal current.”

Beam strutted away from the sushi vendor and fountain, still convinced he had just participated in a sacred ritual of trade and blessing. The vendor—a bewildered older man still holding the ladle Beam had offered as payment—shook his head in disbelief as Beam disappeared into the crowd.

Now free of ladle and purpose, Beam wandered aimlessly, humming some half-remembered sea shanty to himself. He stopped every few meters to inspect things like a child seeing land for the first time: a puddle reflecting the sky (“mini ocean!”), a cat grooming itself (“tiny predator of the depths!”), and a traffic cone (“strange coral!”).

That’s when he spotted her—an elderly woman struggling to lift two overflowing grocery bags onto a small cart. Beam froze. Her trembling hands, her bent posture, the faint wobble in her knees—it looked to him like a dire emergency.

Without hesitation, he sprinted toward her, skidding to a halt beside the cart. “Fear not, elder of the land!” he announced with heroic conviction.

The old woman jumped. “Goodness! You scared me, sonny!”

“I shall bear your burdens! You have fought the tides long enough!” Beam said, already grabbing both bags before she could protest. The woman blinked, unsure whether to thank him or call for help.

“Uh—thank you?” she managed.

Beam nodded solemnly, balancing the bags with reverence. “These fruits of the earth and sea will reach their nest safely, I swear it upon the ocean’s honor.”

They began walking—well, Beam walked; she shuffled beside him, clutching her purse tightly. Every few steps, he looked around suspiciously, muttering about “land pirates” and “bag-snatchers.” A group of teenagers snickered nearby, filming the scene, but Beam ignored them entirely. His focus was absolute.

When they reached the woman’s apartment building, Beam gently set the bags down at her doorstep like sacred offerings. He stood tall, beaming. “The mission is complete!”

The old woman smiled, partly amused, partly touched. “You’re a strange one, but… thank you. You really didn’t have to.”

Beam pressed a hand to his chest. “Helping others is the duty of all who swim under the same sun.”

She laughed softly. “You talk funny, kid. Want a snack? I’ve got rice crackers.”

Beam’s eyes lit up. “Grain of the land! Yes, please!”

She handed him a small pack, and Beam accepted it with the seriousness of a knight receiving a royal token. Also recieving a balloon tied to his wrist. He gave a deep, clumsy bow before marching off, crumbs already on his lips, feeling the warm satisfaction of having done good in a world that still didn’t quite make sense to him.

A small act of kindness. A bigger misunderstanding. But, in his heart, Beam had once again made the world just a bit brighter.

Beam strolled through the evening streets, the last traces of sunset painting the clouds coral and violet. He was humming a strange tune—something about sharks and destiny—as he wandered aimlessly, balloon string still wrapped around his wrist. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. There was something more important on his mind. “Beam must do more good deeds! Lord Denji will be proud!”

That’s when he spotted it: a small commotion by a streetlight. A cat, scruffy and orange, was stuck halfway up a tree, meowing in desperation while an old shopkeeper waved a broom from below, shouting, “Come down, you little menace!”

Beam gasped. “A tree beast has captured the feline!” He ran full sprint across the street—ignoring the honk of a passing scooter—and planted himself at the base of the tree. “Do not fear, small land-fish! Beam will save thee!”

The shopkeeper blinked. “Land-fish?”

Before the man could stop him, Beam wrapped his arms around the trunk and began to climb—badly. He slipped halfway up, face-planting into the bark, but somehow kept ascending, thrashing like he was swimming through the air. “Almost there… heroic shark… never gives up!”

The cat looked down at him, unimpressed. Beam reached the branch, grabbed the cat by the scruff, and lost his balance immediately. Both tumbled down into a bush, the cat landing safely on its feet while Beam groaned in triumph. “Ha! Freed! The beast is slain!”

The shopkeeper ran over, clutching the cat and muttering something between thanks and disbelief. He pressed a small rice cracker into Beam’s hand. “You’re… something else, kid. Here. For helping.”

Beam held the cracker like it was sacred treasure. “A divine offering! Beam is blessed this day!” He bowed deeply, crumbs already spilling as he took an enormous bite. “Mmm! Salty! Crunchy! The flavor of victory!”

The shopkeeper just sighed and walked off, shaking his head.

As the sky darkened, the streets grew quieter. Beam wandered on, licking the crumbs from his fingers. His mind began to drift to Lord Denji—his fearless leader—and Lady Reze, whose kindness he found mystifying, even though she had beat him to a pulp before. “They will be so happy,” he said proudly. “Beam did many noble acts today! Stopped a shark funeral, saved a cat, stopped an old woman’s groceries from escaping into the wild…”

He grinned wide, his sharp teeth glinting under a streetlight. “Lord Denji will surely promote Beam! Maybe to Duke of Sharks! Or… Shark Saint!”

He puffed up his chest at the thought, marching down the street toward Fuku’s house with heroic purpose. When he arrived, the lights were still off. The air was cool and smelled faintly of rain and salt. He crouched by the gate again, tying his balloon to the fence post, and folded his arms, proud and patient.

“They will return soon,” he murmured to himself. “And Beam will tell them all about his glorious deeds!”

He yawned, stretching his fins before settling cross-legged on the ground. His eyes fluttered shut, and within minutes he was asleep, snoring softly, still smiling like a child after a long, wonderful day. The balloon bobbed gently above him, swaying in rhythm with his breath.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that only old wooden walls could hold. Warm lamplight spilled through the paper screens, soft and golden, turning the grain of the tatami into shifting amber. The structure itself felt ancient—dark cedar beams crossed above, the ceiling low, every board creaking with the weight of time. Shoji doors lined the hallways, their paper slightly yellowed with age. The scent of tatami, tea, and faint incense lingered in the air, grounding everything in stillness.

Fuku led them through the corridor, his footsteps light but sure, sliding open the door to a large six-mat room. It was simple but clean: futons stacked neatly in the corner, a low lacquered table in the center, and a single hanging scroll depicting cranes in flight. Beside it, through another sliding door, was a smaller four-and-a-half tatami room where Beam had already thrown himself across the floor like a man who’d just survived a war.

“Ah, finally! You wouldn’t believe the heroics I’ve endured today,” Beam announced, arms spread wide. His voice filled the quiet house.

Reze smiled politely as she sat down beside the low table. Denji dropped next to her with a grin, already bracing himself for whatever was coming.

Beam launched in without pause. “First—this morning—a fish funeral. Tragic business. Poor little guy floated belly-up in the shop basin. The owner’s weeping, whole family gathered ‘round. So I, being the noble soul I am, conducted the ceremony myself. Folded my hands, said the rites, even hummed a hymn. The owner called me a saint.” He pressed his hands together in mock reverence, eyes closed.

Denji snorted, half-choking on his tea. “You sang for a fish?”

Beam looked offended. “Of course! A warrior of the sea deserves respect, yes? You think fish want silence when they pass?”

Reze chuckled softly, covering her mouth. “I didn’t know you were so...spiritual.”

Beam gave her a grave nod. “My faith runs deep as the ocean.”

He barely let the laughter fade before launching into his next tale. “Then, not an hour later, I encounter an old woman—must’ve been a hundred years old—stumbling in the street! Grocery bag tearing, apples rolling away to their doom! Without hesitation, I leap—yes, leap—across the road, saving her from certain tragedy. She thanked me with tears in her eyes.”

Denji was doubled over now. “You tripped over your own tail, didn’t you?”

Beam looked wounded. “That was a tactical roll. Part of the plan.”

Reze was laughing too, her shoulders shaking as she tried to hide it. “You’re unbelievable, Beam.”

The room felt full—of light, of laughter, of something almost peaceful. Outside, the night pressed close to the paper walls, calm and distant.

Fuku entered quietly with a tray of steaming tea. “Seems you’ve all settled in,” he said with a faint smile. He poured three cups, setting them on the table, his movements practiced and calm. For a moment, he lingered in the doorway, looking toward the dark outside. “I need to run an errand,” he said, tone light, almost too casual.

“An errand?” Reze asked, her smile softening.

“Just a small one,” Fuku replied, slipping on his coat. “I won’t be long. Enjoy the evening.”

The door slid shut behind him with a soft click. His footsteps faded into the quiet street beyond, each one echoing a little too sharply before the sound was swallowed by the night.

Inside, Beam stretched out again, sighing contentedly. “A fine day of service and sacrifice,” he muttered.

Denji grinned. “Yeah, you really lived it up, hero.”

Reze leaned back on her hands, eyes half-lidded, the lamplight soft on her face. “It’s nice here,” she said quietly.
__________________________________________________________

The countryside stretched endlessly beneath a copper sky, the sun hanging low and molten over the horizon. A single train cut through the landscape, its silver frame glinting like a blade in the dying light. The rhythmic clack-clack of its wheels rolled through the valleys, steady and mechanical, a sound that could lull you to sleep if not for the faint tension humming beneath it.

The train itself was clean and modern but worn at the edges, the kind of machine that had seen too many trips and too few repairs. The carriage lights flickered faintly against the setting sun, washing the aisle in alternating bands of gold and shadow. Outside, the fields blurred by—patches of farmland, clusters of houses, and the glint of water where a river caught the light.

A food cart rattled softly down the narrow aisle, pushed by a polite attendant in a neat uniform. He stopped first beside two elderly passengers, offering them neatly wrapped bento boxes. The old man smiled faintly, his wife declined. A few seats down, a mother accepted a cup of juice for her child, the sound of a straw piercing the lid cutting briefly through the calm.

Then the cart came to a stop beside two figures seated side by side.

The man looked to be in his mid-forties, sharp yet tired, his blond hair short with a faint middle part. His face bore the wear of someone who’d seen more than he ever planned to. He wore a black overcoat over a collared shirt, hands tucked loosely in his pockets, his gaze half-lidded and unreadable.

Beside him sat a young woman in her early twenties, brown hair pulled back neatly, dressed in a pressed office suit and tie. Her shoulders were stiff, and her hands clutched the fabric of her slacks so tightly her knuckles had gone pale.

The attendant bowed lightly. “Something to drink?”

“Sake,” the man said without looking up.

The girl hesitated, her throat bobbing. “W-water. Please.” Her voice was barely audible.

The attendant nodded, setting the cup and bottle on the small folding tray before continuing on, the sound of rattling wheels fading down the aisle.

For a moment, there was only the rhythm of the train again. The clack-clack, clack-clack, like a pulse.

Kishibe took a slow sip from his cup, watching the golden reflection of the sky in his drink. “Relax,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “It’s just a visit.”

Kobeni turned to him, eyes wide and uncertain. “You don’t take trains for visits.”

He looked at her then, one corner of his mouth lifting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Full points.” Reaching for the flask in his coat pocket.

The sound of the train carried on, steady and relentless, as the sun dipped below the horizon. The last light caught in the window beside them, turning their reflections ghostlike against the glass.

In faint lettering near the door, the ticker read: Next Stop - Higashi-Yamoto

__________________________________________________________

Back at Fuku’s house, the air had settled into something still and warm, the kind of quiet that followed a long day well spent. The paper lanterns hanging in the corridor gave off a soft amber glow, their light swaying gently with the movement of the night breeze slipping through the cracks.

Beam let out a yawn so loud it startled even himself. “Lord Denji, Lady Reze… I’ll, uh… keep watch from dreamland tonight,” he mumbled, already halfway to the futon. The moment his head met the pillow, he was gone—snoring faintly, drool threatening to escape the corner of his mouth.

Denji stretched his arms, joints cracking from the exhaustion that had finally caught up to him. He was just about to collapse onto his own futon when he felt a light tug on his sleeve. Reze stood beside him, her expression soft, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Come with me.”

He blinked, confusion flickering across his face, but followed without a word.

They tiptoed through the adjoining four-and-a-half tatami room, Beam’s snores serving as a strange kind of lullaby. The sliding door to the backyard creaked softly as Reze slid it open, and a cool rush of night air greeted them both.

What lay beyond wasn’t just a backyard—it was a hidden garden.

The grass was lush and immaculately trimmed, dew already forming in tiny beads that reflected the moonlight like scattered glass. A small gazebo sat nestled toward the back, its wooden posts wrapped with thin vines and morning glory blooms that had not yet closed for the night. A shallow pond rested near the center, where two koi drifted lazily beneath the surface—one a vivid orange, the other a pale, ghostly white.

Around them, flowerbeds framed the garden in a slow explosion of color: golden acacias swaying faintly, red roses blooming full and heavy, slender purple irises catching the faintest silver light. Red camellias and pink tulips formed soft waves near the hedges, while patches of blue stars added a faint shimmer beneath the dim lanterns. At the heart of the pond, a single white lotus floated in full bloom, its petals open and untouched, glowing softly against the dark water.

Tall hedges enclosed the entire space, just high enough that the outside world vanished entirely. It was private, tranquil—like a secret carved out of the night.

Reze stepped barefoot onto the grass, her hair catching the moonlight as she turned back to him with a smile that said she’d been waiting to share this place.

She motioned toward Denji to step onto the grass, her bare feet sinking softly into the cool blades. He followed her lead, feeling the faint tickle of dew through his socks, the air rich with the scent of wet soil and blooming flowers. Reze tilted her head back, eyes tracing the dark canopy above them.

Denji squinted, unsure what she was looking at, then asked, “Another one of those constellations?” He mimicked her posture, looking up to the stars, then glanced back at her before returning his gaze to the sky.

Reze smiled faintly. “Now you’re getting it.”

Turning around she took a step closer until her back brushed lightly against his chest, her hair grazing his chin, faintly smelling of lavender and smoke. She gently reached up, taking his hand and guiding it beneath hers, her fingers cool against his skin. Together, she tilted his chin upward, aligning his vision with the curve of her arm as her other hand extended toward the stars.

“That is Andromeda,” she said softly, her voice carrying the rhythm of a story long rehearsed. Her fingertip traced across the sky in slow, deliberate motions, connecting invisible dots only she seemed to see. “The Chained Woman.”

Denji followed her finger, squinting at the faint pattern as she continued, her tone shifting into something quieter, wistful.

“Andromeda was a princess,” she began. “Her parents were King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia of Aethiopia. Cassiopeia was proud—too proud. She would boast to everyone that her daughter was more beautiful than the Nereids, the sea nymphs blessed by Poseidon himself. It might have been true, but in those days, beauty wasn’t something you bragged about. The gods didn’t like being challenged.”

She let out a quiet sigh, her breath faintly visible in the cool night air. “Poseidon, furious that mortals would dare compare themselves to his nymphs, decided to punish them. He sent a monster—Cetus, a massive sea serpent—to ravage the kingdom’s shores. The waves swallowed ships, storms tore through villages, and nothing the king did could stop it. Desperate, Cepheus and Cassiopeia went to an oracle. They were told the only way to appease the god of the sea was to sacrifice their daughter, Andromeda.”

Her voice softened as she spoke the name again, like she pitied her. “So they chained her to a rock by the sea. Alone. Waiting. The tide creeping higher each time it hit the shore. The people prayed for forgiveness while she waited for a monster.”

The koi in the pond rippled the reflection of the sky, distorting the constellation above. Reze’s eyes followed the movement absently before continuing. “Then came Perseus. He was flying back home after slaying Medusa—her head in a bag, still powerful enough to turn anything to stone. When he saw Andromeda bound to that rock, he didn’t hesitate. He fought the monster, turned it to stone with Medusa’s gaze, and freed her.”

She tilted her head, her purple hair brushing lightly against Denji’s shoulder. “He could have flown away. Could have left her there. But he didn’t. He stayed. Married her. They ruled together.”

Reze paused again, her gaze lowering from the stars to the flowers swaying in the night breeze. “When Andromeda died, the gods placed her in the sky, right beside Perseus and near her mother and father. Some say it was mercy. Others say it was punishment—because even in the heavens, she’s still the Chained Woman.” She gave a small, sad smile. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe that’s what happens when you live between love and fate.”

She turned slightly, her eyes catching Denji’s in the dim starlight. “Either way, she shines on. Even after everything.”

The night stretched quiet again—only the hum of cicadas, the soft slosh of water, and the faint glow of Andromeda overhead.
__________________________________________________________
The brakes screamed as the train slowed, sparks briefly lighting the rails beneath. When it stopped, the sign outside the fogged window read Higashi-Yamoto Station—letters worn, half-swallowed by the night.

The doors opened with a hiss. Kishibe stepped out first, coat collar turned up, the faint smell of tobacco clinging to him. Kobeni followed close behind, gripping her wrist instead of her nerves, eyes darting across the empty platform.

Only the hum of vending machines broke the silence, their white glow cutting through the mist. A single moth fluttered against the glass, the sound almost deafening in the still air. Somewhere beyond the tracks, a bell rang once, then faded into the dark.

Kishibe didn’t say much—he didn’t need to. “Cab should be out front,” he muttered, voice low, almost drowned by the wind.

They descended the short flight of stairs to the station’s entrance. The night hit harder here—cold and open, smelling faintly of wet asphalt and salt from the sea. A lone taxi idled by the curb, its headlights stretching thin lines of light across the countryside.

Kishibe approached first. “Ono area, Higashimatsushima,” he said through the window.

The driver gave a small nod and flicked his cigarette into the puddles before unlocking the doors.

Kobeni slid into the back seat beside Kishibe, her hands tight around her wrist, trying to steady the tremor in her fingers. The car pulled away, the road cutting through fields veiled in mist. No one spoke. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic patter of rain on the roof filled the silence instead.

Kishibe leaned back, eyes half-lidded, the reflection of passing streetlights sliding across his face. He turned his gaze upward through the side window—out past the haze and the faint shimmer of the stars overhead.

For a moment, his expression softened, unreadable. Then he pulled a flask from his coat, twisted it open, and took a slow, steady swig.
__________________________________________________________
Denji sat there, still thinking about the story Reze had told—the girl chained by the sea, waiting to be devoured by a monster, only to be saved and turned into stars. He didn’t understand all of it, but something about the image lingered. Maybe it was the loneliness of it. Maybe it was the way Reze told it, her voice soft, almost sad.

When he looked up, she was no longer beside him. She stood a few steps away on the grass, barefoot, her toes brushing against the cool blades. Her high-waisted black shorts caught the moonlight faintly, and over her sleeveless white blouse hung Denji’s oversized T-shirt, loose around her frame. The night breeze tugged at the hem, her hair lifting just enough to shimmer under the pale light. The moon poured over her like a spotlight, every movement slow and fluid.

She turned to him, a half-smile playing on her lips, and extended her hand. “Dance with me.”

Denji blinked. “I don’t know how to dance.”

Reze tilted her head, her smile widening just a little. “Then I’ll teach you.”

He got to his feet awkwardly, scratching at the back of his head. “You’re serious?”

“Mm-hm,” she hummed, taking a slow step closer. “Come on.”

When she took his hand, he felt her grip tighten just slightly, enough to steady him. She guided his other hand to her waist, her own fingers settling gently into his palm. “Like this,” she said quietly. “Now just listen.”

She began counting, soft and rhythmic, her voice blending with the sound of crickets and the distant hum of the city beyond the garden walls. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”

Denji’s feet shuffled against the grass. He tried to watch where he was stepping, but she stopped him with a little laugh. “Don’t look down. You’ll miss the fun part.”

He met her eyes, and the air between them seemed to still. He stumbled again, stepping on her toe, but Reze only laughed harder, leaning into him for balance. “You’re hopeless,” she teased, breathless with amusement.

“Hey, I’m trying,” he said, grinning.

“I know.”

She adjusted her grip and swayed again, her steps light and sure, guiding him through the motion with her hips and the pressure of her hands. Little by little, his body found the rhythm—forward, side, together. Her hair brushed against his chin each time they turned.

“See?” she whispered. “It’s easy. You just have to trust me.”

The grass whispered under their feet. Fireflies drifted around them, slow and glowing, caught between the starlight and the soft moon above. Reze’s laughter faded to a gentle smile as they turned beneath the open sky, her voice barely audible now, humming a tune only she seemed to know.

Denji didn’t think about the steps anymore. He just followed her lead, caught in the motion, the warmth of her hand, the pulse of her heartbeat close to his chest.

It felt like the whole world had gone quiet—only two people, moving to a rhythm that belonged entirely to them.
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The taxi slowed to a stop at the outskirts of the city. Streetlights illuminating quiet two-lane roads and the fading glow of shop windows. Most businesses had closed for the night, shutters rolled down, signs dim. A soft wind carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and the distant brine of the coast.

Kishibe stepped out first, his hands in the pockets of his black overcoat, eyes scanning the quiet streets. Kobeni followed closely, gripping her wrist with both hands in place of a bag, shoulders tense. The sound of their shoes clicking against the pavement echoed faintly against the low buildings.

As they turned a corner, a familiar shape emerged from a narrow alley beside the pet store: the bloodhound Reze had stopped to pet earlier. Its ears flopped as it trotted forward, tail wagging faintly, moving with a strange awareness that seemed almost… knowing.

Kishibe bent slightly, hand reaching down to scratch the dog behind its ears. “Good boy,” he murmured quietly. The dog gave a soft bark, eyes catching the glow of the streetlight, before padding back into the alley with slow, measured steps.

Kobeni watched silently, a small, almost imperceptible smile brushing her lips before she looked away. Kishibe straightened, dusting off his coat, and glanced toward the deeper streets of the city, where lamplights cast pools of warm light on the empty sidewalks.

Their footsteps continued down the narrow streets, each click of their shoes marking the calm rhythm of the night. Somewhere ahead, the faint, savory aroma of ramen wafted through the air, drawing them forward. The scent was rich, thick with pork and garlic, a promise of warmth and a brief reprieve from the chilly night.

Kishibe’s eyes narrowed slightly as he caught the smell. Kobeni inhaled softly, following his gaze. They exchanged no words, but the city seemed to guide them, each quiet street and shuttered shop a frame in a nocturnal painting leading them toward their destination.
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The grass beneath their feet was soft, damp with evening dew, but Denji hardly noticed. His hands rested where Reze guided them—one on her waist, the other gently holding her palm—and slowly, the rhythm of the waltz began to sink in.

Reze moved with a quiet confidence, her black high-waisted shorts and oversized t-shirt flowing just enough to brush against Denji’s side as they twirled. Her hair caught the moonlight, violet strands drifting in the breeze like delicate ribbons, highlighting the gentle curve of her neck and the subtle tilt of her chin.

Denji stumbled at first, misstepping once or twice, but she only laughed softly, a sound that vibrated against his chest, and adjusted him with a touch to his shoulder. “One, two, three,” she whispered, counting softly, guiding the timing of their steps.

Slowly, he felt himself syncing with her. Their movements became fluid, almost gliding over the grass as if the earth itself had softened to cushion them, moving up the steps of the gazebo. The faint rustle of fabric and the creak of the wood under their feet were the only sounds accompanying the dance, blending with the rhythm of their shared breaths.

Denji’s focus narrowed to her—every movement, every tilt, every glance—his heart thrumming in time with the imaginary music. Reze’s eyes shone with a mixture of concentration and delight, her hand firm yet warm in his. He felt a strange weightlessness, as if the world had narrowed to the two of them, stars above mirrored in the quiet intensity of her gaze.

For a moment, time itself seemed suspended. The waltz was no longer a lesson but a conversation: a language written in glances, in the way they shifted their weight, the way their steps matched instinctively. Denji laughed quietly when he nearly stepped on her toes; she returned the sound with a teasing nudge of her hip.

Fireflies drifted lazily around them, their faint glow mingling with the silver light of the moon. Denji could feel her heartbeat through her chest as their movements brought them closer, and in the silence of the night, he realized he’d never felt so utterly present, so alive, or so connected.

By the end, they were moving seamlessly, the dance no longer instruction but instinct. The waltz had become theirs—an intimate, unspoken promise etched under the stars.
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The three-seat ramen shop was quiet, almost reverent in its simplicity. The walls bore the faded marks of years, the counter worn smooth by countless elbows and hands. Steam curled lazily from the single gas burner behind the chef as he placed two bowls of tonkotsu in front of Kishibe and Kobeni. He said nothing, only gave a small, satisfied grunt and a bow.

Kishibe picked up the chopsticks with deliberate calm, slurping a thick strand of noodles. The rich, savory broth clung to his lips as he swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Same flavor as always,” he murmured, his half-lidded eyes scanning the quiet room.

Kobeni glanced around nervously, fingers gripping her sleeves instead of a bag. “Why here?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Kishibe’s gaze drifted to the wall, to the shadows cast by the dim light. After a slow pause, he answered simply, “Because they were.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the aroma of garlic and pork, carrying a quiet weight that made the hum of the small city outside seem distant and inconsequential. Kobeni took a small bite, tasting the familiar warmth of the tonkotsu, and for a moment, the past and present seemed to fold together in that simple, silent meal.
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The waltz slowed to its ultimate climax, feet steped to and fro as they slowed to a gentle sway, their movements coming to rest. The white floorboards faintly creaking beneath their weight. Denji’s hands rested on Reze’s waist, hers on his shoulders, their bodies close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath. Moonlight spilled over them, filtering through the lattice of the gazebo, highlighting the violet of her hair and the soft curve of her cheek, creating a picturesque scene.

He swallowed nervously, words tangling in his throat. “Reze… I think I—”

She gently placed a finger to his lips, hair fluttering in the breeze. Her voice was calm, soft, certain. “I know.”

Denji froze, his heart pounding in the quiet gazebo. The world beyond the hedges—the koi pond, the flower beds, the night sky—seemed to fade, leaving only the space between them, charged with unspoken feelings. Relief, joy, and the dizzying flutter of new love tangled in his chest.

Reze leaned in slightly, brushing her forehead against his. The closeness, the warmth, the faint scent of the night flowers, made everything else dissolve. Denji’s racing heart slowed for the first time in a long while—not from fear or chaos, but from being here with her, in this perfect, suspended moment.

Reze’s hands moved from his shoulders down to his chest, resting over his heart. She could feel the steady, rhythmic thud beneath her palms—a calm, soothing, grounding pulse that seemed to echo the quiet night around them. Denji’s breath hitched slightly under her touch, a nervous tension melting into something warm and tender.

Slowly, she leaned forward, brushing her lips softly against his. Denji, melted into the contact, tilting his head slightly to meet hers. The kiss was gentle, tentative, a quiet exploration rather than a rush—soft and warm, like sunlight spilling over cool earth. Each heartbeat seemed to swell in their chests, a shared rhythm that made the world around them fade.

For a fleeting moment, it was just them: their hearts fluttering, pulses quickening, a dizzying sense of weightlessness settling over them. The stars above looked brighter, the night air sweeter, and the wooden boards of the gazebo seemed to vanish beneath a cloud of infinite lightness. It was as though time had paused, leaving only the quiet, endless intimacy of the kiss, and the tender thrum of two hearts meeting in sync. A perfect moment that they'd never forget. Something special. Something unreplicateble. Irreplaciable.

A life time of wants and passion balled up in to this singular speck of time, beyond time.

--“Yo.”

Chapter Text

Denji pulled back, wide-eyed, the warmth lingering on his lips as Reze blinked in startled surprise.

That voice froze him where he stood. Gruff, steady, unmistakable. Denji turned toward the garden’s edge. Kishibe stood under the moonlight, flask in hand, coat draped lazily over his shoulders. Beside him, Kobeni hovered like a shadow, hands gripping her own wrist so tight her knuckles whitened.

“Didn’t know I was interrupting date night,” Kishibe said, his tone dry, unreadable. He took a slow sip from the flask, eyes moving between the two of them, calm but dissecting.

Denji’s body tensed. He instinctively stepped in front of Reze, his heart still racing from the kiss, though for an entirely different reason now. He tried to stand tall, to sound steady. “You don’t need to do this. We’re not a threat, we jus—”

Kishibe cut him off. “Makima told me to reel you back in.” His voice was flat, almost bored. “She said to bring you back…” His gaze shifted, settling on Reze like a blade finding its mark. “…and kill anyone who got in the way.”

Reze’s breath caught. She didn’t know who this man was, but she felt the weight of his confidence—the quiet aura of someone who’d killed enough to never second-guess it.

Kobeni’s voice wavered, barely audible. “B-but Miss Makima gave us full authority to bring you back.”

Kishibe didn’t look at her. “That means you can come willingly,” he said, pocketing his flask and rolling his shoulders, “or unconscious.”

The air tightened, the chirping of crickets fading into silence. Moonlight fell across the garden, painting them in pale silver—the predator and the cornered prey, the night holding its breath.

Denji with concern written all over his face, sweet beading on his forhead, turned back to Reze. They didn’t exchange a single word—only a knowing glance that said everything. His foot shifted forward, ready to put himself between her and danger, to trade his life for hers if he had to. Ready to go in willingly.

But that wasn’t what she had in mind at all.

Her hand moved—a blur—fingers snapping toward the pin on her neck. Denji didn’t even register the motion before everything broke apart. Kishibe’s coat crumpled to the ground in silence. He vanished into thin air.

Kobeni drew her knife from her behind her back. The silver flashed in the lamplight as she surged forward, her expression split between terror and duty. Denji turned away from her only concerned with Reze, eyes wide, but the world had slowed to a crawl. Slow enough to see a humming birds wings flap. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, every thump heavy and delayed.

Reze’s hand hadn’t even reached her neck before Kishibe appeared before her, a phantom out of nowhere. She knew his was dangerous from Denji's reaction, but she couldn't have ever anticipated this kind of speed. The strike came from his hip, clean, efficient, practiced, inhumanly fast shoulder rotating give it thatextra force. His fist buried itself in her abdomen with a sickening crack that echoed across the garden. Her shirt rippling from epicenter of the impact.

The sound that came from her wasn’t a scream, just a choked gasp—her body folding violently around his arm. The impact lifted her clear off her feet, the air exploding from her lungs as blood misted from her lips.

Then she was gone from his reach, launched backward, disconnecting from his fist.

Her body flew through the air before smashing into the gazebo railing with a sickening snap of wood, splinters bursting outward as the rail gave way. The shards caught in her hair and scattered across the grass as she tumbled through down towards the earth.

Hitting the ground in a heap, her body convulsing once before curling in on itself, arms tightening over her stomach. Blood flecked the dirt beneath her face, her breath broken and shallow.

Denji barely had time to process what he’d just seen—Reze’s body flung through the air, now lying twisted in the grass, her breath ragged. Instinct took over. His hand shotting toward his chest, reaching for the cord.

Kishibe caught the motion instantly. He didn’t move his head, only his eyes, sharp and steady, tracking Denji’s hand.

Denji’s fingers brushed the ring.

Pain exploded through his hand—white-hot, blinding, searing pain, as his fingers were cut clean off, feeling every tendon and muscle fiber seperating, a knife cutting right where the fingers met the knuckles. His eyes flicked down to where his fingers had been. Blood ran down his palm, his nerves screaming. Kobeni was already moving past him, blade glinting in the moonlight, her expression cold and and sturn.

Denji dropped to his knees, clutching what was left of his right hand. His pulse drowned out the night sounds. He looked up in time to see Kobeni vault the broken railing, her movements sharp and impossibly fast, closing the distance toward Reze before he could shout.

Then came the blur of motion—Kishibe again. Denji saw only the shift of his weight before the strike connected. A thunderous knee to the face, hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs and the light from his eyes. The world tilted, wood splintering as his body crashed backward through the gazebo rail, landing somewhere between the grass and his own fading awareness.

Denji fighting to stay conscious. His face throbbed, his nose was pulverized, blood leaking profusely, ears ringing, muffling the world around him. He tilted his blurred vision down enough to catch sight of Kishibe striding toward him. In the corner of his eye off to the side, Kobeni wrestled Reze, the knife pressing closer to Reze’s throat as she struggled to reach her pin.

Denji blinked, forcing his vision to hold steady just as Kishibe loomed over him, ready to strike again. A crash tore through the noise—Beam burst from the house, charging straight at Kishibe.

Denji barely caught the sound, maybe a shout—“Lord Chainsaw.” Kishibe caught Beam mid-air by the neck, his grip like iron. Beam clawed weakly, but Kishibe didn’t let go. He then pummeled him again and again, unleashing a flurry of blows. The blows coming too fast to follow, each hit forming a bruise instantly, every hit breaking a bone, every hit bring beam closer to the edge, until Beam went limp. Kishibe flung him aside, his body ragdolling across the yard before coming to rest near the gazebo.

Kishibe focused back onto Denji, stilled laid out on the grass. He didn’t hesitate. His boot came down hard into Denji’s ribs, once, twice—each strike crushing and snapping bones, as one punctured his lung cause him to spew more blood from his mouth. Denji tried to curl up, arms weakly moving to cover his face, but Kishibe dropped to one knee beside him and started swinging. The hits were clean, deliberate, each one placed with surgical precision.

Denji’s head snapped to the side from the first blow, knocking a tooth loose blooding the grass around him. The next sank into his cheek, his jaw grinding under the force. Kishibe hit him again, and again, until Denji could barely lift his arms to shield himself. He pressed a hand into the ground, trying to push up, but Kishibe slammed his fist straight down between his left arm and his shoulder, dislocating it, flattening him to the dirt. The air left Denji’s lung, rasping in a dry gasp.

Kishibe didn’t stop there. He grabbed Denji by the collar, lifted his upper body just enough, then drove another punch straight into his temple down back to the ground. Denji’s body jerked, his mind flickering between awareness and blackness. The world around him dulled—the faint scent of or iron and grass, the ringing in his ears, the distant struggle between Reze and Kobeni fading into static.

Kishibe gave one final hit to the side of Denji’s head before letting go, his hand unclenching slowly. Denji’s body slumped fully to the ground, twitching once before lying still, his breath shallow and ragged. Kishibe rose without a word, wiping his knuckles against his coat, eyes already shifting back toward Reze and Kobeni.

Reze’s arms shook under the pressure, the knife’s edge biting into her forearms with every push and twist from Kobeni. She gritted her teeth, each breath a sharp hiss, muscles burning as she fought to keep the blade from slicing her throat. Her body ached, the earlier gut punch from Kishibe still pulsing in her stomach, making every movement sluggish and heavy. Sweat stung her eyes, and her purple hair plastered to her forehead, but she refused to relent.

Her gaze flicked over to Denji. He was on the ground, being pummeled into the dirt like a ragdoll, each blow a brutal punctuation to her panic. Her stomach dropped, her chest tightening—her hands shook not from pain but from fear. He could die… I can’t let him die.

Rage and desperation surged through her, overriding the searing pain. She pushed against Kobeni with every ounce of strength left in her, letting out a guttural, primal grunt that echoed in the silent night. The force rocked Kobeni back just enough for Reze to slide a trembling hand toward her pin. Her fingers grazed it—just the slightest touch—but the moment was fleeting, too fleeting. A sharp, precise strike landed, and the world went black. Reze’s body went slack, limbs crumpling to the ground—unconscious before she could activate her power.

Kishibe’s calm, measured presence loomed over them, his eyes on the two of them. He tilted his head toward Kobeni, voice flat, almost courteous in his cold way: “You hurt?”

Kobeni bent over slightly, scanning herself for injuries, and let out a quiet, relieved, “No.” Kishibe didn’t spare her a glance. His attention was elsewhere, already moving with deliberate slowness. He stooped, picked up his crumpled coat, dusted it off with mechanical precision, and slid it back on. The carnage sprawled across the gazebo and surrounding grass didn’t elicit even a flicker of emotion—just a faint, controlled exhale.

He pulled his flask from his coat pocket and took a measured swig, the liquid catching the moonlight. His gaze shifted past Denji and Beam, who were sprawled on the ground—Denji barely conscious, Beam crumpled and bruised. Without hesitation, Kishibe stepped forward, crouched slightly, and slung Reze’s unconscious body over his shoulder with a single fluid motion.

Kobeni’s voice cracked as she questioned, “We’re supposed to be taking the Chainsaw… why her?”

Kishibe’s expression didn’t change; his eyes were empty, almost predator-like. “I have full authority to handle this situation as I see fit,” he said, voice low, precise. He shifted the weight of Reze’s body on his shoulder slightly, as if checking the balance. “This accomplishes our goal.”

Kobeni didn’t press further. She knew better than to question him—if anyone understood Makima’s intentions, it was Kishibe. Her hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of her knife, a powerless gesture against the inevitability of his decision.

Denji’s eyes fluttered open just enough to catch the sight of Kishibe striding away, Reze draped over his shoulder like a trophy. He reached out weakly, fingers trembling, a muffled whisper forming on his cracked lips, but the darkness pressed down like a weight, dragging him under before any words could escape.

The night reclaimed the gazebo, the wind rustling the shattered wood, the faint smell of blood still lingering. Beam lay unmoving, Denji slipping into unconsciousness, and Reze taken, leaving only silence and the echo of what had just transpired.

Chapter Text

Reze drowsily came to, her head heavy, vision blurred. The last thing she remembered was Denji being pummeled into the ground. This memory instantly making her reach for the pin, ready to detonate, but her fingers met cold steel instead. A collar. Smooth, unyielding. The moment her fingertips brushed it, she felt the hum of something unnatural pulsing beneath the surface.

She scanned her surroundings. A concrete box—bare except for a rusted steel toilet in the corner. The walls were streaked with dark stains, the kind that never wash out. The floor full of dried puddles that must have been teeming with bacteria. The stale air smelled of disinfectant and rot. Overhead, the ceiling emitted blinding white light, harsh enough to make her squint. The only thing that appeared to connect the box to the outside world being a blank steel door.

She sat back, exhaling through her nose. Of course this was how it ended. She only hoped Denji stayed far away from where ever she was.

A sound interrupted her thoughts—a distant, rhythmic thudding from behind the door. It grew louder, closer, until metal groaned and the pressure changed. The steel door decoompressed and hissed, then creaked open.

Reze tensed on edge, focusing on who or what was coming into the box.

First came the light red hair. Then the golden eyes, bright and cold as a predator’s. Makima stepped inside, dressed in her familiar white shirt, black tie, and pressed slacks, every inch composed.

She took a few steps fowards each step bouncing and echoing unnaturally, amplifying the claustrophobic silence of the cell. The door behind her remained open, yet the sound of her shoes made the space feel smaller, more oppressive. Reze held herself perfectly still, every muscle tensed but her composure intact, refusing to let the audacity of Makima’s presence intimidate her.

Makima slowed, stopping just short of Reze, tilting her head with a faint curve of a smile forming on her lips. “You’re awake,” she said, her voice smooth, almost melodic. “That’s perfect. I was hoping we could talk before you could try anything foolish.”

Reze’s fists clenched tightly at her sides. “Where’s Denji?” she asked, voice low but firm.

Makima’s head tilted slightly, studying her without immediate reply. “He’s alive,” she said finally, letting the words hang. “For now. You should be grateful. Kishibe can be… excessive when he’s unsupervised.” Her gaze sharpened as she took a few more steps closer, her presence dominating the tiny, concrete room. “Though I suppose you already know what that looks like.”

Reze glared back, eyes narrowing, refusing to show fear.

Makima crouched slightly, bringing her golden eyes level with Reze’s. “You know, I don’t hate you,” she said softly, tone deceptively gentle. “You did what you were made to do. You were sent to kill him, and in the process… you fell for him. How… human of you.”

Reze’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know anything about me,” she spat, voice low but defiant.

A faint, cruel smile tugged at Makima’s lips. “Don’t I? I saw the way you looked at him. The hesitation before you detonated. The way you ran from your orders. I know what it’s like to want something you’re not allowed to have.” She straightened, regaining her full height, a shadow of dominance draping over the room. “That’s why I wanted to see you before the end.”

Her polished fingernail tapped lightly against the collar around Reze’s neck, a subtle reminder of control. “That depends on you,” Makima said. “Tell me, what did you think would happen after you ran away with him? That you’d live quietly somewhere? That he’d stop being Chainsaw Man? That I’d simply let him?”

Reze blinked, wary. “No”

She said nothing further, only stared back, a tempest of anger and fear churning in her eyes.

Makima’s voice softened, laced with a kind of cold reason. “You were a good soldier, Reze. You just forgot what side you were on.” She turned toward the door, hand brushing the handle, her golden gaze flicking back to Reze once more. “That’s what love does—it makes killers think they can have peace. One such as yourself doesn’t just run away from the life. You either serve… or die in servitude.”

Silence stretched before her words dripped slowly, deliberately. She walked the perimeter of the cell, fingertips grazing the cold concrete walls as if marking territory. “But you were special,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost intimate. “You could have gotten on that train… and had it all.”

Reze’s glare did not waver, but her brow furrowed, suspicion and curiosity warring in her expression.

“You would have had it all,” Makima continued, her tone casual, almost teasing, “a peaceful life… the boring one.” She glanced over her shoulder, ensuring their eyes met, a deliberate tether. “You could have been the country mouse.”

Reze froze, stunned. Her mind raced. How could she know? How could Makima know about the story of the country mouse and the city mouse? The analogy cut sharper than any blade, laying bare her choices.

Makima’s voice softened further, a hint of gratitude threading through the menace. “But I really should thank you.”

Concern flickered across Reze’s face, confusion tightening her jaw.

“Have you ever heard of Michel Foucault?” she asked casually.

Reze frowned, unsure if she wanted to entertain her question. “No.”

Makima nodded, as if she expected that. “He was a French philosopher. Spent his life studying power—how it hides behind kindness. He said that governments learned to rule not through punishment, but through care. They don’t need chains when they can make people believe obedience keeps them safe.”

Reze’s jaw tightened. “You mean control.”

“Protection,” Makima corrected, voice soft but sharp. “When people are left alone, they ruin themselves. They need someone to shape them, to decide who gets to live quietly, who fights, who dies. That’s what it means to govern—to preserve order, even if it looks cruel.”

Reze glared up at her. “You think people exist just to be managed?”

Makima smiled faintly. “No. I think they exist to be perfected. Resistance is only valuable because it shows me where the structure bends. It’s how I find the cracks.”

“You’re sick,” Reze muttered.

“Maybe,” Makima said, circling closer, her tone almost tender. “But sickness is still part of the body. You can’t cut it out without killing the whole thing.”

Reze’s hands clenched, her voice trembling between anger and disbelief. “You talk about people like they’re tools.”

Makima tilted her head, golden eyes glinting in the harsh light. “Tools, hearts—it’s all the same, in the end. Both belong to someone.”

For a long moment, silence filled the cell. Then Makima leaned in just enough for Reze to hear her next words clearly.

“That’s the truth Foucault never understood,” she whispered. “Power doesn’t just control life. It decides whose love is worth keeping alive.”

“And your love is worth keeping alive. Because you." looking toward the ceiling "You may be the key to unlocking his heart,” Makima said, letting the words hang in the air, opaque and heavy. Reze didn’t understand—couldn’t yet grasp the meaning behind them.

Makima’s gaze sharpened, her tone lowering into something almost intimate. “And then I’ll have his heart in full.”

Reze straightened, her voice cracking through the tension. “We had an agreement,” she snapped. “You said if I escaped without using his heart, you’d let him go. You said you’d let Denji be free.”

Makima paused, the corners of her lips curling into a faint, knowing smirk. “And I intend to honor that agreement.” Her voice was calm, deliberate—measured in the way that made Reze’s blood run cold.

She stepped closer, until the faint warmth of her breath brushed Reze’s face. “Because he’ll come back to me willingly,” Makima whispered. “For you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and cruel, a promise twisted into a trap. Reze’s glare faltered for a moment as she realized Makima wasn’t lying. She meant it. Denji would come back—but not out of freedom, not out of choice. Out of the same cruel design that had brought them all to her in the first place.

Makima paused, letting her fingertips drift along the wall, then looked Reze squarely in the eye. Her tone softened, almost like she was indulging a child, but it carried an unsettling weight.

“You know the story of Andromeda, don’t you?” she began, pacing slowly now, each step measured. “The one you told him, where she’s innocent, chained by her parents, waiting for rescue. It’s a lovely story when told like that. Hero saves maiden, monster defeated, love blossoms. That’s what you whispered to him under the stars. That’s what made him see her—see you—differently.”

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur. “But that’s not the story I see. You see, in the real story… from the perspective of the gods, Andromeda wasn’t helpless. She was a challenge. A test for Perseus. Chained, yes—but not for pity. She provoked him, demanded he rise to her. Every chain, every peril, was a step for him to evolve, to become greater. And the gods… they watched, indifferent to suffering, caring only that the outcome would prove their design correct.”

Makima’s eyes glinted, sharp and deliberate. “And that’s the lesson. Power isn’t given—it’s forced, wrested from you. Weakness is nothing more than a tool to sculpt strength. Andromeda… she didn’t wait to be saved; she compelled, manipulated, pushed. Perseus rose because she demanded it, and the gods cheered silently from above.”

She paused, letting the words sink into the stale air of the cell. “Do you see now, Reze? Love, hope, even heroism… they’re all tests. The chains, the threats, the impossible odds—they aren’t punishments. They are catalysts. And you… you’ve already set one in motion.”

Reze swallowed hard, unease twisting in her chest. What had been a tender story of care and courage between her and Denji had now been twisted into a lesson about control, power, and manipulation. Makima smiled faintly, almost kindly, yet there was no warmth in it.

“Stories,” she whispered, “are only as innocent as the ones telling them—or the ones listening.”

Makima’s shoes clicked against the concrete as she approached the door. She paused, letting her presence fill the cell one last time, and said softly, “I’ll give you this gift though.” Then she snapped her fingers.

The harsh white light above died instantly, and Reze instinctively braced herself, expecting total darkness.

Instead, a dim, ethereal light fluttered down from the ceiling, forming what looked like a skylight that hadn’t been there before. It painted the small, grimy cell in a soft glow, but it felt hollow, artificial—like a cruel mimicry of the night sky she had shared with Denji.

Reze’s chest tightened as tears welled in her eyes. One lone tear slipped down her cheek, not from wonder, not from awe, but from grief and frustration. This light, beautiful as it was, reminded her of everything that had been stolen: the quiet intimacy under the stars, Denji’s hand in hers, the warmth of that stolen moment. Makima had stripped it away, leaving only this hollow imitation.

Makima lingered at the doorway, watching carefully, her golden eyes taking in every detail: the tear, the tight clench of Reze’s fists, the subtle tremor in her shoulders. A faint, satisfied smile curved her lips as she absorbed the impact of her control, knowing she had shattered something precious.

Then she turned and stepped out, the door sliding shut with a final, echoing click. The faint light remained above, but for Reze, it was nothing but a cruel reminder of the moment she had lost.

Chapter Text

Fuku pulled into the gravel driveway, the soft hum of the kei truck dying as he turned off the ignition. The clock on the dashboard blinked past midnight. The errand had taken longer than expected—the next town’s night market was crowded, and the vendors moved at their own pace—but he figured there was no harm in taking a little extra time. He stepped out quietly, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his sandals sounding far too loud in the silence. The back of the truck still smelled faintly of oil and smoke from the food stalls. He reached into the bed and gathered two paper bags filled to the brim: three renkons, a dozen pears, shrimp still packed on ice, and a handful of vegetables he bought on impulse.

The night air was thick and heavy, the kind that pressed close to the skin. The crickets had quieted, leaving an almost oppressive stillness. Fuku paused by the truck for a moment, adjusting his grip on the bags. The house ahead was dark except for a faint light bleeding through the washi screens. He frowned. Too quiet. Even for this hour, it felt wrong—no soft conversation, no shifting futons, not even the rhythmic sound of breathing carried through the paper walls.

He slid open the front door slowly, careful not to make a sound. The tatami creaked beneath his feet. Inside, the air was stale and oddly cold, like the aftermath of something. The air felt wrong, like the kind of silence that doesn’t come from peace but from absence. He shut the door behind him and set the grocery bags down by the entryway. His eyes adjusted to the dim light spilling from the cracks in the inner shoji.

Reze and Denji should’ve been asleep by now. He hesitated. They were new to him—strangers he was still trying to understand. He didn’t know how deeply they slept or how easily they startled, so he didn’t call out. Instead, he moved quietly toward the left hall, his footsteps muted. The faint glow a faint yellow glow pressed against the washi paper walls—the lantern inside must have been left burning.

He stopped at the sliding door, the one leading to where they’d laid out their futons earlier. No sound came from inside. The silence pressed against his ears until it felt like a weight. Fuku hesitated, hand hovering near the sliding door. 'Maybe this is just how they sleep', he thought to himself. He didn’t want to wake them if they’d already fallen asleep. Still, something twisted in his gut told him something was off. He took a careful breath and slid the door open just enough to peek through.

Empty. The futons were spread out neatly, untouched. The small wooden table in the center of the room still had an overturned teacup on it, as if someone had left in a hurry.

Then he felt it—a faint draft brushing against his right cheek. He turned, and the sight made his stomach drop. The shoji leading to the backyard hung off its track, splintered and broken. Fragments of wood and paper scattered across the deck, swaying slightly with the breeze.

Fuku’s pulse spiked. He slipped off his sandals and ran toward the back.

The scene outside hit him like a blow. The gazebo was wreaked, one of its pillars cracked clean through. Near it lay Beam, his body twisted unnaturally, blood leaking from his mouth, pooling beneath him, battered and bruised everywhere. Just a few feet away, Denji was sprawled out, barely breathing, his skin ghost-pale under the moonlight. Blood had soaked through his shirt, streaking down from his nose and mouth.

Fuku’s breath caught. He dropped to his knees beside Denji, his hands trembling as he checked for a pulse. Faint, uneven. He hurried to Beam—still alive, but barely—before deciding. Denji’s heartbeat was weaker, his skin clammy.

He needed to act fast. He tore open Denji’s shirt, scanning for the source of the bleeding, but there were only bruises, deep and spreading across his ribs. Then he froze.

There, embedded in the center of Denji’s chest, was something strange—a handle, like the pull cord of a machine, its base fused into the skin.

Fuku stared at it, his mind racing. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears.

What the hell is this?

He hovered his hand over the cord, uncertain. Every instinct screamed at him to do something, but he didn’t know what pulling it would mean.

He swallowed hard, caught between panic and hesitation. His fingers twitched but didn’t move.

He hadn’t made his decision yet. He couldn't

__________________________________________________________
Denji’s eyes fluttered open to nothing. No ceiling. No ground. Just an endless black that pressed in from every side. It felt thick—like water—but there was no sound when he moved, no bubbles, no breath. Panic sparked in him and he started flailing, arms slicing through the void, legs kicking in every direction. Up, down, forward—nothing. There was no resistance, no progress, only the empty sensation of movement that went nowhere.

He tried again, harder this time, the effort twisting his body in slow, aimless spirals. His chest burned even though he wasn’t breathing. His limbs grew heavier. His mind began to fog.

Then came the flashes.
Reze smiling, her eyes catching the light.
Beam shouting through a haze of smoke.
Blood spraying across the grass.
The cold sting of rain.
Each one flickering in and out—too fast to hold onto, too cruel to forget.

He stopped fighting. His body went limp. The stillness felt almost merciful now. His thoughts dimmed to a dull whisper.
Maybe this was it. Maybe he could finally rest.
He thought of Reze’s face one last time. How it would’ve been nice to actually finish their date in peace. How maybe, in some other life, they could’ve just been normal. He smiled weakly at the thought. “Guess… that’s that.”

Then, a faint orange glow appeared in the distance.
Tiny at first, then pulsing, steady—like a heartbeat echoing through the void. It grew closer until a small figure emerged from the dark, tail wagging lazily, eyes wide and familiar.

“Pochita…?” Denji’s voice cracked, almost breaking the silence.

The little devil floated before him, chainsaw blade gleaming faintly along its head. For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then Denji looked away. “You don’t gotta say it… I’m done, Pochita. I’m tired. Reze’s gone, Beam’s gone… I screwed up again. Every time I get close to somethin’ good, it all gets wrecked.”

Pochita tilted his head, silent. The heartbeat grew louder.

Denji’s voice weakened. “Guess I just wanted… more time, you know? With her. Maybe just one more day.”

The light from Pochita’s chest flared brighter. He drifted forward until their foreheads almost touched, warmth radiating through Denji’s frozen body. Then, a voice—not spoken but felt—rumbled softly inside his mind.

“You still haven’t shown me your dream.”

Denji’s eyes widened. “What…?”

Before he could react, Pochita pressed against his chest, merging into him in a burst of light. A single, sharp sound broke through the dark—
the unmistakable roar of a chainsaw.

The abyss trembled and split apart, blinding light flooding in, his body being vacuumed up. Denji’s eyes shot open as air and blood rushed back into his lungs.

Denji’s body jerked upright with a guttural gasp, air ripping through his lungs as the roar of chainsaws tore through the quiet night. Steel burst from his arms and head, spinning wildly, flinging blood and dirt in every direction. Fuku stumbled back, eyes wide, panic freezing him for half a second before instinct took over. He threw himself to the side as Denji’s arm swung past, the blade carving through the air with a screech that nearly grazed him.

“Jesus—!” Fuku hit the ground hard, crawling backward, terrified that the crazed boy he’d just tried to save was about to tear him apart.

Denji staggered, chest heaving, the roar of his chainsaws sputtering out as he forced himself to stop. He gritted his teeth, panting through the pain until the blades retracted, their growl dying into silence. He slumped back against the dirt, exhausted but alive, skin pale and slick with sweat. His head lolled to the side, eyes finding Fuku’s trembling shape.

“…you got anything with blood?” Denji rasped, voice hoarse and uneven. “Please… just get it. Anything.”

Fuku blinked, still processing what he’d seen—those spinning blades, the impossible transformation—but he didn’t ask questions. Something in Denji’s tone—desperate but calm—cut through the fear. He nodded sharply, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted toward the truck. The of it screeching out of the driveway frantic.

The night fell still again. Denji laid back, arms limp at his sides, staring up at the starry sky. His breathing steadied, each inhale shallow but a little stronger than the last. He could barely move, his mind still fogged from the abyss, but the stars above looked clearer than before.

He wasn’t sure if it was relief or exhaustion that made his chest ache so much.

Within minutes, the rumble of the kei truck echoed down the drive again. The headlights flashed across the wrecked yard, the engine still running. Fuku rushed back, holding two small cages, feathers rustling frantically inside.

He dropped to his knees beside Denji, breathing hard. “These were the only things I could get—two chickens. You said blood, right?”

Denji nodded weakly, eyes half-open. “Yeah… one’s fine.”

Without hesitation, Fuku pulled one from the cage. His hands trembled as he gripped the knife from his belt, but he did as told, slicing the bird’s throat clean. The warm blood poured freely, and Denji tilted his head back, letting it flow into his mouth. He drank greedily, the color slowly returning to his face, his pulse growing stronger.

When he finally pushed the chicken away, he wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and exhaled. “Thanks,” he muttered, sitting up slightly. His voice had regained its edge. “Do the same for Beam. He’s still got some fight in him.”

Fuku hesitated only a second before nodding, moving to the battered shark fiend’s side. As he worked, Denji’s gaze drifted over the ruined yard—the shattered deck, the blood-soaked ground, the faint glow of the moon capturing it all.

He clenched his jaw.
Makima.
He didn’t need to say it to feel the weight of her name.

He wasn’t sure what his next move was yet, but he knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t done.

Beam’s eyes snapped open the instant Fuku’s blade cut across the chicken’s neck, the scent of blood filling the air. His gills flared wide, and with a violent jolt he shot upright, teeth bared and eyes wild.

“LORD CHAINSAW!” Beam bellowed, his voice echoing through the still night.

Fuku stumbled backward, nearly dropping the knife. The sudden movement and the manic grin plastered across Beam’s face nearly gave him a heart attack. Beam whipped his head around, scanning his surroundings with the twitchy instinct of a predator. His sharp eyes darted from Fuku to Denji, then past them—searching.

The smile faded. “Where… where is Lady Reze?” he asked, voice dropping low, almost cautious.

Denji was still seated in the dirt, blood drying on his skin. He didn’t meet Beam’s gaze, just stared off toward the shattered shoji doors and the dark beyond them.

“Makima,” he said quietly.

That one word was enough. Beam’s entire expression changed—his manic energy faltering, replaced by grim understanding. His shoulders stiffened, eyes narrowing with something like fear. He didn’t ask anything else. He didn’t have to.

The name alone explained everything.

Beam looked toward the horizon, his jaw tight. “Then… Lady Reze is—”

“She’s alive,” Denji interrupted, voice still weak but steady. “For now.” He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. “But she won’t be for long if we sit here.”

Beam said nothing. He just nodded, eyes glowing faintly under the moonlight.

Fuku stayed quiet for a while, looking between Denji and Beam, still trying to make sense of what he had just seen. The chickens, the blood, the chainsaws tearing from flesh—none of it felt real. His hands were still shaking when he finally spoke.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on here,” he said, voice uneven, “but I’m guessing it’s not over yet.”

Neither Denji nor Beam answered. The air between them hung thick, tense, only broken by the hum of the truck engine outside.

Fuku exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. I’ll get you more blood in the morning,” he said at last. “But for now, you both need to eat something that isn’t chicken blood. You look like corpses.”

Denji gave a faint, tired chuckle, his voice low and hoarse. “You’re not far off.”

“I’m serious,” Fuku said, pointing toward the house. “There’s rice and soup inside. You can explain—whatever this is—while you eat. If I’m gonna help you, I at least deserve to know what kind of mess I’m stepping into.”

Beam turned toward him, head cocked slightly, his expression oddly reverent even through exhaustion. “Human Fuku… your loyalty shall be remembered by Lord Chainsaw’s kingdom.”

Fuku blinked. “I don’t even know what that means.”

Denji sighed, dragging himself up with a grunt. “It means thanks,” he said, brushing off his torn pants. “And yeah… we’ll tell you. Just… let me sit down first.”

The three of them moved slowly back toward the house, the faint sound of waves and cicadas filling the silence. The night air was heavy with smoke and salt, and as Fuku slid the shoji door shut behind them, he couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever Denji was about to tell him—would change everything.

Chapter Text

Fuku sat down across from Denji at the small wooden table, futons moved to the side, still trying to wrap his head around what he’d seen—the chainsaws, the blood, the talking fish-man now perched on his couch. None of it made sense, but the kid looked too human to be treated like a monster. Fuku pushed a bowl of rice and grilled mackerel across the table. “You both need to eat,” he said quietly. “Then you can tell me what this is all about.”

Denji hesitated for a second, then started shoveling food into his mouth. “You’re a real nice guy, old man,” he said between bites. “Most people would’ve kicked us out by now. You’re like… the first person in a while who hasn’t tried to stab me.”

Fuku gave a small smile. “Well, stabbing house guests isn’t really my thing.”

"Or kill me. Munipulate me. Use me. Shoot me." Denji rambled on, fuku growing a little more concerned with each detail.

Denji swallowed and leaned back in his chair, eyes distant. “Alright, so, I guess I should explain. I’m Denji. Used to be a Devil Hunter for the mafia. I had this buddy—Pochita. He’s a little chainsaw devil, kinda looked like a orange dog with a pull cord. We hunted together. Mostly killed little devils for cash so I could pay off my dad’s debt. I used to dream about normal stuff, y’know? Toast with jam, girls, maybe even a date someday. Then I got chopped to pieces by my boss.”

Fuku froze mid-bite. “You… what?”

Denji waved it off. “Yeah, don’t worry, it’s fine. Pochita merged with me, became my heart. Put my pieces back together. That cord you saw—it’s him. That’s how I turned into Chainsaw Man.” He made a pulling motion on his chest, letting out a rough “Brrrzzz!” sound. “Cool, right?”

Fuku blinked, still unsure whether this was a joke or not.

“So after that, I started working for Public Safety under this lady named Makima,” Denji continued, voice shifting. “She’s… something else. Real hot, real calm, real scary. She had this look that made you wanna do anything for her. I thought she cared about me, but she was just using me. Still kinda hard to hate her though—she’s, uh, easy to look at.”

Beam snorted from the corner, his sharp teeth flashing. “Makima! A vile temptress for LORD CHAINSAW!”

Denji shot him a glare. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, I did all kinds of stuff for her. Killed devils, fought monsters, lost friends. My first kiss was with a girl named Himeno—she puked in my mouth. So, yeah, not exactly the romantic moment I pictured.”

Fuku covered his mouth in mild disgust but stayed quiet.

“Then came Reze,” Denji said, his voice softening. “She was… different. Sweet, funny, made me feel normal for the first time in my life. We’d talk about dumb stuff, like kanji, and we went swimming together. I thought maybe I could just… stop being Chainsaw Man and live like a regular guy. But turns out she was sent to kill me.” He smiled bitterly. “Guess I should’ve seen that one coming. Of course the other girl i fall for was also trying to get my heart.”

He stared at the table for a long moment. “Thing is, she didn’t go through with it. I think she wanted to. I think she hated herself for not doing it. But I saw something real in her. Then Makima took her away. Like she takes everything.”

The room went still. Only the hum of the overhead light filled the silence.

Denji finally pushed his empty bowl aside and stood up. His voice came out low, calm, but with something hard underneath. “So that’s who I am, old man. I’m Denji. Used to be human, kinda still am, and I’m done lettin’ people take what’s mine.” He turned toward the window, eyes catching the faint starlight outside. “Now I gotta get my girl back.”

Fuku sat quietly for a long while, his brow furrowed as he tried to piece together everything he’d just heard. The kid across from him wasn’t lying—that much he could tell. The exhaustion in Denji’s voice, the quiet loyalty in Beam’s gaze, the blood still drying on the floor—all of it was too real to be a story.

He finally exhaled, rubbing his temples, then raised a hand, motioning for them to keep eating. “We’ll discuss this in the morning,” he said. “You two should rest first.”

Denji swallowed hard and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Morning? Look, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for us, old man, really… but I need to go to Tokyo now.”

Fuku’s gentle expression tightened. He gave Denji a look that stopped him mid-sentence. “For one, you’re barely standing. You’ve yet to regain your strength.”

Denji opened his mouth to argue, but Fuku’s steady stare shut him down before a word left his lips. The old man’s calmness wasn’t cold; it carried the quiet authority of someone who’d seen too much to waste breath on reckless talk.

“Second,” Fuku continued, “from what you’ve told me, you need a plan if you want to get this girl back. Charging in guns—” he paused, eyes shifting briefly to the faint scratches still visible on Denji’s arms “—or chainsaws blazing, that won’t end well.”

Denji sat back, eyes drifting down to his half-empty bowl. He didn’t like being told to wait, but something in Fuku’s tone hit him. It wasn’t scolding—it was practical, almost fatherly. He muttered, “Fine… but me and Beam are leaving when we wake up.”

Fuku stood, unfolding his legs with a slow groan. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He turned toward his room, sliding the door open halfway before glancing back. “Eat as much as you want. I’m going to sleep.”

He waved a hand lazily, then closed the door behind him. The faint sound of his footsteps disappeared down the hallway, leaving Denji and Beam alone with the dim light and the quiet hum of the house.

Beam slurped at his bowl, breaking the silence. “The old man is wise, LORD CHAINSAW. Rest before battle.”

Denji leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah… maybe. Doesn’t mean I’ll like it.” Then looking down to his bowl then at the door to the kitchen, "But he did say eat as much as we want," Before he dashed to the kitchen, beam trailing him.
__________________________________________________________
Denji tossed and turned in his futon, the thin blanket half tangled around his legs. His body twitched every few minutes, mouth moving just enough to form broken words. “Reze… wait… I’ll catch up.” The sound was low and hoarse, the voice of someone chasing a dream that wouldn’t slow down.

Outside, the early light spilled gently through the paper screens, painting the room in a soft amber hue. The stillness was broken by a sudden boking and clacking from the porch. Denji stirred, blinking awake to the sight of four new chickens pacing nervously in bamboo cages. Fuku sat nearby, his legs crossed, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. The morning sun pressed against his face, and he looked content, almost peaceful.

Denji rubbed his eyes, groggy but feeling stronger than he had just hours before. He stepped over Beam—who was sprawled out on his back, snoring through his gills—and slid open the door to the porch. The wood felt warm beneath his feet as he joined Fuku, sitting beside him without a word.

The older man didn’t look at him, just kept watching the chickens peck the ground, smoke curling slowly into the air. After a quiet moment, Fuku lifted a knife from the deck and held it out toward Denji, handle first.

Denji stared at it for a second before nodding. He understood.

He rose, stretched his shoulders, and walked toward the cages. The chickens rustled in panic as he crouched, his expression blank. He picked two, quick and clean, making sure the other two were left for Beam. A few minutes later, he returned to the porch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His color was back; the hollow look in his eyes replaced by something focused.

“Are you ready to talk?” Fuku asked.

Denji nodded, swallowing what little taste of blood still lingered.

“Well, good,” Fuku said softly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “’Cause I’m not.”

Denji blinked. “Huh?”

Fuku stood, dusting off his knees. “Come play a game with me.”

“Old man, I don’t really have time for this.”

“Then make some. This is important.”

Denji frowned. “How can a game be important?”

“You’ll see.”

Fuku walked inside, opening a small closet and pulling out an old wooden box. He set it on the table, the faint smell of cedar drifting through the air. Inside was a chessboard, worn from years of use. He unfolded it and began placing the pieces carefully, each one clicking softly against the wood.

He gestured for Denji to sit across from him.

Denji eyed the board, scratching the back of his head. “You, uh… play this often, old man?”

Fuku began setting the pawns in place. “When I need to think. Helps me slow down.”

He gestured at the seat again. “You know how to play?”

Denji slumped down across from him, elbows on his knees. “Yeah… kinda. Aki showed me once. Said it was supposed to make me less of an idiot.”

Fuku raised an eyebrow. “Did it work?”

Denji grinned faintly. “Not really. He got mad ‘cause I kept calling the horse piece ‘the jumpy guy.’”

Fuku chuckled under his breath. “Aki. That your brother?”

Denji shook his head. “Nah. He was… he was like my teammate. My friend, I guess. Kinda serious all the time, but… he was good. Way better at this crap than me. Always thinking five steps ahead. I think he liked that about chess—the control, you know?”

Fuku hummed thoughtfully, setting the last piece down. “Then let’s see what you learned.”

They began.

Denji moved quickly, almost impatiently, charging his pawns forward like soldiers running into open fire. Fuku played slower—eyes calm, hands steady. He barely made a sound as he moved his pieces, each one purposeful. The rhythm between them felt uneven, Denji all bursts of motion and noise while Fuku countered with silence and precision.

Within minutes, Denji’s front lines were in shambles. His knights cornered, his queen trapped.

“Hey, wait—how’d you—”

“Planning,” Fuku interrupted. “You can’t win a battle charging forward without knowing what’s waiting ahead.” He moved his bishop, capturing Denji’s last rook. “Sometimes the smartest move is to wait.”

Denji frowned, slumping back in his seat. “Yeah, well, I don’t got the patience for that.”

“That’s why you lose.”

The game ended fast after that. Fuku checkmated him in quiet efficiency, setting his king neatly to the side.

“Again,” Denji said.

Fuku nodded. “If you insist.”

They reset the board.

This time, Denji tried to mimic Fuku’s patience. He sat still longer, thinking through each move, eyes darting across the grid like he was piecing together a strategy. For a while, it worked. He captured a few of Fuku’s pawns, even managed to put the old man’s queen on edge.

But then—he saw an opening. A perfect shot, or so he thought. His pulse quickened, fingers twitching as he moved his knight straight into danger.

Fuku’s next move was surgical. One motion, and Denji’s advantage crumbled. His king was cornered again, this time worse than before.

“Dammit,” Denji muttered. “You baited me.”

“I didn’t bait you,” Fuku said simply. “You baited yourself. You got excited. You saw a chance and forgot everything else.”

Denji stared at the board, expression caught between frustration and realization.

“That’s your problem,” Fuku continued, his tone calm but not unkind. “You see one move ahead and think that’s enough. You forget the board’s bigger than what’s in front of you. The moment you let your feelings move your hands, you’ve already lost.”

He leaned back, folding his arms. “The difference between survival and death… is knowing when to wait, and when to strike.”

Denji looked down at the chessboard, eyes tracing the pieces that surrounded his fallen king.

For once, he didn’t argue.

Fuku reset the board one last time, the quiet morning broken only by the soft clack of wood on wood. “One more,” he said. “You’ll take white this time.”

Denji smirked. “Guess that means I go first, huh?”

“Mm.” Fuku leaned back, letting him.

Denji opened confidently, his pawns marching forward in neat symmetry. He felt sharper this time—more deliberate. Fuku responded calmly, each move measured but unhurried. He didn’t press. He didn’t resist much either.

The board began to tilt in Denji’s favor. Piece by piece, he picked away at Fuku’s defenses—claiming pawns, a knight, both bishops, and both rooks. Fuku let it happen, expression unchanged, his gaze half lost to the slow sway of the morning air.

Soon, Denji had Fuku’s king cornered. “I think I get it now,” Denji said, a grin stretching across his face. “Planning. Patience. Feels good, you know? Feels like I’m finally learning something.”

“Does it?” Fuku asked quietly.

Denji looked up from the board just in time to see Fuku move his queen. It wasn’t a defensive play. It was bold—reckless even. He sacrificed her, trading her for Denji’s rook and a pawn the queen. Denji leaned forward, puzzled.

Then Fuku’s knight hopped across the board, capturing Denji’s pieces.

“Wait—what the hell—”

A few moves later, it was over. Fuku’s knight sealed the final checkmate, the board once again under his control.

Denji blinked, stunned. “You were losing!”

Fuku smiled faintly, his tone calm as ever. “Was I?”

He began resetting the pieces again. “Even when you’re at a disadvantage,” he said, “you can still turn the tide. A bad position isn’t the same as defeat. What matters is how you see the board… and whether you can convince the other side that you’ve already lost.”

Denji stared at the board, realizing what Fuku meant—not just about chess, but about what was ahead.

Fuku reached under the table, pulling out a slim wooden box. “Now,” he said, setting it down between them. “Let’s play something simpler.”

He flipped the lid open. Inside was a pristine othello set, the black and white discs gleaming in the soft sunlight.

Fuku began setting the board. “This one’s all about balance.”

He looked up, a small, knowing smile forming. “Fitting, don’t you think?”

Fuku quietly set the othello board between them, the gentle click of the plastic pieces breaking the still morning air. Denji leaned forward, eager to grab a piece, but Fuku raised a hand.

“Not yet. This time, you’re just going to watch.”

Denji frowned but sat back, arms crossed.

Fuku began placing the discs carefully, one black, one white. “Othello is simple,” he said. “Each piece has two sides. Black and white. The goal is to have more of your color than your opponent’s by the end.”

He played the opening moves slowly, explaining as he went. “What makes this game interesting is that nothing is permanent. Every piece can change. A single move can flip everything you’ve built.”

The board began to fill, black steadily taking over. The pattern looked absolute, inevitable. Denji watched as Fuku’s hand hovered over the board, calm and deliberate.

“See?” Fuku gestured toward the sea of black discs. “Sometimes it looks hopeless. You could think the game’s over.”

Then he placed one white disc.

It flipped three lines of black in an instant. The sound—small clicks snapping across the board—was oddly sharp in the quiet morning. Fuku’s face didn’t change, but Denji’s eyes widened as white began to spread.

“All it takes is one well-placed disc,” Fuku said softly. “One move to change everything.”

He kept playing, his hand steady and sure. Each piece he set flipped more of the board, black vanishing beneath white until only one remained. Then, with the final move, the board was blanketed—pure white from edge to edge.

Denji sat in silence, staring at it.

Fuku leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. “No position is final,” he said. “Not in games. Not in life. No matter how dark it looks, there’s always one move left.”

He looked over at Denji, his eyes steady but kind. “The trick is seeing it before anyone else does.”

Denji stared at the board—every square gleaming white, not a trace of black left. He felt the weight of it, the quiet message buried in the game.

“I take it this is what you wanted to tell me,” he said.

Fuku gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “And now you are ready.”

Denji didn’t fully understand what “ready” meant, but the words carried something final. He stood and, after a pause, bent forward in a short, awkward bow. It felt strange—foreign, almost heavy—but he did it anyway.

Fuku accepted it with a faint smile. “Go on. You’ve got your own moves to make now.”

Denji turned and went to wake Beam, who was still snoring on the floor beside the two chickens they’d caught earlier. Beam blinked awake, sharp teeth flashing in a grin when he saw the birds.

“Yours,” Denji said simply.

Beam let out a whoop of delight and scooped them up without hesitation. Fuku watched from the doorway as they gathered their things, the morning light spilling across the threshold.

When they stepped outside, the air was cool and clear. Denji glanced back once, meeting Fuku’s calm gaze for the last time before heading down the path. Beam trailed behind, humming through a mouthful of feathers.

Neither spoke for a while. The only sound was the crunch of dirt underfoot. Then Denji muttered, mostly to himself, “Guess it’s my turn to make a move.”

Chapter Text

Beam and Denji stood on the platform as the train pulled into Higashi-Yamoto station, the duo recieving a few inquisitive stares. Denji holding the guitar from the pet store in his hand and a book chord book in the other.

The train slowed to a crawl and stoped, doors hissing open, the pair bording before any else had a chance, finding seats near the bathroom. A few minutes passed and the train began its journey towards Tokyo

It rattled along the tracks, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Denji slouched into his seat, the faint smell of oil and metal wafting through the cabin. He looked focused, fingers running over the cheap guitar’s frets as the city lights blurred by outside. Beam sat beside him, eyes darting around at the crowded car, every sense alert even though he looked like a man who’d barely survived the night before.

Denji cracked open the beginner’s chord book and squinted at the diagrams. “A major, huh?” he muttered before strumming hard, the rough sound bursting through the train car like someone tearing a can open.

Heads turned. Passengers groaned and covered their ears. The clanging chords echoed off the metal walls, way too loud for the enclosed space.

Beam tilted his head, speaking over the din. “Lord Chainsaw, what are you doing?!”

Denji grinned, not pausing the sloppy strumming. “Playin’ music. Same reason people talk, Beam—tryin’ to say somethin’ without gettin’ heard!”

Beam leaned in closer, straining to hear him through the racket. The guitar squealed as Denji slid into another clumsy chord. To anyone looking, it just seemed like a noisy idiot trying to show off—no one could hear a word.

Beam’s fin twitched nervously. “You mean—this is the plan?”

Denji nodded slightly, still pretending to read from the chord sheet. “Makima’s got ears everywhere, right? Well, she can’t listen in if all she gets is my terrible guitar solo.”

Beam gave a half-snort, half-laugh. “You’re insane, Lord Chainsaw.”

“Yeah,” Denji said, lowering his voice just enough for Beam to hear under the twang of the strings. “But she’s worse. So we gotta be smarter. We’re gonna start with Aki and Power.”

The train hit a curve, lights flickering again as Denji leaned back, plucking another loud, jarring note that drew more groans from the passengers. He kept playing, acting oblivious, while his real words vanished under the noise.
__________________________________________________________
Makima’s office was silent except for the faint hum of the city below. The morning light bled softly through the blinds, painting the Division 4 members in narrow bands of gold and shadow. They stood in a line before her—Aki straight-backed, Power already fidgeting, Kobeni wringing her hands, Galgali breathing slow and deep, Angel bored as ever, and Kishibe, unreadable as always.

Makima stood behind her desk, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her voice was calm, too calm. “Denji and Beam are on their way back to Tokyo.”

A tension snapped through the room. Power’s ears perked up. Aki’s jaw tightened. Makima continued, tone even and composed. “They are not to be killed. I want them apprehended alive.”

Power scoffed, crossing her arms. “Alive? That smells of trouble!”

Makima didn’t even glance at her. “Power. You’ll be with Aki at Shinjuku Station. It’s likely they’ll enter the city through there.”

Aki gave a short nod. “Understood.”

Makima’s gaze swept toward Kobeni and Galgali. “You two will cover the southern approach. Stay mobile and report any sightings immediately.”

Kobeni stiffened, eyes wide. “M-me? With him?”

Galgali tilted his head, his muffled voice calm through his helmet. “I’ll protect her.”

Makima smiled faintly. “Good.”

Then she turned to Angel. “You’ll cover the rooftops along the Marunouchi Line. If they try to avoid the stations, they’ll have to pass through there.”

Angel sighed, stretching his wings lazily. “You do realize I can only move so fast, right?”

Makima stepped past him, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor. “You move fast enough when you want to, Angel.”

Kishibe remained leaning against the wall, arms crossed, cigarette unlit between his lips. He didn’t ask for an assignment. He already knew.

Makima paused by the door, her expression serene. “This is not a mission to question. I expect results.”

No one answered, but that was fine. She didn’t need them to. They dispersed one by one, boots and heels echoing down the hallway until she was alone.

Makima turned toward the elevator, her reflection faint in the polished steel doors. As the doors slid open, she pressed the button for a lower, restricted floor. The ride down was silent except for the mechanical hum of descent.

When the doors opened again, the light changed—cold, sterile, fluorescent. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron.

Makima stepped out, her heels clicking softly against the tile, her gaze focused on the heavy metal door at the end of the corridor.

Behind it was a single, reinforced room.

Reze’s room.

Makima stopped in front of it, resting her hand briefly on the handle, her eyes distant. Then she smiled faintly, almost tenderly.

“Good morning, Reze.”

The door unlocked with a soft hiss.
Makima stepped into the room, her presence swallowing the sterile quiet. Reze sat against the far wall, legs pulled close, her eyes dull but alert.

Makima didn’t bother to approach. “He’s coming back,” she said simply.

Reze’s head snapped up. “...Denji?”

Makima’s faint smile returned. “Yes. He’s on his way to Tokyo right now.” She turned slightly, her tone light, almost casual. “You should be happy. It means he still cares enough to chase after you.”

Reze’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat felt tight.

Makima took one slow step toward the door, not looking back. “Try not to get your hopes up too high. Its like i said he'll comes back to me in the end.”

The door sealed behind her with a muted click, leaving Reze alone once more.

The skylight above glowed pale with morning light. She tilted her head back toward it, the faint warmth pressing against her face. For a long moment, she just stared—expression unreadable, hands trembling faintly in her lap—as a single tear slid down her cheek, lost in the silence.
__________________________________________________________

The air in Shinjuku Station was thick with the sound of screeching brakes and the rush of bodies. Aki stood near the edge of the platform, coat collar flipped down, eyes scanning the arriving train as Power leaned against a pillar beside him, munching on a bag of chips.

“Oi, Aki,” she said through a mouthful. “Why do I have to come with you? Wouldn’t you rather have that nervous girl? She’s easier to boss around.”

Aki didn’t look at her. “Because you’re loud enough to flush him out if he’s here. And Makima paired us together”

Power grinned, taking that as a compliment. “Aha! Of course! My brilliance terrifies devils and men alike!”

Aki sighed, loosening his sword’s strap as the train came to a stop. “Just stay focused. If Denji’s really coming back, he’s probably not going to be were rational about it.”

The train came to a stop doors slid open with a hiss. Aki raised a hand, motioning Power to wait. They let the passengers spill out—a few office worker, a mother and child, a couple of students. No Denji. No Beam.

When the last person stepped off, Power grew impatient. “He’s not here. Let’s just get on and make them all kneel!”

Ignoring her, Aki stepped inside first. The car was nearly empty, just the hum of the overhead lights and a faint, tinny sound. Power tilted her head, spotting it before he did—a guitar propped against one of the seats.

“What’s this?!” She strummed it once, the sound warping hideously off-key. “Guitar! Belongs to me now!”

Aki’s focus was elsewhere. He walked toward the bathroom at the end of the car, something gnawing at his instincts. He pushed the door open.

Inside, the light flickered. The floor was wet. Then he saw it—a jagged hole torn through the paneling, leading straight beneath the train.

He crouched down, touching the warped metal edge. Still warm.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Power leaned into the doorway, holding the guitar. “What? Did the fool flush himself?”

Aki stood, grabbing the sheath of his sword. “He got off mid-ride. He’s somewhere under the tracks now.”

Power blinked. “Under the train?!” Then her grin widened. “Hah! Reckless idiot. I like it.”

Aki exhaled slowly, already moving toward the emergency exit. “Come on. We’ll lose him if we don’t move now.”

Power hoisted the guitar like a weapon. “Then I’ll bash him with this instrument when we find him!”

Aki didn’t respond. His mind was already two steps ahead—Denji wasn’t running blindly. He was playing them.

Not wanting to waste a second that may be crucial, Aki jumped through the hole, power sighing and following along, crawling from under the train onto the open tracks.

The screech of metal and frantic shouts from civilians and station attendants fading behind them. Whistles pierced the air, orders barked at them to get off the tracks, but Aki didn’t break stride. He flashed his Public Safety Bureau ID at anyone who dared step in his path, eyes locked on the faint trace of movement ahead.

Power stomped beside him, fuming. “This is stupid! We’re running on actual train tracks! How is this supposed to help?!”

“Focus,” Aki said, voice clipped. “He’s ahead. Don’t lose him.”

Power huffed, swinging the guitar lazily in her hand as if it could do all the work. “Ugh, whatever. Just don’t die, got it?”

Footsteps echoed first, then a glint of light—Denji’s messy hair flashed past them. Aki drew his sword instinctively; Power raised the guitar like a club.

Denji didn’t stop as there footsteps drew closer. Beam bore him onward, muscles tensing with each stride. They took a sharp turn into a crumbling, abandoned subway tunnel.

Aki and Power followed cautiously, the sound of their own breathing loud in the tight, dusty space. The tunnel widened gradually, opening into a massive hall, faint light streaking through cracked skylights above. Rusted, retired train carts sat scattered like tombstones in the cavernous space.

“This has to be it,” Aki muttered, surveying the area.

Power spun the guitar in her hands. “Looks like our little running boy has cornered himself. About time we catch him!”

The air was thick with dust and silence, only the faint echoes of their footsteps bouncing off the walls. Denji and Beam had to be here somewhere—they had nowhere else to go.

Aki crouched slightly, scanning the hall, sword poised. Power grinned, letting the guitar hang from one hand as she readied herself for whatever Denji had in store.

Denji and Beam darted between the rusted train cars, the cavernous abandoned hall echoing every footstep. Beam’s massive form barreled toward Aki, forcing the sword-wielder back with powerful swipes that kept him off balance. Denji used the distraction to dart closer to Power, weaving around the debris, keeping his voice loud enough to reach her over the echoing cavern.

“Power!” Denji shouted, dodging a wild swing of her guitar. “Stop! I’m not here to fight you!”

Power’s eyes narrowed, her smirk wavering slightly. “Then why are you running? And why’s your little friend throwing the annoying one around like a toy?”

“He’s helping! I’m serious, I need you to listen,” Denji panted, rolling behind a train car for cover and peeking out. “Makima—she’s got everyone under her thumb. You don’t have to do what she says!”

Beam swung again at Aki, forcing him to retreat toward the far end of the hall. Denji ran alongside Power, keeping a careful distance from her swings. “Look! You’re strong! Smarter than her! You can fight for yourself! Not because she told you to, not because she’s your boss!”

Power paused mid-step, glancing at Aki struggling to regain his footing against Beam. Denji pressed on, urgency in his voice. “Think about it! You’ve got brains! You’ve got instincts! You could actually make a difference, do something real! You and I—we could actually fight back!”

She hesitated, the guitar lowering slightly. “You really think I’d turn on her… because of you?”

Denji nodded frantically, chest heaving, eyes wide. “Yeah! I don’t have all the answers, I’m not smart like Aki or clever like you, but I know it’s wrong! Help me! Help me save Reze, not because i said so or because Makima says not too, but because it’s the right thing to do!”

Beam let out a low growl and slammed the ground beside Aki, giving Denji a moment to step closer, right into Power’s line of sight.

She stared at him, studying his determination, the reckless honesty in his eyes. Finally, she gave a crooked grin and spun the guitar lazily. “You’re crazy… but maybe you’ve got a point. Fine, Chainsaw Boy. I’ll bite. For now.”

Denji’s chest swelled, relief washing over him. “Yes! That’s all I needed! Beam! Remember he's on our side! Don't Rough him up to badly.”

Beam roared and gave a victorious slam on a nearby train car, the sound echoing through the abandoned hall. Aki, finally free from Beam’s distraction, limped closer, eyeing Denji and Power, a frown forming as he processed what had just happened.

Denji glanced at Aki, grin wide but cautious. “See? It’s not impossible. You’re next.”

Power smirked, stepping beside him. “Good. Lead the way, Chainsaw Boy.”

Beam nudged Denji forward, the three of them moved in sync, a small but growing force against the world that had tried to control them.

Aki stopped dead in his tracks, sword half-raised, breathing heavy. His eyes flicked between Denji and Power, between the chaotic thuds of Beam’s paws against the concrete floor. For the first time in a long while, he hesitated.

Denji ran a few steps forward, holding his hands up. “Aki! Wait! I’m not gonna fight you, I swear! I just… I need you to listen!”

Power leaned on her guitar, grinning, but her eyes were serious. “Yeah, Aki. This isn’t a fight you want to pick. Trust me.”

Beam growled low, positioning himself to make sure Aki couldn’t flank Denji. The sheer presence of the massive dog kept the tension tight.

Denji took a shaky breath. “Look, I get it. You’re loyal, right? You do what Makima says… but that’s the problem! She controls everything, everyone! She’s… she’s dangerous, Aki! I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. And I won’t just stand by!”

Aki’s jaw tightened, his eyes scanning Denji’s face, reading the raw honesty in the kid’s expression.

“Think about it,” Denji continued, stepping closer, his voice rising with desperation. “She doesn’t care about you. She doesn’t care about anyone. She’s got people, powers, contracts, everything lined up to bend everyone to her will—including you. But you don’t have to be one of them. You can choose, Aki. You can fight back!”

Power strummed her guitar lightly, letting the low vibrations hum through the concrete hall. “Denji’s right. You’re stronger than her, smarter than her. She’s playing everyone like pawns.”

Beam nudged Denji gently, growling, as if to reinforce the point: you’re not alone.

Aki’s eyes softened slightly, and he lowered his sword, though he didn’t put it down entirely. “You really think… I can just… turn on her?”

Denji’s grin widened, though edged with urgency. “Not just think. You can. And I need you to. We’ve got a chance to take her down, but not without you. I can’t do it alone, Beam can’t do it alone, and Power’s not enough by herself. You matter, Aki!”

Power stepped up beside Denji. “If she’s your boss, fine. But bosses don’t matter when your friends are at stake. Come on, Aki. We’ve got your back.”

Beam barked low, circling slightly, ready to intervene if needed.

Aki hesitated for a moment longer, then slowly sheathed his sword, exhaling. “Alright… I’ll hear you out. But this better not be another one of your schemes.”

Denji let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “No schemes. I promise. I just… I need you. We’re going to get Reze back, and we can finally fight her on our terms. Together.”

Power nudged Denji with her shoulder. Beam growled once more in agreement, before reverting back to his non shark form

The four amigos now standing together, a small but defiant force ready to move forward.

Aki’s gaze hardened, determination creeping into his expression. “Fine. Explain your plan. I’m listening.”

Denji grinned, feeling a spark of hope. “Alright… here’s how we’re gonna do this.”
__________________________________________________________

Kobeni and Galgali had been roaming the streets for hours with no sign of Denji or Beam. The bright morning sun had faded behind a wall of dull clouds, turning the city into a flat gray haze. It was around noon, and neither of them had eaten since dawn. The silence between them was broken only by the growling of empty stomachs.

They drifted toward a small sushi bar tucked between two narrow buildings, hoping to grab a quick bite before continuing the search. Just their luck—or maybe bad luck—there he was. Denji sat at the counter, halfway through a mountain of cheap sushi, eating like he hadn’t seen food in weeks.

Kobeni’s breath hitched. She leaned close to Galgali, whispering, “We should report this.”

Galgali’s fists clenched, eyes locked on Denji. “We can take him. We’ll report it after.”

Before she could argue, he broke into a sprint. Denji looked over his shoulder mid-bite, eyes widening as he saw them closing in. He bolted, chopsticks still in hand, tearing through the door and down a side alley.

They chased him through the maze of narrow streets—zigzagging past vending machines, skipping puddles, turning hard at every corner. Denji grabbed whatever he could find along the way—crates, trash bags, even a stray bucket—and threw them behind him to slow Galgali down.

“Persistent bastard!” Galgali barked, swatting debris aside.

Denji rounded a final corner and shoved his way into an old apartment building, slamming the door shut behind him.

By the time Galgali caught up, the doorway was littered with garbage. He kicked it aside and yanked the door open. Two staircases stretched before him—one leading left, the other right.

“You take the left, I’ll take the right,” Galgali ordered without looking back. “Yell if you find him.”

He waited for a response. None came.

“…Kobeni?”

Silence.

He turned his head. The space where she’d been standing was empty.

Galgali sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Man… guess I’ll have to find her later.”

He tightened his fists and started up the right staircase, his heavy steps echoing through the hollow building.

Galgali’s boots sank into the thin layer of carpet as he climbed the right-hand stairs. The place didn’t feel abandoned—not exactly. It felt sanitized. Too clean. The air was stale, filtered. No dust. No smell of rot or mildew. Just… nothing.

Each door he opened revealed the same scene: bare walls, polished floors, not even a chair or a hint of life. No Denji. No animals. No people. Not even a single spider web.

He muttered under his breath, “What is this place?”

At the end of the hall, an elevator waited. The brushed steel doors gleamed under the fluorescent lights, humming faintly. Galgali frowned. “Not freaky at all,” he said flatly, stepping inside.

He hit the button for the next floor. The elevator lurched upward. When it stopped, the doors slid open—and Denji was standing right there.

Galgali didn’t hesitate. He dropped from the ceiling with an overhead axe kick that split the elevator floor in half. Denji barely rolled out of the way, hitting the ground hard and scrambling to his feet.

“Hey, hold on, man! We can talk about this!” Denji said, hands raised.

“Talk?” Galgali’s voice came out deep and muffled through his mask. “You’re a traitor. You don’t get to talk.”

Denji sidestepped another punch that cratered the concrete wall behind him. Dust filled the air.

“Okay, yeah, technically that’s fair—but listen, I ain’t doing this ‘cause I want to fight you!” Denji said, ducking another swing.

“Then stop running!”

“I’d stop if you stopped trying to kill me!”

Galgali lunged, his fist driving straight through a steel beam. Denji barely managed to dive to the side. “Damn, man! You hit like a train! You always like this, or is this a special occasion?”

“I’m doing my job,” Galgali growled, cracking his knuckles.

“Your job’s working for Makima, right?” Denji’s tone shifted, the usual edge of panic softening. “Then you gotta know what she really is.”

That pause—half a second—was all Denji needed to push further.

“C’mon, man, think about it. Ain’t it weird? Nobody ever questions her. Nobody ever says no. Everyone just smiles and follows orders like we’re on strings.”

Galgali charged again, the floor splintering under his step. Denji dodged left, the punch barely missing his cheek.

“She made us fight. She made us kill. You really think that’s for the greater good?” Denji kept moving, circling him.

Another strike, another miss. The violence fiend’s breathing was heavier now, anger and confusion mixing in the rhythm of his attacks.

“Makima says she’s protecting humanity,” Galgali snarled. “She’s kept order.”

“Yeah, by stepping on everyone else! By treating us like tools! Don’t you ever wonder what happens when she’s done with us? You think you’ll be free after all this?”

That one hit something. Galgali hesitated mid-stride, his eyes narrowing behind the mask.

Denji kept pressing. “Look, I’m not saying I’ve got some big master plan. I just want to stop her. I want to stop being her dog. You, me, Beam, Aki, Power—we can do that. Together.”

Silence stretched for a moment. Galgali’s arms lowered slightly, his chest rising and falling with deep, slow breaths.

Then he exhaled, shaking his head. “You talk too much, kid.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been told that before,” Denji said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Galgali turned, walking toward the elevator. “If what you’re saying is true… then we’ll need to make it look like I lost. Hit me once—make it convincing.”

Denji blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Do it before I change my mind.”

Denji grinned. “Man, you’re a real bro under all that scary muscle.”

He gave him a quick jab to the gut—not enough to hurt, but enough to sell it. Galgali dropped to one knee with a grunt.

Denji leaned down and whispered, “Welcome to the team.”

Galgali muttered, “Just don’t make me regret it.”

Denji kept his distance, panting between words. “I’m serious, man! We’re all just being used! Makima doesn’t care about any of us—she’ll toss you aside the second you stop being useful!”

Galgali stomped forward, each step cracking the floor. “You talk a lot for someone running for his life.”

“Yeah, well,” Denji said, ducking another swing, “I got a lot to live for now!”

The Violence Fiend lunged again, but his punch stopped an inch from Denji’s face. The air between them rippled from the force. Denji blinked, cross-eyed at the trembling fist.

Then Galgali chuckled. “Guess I’m in. Don’t make me regret it.”

Denji grinned wide, more out of relief than pride. “No promises, dude.”

Galgali pulled back his fist, laughing low. “Figures.”

Denji and Galgali sat side by side on the floor of the wrecked hallway, chunks of plaster and splintered wood scattered around them. The walls were cratered from Galgali’s earlier outburst, and a faint trail of dust still hung in the air.

Denji leaned back against the wall, chewing on a stick of gum he’d found in his pocket. “Man, you hit hard for a dude in a tie,” he muttered.

Galgali crossed his arms, glaring ahead. “You’re lucky I held back.”

Denji smirked. “Yeah, yeah. You’re basically the nicest murderer I know.”

The faint hum of machinery interrupted their banter. The elevator at the end of the hall dinged, beginning its slow ascent. Galgali immediately tensed, standing up and cracking his knuckles. “They’re coming.”

Denji didn’t even move. “Relax. If it was Makima, we’d already be dead.”

The doors slid open, and out stepped Aki and Kobeni. Galgali blinked, lowering his fists. “Huh. Guess I don’t need to find her anymore.”

Kobeni avoided his eyes, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, while Aki stepped forward, calm as ever.

Denji raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m guessing she’s on board?”

Aki nodded once. “Yeah. Told her Makima’s got eyes everywhere, and if she stays with Division 4, she’ll die terrified and meaningless. Figured she’d rather live terrified and free.”

Kobeni let out a shaky laugh. “It… it did sound better when he said it the first time.”

Denji grinned, clapping his hands together. “Alright! That’s two more down.” He looked around the ruined corridor, expression turning curious.

“So… where’s Angel?”
__________________________________________________________

Angel sat on the edge of the skyscraper roof, legs dangling over a hundred stories of rain-slick glass and steel. The drizzle had thickened into a steady downpour, soaking through his uniform, but he didn’t bother moving. The sky was gray, the city blurred beneath it, and for once, it was quiet enough for him to think.

“You know I’m supposed to turn you in, right?” Angel said, not looking back. He could feel Denji’s presence before he spoke—the faint scrape of wet sneakers on the roof, the smell of cheap shampoo mixed with rust and rain.

Denji plopped down beside him, letting his legs hang off the edge too. “Yeah, figured. You don’t look like the ‘surprise attack’ type anyway.”

Angel exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “I don’t like wasting effort.”

“Same,” Denji said, stretching his arms behind his head. “That’s why I’m not fighting you. I just came to talk.”

Angel finally turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Talk about what? Makima? You’ll lose.”

Denji shrugged. “Maybe. But I’d rather lose free than win for her.”

Angel watched the rain roll down his sleeve. “You think freedom’s worth dying for?”

“Yeah,” Denji said simply. “’Cause at least it’s mine. I get to pick how I screw up, who I hang out with, what I eat. Makima takes that, she might as well just pull my plug herself.”

Angel frowned. “You think she hasn’t already taken it? Everything about you is something she made. You just haven’t seen all of it yet.”

Denji was quiet for a moment, the sound of the rain filling the silence. Then he looked up at the sky. “Maybe. But I’m still here, talking to you. That means I got some piece she didn’t get her hands on. And I’m gonna keep it. You should too.”

Angel tilted his head. “You think I have something left worth keeping?”

“Yeah,” Denji said, turning to look at him. “You hate her, right? That’s something. People who don’t got anything left—they don’t hate anymore. You still care enough to be pissed.”

For a long moment, Angel said nothing. The rain hit the rooftop harder, bouncing off his halo in tiny flashes of white. Finally, he sighed, closing his eyes.

“You’re an idiot,” he said.

Denji grinned. “Yeah, but I’m an idiot who’s not kneeling.”

Angel stood, letting the rain wash over him, and gave Denji a sideways glance. “Fine. I’ll listen. But if this gets us killed—”

“Then we die free,” Denji finished for him, pushing himself up with a grin.

Angel shook his head. “You really are hopeless.”

Denji smirked. “Maybe. But at least I ain’t hers anymore.”

Chapter Text

The bar was old—older than most of its patrons, maybe even older than its bartender. The wood was blackened with age and polish, the counter worn in multiple spots the exact same size as the glasses, the lights were a muted amber glow that barely reached the corners, and the air carried a thick, layered scent of cigarette smoke, whiskey, and rainwater tracked in from outside. Somewhere, an old record player croaked out a jazz tune under the drone of idle talk and the soft clinking of glass.

Kishibe sat in his usual bar stool, two seats away from the end ofthe counter, right in front of where the bartender shined his glasses. Shoulders slouched but eyes awake, watching the ice sphere in his glass melt into something weaker. His coat hung on the hook under the bar beneath him, still dripping from the weather, his cigarettes lined up neatly beside the ashtray. He didn’t need to look up when the door creaked open—he already knew who had come in.

Denji stood there, shaking the rain from his hair, scanning the bar before locking onto Kishibe. He walked over, his steps loud on the warped floorboards, and slid onto the seat beside him.

Kishibe exhaled through his nose, an exhausted tone “You’re a bold idiot for walking in here,” eyes never leaving the glass.

Denji shrugged, leaning forward on his elbows. “I figured you’d say that. You already know what I’m trying to do.”

“Yeah.” Kishibe’s sip was slow, deliberate. “Commit suicide with extra steps.”

“You used to go after her too. Before she broke everyone that tried.”

Kishibe’s gaze cut up to him, cold and precise. “I learned faster than most. You don’t fight her. You live long enough to understand what she wants, then stay the hell out of her way.”

“Then why keep working for her?”

“Because someone has to. The rest of those suits are either blind, scared, or too damn stupid.”

“You really think that makes you any better?”

“Never said it did. It just means I know my place in the mess.”

Denji’s voice hardened. “You took Reze. You handed her over.”

Kishibe set his glass down with a soft clink. “I did my job.”

“Tehn why didn't you take me?”

“I thought i was giving you a chance but you're to stubborn to take a hint and quit while your ahead.”

“Thinking doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Denji leaned in, eyes burning. “You could help me. Make it right.”

Kishibe’s laugh was almost a rasp. “Right? Kid, there’s no ‘right’ left. Just what’s left standing.”

“I’m not letting her pull the strings anymore.”

Kishibe watched him for a long moment, then finished the whiskey in a single, steady swallow. He set the empty glass down and looked Denji straight in the face. “Then you better start running.”

“You’re letting me go?”

“I didn’t say that. You get the time it takes me to finish this glass. After that, I’m coming for you.”

Denji’s jaw worked. “You’re really gonna chase me?”

“Someone has to make sure you die clean.”

“You’re a real piece of work, old man.”

“Takes one to notice. Now move.”

Denji stood, the rain at the doorway like a cold hand. Kishibe watched him slip back into the night, reaching over the counter to pick up the whiskey bottle, pouring himself a glass—slow, precise—already measuring out the seconds Denji had bought.

Kishibe hesitated with the glass halfway to his lips, the amber light catching the ice and throwing fractured patterns across his fingers. For a heartbeat—longer than he intended—he let himself picture a different choice. A slow, private revolt. He could do it. He could break the leash. But where that get him.

Then he swallowed the whiskey down in one measured pull and set the glass back on the bar. He dropped a few loose coins on the counter, fingers steady, picked up his coat, and moved for the door.

Outside, rain hammered the street. He shrugged the coat on, collar up, and stepped into the downpour. Thirty seconds, thirty seconds is how long of a head start Kishibe gave him. He thought, and started walking. No puzzling over Denji’s path required; the kid was going to chose place that made sense if he had the balls to confront him—abandoned, messy, with enough room for chaos and no bodies in the way.

Kishibe’s boots sloshed through puddles as he cut across blocks toward the harbour. The warehouses rose up, hulking and black against the rain, busted skylights leaking vertical ribbons of water into the interiors. He pushed open the warped door of the same warehouse where Reze had fought Makima and ducked inside.

Denji was already there, standing beneath one of the jagged skylight holes. Rain threaded through and speckled his hair, running in thin tracks down his face. The water pooled at his feet and hissed where it met rusted iron. He looked at Kishibe without moving, like someone who’d stopped pretending to be surprised by anything.

“How'd you know I’d be here,” Denji said, not quite a question.

Kishibe let the question bounce off him. “Why do you think?”

Denji blinked, then shrugged and spoke quickly, like he was lining up reasons he’d rehearsed. “Because I needed to isolate you. This place is abandoned — out of Makima’s view and mind. Because it’s where Reze fought Makima, so it'd be fitting that I’d come here for her. Because I’ve got Beam with me and the water and the space—works to our advantage. And finally, neither one of us wants to hurt civilians.”

Kishibe listened, expression flat, rain dripping from the brim of his coat. For a short moment a small, dry sound—almost like approval—escaped him.

“Full points,” he said, voice low and cold. Then, with the thread of something like a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, he added, “Plus bonus for the civilians. I wasn’t concerned with them.”

Rain poured through the fractured ceiling in long silver threads, each droplet hitting the concrete with a faint, rhythmic tap. Denji’s smirk cut through the tension. “There’s just one thing you didn’t account for.”

Kishibe tilted his head, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his tired features. “What’s that?”

From the shadows behind Denji, two figures emerged—Power strutting forward with her usual manic grin, Aki close behind, sword drawn and steady.

Kishibe’s expression flattened. “I understand Power,” he said, his tone sharp and dismissive, “but you, Aki—I didn’t think you were that foolish.”

Aki met his stare, unflinching. “I’ve made enough mistakes serving her. Not making another one.”

The old devil hunter sighed, shaking his head as he reached into his coat pocket. “You think you’ve got it figured out, kid? You don’t even know what she really is.”

Aki’s grip tightened on his sword. Power snorted. “Blah, blah, old man talk! Let’s just bash him already!”

Denji cut in, his smirk returning. “This is your last chance, man. You join us, or we take you down.”

Kishibe took a slow swig from his flask, then let the burn sit in his throat for a moment before exhaling through his nose. He dropped the coat to the floor, the sound of fabric hitting wet concrete echoing through the warehouse.

Aki raised his blade. Power cracked her knuckles. Denji’s chains rattled faintly beneath his skin. Beam emerged from the dark pools along the floor, crouched low and snarling.

The rain seemed to pause between beats.

Four against one.

Kishibe smiled—a weary, wolfish smile that carried no fear.

“Come on then,” he said.

The warehouse went still, the air tightening before the storm broke.

Chapter Text

Kishibe discarded the empty flask, flinging it off to the side and the instant it hit the ground, the sound of metal on concrete was drowned out by rush and rustle of movement

Denji, Aki, Power, and Beam launched from their positions like a spring finally released. Beam dove straight into the wet floor, body melting into the shallow puddles. Power summoned her crimson blood hammer with a screech that echoed across the warehouse. Denji charged in fists first, still human—saving his chainsaws for Makima. Aki took the lead, sword drawn, the future devil’s vision flashing in his mind, giving him a narrow glimpse ahead, just mere seconds.

It wasn’t enough.

Kishibe moved fluid, like somebody who trained his entire life for situations like this. It was more than just training, it was more than instincts.

Aki slashed diagonally upward aiming for vitals, missing, then returning with a down slash, which was deflected. His swings rapid and furious, aiming at any part of Kishibe’s body that he could. Every swing made was turned aside, redirected, or punished by a counter that would have gutted him if he hadn’t known it was coming.

Power dropped from above, hammer raised, yelling her own name like a battle cry “POWER!” Kishibe barely looked up—he shoved his right palm into Aki’s chest, pushing him back just far enough to pivot on his heel and slip past Power’s wild hammer strike. His hand shot up, catching her midair by the back of her blue jacket and he used her momentum to flip her directly into Beam, who had just erupted from the floor behind him.

The two tumbled into a heap of broken crates, concrete debris and twisted metal.

Denji, closing the distance, one fist raised above his head suddenly dropping to his side, he felt a burning sensation in his shoulder, accompanied by a sharp pain that tore through the left side of his body. He looked down to see the hilt of a knife lodged deep, blood soaking through his shirt. He staggered, eyes flaring, slowing denji but not stopping him. Kishibe’s focus leaving him as he was already moving again, not giving them a second to breathe.

Aki, slightly winded regained his footing, took a sharp inhale sheathing his sword and barked over the noise, “Power! Swords!”

She groaned, rubbing her head. “Tch—fine, stupid humans always needing my blood!” She slashed her wrist, forming blades of hardened crimson, and hurled them through the air towards him.

Aki caught both mid-step, twin blades flashing under the flickering lights of the sudden spurts of lightning. Kishibe met him head-on, drawing his own knives behind his waistband. Metal clashed against metal, sparks bursting in the humid air as the two wove around puddles and debris, each movement faster than the next. Swords locked by Kishibe's daggers, aki gritting. He broke the deadlock, right arm slashing down at Kishibe's knee. Blocked. Left arm raised above his head bring it down. Blocked. The stalemate maintained as the others rose back to their feet.

Power and Beam rejoined the fray like a storm that refused to die. Beam erupted from the ground behind Kishibe, fangs bared and water trailing off his body like mist. Power came in from the right, hammer drawn, screaming as she swung. Aki pressed from the front, blood swords slashing maintaining the majority of Kishibe's Attention.

He moved through it all like water. Every attack missed him by inches—every strike redirected by the twist of a wrist, the pivot of a foot. Beam lunged low, jaws wide, and Kishibe’s knee snapped back and up, catching him under the snout before he could bite down. Without missing a single beat, Kishibe pivoted on that same leg, his balance unbroken, and kicked Beam to the side while parrying Aki’s blades with the opposite hand.

Aki’s grip tightened. He swung again, forcing Kishibe to shift back, timing his strike with Power’s approach. Her hammer came down with a swoosh, scraping across Kishibe’s thigh, the blood splattering against the wet concrete. It wasn’t deep, but it landed.

Aki saw the opening, feinting left before twisting his wrist and driving his saber toward Kishibe’s chest. Kishibe caught the blade between his knives, turning it aside, but not fast enough—Aki’s left sword sliced across his knuckles, drawing a thin, sharp line of red.

Kishibe looked down at his hand. A single drop of blood slid down to his wrist before he smiled, faint and almost nostalgic.

“Not bad,” he muttered.

Aki took a defensive stance again, breathing hard. Power grinned wide, already pulling more blood from her wounds to reform her hammer. Beam rose, cracked jaw resetting with a sharp pop.

Kishibe twirled his knives once, stance lowering, eyes colder now. “Alright then,” he said quietly. “Let’s make this a real fight.”

Kishibe’s eyes flicked once—calculating, calm—and he let one of Aki’s oncoming slashes slip past his guard. The blood sword hissed through the air, and Kishibe dropped the dagger in his right hand, catching the blade itself with his bare palm. Metal bit into flesh, slicing deep, but he didn’t even flinch. He twisted his wrist sharply, redirecting the sword’s path and dragging Aki’s arm with it, forcing the weapon backward toward Beam, who had surged up behind him with his jaws wide open.

The motion yanked Aki forward, his shoulder grinding painfully as Kishibe pivoted on his heel. In one fluid movement, Kishibe slid his left arm under his right, twisting his whole torso with brutal efficiency. The knife in his free hand flashed low and fast, burying itself in Power’s thigh just as she charged in. The impact made her scream—a guttural, furious sound—as she stumbled back, clutching at her bleeding leg.

Kishibe didn’t let the momentum die. He followed through by snapping his leg up and driving his boot into Power’s midsection, crushing her against the sheet metal and stone wall. The concrete splintered from the force, chunks of debris raining down as her blood mixed with the wet dust at her feet.

Beam howled, vanishing into the flooded grounds beneath them, the water rippling violently. For a moment there was silence—then the surface exploded as he erupted upward, fangs bared, aiming straight for Kishibe’s balls. Kishibe reacted instantly. His eyes narrowed, and his muscles coiled tight before he sprang, planting one hand on Beam’s snout and launching himself up and forward. The force of the kick to Beam’s head sent a splash of water arcing outward as Kishibe flipped forward midair clearing Aki, turning his torso, Kishibe's hand still firmly gripping Aki's left arm.

The twist mid-flip torqued Aki’s shoulder with a sickening pop. The joint dislocated cleanly, drawing a sharp, agonized cry from him. Before he could recover, Kishibe’s boot found the center of his back. The impact came with the full weight of his fall, dense, brutal, heavy, forcing a sharp exhale from him . Aki hit the wet ground face-first, the sound dull and heavy, the breath ripped from his lungs as the world spun in his vision.

Power groaned from the wall, dragging herself up by her hammer handle, her leg trembling under her own weight. Beam shook the water off his body, teeth bared but jaw crooked from the earlier kick. Kishibe stood between them all, one knife still in hand, blood dripping from the other. His breathing was steady—measured—not from fatigue but from control.

He rolled his shoulder once, then cracked his neck. Kishibe wasted no time, refusing to let them regain their footing. He drove his shoulder into Beam with crushing force, slamming the shark fiend into the flooded ground. The impact echoed through the broken warehouse, water and grit splashing high as Beam’s form cracked against the ground. Before the ripples even settled, Kishibe was already moving—low, fast, cutting through the rain toward Power.

Denji’s eyes widened as he watched his team stumble, reel, being dismantled, desperation twisting his face. He whistled, sharp and shrill, a sound that pierced through the storm. Kishibe heard it, knew something was coming, but didn’t slow. His blade angled forward, ready to skewer Power where she stood.

Then the light vanished. A shadow swept over him, blotting out the moon, the lightning, even the embrace of the rain's droplets. A single shape descended—a leg, wrapped in momentum and raw force. The kick came down like a guillotine. Kishibe barely had time to raise his arms, his muscles tensing as bone met bone. The shock traveled through his frame, boots grinding through the slick rubble as he stumbled back.

The shadow landed with a heavy thud—Galgali, his form towering and burning with restrained rage. He stood between Power and Kishibe, a barrier of sheer will. To his left, Angel dropped from above, wings dragging through the rain; to his right, Kobeni slid into place, her movements sharp despite the trembling ground.

Kishibe exhaled through his nose, tightening his grip on the knife, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Seven against one,” he muttered, rain rolling down his jaw. “Now this is hardly a fair fight.”

Chapter Text

Kishibe’s eyes flicked left, then right, then forward—quick, deliberate movements. He didn’t turn his head much, just enough to clock the shifting shadows in the rain. Angel stood to his left, wings dragging in the wet wind. Kobeni to his right, trembling slightly, but her stance sharp and coiled like a spring. Behind him, he could feel Denji’s presence, the sound of his uneven breathing cutting through the patter of rain.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Surrounded. He’d been in worse spots, but not by much. The rain was running down his face now, tracing the edges of old scars. He tightened his grip on his knives. This was going to be a long one.

The circle closed in. Beam slithered up through the cracked pavement, forming part of the ring, jagged teeth grinning from the dark water around Kishibe’s boots. Aki pushed himself up from the rubble, using his sword as a crutch, his left arm hanging useless at his side. Power stood behind Galgali, still bleeding from her leg, but her tone was as brash as ever.

“Thanks, human, but I didn’t need your help,” she said, puffing out her chest despite the limp.

Galgali didn’t even glance back. “I’m not human,” he replied flatly, fists tightening.

Kishibe rolled his neck until it cracked, rain dripping from the edge of his jaw. They were all in position now—a perfect ring of intent and exhaustion. The air buzzed with the faint echo of thunder, the smell of iron and wet concrete hanging heavy.

Denji shifted behind him, wincing as his shoulder throbbed. Kishibe could practically feel their collective hesitation pressing in from all sides. They were waiting for him to move, to blink, to make the first mistake.

Kishibe sighed, the sound almost lost to the storm. “We gonna stand here all day,” he muttered, voice rough and calm, “or are one of you actually gonna start this thing?”

The tension cracked like lightning overhead.

Power’s battle cry tore through the rain as she and Galgali broke the standstill. Galgali charged first, each stride cracking the soaked pavement beneath his feet. Power leapt onto his back without hesitation, using it as a springboard to launch her into the air, blood hammer dissolving midair into a set of gleaming crimson spears.

Galgali’s arm expanded grotesquely, muscle and bone ballooning as he swung for Kishibe’s head with a blow strong enough to cave steel. Kishibe bent backwards as the thundering hook flew over his face, the shockwave rattling the air. He leaned back up as the punch passed by and countered with three swift jabs to Galgali’s ribs—precise, efficient, and painful enough to stagger the fiend. The shadow of power looming closer as she began her descent, spears glinting in the light and rain.

Angel surged forward from the left flank, wings trailing streaks of silver rain. He saw his chance, the opportunity clear as day—Kishibe preoccupied, cornered, his movements narrowed. Behind Angel, Aki tried to follow, but Denji rushed over and grabbed his shoulder.

“Hold still, you can't fight like this” Denji hissed.

Aki grit his teeth as Denji jerked and pushed his arm back into its socket with a wet pop. “You good?”

Aki grimaced, dropping to one knee, nodded once, griping his shoulder with other hand, then rotating his arm with a pained grunt.

Meanwhile, Kishibe’s focus was squarely on the oncoming threats circling and closing in—Angel from the left, hand reaching out, Beam and Kobeni, knife drawn and prone from the right, Power above with spears in hand, and Galgali dead in front trying to land a shot to put him down. For the first time, he had no open ground. No clear plan, but his peripheral vision gave him the information he needed.

He proceeded it in a heartbeat. Denji popping Aki's shoulder back in—no one behind him. Perfect. He braced for the impact, arms coming up to block, letting Galgali’s next punch connect, using the force to send himself skidding backward just outside Power’s strike zone. Her blood spears impaled the ground where he’d stood a second earlier, sending cracks racing through the concrete.

Angel quickly retracting his hand and dropping low to avoid sapping any life from his teammates, the tip of his wing slicing through a puddle. Kobeni, slid into position with a sharp turn, shoes screeching against the wet floor, knife raised.

Beam reemerged from the ground behind Kishibe, water spraying everywhere as he lunged teeth-first toward the old hunter’s back.

Kishibe twisted mid-step, one boot splashing through a puddle, every muscle in his body coiled tight. For a heartbeat, the rain froze in the air—four devils and fiends closing in from every direction.

Kishibe smirked faintly.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Beam launched through the air with all the reckless confidence of a predator sure of his kill. His jagged maw opened wide, rain streaking past his teeth as he dove for Kishibe’s neck. For a moment, it looked like the old hunter was caught flat-footed.

Then Kishibe shifted. A simple twist of his hips, his body following suit, a redirection of balance—clean, precise, inhumanly calm. Beam’s jaws snapped shut on nothing but air. Kishibe’s bloodied hand shot out, fingers hooking inside the fiend’s mouth, catching on to a set of teeth puncturing his hand a little more, just as his momentum carried him past. With a grunt, Kishibe pivoted, using Beam’s own weight to execute a flawless judo flip.

His body flowing through the air almost gracefully, hurling towards the cluster of attackers ahead, scattering them like bowling pins. Angel barely managed to dive aside, his feathers dragging through the slick puddles as he scrambled away from the flailing fiend. Galgali vaulted high, clearing Beam’s crashing body by inches. Kobeni slipped left in a blur of motion, spinning past the chaos with almost supernatural agility.

Power wasn’t as lucky. Still favoring her bleeding leg, she tried to leap but her footing gave out. Beam’s body clipped her midair, sending her tumbling forward with a strangled yelp. She hit the wet concrete face-first, blood splattering across the floor.

Kishibe exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulder, eyes scanning the disarray he’d just caused. “You kids need to work on your spacing,” he muttered, voice low and unimpressed.

His right hand tightened into a clinch, blood seeping between his fingers, a sharp pain radiating up his arm, but his face remained unreadable, muscles coiled like steel. Denji’s eyes swept the battlefield, calculating: Power was out—too much blood lost, probably concussed and barely conscious. Beam was battered, moving sluggishly, arms bruised and body aching. Aki, his left arm still sore and partially dislocated, or undislocated he didn't know the implications, could fight, but any prolonged engagement would see Kishibe exploiting that weakness. That left only four of them against the unyielding veteran: Galgali, Kobeni, Angel, and Denji himself.

Denji’s shoulder throbbed from the knife wound, and the weight of his decision pressed down like iron. Use chainsaw form now, and he might burn through the limited resistance here but leave nothing for Makima later. Hesitate, and Kishibe could obliterate his small team before he even got the chance to fight her and save Reze. He dawned on the decision, it was to difficult to make but the choice was made for him as the others launched into coordinated action, giving him an opening almost too perfect to ignore.

Kobeni sprang from Galgali’s massive palm, twisting midair with catlike agility, a knife aimed precisely for Kishibe’s head. The moment she left Galgali’s grip, Angel surged from the shadows, closing the distance, his hand stretching toward Kishibe’s exposed hand, while Galgali arced through the air, axe kick aimed to crush Kishibe’s right shoulder. Three attacks, three points of danger, converging simultaneously. Kishibe had to choose which threat to address first.

The knife? Too high risk. Angel’s grasp? Dangerous. Galgali’s kick? Potentially crippling, but potentially manageable. Kishibe pivoted with lightning reflexes, ducking his head left just enough to let Kobeni pass over, the tip of her knife grazing the back of his neck, drawing a thin, inconsequential line of blood. At the same time, he twisted his body to meet Angel’s outstretched hand with a precise elbow block, using the momentum to slam it into Angel’s face, sending him staggering backward.

Before he could exhale, Galgali’s leg slammed down onto his right shoulder with a thunderous impact. His arm went numb, a more severe outcome than expected. Kishibe’s torso shifted violently under the force, but he didn’t relent. He planted his left foot firmly, pivoting with controlled power, and unleashed a spinning roundhouse kick. Galgali’s throat bore the brunt of the blow, chest snapping backward under the force, hands clutching at his neck as he stumbled. The kick sent vibrations through Kishibe’s own legs, yet he remained poised, eyes scanning, calculating, already anticipating the next move from Angel, Kobeni, and the others.

Rain soaked the debris-strewn floor, the thunder overhead masking the grunts and the clash of limbs. Blood and water mixed on the tiles as the chaotic dance continued, Kishibe’s agility and precision matching their coordinated strikes blow for blow. Denji’s mind raced, watching his team’s injuries pile up, feeling the suffocating pressure of the moment, knowing the time to unleash the chainsaw form was nearing—but not yet. Every second counted, every misstep a potential disaster. The storm around them mirrored the storm within Denji, the battlefield a blur of rain, blood, and calculated chaos.

Denji’s breath came out ragged as he tightened his fists, his decision made. He was done watching, being a spectator to a his own fight. The air reeked of blood and iron, rain dripping from the gaping holes in the roof as thunder rattled the warehouse. His muscles tensed—he was about to throw himself into the fight, hand wrapping the ripcord—when a strained voice cut through the chaos.

“Denji—don’t,” Angel rasped. His voice was wet with blood, his nose bent and broken, face bruised, but his eyes burned with conviction. “We can handle him.”

Denji froze mid-step, still holding on to the ring with anticipation and caution. Angel was standing steady again, barely, blood running down his chin. Kishibe had turned his focus forward—on Angel and Galgali—forgetting about the silent danger behind him. Kobeni, low and deadly, circled around his blind spot like a ghost.

The split second of misjudgement and carelessness was all she needed. Kishibe’s instincts flared, his body shifting just in time to avoid a fatal blow, but not fast enough to avoid pain. Her blade cut deep into his left shoulder, slicing through skin, muscles, blood vessels, cloth and coming close to touching the bone. Kishibe grunted, pain radiating down his arm. This wasn't going the way he thought it would, not at all, but adaptation was second nature to him.

Without hesitation, he shifted back to the right, eyes focused on Kobeni's defenseless form in the air, grabbing her by the front of her shirt. The impact of her light frame against his hand sent a jolt up his already-bloodied arm. He slammed her into the concrete with bone-cracking force. The floor cracked beneath the strike, fragments bursting outward. His hand shot up to her throat, intent clear in his cold eyes. Before he could finish it, a blur of motion struck him from the front.

Galgali’s kick connected flush with Kishibe’s jaw, then his whole face. The sound was sickening—bone grinding againt bone. Kishibe’s head snapped back, his grip loosening as he stumbled a few paces. The world wobbled for an instant, his vision swimming.

Galgali moved fast, hauling Kobeni to her feet. Angel saw his moment. He charged forward, ignoring the sting of shattered nose stinging from breathing in the air, jumped, and latched onto Kishibe’s shoulders. His legs wrapped tightly around Kishibe’s neck, his hands pressing against Kishibe’s head, divine energy humming faintly through his palms. “Denji!” he shouted, his voice raw. “Take Aki! Go get your girl back! We’ll hold him!”

Kishibe staggered, Angel’s weight dragging his balance off-center. For a heartbeat, it looked like Angel might succeed. Then Kishibe adjusted, letting gravity work for him. He fell backward deliberately, slamming Angel into the debris pile behind them. The impact exploded through the air—metal and concrete shards digging deep into Angel’s back. His scream echoed through the warehouse, his grip faltering as pain tore through him.

Kishibe rolled off the wreckage, breathing hard but alive, eyes scanning for the next threat. Angel was down, gasping, blood pooling beneath him. Kobeni and Galgali were already sprinting toward Kishibe again, desperation in their movements, rage in their eyes and mask.

Denji didn’t wait. He turned to Aki, slinging his arm over his shoulder despite the older man’s protests. “Come on, we’re done here,” Denji said through clenched teeth. “They’ll hold him.”

As they dashed toward the warehouse exit, Denji glanced back one last time. Through the haze of dust and rain, he saw Kobeni darting low, Galgali towering behind her like a wall of fury, both charging Kishibe with everything they had left. Power layed motionless blood mingling with the spreading puddles on the floor. Beam rustling and groan on the ground.

Then they were gone, swallowed by the storm outside. Denji faced forward again, jaw tight. The fight behind him was far from over, but his mission was clear now. Reze was waiting, and Makima stood in the way.

Chapter Text

Denji and Aki sprinted through the harbor, their boots splashing through puddles as the steady down pour shifted into something colder. Within seconds, the droplets became flakes—thick, heavy snow descending unnaturally fast. It clung to the soaked pavement and rooftops, refusing to melt despite the wet ground. The two slowed only slightly, exchanging wary glances as their breath turned to fog in the air.

The city around them was empty—too empty. Eerily so, like there was a looming threat waiting for them around the next corner. Streetlights buzzed faintly above, their glow catching the snowfall in soft halos of white and gold. The world felt muted, sound swallowed by the weight of the snowstorm that came from nowhere.

They cut through block after block, Denji’s pace steady but his eyes restless, scanning every street corner as though he half-expected to see her waiting. Aki followed close behind, his left arm still stiff but functional again, the hilt of his katana tapping lightly against his side with each stride.

Then Denji stopped.

Aki halted beside him, hand automatically reaching for his weapon. His eyes flicked across the street, scanning for movement. “What is it?” he asked.

Denji didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed on a small shop across the road. The lights were off, the sign half-faded—Takara Flowers. Even through the glass, the colors stood out against the gray night. Bouquets lined the inside display: lilies, hydrangeas, roses. Their petals looked almost alive beneath the dim glow of the streetlight outside.

“I need flowers,” Denji said finally.

Aki frowned. “Now?”

“If I’m gonna see Reze,” Denji said, his voice low but sure, “I need flowers.”

Aki exhaled, shaking his head, a small, disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Are you sure we have time for this?”

Denji didn’t hesitate. “We’ll make time.”

Before Aki could reply, Denji stepped up to the glass door, raised his elbow, and smashed the pane. The sound shattered the silence, echoing down the empty street. He reached through the hole, flipped the lock, and pushed the door open. The faint scent of pollen and wilted petals drifted out.

Aki glared at him, brow furrowed. “You know that’s a crime, right?”

Denji gave a half-shrug. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll pay for it later.”

They stepped inside. The air was cold and still, the faint hum of a refrigerator unit in the back the only sound. The snow outside kept falling harder, pressing against the windows, making the world feel smaller and quieter.

Denji brushed flakes from his hair, stepping toward the flower display, his expression softening for the first time in hours.

Aki stood by the doorway, katana still in hand. The hunter and the devil stood in that empty store, the scent of flowers heavy around them, as snow blanketed the city in silence.

Denji drifted through the dim shop as if in a trance, his shoes crunching faintly on the scattered shards of glass from the door. The soft hum of the street lights faded from his awareness until all that existed was him and the flowers. Rows upon rows of color stretched before him, bursts of life in a world that had grown too quiet, too cold. The faint light from the streetlamps outside filtered through the snowy glass, glinting off the petals and dew drops that clung stubbornly to them, making each bouquet shimmer as though it were breathing.

He moved slowly, eyes scanning each bundle. There were blue and coral roses, their hues bleeding together like sunset over calm water—beautiful, but not right. Pink tulips paired with bright nasturtium, soft and fiery at once, but the warmth of them felt wrong, too happy for the moment. Chrysanthemums and geraniums stood tall and proud, regal in their violets and rose golds, yet distant, like something meant for graves.

He kept walking, the world narrowing around him until his thoughts felt muffled, as if snow had fallen inside his head. Bluebells and calla lilies followed, delicate and pale, but their gentleness didn’t reach him. Hyacinths and hollyhocks offered color—deep purples and rich light pinks—but no feeling. Forget-me-nots tangled with white roses, their simplicity catching him for a heartbeat, a whisper of something close to sorrow, but still not it. Dahlias and edelweiss came next, strong and sharp, white petals catching the faintest glint of light like snowflakes frozen in bloom. Still, they didn’t speak to him.

Then he saw them.

Pink camellias and lobelias, nestled in a corner vase near the back, half-hidden beneath the shadow of a hanging fern. They called out to him like a siren to a doomed sailor. The camellias glowed faintly even in the dimness—petals blushed with soft, rosy warmth, edges folding over each other in perfect spirals. The lobelias beside them were smaller, streaked in shades of violet deep blue, and pale cerulean , the color of the evening sky before a storm. Together they looked like opposites learning how to live side by side—gentle and wild, soft and striking, fragile yet alive.

Denji froze.

Something in his chest tightened, a pull deep and wordless. The rest of the shop faded—the snow outside, the faint sound of Aki shifting near the door, even the chill biting at his skin. He could see her in the petals. Reze’s smile in the soft pinks. The shimmer of her hair in the cool blue of the lobelias. The way she looked at him before everything fell apart.

He took a slow step forward, breath catching. His hand hovered just above the flowers, fingers trembling. The air felt thick, the scent of the blooms sweet and heavy, cutting through the metallic tang of his blood still clinging to his clothes.

He didn’t know what kind of flowers they were. Didn’t know what they meant, or why they called to him. He only knew that they felt like her. Like the warmth he missed and the ache he couldn’t shake.

The world outside could have burned down in that moment, and Denji wouldn’t have noticed. It was just him, the flowers, and the quiet echo of Reze’s laughter in his head—soft, fading, and beautiful.

Aki tapped the sheath of his sword against the door, clearing his throat in that quiet, sharp way that always broke through Denji’s tunnel vision. Denji blinked, still lost in the sea of color, his face lit up like a kid at a candy store. “You done?” Aki asked, one eyebrow slightly raised.

Denji grinned wide, clutching the bouquet with both hands. “Yeah, yeah—I found ’em.” He wrapped the flowers himself, surprisingly careful, sliding them into the florist’s paper with a reverence Aki didn’t think he was capable of. The pink camellias and blue lobelias gleamed under the faint light, dew glistening on their petals as if they were alive and breathing.

They stepped back out onto the street. The snow had eased into a calm flutter, drifting slow and weightless, flakes catching in Denji’s hair and on Aki’s coat. The city was quiet, its streets blanketed in white, and for ten minutes, neither of them spoke. Their footsteps crunched softly through the powder, the silence between them peaceful, maybe even sacred.

Then a cough broke it.

It was rough, wet, and close. Aki’s hand moved instantly to his sword, muscles tensing beneath his coat. Denji froze, the bouquet shifting slightly in his grip as he turned.

Kishibe stood behind them.

Aki’s hand tightened around his sword as his breath formed faint clouds in the cold air. The quiet that had blanketed the streets fractured under the weight of Kishibe’s presence. He looked like death dragging itself through the snow—his coat torn, blood painting the white beneath his boots, face pale but eyes sharp as ever. The flakes melted against his skin, streaking the grime and blood into thin pink lines.

Denji’s grip on the bouquet tightened, petals brushing against his knuckles. For a second, he almost thought Kishibe might fall over—his stance swayed, one shoulder slumped where the joint was bruised deep purple—but his posture never broke. He was too stubborn to fall.

“Are those flowers for me?” Kishibe asked again, voice hoarse but threaded with that same wry edge. The kind of humor that made it unclear whether he was joking or threatening.

Denji swallowed, forcing a smirk to mask the unease in his chest. “It’s for my date. And if I spend any more time here, I’ll be late,” he said, tone light but eyes steady. “So we can chat later, old man.”

Aki didn’t move. The snow hissed softly around them, flakes gathering on the scabbard of his sword. He could feel how thin the air between them had gotten—tension so tight it could snap from a single wrong breath.

Kishibe coughed again, a wet, harsh sound. A streak of red hit the snow, the contrast vivid and violent. He straightened slightly, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth as he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“Cute,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Running off for a girl while your team bleeds out.” His tone didn’t rise, didn’t waver—it was calm, level, but every word landed heavy.

Denji flinched, barely perceptible. The silence stretched long enough for the snow to blanket the rooftops above them, the only sound the quiet fall of flakes and Kishibe’s low, uneven breathing.

Aki shifted his stance just enough to put himself between the two, eyes never leaving Kishibe. He could see the older man’s hand twitch near his side. That instinctive, deadly readiness hadn’t left him despite the state he was in.

Kishibe took a small step forward, his boots crunching against the ice. “You’re not leaving while im still standing,” he said simply. His tone wasn’t angry—just final.

Denji didn’t move at first. The Public Safety building loomed in the distance, so close he could see the faint glow of the lights through the snowfall, but his feet refused to budge. Kishibe stood in the road, shoulders slouched but presence heavy enough to choke the air. The quiet tension made every snowflake feel like it was falling in slow motion.

Denji clenched the bouquet tighter, the paper crinkling under his grip, but Aki’s hand came down on his shoulder. It wasn’t rough—just enough to steady him.

“Go,” Aki said, voice low but clear. “You’ve got someone waiting. I’ll deal with this.”

Denji blinked, disbelief flickering in his eyes. “You serious? You’re not exactly in mint condition either, man. He’ll—”

Aki cut him off with a faint smirk. “I’ve been through worse. Besides, if I can’t handle an old drunk half-dead on his feet, I probably deserve to get replaced.”

There wasn’t a tremor in his tone, not a crack of fear. Denji could tell—Aki meant it. That calm confidence wasn’t bravado; it was conviction.

Denji hesitated, glancing between Aki and Kishibe, who was just standing there, blood dripping into the snow, waiting like a shadow that refused to vanish.

“…Fine,” Denji said finally, letting out a slow breath. “But I’m coming back, got it? You better not be dead when I do.”

Aki’s smile widened a fraction. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Denji gave a small, almost reluctant grin, then turned and started down the street. The crunch of his boots on the snow faded with every step, leaving Aki and Kishibe alone in the quiet white street, breath misting in the cold, a fight waiting to ignite.

Chapter Text

Aki stood beneath the streetlights, their pale glow cutting through the drifting snow and pooling over the empty street like a stage light. The wind had died down, leaving only the sound of flakes brushing the pavement. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather grip biting against his palm. His left arm hung low, stiff and aching—a liability if things went wrong.

He analyzed the specter across from him, Kishibe looked like he had been dragged through hell itself. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, his coat torn and slick with blood. Yet his stance, even half-ruined, still radiated danger. Aki read the distance, the rhythm of Kishibe’s breathing, every twitch of muscle. Both of them were barely standing, but neither was ready to back down.

“You know we don’t have to fight,” Aki said quietly. His voice carried through the still air, almost swallowed by the snow. “You can still walk away.”

Kishibe let out a rough laugh that turned into a cough, spitting red into the white snow. “You’re doing an awful lot for them,” he rasped, eyes narrowing. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

Aki’s grip tightened. “I’m just doing what’s right.”

“Right?” Kishibe smirked, shaking his head. “There’s no right in this job. Just who’s left standing when the blood dries.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. The cold bit at Aki’s face, but he didn’t blink. He could see in Kishibe’s eyes—there was no peace left to reach. Just the quiet understanding that one of them wouldn’t walk away.

“Guess that settles it,” Aki said, drawing the katana from its sheath, the blade whispering through the cold air. He took his stance, both hands on the hilt—steady with his right, strained with his left.

Kishibe rolled his neck, lifted his good arm, and cracked his knuckles. “Even like this,” he said, grinning through the blood on his teeth, “I’m still gonna pummel you.”

The snow fell between them, silent and slow, as the world held its breath.

Aki exhaled slowly, watching the plume of his breath fade into the cold air. His heartbeat steadied, the world narrowing to the space between him and Kishibe. The older man hadn’t moved an inch, his stance loose but lethal, his eyes sharp even through the haze of fatigue.

Aki’s right eye flared faintly—the future devil’s power whispering possibilities into his mind. He saw flashes of motion, potential outcomes unfolding before him like broken film strips. Without hesitation, he surged forward, snow kicking up beneath his boots.

Kishibe’s body twisted, a blur even in his condition. A brutal side kick came for Aki’s head—just as the vision had warned. Aki ducked low, sliding beneath it, and as he passed, his blade carved a shallow line across Kishibe’s left calf.

The hit landed clean, but Aki didn’t have time to celebrate. Kishibe pivoted, using the same injured leg to drive a back kick straight into Aki’s left shoulder. Pain shot down Aki’s arm like lightning, his grip faltering instantly. He stumbled back, nearly losing his balance. Kishibe’s precision was merciless; he had seen the weakness and now he would chase it until one of them fell.

Aki’s shoulder throbbed, the joint screaming in protest. He shifted his stance, katana now gripped only in his right hand, his left arm hanging uselessly by his side. He steadied himself, teeth clenched, and charged again—anger and determination fusing into motion.

He swung horizontally, aiming to cut across Kishibe’s torso. Kishibe leaned just out of reach, the blade hissing past his coat. Before Aki could recover, Kishibe drove his left fist down onto Aki’s sword hand with precision. The shock forced Aki’s fingers open, the katana slipping free and clattering into the snow.

Aki froze for a fraction of a second, unarmed, chest heaving, his breath fogging between them. Kishibe didn’t waste the opening—his eyes had already locked onto his next strike.

Kishibe’s fist smashed into the right side of Aki's face, not even giving Aki the chance to look at him, the force sending him sprawling into the snow. The cold bit into his skin, grounding him for a split second before instinct took over. He blinked, his vision swimming, the metallic taste of blood coating his tongue.

The future devil’s sight flickered—an image flashed through his mind of a boot crashing down toward his head. He reacted without thinking, rolling hard to the side just as Kishibe’s heel slammed into the snow where his skull had been. The ground caved under the impact, a sharp crack of the pavement and the compacting of the snow echoing through the quiet street.

Aki scrambled to his feet, his body trembling from pain and exhaustion, but his mind sharp. He needed an opening. Another flash—Kishibe winding up for a punch. Aki lunged forward instead of retreating, ducking under the swing and slamming into Kishibe’s torso, tackling him. The two crashed to the ground, snow exploding around them.

Pinned beneath Aki’s weight, Kishibe grunted as Aki’s fist connected with his face once, twice, a third time—the last blow knocking a tooth free. Blood streaked down Kishibe’s chin, but his retaliation came quick. A brutal uppercut to Aki’s stomach knocked the wind out of him, pain blooming hot and deep.

He stumbled back, gasping, a line of blood spilling from his lips onto the snow. The steam from his breath mixed with the crimson, turning the white flakes pink. His vision refocused through the haze, catching a glimpse of silver half-buried a few meters away—his katana.

His pulse quickened. If he could reach it before Kishibe recovered, he might turn this fight around. Kishibe hadn’t noticed it yet—or at least Aki hoped he hadn’t. Every movement now had to count.

Aki stumbled forward through the snow, lungs burning, his vision narrowing to the katana that was off to the side. The future devil’s eye flickered, showing him a fleeting vision—Kishibe’s next assault. A three piece combo, a straight left jab aimed at the head, a low side kick aimed at his already damaged arm, followed by a brutal headbutt. Aki exhaled sharply and moved.

He slipped beneath the straight, the air hissing over his head. The kick came next—he caught it on his half-numb left arm, pain searing through his nerves before everything below the shoulder went dead again. He didn’t hesitate. Aki pushed off his back foot, driving his head upward into Kishibe’s face. The crack of bone splitting echoed as Kishibe’s nose broke, blood spraying across Aki’s hair and cheek.

Kishibe hit the ground hard, dazed for the first time in the fight. Aki saw his chance. He turned toward the katana glinting in the snow and forced his legs to move, each step sluggish and hampered by pain coursing through his body. He was only a few feet away when his world spun—Kishibe’s leg hooked behind his knees, sweeping him flat onto his back.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs. Before Aki could even react, Kishibe was already on top of him, pinning him down, his weight pressing Aki down into the snow. The older man’s left fist came down in a flurry of brutal, practiced strikes, each one heavier than the last.

Aki managed to bring his right forearm up, blocking two, maybe three hits, his left arm barely lifting to help assist before giving out. Then Kishibe’s knuckles crashed through his guard, seizing the opportunity granted by Aki's left arm giving out, smashing into his left cheekbone. Aki heard it crack before he felt it. His head jerked to the side, blood flooding his mouth.

Kishibe didn’t stop. The next punch connected clean with Aki’s right eye, pain bursting white before his vision went dark on that side. His head hit the snow again, blood pooling beneath him, the world shrinking to muffled thuds and the dull hum of his own pulse.

He then slammed his forehead into Aki’s skull with a sickening crack, the force of it ringing out over the quiet snow. Both men recoiled, blood streaming down from matching gashes. The pain blurred Aki’s thoughts, the world spinning as he blinked against the dizziness. Kishibe pressed the advantage, his face twisted in grim determination, and began hammering blows into Aki’s head and body.

The first punch split Aki’s lip. The second drove into his jaw. The third landed across his temple, sending sparks across his vision. His thoughts were scattered, his instincts screaming to move, to fight, to think—but every strike made it harder. His left eye filled with red, blood mixing with melting snow beneath him.

As Kishibe drew back for another crushing blow, Aki’s mind finally flickered a message to him. An image of the katana devil flashed in his mind, sharp and clear. It wasn’t a warning. It was an idea.

He bent his knee up and, with a desperate roar, unbleashing his leg foot first, driving his heel straight into Kishibe’s balls. The impact was brutal and immediate. Kishibe’s breath caught in his throat, the air leaving his lungs in a hoarse grunt as he crumpled sideways, hands instinctively covering the pain.

Aki rolled out from under him, coughing blood, forcing himself to his knees. His good eye locked onto the katana lying in the snow only a few feet away. He lunged, half-crawling, half-falling, until his fingers wrapped around the hilt.

He spun back to see Kishibe already dragging himself upright, staggering, his face pale but his expression furious. Aki’s single eye tracked his movement, noticing the shift of weight as Kishibe planted his left knee to push himself up. Aki didn’t hesitate.

With a raw shout, he thrust the katana forward, driving the blade clean through Kishibe’s left knee. The steel sliced through flesh and bone, pinning Kishibe briefly in place. Kishibe yelled in pain—the first real cry he’d let out all fight—and instinctively lashed back, smashing down with his fist onto the blade, snapping it in half. The broken top half clattered into the snow beside them.

Aki yanked the remaining piece free, Kishibe’s blood spilling down the edge and steaming faintly in the cold air. Aki’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath visible in the dim streetlight, the two men glaring at each other through a haze of blood, snow, and exhaustion.

Pressing the advantage, Aki advanced on Kishibe, his breath ragged, blood dripping from his chin and staining the falling snow beneath him. His half-blade gleamed faintly under the orange streetlight as he charged forward, teeth gritted, fury and desperation driving every motion. Kishibe scuttled backward, dragging his ruined leg through the snow, unable to stand, leaving a dark, broken trail behind him.

Aki swung hard, the shortened katana slicing across Kishibe’s remaining leg, another crimson line blooming over the white ground. Kishibe let out a low grunt but didn’t cry out. Aki didn’t stop. He swung again, the edge biting deep into Kishibe’s right arm, blood fanning out into the night, splattering Aki’s face and mixing with the snowflakes.

There was no hesitation now. Aki closed the gap, his body trembling from exhaustion and blood loss. He raised the broken blade high above his head, his good eye locked onto Kishibe’s unmoving silhouette.

Then, he brought it down.

The sound was muffled by the snow, a wet, final impact that filled the air for only a heartbeat. The white blanket beneath them bloomed red, streaks of blood spreading outward until the light from the nearest streetlamp caught it, turning it into a dark mirror of the sky.

Both men stood—or tried to. Aki’s breathing was uneven, shallow. Kishibe’s head was bowed. Neither moved at first.

Aki’s gaze lifted, meeting Kishibe’s eyes. The fight finally over. Then a violent cough tore through him, blood spilling from his lips.

His vision drifted downward, tracing the broken blade still clutched in his hand—embedded deep in Kishibe’s left shoulder, sliding downward toward his chest. Then his focus shifted, catching movement—Kishibe’s left arm, extended toward him.

Aki followed the motion with his fading sight, from shoulder to wrist, down to the hand slick with blood. The hand that was gripping something.

The broken top half of his own sword.

It was buried in Aki’s gut.

For a moment, the world was silent. The only sound was the slow, uneven breathing of the two men as the snow fell heavier now, each flake catching the glow of the lights above. Aki stumbled back, his legs giving out, falling into the snow. He lay there on his back, the cold seeping through his coat, his chest rising and falling slower with each breath. The snowflakes landed softly over his face and hair, dusting him white again, as though trying to erase the blood that marked the ground between them.

Aki’s body trembled as he reached into his coat pocket, his fingers stiff and numb from the cold. He could barely feel the shape of it at first, but when he did, he knew exactly what it was. The cigarette. The one Himeno had given him so long ago. Its paper was slightly crumpled, the faint phrase 'Easy Revenge!' scrawled across the stick in worn ink.

A small, broken laugh escaped him—half a breath, half a sigh. His vision blurred, but he could still make out the word through the haze. He thought of her, of their nights smoking on rooftops, of the easy grin she always wore no matter how heavy the job had been.

Then came the sound—a dull, heavy thud. Aki didn’t even need to look. He knew it was Kishibe collapsing, the last of his strength finally giving way. The fight was truly over.

Aki lifted the cigarette to his lips, his hand trembling as he tried to steady it. He reached into his pocket again, searching for a lighter he knew wasn’t there. His fingers brushed only fabric and the faint warmth of his own blood. A small smile tugged at his lips anyway.

He lay back in the snow, the cigarette resting gently in his mouth. His breath rose in soft clouds against the night sky as the snow continued to fall—slow, steady, unrelenting. Each flake settled on him like a quiet farewell, melting into the blood pooling beneath him until red and white blurred together.

His gaze lingered on the sky, where the city lights faded into a dull glow behind the snowfall. The world felt distant, soft, almost peaceful. Aki smiled once more through the cold and the pain, the cigarette still between his lips, his body growing still as the snow blanketed him.

The pool of crimson around him widened, rippling faintly with the last of his breath. The night swallowed the sound, leaving only silence and the gentle whisper of snow falling onto two motionless bodies beneath the streetlight.

Chapter Text

Denji’s sneakers squeaked softly against the stone pavement as he stepped under the public safety bureau’s awning, shaking the clinging snow from his jacket and hair. The flowers in his hand were flecked with white, the pink and blue petals dulled beneath the cold. He brushed them off carefully, like they were the most important thing in the world—because to him, they were.

The city outside was silent, muffled beneath the falling snow, and the building before him was just as still. No hum of late-night work, no papers being stapled, no echo of conversations, no footsteps in the halls. Just the faint buzz of fluorescent lights bleeding through the cracks in the heavy wooden doors.

He pressed an ear against the wood, listening. Nothing. No breathing, no typing, not even the faint whirr of the old elevator he hated so much. It was too quiet. Too wrong.

He drew in a slow breath, fog curling from his lips, and pulled the door open. The hinges creaked, breaking the suffocating silence, and Denji pushed his way inside.

The lights were on, casting a harsh white glow over the lobby. Empty chairs. Abandoned papers. A single mug of coffee gone cold on a desk. It looked like everyone had just… vanished. He frowned, scratching the back of his neck as he weaved through the maze of cubicles.

“Man, what a drag,” he muttered under his breath. “Where the hell is everybody?”

He crouched beside one of the desks, rifling through drawers—stacks of files, pens, sticky notes, and paperclips. “Office junk. Boring as hell.” He paused, then smirked faintly and grabbed a stapler. “Eh. Never know. Might come in handy.” He shoved it into his pocket and moved on.

Then he noticed it—a faint strip of light seeping from under a door down the hall. Not the harsh white of the overhead fluorescents, but a softer, amber glow. It flickered across the floor like candlelight, warm and alive in the otherwise sterile building.

He didn’t need to guess where it came from. He already knew.

Makima’s office.

Denji’s pulse picked up. The air felt heavier now, his breath slower. He adjusted the flowers in the crook of his left arm, fingers brushing the cold stems. His left hand hovered near the pull cord, the reflex almost automatic.

Step by step, he approached the door. The quiet swallowed him whole, every sound smothered by the snow still clinging to his shirt. The orange light glowed steady beneath the threshold, soft yet unsettling—like a fire that hadn’t quite died out.

He raised his hand to the knob, the metal cold against his skin, and twisted.

The latch clicked.

The door creaked open.

Denji peeked his head through the doorway, greeted by a maze of bookshelves stretching into the dim amber light. The glow guided him through one of the narrow paths until he reached her desk. The leather chair was empty. The surface spotless. Only a small reading lamp burned, bathing the space in soft orange.

He glanced out the wide windows behind the desk. The world outside twisted—snow transforming into to a monsoon, then snapped back to snow in an instant. The flurries thickened into a blinding storm, swallowing the horizon whole. The building stood alone, suspended in white, the outside world erased. Time trapped in this pocket.

Then he heard it—scurrying, claws clicking against the floor. Small and sharp.

Denji’s eyes darted downward as his right hand curled around the cord’s ring. He searched, waiting for movement.

The desk chair creaked, swiveling. A small mouse climbed onto the surface, tehn up onto the desk, its wet fur glistening under the light. It stared at him, unblinking. A faint golden glint flickered in one of its eyes before it darted off again, dropping to the floor.

It scampered toward a nearby bookshelf and paused, glancing back, seemingly waiting for him. Denji hesitated, then followed, his shoes whispering against the floor.

The mouse slipped under a door. Denji reached for the knob and turned it.

Swing the door open and wide, he was met by darkness. Every light in the hallway and the building had gone out. The only glow came from the elevator at the far end—the doors stood open, spilling pale white-ish blue light into the black. The mouse was there, perched at the edge, its tiny paw raised as if waving him closer.

He glanced around for another path, but the office behind him had sunk into pitch black. he turned back but the reading lamp in Makima’s room was gone too, snuffed out without a sound. The air felt heavier now, the kind that made breathing harder.

With the bouquet still clutched in his left arm, finger wrapped around the ring, Denji walked toward the elevator. The faint hum inside was the only sound in the dead silence. He stepped in, the air stale and metallic, and the doors slid shut on their own before he could move. It was like the thing had a mind of its own.

The elevator jerked to life, humming softly as it moved—up or down, he couldn’t tell. It felt endless, like drifting in a steel coffin through nowhere.

He whirled with his thoughts inspecting the cage as much as he could before he gave up, nothing special, nothing unique. Not even the mouse insight.

The motion finally stopped, Denji readying himself for what could be past the doors. The barrier slid open, like the gates of Valhalla and light exploded into the small space, blinding him. He winced, throwing his right arm up to block the glare.

He stepped out and blinked, his sight adjusting to the light. Sunlight. A warm breeze. Cars moving lazily past. He was standing outside a movie theater. Turning around, he found the elevator gone—nothing behind him but pavement, trees and shadows.

Then a voice called out from ahead.

“Are those for me?”

Chapter Text

Denji turned on his heel and faced her. Their eyes locked. Makima stood there in a burgundy dress and a crisp white buttoned-up top, hands tucked neatly behind her back, her posture perfect as always.

She repeated herself.
“Are those for me?”
Her finger lifted toward the flowers he held.

Denji froze for a moment, flustered. His face flushed red and he managed a quick, almost nervous, “Y-yeah,” as he handed the bouquet over.

Makima accepted them with a light, delicate grip. She lifted the bundle to her nose and drew in a slow breath through the petals.
“You’re very thoughtful, Denji.”

His blush deepened. He rubbed the back of his head, fighting the goofy smile tugging at his mouth. She looked so cute. His heart thumped harder just seeing her smile like that, warm and effortless.

“This is a great way to start our date,” she said, fingers drifting along the petals.

“Date?” Denji asked.

Makima let out a soft chuckle, like the question amused her.
“Well of course. That’s why you brought me flowers.”

Denji brightened. “Of course I did. I hand picked those for you.”

“It seems like you got them from a florist,” she teased with a sly grin.

“Well, I grabbed them from the flower shop, so you could say I hand picked them,” he said, trying to sound clever.

She smiled wider and reached out, taking his hand. Denji’s breath caught. Her skin felt impossibly soft, almost unreal in how gentle it was. A single camellia slipped loose from the bouquet and fell to the pavement as she guided him forward.

Makima led him up the street toward a small Parisian café, her fingers laced with his, the world moving with her pace as if nothing existed outside her choice.

They stepped inside the café and were greeted by a soft buzz of conversation. Not loud, but present enough to feel lived-in. Ceramic cups clinked here and there. A low jazz track played from a corner speaker, smooth and mellow. The air smelled like warm butter, fresh bread, and roasted coffee beans. A hint of vanilla hung in the background.

The place wasn’t crowded. A few couples sat by the windows, a pair of students writing and reviewing notes, and an older man read a newspaper at the bar. The lighting was warm, almost golden, giving every table a cozy glow that made the pastries in the glass case look even more inviting.

Inside the display were rows of flaky croissants, pain au chocolat, fruit tarts with glossy tops, brioche buns dusted with sugar, mille-feuille with perfect layers, and small cakes shaped like flowers. Behind them, fresh loaves of sourdough and baguettes cooled on racks.

Makima leaned in slightly. “Everything looks lovely today.”

“Yeah,” Denji muttered, overwhelmed by choice and mostly trying not to stare too hard at her instead of the food.

Makima ordered first.
“I’ll have a raspberry tart, a slice of honey cake, a butter croissant, and a black coffee.”
She glanced at him. “What about you, Denji?”

He panicked for a moment, then said, “Uh… same coffee as hers. And… that chocolate thing.” He pointed to the pain au chocolat.

They paid and sat at a small round table. A tiny candle flickered between them. Another camellia slipped from the bouquet when Makima set it on the table’s edge, though she didn’t react.

They started with the pastries. The croissant was warm and crisp, breaking apart into layers that melted instantly on the tongue. Makima closed her eyes for a moment when she took her first bite, savoring it. Denji’s pain au chocolat was soft with a rich streak of chocolate running through the center. It was simple, comforting, and made him feel oddly calmer.

The honey cake was sweet and airy, almost silky. It left a floral aftertaste that reminded Denji of spring. The raspberry tart was tangy, the crust buttery, each bite a mix of sharp and smooth that made Makima’s smile turn subtle and satisfied.

Then came the coffee.

Denji lifted his cup and took a sip.
The bitterness hit him immediately. No warmth, no comfort. Just sharp and dry.
He forced himself not to make a face.

Makima watched him with quiet amusement as she continued eating.

He tried again later. Still awful.
He tried a third time. Somehow worse.

Makima stopped mid-bite and tilted her head.
“You don’t like it,” she said, not accusing, just stating.

Denji shrugged, embarrassed. “I’m tryin’. It just tastes like… burnt dirt or something.”

She gently slid her cup toward him.
“Here. Have mine.”

“It’s the same thing though.”

“I know.” She lifted the cup and held it to his lips, guiding him to take a sip.

He did.
The bitterness punched him again.

“Egh. Still the same.”

Makima smiled softly, almost tender.
“It’s an acquired taste.”

Denji didn’t argue. Her smile made it hard to complain about anything.

They finished the last bites of cake and tart, gathered themselves, and stood to leave. As Makima lifted the bouquet, another camellia slipped free and fell to the floor, bright against the tiles.

She didn’t look down.
Denji did, but only for a moment, before hurrying after her.

Makima already hailing a taxi, standing by the open door with a graceful little gesture for him to step in first. Denji climbed inside, feeling the lingering heat of the sun still clinging to the cab’s seats. She slipped in right after him, closing the door with a soft click.

The cab pulled away from the curb.

“So… where are we going?” Denji asked, clenching his fists in his lap a little too tightly.

“The aquarium,” Makima answered, her voice smooth and sure. She set the bouquet down by her feet. Another pink camellia slipped loose and landed on the floor mat, bright and delicate against the dark rubber. She didn’t bother to pick it up.

Warm air drifted through the open windows. Outside, the late afternoon light painted everything gold—the sidewalks, the passing storefronts, the leaves shifting in the breeze. A couple kids biked past. A dog barked somewhere distant. Everything felt alive and easy, like the city itself was taking a long breath.

Inside the cab, it was quiet.

Makima shifted closer without saying anything. She nestled against him, her head resting gently on his chest. Denji tensed for a heartbeat, then melted. His pulse jumped. She had to feel it. She didn’t tease him for it.

She just stayed there, soft, warm, comfortable.

Denji’s thoughts spiraled. She’s so cute. So perfect.
He lowered his chin just enough that it hovered above her hair, afraid to move too much, afraid she might pull away.

The cab rolled on through the bright, calm city, carrying them toward the aquarium as another small pink petal drifted onto the floor.

Arriving at the aquarium entrance, the cab rolling to a gentle stop beside the wide glass doors. Makima gave Denji a light nudge toward the sidewalk.

“Go on,” she said. “I’ll take care of the fare." giving him the bouquet.

Denji hopped out, landing on the warm pavement. While he waited, he glanced down at the bouquet. Something felt… off. One more camellia was gone, leaving just a thin gap in the cluster of blue and pink. He blinked at it, puzzled for a second, then shrugged it off.

Makima stepped out a moment later, closing the door behind her with calm precision. The afternoon sun caught in her hair, giving it a soft copper glow. She gave the cab a polite wave as it drove off.

Then she reached for his hand, and taking the flowers from his hand.

Her fingers laced through his, warm and confident, pulling his attention back to her completely.

“Come on,” she murmured.

Denji followed her through the aquarium’s glass doors. Cool air brushed over them instantly, carrying the faint smell of clean water and sea salt. The lighting inside was dim, soft, bluish. The world seemed to hush as the doors shut behind them.

Makima guided him deeper inside, her steps light, her hand never leaving his. She led him down a gently sloping ramp into another world.

The curved glass tunnel opened before them like the inside of a giant, glowing seashell. The world shifted instantly from the bright, warm day outside to a cool, blue dreamscape. Light filtered down from the water above in long ribbons, wavering and bending as if the whole tunnel breathed.

The glass bowed outward on both sides, wrapping around them in a seamless arc. Every few steps, Denji caught a warped reflection of himself and Makima in the curve of the panels, stretched and rippling with the water’s movement. Her reflection always looked calm, elegant. His looked… well, less so.

The water beyond the glass was a rich gradient of blues. Deep navy in the distance, shifting to a soft turquoise near the lights installed beneath the coral. Schools of tiny silver fish rushed by like living sparks. A cluster of clownfish drifted in and out of a cushiony anemone, their bright orange bodies almost glowing against the soft purples of the coral. A manta ray glided overhead, its massive wings curving gracefully as if it were flying rather than swimming, casting a slow-moving shadow that slid across Makima’s shoulders.

Starfish clung lazily to the side of a large rock formation. Some were bright red, others pale blue, one almost white. The rocks themselves rose like underwater mountains, carved with grooves and small caves. Coral sprouted in clusters: branching pinks, knobby greens, soft fans swaying with the water’s pulse.

Makima let go of Denji’s hand just long enough to trail her fingers along the glass. Her touch left faint prints before the humidity slowly erased them. She tilted her head slightly, watching a pair of yellow tangs dart past, her expression softening.

Denji watched her more than the fish.

Her hair caught the blue light, glimmering like it had been dyed with the sea. The way she leaned in, eyes curious, lips parted just a little… she looked cuter than anything else in the tunnel. Even cuter than the clownfish, and those guys were pretty damn cute.

He swallowed, heart thudding.

This whole underwater world was incredible, sure, but Makima made it feel unreal in a different way. Like the whole place existed just to frame her in it.

She was on the move again, fingers behind her back. Denji stepped forward cautiously, eyes fixed on the subtle curl of Makima’s fingers, the silent beckoning. She slipped around the bend in the tunnel without a word, her silhouette swallowed by shifting blue light. He followed, boots tapping against the smooth floor, the air cooler here as if the water pressed closer.

Turning the corner, he stopped dead.

The room opened into a colossal circular chamber dominated by a single tank. The glass stretched from floor to ceiling, curving like the wall of a giant blue cathedral. Inside, the water looked endless. Deep, dark, heavy. There had to be millions of gallons in there, enough to drown an entire city block.

Floating in the middle of it was a massive ocean sunfish. Its body looked too big to be real, like a drifting moon carved from pale stone. The sunfish moved slowly, its fins waving like pieces of loose fabric caught in a gentle breeze. Surrounding it were dozens of jellyfish in a rainbow of colors. Electric blue. Soft peach. Almost invisible white. They drifted and pulsed near the sunfish like delicate bodyguards, their tendrils trailing behind in soft curls.

Denji stared, mouth slightly open, breath caught in his chest.

His gaze drifted down to the coral floor. A cluster of sea fans waved lazily. A rocky outcrop formed a cave, and tucked inside was an octopus, its skin shifting from brown to mossy green as it blended into its surroundings. One of its eyes peered out, unblinking.

Then something flickered in his peripheral vision. A flash of warm pink against all the blue.

He turned his head sharply.

A pink petal rested on the floor. Another a few steps away. Then another. They formed a trail curling along the path around the massive tank.

Denji split his attention between the petals and the sunfish, which had begun to drift in his direction. As he walked, the huge creature followed him with slow, deliberate movements, its single eye always turned toward him. The jellyfish floated behind it like lanterns.

He followed the petals the whole arc of the chamber until he returned to where he started, the entire loop bringing him back full circle.

Makima waited there.

She stood perfectly still, bouquet in hand, only a few camellias left nestling among the blue lobelias. Her calm figure was backlit by the glow of the giant tank, her outline so soft.

Makima took Denji by the hand again and guided him out of the aquarium. The sudden warmth of the outside air caught him off guard. The sky had shifted from bright afternoon blue to a soft orange wash. He realized he had completely lost track of time inside the tunnels of glass and drifting colours. A cab waited at the curb as if summoned just for them. The door was already unlocked.

Makima told him with a quiet certainty that they were going to dinner. The ride felt smooth and strangely short. Denji watched the sunlight slip lower between buildings while Makima sat beside him, perfectly calm, her hand still loosely around his.

They arrived at a bougie restaurant with a velvet awning and polished stone steps. A valet attendant opened the door with a practiced flourish, greeting them politely. Denji felt underdressed the moment his feet hit the ground. The glass front doors opened from the inside, a server welcoming them with a small bow. Everything felt expensive. Even the air smelled fancy.

Inside, soft amber light filled the room. Every table was taken, murmurs of conversation blending with the clink of glassware. They were seated at a window table dressed in a crisp white cloth. A small candle flickered between them. Red napkins were folded in perfect triangles, and the silverware looked like no one had ever touched it.

Makima set the bouquet on the ground beside her chair, out of sight. When the waiter handed them menus, she accepted hers gracefully and began to read through the options. She skimmed each item with a slow sweep of her finger. Denji did not even open his menu. He watched her eyes move, noticed the way the candlelight reflected in them, and lost the thread of everything else. His chest felt too warm.

When the waiter returned, Makima closed the menu without hesitation.
“For the appetiser, I will have the saffron-infused oyster trio,” she said. Her voice stayed calm and elegant. “For my main, the truffle risotto with shaved white truffle.”

She motioned lightly toward Denji’s untouched menu.
“For him, the yuzu-poached salmon as an appetiser, and the short rib ramen with hand-pulled noodles and consommé reduction.”

The waiter nodded with a smile and carried the menus away.

Denji blinked. He did not understand half the words she used, but he knew noodles were involved, so he relaxed a little. Mostly he was still thinking about how pretty she looked in the glow of the candle.

Makima folded her hands in her lap and looked at him with a soft expression that made his pulse jump.
“I hope you are hungry,” she said. “Dinner is important after a long day.”

He nodded, trying not to stare again.
“Yeah. I… yeah.”

Her smile grew just slightly, warm and unreadable at the same time. The restaurant hummed around them, full of people and noise, yet Denji felt like the whole evening had narrowed to just her across the table.

The quiet spell between them broke when the waiter returned with their dishes. The plates were arranged with that over-the-top precision Denji always associated with rich people food. Steam drifted from his bowl of noodles, carrying a deep savoury smell that hit him right in the chest. Makima’s appetiser looked like art more than food, each oyster set on its own bed of crushed ice, touched with threads of saffron.

Makima straightened slightly, lifted her fork with careful poise, and ate with perfect etiquette. Every movement was calm and measured. Denji watched for a moment, then tried to copy her. He held his chopsticks with a stiffness that felt ridiculous, tried to sit straighter, and dipped his head in the same slow, polite way she did when taking a bite.

After about thirty seconds of this, his muscles cramped from the effort and he snapped.
Forget it, he thought. Food was food.

He leaned over the bowl and dug into the noodles the way he always did, slurping loudly without meaning to. The broth was rich and salty with a hint of citrus, the noodles chewy and perfect. Every bite made him hungrier.

Makima glanced up at him. Her posture stayed elegant, but there was a tiny lift at the corner of her mouth, a smile she tried not to show fully. It wasn’t mocking. It was fond. Maybe even entertained.

Denji felt his face warm.
“Sorry,” he muttered through a mouthful, trying to wipe broth from his chin.

“You do not need to apologise,” she said. Her tone held no judgment at all. “Eat in whatever way feels natural to you.”

He nodded and kept eating, a bit slower only because she was watching. Her calm presence and the warmth of the restaurant wrapped around him, making the fancy setting feel less intimidating.

They finished up their meals, Makima setting her napkin down and looked at him with that gentle, unreadable expression.
“How was your meal, Denji?”

He swallowed the last bit of broth clinging to his lips and sat back.
“It was good. Really good. Kinda fancy, but… good.”
He scratched his cheek. “The noodles were great.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it,” she said, voice soft with approval.

They stepped out of the restaurant together. The shift in light hit him all at once. Inside had been warm and golden. Outside, the world was swallowed in darkness. Streetlights cast long puddles of pale yellow. Moonlight brushed the pavement silver. Makima held the bouquet at her side, the remaining camellias glowing softly in the dim surroundings.

Denji blinked hard. He had been sitting right beside a window, yet he had never noticed the sun disappear. Time kept slipping whenever she was close.

Makima guided him across the street. Cars hissed by, headlights streaking through the night. On the other side stood a park he swore had not existed earlier. Maybe he had just ignored it, or maybe everything in this dreamlike evening rearranged itself around her.

They entered beneath an arch of tall trees. Their leaves whispered overhead. Lamps stood along the path, each one throwing a small pool of warm light that faded into shadow. Crickets hummed in the distance. The air smelled faintly of grass and the cooling earth.

Makima walked close to him, her steps light and deliberate. Denji kept glancing at her without meaning to. Her hair moved with each step. The moonlight made the curve of her cheek look softer, almost glowing.

He felt calm. Nervous. Awake in a way that made everything around him sharper. He followed her deeper into the park, listening to the sound of her footsteps and feeling the quiet settle around them like a blanket.

Makima slowed her pace as the path narrowed. Trees grew denser here, their branches arching overhead until the lamps behind them were just faint halos through leaves. Denji felt the world quiet even more. Her hand tightened gently around his, guiding him off the main trail and onto a smaller one he had not noticed.

The ground changed under his feet, from gravel to soft earth. Fireflies drifted between the branches like tiny floating embers. Ahead, a faint flicker glowed through the dark.

They stepped into a small clearing.

A wooden stage sat nestled between the trees, old planks smoothed by time. Lanterns shaped like candles lined the edges, their flames steady despite the night breeze. The warm light painted everything gold. Above them, the sky opened into a wide stretch of stars, the moon hanging low and bright like it was watching.

Denji stared, stunned. He had walked through this park enough times on missions to know there was nothing like this here. Yet it felt permanent, like it had always been waiting.

Makima stepped ahead, her silhouette framed by candlelight. She turned to him slowly, setting bouquet at the base of the stage, her eyes reflecting the glow in a way that made them look almost molten.

“This place is lovely…” Denji whispered without thinking.

Makima smiled, soft and subtle, the kind of smile that made his chest tighten.
“I’m glad you think so. I wanted to show you something special tonight.”

Her tone wrapped around him, warm and gentle. The wooden boards creaked softly as she walked to the center of the stage. She looked up at the stars for a moment, then back at him.

The candle flames swayed. The air felt still. The whole world seemed to have shrunk to just the two of them, alone under moonlight.

Denji hesitated at the edge of the small wooden stage, his hands balling into a nervous fist. Makima stood in the center, one hand extended toward him, the candlelight flickering across her face and highlighting that small, mischievous smile. Her other hand rested lightly on her hip, posture poised, radiating a quiet confidence that made Denji’s knees tremble.

“Come on, Denji,” she said softly, her voice coaxing yet commanding, “join me.”

Chapter Text

Swallowing hard, he stepped onto the stage, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. He felt the warmth of the candles and the soft sway of the wooden floor beneath his feet. Makima reached for his hand, and as soon as he hesitated, she guided him gently yet firmly into her rhythm.

They started moving together, Makima leading, Denji stumbling to follow. His feet caught awkwardly on the boards, and he nearly stepped on her toes. She laughed softly, a light sound that made his heart race, and adjusted him with the smallest of nudges, her hand warm and firm in his.

He tried to mirror her steps, twisting, turning, and stepping, but his coordination betrayed him at every moment. His shoulders were tense, his head whipping around trying to anticipate the next move, while Makima moved with the elegance of someone born to lead.

“Relax,” she murmured, leaning slightly so her cheek brushed his. “Just follow me.”

Denji nodded, cheeks burning, trying to sink into her guidance. The world outside the park—cars, streetlights, even the moon—faded into irrelevance. All that mattered was the gentle sway of Makima’s movements, her hand in his, and the warmth of her body guiding his own.

Even as he stumbled again, nearly tripping over her foot, Makima adjusted him with a subtle shift, spinning him lightly on the balls of his feet. Denji’s heart pounded, a mix of embarrassment and awe, feeling completely out of his element yet unable to resist the magnetic pull of following her lead.

The music of the night—crickets, a soft breeze, the distant hum of the city—seemed to sync with their movements. For a few moments, Denji wasn’t the clumsy, fumbling boy he usually was. He was dancing, caught in a rhythm dictated entirely by Makima, and he didn’t want it to end.

Denji's clumsiness returned as he shuffled awkwardly across the wooden stage, his steps uncertain, toes scraping slightly against the polished surface. Makima’s hand pressed firmly against his back, guiding him through each hesitant movement, her other hand lightly grasping his, the touch almost electric. He caught himself glancing down once at the small cluster of flowers tucked at the base of the stage, the pink petals stark against the dark wood, before her thumb pressed gently into his hand, drawing his gaze immediately back to her eyes.

Her expression was calm, unyielding, commanding without a word. Denji felt a shiver as he tried to match her movements, the tango’s rhythm flowing through her, him merely following. His feet tripped on invisible cues, knees stiff, yet she guided him effortlessly, leaning into each motion as she led. Their glances met sporadically—hers steady, his wide and flustered—and he felt an odd mixture of panic and exhilaration, each step magnified in significance under her intense gaze.

Makima moved with precise control, sliding forward and pivoting him into position, her body the anchor he clung to. She shifted her weight slightly, pressing her chest just enough against his as they spun slowly, and Denji’s heart pounded from both fear and the closeness.

Finally, with a subtle tilt of her torso and a guiding hand on his back, she swept him into a dip. Denji’s knees nearly buckled, chest pressed to hers, arms instinctively bracing as she held him firmly, effortlessly controlling the motion. Suspended in that moment, with his head tilted back and the stage beneath him, Denji felt a rush of adrenaline and awe, heart hammering as the world narrowed to just the two of them.

She straightened him back up, her hand lingering lightly on his back, and Denji, flushed and breathless, realized he was beginning to move not only with her guidance but almost in sync with her, the tango leaving him both dizzy and captivated.

Makima straightened him back up, her hands sliding from his back to lace loosely around his neck, and Denji, flushed and breathless, feeling her guide his own hands to her waist. They swayed together in a slow rhythm that barely counted as a dance, yet it pulled him in all the same. Her touch steadied him, her presence filling the space around them until it felt like the whole world had narrowed to the warmth between their bodies.

Makima’s hands drifted up from his shoulders to his face, cupping his cheeks with a softness that made his breath stutter. Denji felt heat surge through him at the gentleness of her palms, his cheeks burning beneath her fingertips. Her eyes locked onto his, deep and unblinking, sinking into him with an intensity that made his chest tighten. She leaned in, closing the distance with slow certainty, her lips just a breath away from his.

His mind should have been blank, overwhelmed by her closeness. Instead, something tugged at him. His gaze flicked past her shoulder for just a moment. The camellias and lobelias at the base of the stage lay still in the dark, except for the single pink camellia standing alone in the sea of blue. One small burst of color calling to him, impossible to ignore. A single drop of pink in an ocean of blue.

He felt it tug at him again, strange and insistent. Before her lips could touch his, Denji pulled back, barely an inch, but enough.

Makima’s hands remained on his cheeks. Her expression didn’t waver. “Denji,” she asked softly, “is something wrong?”

Denji looked into her eyes, the gold rings staring back at him, steady.
“It’s nothing. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just…” His words drifted as his gaze slipped past her shoulder toward the flower arrangement at the base of the stage.

“The flowers!” he said, uneasy.

Makima tilted her head. “Flowers?”

“Yeah. The flowers.”

“You let flowers interrupt the moment?” Her tone was soft, almost confused, but it pressed on him.

He stepped back, his hands sliding free from her waist, and walked toward the bouquet. “It’s just…” He stopped to gather the thought that felt like it had punched its way to the front of his mind. “I noticed all the pink flowers are gone. Except this one.” He held up the single camellia, the only bright dot of pink. “Did you… not like them?”

“It’s not that I hate them. I just preferred the blue flowers,” Makima said smoothly.

“Oh.” Denji let out a tiny breath, almost relieved. “But I got these flowers specifically because they reminded me of you…” He said it without thinking, but the words hung in the air, heavy. Reminded me of you.

The line echoed in his mind, not matching the earlier haze he’d been drifting in.

He frowned, his eyes sharpening. Something felt off. Very off.

Makima started walking toward him. “That’s really sweet, De—”

He threw up a hand, stopping her mid-step.

“But… I didn’t pick these out for you.”

Makima’s expression tightened just a fraction. “Denji, everything is perfectly fine.”

“A little too perfect.”

Her eyes followed him as he backed away. The softness in her face stayed, but something in her posture shifted.

“Things have been too perfect,” he said, voice rising with the clarity cutting through him. “That’s not normal.”

Makima stepped faster, closing the distance with subtle urgency. “You’re tired. Why don’t we return to the stage?”

“No.” Denji’s hand moved to the cord on his chest, fingers brushing the handle. “All I know is that this… isn’t right.” His grip tightened. The other hold the bouquet, his eye trained on the single pick dot “These were meant for someone else.”

Makima lunged, her hand reaching out to grasp him. “Don’t.”

Denji yanked the cord.

Chapter Text

HHHHHH!

Denji bursts awake, vision snapping back in shards, blurred, breath tearing out of him like he had been drowning. His heart hammered against his ribs, one hand clutching at his chest, the other still wrapped tight around the bouquet. As his sight steadied, he found himself staring straight into the tiny golden eyes of the mouse perched on the desk.

The mouse twitched, as if caught doing something it shouldn’t’ve, then scurried off. Denji tracted it as it slipped beneath the crack under the door, its tail vanishing between the gap and the floor.

His gaze lifted. The desk lamp glowed steadily, warm and small against the room’s cold edges. The desk itself was as clear as before, untouched. Outside the window, the blizzard howled against the glass, the world reduced to a white void.

Denji rose slowly, muscles trembling with leftover adrenaline. He crossed to the door, fingers hovering a moment before he cracked it open. The hallway beyond was lit again, sterile and bright, humming faintly with electricity. No footsteps. No voices. Not a single person in sight.

He took a cautious step out, then another, the bouquet limp in his hand. The hallway stretched empty toward the elevator, each fluorescent panel buzzing quietly above him.

Denji swallowed hard, his throat tight. He walked to the elevator, pressed the call button with the back of his knuckle, and stood waiting. His reflection in the metal doors looked pale, shaken, and too awake.

The elevator chimed, doors parting.

He peered into the steel coffin.
Plain metal walls. Flickering ceiling light. Buttons labeled with normal floors. Exactly the dull, forgettable box Denji was used to.

He stepped in with a tiny breath of relief, thumb hovering over the panel. Before he could press anything, the doors slammed shut. The elevator lurched, not up, not down, but deep, the drop slow and heavy, like sinking through wet concrete.

The buzzing light above him dimmed to a sickly hum. Denji clenched the bouquet tighter, bracing himself.

Then the elevator dinged.
The doors slid open with a hiss.

It looked like the gates of hell.

A wash of dim orange light poured inside, warm but wrong. Outside sat a single table set for two, pristine white cloth, candle flickering in the center. It was the restaurant’s table. Down to the silver cutlery. Down to the velvet chairs. Down to the angle of the candle flame.

Makima sat on one side. Perfect posture. Hands folded. Expression unreadable.

Denji’s hand shot toward his cord on instinct, fingers brushing the handle.

Makima spoke before he could pull.
Her voice wasn’t threatening or sweet. Just calm.
“Denji. Sit.”

He froze, breathing sharp.
“No tricks?” he asked, jaw tight.

Makima tilted her head, the candlelight catching in her golden eyes.
“No tricks,” she said, tone soft and steady. “Just a conversation.”

The elevator doors stayed open, inviting.
Or trapping.
Hard to tell.

Denji hesitated, pulse pounding.

Then, slowly, he stepped toward the table.

Denji pulled out the chair and sat down across from Makima, placing the flowers beside the candle. His knee bounced under the table, shoulders tight, every muscle ready to snap into motion if she so much as twitched wrong.

They sat in a thick, suffocating silence.
Makima watched him without blinking.
Denji watched her like she might detonate.

The air felt heavy, like the world was holding its breath.

“Where’s Reze.”

Makima didn’t change expression. “Not that it’s any real concern to you, but she is alive.”

Denji’s grip on the chair tightened. “That’s not very assuring.”

“I told you. It doesn’t really matter.”

Denji leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed.

“You know I don't want to fight you. You know I do.
He swallowed.
“But I’m not leaving without her.”

Makima smiled faintly, not warm. Just knowing.

“That’s good.”
A pause.
“I wasn’t planning on letting you leave.”

Denji’s jaw locked at her words. The candle between them flickered, stretching their shadows across the concrete floor like something long and hungry.

“So this is a trap,” he said.

Makima didn’t even tilt her head. “It’s a conversation. The trap comes after, if you make it necessary.”

He felt his heartbeat in his throat.
“You did something to me,” he muttered. “The date. The aquarium. The stage… You wanted something.”

Makima didn’t flinch. “I wanted clarity.”
Her eyes sharpened, that familiar gold circling like the world was turning inside her.
“And now,” she continued, “I want your answer.”

Denji’s fingers curled slowly around the bouquet.
“My answer to what?”

Makima’s smile touched her lips but never reached her eyes.
“Whether you’re mine…”
Her fingertip tapped the table once, light as a falling petal.
“…or you intend to fight fate.”

The candle hissed like it heard the threat.
The elevator behind him hummed, ready to swallow him up again.
The storm outside pushed against invisible walls.

Makima didn’t blink.
“Choose, Denji.”

“Why do I have to choose?” Denji asked. His voice cracked more from frustration than fear. “Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t you just let her go?”

Makima leaned back as if the question bored her.
“Life doesn’t work like that, Denji.”

He shook his head. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true. She isn’t real,” Makima said, her tone warm in a way that made his stomach twist. “She can’t give you the kind of love you deserve. I can.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Makima sighed like he was a stubborn child. “I’m doing what’s best for you.”

“What if I don’t want the best?” Denji shot back.
His hand pressed flat against the table, knuckles whitening.
“What if I don’t want fancy dates at aquariums or eating stuff I can’t even pronounce? What if I just want—” He stopped himself, chest tight.

Makima’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t know this girl. You spent a few days with her. She was using you.”

“And you’re not?” Denji said.

The silence after that line hit like a dropped guillotine. Makima didn’t answer. She only stared, and Denji could feel the truth vibrating under his skin—no illusions, no petals, no dream-filtered warmth. Just him, and her, and the thing she refused to say out loud.

Her eyes narrowed, golden rings tightening like noose loops.
“Denji,” she said softly, terrifyingly soft, “you are alive because I allow it. That is not ‘using.’ That is protection.”

Denji’s stomach flipped. His fingers inched toward the cord.

“Feels the same to me,” he whispered.

Denji swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the table for a moment before he looked back up.

“Look… I’ve spent enough time with her to know I love her.”

Makima’s expression didn’t change.
“No. You don’t love her. You’re in love with the idea of her.”

“Is that so wrong?” Denji asked. There was no anger now, just a tired ache.
“Is it so wrong to dream?”

Makima shook her head slowly, almost pitying him.
“You’re blind to the fact that she was never yours to begin with. She was just your favorite illusion.”

The air went still. Even the hum of the elevator machinery behind them felt muted.

Denji leaned back, eyes narrowing, trying to figure out whether she was joking, testing him, or dead serious. Her face gave him nothing. That was what made his skin crawl.

Denji breathed in, steady and deliberate.
“Even illusions become real when she smiles.”

“And i'll be damned if I don’t make her smile,” he said, firm in his resolve.

Makima’s expression twitched. Just a little. Just enough to show she didn’t like hearing that. Then her polite smile snapped back into place like it had never slipped.

“Fine.”

His head shot up. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said, almost sweetly. “But on one condition.”

“Sure, of course, anything.”

“Your heart.”

There was no pause. No metaphor. No softness. Just the flat truth landing between them.

Denji blinked. “My heart?”

“You give me your heart.” She tilted her head as if offering him a business deal instead of a death sentence. “That is the price. Your heart for hers.”

“That ain’t happening.”

Makima shrugged lightly. “Then that is my offer to you.”

The room seemed to tighten around them.

She waited, perfectly still, perfectly patient, as if she already knew what he would choose.

Makima watched him with those golden eyes, silent, expecting him to break.

Denji exhaled once, slow and shaky, like he was steadying his whole soul rather than just his breath.

“Well then…” He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor. His hand drifted toward his chest, fingers brushing the familiar pull-ring. His eyes never left hers. “…I guess I have no other choice.”

For the first time, Makima’s smile thinned.
Not gone.
Just…strained.

“Denji,” she said gently, almost coaxing. “Think—”

He didn’t let her finish.

His fingers hooked the cord, metal cold against his skin.

He yanked.

The sound split the air, a violent metallic RRRIP that cut through the calm like a scream.
Wind blasted outward from him, cultery and cloth of the table
The candles flickered.
Makima’s hair lifted in the sudden pressure.

Her smile dropped completely.

Denji’s eyes glowed a fierce, hungry red as the chainsaw roar began to boil up from his chest, drowning out everything except the two truths pounding through him:

He wasn't leaving without Reze and if she wanted his heart, she would have to tear it out of him herself.

Chapter Text

Denji’s body snapped forward as the cord tore open the thing inside him. His spine arched, ribs straining against skin, heat blooming through every inch of him. His human outline burned away. The roar started in his lungs, metallic and monstrous, and then the chainsaws burst free.

His head split forward into that familiar orange helmet of carnage, metal plates snapping into place over bone, jagged teeth grinding against each other like a living engine hungry for something to tear apart. The forehead saw ripped out next, screaming to life, a spinning blade thrust forward like a unicorn built for slaughter. His arms distorted as steel invaded them, chainsaws jutting out with a violent kick, their vibrations shaking the air around him. His eyes shifted last, red to a blazing amber, wild and unrestrained, pupils contracting into something predatory.

The moment he fully became Chainsaw Man, Makima lifted herself lightly—almost playful—landing a step back as his right saw came down. The blow cleaved the table straight through. The cloth shredded with the force, curling up as it tore. The candle died instantly, its melted wax spraying in a messy arc across the bouquet. The flowers shot up from the impact, tumbling somewhere behind her into the dimness of the corridor.

Only the low, submarine-like hallway lights remained, buzzing faintly against the sound of grinding steel.

Makima shuffled left, calm as ever, as the blade in Denji’s arm chewed a scorching trench into the metal floor. Sparks skittered across the ground like fireflies being crushed.

Denji jerked his head up from the gouged floor, locked onto her new position. Makima was crouched in a compact, frog-like stance, her balance casual, her attention fully on him. The second he twitched, she knew.

He launched.

Denji hurled himself in a burst of jagged fury, saws shrieking. Makima slipped aside again, her coat brushing the air he cut through. She shouldn’t have been able to move that quietly with that kind of force hitting inches from her, but she did.

Denji’s momentum carried him hard into the right wall. Both arm-saws dug deep into a cell door, metal screaming on metal, sparks spraying like fireworks trapped in a claustrophobic tunnel. He braced his kicks against the door, pushing off, tearing long gashes through the steel as he wrenched himself free.

The entire hallway rang with the echo. The lights flickered. The vibration of the chainsaws filled the narrow passage, alive, furious, and hungry.

Makima kept walking backward, perfectly in step, guiding him without saying a word.

Makima stepped back twice. She left just enough distance for him to lunge again, exactly the amount she knew he would take. His sneakers scraped against the metal floor as he burst forward. Chainsaws screamed, sparks trailing behind him like dying fire.

“You never have a backup plan,” she said softly.

His eyes met hers.

Everything snapped.

The hallway dissolved around them, the steel walls bending like melting wax. The dim submarine lights warped, stretched, and vanished. The air brightened with a warm glow that felt nothing like the cold artificial bulbs.

Denji blinked hard.

When the world settled, he stood in the middle of an endless flower field.

The sun shone bright above, soaking everything in warm gold. The petals around him were red, blue, yellow, and pink, blending into each other like paint spilled across a canvas. The flowers rippled in the soft wind, each movement gentle and hypnotic. The field reached the horizon in every direction with no city, no hallway, no prison cell, nothing but color and sunlight.

The air smelled sweet, almost too sweet, like a dream trying to convince him it was real.

Denji’s chainsaws still roared, but they sounded distant, muffled by the calmness of the field.

He turned slowly, watching the petals brush against his legs. No footprints. No shadows. Not a single person. His heart thudded in a confusing mix of awe and suspicion.

“Hey!” he called out as he stared up at the clear blue sky. “Where am I? Makima!”

For a moment, the field was silent except for the breeze.

Then her voice drifted down from nowhere. Soft. Warm. Almost loving.

“I could give you this peace. All of it. Every day. No fighting, no fear. A place just for you. You only have to give your heart to me.”

Denji clenched his jaw. “No.”

The word cut through the stillness.

The chainsaws on his arms revved louder, teeth grinding, refusing the comfort that didn’t belong to him.

The sky dimmed. A shadow stretched across the flowers. The blue above shifted to gray, then to a violent charcoal swirl. Wind slammed into the field, petals tearing free like confetti in a storm. Denji turned as a funnel cloud touched down in the distance, ripping the calm world apart.

The tornado roared across the horizon, shredding the peaceful meadow that Makima had offered him.

The tornado lurched toward him, devouring the horizon. Flowers ripped from their stems and spiraled upward like a technicolor blizzard. The ground vibrated beneath Denji’s sneakers as the roar of the storm grew louder, deeper, almost alive.

The tornado surged closer, growing from a distant column into a towering wall of shrieking wind. The air warped around it, bending light, ripping whole patches of flowers from the earth in spirals of colour. Denji braced himself, shoulders squared, chainsaws rattling with anticipation.

The storm struck.

The first wave of debris came like a warning shot. A silver river of fish hurled toward him, scales catching the fading sunlight so they looked like shards of broken mirrors. He carved through them with a single sweep, the blades spitting silver mist.

Then the real assault began.

A full birch tree, roots and all, whipped out of the rotating maw. Denji ducked as it sailed overhead, missing him by inches before splintering against the ground behind him. He took one step forward.

A boulder followed, jagged edges spinning too fast to track. Denji sidestepped, sparks flying as it grazed his shoulder saw.

The tornado screamed, angry.

It spat out an entire cluster of flowers next—thousands of them—petals stinging his exposed skin like hail. They plastered against his helmet and arms in smears of red, purple, and blue before being shredded by the saws.

A deer burst from the wall of wind next, twisting midair, hooves flailing desperately. Denji gritted his teeth and met it head on, slicing through the animal with a brutal uppercut, the body splitting and flinging apart into the storm behind him.

Then more deer.

A whole herd, tumbling through the air like broken marionettes, their forms warped by the tornado’s pull. Denji hacked through them one after another, each swing deliberate, messy, necessary.

The next wave was stranger.

Household objects he’d never seen before. A bicycle frame clattering like a skeletal bird. A chair spinning like a sawblade. A full refrigerator slamming into the dirt, exploding open and raining down glass jars.

Mice—hundreds of them—spiraled out next, forming a living shrieking ribbon that wrapped toward him. He sliced through the writhing stream and kept moving.

A stop sign.
A mailbox.
A half-shredded park bench.
An entire section of wooden fence.

Every step ahead was like walking into a firing squad armed with the world itself.

Denji’s shoes slid through gouged earth as he kept shoving forward. His chainsaws were coated in sap, fur, petals, dust, and still they screamed like they wanted more. Wind clawed at him, ripping at his shirt, tugging at his limbs, trying to drag him backward.

He leaned into the storm with everything he had.

Then, suddenly, his foot crossed an invisible boundary.

Silence.

The wind cut out completely. Petals hung in the air like paused confetti. The ground was untouched, pristine. A serene circle carved out in the middle of destruction.

She looked exactly like he remembered

Her smile soft.
Her eyes warm.
Her posture relaxed, like she’d been waiting exactly for him and knew without question he’d come.

“Hey, Denji.”

A strange calm washed over Denji the moment he saw her. His chainsaws still roared, but his mind went strangely quiet. Reze. Standing there like nothing had ever happened. Like she hadn’t vanished. Like he hadn’t torn through a nightmare to reach her.

His sneakers sank slightly into the soft earth as he stepped closer. None of it made sense. Not the sky. Not the storm. Not the impossible stillness around them.

How was she here?
Why was she here?

Before he could claw together even one answer, Reze rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Denji froze.

The saws in his arms sputtered, slowing to a gentler whir. His whole body turned soft, all tension melting like warm pudding. Her warmth seeped into him. Her scent, familiar and gentle, disarmed him faster than any weapon. His head dipped slightly into her shoulder.

For a moment, he let himself believe it.

For a moment, he let his guard fall.

Her voice brushed his ear, soft as a kiss.

“Boom.”

Denji’s eyes widened.

The explosion hit point-blank.

It wasn’t sound first. It was pressure. A violent bloom of force erupted from her body, sending a shockwave through the ground. Flame swallowed his vision. The impact hurled him backward, his sneakers skidding in dirt before he was thrown into the air, grass and petals ripping loose beneath him.

Reze’s silhouette snapped into its true form.

Hair lifting and fusing together to form a whole.
Limbs covered in black.
A lethal, elegant shape framed by swirling smoke.
The Bomb Devil, glowing with heat and intent.

Her eyes met his through the flames.

No smile now.
Just detonation.

“Come on, Denji,” she said, voice crackling like a lit fuse. “If you want me so badly… then catch me.”

Another flash. Another explosion building.

Denji scrambled across the ground as Reze snapped her fingers, a sharp click cutting through the air right before a heavy blast tore apart the spot he had just been standing on. Heat slapped across his back. His ears rang. Reze’s voice slid through the smoke with a teasing confidence. “I’m right here, Denji.”

She spun on her heel and launched a barrage of missiles in his direction. The air filled with that rising whistle before the explosions bloomed. Denji ducked, rolled, and threw himself sideways, every instinct screaming louder than the engines in his chest.

He planted a foot to push off again, and the world ripped upward beneath him.
For one blinding instant, it felt like the ground reached up and punched through his entire body. A pressure spike hit him from the soles of his feet to the base of his skull. Heat wrapped his leg followed by a jolt that felt like a nerve being shoved through a cramped tunnel. His stomach dropped. His vision flashed white. His brain lagged half a second behind his body, trying to catch up to the idea that he had just been launched.

He hit the ground hard. The earth felt cold and solid in a way his body wasn’t ready for. He had to shake his head to force the fog out of it, blinking until the ringing eased. His hand shot to his leg. No burns. No gashes. Nothing out of place. His body was fine, but his nerves kept screaming a ghost version of the impact. Phantom pain. His brain insisting he should be damaged even though his skin refused to prove it.

He pushed himself upright as Reze drew another charge, her silhouette sharp against the swirling smoke. His engine sputtered, then roared to life, rattling through his ribs like it wanted to burst out and drag him forward.

“That’s the spirit,” Reze laughed.

The next explosion wasn’t aimed at him. It was aimed at the ground between them.
The earth folded inward before erupting outward. A crater opened like a mouth swallowing the battlefield. Smoke, ash, and broken stone shot upward in a thick plume. The shockwave slapped into Denji’s chest, lifting him off his feet and tossing him backward like a ragdoll.

His body skidded, dirt grinding into his palms, the force stealing air from his lungs. His brain processed the threat before his senses finished catching up. High heat. High pressure. Rapid direction change. His threat system fired in every direction at once, fogging everything except the raw need to get back up and keep moving.

Denji staggered up again, lungs burning, ears ringing, and yet something finally clicked in the middle of all that chaos. Reze hadn’t moved. Not once. Not a single step away from her perfect little circle in the field. That meant something, and he tucked the idea away like a secret he couldn’t afford to lose.

He didn’t show it. He made sure he looked exactly how she expected him to look.

Desperate. Reckless. Foolish.

Reze lifted her hand, finger pointed at him like the barrel of a pistol. Her smile sharpened.

The snap of her thumb was the only warning he got.

The first blast split the air like lightning. A spear of heat tore toward him and erupted with a boom that kicked up a wall of dirt and shredded flowers. Denji dove sideways, the pressure slamming into him, forcing his footing to skid. His sneakers barely held traction.

He didn’t stop.

He sprinted forward, chainsaw engines revving higher, louder, frantic. Reze’s laughter rang across the field, airy and delighted.

“Come on, Denji, you need a plan.”

She fired again before he could breathe.

The explosion ripped open the ground in a perfect circle, petals and debris sucked upward in a violent burst. Denji veered right. The shockwave punched him in the ribs and nearly sent him tumbling, heat washing across his face like opening an oven door too close. A second plume of smoke rose, thick and dark.

Reze followed him with her hand, tracking him like a sniper locking onto a target.

Snap.

Another explosion crashed to life at his heels. Dirt and torn grass pelted his back. He pushed harder, legs burning, engines screaming with a raw, almost feral rhythm. He kept low to the ground his fingers brushes over the ground, then closing them. He looked like someone running headfirst into death.

Reze fired again.

This blast was bigger. The ground buckled. The air twisted. A thundercrack tore across the flower field, lifting chunks of earth and sending them spinning. Denji dodged at the last possible moment, momentum ripping him forward while the shockwave shoved his body sideways.

Smoke ballooned upward, swallowing whole patches of the field.

She didn’t pause.

She fired again. And again. And again.

Each blast had its own signature:
A sharp pop, then a violent bloom of flame.
A deep boom that rattled the chest.
A rolling detonation that felt like a fist slamming into the world itself.

Petals ignited midair. Trees in the distance bent from the pressure. The sky itself seemed to flinch with every blast. Denji zigzagged unpredictably, engines roaring like they were ready to tear themselves apart. He looked frantic, cornered, outmatched, running on instinct alone.

Reze’s smile widened. She chased him with gunshot snaps of her fingers, lighting up the field like fireworks gone feral.

Explosions devoured his wake.

More smoke piled up, thick as storm clouds, fed by every detonation. It swirled and bled together until it became impossible for her to see where smoke ended and the field began.

She fired a final shot.

The bloom of smoke choked the air, so dense and swirling that even she couldn’t see her own hand clearly.

Denji disappeared inside it, swallowed whole by the chaos she created.

Reze stood perfectly still, one hand lifted, palm open as if feeling the heat still lingering in the air. Her voice softened into a low hum of amusement.

“I’ll hand it to you, Denji. You do have a plan.”
She tapped her temple lightly, pausing just long enough to let the moment stretch.
“Using the smoke to conceal yourself is actually pretty clever.”

Her smile sharpened as her head tilted.

“But I can still hear your engine.”

She pivoted on her heel, a smooth, perfect 180, and blasted straight into the thickest part of the smoke. The explosion cracked the field open again, scattering ash and torn earth in a wide radius.

The sound hit first.
A sputter.
A choke.
Then the chainsaw engine cut out completely, like a dying breath.

Reze let out a bright, melodic laugh.

“Well then… guess I win.”

The smoke rolled away in slow swirls, thinning under the warm, impossible sunlight. She looked forward, chin raised, expecting to see Denji lying facedown in the dirt, maybe with a severed limb or two.

Instead, all she saw was a small, broken rock. Sitting in the perfectly center of her explosion, like a muse to a artist

Her brow furrowed, confusion blooming for barely a second.

That was all Denji needed.

The sound of chainsaws erupted behind her with no warning, roaring to life with a feral, metallic snarl. It was close. Too close. She didn’t even have time to turn.

The blades tore through her back and out her chest like they met no resistance at all, metal teeth screaming as they carved through flesh and fabric and the illusion itself. Her body jerked forward, eyes widening, mouth parting in a silent, stunned breath.

Denji’s voice came through the roar of engines, low and furious.

“You talk too much.”

Chapter Text

The steam peeled away like thinning fog, and Denji froze. The hallway, the pipes, Makima’s silhouette were gone. In their place stretched an endless sheet of water so still it might as well have been painted on glass. No sky. No walls. Just a horizon swallowed by blue nothing, and in the very center of it all, a lone wooden rocking chair moving back and forth in a slow, steady rhythm.

He stared down. Water rippled around his sneakers, licking at the rubber and trembling with each small shift of his weight. He expected it to soak his socks. It didn’t.

Instinct kicked in. He checked his hand. No chainsaws. He grabbed for his chest. No cord. His stomach dropped as if someone kicked him inside.

“Seriously…?” he muttered.

He crouched, lowering a hand to the surface. His fingertips dipped through a thin layer of water, then hit something solid just beneath. Firm. Unyielding. Like a floor pretending to be an ocean.

His reflection wavered up at him. Same messy hair. Same tired face. Same confusion. The sight annoyed him more than it comforted him.

He pushed against the invisible surface again. Same result. Water on top, cold and shallow, but a hard barrier underneath that didn’t belong.

“Not this shit again.”

He stood and started walking toward the rocking chair. Each step sent circles of ripples skating outward in perfect rings. The splashing around his ankles sounded real enough, but the water never grew deeper, never changed temperature. It just reacted to him like it had to, not because it wanted to.

By the time he reached the chair, the ripples behind him had already faded, swallowed by the unnatural stillness of the place.

He stopped in front of it.

The chair kept rocking. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. No wind. No weight on it. Just motion for the sake of motion.

Denji wiped his palms on his pants, suddenly aware of how quiet everything was. No hum of engines. No pounding heart. No breathing except his own. The silence pressed in on him like a hand over his mouth.

He hated the way it made him feel.

He circled the chair once, slow, as if expecting something to jump at him from behind it. Nothing did. Just water and emptiness stretching to infinity.

He let out a shaky breath.

“Okay… so where’s the door?”

Denji gave the chair a cautious nudge with two fingers. It rocked exactly like a normal chair would. No ominous creaking. No ghostly whisper. No trapdoor opening beneath him. Just wood on wood, gently swaying.

“Great. A stupid chair.”

He blew out a breath and glanced around again. Nothing but water, flat and endless in every direction. Maybe it was one of those dumb illusions where if you walked long enough, you break through to the next part. Makima liked mind games. Maybe she messed up and left him a loophole.

Denji took a breath and squared his shoulders. If this place had rules, he sure as hell wasn’t going to learn them by standing still. He stepped past the rocking chair and into the horizon’s nothing.

At first he walked with the casual confidence of someone who didn’t care if he looked stupid. His hands tucked behind his head, elbows pointed out, like he was on a lazy stroll through a park. Each step made soft concentric ripples across the water’s skin, the faint splashes rolling outward until they disappeared into the quiet. He whistled a little tune and nodded along to it, pretending the situation wasn’t weird at all.

After a few minutes the quiet started pressing on him. The air here didn’t even hum. No distant birds. No wind. Not a single echo of life. His whistle slipped. His brows pinched.

“…This is taking forever.”

His pace picked up. Not dramatically, just enough to look like someone who was trying not to look impatient. His arms swung a little harder. The water splashed a bit more.

He kept glancing up between steps, waiting for even the smallest change in the endless blue. Nothing shifted. Nothing grew. The world around him stayed exactly the same.

He gritted his teeth.

“Okay. Fine.”

He broke into a jog.

The slap of his sneakers hitting the firm surface beneath the water echoed around him in the vast emptiness. His breath came in steady bursts. He leaned forward and pushed harder, splashes rising higher with each stride. He jogged long enough for his calves to warm and his shoulders to loosen. The ripples behind him stretched in wide, trembling rings that spread out into oblivion.

Still nothing.

No changes in the sky.

No changes in the water.

Just the same damn horizon.

He hissed through his teeth and pushed into a faster pace. The jog sharpened. His arms pumped. His breathing grew heavier. His footsteps hit with more force.

“Any time now… any damn time…”

He wasn’t jogging anymore.

He sprinted.

His sneakers hammered the invisible floor beneath the water. Each impact sent water exploding outward, spraying up around his shins in chaotic bursts. Every exhale burned like fire in his chest. Sweat began to bead along his brow even in the cool, empty air.

The world ahead finally wavered. A tiny flicker. A spot of color. Something that wasn’t water or sky. Something real.

His heart surged like a kicked engine.

“Yes! Yes, yes—knew it!”

He drove himself harder, legs pumping so fast the splashes blurred behind him. His breath rattled with excitement. His hands clenched into fists as he ran like a dog chasing a promise.

The dot grew. Shape sharpening. Edges forming.

Almost there. A few more strides. Just a few more—

The shape finished forming.

Wood.

Curved pieces.

Two slats.

A backrest he recognized too well.

Denji’s sprint faltered so fast he nearly face-planted. He skidded forward, arms flailing, sneakers squealing against the slick wet surface. Water surged around him in a wide arc as he came to a gasping, disbelieving stop.

The rocking chair sat calmly in front of him.

The exact same one.

Same tilt.

Same gentle sway.

Denji dropped to his knees, hands dragging down his face.

“Aw, c’mon… for real?”

He let out a long, pathetic groan that echoed into the endless water.

“Fuuuuuck.”

He flopped down beside the chair, cross-legged and defeated, gave it a lazy push with one hand, and watched it rock back and forth like it was laughing at him.

He glared at the chair like it owed him money, like it had the answers he was searching for.

After a moment, he sighed and gave it another push. Then another. Watching it sway back and forth.

“Whole damn ocean and I’m stuck babysitting a chair…”

He rocked the chair gently, back and forth, a slight creaking of wood, probably from over rocking, the only sound in the whole world. He watched its motion blend with the tiny ripples around it. Out. Around. Gone.

His own reflection stared up at him between each pass, warped slightly by the movement of the water. It felt like the reflection was waiting for him to make a decision he didn’t want to make.

After a while his shoulders slumped. The quiet pressed on him harder. His eyes drifted to the rocking chair again.

“…Maybe I’m stuck here.”

The thought had weight. It settled in his gut like a stone.

He glanced at the chair with a mix of suspicion and temptation. If he sat in it, maybe something would happen. Maybe that was the whole point. Maybe the chair was his door. Maybe that was what Makima wanted.

Maybe... that wasn’t even such a bad thing.

The thought brushed his mind like a whisper, soft and inviting. It sure would save him his bordem

His face hardened. He shoved it out of his head, slapping himself across the face like swatting a fly.

“No. Screw that.”

He pushed the chair again. Harder this time, enough to send it rocking a little too sharply. Then he turned back to the water.

He leaned forward, staring deep into his reflection. It stared back with the same frustrated confusion, the same flicker of stubbornness.

He cupped some water in his hand and sipped it. It had no taste. No temperature. No feeling. It might as well have been nothing at all.

His brows knit.

“…What even are you?”

He leaned forward. The reflection leaned with him.

Curiosity sparked. A reckless kind—the only kind Denji ever trusted.

He dipped his head through the surface expecting to smack straight into solid floor a second later, but instead his hair slipped into open water. The shock of it hit him even though there was no temperature to feel. His whole head submerged cleanly, the world turning muted and blue around him.

For a split second Denji hesitated, suspended between worlds with only his shoulders still above water. Then he gritted his teeth and shoved the rest of himself in, arms stretching out in front of him as he dove. There was no breath sucked in, no preparation. He just committed, the same way he always did: recklessly, stupidly, completely.

Water folded over him without resistance.

He expected to feel the pressure clutch at his ribs as he descended. He expected the dull ache in his ears, the sting in his eyes, the cold cutting at his skin. He expected his lungs to seize up any second, screaming for air.

Nothing.

His body moved like it was half-numb, not from cold but from absence. The water felt…not like water at all. More like air that pretended it was liquid. His clothes didn’t drag. His hair didn’t float. His movements didn’t slow.

Still he dug downward out of sheer stubborn instinct, arms scooping, legs kicking. He didn’t feel tired. He didn’t feel anything. Just the mechanical rhythm of swimming and the faint irritation rising in the back of his skull.

Down. He had to go down. That had to be the trick. The way out. The break in the game.

So he pushed harder. Strokes sharpened. Body straightened. A determined glare carved through the blue nothing. He counted the distance in the back of his head even if the world refused to reflect it—twenty feet, fifty, a hundred, more. It felt like sinking through an entire ocean trench with only willpower carrying him.

The deeper he went, the more he expected something to change.

The darkness never thickened.

The chill never grew.

His lungs never burned.

It was all the same. Endless, static, stagnant.

He stopped only when the irritation inside him pulsed into real anger. Denji twisted his torso and looked back over his shoulder.

The surface stared back at him.

Barely three feet above.

His eye twitched. His fists clenched mid-swim. A raw sound ripped out of him, muffled and useless underwater but full of teeth and frustration.

He shot upward, one furious stroke after another, breaking the surface with enough force to send ripples skittering far across the flat plane.

He hauled himself out of the puddle, dripping absolutely nothing, clothes as dry as if he had never touched the water at all.

He stared down at the still pool beneath him.

“Seriously?” he muttered, voice sharp, breathless, and fed up.

The water gave one tiny ripple back, like it was mocking him.

Denji stretched his legs out, leaned against the rocking chair, and tilted his head back in irritation and resignation. The blank ceiling of water above him reflected his own face perfectly. His own eyes stared right down at him, unblinking.

He blinked.

His reflection blinked.

He squinted, leaned forward a little, then sat up fast.

“Hold on.”

He looked down at the floor-water beneath him. Same ripples. Same distorted version of himself. He looked back up again.

A clean, perfect mirror.

That had never happened.

A pulse of cautious hope flickered through him, small but real. He stood, still half expecting it to vanish if he moved too quickly. It stayed.

He grinned a little, bare and boyish, and began testing it—tilting his head side to side, widening his eyes, puffing his cheeks. The reflection above matched him exactly. No delay. No distortion. No trick.

“Okay… okay, that’s something.”

He reached up with one hand, stretching as far as he could. His fingertips grazed nothing but air, still a frustrating few feet short. His heels lifted off the watery ground as he stood on his tiptoes, arm trembling with effort.

Still too far.

He hissed through his teeth, shoulders tightening with irritation. “If I could just—touch it…”

His eyes drifted to the rocking chair.

Denji dragged it under the reflection, set his jaw, and climbed up onto the armrests. They wobbled under his weight, the whole chair creaking in protest as he tried to balance. He steadied himself with his arms held out slightly, leaning upward, straining toward the mirror of himself above.

That frustration pooled hot in his chest. He bared his teeth. He wasn’t giving up. Not now.

He bent his knees. The chair groaned. He felt the moment tighten around him, the way time sometimes does right before a punch lands. Then he jumped.

He launched himself upward with every ounce of strength he had, body cutting through the still air. For an instant he felt weightless, suspended, caught in a slow-motion rise that made the whole room shrink away beneath him. He reached, arm outstretched, fingers desperate, stretching like they might rip free from his hand just to bridge the distance.

His reflection reached back.

For a heartbeat it looked perfect, like they were mirroring each other in some cosmic choreography. Two Denjis, fingertips aligned, suspended between two worlds. It looked almost holy, almost like that painting he’d once seen on a billboard downtown, the one with two hands barely touching. The same tiny gap, the same ache in the space between the fingers.

Creation of Adam.

Except here, there was no god to meet him. No spark waiting to ignite. Just a boy flying upward in defiance of a place that refused to let him go.

His fingertip brushed his reflection’s fingertip. A perfect contact. A perfect moment.

Nothing.
No shatter. No ripple. No door opening. Not even a tingle.

He fell.

Gravity reclaimed him in an instant and he hit the ground harder than he anticipated, knees jarring, breath leaving him in a grunt.

Denji expected disappointment to settle in again after the failed jump, the same dead, flat nothing this place kept feeding him. Instead he felt something new. A chill crept under his shirt, thin as a blade, metallic as winter steel. His breath caught. That cold spread across his sternum like a warning, like a reminder of something he had forgotten he was supposed to be.

He scrambled, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and yanking his shirt up to his chin.
There it was.

The cord.
His cord.

The chainsaw ripcord lay against his skin like a privilege he didn’t remember earning back. For a second he just stared, stunned. He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his hand around the handle and pulled with everything he had.

The roar erupted out of him.

Chainsaws burst from his forearms in a blaze of motion, metal screaming into the still air. Usually the transformation ripped through him, nerves sparking, bones grinding, pain eating its way through muscle before settling into the familiar rhythm he fought with. Here, nothing hurt. No tearing, no burning, no vibration crawling through his bones.

He felt nothing.
Again.
Always nothing.

At least the chainsaws were here. At least something he knew had answered him.

He didn’t waste a second. He lashed out at the ground first, expecting the metal teeth to chew through it. For the teeth to catch anything. Sparks should have flown. The blade should have bitten deep.

Nothing. Only plunging deeper into the depths

He then slashed the surface itself, expecting the water to explode upward, torn apart. The surface didn’t ripple.

He swung at the imaginary walls, the ceiling, the empty air. Each strike he hoped would have screamed impact. Should have left a scar. Should have marked something in this dead, unchanging space.

Nothing gave. Nothing reacted. His blades didn’t even leave scratches.

His breathing quickened. Not because he was tired, but because the lack of feeling made everything feel worse. Like he was swinging inside a dream where the world refused to acknowledge him.

Then he looked at the rocking chair, still sitting there like it had been laughing at him the whole time. The same chair he had been rocking, falling from, relying on. The same chair that felt like it had been judging him from the start.

He marched toward it with a quiet, mechanical determination, chainsaws humming in his hands like hungry insects. He raised his arms and brought the blades down in a clean vertical swipe.

This time the metal met wood.

The chair split cleanly down the middle, the halves falling away from each other without splintering. No resistance. No rough edges. Just a perfect cut, neat enough to look surgical.

The halves collapsed onto themselves.

Denji spun his head, scanning for a door, a crack, a hole, anything that might have opened in response. Something should have happened. Breaking something should have meant progress.

Nothing changed.
The room stayed perfectly still.

When he turned back, the chair was whole again. Perfect. Untouched. As if he had never laid a blade on it.

Denji sat on the wet floor, chainsaws humming low, and stewed in the kind of silence that made a person feel small. Even with the blades back, even with the roar in his arms, it all meant nothing here. He could carve until the end of time and this place wouldn’t blink. He could be trapped in this dead-water world forever, stuck in a body that didn’t tire, didn’t ache, didn’t feel.

No aging.
No pain.
No sensation.
No change.

That thought dug into him deeper than any wound ever had.

His eyes drifted to the rocking chair. It moved with a slow, gentle rhythm, almost soothing, like someone patting a spot beside them. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him wanted to sit. Sitting meant surrender. Sitting meant Makima won. It meant he’d never see Reze again.

Though maybe—maybe if he played by Makima’s rules, he could bargain. If he sat, maybe she’d give him something. Maybe Reze could walk free. Maybe Denji could have a life where someone he cared about wasn’t ripped away.

He could live with that.
Maybe.

He walked toward the chair, standing in front of it while it rocked with its soft, eerie invitation. His reflection stared back at him in the water below. That version of him looked just as lost. Just as stupid. Just as tired.

He lingered on the reflection.
Something about it tugged at him.
Something off.

He frowned, squinting. The idea came to him like most of his ideas did. Stupid. Dangerous. Not fully thought through. Exactly the type of thing only Denji would decide to try.

He kept staring at the reflection, feeling the thought solidify.

If touching the reflection brought back the cord, maybe destroying the self in the reflection was the way out. Maybe the door wasn’t in the world around him. Maybe the door was him.

He didn’t give himself time to rethink it. Rethinking only slowed him down. Rethinking always got him killed.

He raised one arm high, chainsaw whining with a sharp metallic hunger, and angled the blade toward his own neck.

“Sorry, me,” he muttered.

Then he slashed.

Metal tore through flesh and bone in one clean motion, the cut so smooth it felt like slicing through air. No shock. No pain. Just the decisive action of someone who had finally understood that the only way out…

…was through himself.

Chapter Text

The steam returned in a violent rush, swallowing the liminal space whole. The still water, the rocking chair, his reflection, even the color dissolved behind a wall of white. Denji’s stomach dropped as the fog wrapped around him, thick enough to blind him all over again, blouting his own body from his vision. It settle for second before whirling, thining and peeling away, he returned back to hallway. The metal walls. Concrete floor. The dim lighting. The cell doors. Steel pipes running over head Makima.

His chainsaws were already roaring.

“Can you stop doing that!” Denji shouted, voice cracking with leftover frustration from the endless water world.

Makima tilted her head, eyes calm, almost entertained. “It was amusing, Denji. Though if you insist, I promise I won’t do it again.”

The casual tone only stoked the fire he came back with.

Denji launched himself at her with fury. His whole body slammed into the metal cell door behind her with enough force to dent it inward. Makima slid to the side at the last possible instant, almost like she vanished then reappeared a step away.

His chainsaws stabbed deep into the steel, sparks hissing out around his arms, the glow illuminating the hallway. He growled between the blades’ revs.

“Good. Cause that shit only made me angrier.”

He ripped the chainsaws free, metal screeching as they tore out of the door, leaving a mangled mess of a door, the dim light piercing inside revealing some white hairs. Without missing a beat he swung his right arm out. The forearm split apart mid-swing, plates of skin and metal peeling away. The chainsaw detached at the median of his forearm, connected only by the thick barbed metal chain usually hidden inside his arm. It snapped forward like a flail, the spinning blades whipping through the air.

Makima stepped into a tight, controlled spin, almost dancing around the flying saw. Even then she couldn’t avoid it completely. The edge of the chainsaw grazed past her head, slicing off a few thin strands of her hair that drifted down like a feathers losing its grip on the world.

Makima didn’t flinch. Denji didn’t stop. The moment had already shifted into a new, sharper tension, his anger finally unleashed into the real world.

Denji reeled his severed chainsaw-hand back with a violent yank of the chain, the appendage snapping back into place against his forearm with a wet metallic clack. He didn’t give Makima or himself time to breathe. He lunged again, swinging wildly, each motion fueled by the raw frustration she had dragged out of him in that mundane world.

Makima slipped between the swings like she knew every angle before he threw it. Her expression never changed. No tension. No exertion. Only a small smile as if she were humoring a child’s tantrum.

Denji’s left chainsaw carved across the wall, tearing through layers of metal plating and throwing sparks into the air bouncing off ceiling. The hallway lights flickered. Pipes rattled overhead as the whole place shuddered under the force of his blows.

“You think I care about your stupid tricks?!” he roared, voice hoarse. “You think I’m just gonna roll over?!”

Makima ducked under another swing, heels barely making a sound on the smooth concrete floor. She stepped close enough for her breath to touch his shoulder.

“I think,” she said softly, “that you are predictable.”

Denji swung again at the sound of her voice, but she was already behind him.

His chainsaw forearm smashed into the wall where she’d been a second earlier, carving through it and exposing a bundle of crackling wires. The hallway lights dimmed even further, bathing everything in submarine-like gloom.

Makima circled with unhurried steps. “Even now. You rush forward because it’s all you know. Even your anger is something I can use.”

“Shut up!”

Denji spun and hurled his chainsaw flail again. It whistled through the dark, slicing a long gash across the floor. Makima tilted just enough to evade it, the blade missing her hip by inches.

This time she watched the spinning chain instead of Denji, studying its path with surgical calm. “You’re loud, Denji. Even louder in your mind.”

He retracting the chain back to him, breathing hard.

“You gonna talk all day,” he spat, “or you gonna fight me for real?”

Makima’s smile widened just slightly, almost fond.

“I already am.”

Hearing her say those words hit him in a way he hated. It wasn’t fear. It was the realization that she was humoring him again, toying with him the same way someone shakes a string in front of a cat. She expected him to lash out the same way he always did. She expected him to be predictable.

He knew he had to step it up. If he wanted to beat Makima and get Reze back, he needed something inside him that she hadn’t already accounted for. He needed to kick it up a notch.

He made a call throughout his body.
A call that resonated in his mind and soul, hoping something would happen, that something would respond to his call to arms.

And something answered.

Two new chainsaws tore out of his legs with a violent roar, erupting through skin and his shin and burying themselves into the concrete floor. Denji staggered for a second, surprised by the weight and the raw power vibrating through him. He had never had more than three chainsaws going at once. Five. Five was unheard of. Five felt overwhelming like trying to hold down a hurricane with his bare hands.

Makima’s smile sharpened into something wicked.

Denji didn’t waste the gear that he had just received. He leaned forward and let the leg saws bite deeper into the ground, carving through the concrete like rotating tires through wet earth, kicking up rubble all around him. The force of the spinning blades shot him forward, body whipping ahead in a brutal burst of speed as the hallway filled with sparks flying off the floor.

He became a missile of shrieking metal, all three upper saws pointed at her. His legs carved twin burning trails in the concrete as he tore across the hallway, eating up the ground as he advanced with a speed he didn’t even know he possessed.

Makima’s hair lifted in the sudden wind as he closed the distance. She didn’t move a muscle. She just watched him come, smiling like she had been waiting for this exact moment.

The roar of five chainsaws filling every inch of the corridor.

Denji extended both arm-saws without hesitation, the blades firing forward on their chains like mechanical serpents. They shot past Makima and buried themselves deep into the walls ahead with a pair of heavy, bone-deep thunks. The chains connecting them to the rest of his arm pulled tight, humming with tension.

He didn’t resist the pull.

He let it propell him forward, leaned in, and dropped his head. His head saw became a rotting spear, the chain-drive screaming as he hurled himself ahead like a deranged iron unicorn charging down a deer in head lights.

Makima slid backward in smooth, unbroken steps, as if her feet barely touched the floor. His head-saw split the air where she’d been a fraction of a second before, cleaving into the concrete behind her and erupting sparks across the dim hallway.

Denji retracted both arm-saws with a violent tug, snapping them back toward himself. Instead of pulling them fully in, he whipped the chains outward, turning the detached blades into spinning, tearing flails. He flung them in the air as they carved wide arcs through it, hoping for any contact. A graze. A catch. A snag. One misstep from her. Any instance of chains on flesh at all would do.

But none came.

Makima bent, twisted, drifted around each swing with minimal movement, and what appeared to be minimal effort. A tilt of her head. A shrug of her shoulder. A lift of her leg. A shift of her hip. Dodging the weapons that tore metal doors apart as if she was tangoing around falling leaves.

Denji didn’t get frustrated.

He didn’t need to hit her yet.

For him, forcing her backward was enough. Forcing her back meant he was doing enough to keep her from retaliating. Forcing her to give ground was enough. Every step she took meant less hallway to retreat into.

He planted one of his leg-saws' into the concrete, the ground cracking around it, building a small mound of rubble and debris around it, sparks popping like tiny fireworks, balancing his entire weight on the spinning blade like it was the wheel of some nightmare unicycle.

He lifted his now free leg and launched a snapping kick at her, the chainsaw jutting from his shin screaming as it cut the air. It sliced a nearby pipe cleanly in half, steam and water bursting out behind him.

Makima ducked the kick by barely dipping her knees. A whisper-soft move. Her hair fluttered from the wind of his passing blade, but her face remained composed.

Denji laughed through the roar of his own machinery. It was wild. It was reckless. It was rudimentary. It was him.

He didn’t know if any of this counted as a plan.

But he knew it was keeping her on her toes, moving and shifting. He knew he wasn’t giving her a chance to take control again.

And more importantly he knew one thing for certain.

She was almost out of hallway.

The corridor throbbed with the echo of Denji’s roaring engines. Every breath he dragged in tasted like metal shavings and dust. The walls stank of oil from where his blades had already carved deep gouges, and the overhead lights flickered as if afraid to stay on in his presence.

He pivoted forward, chains snapping tight behind him as he swung. Each strike with his chainsaws drove Makima further down the corridor. The concrete floor cracked under his chainsaw legs, sending little bursts of fragments scattering with every lunge. He counted the doors like they were landmarks on the way to his goal that he refused to lose again. Five. Four. Three. The chain connecting his arm-saws to his body rattled with each thrust, a rhythm of pure desperation.

Two more doors. Just two.

Makima stepped into position infront of a metal wall. At the end of the hallway.

A violent pressure built behind his ribs, like something alive was clawing outward. His chest split open and a sixth chainsaw erupted from the center of his sternum, screaming in perfect sync with the panic and resolve tearing through him. Denji pushed himself forward with a final burst, slamming his arm-saws into the walls on either side of Makima. Chains stretched and locked, anchoring him. He leaned in low, chest-saw angled toward her, legs digging trenches into the concrete as he forced all his momentum into the strike.

Her back brushed against the solid wall.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t even blink.

He thought he had her. He could almost taste victory, the teeth of his blades inches from carving into her. His whole body strained. This was it.

Then she vanished.

The steel wall behind her split open.

A hidden room presenting itself to him as the door wretched open.

Denji shot through the opening before he could even process the betrayal of it. The world blurred in smeared streaks of light and gray concrete until he saw her.

Her Slender Frame. Her purple hair. Her emerald eyes. Her faint smile. Her.

Reze's head lifted at the sound. Her eyes widened, but not in the simple joy he remembered. Relief washed over her face first, quick and bright, but it was mixed with something softer, heavier, a concern that pulled at her expression even as her breath hitched. Her posture shifted like she couldn’t decide whether to move toward him or hold still.

Denji didn’t notice any of the hesitance. His heart felt like it was kicking holes in his chest. He lit up with pure, reckless happiness the second he saw her. Every chain in his body pulled tighter, like they were trying to drag him toward her even faster.

Then he realized the problem.

His blades were still out.

At this speed, he would cut her in half before he even had time to apologize.

He forced every chainsaw back inside himself. Pain shot down his limbs as the metal retracted. He twisted his body and threw himself down hard, skidding across the concrete. The ground ripping and scraping his skin and he rolled, but he didn’t care. He only cared about stopping.

He tumbled and flipped over. Once. Twice. Thrice, befor he came to a jarring halt right at her feet, panting, scraped raw, bleeding, but intact enough to look up at her with the brightest grin he had worn in years maybe ever.

She stared down at him, relief softening the tightness in her face even as something more uncertain lingered behind her eyes.

He didn’t see the conflict. He only saw her.

He was ecstatic.

And she looked at him like someone who was grateful he was alive, even if she hadn’t wanted him to be here.

Denji didn’t hesitate. The second he regained abit of his balance he staggered up to his knees, he threw his arms around Reze, pulling her against him with a force that said he was afraid she might disappear again if he didn’t hold tight enough.

Everything else vanished.

The sting of scraped skin. The metallic taste in his mouth. The cold, filthy concrete of the cell. Even Makima’s presence faded into white noise. For the first time since he started tearing down the hallway, he felt his mind slow. Breathing in the same small space, each heartbeat grounding him more than any chain ever could. It was real. This was real. It was just him and Reze.

Reze froze for half a breath, all her hesitation bottled tight in her chest. Then she exhaled and sank into him completely. She wrapped her arms around him with all the strength she had been holding back, as if letting go of the guilt, the worry, the belief that he shouldn’t have come. For that moment she let herself feel relief without resisting it. She nuzzled into the crook of his neck and returned the hug with every bit of warmth she had left.

They held firm in their resolve, maintain the warmth, neither wanting to break it.

Denji relenting, remembering the danger they were in and the condition she was in pulled back first. He ran his hands over her shoulders and arms, checking every inch for injuries, then holding her hands in his.

His voice came out rough, “You okay?”

Reze nodded, then asked it back. “Are you?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

He grasped her hands gently. His eyes were determined again, but this time soft around the edges. “I’m gettin’ us out of this hellhole.”

The promise barely left his mouth before a heavy metal door slammed shut behind them. The sound echoed through the small cell like a gunshot. Reze flinched hard, fear flashing across her face.

Denji reacted immediately. He stepped in front of her, shoulders squared, body lowered, every instinct sharpening into protectiveness. His eyes cut toward the doorway.

Makima stood there.

Her head tilted the slightest amount, her expression almost fond.

“How touching.”

Denji clenched his jaw so tight it trembled. He lifted one hand to his chest, fingers curling over the spot where the cord lay beneath the shirt, while his other arm stretched slightly back, instinctively shielding Reze, keeping a barrier between her and the devil

Makima stepped forward just enough for her shadow to stretch across the floor. Her smile was soft, almost affectionate.

“I’m so touched. Really.”

Denji glared.

“So I’ll offer you a way out,” she continued. “I’ll let you leave unharmed if you just hand over your heart.”

Her words settled into the air like poison, patient and calm. She waited. She already knew what she wanted him to say.

Denji looked back at Reze. She shook her head, eyes wide with a fear that wasn’t for herself.

He turned back to Makima.

“Yeah, that ain’t happening.”as he yanked the cord.

Chapter Text

He’s consumed by the metal orange plating. Chainsaws rumbled to life, the roar echoing off the concrete like an engine determined to chew through the ground they stood upon. The sound felt stronger this time, more alive, more purposeful. He turned toward Reze, his voice metallic and raw under the vibrating spikes.
“You good to fight…?”

Reze steadied herself and nodded quickly.
“Yes. I can. But this collar—Denji, I need it off.”

That she needed to say, sending Denji off to the races. He swung his right arm up high and brought it down like he was weilding a hammer, in a clean arc aimed at the collar. Sparks flew. The teeth bit and scraped and dug grooves into the metal, but the collar didn’t even crack.

Makima’s voice cut in before he tried again.
“I wouldn’t.”

Denji paused, hovering his chainsaw mere centimeters from Reze’s neck, the spinning chain sputtering as it met nothing but air.
“Wouldn’t what?” he snapped, annoyance ozing from his beath.

Makima leaned one shoulder against the doorframe as if this were a casual conversation between coworkers and not a the tense high stakes situation they found themselves in.
“Wouldn’t cut that collar.”

Her tone was light. Teasing. Almost playful. Coy.
“If you did, there wouldn’t be much left of her.”

Denji ratcheted the chainsaw back slightly and turned his head just enough to glare at her. Piercing golden globes staring back.
“What did you do?”

“Just a failsafe.”
Her smile brightened, like she was complimenting herself.
“The collar has explosives packed into it. If you force it open in any way, well…” She let the sentence hang as she tilted her head, a little whimsical tone followed
“You’ll be seeing a lot more red.”

Denji barked back, “You’re bluffing.”

“Am ?” lifting a eyebrow curiously.

She lifted her hand, letting a small glint of metal catch the steril lights of the room.

“Why don’t you test it and find out?”

Her smile stayed sweet.
The threat behind it wasn’t.

Denji took her words seriously. Makima wasn’t the type to bluff, and his gut told him this time was no exception. He swallowed the spike of panic rising in his throat and looked back at Reze. Her eyes were wide, breath shallow, fear radiating off her in waves she couldn’t hide.

“It’s best for you to just leave me here,” she said, voice steady but eyes saying everything else. She meant it. She was ready to sacrifice herself if it kept him alive.

Denji shook his head hard.
“But it’s not the best for you.”

He stepped in front and turned his back to her, planting himself between the danger like a stout fortress wall holding back the tides alone. His jaw tight, muscles tensed, chainsaws humming with anger and impatience.

Makima held the key delicately between her fingertips, almost amused by its importance.
“I’ll make a trade,” she said, rolling the key across her knuckles with theatrical ease.
“Her life…” as she waved the metal in the air.

Letting the key slip from her fingers and disappearing into the sleeve of her white blouse like it was swallowed by the fabric.

“…for your heart.”

Denji didn’t bother thinking. He didn’t weigh options. He didn’t negotiate. The moment the offer hit the air, he charged into action.

They were boxed in now: no windows, a locked door behind Makima, concrete walls and cold fluorescent lighting overhead. Denji figured maybe that worked to his advantage. If she couldn’t run far, maybe this time he could actually catch her. Well, atleast thats what he believed.

Makima stepped lightly to the side, then hopped onto the wall as if gravity were something that only applied to other people, as if she was above everyone else. Her posture shifted horizontal, walking along the concrete as Denji slammed into it below with enough force to crack it. A small faultline climbing up the wall.

“You heard her, Denji.”
Her voice laced with something smug. A poisonous fruit that she dangled.
“It’s best for you to leave her here.”

Denji roared—pure rage, pure refusal—and detached one of his arms into a flail. The chain connecting it to his stump rattled like something alive as he flung the spinning saw toward her.

Makima slid back, but not fast enough to avoid it entirely. The blade clipped her hair, slicing clean through a handful of red strands that fluttered down like falling embers.

Denji hurled another spinning arm-saw at her, the chain screaming as it stretched to its limit.
“If you heard that,” he snarled, “then you heard me say it wasn’t the best for her.”

The detached saw smashed into the wall beside Makima, carving a fresh trench in the concrete and slicing off a few more strands of her hair. Makima only pivoted lightly, footsteps weightless as she glided along the wall, dancing just out of reach. Denji lashed again and again, chainsaws whipping and crashing in every direction, shredding concrete, exposing hidden pipes and wires, sending dust and debris raining down. Despite his fury, every swing was angled carefully. He knew exactly where Reze was and kept every blade as far away from her as he could while unleashing his onslauiight.

Makima, meanwhile, spoke as if nothing dangerous was happening at all.

“You know, Denji,” she said almost sweetly, stepping over a spinning chain like it was a jump rope, “there are only two roles in this world.”
“The sheep and the shepherd.”

Denji let out a grunt, then a curse, then another frustrated noise as one of his saws missed her by an inch and exploded a chunk of wall into shrapnel.

“The shepherd leads the sheep,” she continued, voice annoyingly calm. “They protect them. Care for them. Guide the. Nature them.”

Denji growled, “Shut up,” and flung his other arm, sending the saw ricocheting off a metal pipe that was buried deep in the wall with a deafening clang.

“The sheep in return provide sustenance,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. "They provide, wool for cloths, meat for meals, and they can be sold off."
“When a sheep strays from the path, the shepherd guides them back.”
She hopped from wall to ceiling with a gentle toe press, her hair swaying as she moved.
“But if a sheep strays too far, nature consumes them.”
“Hungry creatures. Predators sniffing out weak, wandering prey.”

Denji finally snapped.
“Are you ever going to shut up?”

Makima ignored him entirely, stepping down from the ceiling to the solid ground with perfect balance. Her expression softened into something gentle, warm, horrifying.

“You need to understand,” she said quietly, “that I am the shepherd.”
Her eyes drifted past him, landing on Reze.
“And you are my sheep.”
“I cherish you. I want to keep you safe from wolves who would only hurt you.”

She raised her hand and pointed directly at Reze.

“Like her.”

"A wolf in sheeps clothing."

“That’s not what she is.”

Denji fired back instantly, refusing to let those words settle. Every part of him rejected it. His voice cracked with raw anger, not because Makima insulted him, but because she dared to brand Reze as something less than anyone else. As he shouted, something in the air shifted. Red specks drifted up from the floor like dust dancing in a sunbeam.

Only they weren’t dust.

They were strands of Makima’s hair, the ones he had managed to slice earlier. They floated with unnatural steadiness, gathering around her in a slow orbit, straightening into fine needles. Each point angled toward Reze.

Makima settled back to the ground and raised her hand in a mock pistol. She didn’t even bother with a stance; she simply aimed with a single finger.

“She is,”
“You just refuse to see it.”

Her thumb clamped down to her palm and her arm snapped back as if she felt the recoil.

The needles lurched forward.

Reze didn’t cry out or flinch. She straightened her back, jaw set, prepared to take whatever came. The moment stretched thin.

The needles never touched her.

All she heard was the scream of Denji’s engines as he threw himself in front of her, blades spinning so fast the air trembled. His instincts had seized control. His arms carved wild arcs, trying to intercept every projectile. Shredded strands feel out of the air, some needles split against the blades, but too many slipped through. They punched into his skin with a sickening precision, wriggling deep and stitching themselves through muscle. He choked out a sound somewhere between a growl and a gasp, legs bracing so he wouldn’t collapse.

Maybe this is what tetanus feels like, he thought.

Makima let up. Wielding a bored expression she flicked her wrist in a small, lazy circle.

A second wave shot out.

Denji swung to counter but felt no resistance. Makima had adjusted her attack. Midair, the hairs twisted, curving around his guard like it had a mind of its own. His eyes widened too late. Needles whipped around him past his view, he was terrified of the realization his mind jumped to. He heard it, a clenched yelp and he swivelled his head back. Reze’s clasped her leg holding it tight, then her arm, and foot. He back peddled closing the distance, his back almost touching her. One hair still managed grazed her cheek, cutting a thin red line. She hissed at the sting, hand tightening into a fist, but she stayed upright.

Denji spun around to check her, his back now absorbing, his arms spread like a an eagle stretching its wings, tanking the hits.. but he didn't feel it. Even with his face wrapped in orange it couldn't hide his expression of concern.

Makima lowered her hand with a small sigh, as if the entire act bored her.

“You see?” she said softly. “Wolves bite anyone foolish enough to think they can be tamed.”

Denji trembled, both from pain and fury. The chainsaws roared louder, drowning out everything except the single thought running through his mind: stay standing, keep her safe.

Reze reached toward his back, fingers brushing his shoulder despite the blood. Her voice was small but steady.

He couldn't hear her, but he watched her intently

Their eyes stayed locked.

Exchangingzero words. No sounds. No movements.
Only a moment.
Each focusing on the other's eyes. Her emeralds and his ambers.

Reze slipped her hand under his shirt and up to his chest. Grapsed. And pulled Denji’s cord hard enough that the engine screamed awake, then shoved him back. He stumbled two steps, feet scraping across the floor, and whipped around just in time to see Makima flick her wrist. Another wave of scarlet hair launched toward him, slicing the air with a thin, wicked whistle.

The strands began to curve mid-flight, bending in that unnatural arc that meant trouble, angling to slip over his shoulders and hit Reze behind him. Denji remained calm.

The storm had arrived.

Just before the red strands could pass over him, something inside his body detonated.

With a violent, metallic rip, chains burst out from his shoulders. They didn’t slide out—they tore their way into open air, links grinding against bone and metal as they shot forward. Each chain snapped out in a wide, aggressive arc, propelled by the raw force of his engines.

They hit the oncoming strands dead-on.

The moment rotating steel met the first hairs, they were cut cleanly in half. Cut more precisily, more calmly than any thing one could have imagined. The chains split the incoming wave apart, grinding through the red strands until they atomized into drifting specks of crimson dust. The hairs broke apart the instant they touched his rotating links, shredded faster than they could redirect.

The chains hovered there, still vibrating from the impact. They hung from his shoulders in heavy, threatening loops, rattling with each throaty rumble of his engine. The motion gave them shape and volume, flaring outward like jagged steel pauldrons on a medieval knight.

Heat shimmered off the metal as they shook, each link glowing faintly where friction had burned it. The air around him buzzed with the lingering charge of the violent clash.

Denji didn’t flinch. He stood rigid, shoulders squared, chains braced outward, a shield of grinding metal born in that moment.

The message in his stance was simple.

Nothing is getting past him.

Denji stepped forward, slow at first, shoulders rising and falling with each rev of his engine. Makima flicked her fingers again, sending another volley of red strands arcing toward his flanks. They never reached him.

Two new chainsaws spired from the sides of his shoulders, tearing outward in violent bursts. More blades pushed through the skin of his back and along the edges of his rib cage, jutting out like metal thorns. Every new chainsaw ignited with a roar, their spinning teeth forming a barrier that shredded the incoming strands before they ever touched him.

Denji felt it hit him then. Not pain. Not exhaustion.

Momentum.

A wild, reckless second wind surged through him, and he leaned into it.

He rushed forward like a battle ram.

Makima’s eyes sharpened with the smallest flicker of concern. She slid backward, feet whispering over the ground as she kept shifting angles, adjusting her center of gravity to escape him by fractions. She moved beautifully, deliberately, doing everything she could to maintain distance.

Denji wasn’t giving her any.

He dropped his weight, twisted his torso, and spun himself into a cyclone of steel. Chains whipped outward in wide, lethal arcs. Blades flared in every direction, the rotating mass of metal screaming through the room like a storm trying to tear the walls apart.

Makima leapt back, turned sideways, tried to weave between openings that no longer existed. The spaces he left open vanished in the next rotation, filled with another flailing chain or a newly sprouting blade.

She tried to slip past him.

But didn’t.

A single chain grazed her first, slicing a clean line across her left forearm. Another clipped her as she sidestepped, carving into her right thigh with enough force to tear fabric and draw blood.

Crimson splattered across the floor. Makima’s body reacted before her face did, her limbs tightening, her posture adjusting. Her expression stayed calm, but something in her gaze acknowledged the truth.

Denji hit her.

Denji could hit her again.

Denji didn’t hesitate. The second he saw blood on her, something surged through him that wasn’t just confidence. It was clarity. He pressed forward with every scrap of momentum he had carved from himself, forcing her back step by step, cut by cut.

Makima shifted her footing again and leapt, planting one foot against the wall. She started walking along the vertical surface the way only she could, but now there was a difference. Her movements were still controlled, still deliberate, but the edges were sharper. There was urgency behind them. A hint of threat she hadn’t acknowledged before.

Denji caught it instantly.

He lunged.

His chainsaws screamed as he swung them up and across the path she moved along, carving long, ragged lines across the concrete. Each time she redirected to another patch of wall, he was already there, arms detaching and whipping outward on their chains. He shattered chunks of the surface behind her, forcing her trajectory narrower and narrower.

Makima pivoted on the wall, tried to twist around him.

Denji slashed.

A clean cut opened along her hip.

She pushed higher, running a tighter arc along the wall.

Denji leapt after her, another blade clipping her outer calf, spraying more thin streaks of red behind her as she moved. Every landing she made on the wall, he carved out from under her, nipping her heels, forcing her to shift faster than she wanted to.

For the first time, she wasn’t guiding the fight.

She was reacting to him.

And Denji, chest buzzing and shoulders rattling with every rev, didn’t let up for even a breath.

He kept her climbing, driving her up the wall inch by inch with a relentless rhythm that felt less like fighting and more like hunting. Every time she found a foothold, a new chain ripped free from his back or ribs, forcing her higher, forcing her faster, forcing her somewhere she clearly did not want to be.

Makima reached the ceiling.

She slid onto it seamlessly, feet planting against the sterile white panels as if gravity were only a suggestion. From below she looked inverted, her hair hanging downward in dark, jagged strands, her fresh cuts bright against the cold light above her. The illumination turned her into a silhouette carved from two colors: blood and shadow.

Her shadow stretched over him, long and crooked across the walls and floor.

Denji saw it.

He roared.

Chains burst outward from every angle, writhing, snapping, whipping at her like the furious limbs of an octopus dragged into a storm. His detached arms swung upward on their chains, blades tearing gouges into the ceiling as she sprinted along it, dodging by inches.

Then he jumped, all engines screaming, and swung everything he had at the lights above her.

The chainsaws connected with the panel.

A burst of sparks.
A shatter of glass.
A shriek of tortured metal.

Everything went dark.

Denji’s breath rattled in his chest, loud enough to compete with the roar of his chainsaws. The dark pressed in around him, thick and absolute. Nothing moved. No drip of blood. No thud of a falling body. No soft groan. Just the mechanical growl of his own weapons chewing at the silence.

He stood still, trying to listen past the engines.

Nothing.

His throat tightened.
“Reze?” he called out.

No answer.

He tried again, louder. “Reze!”

Only the echo came back.

A pulse of panic shot through him and he snapped his blades together, slashing steel against steel. Sparks spat into the dark, each flash lasting less than a blink, each one revealing only emptiness.

He scraped the blades again. More sparks. Still nothing.

His frustration boiled over and he leaned the saws against each other, grinding hard. The metal shrieked, showering the floor with orange flecks.

A glow answered.

Not from him.
Not from his blades.

Denji froze and turned to the right.

A soft, golden light seeped from the open doorway leading out into the hallway. It grew brighter as a shadow stepped forward.

Makima.

She stood framed in the doorway, immaculate in posture despite the thin trails of blood soaking into her white clothes. Her left arm was wrapped tight across Reze’s neck, pinning her with an almost affectionate grip. Reze’s eyes were wide, terrified but defiant, her breaths sharp and shaky.

Red strands floated around both of them like suspended needles, angled toward Reze’s ribs, stomach, throat, ready to plunge.

Makima smiled warmly, as though none of this were cruel.
“Well done, Denji.” Her voice was soft and steady. “You may be a shepherd after all.”

He snarled, chainsaws flaring the walls with orange light.

Makima tilted her head slightly, admiring the reaction.

“I’ll extend the offer to you once more.” Her gaze dropped to Reze, who tensed in Makima’s grasp as the strands edged closer to her skin. “Her life…” the needles tightened their circle, “…for yours.”