Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

Kishibe checked his notes. He made a habit of writing everything important in a little notepad he had picked up from a desk on the third floor. It was just like the hundreds of others that were issued to every single Public Safety employee as part of their standard equipment. One per person, 96 pages each, black hardback, black spiral binding, along with a black pencil. It made a match set with the rest of the equipment and uniform. Black suits, black ties, black swords, black coffee mugs, black body bags - black, black, black. The suits and swords were replaced constantly - damage, wear, neglect, laundry, some kid that retired asked to keep them for sentimental value, the coffee mug fell to the floor and broke or chipped… their number was never a constant. They changed all the time. Not the notepads, though. They were never replaced. Either they weren’t used, or they weren’t used enough. The two items that were a constant for every man and woman that joined Public Safety (and their cease of service) were the notepads… and the body bags. A perfect one-on-one parallel - count the notepads, and you would know the number of body bags.

That was the thought Kishibe had every time he went to the supply closet to get a new notepad. So far, he was the only agent in Public Safety's history that had filled more than one completely and requested another. He was on his seventeenth notepad, but his body bag was still just one, unused. He always marked that ratio when he entered Supply Room No. 16. The dust was thick, but it thinned along the path his long coat made on the floor. Every time he picked a notepad, he made the effort of checking the receipt on a register next to the door. As far as he knew, he was the only one keeping it updated. His handwriting and signature were the only ones on the paper, so there was a linear trend in the count. This was his last visit, just a few weeks ago:

October 24, 1997

Kishibe Soma

Notepad #17

Total count 1997: 789

He had only written nine pages since he checked out, but it might as well have been nine thousand with how heavy they felt. Even looking at what was solved in the first few pages made him want to down three more bottles of whiskey… but not now. He wasn’t in a bar - he was in a public park. He not only needed a clear head, but he knew that all eyes were on him. A man like him with a suspicious appearance and a drinking habit hanging around with what appeared to be a raven-haired toddler girl (golden spiral eyes notwithstanding) was sure to draw a few worried glances. 

It was overcast and a little breezy that day. A solemn atmosphere hung throughout the air, but, yet, it was peaceful. Four rambunctious little brats were playing in the green grass with not a care in the world. The moms (or nannies, who knows) of those brats were chatting at a respectful distance from the kids, but each one made a periodic side check-up. Good women, relaxed yet watchful… especially of the tall, brooding man sitting on the bench with his beaten-up face, sunken-in eyes, and the scar that adorned the entire left side of his countenance. If only the women knew that the real danger was the little black-haired toddler who was playing tag with their kids. Especially since that toddler was sticking out her right index finger as she did… the same index finger that had upped the notepad count so much only a few weeks back.

  “Doggies!” cried out the toddler in excitement.

As if someone spoke of the Devil, here came seven huskies, along with a shorthair magpie cat… and one punk teenage kid. When he noticed all the eyes in the park were on the kid and his motley menagerie, Kishibe quickly put the notepad in his right suit jacket pocket. He drew out his flask from the other one and took a long sip of booze. What came next warranted it.

The kid was wearing a white hoodie and dark pants. Most people's first impression of him would be that he was an absolute moron for that choice of clothes for walking dogs. The dark pants would get covered with the dogs’ hair, and the white hoodie would get stained in no time with paw prints. Most people took one look at this kid, one Denji Hayakawa by name, and confirmed their prejudices - just some foolish boy, probably not a coherent thought in that pea-brain of his, and, my God, what horrid fashion choices. Kishibe, however, was not like most people. He knew that opinion couldn't be further from the truth, even with the bad clothes. The hoodie was spotless, despite the cat balancing on the kid’s shoulders, and all the hair on the kid’s pants was concentrated on one side. All seven dogs walked in orderly fashion along him, following his pace. That alone was impressive, but, adding that those dogs were huskies, difficult to manage even in the calmest of days?  Even more when that kid had just gotten charge of those dogs recently? To the uninitiated, it would seem a miracle they all obeyed him. That kid, Denji, knew better. The dogs obeyed for the simplest of reasons; they were happy and well-taken care of. Even the cat, normally spry and curious, remained still on Denji’s broad shoulders, clearly content with herself.

He’s a natural handler. A caretaker, Kishibe thought to himself. 

If Kishibe had any doubts left, Denji’s arrival disproved them.

“I ate it all,” Denji declared as he sat down next to the scarred, grizzled agent. 

The cat jumped from Denji’s shoulders onto Kishibe's and started rubbing her whiskers right next to his tired, taciturn eyes. The dogs spread out in front of the duo. Two of them sat in front of them as if they were stalwart soldiers awaiting orders. Two more reclined on their backs as the nearby brats came and petted them. Another canine came up to and eagerly licked one of the kids, who laughed without stopping to even breathe. The last two huskies focused on Denji. The full white one stood on her hind legs and licked Denji’s face, whimpering and demanding his attention. The other also focused on Denji, but not closely enough. Neither were as tender as the others.

“Ms. Makima didn’t revive from my stomach or from the crapper either,” Denji continued. The kid thanked his lucky stars for that. A sapient pile of fecal matter reaching out from the toilet to grab him was the last thing he wanted.

“Seems she didn't," was Kishibe’s quick reply. 

Perhaps that could be half-true, Kishibe thought while glancing at the black-haired toddler with him petting one of the huskies. That walking turd’s there.

It took Kishibe two whole days to cut and prepare the wretched body of Makima for consumption. It was an arduous and painful task that would have benefited from a few helpers, but Kishibe refused to let anyone else participate. Every moment that bitch remained alive, random people across the nation died. He didn’t want anyone else to carry that burden. Every further loss was yet another cross in Kishibe’s conscience, and that bitch knew it. He saw it in her eyes. Even while the blood inside her stopped her from regenerating, those horrible yellow spiral eyes were doing the talking. That was her last bang, aimed at him. It was a parting gift she clearly relished, a final twist of the proverbial knife. Kishibe wasn't that fazed, however - he could take his anger into every slice, wrap, and smash of the 16.9 kg of meat he had meticulously prepared. He spent three additional days creating a menu and recipes for Denji to follow in his mission. The kid argued he could just eat Makima as she was, but he relented to Kishibe's idea. What Kishibe was trying was hard as it was, so to make it as manageable as he could was his battle to take. Even with all that it meant, Kishibe still took quiet pleasure in writing the recipe for “nuggets,” as it fit the bitch he carved. Two weeks, four days, and seventeen hours was all the time it took for Denji to rid the world of the monster that was Makima. When he hung up the phone after receiving the news it was over, Kishibe opened up the furnace and chucked in Makima’s personal bags as hard as he could. Nothing was spared. All of her Public Safety equipment, including the one notepad and body bag, were incinerated. Neither would find their way next to the others in Supply Room No. 16. 

The magpie cat kept purring all over Kishibe’s skull and rubbed herself into every inch of his skin and scar tissue. Meowy was her name. Kishibe had gotten pretty attached to the kitty some time ago. Her previous owner, Power, left her in his care while they took a trip to Hokkaido. Those were some of the happiest days of Kishibe's life in the past ten years. No one, not even Meowy herself, could’ve imagined it. However warm and loving Meowy was, though, a paranoia rose up from deep within Kishibe’s mind. He couldn’t be certain that Makima wasn’t watching his every move through those feline eyes. After all, this was someone who could potentially transform every animal present into a walking, barking, panting, purring spy cam. He took a good look again into Meowy’s warm peepers. He had managed to remain free of Makima’s influence for so long; he wasn’t going to let her finally get one over him just because she saw him drop his guard over a cat. But whatever his feelings on the inside were, Meowy could feel them. He could tell as well. Kishibe picked Meowy off his face and held her by her armpits.

“Attacks don't work against Makima…” Kishibe mused. “How were you able to kill someone untouchable?” He had given it a lot of thought, even before she was a pipe cleaner. Dozens of empty bottles were laid as his consultants and helpers, and not one of them got an answer for it. The kid did.

“I’m not out to hurt Ms. Makima at all,” explained Denji matter-of-factly. “Those are my honest feelings. I ate her to become one with her.” 

Denji shifted his attention to one of the dogs, whose eyes begged for a pet. His hands stroked her hairy cheeks with enthusiasm, but she never rose from his hands. 

Denji gravely continued, "that's not an attack. It's love. L. O. V. E.” His voice was as heavy as it was cold.

Denji’s words gave Kishibe déjà vu. Last time he heard them, he was holding a gun aimed at those spiral eyes, who said the exact same thing. Become one with him. There is no greater honor than that. I’m her fan after all. Most would call it blind luck. Kishibe extracted something else entirely. To him, it was cunning and adaptation of a higher level - the ability of extracting information from shallow sources and devising a plan in record time.

“Your plan probably happened to work by chance, either due to the specific terms of the contract, or as a matter of perception…” remarked Kishibe. The grizzled agent paused for a bit. Something about this whole scenario amused him. 

Depending on his performance in school the following years, Denji could end up becoming a really good lawyer, Kishibe thought. 

The idea alone almost made Kishibe smile. That possibility by itself would send the entire staff of the fourth floor of Public Safety into a manic unrest. He might just start writing letters of recommendations for Todai and Keio Law Schools. Kishibe cleared his throat and continued. 

“… But I’m more interested in the explanation for something else. How was it that you were able to get the drop on Makima with that attack? Given what she’s capable of, wouldn’t she notice you right away?”

The kid had not looked at the agent speaking to him once, though, in all fairness, the agent wasn’t looking at him, either. Both had their eyes set straight ahead, staring off listlessly into some great beyond. Neither were gazing at the park, nor at anything else in particular. Not even Meowy shoving her tail right into Kishibe’s nose warranted a reaction. 

There was no response from the Hayakawa kid. Kishibe sat there, his anticipation growing and his patience slowly being tried. Kishibe wanted an answer for a lot of reasons. In particular, he wanted to see how perceptive this kid really was. He had written down the results of five interviews he had previously conducted. Today was the sixth, and it was one he dreaded. Before coming to the park, Kishibe had consulted with three different people he trusted. Each had known him for quite some time, so he had no doubts about his deductions. One believed the boy was mistaken, another thought he was right, and the last was undecided - a tie. Kishibe wanted and needed the answer. What this kid perceived—was it madness or youthful stupidity? Or was he able to see right through? Whatever it was, the answer was key to the steps Kishibe would take in the coming months… steps that would be equal to, or worse than, those he had already taken. The kid looked down at the dog for the first time and finally broke the awkward silence.

“I had this hunch based on all the conversations we’d had, the intel on enemies and all that,” Denji said. He added, “the thing about Ms. Makima is… she perceived us via scent.”

All the dogs went suddenly silent. Some of them pulled their ears back and lowered their heads. The kid continued: 

“She doesn’t actually remember individual faces… she only remembers the scents of people she has an interest in.”

The white dog, who resembled a white wolf the most, barked.

“So I made a gamble. I bet that the whoooole time, Ms. Makima had only been lookin’ at Chainsaw Man, not me… that she never saw me, even once, from the start.”

Kishibe turned slightly to look at the kid, just slightly, for the first time. He felt how his shoulders relaxed. He´d been crouching this whole time, laying his elbows on his knees. But when the kid finished talking, he finally allowed himself to sit straight. He extracted three conclusions from what he just heard.

One: The kid had all the necessary tools for the task he was about to entrust to him, not just to carry it, but to do it better. He didn't miss the fact that he never stopped referring to her as "Ms. Makima." He lacked that fatal flaw, that fucking emotion that led so many of his pups to their graves: hatred. Even after all, he felt no hatred coming from him. Kishibe himself had beaten the kid to a pulp, disemboweled him, cut his head, skull, torso and jaw, and not once felt hatred emanating from Denji. If there was someone who could grow a flower in barren land, it was him.

Two: What happened on that beach wasn't a fluke. There were at least seventeen reports of survivors who were lucky enough to not get scorched, and luckily for Kishibe, that they still had functioning eardrums and frontal cortices to write down what they heard. On top of all that, four Public Safety agents had written a report about their close combat encounters. Each had a different interpretation, but all four missed a key detail. A detail that not only Kishibe didn’t miss, but neither did the kid. And it made what he was going to do so much simpler.

And Three: That it was imperative to keep his plans a secret. He was going to keep it as brief and vague as possible. Any slip of the tongue, any loose thread, and the kid would catch on. He was going to have a full plate, and he didn't need any distractions. It was going to be his gift to him.

The four other brats scattered off and ran towards their mothers who were calling them. And right on cue, the black-haired toddler - that little spawn - closed the distance, trying to mount one of the huskies. The Hayakawa kid seemed to notice her for the first time and tried to drive her away with a few hand gestures. The little spawn resisted and full-on bit one of the kid's fingers in response.

The reincarnation of the Control Devil was biting the finger of the Chainsaw Kid, the one who previously ate it.

Kishibe sighed and resigned himself to his apparent fate. 

This is my life now. It hasn’t changed one bit, he thought.

And it didn’t get any better, when the kid exclaimed in shock:

  “Huh?! I know this bite…!! MS. MAKIMA?”

There were few things that could disturb Kishibe. He had seen more than his fill. He had seen every single horrible possible result the life of a Devil Hunter can get, more than once in a lot of cases. But how his breath cut when he listened those words were a first.

What did that monster do to this kid, that he was able to recognize her from a mere bite to the finger?

Denji had barely turned seventeen at the beginning of that same month. Makima was around her mid-twenties. All the memories and reports he had gotten about him started flooding his mind…

How infatuated he was with her. Even after eating her whole, he refused to call her anything but “Ms. Makima.” How he claimed to love her, how he got around her contract.

Kanao comes to his office, pointing out how Makima stayed in Tokyo more than usual, and how much of her schedule was filled with private meetings with Denji.

Denji mentioned that “Ms. Makima had invited him to a vacation, just the two of them”.

…

… When the attack of the Anti-Makima squad commenced, Denji was found at the site… Makima´s apartment.

He saw him through a pair of binoculars.

He was shirtless.

And barefoot.

He looked so tired.

So drained

So young

“You don't have human rights”

Those were the words Kishibe had told him when they first met.

The boiling rage crawling up his stomach went all the way up to his head. A lifetime of facing Hell itself had taught Kishibe to never let his emotions reach his face. He didn’t even know if any could even be reflected on it before. He had seen entire generations shot, stabbed, impaled, killed, eaten, flayed, tortured, and disappeared. He never got used to it, and wasn’t numb to it, either. But when he felt the tears almost reach his eyes, he realized that he was thankful that he didn't see what Makima did to Denji. He didn't believe there would be a bigger display of the flaw that often got Devil Hunters killed, the one which he often trained and drilled out to survive - hate. Kishibe gathered his thoughts and composed himself, exhaling as he did. The only thing he could do was keep looking forward. Luckily, the Hayakawa kid didn't notice what he went through. If he had, Kishibe might have done the impossible and broken down. The dour agent gestured to the little black-haired toddler.

“That kid” .- it took every amount of willpower to focus again on what mattered now - “was discovered in China. I nicked her.”

“Doggy,” said the toddler.

It was the truth, but not all of it. His contacts inside the CCCP were still active after Quanxi´s capture. They got him the word in time, enough so he could do a really daring mission to take one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse out of the most populated country in the world. Yet his biggest concern was what he heard after he managed to avoid discovery while sneaking away in the dark of night, with a devil spawn who cloaked herself with blankets the moment they got in the boat. That concerning kernel? The intel his contacts had when he set foot in China. News that was uncovered way too quickly, and still not fast enough. If those developments were even remotely accurate, the interview he had planned for that twilight was going to hold the weight of all his existence.

“She isn’t Makima anymore,” Kishibe proclaimed, his voice still hushed and monotonous as ever. “She’s the Control Devil. Makima is dead. The new Control Devil shouldn't have her memories or anything else.”

This was also not the entire truth. This was a partial fib Kishibe felt he needed to tell for his own sake. Perhaps it was selfish on his end, but he felt it necessary… especially to atone for his sins, in leaving Denji alone with her.

Yet, despite it all, the whole situation perplexed the unflappable agent. How was it that the feared and extremely powerful Control Devil returned in such a pathetic state, and so quickly, too? Kishibe pondered and pondered. Reincarnation was typically a slow and tedious process. Devils who died in Hell reincarnated on Earth; Devils who died on Earth reincarnated in Hell. It was that very cycle that disproved the old theory that Hell was something foreign to the world - turned out, it was as connected to it as the sky was. Makima was at the height of her powers before her death. She deprived the Americans of their greatest asset: the parts of the notorious Gun Devil. She utterly trounced the Chainsaw Devil, that unholy abomination that could erase concepts from existence. It literally took Denji more than two weeks and thousands of lives to completely kill her. Logically, she should have arrived in Hell in pretty good shape, all things considered. But, here she was, not the master manipulator and dreaded mistress of Public Safety, but some lowly toddler cooing to dogs. How did she reincarnate again so quickly, and in such a weakened state? Kishibe happened upon a possibility that gave him some Schadenfreude.

When Makima arrived in Hell, something far more powerful must have eviscerated her… something so dangerous that her reincarnation had to rebuild her wretched soul with whatever was left. The encounter likely left no trace of her behind, and with what was even less than the strength Denji had as a human. She had finally gotten just what she deserved. Kishibe’s lip slightly curled at the thought of Makima shrieking in terror as she was ripped to shreds by whatever force had done it. However, his lip retreated to a neutral position just as quickly. His one nanosecond of pleasure was extinguished by a lingering sense of dread, as he had a slight suspicion of what that thing could have been…

 … And, in his heart, something told him that the little toddler who now pointed her finger towards Denji didn't deserve to carry the sins of something she wasn’t.

  “Doggy,” the toddler said again.

Kishibe regained his composure and continued the conversation with a warning.

“That said,” the agent stated. “If we leave her with the government and let them raise her, odds are she’ll turn out like Makima again.” 

“Seriously?” was Denji’s disheartened reply.

The Hayakawa kid’s stomach turned at the thought. He had already jumped through so many hoops just to finally defeat Makima, and the idea of another her being made so easily didn’t sit right with him. He turned to look at the agent breaking the news to him for the first time, a look of worry and mild disgust in his eyes. 

“I don't wanna eat any more meat for a long while,” he added sheepishly.

Kishibe was at a loss as to what to make of that sentence. Really…? All the gravity of the situation, and all that was on his mind was… meat consumption? Was that seriously his greatest concern? The “horrors” of Makima filet mignon? Surely, there was something more to it than that. The agent was torn between cutting the kid some slack from knowing where he was coming from (human flesh is still human flesh, no matter how cooked it may be), or adding some merit to the general prejudice that he indeed was an absolute moron.

“Yep,” Kishibe resumed, slightly dumbfounded. “That’s why… I’m gonna entrust her to you.” The air almost seemed lighter after he said that. It must’ve been a good sign.

“Say again?” was Denji’s perplexed response.

“I'm about to get busy. Figuring leaving her in your care would be the best course of action.”

The Hayakawa kid stared into the raven-haired toddler’s golden eyes. She stared back in a mixture of curiosity and confusion, with not a hint of the eerie malice that defined her previous incarnation’s soul-piercing gaze. He mulled over the situation in his stunted little mind. How was he going to take care of this little girl? He hardly knew how to take care of himself! Just what was he going to do? More importantly, what on Earth was Kishibe’s rationale for all this? Sure, the new Control Devil would be Makima 2.0 in the government’s hands, but couldn’t there be someone else more fitting for the job? What about Himen- oh, right.

Kishibe glanced at the two twerps engaging in the world’s lamest staring contest. He thought it was as good a chance as he would get to be on his way. Just as he made sure that Meowy was safely left in the bench, he pressed his feet into the seat, and propelled his body with all his strength upwards. He lifted himself off the ground, and landed safely on the top of a nearby building. He had one of his contracts to thank for that. He surveyed the scene below from the top of the building. Denji frantically looked around for him, confused as it was only logical. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, the annoyed adolescent piggy-backed the smaller kid out of the park. Kishibe grinned in amusement. He found being a deadbeat dad a little fun. He hadn't smiled in so long, but if he chose when he would do it, it seemed the moment fit. He stared at the horizon for a moment, feeling his trenchcoat flail in the wind. He remembered something from what felt like multiple lifetimes ago… a comic book he read when he was even younger than Denji. What was its name? Yeah, Batman. Something had happened that year, but he couldn’t remember what it was. 

He turned around, knowing the crucial moments that next awaited him. 

He was most likely getting hit in the face again.

_________________________________________________________________________

The slim hall was filled with agents side to side. There was barely any space for Kishibe to walk through, but he managed. The hall itself was dark, with the only illumination coming from flickering crimson lights mounted on the walls. The walls and floors themselves were a deep chrome, but they were discolored by the dirt, rust, and dried blood accumulated there after what appeared to be years of neglect. Lining each wall was a series of steel doors bearing the Public Safety logo, clearly meant for some kind of containment. Every agent present in this hell-hall was wearing full tactical gear, and armed with Howa assault rifles. Kishibe couldn't see any faces or eyes, as they were all covered behind masks and goggles. However, what wasn’t covered was the smell of sweat and piss that emanated from most of the agents’ uniforms.

Most, if not all, were either new recruits, or transferred personnel from the police or army. At the very least, Kishibe hoped so. He would’ve rather believed that was the answer instead of thinking that was how much Public Safety had fallen. After all, not one of those fancy rifles or bits of body armor would make a difference if Quanxi decided to break free. And whose idea was it to put two full lines from both sides of the corridor? The place they were in was the Special Detention Center, where they held captured Devils. The only access was an inclined loading platform that moved maybe faster than the average insurance, and even then it was so deep underground it took two full minutes to descend to the first lower level. And they were currently in Level 5, which made the trip a whopping seven minutes in that platform, which could maybe fit ten agents if they were just wearing their standard suits. It would fit maybe six of these doofuses if they were all under 1.60 cm and weighed less than Quanxi’s usual type. As he walked down the hall, and kept count of how much waste of space was on each side, he wondered which idiot had the brilliant idea of putting on the charade. When he finally found his idiot standing in front of a detention cell door, he counted 42 muppets on each side. With the low amount of brandy he had taken, he made a mental note to get out of there before the circus of removing all those clowns started, quickly calculating the hour and a half it would take.

When he reached the door, what was supposed to be the officer did a salute and screamed "PERSONNEL, ATTENTION!”, and all the clowns played their drums. Oh no, that was their feet tapping the floor in unison.

“Captain Kishibe! Second Lieutenant Nagahi Motogu, ready to serve!” screamed the bumbling tool at the door. “We have prepared everything for your arrival!”

Kishibe was a head taller than the lieutenant, and made no effort to alleviate the strain on the soldier’s neck to look up to him.

“Nagahi, remove your mask and your goggles,” commanded Kishibe.

“... Right away sir!” loudly replied the do-gooder idiot. 

“And lower your voice.” Kishibe's voice was as cold as the floors of that hall. 

Once the face was exposed, Kishibe could see that Nagahi was a young-ish man, maybe in his late 20s or early 30s. He had a slim beard, brown eyes, a slim nose, and short reglementary hair. In short, a government-issued cardboard copy.

“Were you given a full debriefing before deploying all these men here?” Kishibe asked, a grave and perhaps slightly condescending tone in his voice.

“Yes sir! a short one!” was the prompt reply. “Not so long ago, most of the men here were stationed before my assignment. I was given the instructions to reinforce the troops here, as quickly as possible!”

“Very well. I will give you the instructions that someone in management, who is going to die later, by the way, failed to carry out.”

Kishibe locked his stern eyes into Nagahi’s and bore into them with a deathly cold intensity. Nagahi’s face began turning pale. He was clearly nervous and intimidated.

“There are too many people grouped up like canned tuna,” Kishibe resumed, his voice still monotone but commanding. “In a hallway this small, with equipment this heavy, and all holding assault rifles, they are clumsy, slow, and more prone to crossfire than actually shooting straight. There is already limited oxygen here, and it is for a reason. There are five levels in this facility, and each is teeming with captured Devils. In this level alone, we’re holding eight. The low oxygen level is to keep them as docile as possible. But now, you have more than eighty people crammed in here.”

Kishibe hadn’t even blinked when speaking. His gaze was strong, steady, and piercing. Nagahi didn’t blink, either, but pearls of sweat were starting to drop from both sides of his face. Kishibe continued his debriefing as if nothing was happening:

“All these people are not only taking up what little oxygen there is, but the amount of noise they just made plus all the bodily fluids just slithering out of their thick gear, is just ringing the dinner bell to every Devil in this facility.”

The slow but ascending growls, shrieks and thudding at each of the cell doors helped to put emphasis on the ongoing explanation. 

“Devils operate primarily on scent. A lot of them don’t have eyes, and even the ones that do can't even see that well. But every single Devil can smell you out. Every single one knows exactly where you are if you are in the same space as them. So, you just put targets on each and every one of these men under your command.” 

In spite of his profuse perspiration, Nagahi appeared calm upon receiving this news. He seemed to grasp the stakes at hand. His breath stabilized, he ceased to shiver, and his eyes showed only pure focus. Kishibe was pleasantly surprised by his subordinate’s change in demeanor. He resumed:  

“I made you take your mask and goggles off for one simple reason. Now all your sweat is out in the air, and it’s become the main odor entering the scent glands of every Devil here. You just made eighty targets into one. Devils have a great sense of smell but poor focus. If they ever escape here, they will remember only you. They will hunt only you. It’s often said that, when you lead, you hold the entire weight of all under your charge. Now that metaphor is literal. You will carry the attention of all this terror encapsulated in flesh, and save all your men.”

As soon as the last words exited Kishibe’s mouth, a horrible combination of maniacal laughter, blood-curdling screams, and booming roars filled the air. The hellish cacophony crescendoed until it was deafening. The doors cracked under all the strain, while the Devils made their presence and intentions known. A lot of the men backed up, immediately proving Kishibe’s point. They crammed the hallway immediately, all packed together. Nagahi didn’t flinch. His sweat had dried, sticking to his forehead. His breathing was steady. He held Kishibe’s eye contact, his eyes filled with determination.

“I'll fulfill my duty to the men under my command,” Nagahi bravely declared.

Kishibe nodded, his dead eyes finally showing a tiny glint of life. He was impressed by Nagahi’s steadfast courage and dedication to his troops.

A brave man. Rigid, a little simple, but reliable, thought Kishibe. The one you can count on being a hero, and never asking anything more than the safety of others. Lord knows the world needs more like him.

Kishibe turned to the closest soldier to his left, the one that, like Nagahi, hadn't moved from his post. 

“Soldier, commence an immediate retreat with at least forty of the men here,” the scarred agent gravely ordered. “Leave your gear in the supply closet next to the exit, on the hallway to the right of the entrance. Then, cram as many men as you can in the platform, but only the ones who have stripped off their gear.” 

He then turned back to Nagahi. 

“How many of your men have active Devil Contracts?” he asked. His tone was a little lighter this time, but no less serious. 

Nagahi promptly replied, “Four that I have direct confirmation on, sir. Fox Devil, Drowning Devil, Beetle Devil, and Accident Devil.”

All good contracts, Kishibe mused in his mind. Enough to safely contain the level and evacuate all personnel if there was a break-in… 

But then he remembered there were more than ordinary Devils here. Sure, the contracts could take care of the eight Devils in their cells. However, against Quanxi, there wasn’t much any of them could do.

“Very well,” responded Kishibe after a short pause. “Keep those men at least four meters away from the door. Is everything that I requested already inside?”

“Yes sir,” was Nagahi’s reply. “We were only waiting for your arrival.”

“Okay.”

Kishibe paused again and assessed the situation. He was still very taken by Nagahi’s willingness to go above and beyond, but he also didn’t want to overburden the stalwart lieutenant. After a few seconds of deliberation, he responded:   

“I understand our current predicament is not entirely your responsibility, Second Lieutenant. But I’m more than satisfied with what I’ve seen of your work. As long as I’m here, you will be under my care.”

Nagahi’s eyes didn't change at all, but a small smile showed in his face. 

“Thank you very much, Captain Kishibe,” he said. “If the one occupant of this cell was briefed to me correctly, your protection is as much of a death sentence as any of the Devils I’m currently showing my back to.”

Kishibe was hardly surprised by Devils. After a while, their insanity made the unpredictable a constant. The same could not be said with humans. He was proven wrong. Nagahi had the matter of a true Devil Hunter.

“If we make it out of this Centre, leave your record on my desk,” said Kishibe.

Nagahi didn’t comment any further, but his smile widened a little more. He stepped forward, opened the heavy door, and took a step back. He saluted Kishibe as the agent proceeded. Kishibe saluted back. After checking his pockets to see if his flask and folder were still on his person, Kishibe entered the door. 

…

As soon as he stepped into the room, Kishibe’s eyes were assaulted by the blinding contrast. Unlike the hall, which was practically engulfed in darkness, the cell the scarred and now squinting agent found himself in was completely covered in white tiles and beaconed by lights that were way too bright. After his eyes adjusted, he saw a small white desk in the middle of the room, with a black chair on each side. Sitting in one of the chairs was a brown-eyed Chinese woman with an athletic build, cream-colored hair tied into a ponytail, a conspicuous black patch over where her right eye used to be, and an expression on her face as detached and stone-cold as Kishibe’s. She wore a teal prison jumpsuit, as was part of the standard in the Japanese penitentiary system. This was none other than Quanxi, the feared Bow Hybrid and Kishibe’s old partner in crime from his Public Safety glory days. Kishibe ambled toward the other chair, pulled it out, and took a seat. Whoever chose this desk must have thought a smaller space between the edges would create a more trusting environment. They didn’t count on the fact it left Kishibe in perfect slapping range.

“Why is it so white?” asked Quanxi, with her low monotone Kishibe couldn’t resist feeling nostalgic about.

“Don’t know,” was his quick reply. 

He took out the files he’d been keeping inside his coat and set them on the desk to his left. He then took out his flask and set it on that same desk to his right. His tired eyes glanced around the room, taking in the amazing sights of nothing but pearly tiles. He cleared his throat and followed up with: 

“They probably thought it would be worse if they couldn’t see you in the room.”

Quanxi dryly replied, “whoever did it, tell him I thank him. I wouldn’t have liked the alternative, either.” 

Kishibe pulled out his cigarette box, opened it, and offered a smoke to Quanxi. Quanxi snatched the box out of his hand and put one in her mouth. She then offered one back in return to Kishibe. He picked one from the side; Quanxi pocketed the box. Kishibe then took out a lighter and gestured towards Quanxi’s cigarette. Once he lit hers up, he leaned back in his chair before lighting his own. He then stored the lighter safely in his back pocket.

“Are you the head of Public Safety now?” Quanxi inquired after taking a puff.

“Unofficially… no,” Kishibe responded. “The upper levels are in complete chaos. One half got killed in the squabble, and the other half was removed by the prime minister before he was forced to resign. They haven’t asked me to be in charge, so there’s no one to stop me from pulling every string.” 

“Why should I think there is any insurance to whatever you want to propose to me then?”

“Like I said, who's going to stop me?” he continued, flashing a little smirk as he did. “And the lower levels are mostly intact. Composed entirely with people I’ve worked with or trained. Or both.” He took a big breath before continuing, his exhale echoing throughout the empty room. 

“Whatever agreement you are okay with, it will stick,” he reassured.

“Lovely,” she quipped with her usual expression. 

Kishibe knew her well enough to ignore her face to read her. The fidgeting of the cigarette was more communicative.

Kishibe continued, “Makima is dead… I’m never getting tired of saying that. Gone for good”.

“Who did it?” asked the Chinese woman. Her fidgeting hesitated.

“Denji.”

“Chainsaw. Didn’t figure he had it in him.” She took a steady puff from her cigarette, the smoke pouring out of her slightly open mouth. “A clear mistake on my part.” 

That was as much as a compliment Quanxi could give to anyone who wasn’t born a woman.

“Where is he now?” she inquired after a small pause. She then looked straight at Kishibe and clarified, “Chainsaw.”

Kishibe met her gaze and replied, “currently taking the new Control Devil for a walk.”

“What?”

“She’s a little kid, about 6-7 years old. Her name is Nayuta. Snatched her from your old employers a few days ago.”

“When I told you your fangs fell off, I wasn’t expecting both your upper and lower brains to follow soon. I see no way that could work on any level.” How her unmovable expression could still communicate baffle and disbelief was still amazing. 

“Benefits of depth perception,” Kishibe fired back. “You tend to miss less stuff.”

He pointed his cigarette at her to emphasize his point. Quanxi remained unfazed.

“You refused to participate when I asked you to aid me in killing her,” he continued. “You don’t get to be picky with what decisions are made with the victory spoils.”

“I paid my toll enough after that,” she retorted. “That doesn’t include whatever entitlement you think you’ve earned.”

“Did you? Enlighten me. What exactly did you go through?”

Quanxi turned her head to her left, so only her eyepatch was in line with Kishibe. She also lowered her hand beneath the table. It wasn’t enough to mask how much she was fidgeting the cig.

“Not anything I chose. Or enjoyed,” she sheepishly admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Is it necessary for my partner to know?”

“I’m not your partner anymore,” he replied. “And if this works out, I’ll be your manager.”

Kishibe opened the folder and started moving some of the pages around. He tried to organize what he had as well as he could, all while still keeping his eyes locked on the passive-aggressive Chinese cyclops in front of him. 

“If you’re not in the mood to vent your experiences, it’s fine,” Kishibe declared. “I can assign you a shrink for that. The point stands, the kid has done more than enough to prove himself capable of handling his task.”

“Not my professional diagnosis,” Quanxi snarked in her deadpan fashion.

Kishibe’s demeanor straightened up, and he leaned right into Quanxi’s face, his expression now tense and commanding. 

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Quanxi turned to face Kishibe directly. She must have felt how serious his voice was.

Kishibe gravely continued, “if you hold my word to any regard whatsoever, you’ll stick to this: don’t ever make an enemy out of Denji Hayakawa.”

They held each other's gaze for approximately ten seconds. Whatever Quanxi saw in his eyes gave her resolve.

“Okay. I will keep that close to my chest,” the Chinese woman quietly replied. 

Kishibe believed her. “Thank you,” he said as he leaned back down into his chair.

He looked down at the files spread out on the desk and took a deep breath before continuing.

“The situation out there is stabilized madness,” he explained. “The United States, Germany, the USSR, and China all lost their best agents.” It wasn’t lost on the grizzled agent that this stated fact could also be interpreted as flattery… but he hoped it wasn’t the kind that warranted a slap. 

“And two of those nations have to deal with the humiliation that their best assets were in fact, double agents,” he continued.

“You should put a statue of Cosmo at the front gate,” she quipped.

“I’m sure you’ll be fully cooperative in providing her precise measurements for it.” 

Despite the seeming tension in the air, he really was enjoying the verbal sparring with his old buddy. It brought back a lot of memories of the good old days when they were younger, sprier, and more reckless. Even with her dull, frozen expression, Kishibe knew Quanxi did, too. He continued:

“But above all, the balance is tilting. Despite the major fuck-up that Soviet operations on our soil proved to be, the biggest loser in all of this was the United States. They sacrificed their 20% of the Gun Devil, resulting in nothing being achieved but thousands of civilian casualties at least. The death toll is still being updated on that one.” 

Kishibe paused and gave Quanxi a small knowing grin. They both took some small pleasure in seeing the so-called “Policeman of the World” being so thoroughly humiliated after thumping its chest for so long on the global stage. 

Kishibe resumed, “the International Theatre is in an intermission while nobody knows what the fuck to make of the situation. This gives Japan time.” He pointed at the seven spreadsheets laid out on the desk.

“Makima’s inheritance,” he remarked. He saw Quanxi quietly tensing up after he said this. Being the good friend he was, he calmly reassured her. 

“The good part,” he said. “Seven Devil and human Hybrids. The only ones recorded for all of human history, all gathered up in one place.”

“You’re omitting Chainsaw,” Quanxi pointed out.

“The kid is no longer an active member of Public Safety. He has been given a stipend to cover his and… new Control’s expenses. He would be an off-the-record asset, as his main concerns are to be a parent and attend school.”

Quanxi tilted her head slightly when she heard the last bit. Kishibe made sure to note that before continuing.

“In political speech, Japan now has the single-most powerful strike and infiltration force on the planet-”

Kishibe abruptly stopped. He had cringed at what he had just said so hard that he felt as if he was about to throw up. He grabbed his flask off the desk, opened it up, and took a long sip of booze to remove all the first-hand embarrassment he had gotten from saying that line. Quanxi felt his pain. After he finished, he handed the flask over to her, who chugged some down to also make the conversation more bearable. 

“Or so it would be on paper,” Kishibe continued after getting some much-needed alcohol in his system.

Quanxi lightheartedly pointed to the sheets of paper with the flask in her hand, almost as if to underscore what Kishibe had just gotten the liquid courage to state. The irony of her doing so while bourbon slid off her mouth’s edge was not lost on him. After internally laughing to himself, Kishibe resumed:

“My current task is to assess how close to reality that statement really is by conducting an individual interview with each recovered Hybrid. The objective of each interview is to assess the current capabilities and state of each individual, and conduct a deal that would make them full assets of Public Safety… or to safely contain and dispose of them if they are proven to be a liability.”

“Oh, you have my full undivided attention now,” eagerly chimed in Quanxi. “I’m making bets to myself on which of them fit into your boxes.”

She leaned forward and rested her head on her hands. Her resemblance to a high schooler paying attention to the teacher was so uncanny it made Kishibe cringe again and consider taking another swig of bourbon. 

Even then, she does remember them individually, at least enough, the scarred agent thought to himself. I will keep that in mind.

“So far I’ve resolved five interviews,” Kishibe stated matter-of-factly. “You are the sixth. First, I started with him.” He then laid the first page on top and pointed to it.

“Miri Sugo. Male, seventeen years old. Japanese national - Japanese mother, South Korean father, both deceased. An older brother, deceased. The Sword Hybrid. The origins of his powers are still unknown. Makima killed his brother and captured him last July in the Kanto region.”

“Decent kid,” Quanxi suddenly contributed. “A little shy at first, but later so eager to belong. He barely asked any questions about anyone’s abilities, only about us.” Kishibe was stunned, but also found her reaction a little heartwarming. 

Was she being… tender? Kind? he thought to himself.

“Makima did not like that. Not one bit,” added Quanxi somberly.

She leaned back while looking at the pictures of the file. The one on the left showed Sugo posing in front of the Shibuya crossing. His smile was obscured by all his long hair being tossed around by a strong wind. The one on the right showed the preliminary autopsy briefing, a pale corpse on top of the metal table. 

“He would be a nice agent,” she piped back in. “You wouldn’t be concerned if he died because of being too soft. After the fifteenth time, he would still hold the same enthusiasm and maybe learn to dodge by then.”

“His interview lasted about twenty-six minutes,” stated Kishibe. “After some deliberation, I made the decision not to recruit him. I set him up with an adequate pension and accommodations, and wrote a letter of recommendation to Fourth East High School for his admission. He should start attending classes no later than late November.”

“You starting your assignment with a failure is a refreshingly unsurprising start… but I can’t mock you too much on this one; it was the right call.”

They agreed. What are the odds that three out of eight of the most unusual and rare Devil kind were kids around the same age? It was too cruel.

“Miri Sugo is too naive and too good-hearted. He doesn’t have the maturity to make it in our field. He’s alone, and he’s scared. He lost both his parents, and the only positive figure he had left was killed in front of him for no reason, but it was justified by Makima as for ‘the greater good.’” Kishibe felt sick to even utter those words. The fact that, even after her demise, Makima’s actions were still affecting innocent people made his stomach turn. 

The grizzled agent continued, “he now just wants to find a guide, something to do with his life. He wanted to join because he felt in debt to Denji and to me. He wants to be like us.” A small chuckle escaped his mouth… the first in a really long time. Quanxi let out a sound that almost could pass as a chuckle, despite her not opening her mouth and her face not moving an inch.

I’m already submitting two kids into this, Kishibe resolved to himself. I won’t drag another one down. He put Sugo’s page to the side, and moved on to the next.

“The second,” continued Kishibe. “Cassio Mancino Bianchi, alias Tenshu Teikyō. Italian, estimated age, 145 years old. The Spear Hybrid. Quite a bit of thrust, lack of reach. Callous, taciturn, and a horrible table partner.” Kishibe took another sip before resuming his spiel. 

“What little he shared with us, he was in Sardinia before being snatched by Makima. He did not give any official explanation as to why Makima would have found him there, or what he did to draw her attention. In his own words, he was simply ‘there.’” Another sip. Resuming:

“Different reports are more talkative than him. Spear wounds were found in different locations around the Mediterranean. Devils, animals, victims of poaching, people… the only connection between incidents is a big hole in them. Could be a case of work for hire, organized group hits, or boredom. Any of them could fit, and he did not give a single care to confirm or deny. He barely showed any interest in what I was saying, or anything in general. His demands to participate in Public Safety were… wouldn't even call them odd. Minimum wage, living accommodations, and weekly briefings on the current affairs of PS in line with his level of clearance.” 

Even saying it now felt odd, thought Kishibe after pausing for a bit. 

“Sounds like your perfect date,” jabbed Quanxi. “He surely didn’t draw any attention from me whatsoever.”

Kishibe had to swallow a comment that would earn him that slap - he’d better double them for later. He gave the insolent Chinese cyclops a look that said “oh ha ha, very funny” before collecting his thoughts and continuing:

“I refused his request for entry to Public Safety. He didn’t seem bothered. When one of the guards came to escort him out, he jammed one of his fingers into his eyes.” 

Kishibe remembered it like it was yesterday. No strength was applied. He just took a finger, pointed straight ahead, and thrusted. The screams were only half as striking as how unmoving and relaxed Cassio looked. It wasn’t at all the same as Quanxi’s apathy - he truly wasn’t there at that moment. Or anywhere. Kishibe continued:

“He was our earliest test subject for the experimental Hybrid Containment Procedure. So far, a success.” 

Quanxi ignored the implications. Instead, she unceremoniously shoved the paper off the desk and picked up the next. She began to read out loud:

“Minerva Foudet. Whip Hybrid. Proclaimed age and nationality: 82 years old, French.” She took the most annoyed and dramatic puff of her cigarette. She then saw something she found mildly amusing. “I like your note, Kishibe… ‘at least one of these statements is likely to be false.’ Old dogs lose their nose last.”

Quanxi started to use the tip of the cigarette as a reading stick, burning parts of the report. The damage meant nothing to her. She continued, same indifferent expression as always:’

"Psychology report: narcissistic personality traits and delusions of grandeur. Inability to take criticism and what she perceives as ‘disrespectful behavior.’ Made no concrete effort to attempt to join Public Safety… Destination: Hybrid Containment Procedure.”

Quanxi looked as if she was thinking about wiping her nose with the report. Kishibe extended his hand, and Quanxi handed him the sheet. She then proceeded to use her nail to carve a “0 - 3” in the table. It didn’t surprise Kishibe at all how a single nail could carve up the thick metal surface. He had seen Denji bite through a knife when he shoved it through his skull. Five years prior, he had also seen Quanxi clap so hard it deafened a recruit. Hybrids were never meant to be taken lightly.

“I’m hungry.” Quanxi interrupted. As if like magic, the hyper-prepared Kishibe pulled two sandwiches out of his coat, and handed Quanxi one. She took a big bite out of it, aluminium foil wrap and all.  

“Is this an elaborate way for you to ask me out on a pity date?” she asked with her mouth full. “I’m perplexed it took you ten years to appeal to pity”.

“If I had only failures, I might have,” Kishibe chided. “Might have fitted you”. 

He braced for the slap, but Quanxi didn’t even lift up her hand. She looked down, a slightly dejected aura in her otherwise expressionless eye.

“It would,” she muttered. “I failed. My girls are dead. I’ll never hear their laughter again.”

This took him by surprise. He knew Quanxi got pretty attached to her girls. He heard she surrendered to Makima just for them. It was the first time Quanxi surrendered. And, to add to his surprise, this was the first time Quanxi showed any vulnerability to Kishibe… well, aside from that time. And there wasn’t anything hunting them there.

What did Makima do to her? Kishibe wondered to himself.

“Don’t be so certain, Quanxi,” Kishibe reassured. He softened his tone, recognizing her sorrow. “There is still hope.”

“Wait, what? What do you…”

“There are still two reports I need you to check.” 

The scarred agent flashed another quick grin. He could tell Quanxi valued his reassurance. He also knew that this turn of events was going to play well in his favor.

I have her attention now, Kishibe thought triumphantly. I need to keep it a little more. 

He held up the fourth page with his right arm to the same side, making Quanxi twist her entire head to focus her eye on the paper. That way, the angle and position would make it harder for her to slap him.

“Barem Bridge,” she read disgustedly. She twisted her neck so fast to look at him so hard, it cracked.

“Close acquaintances?” asked Kishibe.

“To HER.” 

For the first time, her eye showed rage. 

“That filth was the only one not under her control,” she spat. “Not as the rest of us. He was there willingly. He holds no regret for anything, and finds everything amusing.”

“I see.” 

He put the report away. She didn’t need to read the rest. Her nail furiously changed the “0 - 3” to a “1 - 3.” She paused for a bit, collected her thoughts, and sighed.

“You managed to recruit one useful asset at the very least?” she asked.

“More than that,” was the confident reply.

Kishibe turned and pulled up file number 5. He turned it on the spot, so Quanxi could read it clearly.

“Samurai,” she said.

“Makima left a huge mess with the Yakuza. Understandably, they attacked her and snatched the chainsaw kid away, killing a lot of good people in the process.” Kishibe paused, as he solemnly remembered a fallen ally while recalling what happened. 

Himeno, forgive me, he thought. He then continued: 

“Turns out there was a considerable amount of yakuza still kicking after the Kakitama Eye soup she pulled up. These yakuza were aimless, which made them dangerous, especially if they were desperate enough to make contracts with powerful Devils… or worse, reach out to other foreign criminal organizations or governments.” Kishibe took another drink before resuming. 

“Samurai Sword is a link to those resources. It doesn’t take much to keep him on a leash and happy enough. So far, his most unrealistic request is a rematch with Chainsaw Man. Apparently, the kid made a competition to kick his balls the hardest.”

“Tell him to sign me up for the next tourney,” Quanxi chimed in. 

Kishibe was feeling more and more exhausted by the minute - he knew what came after.

“2-3. Who says an old dog can’t learn new tricks, partner?” she snarked.

My damn weakness, Kishibe thought to his chagrin. He hated and adored how much it made his heart jump and his stomach twist every time he heard those words from her. He slid Sheet 6 towards her.

“Empty,” she flatly observed.

“If it’s not obvious enough, would you slap me if I bothered to explain?” was Kishibe’s sharp response.

“Maybe.”

Kishibe took a deep breath, tapped at the paper, and said, “you alone already have a dozen files in the founding documents of Public Safety as a whole. This is to fill your requirements and needs.”

“What makes you think I would want to return in the first place?” Quanxi shot back.

“She’s not here anymore, for starters.”

“Who’s stating the obvious now?”

Careful, very careful, Kishibe warned himself. He noticed the rage and annoyance building up in Quanxi’s eye and paused for a bit to gather his thoughts. He had to walk on eggshells to avoid incurring her wrath. He swallowed and then quietly added,

“And, well… you could get your girls back.”

The slap came as fast as he remembered. It twisted his entire face, and nearly lifted him, the chair, and the table off the floor. He could feel his teeth shattering, his skin tearing, and his eye swelling immediately. Blood gushed from his nose. Thankfully, it was to the side because of the whiplash, landing on the wall and not on top of his folder. Once his ears stopped ringing, he managed to look up and see Quanxi staying in the same position as before.

“Keep talking,” she bellowed.

Kishibe swallowed again, wiped the blood from his nose, and cleared his throat. A sharp pain radiated all throughout his bloodied, broken face.

“I was there when Makima killed Tsugihagi and Cosmo,” he continued, a little bit of blood dripping from his mouth. “I heard them die…”

“You learned their names,” was the response.

“… and I read the report. Pingtsi and Long were in the building when it was plunged to Hell.”

Kishibe noticed something funny about Quanxi after he said that. Something seemed… off about her reaction.

Is my brain finally shutting down, or does she actually look nervous? Kishibe asked himself.

“They didn’t make it,” Quanxi said tersely.

Kishibe quickly responded, “Public Safety recovered the bodies, actually.” He managed to straighten up without being hit again, so it must’ve been a good sign. He continued: 

“Of the people still alive, only you and the kid survived what happened… yet, curiously, both of you refused to talk about what you encountered.”

Quanxi didn’t respond, but she started fidgeting the cigarette again. Something was going on.

My eyes are not deceiving me, Kishibe silently observed. She is nervous.

“There is a reason for that,” Quanxi stated with an annoyed tone. “I’ve said it too many times.”

“Ignorance is bliss, as you say,” Kishibe responded. “Makima clearly didn’t think the same. When she came back from Hell, she was weakened. A lot. It brings joy to my heart remembering how distraught and in pain she looked at that moment. But now knowing her contract, it worries me. It put her on the ropes. And whatever Santa Claus turned into, her own contract was redacted to oblivion after the incident, so it is a mystery… as to what was there that you found in Hell… even to me. Tell me… what did you face?”

“What the hell does this have to do with anything?” The fidgeting got more pronounced. Her tone was getting increasingly harsh.

“Well, Pingtsi and Long died in Hell,” said Kishibe. “Meaning, they reincarnated on Earth.”

Quanxi’s fidgeting ceased. The tiniest spark appeared to shimmer in her eye. A mixture of hope and excitement started to bubble from within. Kishibe leaned forward towards her to emphasize his point.

“They’re out there, Quanxi.”

Her excitement began to build. He could see it in the look in her eye, in how she suddenly straightened, in how her demeanor suddenly shifted… but then it died. Quanxi remembering how Devils worked snuffed out her fervor. She sulked back in her chair, the excitement gone, the stone-cold expression returning. 

“I know,” she said dejectedly. “But they wouldn’t be the same.”

“Souls and hearts don’t change that easily,” countered Kishibe. “Public Safety has a tracking and recovery department. One of the other few good parts of Makima’s inheritance. It is mostly intact, and doesn’t depend on the Control Devil’s ability to operate. In time, they might be able to find your girls. Maybe even all of them.”

“And then what?”

“We managed to preserve and even repair the corpses left from that day. You might bury them to remember. Or, you can keep them, in the hopes of turning those Devils into your girls again.”

What I have to do, Kishibe thought after saying that. The idea alone was beyond twisted, and he was desperate. Even so, seeing the glimmer of happiness and hope that once shone in her eyes didn't let him hold any regret over that decision. He hoped to see that look again in any way possible.

“And then what?” Quanxi crossly asked, clearly skeptical. “Do they exist as Public Safety’s dogs? Be sent on missions and patrol until they die again?”

Kishibe immediately held his hand up. It was too late to be cautious. He was losing her, and he couldn’t let that happen. He spent a couple seconds quickly thinking of a way to keep in her good graces…

“Answer me,” she demanded.  

After gathering his thoughts, he came upon something that he was sure would do the trick.

“I’m aware of what you asked the Chinese for payment,” he said. “I offer more. Full citizenship and rights for every single one of your girls. They’ll have university scholarships for any career they desire. Passports, housing, and lunch passes for ten different sushi buffets… for starters.”

The Chinese woman leaned back a little in her chair, pausing to consider what Kishibe had just told her. It was a wonderful proposition, to be sure, but it also felt a little too good to be true. There had to be a catch, she was sure of it. The Japanese government wouldn’t be so magnanimous.

“As long as I behave?” she shot back.

“Well, you could ask Long, but no,” was Kishibe’s curt reply.

Quanxi stared at him with the most unamused look on her face he had ever seen. He knew the situation was tense but couldn’t resist making the shitty pun. Part of him was afraid of another slap, but the other part was also chuckling to himself, knowing that this moment of impish behavior was a release for them both. A few seconds passed, and there was no slap. Clearly, Quanxi tolerated his horrible attempt at “humor” enough for him to know she was on board.  

“Human rights are unconditional,” Kishibe began again. “They won’t be chained to any action you take other than their own will to you.” Both their cigarettes were long consumed by then, but the spark persisted.

“Okay,” she replied. She took the sixth and final sheet, folded it, and dragged it across the desk closer to her. "That's six.”

“And there’s just one more I need your help with,” he replied.

He carefully took every sheet of paper off the table, ignoring the one Quanxi had shoved onto the floor earlier as he realized he still couldn’t move his legs… for now. He then pulled out a final one. Quanxi gazed quizzically at him and was perhaps a touch perturbed. Kishibe had said there were only six, and yet here was a surprise seventh… not very forthcoming of him. Although she felt like she was being strung along, she ultimately went along with it. After all, Kishibe had gone through a lot of trouble to do this, and he clearly both valued her and wanted her on his side. Despite it all, he was trustworthy. 

No matter… Quanxi thought. It’s not like it’s a bomb or something…

The last paper might as well have been a bomb with how carefully he laid it out. And it was.

“Bomb,” the Chinese woman read. She couldn’t believe the stupid coincidence.

“Indeed,” responded the scarred Japanese man. “AKA, Reze, no last name. Spearhead of the KGB Spetsnaz Strike Forces. Member of the experimental Red Room somewhere in Kamchatka, the most powerful Devil Hybrid in existence. Responsible for the destruction of six city blocks, the entire annihilation of the 2nd Special Division, along with 368 deaths in that incident alone. Mounting her total suspected kill count to 1.712. All that before turning eighteen.”

“She is impressive,” Quanxi said, tilting her head in curiosity like she did before.

“Putting it mildly. She was tasked by the KGB to kill the kid and take his Chainsaw Heart. After failing the stealth approach, she went ballistic, and was defeated by him. She attempted to escape, but was intercepted by Makima, captured, put into the new 5th Special Division, and is now awaiting my revaluation.”

“That would be all?”

Kishibe leaned forward in his chair and gave Quanxi a look that said “not quite.”

“On the official record, at least,” he said. “But the fact remains that a lot of details were omitted.”

Quanxi smiled back with her eye, which was now gleaming with anticipation. 

“Elaborate,” she calmly said. She started playing with her hair. It was something that Kishibe always noted because he knew that’s the thing she did when she was interested in something.

“There were a lot of things that didn't add up when she intercepted the kid,” Kishibe resumed. “Those were my thoughts the day after half of Tokyo was blown up, and they were confirmed once the reports from those who faced her arrived at my desk. Five agents survived her encounter, and they had nothing in common with each other. Their mannerisms, styles, and even grammar were as different as you and me. But all had a few things in agreement. The first one I noticed is that she always called the kid… ‘Denji-kun.’ Not Chainsaw or Chainsaw Man… even in the middle of battle, she only referred to him in that cute way. She’s a trained assassin. Why would she willingly humanize her target, even while attempting to blow him up?”

Kishibe laid back in his seat, looking at the ceiling while he sorted his ideas. He then continued:

“And even that didn’t add up. She wasn’t subtle about it. The reports all talk about how she joked, laughed with, and teased the kid. Galgagi, the Violence Fiend, even had a direct confrontation with her. He retreated… and she left him. Kobeni described how she even spared her instead of deleting loose ends…”

While he was talking, Kishibe noticed that the feeling had returned in his legs. He could move them again. He began tapping his foot as he continued to unravel this mystery surrounding the reports on one explosive Russian. 

“Hayakawa’s debrief is what gained my curiosity,” the scarred agent admitted. “The kid, Denji, refused to talk about what happened to me, and Makima insisted we gave him a pass ‘this time.’ But he did talk to Hayakawa, and he talked to me about it. The Bomb Girl intercepted Denji a full week before she tried to kill him. And in that week… they just hung out. They met every day for several hours in a café, and even sneaked into a school on a Friday night.” 

He lowered his head to stare at Quanxi, who was still looking at him intently, listening all the while. 

“One of our Fiends, Beam, reported that he trailed ‘Lord Chainsaw Denji-kun’ all that time, and confirmed the same details when I asked,” he said. “Initially, I believed the name detail to be the result of some intern just copying and pasting the Fiend’s report, as it was the first and longest… but it wasn’t the case. The kid and that Bomb were on a date together at a festival. And the same Fiend later reported how he saved his Lord Chainsaw from drowning… but that he also pulled the Bomb Girl from the water as well, and on his own volition. Why?” Kishibe covered his hands over his face.

“The conclusion I can extract…,” he quietly mused. “Is that the Shark Fiend saved the girl, not just because she was the girl his dearest Lord Chainsaw loved… but because he knew she loved his Lord Chainsaw back.”

He let the realization linger for a second. It was so beyond ridiculous that he just couldn’t avoid but marvel at it. Kids being forced into fighting and destroying the hellspawn that crawled out of every gutter with death hovering over them at every turn was nothing new. It was in his and Quanxi’s experience, it was how the world worked. And, if the rumors were true, then things were even worse in the Soviet Union. The Bomb Girl should have been the biggest sociopath by all stretches of human logic.

Instead, she spent an entire week going on romantic dates with her supposed “target.” Beam’s report was a rambling mess of suck-ups and nonstop praise for the kid, so the details were utterly lost in translation. However, after the third reading, Kishibe could decipher one detail that supported the batshit insane plan he was about to put in motion: Beam heard Bomb confessing her love to the kid, and witnessed her kissing him after that.

He looked back at Quanxi. Her expression never changed from that cold apathy, but she was still playing with her hair.

“Makima set up rooms for each Hybrid pair, except Flamethrower” she suddenly said. “Whip and Spear, Katana and Sword.. and she put me with Bomb. Probably because I was the last ‘recruited’ into her pack… a lot of the details are foggy and unpleasant.” 

Quanxi paused to collect herself. Reliving the trauma of being Makima’s slave was far from thrilling. If there was one thing the Chinese assassin prided herself on, it was independence. She greatly valued being herself and being in control - Makima represented a major affront to all that. When she was Makima’s puppet, she was aware of everything going on, but was powerless to do anything. She felt like a stranger within her own body, and it terrified her. 

“What went on in that room, I could hardly call sorority,” Quanxi began again. “But there was one really odd moment that stood out... we had some time to kill. We spent it just chatting nonsense, I… we weren’t in the mood. There was a ‘training facility’ that had nice accommodations, so we went there to train. I was taking us to the weapons room when Bomb just stopped in front of the swimming pool and… stared.”

Quanxi turned once again to her left, hiding her eye from sight.

“And for a moment, she was free,” the Chinese woman continued. “I noticed. She just stared at the pool. Then she spoke and said the weirdest shit… stuff like how she had gone with ‘him’ to that school at night, how all she wanted was to go to school… that, when she invited ‘him’, ‘he’ joined her… it got really bizarre, almost stream-of-conscious-like… but she was clearly pouring her heart out. She talked about how she taught this person how to swim, and how she wished the two of them could’ve stayed in that pool forever. Then she wished she had killed him before that… before she made him hate her. She said she ‘abandoned’ him, and that she had lied to him about hating him… then, she turned to me. It was honestly a little eerie. She had this really intense stare, almost trance-like, but her eyes carried a deep sorrow. She said, and I won’t forget it, ‘the last I’m ever going to see of him is him waiting for me… despite everything, he never hated me.”

Quanxi took another cigarette from the box, and just stared at it.

“Unfortunately for her, I was still under that bitch’s control. So I just told her to keep moving so she wouldn’t be disappointed, and she returned to smiling like an idiot.”

She put the cigarette on top of the table and spun it around.

“There’s your chance, Kishibe. You reunite her with Chainsaw, she’ll do anything. And, to be honest, someone here should at least get the chance, THAT chance.”

“I know,” Kishibe coldly replied. “That’s why she’s not reuniting with the kid.”

Quanxi didn’t say anything. She just looked at Kishibe with a cold stare, one that perhaps seemed a little disapproving. He didn’t know if the silence was a good sign or not. She sometimes had that… vibe to her. Kishibe instinctively reached for his flask, feeling the urge to gain some more liquid courage to properly deal with the wily woman in front of him. However, to his surprise, she had beaten him to the punch - the flask was in her hands. Like a mischievous cat, she toyed with it, lightly tossing it from hand to hand. She was about to open it and take another sip of bourbon when she realized how empty it was. Her impishness deflated, she slid it back to him across the desk with a swift motion.

“There are easier ways to commit suicide, you know,” she finally said at last with just a hint of condescension. “With all that alcohol, you’re already halfway there… much less painful than peeled-off boiled skin from powder, I suppose.”

She always had a habit of making the strangest analogies, and this was yet another. Kishibe shook his head in incredulity. “Couldn’t agree more,” he snipped, taking the last sip of booze left. I’m going to need a refill, he thought to himself. This woman drives me to drink. 

“I’m not separating them,” he began again. Not entirely, and not forever. The situation here is bad enough as it is. To add two walking, flying, hormonal, and unstable battleship-headed brats to the mix would be insanity. And what’s OUTSIDE is what worries me.”

“Explain.”

Great. The hard part. Kishibe psyched himself up, as he knew this was going to be a hard sell. “The contact that told me about the new Control? He had another piece of news for me that scared him… even more than a new Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Something is going on in the West. The Americans lost their biggest weapon, and aren’t as worried as they should be. They are being cautious, and secretive about… something. A lot of their fleet has been absent from their ports, and the sightings have decreased. Huge mineral purchases are being made in really odd countries. Traveling VISAs are being approved for the oddest professions as well - geologists, physicists, even fucking language experts and high-skilled welders are getting higher clearances than Devil Hunters.” He almost took another sip before he remembered it was gone. “And then there’s the Soviets. Radio silence. No intelligence report has left Moscow since their last agent turned out to be German, and not one report has been addressed to Moscow either. International and double agents have taken a completely quiet stance. That’s as frightening as it could get without seeing another gigantic rifle monster in the sky.”

“So what is your plan?”

“Oh, got a lead… right down memory lane.” The scarred agent barely contained the urge to touch his left cheek. “Before the Americans started acting humble, and the Russians shut up for once, they should have sent a signal to their overseas assets. The systems they use are different and not interchangeable, but they utilize the same principle - radio. And I’ve known from experience they like to use a nice recording analog machine in case of a long crisis. I know just the place where both countries abandoned one each… in a land Down Under.”

The scratch that came out when Quanxi backed up so fast the chair got indented in the floor would have passed for a bullet in a more open setting. 

“There?!” she said in utter disbelief as she pulled out her hair. “Did you finally get fucking cirhossis? Or fucking chlamydia?”

“Where did the second suggestion come from?” Kishibe asked, confused.

“The top of my feet in five seconds.” She stood and began to pace nervously. “I fucking swear, if you think I’m going back…”

“You know, I’m still not used to seeing you worked up.” 

Quanxi stopped pacing and got right up into Kishibe's face. She stared intensely, and the scarred agent got a really good look at her glowering left eye. She couldn't believe how nonchalant he was being… the nerve of him! Did he not remember? Did he not care? Kishibe stared back, but there was a small glint of understanding in his tired eyes. He knew she was terrified. He knew what he was proposing was likely the suicide mission to end all suicide missions… but he truly felt it necessary. The fact that a punch or kick didn’t find his face meant that Quanxi was beginning to understand his intent.

“I’m not forcing you to come. I made your terms clear,” he reassured. “But, if you wanna join me… go ahead, you got the paper. Write it down and I’ll send it up so it will get officially stamped.” He took the silence and his still-working tongue as a chance to keep explaining. “It has been some time. We have no reason to believe it still is there. There have been Devil sightings, some pretty bad ones. Means it’s safe again.”

“You’ve never tried your luck like that before.”

“What, you want me to get on my knee and ask you to marry me?” He put his flask on the coat. “I need some firepower. The journey is long and way too fucking filled with things that would adore to chew on me more than you. At least I can take black powder to the table.”

“And that’s your plan? Taking Bomb with you? I thought you would have her reunite with her special one.”

Kishibe got cold. 

“No,” he said sternly. “Don’t mistake me. It’s a surprise to see Romeo and Juliet firsthand in our field. But Juliet never maimed that many people, including Romeo. She took the heads of two friends, and held them out as trophies. She stepped in so many corpses her feet must smell like sulfur.” His rage started to burn so hot that he nearly pulled a knife out. He then composed himself and stated gravely, “she is not worthy of the kid.”

“You might as well put her in the fridge now then,” Quanxi replied, sounding a little too calm about the developments. "She broke out of Makima’s control just out of the thought of him, even for only a moment. She’ll burn entire bridges to fly faster to his side.”

“Precisely why I’m not making her ice. If she can put that fuel to good use, the better. Perhaps then she can prove me wrong… and what better way to do it than this?” He stood up, and turned his back to Quanxi, looking to finally pick up that last sheet of paper from off the floor. “But I’m not letting the kid get hurt like that. He’s had too much. I’d rather be safe than sorry. But, for his sake, I hope this turns out well. It’s a long walk… no better way to know someone's true character.”

The moment he bent down to pick up the paper, he felt himself propelled to the ground by a surprise hit. He barely managed to roll over and pick up the paper with his left, the right holding a wakizashi.

“Did you just… slap my ass?” Kishibe asked incredulously.

“You were acting so much like a Daddy, I had to take it to its logical conclusion,” Quanxi playfully replied. There was a small glint of mischief in her eye. “Besides, I wanted another smoke.” She flashed the little lighter to see if there was enough fuel left.

What? Kishibe thought. When… oh yeah, back pocket. So that’s why she dropped the paper on the floor. He grimaced at the conniving Chinese woman, whom he could clearly tell was laughing her head off inside. “Cunt.”

“Yeah I'm in the mood for that too,” she snarkily remarked. She pointed her two newly lighted cigarettes to him. “You should take the chance of getting one yourself. Getting Bomb to agree with you is not gonna be such an easy task. Especially in the grasp of Public Safety.”

“I told you already. She won’t be a problem.”

Quanxi sighed and said “you still don’t get it. I lost everything and I still have you. Bomb has something to gain, and you’re saying she gotta go through YOU for it”. She walked towards the door.

“I’ll manage,” Kishibe replied, clearing his throat. “Her interview is next.”

“Oh, and did you manage to check out if she has any free time, too? You’re so organized, Kishibe.” She rolled her eye. “She’s a celebrity. Infamy makes you so busy…”

Before Kishibe could get up and process what she just said, Quanxi opened up the door.

“Unlocked, huh…” Kishibe muttered. 

She didn’t even look back at him after turning left. Kishibe sat there for a bit before gathering his things and exiting himself. Nagahi was still there, with his four agents by his side.

“I’m glad your face is intact, Captain,” Nagahi said enthusiastically. “I was almost expecting to see your jaw being held up by tissues and dreams. You didn’t even get a bruise.” He was almost in awe.

“Maybe a hickey where my old mother would have checked,” the scarred agent quipped. He stepped out and saw the empty hallway. "Did your men evacuate safely?”

“Affirmative. It was as you said. Less than 27 minutes and they were all safely up.”

Kishibe slapped Nagahi’s back. Such friendly behavior wasn’t something he would normally engage in, but he truly felt the young soldier earned it. 

“I’m gonna buy you some fine wine, soldier.” He paused before the answer. “Where’s Quanxi?”

“She mentioned she was taking the fast lane,” Nagahi replied.

Kishibe saw the shredded vent in the wall. The vents were designed to twist and turn downwards and in circles, and were of different girths so that any attempt of finding your way in there would be impossible. Quanxi was gonna spend the next hours quite entertained.

Kishibe sighed and said “close the whole wing, Nagahi. We’re leaving.”

“Right away, sir.”

Nagahi didn’t raise any objections. He looked more relieved than Kishibe expected. He noticed all the Devils that had made so much noise before were quiet as a dying patient. Quanxi had that effect.

Kishibe was itching to get upstairs and go straight to the Cell Detention Management Department. He was half-expecting to ask for the schedule, and, like Quanxi pointed out, found out there were only six interviews planned, six records for Hybrids, and a suspicious lack of certain armored transport trucks and containment shock troops.

But I want to think they wouldn’t be that stupid.

_____________________________________________________________________

“Here you are, good sir - the six scheduled assessments have been successfully completed! I made sure to sign the clearance for your new schedule!”

Kishibe stared at the sharply dressed woman in front of him unamused. He at least had to respect the dedication to her humongous shit-eating grin as she tried gaslighting him to his face. It had taken Public Safety upper management less than two hours to switch up the information regarding the captured Hybrids, the cell displacement, the confinement procedures, and empty file boxes on top of the desk just to present a front of “oops, it got lost in paperwork.” It would’ve been even funnier if that woman had now attempted to convince him that there were always six Hybrids in custody, that his conclusions were erroneous, and that he couldn’t even count his own fingers correctly.

“Don’t mention it,” Kishibe said, barely hiding his contempt. “What’s next on that schedule?”

“You must have forgotten, but you have a scheduled meeting with the new director for Human-Devil Probation protocol initiative in Kanazawa at 16:00,” the woman replied with the fakest grin known to humankind. “I already booked an escorted transport just for you, sir. And you have been invited to the New Ceremonial Shrine in Sendai, where relatives of survivors and brave souls are waiting to give you an honorary title for the decisive role you had in the defeat of the Gun Devil!” 

Kishibe didn’t respond. He was already growing tired of this woman’s stupid dog and pony show, and just wanted it to be over. 

“Maybe this is a bit much,” began the woman again, clearly sensing the scarred agent’s dissatisfaction. “But the guys at the office decided to host a nice weekend gift for you - a nice stay in a bath complex in Sapporo! All courtesy of management, of course. These last two come with an open buffet and drinking accommodations, by the way.”

So, west, then north, then further north, Kishibe thought. Also, trying to bribe me into seeing the families of the ones killed by a Devil I took no part in taking down… typical Public Safety bullshit. Oh, well… at least I can drink myself into oblivion with all the booze.

“Thanks for everything,” Kishibe said at last. 

He went to take a step, and stumbled into the side of the desk, losing his balance. Suddenly, two arms prevented him from falling. There were two men in suits holding each of his arms, and it didn’t escape him - they had submachine guns on them. He went to grab the flask in his jacket.

“Shit, I need a refill,” he said, almost slurring. “Talking with Sugo left me thirsty.”

“Mr. Kishibe, you shouldn’t be drinking so much!” sternly said one of the men. “Especially not in front of a student! Save it for the ceremony after!”

You could at least pretend to not know who I’m talking about, and who I clearly didn’t talk about just now.

He didn’t recognize any of the men filling out the third floor before him. Despite the fact the staff had been doubled since Makima’s plan went awry, there was nothing to be seen but private Devil Hunters for hire. Upper Management must’ve been desperate.

“I’m fine,” Kishibe began again, trying to get his bearings. “Don’t want to, just need to go… home first.” His footing remained a little unsteady, and he was a little woozy from all the booze, or he hoped it looked like that, but he was able to “remain” on his feet.

“Don’t worry, Captain. These two will keep you company before you embark on the transport!”

“Sure, hon.”

Most of the hallways in the building had views of the windows. The ones to the right had the vehicle bay. Kishibe made a clumsy attempt to stir to the left, but one of the privates moved to intercept him 

“Don’t stumble, sir! We want to assist!” he said while holding Kishibe’s arm.

“Thank you,” Kishibe half-slurred as he turned to the right. The private let go of his arm. 

Kishibe made sure to see the heavily armored vans parked near the windows. There usually were eight of them, but three were missing. By protocol, only two were to leave at any given time unless directly ordered otherwise from the Regional Director… and she was currently cleaning the sewer pipes. He knew she didn’t give the order. They escorted him to the bathroom right next to the stairwell. They opened the door for him, but neither made an attempt to enter. After the door was closed behind him, Kishibe waited for a few seconds, tapped his foot multiple times, and then stopped. From outside, it would appear he was running away from that sound alone. He waited without making a sound until he saw the door slightly opening. He thrusted the full weight of his fist into a “resting position" towards the door as he was about to stumble onto it. Right where the door was half a second ago was now the face of a peeking private Hunter.

“Well, somebody must,” Kishibe remarked as he butted his forehead into the side of the private’s head. Spit and blood flowed from him. His partner did his best to hold him up without touching his blood.

“Oh, hey, guess you’re here,” glibly quipped the scarred agent. He then turned to the other Hunter and assumed a commanding tone. “Don’t mind his little boo-boo. I need someone to hold my head while I puke.”

The other private Hunter glared at Kishibe and then looked at his bleeding half-conscious partner 

“Kishibe… Captain! I need to take care of my partner here.” 

Kishibe didn’t respond. He just stared back with those cold, dead eyes. It was a look that said “get the hell out of here.”

“I will check on you… Captain.”

“Cheers.”

Kishibe closed the door slowly until it was six feet away from him. He could hear the jagged breath of the private and the whimpers of his friend until he heard them walking away, but not far.

As soon as Kishibe no longer heard footsteps, he immediately flushed the toilet. He only had six seconds, so he sped to the door and removed three tiles from beneath the bathroom carpet. They were heavy, stinky, and slick. It seemed as if no one had bothered to clean or touch them in years. The awful stench made Kishibe remember an old Public Safety mantra - you no longer notice the iron smell of blood once you’ve smelled the bathroom. Once the tiles were removed, Kishibe pulled a hermetic bag from out of the floor that contained a thick folder filled with documents. These had been lifted from the remainders of Makima’s old desk, right after she had been sliced and diced into a mediocre nagiri. They weren’t filled with juicy secrets or conspiracies, but they were plain old records, copies, and files on the most boring subjects… for instance, the procedures for the order of paper supplies and amenities, standard sizes for the chairs on each desk, medical insurance… rudimentary crap that complicated the restructuring of management for some time. However, they also held details for the vehicles used by the bureau, including the eight armed personnel transport vans. 

The scarred agent checked out the license plates of each one until he found the three he hadn’t seen in the courtyard. The vans were pretty similar, with no way of knowing which would be transporting Bomb… or that’s what management wanted him to think. Being stuck behind a desk and the steadiness of normality prevented them from noticing some small changes… a consequence of lacking the experience you only got from hundreds of hours on the field. While the three vans were mostly the same, one of them had a peculiar detail about it - its railing. Unlike the others, the railing was measured in inches as opposed to centimeters. This immediately tipped Kishibe off - there was only one place in Japan that used customary as opposed to metric, and that was thanks to its American military presence. That specific van was in inches because it was designed to be used for one location and one location alone - the island of Okinawa.

Okinawa was in a curious position. It was occupied by the Americans for unknown reasons. It had long been transformed into any other island port in Japan, but it still used the Imperial System. While it was a logistical problem for the rest of the naval net of ports around Japan, it had the added benefit of already having the specified system used by ships that had destinations to countries that also used the Imperial System, out of the long gone British Empire.

Kishibe believed in coincidences. Life and people in general were so poorly consistent that patterns that were attributed to “luck” were in fact, just a repeated thought. As it turned out, Public Safety was taking Bomb to the one place they believed he wouldn’t want to return. For once, Bomb already being on the way to that land Down Under made his job so much easier.

_________________________________________________________________________

It was cold. So cold.

What was this? She couldn’t see anything. She moved her fingertips, but she still couldn’t feel her surroundings.

Was she dead? She had been dead before, and while it wasn’t cold, this wasn’t as cold as that. 

Her eyes were too heavy. She moved them, but only saw the inside of her eyelids.

Maybe smelling… salt.

She smelled salt.

Sand.

A beach.

The beach. 

It was early in the morning. The Sun had just risen. Denji clothed her in the shirt off his own back, just so that she wouldn’t be naked. That shirt had the warmest embrace.

…The beach… Denji... I must’ve passed out. Not enough blood… too anemic… 

She managed to walk away from Denji… right? His neck must still be broken. She had made sure of it. She had never felt an urge so strong as she did when she leaned so close for a kiss, a kiss that she knew if it happened, she would have never been able to walk away.

… I smell it. The sea. I fell on the beach. Denji was screaming at me, he would be waiting for me at the cafe.

Crossroads.

Denji, wise up. Be smarter…

Who am I kidding, he is smarter. I couldn’t even lie to you about how I felt. Denji-kun… you saw right through me.

Why do you want me to meet you at the café?

Crossroads.

Denji…

… I need to get up. I might be late…

… Don’t want to be late, not for this…

He said he’ll wait for me. I… why did I hurt him? Why did I reject your kiss? I wanted that more than anything…

Denji-kun… I will arrive. I thought you couldn’t understand me. You do. I’m so stupid, so blinded.

Wait for me, Denji.

Reze couldn’t see the boxes she was in… seventeen of them, to be exact, at -20 degrees. Even with her head separated from her heart, even with the van leaning in the waves, she still didn’t feel the whole blast of the cold. Her heart, even though cut open, pumped all the warmth it could muster when she remembered what Denji meant to her.