Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He woke up in pieces.

Not pieces like body parts scattered across pavement—he’d already done that. This was worse.

His mind had gone soft, like cheap fruit left out too long. He couldn’t tell what day it was. Couldn’t tell if he was dreaming. There was warmth in his arms, but also cold on his skin. He was drenched in blood—some his, some not. Pochita was gone.

No, not gone. He was somewhere inside, curled up next to Denji’s heart. Still breathing, still safe. But not a dog anymore. Not something he could hug or hold.

Denji coughed and the air stung his throat like metal. The warehouse around him stank of blood, rust, and gasoline. He lay flat on the cold cement, unable to sit up. His arms shook. His guts churned. His vision was doubled—no, tripled—and smeared red like someone had painted over his eyes with a sponge.

He wanted to sleep forever. Just close his eyes, let the floor swallow him, maybe see Pochita again in a dream. Maybe in the dream, they could still talk. Maybe—

“Ah. You’re still alive.”

A voice. Soft. Clear. A woman’s voice. It didn’t belong here. It cut through the rust and rot like a warm knife through chilled fat.

Footsteps followed. Steady, slow, heels clicking on blood-soaked cement. She didn’t rush. She knew he couldn’t run.

Denji blinked. Once. Twice.

She stood over him.

Red coat, neatly buttoned. Black pants, unwrinkled. Her hair was red like old copper coins and tied back, and her eyes—no, they weren’t brown. They were amber, bright and unblinking, too calm for this place.

She looked like a vision. A mirage. Someone who didn’t belong in a space full of corpses and chainsaw guts. She knelt beside him without hesitation, and as she leaned in, Denji flinched.

She smelled like soap and sunlight. Warm rice. Fur. Pochita?

No. That wasn’t possible.

“Are you one of the zombies?” she asked.

Denji’s mouth opened, but only a gurgle came out. Blood stained his teeth. The woman tilted her head, curious—not afraid.

“No,” she said. “You’re not. You’re still human. Or close enough.”

She unbuttoned her coat.

He watched with hollow, stunned eyes as she draped it over his shoulders. Thick and heavy. Expensive. The inside was warm, lined with something soft. Her scent rushed up all around him, closing in like a blanket. Her hand gently touched his face.

He flinched again, weaker this time.

“You killed the Zombie Devil,” she said. “Didn’t you?”

His fingers curled slightly. His voice cracked. “...Yeah.”

She smiled, slow and serene.

“You did very well.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant. He wasn’t sure why his chest tightened. But it did.

This was the first time in his life that someone had looked at him like that—like he was something useful. Something good. Not a tool. Not a parasite. Not a mistake.

Just… good.

“I’m Makima,” she said.

He wanted to say something—his name, maybe—but all he could do was shiver.

Makima leaned in closer.

“Can you stand?” she asked.

Denji tried. His legs wobbled. He felt like a baby deer covered in sewage. Makima caught his arm and helped him up without complaint. Her hands were warm, even through gloves.

“I’ll take you somewhere safe,” she said, guiding him through the warehouse.

There were body parts everywhere—zombies, yakuza, things with half-faces and no arms. Denji didn’t even notice. All he saw was the red coat wrapped around him, the way it swallowed his shoulders, the faint smell of her shampoo.

He was starving. Starving for warmth, for food, for touch.

He thought he’d buried that hunger years ago, but no. It had just gone quiet until now.

They walked to a van parked just outside the warehouse gates. Two men in suits stood nearby, but neither looked directly at Denji. They opened the door for Makima without question.

She helped him into the passenger seat like a kid being buckled in.

“I’m hungry,” Denji mumbled. “Haven’t eaten in… dunno how long.”

Makima smiled. “You’ve earned a meal.”

The car ride was quiet. The window was cold against his temple. Her coat stayed around his shoulders the whole time. He didn’t take it off.

He didn’t want to.

The restaurant was small. Family-run, probably. The kind of place Denji had never even dreamed of entering. Too clean. Too quiet.

Makima led him to a booth and ordered for him without asking.

“Udon,” she said. “And sausage. He likes sausage.”

He blinked at her. “How do you know that?”

“I can smell it,” she said.

Denji couldn’t tell if she was joking. She didn’t laugh. Her smile was thin and polite.

When the food arrived, Denji devoured it like a starving animal. Because he was one.

He hadn’t used chopsticks in years, maybe ever. His fingers fumbled, but Makima didn’t laugh. She simply reached over, repositioned his hand with gentle pressure, and said, “Like this.”

It felt like her touch left a print on his skin.

He ate until he was sick. Literally. Makima watched, patient, as he leaned over and vomited in the restaurant bathroom. When he came back, pale and sweating, she handed him a damp napkin.

“You pushed yourself,” she said. “That’s okay. You’re learning.”

He didn’t understand how her voice could be so soft. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not his dad. Not the yakuza. Not anyone.

“Why are you being nice to me?” he asked.

Makima’s smile widened—not with joy, but satisfaction. Like she’d been waiting for the question.

“Because you’re mine now,” she said.

Denji’s heart fluttered. He didn’t know what that meant. But it made something in his chest warm up like fire. He’d been alone for so long. Even with Pochita, he’d never belonged to anyone. Never been wanted. Never been needed.

“Yours?” he echoed.

She reached across the table, placed her fingers on his chin, and tilted it up so he couldn’t look away.

“I only keep dogs that behave,” she said.

Her voice was still gentle. Her eyes were still kind. But the words hit like a collar snapping shut.

Denji nodded.

“I’ll behave,” he whispered.

Later, in the back of another car, Denji curled up in her coat and stared out the window at the passing lights. He felt like he was floating.

There was a voice in the back of his head—Pochita’s voice, maybe, or his own—but it was too quiet now. Drowned in warmth. He should have been afraid. Should have been suspicious.

But no one had ever taken care of him before. Not like this. Not even close.

“I want to be useful,” he mumbled. “Just… don’t throw me away.”

Makima’s hand brushed his hair once.

“I won’t,” she said.

And Denji believed her.

Chapter Text

You don’t have to decide. That’s what I’m here for.

The red coat was gone by morning, but the scent lingered.

It clung to his shirt, his skin, the back of his throat. Clean and soft — whatever detergent she used smelled like morning light. Denji kept inhaling it when he thought no one was looking. The ghost of her touch stayed on his neck like a leash pulled just tight enough to remind him it was there.

Makima took him to Public Safety headquarters just after sunrise.

The building was too clean. No graffiti, no cracks. White walls, straight lines. The windows reflected back a distorted version of himself: bloodstained collar, haunted eyes, drooping body.

He didn’t look like a devil hunter.

He didn’t even look like a person.

Makima walked two steps ahead. Not too far, but not beside him either. Her posture perfect, her voice low. People stepped aside when she passed.

And Denji… he followed. Like a stray.

They brought him to a doctor first.

The woman poked and prodded him like a broken tool being reassembled. She took blood. Took notes. Whispered something to Makima that he couldn’t hear.

“She said I’m not normal,” Denji mumbled as they left the clinic.

Makima smiled. “Of course you’re not.”

Denji froze. His gut twisted. But then she added, “You’re something special.”

And just like that, the fear vanished. His head emptied out like a cup tipped too far.

Then came the paperwork.

Pages and pages of things he couldn’t read. Words too long, boxes too many. He squinted, tried to fake it, but his hands shook when he held the pen.

Makima leaned in.

“You don’t need to fill that out,” she said gently. “I’ll handle it.”

Denji let out a weak laugh. “Man… I can’t even read. What kind of devil hunter can’t read?”

She tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear, and he almost stopped breathing.

“That’s why I’m here,” she said. “To take care of the things you can’t.”

The shame didn’t even have time to bloom. Her smile flattened it.

“You don’t need to think,” she whispered. “Just obey.”

The apartment wasn’t hers — it was his new “supervisor’s.” A devil hunter named Aki Hayakawa. He looked pissed from the second the door opened.

Denji caught the judgment in his eyes right away: Another stray Makima picked up.

Makima introduced them briefly, said Denji would be living with Aki for the foreseeable future. "Temporary assignment,” she called it, though it didn’t feel temporary.

More like a test.

“He’s not house-trained,” Aki muttered once she left.

Denji flinched. But the worst part was — he didn’t fight it.

Because Makima had called him a dog too. But when she said it, it didn’t hurt. It felt… safe.

The first week blurred.

Denji didn’t sleep much. The apartment was too quiet, the futon too clean. Aki was strict. No smoking indoors. Clean your dishes. Get up on time. Don’t be loud.

But Denji obeyed. He obeyed like a good boy.

Makima called every few days. Each time, her voice curled around his brain like warm water.

“Are you eating well?”

“Is Aki treating you okay?”

“Don’t worry if things are hard. I’m proud of you.”

Every word tucked deeper into his chest, replacing older, harsher ones. He stopped thinking about his dad. Stopped thinking about the yakuza. Even Pochita’s voice was faint now, like a dream he wasn’t sure had ever been real.

The first devil job came too soon.

A muscle devil in a condemned building. Nothing major. Aki led, Denji followed. Blood spilled. Denji transformed, chainsaws roaring through walls and bone, and when it ended he stood panting over twitching pieces of meat.

Aki didn’t praise him. Just wiped his sword and walked out.

Denji didn’t care.

He knew who he really wanted to impress.

They got lunch together after a few jobs — just him and Makima.

Denji dressed nicer than usual. Washed his hair. Didn’t wear the torn shirt.

Makima sat across from him in a booth by the window, all soft smiles and polite questions. She never raised her voice. Never pushed. She didn’t need to.

“Do you like working with Aki?” she asked.

“He’s okay,” Denji mumbled.

“Does he hit you?”

“What? No—”

“Yell?”

“Only a little.”

She reached across the table and lightly touched his wrist.

“If he ever mistreats you,” she said, “you tell me.”

Denji’s heart leapt. Her fingers were cool but steady. He didn’t want her to pull away, so he nodded fast.

“Okay. I will.”

She smiled again. “Good boy.”

It was the first time anyone had said that to him without laughing.

That night, Denji couldn’t sleep. He lay on the futon staring at the ceiling, heart pounding. Something about the way she looked at him — the way she touched his hand — it stuck in his brain like a splinter.

Did she like him?

No, that wasn’t right.

Did she own him?

His chest felt hot. Not bad hot. Just… confused.

He didn’t understand how you could feel safe and scared at the same time.

The next morning, he cut himself by accident — sliced his thumb on a chipped mug. It bled more than he expected.

Aki rolled his eyes. “Stop being careless.”

But Denji didn’t hear him. Because Makima’s voice echoed through his mind:

You don’t need to think. Just obey.

And maybe that was the problem. He was thinking too much. Overthinking. That’s why everything hurt so much all the time.

So he stopped.

That day, and the day after, and the day after that — he stopped thinking. He did what he was told. He cleaned. Fought. Ate. Smiled. Nodded.

When people spoke to him, he mirrored their expressions. When Makima praised him, he stood a little taller. When Aki scolded him, he bit his tongue.

He became the version of himself that caused the least noise.

And when he curled up on the futon at night, he repeated her words like a lullaby.

“You don’t need to think. Just obey.”

And he slept better.

Not good. Not peaceful. But better.

Then came Power.

The blood devil. All teeth and chaos. A storm in the shape of a girl.

Makima introduced them during a routine meeting. Said they’d be working together. Said Denji would be responsible for her.

“She’s difficult,” Makima warned, touching Denji’s shoulder. “But I trust you.”

Denji stared. The pressure of her fingers. The weight of her gaze.

“I won’t let you down,” he said.

He meant it.

He always meant it when she asked for something.

But Power was a hurricane.

She lied. She yelled. She killed a devil without permission and blamed Denji. Aki was furious. Denji took the fall.

When Makima called that evening, his hands trembled on the phone.

“Did I screw up?” he asked.

Her voice didn’t change.

“Do you think you did?”

“I dunno… Maybe.”

“Then you probably did.”

He waited for anger. Instead, she laughed softly.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Mistakes are okay. As long as you learn.”

Relief poured through him like warm water.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“You’re doing well, Denji,” she said. “Better than I expected.”

The call ended. He sat there a long time, phone still clutched in both hands.

Better than expected.

Better than the others?

His chest swelled.

He’d always wanted to be special.

The next morning, he woke up to find a note taped to his wall.

Don’t think. Obey.

He didn’t remember writing it.

But he left it there anyway.

Chapter Text

He didn’t even want the kiss. He wanted the approval inside it.

There were devils in the hotel.

Not just the kind you fight. Not just the ones with bodies made of teeth and meat. These ones were worse.

They were clever.

They waited.

They trapped.

Makima had called it a “team-building exercise.” Said it was good experience for the newer members. Said she had faith in them.

But Denji knew from the beginning.

This wasn’t for them.

It was for him.

The floor looped.

At first it was funny. Power laughed. Arai cracked nervous jokes. Kobeni looked like she wanted to crawl into the wall.

They’d walk down the 8th floor hallway, then up the stairs—only to come right back to the same hallway.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The hotel twisted around them. The clocks froze. The windows showed the same dusky light no matter how many hours passed.

It wasn’t a loop anymore.

It was a cage.

Aki noticed it first. He didn’t say it out loud, but Denji could tell. The way Aki paced the hallway once, twice, then a third time, touching the wall lightly every few feet. Like he was checking for something—a way out, a weakness.

And when they all regrouped, Aki stood near Denji. Not beside him. Not protectively. But close.

Subtle.

Maybe Denji imagined it. But when Kobeni started shaking again and muttering about devils and death, Aki shifted slightly—just enough to put himself between her and Denji.

Just enough to make it look like nothing at all.

By the second day, the air felt thicker.

Himeno handed out rationed snacks. She gave Denji a boiled egg. Only one. He savored every bite.

Power stole two granola bars and shoved them into her coat.

Kobeni cried.

Denji didn't know what to say. He didn’t know how to talk to people like this. Not when they were trapped. Not when they were scared.

He didn’t like the sound of his own voice in places like this.

So he just sat. Back against the wall. Head tilted up.

Waiting.

The devil spoke sometime during the third meal.

No one had eaten in ten hours.

It didn’t appear physically. Its voice seeped from the walls, oozed out of the air vents, vibrated from the carpet like low bass.

A thousand mouths, whispering one word:

“Denji.”

Everyone froze.

“Give me the Chainsaw Boy,” it said. “Let me feast on his flesh, and I will let you go.”

Kobeni screamed.

“Just him! Just one boy!” the voice gurgled. “The rest of you can leave!”

“Take the deal!” Kobeni shouted, grabbing the nearest knife like it was a weapon (it is but..) “Let's give him up!”

Denji didn’t even flinch.

He looked at her.

Then at the others.

Himeno was still.

Power tilted her head considering.

Arai looked away.

But Aki stepped forward.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just one step. Between Denji and Kobeni.

“Put the knife down,” he said, voice calm.

“You’re protecting him?!” Kobeni’s eyes bulged, tears still spewing from her eyes. “He’s the reason we’re—”

“You’re scaring yourself,” Aki said.

That was all.

But Denji felt it.

Even though Aki didn’t look at him directly.

Even though he’d act like nothing happened later.

He was protecting him.

No one else moved.

Not even Denji.

He slept on the hallway floor that night, coat bundled under his head.

He dreamt Makima was waiting at the hotel exit with open arms.

When he reached her, she turned and walked away.

When he woke up, his stomach was eating itself.

“I say we kill him,” Kobeni muttered. “If we give the devil what it wants, maybe it’ll let us go.”

She wasn’t quiet about it either. Her voice echoed.

“Maybe if someone had a brain, we wouldn’t be stuck!” Power shouted, baring her teeth.

They all started yelling again.

And Denji just sat there.

Hands in his lap.

Not moving.

Not blinking.

Would she even care if I died here?

Would Makima miss him?

Would she even know?

Would she replace me? With someone stronger?

The devil’s voice whispered again, tempting, laughing:

“Die, little dog. And they will be free.”

Denji pulled his cord.

The others shouted something behind him, but he didn’t hear it over the roar of chainsaws bursting from his arms and skull.

He jumped straight into the floor—because the devil wasn’t in one spot. It was the floor. The ceiling. The walls. The entire loop.

It screamed when he cut it. A high, baby-pitched howl. Dozens of mouths crying in pain.

It bled time.

He fought for hours.

He laughed while doing it.

He didn’t care about escaping anymore. He didn’t care about the others. He didn’t even care about dying.

All he cared about was making the voice scream.

Because the more it screamed, the more it hurt.

And the more it hurt, the more he mattered.

Makima said once: “Devils fear pain. Make them feel it.”

So he did.

He turned himself into a weapon and broke the loop with nothing but blood and rage.

Eventually, the devil begged him.

“Kill me,” it whimpered. “Please…”

So he did.

They escaped.

The 8th floor straightened. The stairs reappeared. The time corrected itself.

Kobeni collapsed in a sobbing pile. Arai clutched his arm. Power laughed and dragged a pillow with her.

Himeno patted Denji’s back once. “Good job, kid.”

Aki didn’t say anything.

But when Denji tripped at the stairwell, something steadied him.

A hand.

Just for a second.

Then gone.

The next morning, Makima called.

She asked to meet him.

Just him.

Private.

Denji spent an hour getting ready. Cleaned his nails with a matchstick. Stole a clean shirt from Aki’s closet. Didn’t even care when Power made fun of him.

“You look like a beetle trying to dress up, puny human!” she said.

Denji just smiled.

Makima had asked for him.

The restaurant was nicer than anywhere he’d ever been.

Real cloth napkins. Wine glasses. Music that sounded expensive.

Makima sat near the window.

She smiled when she saw him. And Denji forgot how to breathe.

“Denji,” she said. “I heard you performed admirably.”

He sat stiff as a corpse. “You did?”

“Yes.” She poured herself a glass of wine. “You fought a devil that fed on fear. You showed no hesitation.”

He stared at the tablecloth. “Well… I thought if I fought hard enough, maybe you’d…”

She tilted her head. “Yes?”

He swallowed.

“Maybe you’d give me… a kiss.”

He couldn’t look at her.

She didn’t flinch.

“After your next successful mission,” she said softly, “you’ll have earned it.”

His head shot up.

“Really?!”

She nodded. “You want to kiss me, don’t you?”

Denji nodded too fast.

“Then prove to me you deserve it.”

He floated home that night.

Didn’t sleep.

Just lay in bed thinking about her.

Her eyes. Her voice. 

He didn’t care about the kiss itself.

He wanted the reward.

He wanted her to keep looking at him like that. Like he was worth something.

She sent him on a solo mission the next day. Sewer devil. Minor. Weak.

He didn’t hesitate.

Slaughtered it in five minutes.

Didn’t even stop to wipe the blood off his shirt.

Three days later, she called again.

Told him to meet her.

This time it was the rooftop of the government building. Flowers in planters. Sky clear.

Makima stood by the edge, watching the city.

“You did well,” she said.

He stood still. Silent.

“I think it’s time.”

She walked up to him.

Placed a hand on his shoulder.

And kissed him.

It was soft.

Barely there.

But it  ¿burned?

When she pulled back, she smiled gently. “There. Was that what you wanted?”

Denji couldn’t speak.

She touched his cheek. “Or did you want more?"

He floated home.

Didn’t answer Power’s questions.

Didn’t look at Aki, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t press.

Just lay in bed.

Staring.

Thinking.

I got what I wanted.

So why do I feel empty?

She didn’t call for a week.

The silence was louder than her voice had ever been.

When she finally did, she sounded bored.

“There’s another mission,” she said. “You’ll be on a team.”

“I’ll go,” he said too fast.

“Be ready.”

She hung up.

No praise.

No smile.

No mention of the kiss.

He lay back in bed. Eyes wide open.

On the wall, his crumpled note fluttered in the breeze:

Don’t think. Obey.

And he whispered to himself:

“Good boys get kisses.”

But this time…

He didn’t believe it.

Chapter Text

Somewhere along the way, he started confusing commands with care.

Denji didn’t bleed out from the fight.

Not from the devil’s teeth or the broken hotel time-loop or even the blades splitting from his arms.

He bled out slowly.

Quietly.

From the space in his chest Makima left hollow.

She kissed him.

Then left.

No calls. No texts. No praise.

He didn’t see her again for ten days.

Ten.

Aki said nothing. He watched. The way Denji went stiff at every buzz of his phone. How he stopped playing games with Power, how he didn’t even steal her food anymore.

Aki would walk past and sometimes pause—like he wanted to say something. But Denji wasn’t someone you could save with words.

So Aki kept moving.

Let Denji sit on the couch in silence.

Let him stare at the wall until his eyes glazed.

When she finally did summon him again, it was with that familiar voice, warm and smooth.

“Denji. I’d like to see you.”

She didn’t explain why. She didn’t have to.

Denji got dressed like he was going on a date with God.

She met him in a government car. He climbed in, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

She smiled at him like the last ten days hadn’t happened.

“Hello, Denji.”

“Hi…”

“You look well.”

“I—I missed you.”

That earned him a glance. Something unreadable behind her eyes.

“That’s sweet of you,” she said. “You’ve been waiting for me?”

He nodded. Too fast.

She reached over. Brushed some dust from his collar.

Then said nothing else the entire ride.

The “appointment” was some meaningless devil—an abandoned alley, a malformed creature made of rust and wire.

It crumbled when Denji so much as revved his chainsaw.

Makima watched the whole thing.

Didn’t intervene. Didn’t praise him.

She just looked at him afterward like he was… an object. A machine that had functioned correctly.

And Denji stood there, panting, covered in blood, searching her face for approval.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice too eager.

She blinked. Tilted her head.

“Do you think you did good?”

“I—I killed it. Fast.”

She stepped closer.

“You followed orders,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

He nodded.

Her fingers touched his chin.

“You really are obedient, aren’t you?”

The way she said it made his stomach twist.

She petted his head once, gently. Like she was stroking the fur of a well-trained dog.

And then she walked away.

The second time she called, she made him wait.

Ten minutes. Then fifteen.

Denji stood outside her office in the hallway, fidgeting. He didn’t know if he should sit. Didn’t know if sitting would make him look lazy.

So he stood.

Still.

When the door finally opened, she didn’t apologize.

“Come in,” she said.

He did.

The office was always cold. Clinical. But she smiled at him.

“Have a seat.”

He obeyed instantly.

“I want to ask you something,” she said.

He nodded.

“Do you like me?”

His heart seized.

“Y-Yeah!”

“Why?”

He blinked. “Because… because you’re nice to me.”

She laughed. Not mockingly. Almost like a teacher.

“Nice?”

“You give me food. You gave me a place to live. You…” He hesitated. “You kissed me.”

She smiled.

“I see,” she said. “So, if I didn’t do those things, would you still like me?”

“…I dunno.”

“Honest,” she said, nodding. “I like that.”

He felt warmth crawl up his spine.

“You want me to like you, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“Then be honest. Always.”

The next time she asked questions, they got deeper.

“Do you think Aki likes you?”

“I think so?”

“Why?”

“‘Cause… he didn’t let Kobeni stab me.”

“Hm.”

“Power likes me too, I think.”

Makima leaned closer.

“Do you want me to like you more than them?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He didn’t know how to explain it.

Because her smile made him feel warm. Because when she touched him—even just a hand on the shoulder—it felt like something he never had.

Because she made him feel real.

“‘Cause you’re the best,” he mumbled.

“Good answer.”

That night he dreamed she was holding him like a child.

She whispered in his ear:

“You don’t need anything else. Just me.”

And he believed it.

The affection came in bursts.

Sometimes she called him “good boy.”

Sometimes she didn’t return his calls.

Sometimes she sat beside him on a bench, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve.

Sometimes she made him wait two hours in the rain for a meeting she never showed to.

He never blamed her.

She was busy. Important. Better.

If she ignored him, it was his fault. He hadn’t earned it yet.

He had to try harder.

“Why do you think people care about you, Denji?” she asked during one walk.

They were strolling near a park. She was feeding pigeons breadcrumbs. He stayed close.

“I… I dunno.”

“Would they still care if you lost your powers?”

He blinked.

“I guess… not?”

She smiled softly.

“You’re honest,” she said again. “That’s what I like about you.”

The words clung to him like a medal.

He played them on loop in his head the whole night.

Power made fun of him when he started taking more showers.

“You’re trying to smell good for the boss lady,” she laughed.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Aki just looked at him from over his book.

Didn’t say anything.

But Denji thought maybe he knew.

Not the whole thing. But enough.

He thought about asking him once—about love. About if this was how it was supposed to feel.

But then Makima texted.

And he forgot.

She started giving him tasks.

“Tell me what Aki’s been doing.”

“Has Power been misbehaving?”

“Do you think Kobeni will last much longer?”

He didn’t know if it was spying.

He thought it was helping.

“Just be honest,” she’d say. “I need people I can trust.”

Once, he asked if he could hug her.

She paused.

Then opened her arms.

He sank into them like a child.

She didn’t hug him back.

But she let him cling.

And that was enough.

“You’re like a pet,” she said once, fingers tracing his hair. “Loyal. Simple. Sweet.”

The words didn’t hurt.

They felt like praise.

He stopped thinking about girls in magazines.

Stopped caring about the kiss from Himeno.

Stopped wondering about Aki’s cigarettes or Power’s chaos.

All he thought about was:

What can I do next to make her love me?

But some nights, when she didn’t call…

When she went silent again, days at a time…

He stared at the ceiling, empty.

Felt like something was rotting in his stomach.

Once, Aki found him like that. Lying on the floor. Not bleeding. Not hurt. Just flat.

“You good?” Aki asked.

Denji nodded. Didn’t mean it.

Aki didn’t push.

But he left a can of soda on the table.

Denji drank it two hours later.

Didn’t say thanks.

But remembered.

Makima called the next day.

Denji’s heart burst.

“You’re learning,” she said.

“Yes!” he said. “I’m trying—”

She held up a finger.

“No. Don’t try. Obey.”

He nodded fast.

She smiled.

And the world felt right again.

Chapter Text

The bullets came fast. The praise came slower. But he bled for both.

The morning was ordinary.

Denji was slumped over the ramen shop table, mouth full, slurping loudly. Power picked through her bowl like a crow pecking at roadkill. Aki watched them both with the exhaustion of a man who had once hoped to die with dignity.

Across from them, Himeno was laughing. The eye patch didn't diminish her smile. Her cheeks were pink with beer, and she nudged Aki's arm playfully.

It felt like the closest thing to peace they'd ever had.

It ended in less than twenty-four hours.

The ambush came like a nightmare—too sudden, too fast, too loud.

They were in the car when it started. The driver slumped forward first, blood leaking through his shirt before he even gasped.

Gunshots.

Screams.

Blood bloomed like poppies across upholstery.

Denji barely registered it when Aki yelled, drawing his sword in the tight, impossible space of the backseat. Power shouted something—he didn’t catch it. The air was already too thick with cordite and iron.

Denji’s ears rang. His heart slammed against his ribs. And then came the voice—

“You’re Denji, right?”

A man stood in front of them. Blond hair. Calm eyes. No fear. Just the slow, terrifying certainty of someone who knew what he came for.

He opened his coat.

And the blades came out.

Katana Man.

Chains met swords in the street, sparks and gore flying in equal measure. Denji had no time to think—only to move, to swing, to bleed. The other devil hybrid was faster. Sharper. Less reckless.

But Denji didn’t stop.

He never stopped.

The pain was a reminder: he was still alive.

“You’re not taking me!” he yelled, voice hoarse.

Their blades clashed again. The pain in his chest—was that cracked ribs? Broken teeth? It didn’t matter. His vision blurred. Blood soaked his pants. He couldn’t feel his left leg.

Still, he fought.

Then Himeno screamed.

She had made a deal. The Ghost Devil reached out with invisible arms, dragging Katana Man into its grip. And for a moment, it seemed like they might win.

But then came the woman.

She cut through the Ghost’s arms like wet paper. Silent. Mechanical. Her eyes empty.

Himeno was already disappearing.

“Don’t die, Aki,” she said. Her clothes vanished. Then her skin. Then everything.

Denji tried to move.

Too late.

The Ghost’s last hand dragged the cord on Denji’s chest.

He screamed.

When he woke again, it was on cold tile. Something throbbed in his skull. Blood in his mouth. He blinked, trying to remember where the pain ended and his body began.

Katana Man stood over him. The woman next to him held a blade.

“You’re coming with us,” the man said. “Or we carve you into pieces and carry you.”

Denji spat.

He revved his chainsaw.

The fight was brutal.

Less of a battle and more of a butchery. He swung wild, fueled by panic and memory. Himeno’s blood was still wet on the floor. Aki might be dead. Power—where was she?

He didn’t win.

But he didn’t lose cleanly, either.

The last thing Denji remembered was steel in his gut and the taste of his own blood. Then darkness.

He came to in a white room.

Sterile. Bright. The kind of clean that didn’t feel comforting—it felt like erasure. Like someone had wiped away the world outside and left only this.

His chest ached. His arms were wrapped in gauze. One leg was immobilized. Tubes trailed from his wrist like leash strings.

He tried to sit up.

Pain answered.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him gently.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

That voice.

Soft. Calm.

Makima.

She was sitting beside his bed like she belonged there. Her eyes locked on his. Her smile faint and unreadable.

“You’re awake,” she said. “That’s good.”

Denji blinked.

“You—how—?”

She reached forward and brushed his hair back, slow and careful. Her hand lingered at his temple.

“You were very brave.”

He swallowed.

His throat burned. “I—I fought him.”

“I know,” she said. “They told me everything.”

He couldn’t tell if she meant the medics. Or something else.

“I tried not to die,” he said.

“You didn’t.”

She leaned in closer. Her scent was warm and soft, like flowers at a funeral.

“You protected others,” she murmured. “You endured pain. You fought even when it was hopeless. That’s true courage.”

He wanted to cry.

Instead, he nodded.

“Did I do good?”

She smiled—gentle, proud.

“You did very good, Denji.”

She touched his hair again, raking her fingers softly across his scalp. The gesture was affectionate, maternal.

And deeply unsettling.

He didn’t pull away.

He wanted more.

Makima stood. Smoothed her skirt.

“I’ve made sure your room is private,” she said. “Only the nurses I trust will be in and out. You’ll rest here until you’re stronger.”

He looked up at her like a dog watches its master walk toward the door.

“Will you come back?”

She paused.

“Yes,” she said. “If you heal properly.”

He nodded fast. “I will. I swear.”

She came back to the bed. Leaned down. Her hand returned to his hair—smoothing it this time, almost rhythmic.

“You’re very obedient,” she whispered.

The words sank into him like morphine.

“Pain is a part of love, Denji,” she said, still stroking. “To protect someone, you have to hurt. To prove your loyalty.”

He didn’t question it.

His body throbbed. His wounds pulsed.

But her touch—her voice—was gentle.

Kind.

It made the pain feel like a price worth paying.

After she left, he lay in silence.

Alone again.

But not empty.

Something bloomed in his chest.

It hurt.

But it was warm.

He didn’t know if it was love.

But he knew it felt better than the emptiness.

And if love was pain—

He was ready to bleed.

Chapter Text

Makima arrived back from Kyoto like nothing had happened.

No bruises. No blood. No trauma in her eyes.

If anything, she looked… calmer.

Denji had watched the TV in the hospital room earlier. News coverage showed dozens of yakuza and associates dead—clean shots through the forehead. No witnesses. No public explanation. The officials gave tight-lipped statements. Devil attacks. Gas leaks. An accident.

But Denji knew.

They’d tried to kill her.

And now, they were gone.

When Makima stepped into Public Safety headquarters that morning, the hallway quieted like prey sensing a predator.

Denji followed her like a shadow, his hospital band still tight around his wrist. He hadn’t fully healed. A dull ache still pulsed through his ribs. But Makima had told him he could leave the hospital if he promised to follow orders. So he did.

He always would.

Because when she looked at him, he felt like something better than trash.

Denji wasn’t supposed to be there.

But Makima had motioned for him to follow, and no one stopped him.

They took the train together—her in a neat navy suit, him in rumpled clothes, his coat still slightly stained with blood. She said nothing as they rode. She didn’t need to.

Her silence pressed heavier than words.

They arrived at an old government building. The interior smelled like wood polish and dust. Makima stepped into a conference room where several men waited—old, lined faces, stiff suits, thin smiles.

The heads of Tokyo’s organized crime families.

“Thank you for making time,” Makima said, bowing slightly.

The men stared.

Some flinched.

“You're from Public Safety, right? The girl in charge of Devils?”

“That’s right,” she said.

They asked her questions. Polite. Guarded. Denji couldn’t follow most of it. He watched her lips, not her words. The way she tilted her head when one man challenged her. How she never blinked too much or too little. How every sentence ended with silence that made people shift in their seats.

“I want the names of every person who made a contract with the Gun Devil,” she said eventually.

A heavy pause.

The oldest man at the table cleared his throat. “We’re not in the habit of sharing that kind of information freely.”

Makima smiled.

The lights dimmed slightly.

Something unseen moved across the room.

Denji’s heart rate spiked.

Then—it happened.

The men clutched their chests, gasping. One collapsed forward, blood trickling from his nose.

Another man’s eyes rolled back.

Makima didn’t move.

Denji’s mouth was dry. His throat closed in on itself.

She didn’t even blink.

They left the building an hour later. The list of names neatly folded in her hand.

The sky outside was gray, but Makima’s outline seemed brighter somehow. More solid.

Like she existed more than anything else.

Denji followed a step behind, clutching his jacket closed. He was shaking—but not from the cold.

She had killed them.

Not with a gun. Not with a blade.

Just with her voice.

Her presence.

Her will.

He swallowed hard. His heart beat fast, hot, and confused.

She turned to him slightly.

“Are you afraid of me, Denji?”

He froze.

Then, slowly, nodded.

“Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Her expression didn’t change.

“I’m glad,” she said.

He should have been scared.

He was scared.

But deeper than that—

He felt safe.

Because if she was this terrifying, then maybe…

Maybe she could keep him safe too.

If she’s scary, then she can protect me.

Right?

When they returned, Aki and Power were waiting.

Denji stepped inside and was immediately smacked in the chest by Meowy, who Power had flung at him like a living projectile.

“You reek of weakness!” she declared, hands on her hips. “Heal faster or perish!”

Denji groaned, stumbling.

“Thanks for the welcome,” he muttered.

Aki came in from the kitchen, frowning.

“Don’t hit him. He’s still injured.”

Power scoffed. “He needs to toughen up. Physical abuse builds character.”

Denji flopped onto the couch, letting Meowy curl up in his lap.

For a moment, the tension in his chest loosened.

Aki handed him a painkiller and a glass of water. He didn’t say much, but Denji noticed the way he hovered nearby. Quiet. Steady. Like a human anchor.

“Eat,” Aki said. “You look like shit.”

Denji grinned.

It felt… normal.

A shitty kind of normal. But his kind.

That night, Denji lay on the futon. His side ached. His brain wouldn’t shut up.

Makima’s voice echoed in his head like a looped song.

“You’re very obedient.”

“You were very brave.”

“I’m glad you’re afraid of me.”

Every sentence sounded like praise and punishment at once.

He thought about how her hands felt in his hair. How she looked down at him like he was hers. Not a person. Not even a dog. Just… hers.

It made his chest warm.

It made his stomach twist.

Across the room, Aki sat silently, cleaning his sword.

Power was already passed out, one leg flung dramatically across the floor, Meowy tucked under her arm like a pillow.

They were idiots.

But they were here.

Alive.

And for once, he didn’t feel completely alone.

The next morning, Denji woke to the smell of coffee.

Aki had made a cup and set it by Denji’s bed.

No words. No fuss.

Denji stared at it for a long time.

Nobody had ever done something that… quiet for him before. No deals. No manipulation.

Just a cup of coffee.

He picked it up. Took a sip.

It was bitter.

But it was real.

Later, when he stepped outside to clear his head, he saw Makima talking to another agent across the street.

She was smiling.

The same smile she gave him.

He stared too long.

She glanced at him.

And he looked away.

The fear came back—cold and fast.

But the warmth followed too.

Love and dread were in his body now, tangled like roots under skin.

He couldn’t separate them.

Didn’t want to.

Because if she scared him, then she was strong.

And if she was strong—

Maybe she wouldn’t leave.

Maybe she’d keep him.

Even if it hurt.

Even if he bled.

Even if it meant letting her take everything.

Chapter Text

It began like any other morning. The sun pierced through the faded blinds in the cramped Tokyo apartment, streaking across Denji’s bed. He lay tangled in his sheets, mouth slightly open, one arm draped across his chest as Pochita’s shadow echoed in his memory. The weight of routine should have felt familiar by now—wake up, brush teeth, kill devils—but something felt off. He couldn't name it. Only that the edges of his mind buzzed, restless.

Maybe it was the way Makima had smiled at him yesterday. That smile that folded at the corners like a secret just for him. Or the way Power had shoved him while yelling, “Your snore is disgusting! I had to sleep in the bathtub!” Then there was Aki, who had wordlessly left a cup of black tea at Denji’s side, his back turned and jaw tight.

Denji didn’t know what any of it meant. But it stuck.

The bell over the café door chimed like a quiet invitation.

Reze’s smile greeted him first. It wasn’t like Makima’s. It didn’t pull. It didn’t sink. It didn’t twist his insides into hungry knots. It just… warmed.

“Denji!” she said, waving him toward the counter. “I was hoping you’d come.”

He scratched his head, feeling awkward. “They sent me to do recon. Said something weird was going down in this area. But, uh, I was gonna stop by anyway.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Sure, Devil Hunter. You’re not subtle, y’know.”

He flushed. Reze laughed. He didn’t understand why his heart beat faster around her. Not like with Makima. That was different. That was devotion. This was something else. Something lighter.

They sat in the back. Reze told stories of a school she never went to. He believed her anyway. She asked about his childhood—Denji stumbled through it, fumbling words like bruised fruit.

“I didn’t go to school,” he said finally, looking down. “Spent most of it trying not to starve.”

She reached out and touched his wrist. “That sounds lonely.”

He didn’t pull away.

Power was unimpressed. “That café girl smells like blood.”

Denji blinked. “Huh?”

“Your pheromones are stupid. You wouldn’t notice if she was an actual bomb.”

Aki didn’t say anything, but his expression darkened subtly.

Denji muttered, “She’s nice to me.”

“She likes you?” Power scoffed. “So? You’re as sharp as a brick.”

Aki, surprisingly, stepped in. “Be careful around her. Just in case.”

Denji rolled his eyes. “You two sound like jealous parents.”

But the words stuck in his head. Especially when Makima summoned him that evening.

She didn’t mention Reze directly. But the topic lingered between them like smoke.

“You’ve been smiling more,” Makima said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Is something making you happy?”

Denji swallowed. “I dunno. Stuff’s just been… nice lately.”

“I see.”

Her voice didn’t shift. But the air grew heavy. Denji felt it—like invisible hands curling around his lungs.

The thunder of the explosion shattered the night.

Civilians screamed as debris flew across the intersection. Fire blossomed upward, licking at the sky. Denji was knocked off his feet, rolling across asphalt, lungs seared with smoke.

His ears rang. His vision swam.

Then—

“Denji.”

He blinked.

Reze stood above him, hair fluttering wildly, eyes not hers. Her dress burned away to reveal wires and flesh. A steel pin hung from her neck like a locket. Her arm sparked.

“I didn’t want to fight you.”

“Reze…?”

She touched the pin.

BOOM.

The Bomb Devil was merciless.

Denji tore his chainsaw from his arm and charged, steel teeth roaring. He ducked her blast radius, rolled behind a burnt car, and lunged again. The first strike glanced her shoulder. The second met a mine she’d planted in her palm.

He flew backward, crashing through a storefront.

Blood trickled from his mouth. Still, he laughed.

“You’re strong,” he wheezed. “Didn’t think…you were like me.”

She didn’t answer.

The fight raged across several blocks. They tore through buildings, shattered windows, ignited cars. Civilians fled, some too slow. Denji’s heart pounded—not from fear, but something deeper. Regret?

He remembered her fingers on his wrist. Her laugh.

“Why?” he yelled, dodging another blast.

Reze hesitated.

Then Makima appeared.

The moment froze.

Makima stood at the far end of the rubble, calm as moonlight. Her eyes glowed faintly red.

“Reze,” she said.

Reze shuddered. Her movements faltered. She reached for her pin—and stopped.

Makima walked forward. “It’s time to come home.”

Denji shouted, “What the hell are you doing to her?!”

Makima tilted her head. “She was never yours, Denji.”

Reze fell to her knees.

Then—her eyes emptied.

Denji sat in the hospital bed again.

Bandaged, stitched, bruised. One hand hung in a sling. A machine beeped beside him.

Makima entered like a shadow.

She sat beside him. Brushed his hair from his forehead.

“You were so brave,” she whispered.

Denji didn’t speak.

Makima leaned closer. “You protected people. You did your job.”

“I fought her,” he mumbled. “But I didn’t wanna.”

“I know.” She placed a hand over his chest. “That’s what makes you good.”

He closed his eyes. He wanted to cry. Instead, he leaned into her touch.

Warm. Cold. Comfort. Control.

If she’s scary… then she can protect me.

Makima smiled.

He didn’t see it.

He only felt her hands on his brain, rewiring what he thought was love.

Chapter Text

The sky split open.

Denji stood in the middle of the street, head tilted back, staring at the sudden rift in the clouds. It was as if the sun had been torn in half. A wind like screaming rushed through the city, flinging debris and silence into the world. Then the sound hit: a thunderclap that didn’t end. A sound like the earth itself being punctured. It wasn’t thunder. It was a *gunshot*—louder than anything a human could make.

The Gun Devil had arrived.

—

They said it moved at Mach 20. They said entire countries vanished in the span of seconds. But Denji didn’t see it happen. Not at first. All he saw was the aftermath—bodies slumped in collapsed offices, entire blocks swallowed whole, a cloud of smoke with no center. There were reports: headlines flashing through his mind like static. *20,000 dead in Hokkaido.* *Three Prime Ministers gone in under a second.* *Church bells ringing in reverse.*

But none of it felt real until he saw *him.*

Makima said nothing at first. She stood at the front line, hands calmly folded behind her back, flanked by Control Devils. Behind her, Denji watched, the handle of his chainsaw already rippling out of his arms. The air around them smelled like blood and copper and gunpowder.

“That’s Aki,” she said, almost gently, as if delivering a line in a play.

Denji froze. “No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

He looked again.

The creature in the smoke had Aki’s body. Or what used to be Aki’s body. A warped version—taller, shredded, the right side replaced with rotating barrels of metal and bone. His skin was stretched tight over a framework that wasn’t human. Where Aki’s eyes used to be, there were only hollow sockets glowing blue with Devil heat. It moved like a puppet made of lead and steel.

Denji’s stomach dropped.

“He’s not in there,” Denji said quietly.

Makima didn’t respond. Her hand reached out slowly and rested atop Denji’s head. Her fingers threaded into his hair, not harshly, but with purpose.

“Do your job, Chainsaw Man.”

—

The fight wasn’t a fight.

It was a massacre.

Denji launched at the Gun Fiend, spinning blades carving smoke into ribbons, and Aki didn’t even flinch. He raised his arm—

Boom.

The gunshot hit like a freight train. Denji flew through two buildings. Bricks collapsed around him. Rubble swallowed him. Blood filled his mouth, poured down his ribs. His shoulder was dislocated, his kneecap shattered. He got up.

Again.

And again.

He didn’t want to win. He just didn’t want to *kill* him.

“Come back,” Denji whispered. “Come back, man. Don’t make me do this.”

Memories overwhelmed him. Snowball fights. Quiet tea mornings. Aki handing him cough medicine when he was sick. Aki yelling at Power for wrecking the bathroom. Aki, trying to hold it all together while Denji and Power treated life like a game.

Now it was his turn.

To hold it together.

To fight.

The Gun Fiend didn’t hesitate. Bullets rained from his hands, ripping through cars, through storefronts, through the bones of civilians still screaming for help. Denji blocked what he could, but every hit felt like his insides were being torn apart.

He knew what Makima had done.

He just didn’t understand *why.*

—

In the snow of Denji’s mind, Aki smiled.

They were kids again. Aki laughed, lobbed a snowball at Denji’s face. It hit him softly. Denji laughed back. Power screamed in the background about frozen snot. They were happy, for a moment.

In reality, Denji was crying. He didn’t even realize it until the tears mixed with the blood pouring down his cheek.

His chainsaw arm pierced through Aki’s chest. It had to end. One of them had to stop. It had to be him.

He screamed as he did it.

Makima’s voice rang behind him: “Good boy.”

Denji broke.

—

Weeks passed.

Denji was famous. Magazines wanted interviews. Civilians took blurry photos of him in the streets. TV stations ran montages of his battles.

*Chainsaw Man: Humanity’s Blade.*

He had money. A nicer apartment. A new suit. A balcony view. But everything was empty.

Power was gone.

Aki was gone.

And the silence in the mornings was unbearable.

Sometimes he still made two bowls of miso soup. Left the toilet seat up so Power could yell at him, even though she wasn’t there to yell anymore. Sometimes he opened the closet expecting to find Aki’s coat. Sometimes he smelled gunpowder and his whole body tensed.

Makima smiled at him on rooftops. Touched his head in meetings. Called him by name in front of the public. Told him he was special. Then sent him home without a word.

He waited by her door sometimes. Just sat. Like a stray dog. Sometimes she let him in. Sometimes she didn’t.

When she did, it was never to talk.

Only to lie on the floor.

Sometimes she sat on the couch, reading. Denji would curl up at her feet like a dog. He stopped wondering why. Her hand in his hair felt like praise. He craved it. Craved it worse than food, than sleep, than warmth.

“You’re mine,” she whispered once.

Denji nodded.

“You did well.”

“Yeah.”

Her voice was soft. “Sleep here tonight.”

And so he did. He curled up on her floor, like a pet. His cheek pressed to her ankle.

He thought: *I have everything.*

He thought: *Then why do I feel like this?*

He didn’t know the answer.

But when she said “good boy,” he wagged his invisible tail.

Because love, he thought, must mean this.

Chainsaw Man. Hero. Dog.

All the same, in the end.

And Makima’s leash only grew tighter.

Every victory he had was one she orchestrated. Every person who praised him did so under her guidance. Every breath of fame he tasted was from her hand.

In the mirror, he saw fangs.

In her eyes, he saw chains.

And in the quiet spaces of his soul, he felt nothing at all.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Denji stood in the middle of the living room, holding a can of vending machine coffee gone lukewarm. He hadn’t heated it. He hadn’t even wanted it. But his body had moved on its own—muscle memory from a time when he and Power would fight over who got the good snacks first. When Aki would sigh and scold them, snatching the last one for himself with that ever-weary look.

Now there was no one to yell at him. No one to fight with. Just silence. And silence, Denji was learning, could be loud.

He sipped. Bitter. Warm-ish. His reflection blinked back at him in the dark screen of the unplugged TV.

He hadn’t turned it on since…

He didn’t remember. Maybe since Aki stopped coming home. Maybe since the hospital. Maybe never again.

Denji found himself in Aki’s room.

He didn’t remember walking there, either. But now the door was half-open, and he was inside. Everything had been cleaned up by Public Safety agents, but they’d left the essentials. Some old clothes. A couple of books on the shelf. A toothbrush in the holder, hard and unused.

The bed was neatly made.

Denji didn’t want to mess it up, but he sat on it anyway. Slowly. Like a guest.

A weird tight feeling sat behind his ribs. Not quite pain. Not quite anything. But it pressed in like pressure before a storm.

“Yo, Aki…” he said to the empty room. His voice came out cracked. “If you can hear me or whatever... uh… sorry I let you down. I guess.”

The room didn’t answer. But the pressure stayed.

“I didn’t know what to do. I just... kept doing what I thought you’d want. But it didn’t fix anything.”

He laughed a little. It sounded hollow.

“You hated guns, huh? That’s the messed-up part. They turned you into one.”

A silence passed. A bird chirped outside the window, and it felt disrespectful somehow. Too bright. Too casual.

Denji looked down at his hands.

“They said you didn’t suffer. That it was quick. But I don’t buy it. You always suffered. That was your thing.”

The laugh this time was closer to crying.

He stood up before he could let it become anything more.

He didn’t belong here.

He spent the afternoon walking. Wandering, really. Aimless. Hoping something would distract him. A fight. A devil. A loud car.

But the world was stubbornly indifferent.

A convenience store clerk asked if he was okay. He blinked at her for a full ten seconds before nodding and buying a rice ball he didn’t eat.

He tried calling Power’s number on a whim. It rang and rang. Then voicemail.

He didn’t leave a message.

That night, he sat at the kitchen table.

It was too clean. The whole apartment was. No Power leaving toothpaste in the sink. No Aki muttering about noise at midnight. No arguments about who got the bathtub first.

Just Denji. Alone.

He set out three bowls. Poured water in them like soup. He even sliced up a carrot and dropped it in one of them. It floated like a joke.

He stared at the table for what could have been an hour.

Then he pushed one bowl forward.

“This one’s yours,” he said to the empty seat across from him.

He pushed the second bowl sideways. “And yours. Don’t spill it this time.”

No laughter came. No snarky retort. No sigh of exasperation.

Denji slumped forward until his head met the wood.

“I’m not lonely,” he whispered.

He said it again.

“I’m not lonely.”

One more time.

“I’m not—”

His shoulders shook. He didn’t cry exactly. Just shook, like his body was trying to rid itself of whatever clung to it. Like grief was a fever.

Eventually, the shaking stopped.

He cleaned up the bowls. Didn’t eat.

Went to bed on the couch. Couldn’t sleep in Power’s room. Didn’t want to sleep in Aki’s.

He lay there, half-awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Something was wrong inside him.

But he didn’t know how to fix it.

He dreamed of snow.

He was small again, barefoot, dragging the Pochita chainsaw behind him through thick flakes. Aki stood at the end of the alley. Smoking.

“You can’t save everyone,” Aki said.

“I didn’t want to save everyone. Just us,” Denji said.

Aki looked at him. There was blood on his face.

“You failed.”

The snow turned red.

Denji screamed—

And woke up on the floor, the blanket kicked off, shirt clinging to his back from sweat.

He didn’t move.

Later, he sat on the apartment’s balcony. Morning light touched his face. He hated how warm it was.

He remembered Reze’s smile.

He remembered Power’s yelling.

He remembered Aki’s quiet grief.

All ghosts now.

But he was still here. Still breathing. Still owned.

That thought clamped around his chest again, but he pushed it down.

Just for today.

Just for this quiet.

Tomorrow could be loud again.

Chapter Text

Part 1 of 3

The apartment was too quiet.

Denji stared at the ceiling, eyes blank, chest rising and falling with a rhythm that wasn’t quite his own. It had been days—maybe longer—since the fight with Aki. Since Power’s laughter stopped echoing through the kitchen. Since the Gun Devil tore a hole in his world and Makima filled it with promises that tasted like sugar and smelled like blood.

He had everything now.

His name was in magazines. Kids stopped him on the street. A shrine to Chainsaw Man had sprouted in the city like a tumor—devil hunters lighting incense sticks and whispering his name like a prayer. Denji. Chainsaw Man. The one who saved them.

The one who killed Aki.

Makima had said he was a hero. She stroked his head like a good dog. Praised him in public and locked him in silence at her feet. She fed him like a pet. Loved him like an owner. And every time she smiled, Denji felt a thousand weights press into his ribs. Like he’d drown in warmth that wasn’t meant for him.

His knees were pulled to his chest. He hadn’t moved in hours.

Pochita’s voice stirred somewhere inside his skull.

“Are you happy?”

Denji blinked.

He looked down at his hands. They were clean now. Makima made sure of that. But he could still feel the blood caked under his fingernails. Aki’s blood. The blood of that smiling girl on the train who’d begged to be saved. The blood of every devil he’d torn apart with a grin, thinking it would buy him a sliver of love.

And now there was only her.

Makima.

Denji got to his feet.

The door to Public Safety HQ was unlocked.

No one stopped him. The guards barely looked up. The few agents still lingering in the hallway averted their eyes like they knew where he was going—and didn’t want to follow. The building was quiet. Still. He walked through it like a ghost retracing the path to his grave.

She was waiting for him on the rooftop.

Makima stood with her hands behind her back, gazing out over the city like she could feel every breath it took.

“Denji,” she said without turning.

His throat closed.

“You came.”

Her voice was soft. Delighted. Like he was a stray who had wandered home again, paws caked with mud and heart split open.

Denji stepped forward. The wind carried the scent of gunpowder and cigarettes. He didn’t speak.

Makima turned slowly. Her eyes found him—those endless red spirals that pulled everything inward.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said, tilting her head. “Is something wrong?”

Denji opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Makima stepped closer. Her heels clicked against the rooftop.

“I thought you’d be happy. You’ve been given everything you wanted.”

Her hand reached up—brushed the hair from his face. It was tender, almost motherly.

“And yet,” she said, eyes narrowing, “you look like you’re about to cry.”

Denji’s voice cracked. “I killed Aki.”

Makima smiled.

“And you saved countless others. He wasn’t your family, Denji. He was a devil. The Gun Devil. A tool. Just like you.”

Denji flinched. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true,” she said, stepping around him now. Circling. “I gave you purpose. I gave you food, shelter, attention. I let you live in my world. Without me, you’d still be eating garbage. Do you really think you could have become anything without me?”

Her voice was sweet. Sharp.

“You’re not special. You’re mine.”

He turned. “You used me.”

Makima’s expression didn’t change.

“You’re upset,” she said simply. “I understand. This is part of your growth.”

“No!” Denji stepped back. “You made me feel like I mattered. Like I was…worth something.”

“You are,” she said, smiling. “To me.”

Denji’s hands curled into fists.

“I loved you,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I know.”

She looked at him like he was a child who had spilled his drink.

“And now you’re going to try and kill me,” she said softly. “Aren’t you?”

Denji’s chest heaved.

Makima smiled wider. “Good boy.”

The first hit came fast.

She moved before he could blink—closing the distance with terrifying speed. Her heel drove into his ribs, launching him across the rooftop. He slammed into a ventilation shaft with a crunch.

Denji coughed blood.

“You should know,” she said, walking toward him, “this won’t work. You can’t beat me. You’ve never been able to.”

Chainsaw cords tore from his chest.

Denji roared—blades erupting from his arms and skull. The transformation hurt more than usual. Maybe because he didn’t want it. Not really. He didn’t want to become this thing for her again.

But he had no choice.

He lunged.

Makima dodged—barely. His chainsaw grazed her shoulder. She countered with a crushing palm to his chest, sending him skidding back.

Blood spattered the roof.

“You’re faster,” she noted. “More determined.”

Denji came at her again. Swinging wide. Screaming.

She blocked the first blow, ducked the second, and let the third tear into her side.

She didn’t flinch.

Denji hesitated.

Makima smiled.

“You still hesitate,” she whispered.

She drove her elbow into his face. He crashed into the railing, sparks flying.

“You want me to stop you. You want to be punished.”

She was taunting him. Breaking him down.

But something in Denji snapped.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t scream.

He just moved.

Chainsaw teeth bit into her stomach.

Makima gasped—but it was soft. Almost approving.

“I wondered,” she murmured, as blood pooled in her mouth, “what would finally make you brave.”

Denji twisted the blade.

She coughed.

“I hoped it would be me.”

Makima collapsed to her knees.

Denji’s chainsaws retracted slowly. He stood over her, chest heaving, the rooftop slick with blood and sweat.

“Why?” he rasped.

Makima looked up at him with blood in her teeth. Her lips curved.

“Because you were the only one who could do it.”

Denji stared.

She laughed, softly. It hurt her.

“You were my masterpiece, Denji. My perfect failure.”

He didn’t know if she meant it.

Didn’t care.

He raised the blade again.

Makima closed her eyes.

Part 2 of 3

Snow fell like ash.

It was quiet, as if the world had stopped turning just to witness this. A blanket of white covered the empty field, muffling sound, freezing breath, and stilling time. Denji stood alone, the wind tugging at his ragged coat, his hands clenched at his sides. He didn’t transform yet. Not yet.

She stood in front of him.

Makima.

Poised. Untouched. Wrapped in her red coat and ribbon like always, the image of control. Her eyes didn’t blink, didn’t soften. Just watched.

“You really intend to do this, Denji?” she asked. “After all I’ve given you?”

He laughed. It came out broken. “You didn’t give me anything. You fed me scraps and told me it was a feast.”

Makima took a step forward. “I gave you a purpose.”

“You gave me a collar.”

Silence.

He pulled the cord on his chest.

Chainsaws roared to life.

The snow turned red fast.

Makima summoned the weight of unseen devils, a horde of invisible hands swarming the space around her. Each movement of her finger brought down another force, a crushing blow that splintered the earth. Denji rolled, vaulted, ducked. The chainsaws on his arms howled as they met pressure, parried power, sprayed blood.

Makima’s expression didn’t change. Her fingers danced.

He dove, chainsaws blazing, slashing through the storm of power. But every time he got close—hands yanked him back. Slammed him into the frozen dirt. Broke ribs. Cracked teeth.

He kept coming.

“You can’t win,” she said, almost calmly. “You’re nothing without me.”

Denji spit blood. “Yeah? Maybe. But I’d rather be nothing than your pet.”

Makima frowned.

For the first time, she frowned.

The fight spiraled into a storm of blood and snow. Denji charged again and again, wearing her down through sheer stubbornness. He was reckless, but she was arrogant.

She didn’t expect him to endure this long. Didn’t expect him to learn.

He threw a chainsaw—literally ripped it from his arm and hurled it at her. She dodged, but it gave him an opening. He pounced, pinned her. Her invisible hands grabbed him—he let them. Used the tension to twist and snap, sawing one of them clean in half.

She grunted.

Makima bled.

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

She noticed.

“You don’t really want to hurt me, do you?” she whispered. “Not after everything. You loved me.”

He stopped moving.

His chainsaws hissed, stalled.

“I loved what I thought you were,” he said, voice tight. “But you—you made me kill Aki. You turned Power into meat. You made me a monster.”

Makima tilted her head. “I gave you a family. You wouldn’t have met them without me.”

“You took them from me.”

The wind screamed between them.

She tried to strike again, but this time—Denji moved faster. Cleaner. Not like a rabid animal. Like someone who’d studied her. Someone who knew what she did, not just what she said.

He cut off her legs first.

She still smiled.

“You’ll never be free,” she told him, even as she fell. “Even if I die. You need someone to tell you what to do. You always have.”

Denji stood over her. Chest heaving. Vision flickering.

He didn’t answer.

Chainsaws retracted slowly, blood mixing with snow, turning pink.

He looked at her. Really looked. No lust. No awe. Just the dull ache of a boy who realized he’d been hollowed out.

“I don’t want to be yours,” he said.

Makima blinked.

Then he raised his foot and crushed her windpipe.

Part 3 of 3

The kitchen was too quiet. Not in the peaceful way, but in that warped, stretching silence that happens after a building implodes. Denji stood in the middle of it, staring at the cutting board, the knife, the pot already simmering with miso broth. His hands, shaking. His mouth, dry.

Makima’s body—what was left of it—was wrapped up in butcher paper in his fridge, compartmentalized like leftovers. One thigh. An arm. A few ribs. Some fat he'd carefully trimmed, like he was preparing wagyu.

He had cried the whole time he chopped the first piece. Not because he regretted it. Not exactly. The tears weren’t grief. They weren’t joy. They weren’t anything he could name. It just felt like the floodgates had been unlocked after years of holding it in. Power. Aki. Himeno. The life he was supposed to have. The girl who promised him safety and love. All of it shredded by the same set of hands he now filleted into neat, manageable slices.

Denji stirred the soup.

The scent wasn’t right. It didn’t smell bad—it was clean, earthy, almost metallic—but it didn’t smell like food, either. It smelled like finality. Like closing a door and locking it. Like the end of something that should’ve never started.

He didn’t light candles. Didn’t play music. There was no ritual to this except survival.

When he sat down, the bowl in front of him trembled on the table. His hands had stopped shaking, though. There was a strange clarity, a precision in his movements. He brought the spoon to his mouth.

The first taste was nothing.

No magic. No horror. Just chewy. Salty. Warm.

He forced himself to swallow.

Denji waited for the guilt to claw him from the inside out. Waited for the nausea, the breaking point, the spiral. But nothing came. Instead, memories bubbled to the surface like bones rising in a shallow grave.

He was sixteen again. Fresh into Public Safety. Standing in front of Makima in her office.

“What kind of life do you want?” she had asked him.

He’d said: “A normal one.”

And she’d smiled. Touched his face. “Then obey me, Denji. And I’ll give you everything.”

A memory—Makima scratching behind his ear like a dog.

Another—her boots clicking past him as he slept on her floor. No goodbye. No warmth.

Another—her voice praising him in front of reporters, calling him brave, a symbol, the hope of Japan.

Another—her hand clamped around Power’s wrist, leading her away the night she died.

Denji chewed slower.

The pain in his chest pulsed like a bruise being prodded over and over again. Not sharp. Not unbearable. But permanent.

She had made him feel safe.

Like a dog in a cage, sure. But it was his cage. And it was her hand that fed him. Scratched him. Walked him. She wanted him. That was more than he’d ever had.

And now he had her. Inside him. Literally.

“Guess this makes me yours too, huh?” he said to the empty kitchen.

The bowl was half-empty now. His stomach turned, not from disgust but from something deeper. Something that felt like grief wearing a different mask.

Denji stood up. Took the pot off the burner. Scooped out the rest into Tupperware. Labeled them with the days of the week.

A sick routine. A ritual.

This was his revenge. Not grand. Not explosive. But intimate. Inescapable. He would carry her with him now—not as a god, not as a hero, not as a monster—but as a meal.

He sat back down. Finished the bowl.

“I win,” he whispered.

His voice cracked. His throat hurt.

“But I still lost everything.”

The tears came again. Quiet. Steady. Like a storm he no longer had the strength to shelter from.

Makima was dead.

Makima was inside him.

Makima would never hurt him again.

Makima would never leave.

Denji buried his face in his arms and sobbed. Not like a warrior. Not like a survivor. Like a boy. Just a boy who had wanted someone to love him. Someone who promised they did. Someone who used that promise to twist his soul.

And now, all that was left of her sat heavy in his gut.

The leash was broken.

But the scar around his neck would never fade.