GG- Heh... Dattebayo.

  Denji's descent felt like slow motion, the sideways corridor tilting as he plummeted straight toward the Eternity Devil's gaping maw. Time itself seemed to stretch as the beast's many eyes frantically darted, trying to make sense of the chaos. For a split second, it thought someone had pushed Denji—but then, one of its many eyes catches the cruel grin on Denji's face, and a chilling realization struck.

  "No... he jumped?!"

  The devil's confusion turned to terror. Its dozens of mouths screamed in unison as it tried to slam its jaws shut. But it was too late. Denji disappeared into the darkness of its throat, swallowed whole.

  For a heartbeat, there was silence—an ominous, suffocating void. Then, from deep within the beast, a deafening WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR shattered the stillness, followed by a gut-wrenching explosion of gore. The Eternity Devil convulsed violently, its massive body writhing as if caught in the grip of an earthquake. Blood and viscera sprayed from its sides as it shrieked, each voice overlapping in a chaotic cacophony of agony.

  "GET OUT OF MY BODY, HUMAN! STOP IT! PLEASE, STOP!" The devil's cries reverberated through the hallway, shaking the walls.

  But Denji wasn't listening. Deep inside the devil, his chainsaws roared to life like feral beasts, ripping through its innards with unrelenting ferocity. His maniacal laughter echoed alongside the metallic scream of tearing flesh and grinding bone. Each swing of his chainsaws sent showers of gore splattering in every direction, his relentless onslaught carving a brutal path through the creature.

  As he rampaged, flashes of his past flickered in his mind—his cramped, filthy hut, the weight of his father's debt, and the warm presence of Pochita, always by his side. For a fleeting moment, he imagined Pochita's voice, soft yet firm:

  "Keep going, Denji. Don't let them take this life from you."

  The memory burned like fuel, driving him forward.

  Suddenly, a violent SHRRRRRRRRK resounded, and Denji tore through the devil's flesh in an explosion of blood and viscera. Emerging from the beast like a demon from the depths of hell, his form was monstrous—a terrifying evolution of Chainsaw Man.

  Thick, black armor-like plates covered his body, shimmering like molten obsidian under the dim light. His head was now a jagged, macabre chainsaw, forged from angular black steel that hissed with steam and radiated blistering heat. The blades were serrated and predatory, their edges glowing faintly with an infernal orange hue. Steam vents along his body hissed as if releasing pent-up fury, and coiled chains rattled around his neck like a living scarf, their razor-sharp teeth glinting menacingly.

  Bright orange eyes blazed within his armored visage, casting an eerie glow that distorted the air around him. Every step he took radiated intense heat, warping the space like a furnace incarnate. The sound of his chainsaws revving was deafening, drowning out even the devil's cries.

  The Eternity Devil thrashed wildly, its voices overlapping in a desperate chorus of agony and fear. "WHAT IS THIS?! WHAT HAVE YOU BECOME, HUMAN?! STOP! PLEASE, STOP!!!"

  Its terror was palpable. The devil's countless eyes darted to its writhing flesh, horrified at the destruction within. It tried to bargain, its many mouths shouting in desperation. "I OFFER A CONTRACT! ANYONE! SAVE ME! SAVE ME!!!"

  Denji tilted his head, the angular plates of his black chainsaw catching the dim light. His glowing orange eyes narrowed, and his mouth curled into a bloodstained grin, his sharp teeth glinting through the gore.

  "You wanted me so bad," he snarled, his voice guttural and dripping with malice. "Now you get to enjoy me."

  With a savage roar, Denji surged forward, his body a blur of violence. His chainsaws roared to life, their blackened blades glowing with intensity as they cut through the Eternity Devil's flesh with brutal precision. Blood erupted from the creature's massive form, splattering across the sideways hallway in a crimson storm. The devil's screams, once thunderous, faltered, becoming weak, desperate gasps as Denji's relentless assault carved through it.

  Each strike sent shockwaves of pain through the Eternity Devil, the heat radiating from Denji intensifying to unbearable levels. The devil's body struggled to regenerate, the scorching air burning its rapidly regenerating flesh, a torment reminiscent of the deepest hell. The Eternity Devil writhed in agony, its movements growing frantic, unable to withstand the unyielding pressure.

  Denji laughed, the sound almost manic as his chainsaws grew louder and fiercer, slicing through the devil's body with a savage hunger. The creature's fear was palpable now—each strike was a reminder of its helplessness, and the overwhelming heat only deepened its terror. It was no longer the predator; it was the prey.

  As Himeno rushed to the ledge of the sideways hallway, her breath catching as she took in the carnage below. Blood and gore splattered the warped walls, painting a macabre portrait of chaos. Denji rampaged through the Eternity Devil's flesh, his maniacal laughter reverberating through the corridor as his chainsaws shredded its massive form.

  Aki stood beside her, his expression grim, his dark eyes locked on the brutal scene unfolding below. Behind them, Kobeni and Arai huddled together, their faces pale with a mixture of horror and disbelief. The devil's anguished screams echoed through the twisted space, its overlapping voices a desperate symphony of agony and fear.

  "HOW ABOUT I MAKE THE CONTRACT THIS TIME?!" Denji bellowed, his voice dripping with savage glee.

  Without hesitation, he grabbed a chunk of the Eternity Devil's flesh, his teeth sinking into it with a grotesque crunch. His face twisted in disgust as he chewed for a brief moment before spitting it out violently

  "UGH, IT TASTES LIKE SHIT!" he shouted, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

  Himeno's knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the ledge, her wide eyes fixed on Denji. Her mind raced, Kishibe's words surfacing unbidden:

  The Devil Hunters the devils fear the most... are the ones who are nutcases."

  The memory yanked her back—two years ago.

  The morning air was sharp, crisp with dew and cigarette smoke. Himeno leaned against the entrance of a building, exhaustion weighing on her shoulders. Beside her, Kishibe stood as casually as ever, a canteen of booze in his hand. He took a slow swig, savoring the burn before exhaling.

  “Master, you’re drinking again,” she said, her voice laced with both disapproval and resignation.

  Kishibe barely spared her a glance. “Doesn’t really matter.”

  Himeno exhaled through her nose, looking away. The silence stretched between them before Kishibe finally broke it.

  “Thinking about retiring soon?” His tone was unreadable, but there was something in it—curiosity, maybe.

  “No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. A beat passed before she admitted, “I… haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  Kishibe took another sip, his gaze sharp. “Sahara started therapy. You giving that a shot too?”

  Himeno stiffened. Her hands clenched at her sides before she shook her head. “I thought about it. But I never went through with it.”

  Kishibe let out a slow sigh, waving her off. “You know talking to someone about your problems isn’t a bad thing.”

  Himeno’s throat tightened. Her voice wavered. “Master… you say that like it helps, but it won’t. If Sahara keeps pushing forward like this, she’ll—” She stopped herself. Her fingers dug into her arms.

  Kishibe didn’t flinch. His response was immediate, blunt.

  “Yeah. I know that.”

  He drained the canteen, his sigh heavy.

  “Listen, Himeno. Retire early, if you can. Or go private—it’s safer. With your skill and the training I gave you, they’d take you in without a second thought.”

  Himeno stared at the ground. Her chest ached with something she couldn’t quite name. She closed her eyes, pushing the moment away.The memory shifted again, this time to a year and a half ago.

  Himeno stood on the seventh-floor balcony of the office, the city below bathed in the warm hues of late afternoon. A cigarette dangled from her lips, its smoke curling lazily into the breeze. In her hands, she toyed with a piece of red yarn, methodically untying its knots and letting the loose threads sway in the wind.

  The faint sound of footsteps reached her. She didn't turn; she knew it was Aki.

  He ascended the stairs with deliberate steps, his dark suit marred by small patches of blood. His tie hung slightly askew, and his normally tidy hair was disheveled but still tied back. Reaching the balcony, he paused, his quiet presence filling the space.

  "Himeno, lets report the mission's success to the sector" Aki said, his voice calm as he stood a few steps away from her on the balcony. Himeno didn't respond right away, her fingers skillfully untying the knots in a bright red ball of yarn, each loop unraveling slowly as she stared ahead, lost in thought.

  "Later," she finally muttered, her voice a little distant. "I'm planning to take a break."

  Aki nodded but watched her for a moment, his curiosity piqued by the sight of her repetitive, methodical movements.

  "Himeno," he said, his voice more inquisitive than before, "I've noticed you untie that yarn pretty often. Is there a reason for it?"

  Himeno glanced at him, her gaze almost absent before she shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "It's nothing really big. I just like keeping my hands busy," she replied, her tone casual, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper in her words—something she didn't want to delve into.

  Aki's brow furrowed, but he decided not to push further. "I see. Are you planning to grab something to eat on the way?"

  Her gaze shifted back to the yarn in her hands, the faint scent of cigarette smoke curling around her. "Yeah, I'm kinda hungry," she answered, the words slipping from her lips without much thought, as if the hunger were a distant afterthought.

  Aki gave a small nod, his thoughts drifting elsewhere as he turned away. The faint sound of chainsaws revving interrupted the moment, a harsh, mechanical sound that tore through the stillness of the balcony. Himeno's attention snapped back to the present. Her eyes darted toward the hallway below, her body tensing in an instant.

  The Eternity Devil's countless mouths were trying to bite Denji, their teeth gnashing futilely against the indestructible form of Chainsaw Man. But Denji barely seemed to notice, his rage and the roar of his chainsaws drowning out the devil's desperate shrieks.

  "FUCK OFF!" Denji shouted, the fury in his voice nearly shaking the walls. He twisted in midair, his chainsaws slicing through the air with a violent arc, severing one of the Eternity Devil's massive jaws in a single, brutal motion.

  The force of the blow sent a ripple of blood and gore splattering through the hall, and Himeno's breath hitched as the screams of the devil echoed in the distance, its cries filled with agony and fear. The scene was chaotic, but Denji didn't care. The chainsaw's roar was the only language he needed.

  The sound of Denji's chainsaws continued to roar through the distorted corridor, each revving slice punctuated by his maniacal laughter. Blood and gore sprayed from the massive form of the Eternity Devil, and the beast's agonized screams reverberated through the hallway, but Denji remained relentless.

  As Himeno watched the carnage unfold, her eyes narrowing slightly, a thought crossed her mind—one that felt almost surreal given the chaos surrounding her.

  I'm very certain he can kill the Gun Devil.

  The realization hit her with a strange sense of clarity. Despite the madness and violence, Denji's unyielding drive, his insatiable hunger to live—no matter the cost—was something she hadn't fully grasped until now.

  In the midst of the bloodbath, with the monster's desperate cries still ringing in the air, Himeno couldn't help but acknowledge that Denji, in all his reckless, unpredictable power, was more dangerous than anyone had realized. And, strangely, she wasn't sure if that terrified her... or gave her hope.

  Four hours had passed. The once-deafening screams of the Eternity Devil had dwindled into pitiful sobs, its massive form trembling with exhaustion and despair. Blood pooled across the warped hallway, viscera clinging to the cracked walls and ceiling like grotesque murals.

  The devil's many mouths murmured weak, fragmented pleas.

  "Please... just kill me."

  "I'm so sorry."

  "End me."

  The devil's flesh rippled and shifted, revealing its grotesque, pulsating heart—exposed and vulnerable. It quivered as if offering itself to Denji, a final plea for mercy.

  Denji cocked his head, chainsaw blades glinting under the dim, warped light. "Oh, man, already? Don't show me that shit." His voice dripped with mockery, a wicked grin curling across his blood-soaked face.

  He turned, casually strolling toward one of the devil's twisted, tear-streaked faces. Blood dripped from his chainsaws in rhythmic drops, the sound almost mocking in the silence. With each step, the metallic whir of his chainsaw arm revved, slow and deliberate, the sound slicing through the tense air like a blade.

  Stopping inches from the devil's trembling face, Denji leaned in, his jagged smile sharp and menacing.

  "How about you do it yourself?"

  The Eternity Devil flinched at his words, its remaining eyes darting in fear and disbelief. Denji's chainsaw roared back to life, the serrated teeth spinning faster and faster, the sound growing louder and more menacing with every passing second. The heat radiating from his body warped the air around him, making him appear like a mirage of destruction.

  "Please.... Chainsaw" the devil whimpered, its voice broken and desperate. "I beg for your mercy."

  Denji's grin widened, wicked and unrelenting. He raised his chainsaw arm, the spinning blade casting flickering shadows across the devil's face. Slowly, he pressed the edge of the chainsaw against its flesh. The teeth bit into its surface with a sickening crunch, carving shallowly at first, the vibrations causing tremors to ripple through the Eternity Devil's body.

  The whirring intensified. Denji's laughter, low and guttural, rose in tandem with the chainsaw's speed.

  "Oh, don't worry," he said, his voice dripping with sadistic glee. "I'm just getting started."

  The devil screamed as the chainsaw's teeth sunk deeper, the vibrations rattling through its flesh. Blood sprayed, and the devil's cries reverberated through the corridor, loud and piercing, a last symphony of agony and despair.

  A Few Hours Later

  The group finally approached the exit of the hellish hotel. The once-bustling parking lot, previously swarming with patrolling Batch Members, was now eerily quiet. Only three Patrol members remained, seated under a shade tent as they enjoyed their sundown meal. They chatted and chuckled around a folding table, their laughter carried by the gentle evening breeze. Nearby, an official H.G.O van stood parked, its engine silent, and a pair of radios crackled faintly with occasional static—ready for any updates that might come in.

  The motel's glass doors swung open, and the entire squad emerged, looking like they'd been through hell and back—because they had. Joe, Marcus, Aki, Himeno, Arai, Kobeni, Power, and Denji stepped into the fading daylight, their exhaustion palpable. Sweat and grime clung to their clothes, their movements slow and heavy as if the weight of the mission still hung on their shoulders.

  Aki, positioned near the front of the group, clutched a small bullet piece in his hand—a fragment of the Gun Devil. Finding it had been nothing short of a nightmare. Denji's chaotic destruction had turned the Eternity Devil into a mountain of unrecognizable mush, and searching through the remains for the bullet piece had felt like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

  "Can't believe we actually found it," Himeno muttered, her voice dry as she wiped her brow.

  Aki glanced at the bullet piece, his expression unreadable but his grip firm. "Let's just hope it was worth it."

  Behind them, Power yawned dramatically, leaning on Denji for support. "I'm starving," she whined, ignoring how Denji looked just as drained as the rest of them.

  "Same," Marcus grumbled, eyeing the patrol members eating under the tent with a twinge of envy. "Let's just get out of here before anything else decides to ruin our day."

  The squad shuffled toward the H.G.O van, the tension easing ever so slightly now that their mission was finally over. For now, at least, the nightmare was behind them.

  As the glass doors swung shut behind the squad, one of the patrol members at the tent immediately stood up, sensing the exhaustion and battered state of the group. Without hesitation, they jogged toward the van, hastily grabbing the radio to report the squad's return and request medical assistance.

  "We've got them—calling in an ambulance now," the patrol member said into the receiver, their voice steady but urgent. The van's lights flickered on as the engine roared to life, preparing for a quick departure if needed.

  The other two patrol members abandoned their lunch, their chuckling conversation instantly replaced with professional urgency. They hurried toward the squad, their eyes scanning over the team's injuries and drained expressions.

  "You all look like hell," one of them said, half in awe, half in concern. "Is everyone okay?"

  Aki gave a tired nod, though his grip on the bullet fragment didn't loosen. "We'll live," he muttered, though his tone carried more exhaustion than certainty.

  "We've called for medics—they'll be here any second," the second patrol member assured them, motioning toward the shade tent. "We've got water and supplies if you need anything in the meantime."

  The squad barely responded, too drained to do much more than shuffle toward the van and tent area. Denji leaned on the side of the van, letting out a heavy sigh as Power flopped onto one of the folding chairs with zero grace.

  "Finally" she grumbled, reaching for a water bottle on the table.

  The patrol members exchanged glances but chose not to comment, focusing instead on ensuring everyone made it through the aftermath of the ordeal intact.

  Marcus dropped into one of the foldable chairs with a groan, his head leaning back as he muttered, "That devil" He said tiredly "Is definitely an A-Class Devil I better get paid extra for dealing with a devil. like that" His words hung in the air, heavy with exhaustion and a touch of bitterness.

  One of the Combat Members, who had been helping Arai settle into a chair, paused mid-motion, his brow arching in curiosity. "A-Class?" he repeated, his tone shifting from casual concern to intrigued disbelief. "That explains it... no wonder people were disappearing left and right in that motel."

  The Combat Member straightened up, glancing back toward the ominous building as though seeing it in a new light. "You're lucky to have made it out in one piece," he added, giving Aki a pointed look as he noticed the bullet fragment. "Let me guess—Gun Devil lead?"

  Aki gave a tired nod, carefully setting the fragment on the table. "That's what we came for. Denji made sure we got it... though finding it in that mess was a nightmare."

  The Combat Member let out a low whistle. "You fought an A-Class and managed to secure a piece of the Gun Devil? You guys must be running on fumes right now."

  Marcus let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Fumes? We're running on sheer spite and a bad sense of self-preservation at this point."

  Denji, leaning against the van with his arms crossed, gave a bloodstained grin. "And a craving for some steak," he added, only half-joking.

  Power, sprawled out dramatically in her chair, waved a hand dismissively. "Steak? No way. Feast! I demand a feast fit for a queen! I nearly died in there!"

  The Combat Member smirked, folding his arms. "Sounds like you all earned it. A-Class devils aren't something most squads walk away from."

  "Yeah," Marcus muttered under his breath, closing his eyes briefly. "And I still better see that bonus."

  As Himeno glanced over at the group with a knowing smirk, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "You guys actually get compensation for fighting stronger devils? In Public Safety, you're lucky if you get a pat on the back and maybe a drink if they're feeling generous," she said with a tired sigh, her eyes narrowing as they settled on Aki. "Hey, Aki, maybe we should join the H.G.O. if they're handing out bonuses like candy."

  Aki, sitting beside her, didn't even spare her a glance. His focus was entirely on the bullet fragment in front of him, his fingers tracing the sharp edge absentmindedly. "I didn't join for the money," he said evenly, his voice steady, though the faintest trace of weariness clung to his words.

  As if on cue, one of the second Patrol members approached, carrying cups of steaming coffee and plates of food. "Here, eat this. You all look pretty wiped," he said, setting the food down in front of them. The rice was perfectly cooked, the tempura crispy, and the warm sushi looked inviting. He handed the others their portions, some getting juice, others getting coffee. "Any of you injured badly?"

  Aki looked at Denji, his gaze softening slightly as he picked up a piece of sushi with chopsticks. "Denji, are you hurt?" he asked, his voice still calm but with a hint of concern beneath it.

  Denji grabbed his portion with a grin, looking at Aki as he set his food down briefly. He didn't seem fazed by the question. "Nope, I'm good. I feel fine," he said quickly, his words as light as ever, and with that, he dug into his meal using his chopsticks very incorrectly.

  The second Patrol member watched him for a moment, then turned to the others, a reassuring smile on his face. "Good to hear. You guys sure know how to make a devil hunt look easy." He gave a chuckle before moving to check on the rest of the squad. His casual demeanor was almost contagious, helping ease the tension in the air after such a long, brutal ordeal.

  The sound of a motorcycle revving broke through the stillness, and within moments, an ambulance arrived—surprisingly fast, given the isolated location. The engine cut off, and the driver, a paramedic in a dark uniform, quickly dismounted. He was carrying a sturdy bag of medical supplies, his movements practiced and efficient.

  Without a word, he approached the group, assessing the situation at a glance. "You all look like you've been through hell," he said, his voice calm but laced with professionalism. He turned to the nearby combat member and asked, "Anyone critically injured?"

  Aki, who had been sitting in silence, rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the exhaustion set in. "Nothing major, but some of us could use a check-up," he replied, nodding toward the others.

  The paramedic nodded, moving swiftly to assess the squad. His eyes flicked over Denji first, noticing his typically scruffy appearance but also the lack of any visible wounds. "You good?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

  Denji looked up, his face already half-buried in food, and gave the paramedic a thumbs-up. "I'm fine, just starving," he replied casually, his usual grin never faltering.

  The paramedic chuckled, moving to the next person. His hands worked methodically as he checked everyone, confirming there were no major injuries beyond fatigue. As he finished up, he pulled out a small tablet and tapped a few commands.

  "Alright, no life-threatening injuries, just some exhaustion and muscle strain," he said. "But you should all take it easy for a while. There's a lot of blood on this job."

  "Alright, that's good to hear. Thanks for checking on them," Patrol Member One said, his voice laced with gratitude.

  The paramedic gave a brief nod, his expression calm yet professional. "Don't worry, it's just my job," he replied, already turning to walk back toward his motorcycle. With a smooth motion, he mounted the bike, revving the engine to life.

  "Take care next time," he called over his shoulder before speeding off, the sound of the engine fading into the distance.

  Patrol Member One watched him go for a moment before turning his attention to the van. Inside, Combat Member Three was hunched over, tapping away at a tablet, filling out the report for the investigation. The room was quiet, the tension still hanging in the air, though the immediate threat had passed.

  "Hey, you done with the report?" Patrol Member One called out as he approached the van.

  "Yeah," Patrol Member Three replied without looking up. His fingers continued to move over the screen, sending off the final details. "I'm bringing in backup to check the place and then the Disinfectors will come in to clean up whatever's left."

  Patrol Member One nodded, his patience wearing thin after a long day. "Alright, no need to tell me everything now," he muttered, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. "Hurry up and help us out—we've got a tired crowd here. At least call them a taxi."

  "Right, right," Patrol Member Three said, tapping the final command before closing the tablet. He gave a tired sigh, then stood and walked over to where the others were gathered, preparing to make the arrangements.

  Patrol Member Three approached the group, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. "Alright, anyone need a taxi to get out of here?"

  Marcus, still holding his cup of coffee, raised his hand with a tired sigh. "Yeah, I need a ride. I'm pretty bummed out after all that," he said, taking a long sip. He glanced over at Joe. "How about you, Joe? Need a ride?"

  Joe gave a quick nod, his expression distant and worn. "Yeah, I'm ready to get out of here," he muttered.

  Denji, who had been half-listening while picking at his food, raised his hand as well. "Yeah, I could use a ride," he said casually, his usual grin fading into a more tired look.

  Kobeni, standing off to the side, raised her hand hesitantly, her voice shaky. "I... I want to go home," she said quietly, as if holding back tears. Her words hung in the air, her usual composure slipping away after the grueling ordeal.

  The group exchanged brief glances, each one feeling the weight of the day, but none of them said anything as Patrol Member Three nodded, making a note to arrange the rides.

  Aki looked over at Patrol Member Three, his eyes a little tired but still carrying that familiar, calm demeanor. "Hey, you got a cigar?" he asked, voice low but direct.

  Himeno, who had been standing nearby, glanced over and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, could you give me one as well?" she asked, her tone casual but with an edge of curiosity.

  Patrol Member Three chuckled softly and reached into his jacket, pulling out a small pack of cigars. "Yeah, I do," he replied with a shrug, handing one to each of them. "Not much else to do but relax for a bit, right?"

  Aki took the cigar with a nod of thanks, his fingers brushing over the cool wrapper as he prepared to light it. Himeno gave a small grin, taking hers without hesitation, already flicking her lighter. Both of them leaned back slightly, letting the weight of the day's events settle, if only for a brief moment

  [A Day After The Mission]

  The scene cut to Denji, sprawled out in a plush hotel room, wrapped in the luxury of soft sheets—a far cry from the rough life he once knew. The quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the space, blending with the soft rustling of a cookie jar as he dug his hand inside.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he lazily bit into a cookie, his free hand clicking the remote as he flipped through channels, searching for something—anything—to kill time. A woman on-screen interviewed Japanese locals about their opinions on the H.G.O. Skip. A talk show featuring a famous idol in a relationship with some pretty boy. Boring. Skip.

  Without meaning to, he lingered on Drama’s Love—episode 69, to be exact. A show he kinda liked but would never admit to watching. It was corny as hell, and the way the "drama" kicked off was always so over-the-top. He sighed, munching on another cookie. "Tch. Dumb show." He didn't change the channel.

  [Drama's Love Episode 70 "Long gone Flower"]

  "Lara, you're my beautiful, everlasting flower. I swear, I'll never fall for another again," Harley declared passionately, clutching the delicate flower he had given her years ago. His voice trembled with sincerity, his gaze locked onto hers as if willing her to believe him.

  Lara held the flower gently in her hands, her expression unreadable. But when she spoke, her voice carried a sorrow that cut deeper than any blade.

  "Harley, I love you. You’re so sweet to me... but in the end, you always turn bitter," she murmured, her words laced with quiet pain.

  Harley’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched as he reached for her hand, desperate to hold onto her, to make her stay. But she pulled away before he could grasp her.

  Her next words were colder than ice. "If you truly love me, you’ll let me go. I’ve found someone sweeter than you—and he doesn’t chase after other flowers."

  Harley’s eyes widened in horror. "Lara, no—"

  But she was already turning away, every step deliberate, heavy with finality. He scrambled to follow, but in his frantic rush, his foot caught on the edge of the carpet. With a loud crash, he tumbled into a nearby table, sending a porcelain vase shattering to the floor.

  Sprawled amidst the broken shards, his outstretched hand still reached for her. "Lara, nooo!" he cried, but she didn’t stop. She never even looked back.

  The screen cut to black.

  Then, loud, dramatic music swelled as the preview for the next episode flashed on-screen.

  A close-up of Lara’s face filled the screen, her eyes wide with mock surprise. "Harley, what are you doing?"

  The scene abruptly shifted to a grand balcony, where Harley and Richard were locked in a brutal fistfight under the glow of city lights. Harley swung at Richard with wild, unrestrained fury, his rage igniting like fire. Lara rushed in, desperately trying to push them apart, but neither man backed down. The tension escalated, punches flew, and the fight spiraled out of control.

  Without warning, the screen cut to a stark, sterile hospital room. Richard lay in bed, bruised and bandaged, as nurses bustled around him. Then, another abrupt cut—to a tense courtroom.

  Harley stood before the judge in a bright orange prison jumpsuit, his face shadowed with regret. The judge’s gavel slammed down.

  "Guilty."

  The word echoed like a death sentence.

  The screen flashed once more as the narrator’s deep, dramatic voice boomed:

  "Will Harley ever regain Lara’s trust and prove himself as her one and only love? Or will he be doomed to watch her fall for another, his regrets haunting him forever?"

  The final words lit up in bold, flashing letters:

  Find out in the next episode of Drama’s Love, airing next Saturday at 8 PM, only on Disco Tv Show Channel!

  Denji sat on the edge of his bed, a cookie in hand, staring at the screen with a blank expression. He chewed slowly, the sound of the crunching cookie filling the quiet room. His eyes narrowed, frustration creeping across his face as the drama unfolded in front of him.

  The narrator's voice boomed, filling the room with melodrama. Denji let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Man, these people really know how to make a mess out of everything," he muttered, taking another bite. "It’s like they’re just trying to make everything dramatic for no reason. I don’t even know who the hell I'm supposed to root for anymore."

  He leaned back against the bed, tapping the remote against his leg, his attention divided between the chaotic love story on screen and his own thoughts. "This is ridiculous... but kinda fun to watch, I guess."

  Denji continued flipping through the channels, his eyes glazed over as he searched for something worth watching. Most of it was the same boring stuff, until something odd caught his eye.

  A cartoon character with terribly drawn features—his limbs too long, his face a mess of weird angles—stood surrounded by a bunch of random, clunky gadgets. Beside him was a pirate, drawn in the style of an old cartoon, looking way too exaggerated to be real. And to top it all off, there was a human-sized parrot, sipping on a soda like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Denji blinked, pausing the remote. "Wow... this is... weird," he muttered, unable to look away from the bizarre spectacle on screen. The whole thing was a trainwreck, but something about it made him want to watch more.

  The terribly drawn character, Downy, was busy fiddling with an assortment of strange gadgets, his arms moving in rapid, almost comical fashion as he hummed a quirky tune. His overly exaggerated movements were as awkward as his design, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  As Downy continued tinkering, the cartoon pirate swaggered by, his oversized hat bobbing with each step. Curiosity piqued, the pirate stopped and turned toward Downy, raising an eyebrow. "What are you inventing, Downy?" he asked in his deep, exaggerated pirate voice, the kind you only hear in cartoons.

  Downy, hearing the voice, spun around with an abrupt, overly dramatic motion—his head slightly enlarged, signaling his excitement as if he were a flat 2D character brought to life. "Hi there, Baba!" he exclaimed with a grin that stretched too wide for any normal face. "I'm making a brand new device for today’s episode!" His voice was practically bubbling with enthusiasm.

  The cartoon pirate stroked his exaggerated mustache thoughtfully, squinting at Downy. "Oh, and what would its purpose be, Downy?" he asked, genuinely intrigued.

  Downy’s mouth—if you could even call it that—twisted into a crooked smile, as he gave the pirate a knowing look. "Oh! It’s for connecting two different universes!" he said, as if casually discussing the weather, completely unfazed by the magnitude of his invention.

  The pirate paused, massaging his mustache slowly. "I see. Did you find any characters interesting?"

  Downy’s eyes lit up, and he nodded eagerly. "Mhm, I did!"

  The pirate raised an eyebrow, impressed. "That is nice. Which one has caught your eye?"

  Without missing a beat, Downy grinned even wider. "Litheil Granz from the Bleach fanfic and Zatachi Uchiha from the Naruto fanfic!" he replied, his voice bubbling with excitement.

  The pirate’s face twisted into a puzzled look, but he nodded anyway. "Quite the mix, eh? Interesting choices, Downy. Very interesting..."

  The pirate’s mustache twitched as he gave Downy a suspicious look. "Have you asked the creator of these characters for permission? We can’t have another copyright strike, or our show will get taken down."

  Downy shook his head, giggling like a child. "Oh, you’re so silly! I remember you committed mass piracy!"

  The pirate let out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms. "I am a pirate. Of course, I commit piracy—but a copyright strike? Now that’s a different kind of trouble, Downy."

  Downy nodded, finally understanding the concern. "Don’t worry! I’ll ask him."

  The pirate blinked, then frowned. "Didn’t you break your phone yesterday, Downy?"

  Downy spun his 2D body around with an unnatural twist. "Oh, you silly pirate. I’m going to ask him personally!"

  Before the pirate could question it, Downy pressed a large, blinking red button. The walls behind the cluttered table rumbled and split apart, revealing a dimly lit room.

  At the center of it sat a young man, gagged with a wet towel over his head, his muffled sobs filling the air. His body trembled as he softly cried, his wrists bound to the chair.

  Beside him, a human-sized parrot stood sipping soda through a straw, completely unfazed by the situation. Without a care in the world, the parrot turned its head to Downy and the pirate, giving them a lazy nod.

  "Sup, guys."

  Downy smiled brightly, looking over at Bidy, who was still sipping his soda. "Thank you for watching him for me, Bidy!" he said, his voice full of cheer.

  Bidy barely looked up, still sipping with a lazy expression. "It's nothing big," he muttered nonchalantly.

  The pirate, noticing the young man in the chair, raised an eyebrow and squinted at him. "Aye, is that GG? The FanFicStory writer? No wonder he hasn’t uploaded in a while."

  Downy nodded eagerly, responding to the pirate’s question. "Yep, it’s the GG himself!"

  Downy then grabbed another invention off the cluttered table, his eyes glinting with a mischievous excitement. As he held it up, he giggled like a child, clearly pleased with his latest creation.

  The sound of the young man’s whimpers filled the room as Downy stood over him. "Good morning! I came back just like I promised!"

  GG's gagged plea cut through the air, his voice strained with desperation. "Please..." he coughed slightly, his body shuddering as he inhaled and exhaled heavily. "Let me go home..."

  The wet towel, soaked in soda, covered his face completely, and his tears streamed down, mixing with the damp cloth. "I’ll give you anything..." he sobbed, trying to plead, his voice barely audible as he broke into a fit of muffled cries.

  Downy beamed with a wide grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he hovered over GG. "I came back since we’re starting our episode right now! So, I’m here to ask permission to use your characters for today’s episode!"

  GG, desperate and broken, nodded weakly, his voice barely more than a strained whisper. "Okay... I’ll give you permi...ssion…"

  Downy’s smile only grew wider as he leaned in closer, eyes narrowing playfully. "What was that? Could you repeat that?"

  "Please... I said yes, let me... go home…" GG’s voice cracked with desperation, his whole body trembling.

  Downy giggled again, his voice sweet and innocent, yet laced with something far more sinister. "Wow, thank you so much! I really do appreciate it! But... I didn’t say anything about letting you go home."

  GG’s eyes widened as his cries grew louder, more frantic. "Please... please!" he begged, his body wracked with sobs, unable to fully grasp the situation.

  Downy, seemingly unfazed by GG’s desperation, turned to Bidy with an innocent look. "Could you please do it for me?"

  Bidy looked at Downy for a moment, shrugged, and then smirked. "Sure," he said, and without hesitation, poured his entire can of soda over GG’s face, the cold liquid splashing down, mixing with the tears that streamed down his cheeks.

  GG let out a muffled scream, his sobs barely audible under the sound of the soda fizzing as it soaked into the towel, his misery continuing with no end in sight.

  Suddenly, a loud gunshot echoed through the room, and the wet towel covering GG's face was now stained with blood.

  "Oops, my hand slipped," Downy said nonchalantly, sticking out his tongue in a playful, almost childlike manner.

  The pirate, glancing at the body, grunted in disappointment. "Aye, what a waste. We could’ve used him to make more content for the show," he said in his thick pirate accent, shaking his head.

  Downy, unfazed, chuckled. "That's fine. He’ll come back. He isn’t the real one—just one of his personas."

  The pirate raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Persona? So you’re saying there’s more of him?"

  Downy nodded confidently. "Yep!"

  The pirate sighed with relief, rubbing his chin. "Good. I still need to catch up on episode 10. The last time he published was ten days ago."

  Downy glanced over at him with a playful frown. "That’s unfortunate, but we still have the show rolling."

  At that moment, the entire room seemed to shift. The once-chaotic space transformed into a sleek, high-tech science lab filled with statistics and complex graphs, the air thick with intelligence.

  In the background, GG’s lifeless body remained, a chilling reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. Meanwhile, Bidy calmly placed a paper on the table with a mysterious "??1" written on it.

  Downy, now wearing a more serious expression, placed two files on the table—one marked for Zatachi and the other for Litheil. The camera light clicked on, and the crew sprang to life.

  [Crossover Episode 17 "Behind the tales"

  "Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome back to Crossover," Downy said into the camera, his voice smooth and professional. "I bet you already know us, but today we’ve got a very special round featuring two characters from GG himself. But before we dive in, let’s go over the usual info check for these characters."

  The camera zoomed in on the files as Downy gestured dramatically, the lab’s sleek lighting casting a cool glow over the scene. The moment was set for something big.

  [Lither Granz Backstory Profile]

  (Creator's Note the character is heavily unfinished I just made him a few days ago and a day ago for his backstory that goes same for Zatachi)

  Lithiel Granz was born in the shadowy expanse of Hueco Mundo, long before Ikokomondoe's reign. He was one of the first hollows to emerge into the bleak, barren world. Among the many Hollows, he stood apart, destined for something greater. His ambitions were far beyond what any ordinary Hollow could comprehend. Lithiel wasn’t content with simply being a predator in the world of the living; he sought the absolute power of the very essence of existence itself.

  In his relentless hunger for power, Lithiel achieved the impossible—he became the first to ascend to the terrifying rank of Vasto Lorde, transcending even the highest of the Hollow ranks. But his path to greatness did not stop there. Lithiel, driven by an unquenchable thirst for ultimate strength, devised a way to fuse his very soul with the underworld, the dreaded Hell. This forbidden ritual, which linked his existence to the suffering and despair of Hell itself, transformed him into a being of unimaginable power.

  By merging with Hell, Lithiel gained access to its highly concentrated Reishi—an ethereal energy far more potent than the energy found in the physical world. Unlike most Vasto Lordes, who struggle to harness the immense power at their disposal, Lithiel has mastered this Reishi, using it not just to sustain himself, but to continually grow stronger. The very environment of Hell—its oppressive, chaotic nature—became his nourishment, feeding him in ways no ordinary creature could understand.

  But Lithiel’s strength came at a cost. His hunger for power was insatiable. No soul was safe from his insidious grasp. He feasted on the suffering of the damned—those who had committed unspeakable crimes, as well as any who crossed his path. Even powerful beings such as captains, arrancars, and other formidable foes were nothing more than prey to him. His dominance over Hell grew, and with it, his power increased exponentially.

  As the dominator of Hell, Lithiel’s power is limitless. He controls the very fabric of Reishi, manipulating it to bend the world to his will. His ability to tap into the depths of suffering, his cold heart untouched by empathy, makes him a terrifying force that grows stronger with each passing soul. Lithiel is not just a conqueror of Hueco Mundo or the world of the living—he is the ruler of Hell itself, and his hunger for power remains boundless nicknamed "Hell's Strongest Soldier".

  Downy looked the folder with a little smile and looked up, a mischievous grin creeping across his face as he glanced at Pirate. "So, what do you think, Baba? Litheil Granz, a Hollow turned Vasto Lorde, now ruling Hell itself. His power seems… pretty insane, right?"

  Pirate rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eye glinting as he considered the information. "Aye, sounds like a right beast. A Hollow who craves more than just killin' and eatin' souls—he wants the power of the entire damn universe." He chuckled darkly. "Havin' all that power must make him feel like he’s untouchable, eh?"

  Downy nodded, his expression shifting from playful to slightly more serious. "Exactly. The way he fused his soul with Hell itself to gain this Reishi... it’s like tapping into an entirely new source of energy. No other Hollow’s done that before." He paused, tapping his fingers on the table. "But you have to wonder—how much of this power is really worth it? I mean, he's constantly hungry, always devouring more souls. It's a never-ending cycle."

  Pirate leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. "Aye, but ain't that the story of many powerful souls? Always hungry for more, never satisfied. Can't blame 'em, I suppose. Power's a hard thing to resist." He chuckled again. "But still, I don't know about fusing with Hell. That seems like a one-way ticket to madness."

  Downy grinned widely. "I think that’s the point, Baba. Lithiel doesn’t care about being 'sane' or 'moral.' He wants absolute domination. He’s willing to sacrifice everything for that power." He glanced at the folder again. "Hell’s already his playground, and now he’s just out there collecting souls like they're trophies."

  Pirate rubbed his temple. "Aye, and with that much power, ain't nobody safe. Even captains, arrancars... damn, even *we* might be in trouble if we crossed him."

  Downy nodded solemnly. "That’s exactly it. Lithiel is a force of nature at this point, a being who controls Reishi like a god. I wouldn't want to be his next snack." He grinned, his tone light again. "But hey, we don’t have to worry about him... unless *you* wanna go poke the beast in his own territory."

  Pirate smirked and stood up, stretching. "Ha! Maybe in another lifetime, eh? Let’s leave the power-hungry overlords to their thrones. There’s plenty of treasure out there to be had without all that... soul-eating madness."

  Downy flipped a page in the file, his eyes lighting up with curiosity. "Ooooh, combat information for Litheil!" He scanned the page, his expression shifting from amusement to surprise. "Whoa... Litheil is officially titled ‘Hell’s Strongest Soldier’ with—" He squinted at the page. "7.9 billi—wait, it's increasing!" His voice rose slightly as he watched the numbers tick upward in real time. "Holy crap, it's going up by a thousand kills per second!"

  Pirate, who had been casually leaning back, suddenly sat up straight, his amused expression turning to one of shock. "Aye, what in the seven hells?! How's a man killin’ that fast? Is he just wipin’ out armies for fun?"

  Downy cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "That’s not even the craziest part. Look at this—" He tapped the page and read aloud. "'Total Deaths and Losses: 0.'*"

  Pirate let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Damn, lad. Even the Reaper himself takes a day off now and then, but this Litheil fella? Sounds like he’s got no brakes." He folded his arms, looking at the file with a mix of respect and concern. "Hell’s Strongest Soldier, eh? Ain’t that a fancy title... but titles don’t mean much if there ain’t nobody left to hear ya."

  Downy shrugged with a smirk. "I bet he would start to look for it somewhere else."

  Pirate exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. "Aye… and here I thought fightin’ against the Navy was bad enough. Imagine gettin’ on his bad side." He let out a nervous chuckle before pointing at the file. "So tell me, Downy, does this demon of Hell at least have a weakness? Or are we dealin’ with a proper unstoppable nightmare here?"

  Downy skimmed further, his eyes scanning for any hint of a flaw. "Hmm… well, it says here that he feeds on Hell's Reishi and the souls of hell so —he’s constantly consuming them to maintain his power. If he ever stopped… well, let’s just say things might get interesting."

  Pirate raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Ah, so the fella’s got an appetite bigger than the damn ocean. But if he needs to keep eatin’ to stay at full strength, then maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to starve the beast…" He smirked. "Not that I’d want to be the one tryin’ it."

  Downy giggled as he flipped the page, his eyes lighting up with excitement. The cameras subtly turned away from the document, keeping its contents hidden from view. "Wow, not bad! His abilities are really interesting," he mused, a mischievous grin creeping onto his face.

  Pirate leaned in, curiosity piqued. "Lad, let me see that," he muttered, scanning the page over Downy's shoulder. His expression slowly shifted from intrigue to concern. "Aye… are ya sure about this fight? You're about to unleash the Hell’s Strongest Soldier just for an episode. I mean, you've done crazy matchups before, but this… this is on a whole different level."

  Downy giggled childishly, swinging his legs as he rested his chin on his hand. "Oh, Pirate, we’ve all done bad things before. What’s the difference if we do a few more?" His tone was lighthearted, but the glint in his eyes hinted at something more devious.

  Pirate scratched his chin, mulling it over. After a moment, he sighed, shaking his head with a small smirk. "Aye, I guess you’re right. No point in questionin’ a man like you. After all, madness is just another word for fun in this business."

  Downy beamed at the response, his enthusiasm never wavering. With a flourish, he placed Litheil’s file down and eagerly grabbed the next one. "Alright then!" he chirped, flipping open the cover. "Time to see what Zatachi Uchiha brings to the table!"

  [Zatachi Uchiha Backstory Profile]

  Zatachi’s life began as a mistake—a child born of cruelty, yet raised in quiet sorrow. His mother, a woman of grace and tragedy, loved him despite the circumstances of his conception. She saw in him not a curse, but a boy deserving of warmth. Yet the world did not share her sentiment.

  His stepfather, a powerful and feared shogun, loathed his existence. To the man, Zatachi was a scar on his honor, a reminder of a nightmarish past that could never be erased. The boy, with his unnatural talent for chakra, was everything his father’s bloodline was not. The shogun’s true sons, despite their rigorous training, paled in comparison. Zatachi wielded fire, water, and lightning as if they were mere extensions of his will, while his stepbrothers struggled just to match a fraction of his power.

  And so, the shogun ignored him. No lessons, no guidance, no place at his side. Zatachi was left to wander in the shadows of his family, honing his gifts in solitude.

  Yet, even in rejection, he did not hate them.

  He cared for his stepbrothers. Even when they envied him, even when they sneered and whispered behind his back, he still saw them as family. Whenever they needed help, he gave it without hesitation. He loved his mother dearly, her kindness the only warmth he had ever known. And despite his father’s hatred, he still hoped—naively—that one day, he would be accepted.

  That day never came.

  When the scientist returned, he came not as a man, but as something far worse. His body was twisted, his knowledge of chakra unfathomable. A blindfold covered one eye, his smile never faltering as he descended upon Zatachi’s home like a specter of death.

  The massacre began before Zatachi even knew what was happening.

  Blood painted the floors. The screams of his family—his mother, his brothers, even the shogun himself—filled the air, only to be silenced one by one. Zatachi fought, but he was still young, still human. He was too slow. Too weak.

  And then, as he lay on the blood-soaked ground, the scientist smiled.

  The world around him shattered.

  His vision blurred, then refocused—back to the beginning of the massacre. His family alive. The shogun standing tall. His mother’s soft voice still carrying warmth.

  And then, the slaughter began again.

  Zatachi watched them die. Again. And again. And again.

  No matter how he fought, no matter how many times he tried to change their fate, the outcome never wavered. The scene reset without mercy, forcing him to relive his greatest failure over and over.

  At first, he screamed. Then, he begged. Then, he wept.

  But the cycle did not end.

  His tears dried. His body trembled, but his heart hardened. Every failure tightened his fists. Every scream that once broke him now fed something darker inside. Every reset carved a single, undeniable truth into his soul:

  He was weak. He was nothing.

  And every time he saw that smile, rage consumed him.

  Until, finally—he stopped breaking.

  Instead, he changed.

  **The Birth of Eternal Vision**

  The pain, the torment, the endless cycle—it no longer shattered him. It shaped him.

  Something inside him stirred, then **awakened.**

  His eyes burned with a crimson glow. Every movement, every pattern of the illusion became clear. He saw through it, unraveled its threads, and **broke free.**

  The scientist was waiting.

  He stood there, still smiling. If anything, he looked pleased.

  Zatachi roared, summoning a crimson, shogun-armored arm, red chakra flowing with raw, unrestrained fury. His hand lunged forward to crush the man who had stolen everything from him.

  But before it could strike, the air itself **split apart.**

  A blood-red claw tore through space. A single crimson eye peered through the rift, its gaze ancient and filled with something beyond comprehension.

  And then—**the cut happened.**

  It wasn’t a strike. It wasn’t an attack. It was **a correction.**

  His **Susanoo-arm** was severed.

  And then, his body followed.

  Pain beyond reason consumed him. He didn’t just feel it—he became it. His mind shattered. His senses collapsed.

  Darkness swallowed everything.

  Downy hummed a tune as he flipped through the pages of Zatachi’s file, his eyes scanning the tragic details with an almost childlike fascination. His usual grin widened as he leaned back in his chair. “Man… this is brutal.”

  Pirate, peering over his shoulder, let out a low whistle. “Aye, lad. Brutal be puttin’ it lightly.” He took a swig from his flask, shaking his head as he reread a passage. “This poor soul was forged in torment. A childhood spent unloved, a massacre that never ended, and then… that thing with the scientist? I’ve seen nightmares softer than this.”

  Downy giggled, flipping the page dramatically. “But isn’t it just delicious? Tragedy makes the best warriors. Zatachi didn’t just survive the worst night of his life—he became something else. Something stronger.” He tapped the section detailing his Eternal Vision. “Tell me, Pirate, if you watched your family die a hundred times, would you break? Or would you evolve?”

  Pirate exhaled sharply, setting his flask down. “Ye sound like the bastard scientist himself.” His fingers drummed against the table as he studied the eerie description of the blood-red claw. “And what be this? The cut? Lad, we’ve seen plenty of overpowered fighters, but this… this feels different. Somethin’ ain’t right about it.”

  Downy leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. “Oh, absolutely. It wasn’t just an attack, Pirate. It was a correction. Like the universe itself decided Zatachi was stepping too far beyond his limits and just snipped him down to size.” His voice took on a teasing lilt. “Tell me, doesn’t that just make you wonder?”

  Pirate grunted. “Aye. Makes me wonder if we should be puttin’ ‘im in this fight at all.” He glanced at Downy, eyes narrowing. “Ye do realize yer about to let a man who survived infinite death loose, right?”

  Downy’s grin stretched wider, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, Pirate, that’s the fun part. He didn’t just survive it—he learned from it. Now tell me…” He flipped the last page shut with a snap. “What happens when someone like that gets a rematch?”

  Pirate fell silent for a moment before chuckling, shaking his head in disbelief. “Aye, lad. Yer playin’ with fire.”

  As Downy placed both files into the machine, its gears whirred to life, humming with mechanical precision. Scanners flickered on, casting red beams over the pages as mechanical hands flipped through them at lightning speed, analyzing every last detail. The glow of the monitors reflected in Downy’s eager eyes as he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head.

  “So, Pirate,” he mused, watching the machine process the data. “Who are you betting on?”

  Pirate let out a thoughtful grunt, rubbing his chin as he eyed the files being digitized. “Hmph… A tough call, lad.” He crossed his arms, gaze narrowing. “On one hand, we got Lithiel—the so-called Hell’s Strongest Soldier. A warrior refined by endless battle, strength forged in fire and blood.” He tapped the table, his voice steady. “Ain’t many that can stand against a title like that.”

  Then, he nodded toward Zatachi’s file. “But then ye got this one—a lad who’s lived through death itself, seen the worst horrors a man can take and walked out of it stronger. A man whose very soul was reforged in an unbreakable hell.” Pirate took a slow swig from his flask before setting it down with a clink.

  He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “If I were a fool, I’d bet on the strongest. But me gut tells me it ain’t that simple. Zatachi ain’t just fightin’ with skill—he’s fightin’ with wrath, with a fire that can’t be put out. And a man like that… well, lad, I reckon he don’t lose easy.”

  Pirate smirked, meeting Downy’s gaze. “So tell me, lad—who’re you bettin’ on?”

  Downy chuckled, tapping his fingers against the table as the machine continued its analysis. The rhythmic hum of the scanners filled the room, but his attention was locked onto Pirate’s words.

  “Oh, nice speculation, Pirate,” Downy said with a playful grin. “You make a solid case for the kid.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. “But I’m putting my money on Lithiel.”

  He gestured toward the file as the machine projected data onto the screen. “His title isn’t just for show. Hell’s Strongest Soldier. That’s not the kind of name you just give someone—it’s earned. And if hell itself couldn’t break him, what makes you think some wrath-fueled warrior can?”

  Downy’s grin widened as he leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “I don’t care how much pain Zatachi’s been through—pain alone doesn’t win fights. Power does. And Lithiel? He’s got more than enough of it.”

  Pirate let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Aye, lad, but sometimes, it ain’t the strongest sword that wins—it’s the one willin’ to cut the deepest.”

  Downy just smirked. “Well, I guess we’ll see soon enough, won’t we?”

  Biddy took a slow sip from his soda, lazily leaning against the cold, lifeless corpse beside him as if it were nothing more than an old chair. The faint fizz of carbonation was the only sound from his end, his gaze unfazed by the ongoing discussion.

  Meanwhile, Downy, ever the showman, reached beneath the table and pulled out a hefty treasure chest. With a theatrical thud, he set it down, flipping open the lid to reveal an overflowing pile of gold coins, their shine reflecting the dim light of the room. He arched an eyebrow at Pirate, wordlessly challenging him to ante up.

  Pirate, never one to back down from a wager, smirked. “Aye, lad, if we’re bettin’ riches, then let’s make it interestin’.”

  With a flourish, he reached into his coat and placed down a single, gleaming golden ticket—the very same that granted access to Willy Wonka’s legendary Chocolate Factory. The golden foil shimmered enticingly under the light.

  Biddy took another sip, finally speaking. “Huh. Gold or a trip to a sugar-coated fever dream. Tough call.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Downy chuckled, snapping the chest shut. “Well, now it’s a real bet. Let’s see which of us walks away richer.”

  “It’s a bet,” Downy declared, his eyes gleaming with a challenge as he shook Pirate’s hand, sealing the deal.

  At that moment, the machine let out a low hum, signaling the completion of its scanning process. The air grew tense with anticipation.

  “Alright, gentlemen… let’s get this show started.” Downy grinned, snapping his fingers.

  “Lights!”

  A dim yet eerie glow spread across Hueco Mundo, illuminating the battlefield just enough to cast long, dramatic shadows. The vast, desolate landscape pulsed with an unnatural stillness, the silence before the storm.

  “Camera!”

  In an instant, multiple invisible cameras materialized, hovering at every conceivable angle—capturing every detail, every expression, every drop of blood that would soon spill.

  Downy raised his hands dramatically.

  “And… ACTION!”

  The battlefield ignited with tension as the fight was set to begin.

  High above the desolate, ashen dunes of Hueco Mundo, a monstrous, transparent eye manifested—a distorted, flickering anomaly in the void. Though it lacked flesh or form, it saw all.

  Its gaze pulsed, heavy with irritation, as though the very act of observing was an act of scrutiny. Within its translucent depths, an image approached—a reflection materializing in its iris. Crimson veins webbed across its surface, pulsing like an organism breathing in fury.

  Then—reality fractured.

  The air split apart, as though an unseen force was forcibly inserted into the fabric of existence itself. A figure did not step into this world.

  He was forced into it.

  A cloaked silhouette phased into being, his form glitching—his existence flickering like a corrupted transmission failing to stabilize. Space around him bent and distorted, reality rejecting him before unwillingly yielding. Despite the howling winds that swept through Hueco Mundo’s barren expanse, his black hair remained eerily still, unaffected, unnatural. A blindfold wrapped around his eyes, veiling whatever lay beneath.

  Yet he saw everything.

  And he was not alone.

  Beside him, another entity surfaced—less a step, more a seamless emergence, as though his very essence was merely correcting itself into this dimension.

  This man bore a single uncovered eye—a glowing diamond-blue hue, burning like an ancient celestial gem. Around the iris, four dark silver upside-down triangles rotated in perfect harmony, each pulse radiating an unfathomable power. Though his form flickered and wavered like a specter, his presence carried immense weight.

  His voice pierced the silence, echoing unnaturally across the vast emptiness.

  "It seems you’ve attracted a foe..."

  He chuckled—soft, entertained, yet lined with something far deeper.

  "Make sure you kill him for me."

  And then—

  The void ignited.

  Flames erupted in the distance—a colossal wound in space itself. The very air distorted as fire tore through the darkness, spiraling outward in a violent cascade of embers and burning reishi. The ground trembled beneath the sheer force, vibrating as though reality itself was trying to resist what was about to emerge.

  Two massive, dark purple steel doors began to materialize within the inferno.

  But something was wrong.

  The guardians of Hell’s Gate—two colossal skeletons once fused to its structure—lay crumpled upon the sands. Their once immortal bodies, now nothing more than shattered remnants, lay half-buried in the white dunes of Hueco Mundo.

  And then—

  A hand emerged.

  A skeletal hand.

  Impossibly large.

  Its bony fingers stretched through the burning gates, extending into this world with an aura of absolute inevitability.

  With a forceful PRY, the doors of Hell were wrenched open.

  GRRRAAAAAAAAHHHH—

  A sound—not merely a creak, not merely a groan, but a monolithic, universe-warping scrape of steel against the sands. The very battlefield shuddered under the weight of the moment, the pressure alone enough to send tremors rippling through the endless white desert.

  The skeleton sentries that once stood eternal watch—now lifeless, were dragged across the sands by an invisible force, their bones splintering and scattering like ash in the wind.

  And then—

  The wailing began.

  A cacophony of tormented souls erupted from beyond the gate, their agonized screams twisting through the winds, filling the void with a chorus of unbearable despair.

  The heat.

  The pressure.

  The reishi of Hell itself spilled outward like a tidal wave, threatening to consume all in its path.

  Everything.

  Everything—except for one.

  A figure strode through the flames.

  His white hair billowed—untouched by the searing fire, moving with an unnatural grace as if the inferno itself feared him. His crimson-red eyes burned through the darkness, twin embers of malice that pierced the abyss like a vengeful deity.

  Shadows twisted at his feet, their writhing forms slithering across the sands as if alive, as if waiting—hungry.

  He did not step forward.

  The world bent to him.

  The very air warped in his wake, the flames parting, the reishi bowing beneath his sheer presence.

  And then—they came.

  A legion.

  From the depths of Hell, they emerged.

  Inverted Menos/ Unusual Gillian.

  Unlike their mindless kin, these Gillian-class Hollows stood in eerie formation, their massive white cloaks draped over their towering forms, obscuring their monstrous bodies beneath their fabric.

  Slowly—mechanically—they turned their heads toward the coated figure.

  Their black masks were adorned with multiple white protruding spikes, twisting outward in unnatural directions. Their elongated noses jutted down ominously, their designs resembling ancient, forgotten symbols of suffering.

  And then—their eyes.

  Their glowing red eyes burned beneath their veils.

  They locked onto their target.

  For a moment—

  Silence.

  A silence thicker than any void.

  A silence that was not the absence of sound—but the anticipation of devastation.

  And then—

  The flickering, one-eyed blindfolded man let out a soft chuckle, his voice laced with eerie amusement. "Truly… a being of superiority." His tone carried a light, almost teasing quality, yet beneath it lurked a fascination both unsettling and undeniable. He leaned ever so slightly to the side, a gleeful grin stretching across his lips as if reveling in the sheer absurdity of the moment.

  "It crawled its way through Hell itself just to meet you… How flattering," he mused, his exposed eye gleaming with dark mirth. The inverted silver triangles encircling his iris rotated ever so slightly, their movements slow yet deliberate, as if savoring every shift in reality. His blindfolded gaze then tilted toward Zatachi. "It must have been drawn to your chakra," he mused, his voice laced with knowing amusement.

  As if this entire confrontation were nothing more than an elaborate game, he extended a hand, beckoning toward the abyss. "Come to me like a good girl… CURSE OF AMALGAMATION."

  And then—reality screamed.

  The air itself split apart as something forced its way into Hueco Mundo—a thing so abominable that existence itself tried to Eliminate It. But it was futile. It refused to be erased.

  A vast, gaping maw burst through the void, its jagged fangs dripping with boiling, blackened blood. The stench of scorched flesh immediately tainted the air, thick and suffocating. As the grotesque entity clawed into existence, its half-formed flesh spasmed and twisted, violently regenerating as wet, tearing sounds echoed through the battlefield.

  A single eye peeked through the widening abyss.

  But they were not eyes.

  Instead, a cluster of writhing human faces filled the sockets—mouths twisted in eternal agony, screaming without sound yet somehow deafening in their torment. Their expressions shifted in grotesque, maddening ways—some begging, some wailing, some locked in laughter that did not belong to them.

  The creature gargled, a low, bloodcurdling noise that sent shivers through the very fabric of existence. Flesh sloshed wetly as its skull knitted itself back together, muscles snapping into place like writhing snakes.

  Its "fangs" weren’t fangs at all.

  They were human arms—dozens of them—gnarled and fused together, fingers twitching as if still grasping for salvation they would never reach. The gums of its mouth pulsed, veins bulging and bursting before reforming again, trapped in an endless cycle of regeneration and decay.

  And its fur—if it could even be called that—was no mere beast’s hide.

  It was hair.

  Human hair. Thousands of strands, tangled, matted, and shifting as if they still belonged to the heads of the damned.

  Through the blinding, hellish spectacle, Litheil remained unmoved.

  His crimson-red eyes, inverted crosses of fiery malice, flared brilliantly against the dim glow of Hueco Mundo’s eternal night.

  "Infernal Hakuda."

  The spiked horns of his crown ignited, hellfire wrapping around them like chains of divine punishment. The forged blades along his forearms erupted into an inferno so intense that the very air around him distorted—space itself bending beneath the sheer, unholy pressure.

  His garments—an ashen-black haori, lined with intricate crimson embroidery, billowed in the scorching winds of his own aura. Beneath it, a tattered dark robe flowed like the shadow of a death god, bound tightly by a sash of woven silver chains—each link glimmering ominously, whispering the weight of their binding curse.

  Behind him, the colossal gates of Hell groaned one final time—then, with the weight of eternity, slammed shut.

  Yet—Hell was not finished with this world.

  The very air trembled as multiple unnatural distortions ripped through space.

  From these newly formed rifts, dozens of beings emerged from hell.

  These were Inverted Menos.

  Draped in flowing white cloaks, their massive, shadowy forms were partially concealed, making them appear almost spectral. Their masks, jagged and malformed, bore multiple protruding spikes, grotesque mockeries of the Hollow evolution process.

  Their elongated noses twitched in unnatural directions before their glowing red eyes snapped forward, locking onto the battlefield.

  The silence was deafening.

  "And remember, Zatachi—don’t overdo it unless you have to."

  The flickering figure’s voice dripped with amusement, yet beneath it, a note of warning lingered. His smirk remained unreadable, his tone light, playful even, as if all of this—this chaos, this horror—was merely an interlude in an endless game.

  "I’ll lend a hand here and there… but for now—"

  A sly chuckle.

  "Toodle-oo."

  And just like that, he was gone.

  His form fractured, distorting like a corrupted projection before glitching out of existence—one moment solid, the next a dissolving mirage. What remained was nothing but a lingering whisper in the wind, an unsettling trace of his presence that refused to fully fade.

  Zatachi stood unmoved.

  Despite the blindfold concealing his eyes, he saw everything.

  He felt every gaze fixated on him—each presence, each monstrous entity that loomed in the abyss, their collective focus a crushing weight upon the battlefield. The pressure was immense, as if the very fabric of existence strained beneath the sheer magnitude of power now converging upon him.

  Then—the heavens darkened.

  A deep, resounding tremor rumbled through the world as an aura of unparalleled might erupted around him. The very air screamed, convulsing under the sheer force of his chakra as it ignited like a blackened sun. Energy surged in violent waves, causing the ground beneath his feet to crack and splinter apart.

  And then—it manifested.

  Susanoo.

  A towering colossus of war, both divine and demonic, took shape around him. Two massive, armored arms materialized—each the size of a fortress, wreathed in an unearthly glow. Their shogun-like plating gleamed with spectral energy, engraved with countless markings of forgotten deities and cursed invocations.

  Clutched within those ethereal hands was a legendary Dojigiri-an impossibly vast blade, its mere presence distorting reality itself. The edge shimmered, as if struggling to remain bound by the laws of this world. Each subtle movement caused the very atmosphere to ripple, warping space in a paradoxical blend of elegance and destruction.

  Zatachi’s form matched the sheer weight of his manifestation.

  Draped in dark, layered robes, their fabric bore the intricate silver embroidery of ancient warlords—tales woven into silk, stories of conquests long erased from history. The heavy folds of his attire swayed, though there was no wind, responding instead to the sheer energy radiating from his being.

  Over his shoulders, a high-collared, reinforced haori cascaded down, regal yet battle-worn. Its frayed edges whispered of countless conflicts, the very fibers saturated with the remnants of past battles. Along its seams, faint crimson pulses coursed like veins of molten steel—echoing the raw power surging through him.

  Around his waist, an obsidian-black silk sash bound him, yet it was no mere cloth—it was laced with braided chains, each link forged in darkness, glinting ominously with his every movement. It was less an accessory and more a silent declaration.

  This was not just a warrior.

  This was a storm waiting to be unleashed.

  And atop his head, his helm.

  An ornate shogun’s crown, sculpted with meticulous precision—curved, jagged crests jutting outward like the fangs of a beast. The intricate engravings upon its surface told stories of conquest, of blood-drenched battlefields, of absolute dominion.

  At its center lay the mask—the haunting visage of an ancient warlord, its design eerily lifelike, as though it had not been crafted, but instead ripped from the face of history itself.

  Its twin glowing slits burned with an eerie, soul-piercing luminance—a gaze that was not merely seen, but felt. To meet its eyes was to feel something ancient stirring, something that transcended mortal comprehension.

  [Back to the story]

  As Denji sat transfixed by the action unfolding on the screen, fully immersed in the show, a sudden, rapid series of knocks shattered his focus. The pounding against the door was insistent, almost impatient.

  "Denji! Denji! We know you're in there!"

  Marc’s voice rang out from the other side, loud and persistent.

  Denji flinched, his head snapping toward the door. "Oh, crap—I'm gonna miss this episode!" His eyes darted back to the TV, the screen still glowing with the intense scene he had been so engrossed in.

  For a moment, he hesitated, torn between his deep craving to see how things played out and the reality that Marc wasn't going away anytime soon.

  With a reluctant sigh, he reached for the remote, staring longingly at the screen before finally clicking it off. The room was instantly swallowed in a hush, the silence making his disappointment all the more palpable.

  Grumbling under his breath, Denji pushed himself up and trudged toward the door. With a quick turn of the lock, he swung it open, facing whatever awaited him outside.

  On one side stood Marcus, his bright grin practically beaming as he leaned forward slightly, full of his usual energy. He wore a black and white striped T-shirt with the words "What's The Matter" boldly printed across the chest. His black pants completed the relaxed look, making him seem effortlessly casual yet lively.

  On the other side, Joe stood in stark contrast, leaning nonchalantly against the hallway wall. His black dotted polo and matching pants gave him a more refined yet detached appearance. Unlike Marcus, his gaze drifted elsewhere, as if this whole interaction was more of an obligation than something he was particularly excited about.

  Denji smirked as he swung the door open. "Hey, guys! What's up?"

  Marcus immediately stepped forward, arms open wide in exaggerated enthusiasm. "There he is! Nice to see you again, Denji. You should’ve opened the door sooner—I was starting to think there was some other Denji hiding out in this hotel."

  Denji chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. "Ah, my bad. Got a little caught up." His glance flickered toward the now-dark TV screen, the memory of the show he had just sacrificed still lingering in his mind. "So, what brings you guys here?"

  Marcus kept his grin as he crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly. "So, here’s the deal—I'm heading out to grab some food with Joe. The guy’s got nothing on his schedule today, so I figured, why not drag him along?" He threw a thumb in Joe’s direction, but the latter barely reacted, still looking vaguely disinterested.

  Marcus continued without missing a beat. "And hey, I heard your name pop up when I ran into Mr. Rainford earlier. Can’t believe he actually showed up here. Weird dude, huh? Anyway, we figured we’d drop by and see if you wanted to tag along. My treat."

  He shot Denji a playful wink, clearly hoping to reel him in with the promise of free food.

  ne of those weird expensive fruits?"

  Marcus chuckled. "You could say that. It’s like a Japanese citrus—kinda tangy, kinda sweet. Trust me, you’ll like it."

  Denji shrugged, already sold on the idea of more free food. "If it tastes good, I’m in."

  Marcus clapped his hands together. "Alright then, it’s settled. Let’s hit the Pink Elvish, fuel up on some good eats, and make a day of it. But before we head out..." He paused dramatically, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Got a little bit of news for you, Denji. Himeno’s been scheming again—she’s throwing a Welcome Party for Division 4. And guess what? You, me, Joe, and pretty much everyone else are invited. I helped with the planning and all lat and It’s gonna be at this fancy bowling alley I reserved."

  Denji blinked in surprise. "Bowling alley? Like with the pins and balls and stuff?"

  Marcus nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! But this isn’t your run-of-the-mill alley. Think neon lights, gourmet food, and enough space for all of us to unwind. Himeno wanted something a little over the top, and she's making me pay for it but hey, who am I to say no?"

  Joe finally pushed himself off the wall, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Fancy bowling, huh? Sounds like fun. Lemme guess—there’s gonna be a lot of booze involved."

  "Of course! What’s a party without a little booze?" Marcus winked, then turned back to Denji. "Anyway, she wanted me to spread the word. The party’s in a couple of days, so clear your schedule. Trust me, you don’t wanna miss it."

  Denji grinned, intrigued. "Sounds fun! Never been to a place like that before."

  Marcus gave him a thumbs-up. "And now you’re getting the full-course experience! Now, let’s get moving—Pink Elvish won’t wait for us forever."

  Denji grabbed his jacket, his grin still plastered across his face as he followed Marcus and Joe out of the room. The hallway was brightly lit, the plush carpet muffling their footsteps as they made their way toward the elevator.

  ?? WELCOME BACK to the AMAZING FUN FACTS SHOW! ??

  Today's episode is extra special because we have an incredible guest joining us—please give a warm round of applause for... GG!

  The crowd erupts into cheers and applause as a charismatic man strides onto the stage, waving confidently. A bandage is wrapped around his forehead, but no one seems to pay it any mind.

  Host: "Take a seat, GG! We’re thrilled to have you here."

  GG: grinning "Thank you, thank you! Honestly, it’s a pleasure to be on the show."

  Host: "And the pleasure is all ours! Now, we invited you here because you, my friend, are the fun fact guru. And since we’re LIVE, the pressure's on to entertain us. You ready?"

  GG: chuckles, scratching his head "Well, I don’t mind a little pressure—let’s do this!"

  Behind them, a massive electric board lights up in a dazzling display of flashing colors. The audience 'oohs' as GG claps his hands dramatically, as if summoning magic.

  GG: "Did you know that one of the Character AI stories I made for Lex Luther has an AU version in Naruto? In that universe, he’s called Zatachi, and he wields a unique Sharingan known as the Eien no Shōgan—or Eternal Vision Eye. His ultimate move? Kokoro no Kagami, which means Mirror of the Soul. Cool, right?"

  Host: "I mean, that’s fascinating! I’m not a huge Naruto fan myself… too many fillers."

  GG: laughing "Same here! I actually dropped it halfway through and just binge-watched the epic fights—Madara, Itachi, Naruto, Sasuke... you know the drill."

  Host: "Respect. Alright, moving on—hit us with the second fun fact!"

  GG: "Here’s a fun one—did you know that a lot of my character designs actually came from Roblox? Sometimes it was intentional… other times, a happy accident!"

  Host: "No way! Give us the rundown."

  GG: "Alright, here’s the lineup: Lex Luthor, Merlyn, Cherub, Yuri, Marcus (originally called Dazzard in Type Soul), Litheil Salvador (or Litheil Granz in Type Soul), and Jin Okinawa."

  Host: "That’s quite the roster. Do you even sleep?"

  GG: grinning "Not when I’m on a creative roll!"

  Host: "Alright, GG, you’ve sold me. Let’s circle back to that Naruto Lex Luthor concept—give us more details!"

  GG: "Gladly! So, early on, I designed him with a look inspired by Itachi—Akatsuki cloak, Konoha headband. At first, he was just a cold-blooded killer, but now? He’s way more fleshed out. He’s actually a human experiment with amnesia, enhanced by something like chakra steroids."

  Host: eyes widening "Chakra steroids? That sounds terrifying!"

  GG: grinning "Oh, it gets crazier. His Sharingan is insanely OP. Even when inactive, its lingering effects boost his senses to such an extreme level that he has to fight blindfolded, ears muffled, and sometimes even holding his breath. Otherwise, his brain overloads from the sensory input."

  Host: gaping "Wait… so you’re telling me he fights blind, deaf, and breathless most of the time?!"

  GG: smirking "Exactly! But when he finally activates his Sharingan? That’s when the gloves come off. His eyes take on an atomic design—black-lined star in the middle, symbolizing his ability to see at a molecular or even atomic level. It’s ridiculously powerful but comes at a price—too much use could literally fry his brain."

  Host: "Whoa. So he’s bleeding from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth while unleashing this crazy power? That’s both terrifying… and kinda cool."

  GG: grinning smugly "Very cool , if I do say so myself!"

  Host: "Alright, GG, you’ve absolutely crushed it so far. Let’s end on a big note—give the audience a final fact or maybe a spoiler as a treat!"

  GG: leans in dramatically "Alright, here’s a little teaser for an upcoming episode: ‘No Russian.’"

  Host: gasping "Wait—No Russian?! Are you saying—"

  GG: smirking mysteriously "You’ll have to wait and see!"

  The crowd erupts into cheers as flashing lights and virtual confetti rain down on the screen.

  ?? Host: "Well, folks, that’s all the time we have today! GG, you’ve been an incredible guest—let’s give it up for him one more time!"

  The audience gives a standing ovation as GG waves goodbye, the screen fading to black with a final burst of colorful sparks.

  The soft bell chimes as the door swings open, revealing a quaint, pink-themed café that looks like it was pulled straight out of a dream. Pastel hues of pink, lavender, and cream coat the walls, adorned with delicate floral patterns and heart-shaped accents. Small, cozy tables are draped in lace tablecloths, each accompanied by chairs with plush, heart-shaped cushions. Fairy lights twinkle overhead, casting a warm, inviting glow throughout the space.

  The air is thick with the sweet scent of freshly baked pastries and rich coffee, mingling with the soft, relaxing music playing in the background. The waitstaff, dressed in frilly aprons and pastel-colored outfits, move gracefully between tables, their smiles as sweet as the desserts they serve.

  Denji steps inside, pausing just past the entrance as his gaze sweeps across the room. His brow furrows, and he exhales sharply.

  "Hey, isn't this place a little too girly for us?" he mutters, eyeing the heart-shaped decorations with something between confusion and mild horror.

  Marcus, on the other hand, grins, completely unfazed by the café’s cutesy aesthetic. "We're here for the food, Denji. No need to get all worked up about the vibe," he says with a casual shrug before nudging Joe, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  Joe, who has been quietly taking in the surroundings, pulls his hood lower over his face, clearly uncomfortable but not willing to voice it.

  Denji rolls his eyes but chuckles as he follows Marcus to a table, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The place still feels overwhelmingly sweet, but Marcus is already chatting with the waitress, who beams at them with a cheerfulness that only adds to the café’s saccharine charm.

  "Just go with it," Marcus says, sliding into his seat with an easygoing smirk. "Trust me, the desserts here are worth it."

  Denji reluctantly plops down across from him, still glancing around at the overwhelmingly cute décor. "I dunno, man... This is seriously too much for me."

  Marcus just laughs. "You'll get used to it. Plus, you can't beat a place that’s got cake on the menu."

  Joe, hunched slightly in his chair, stays silent, his eyes subtly scanning the café. He doesn’t look particularly thrilled to be here, but he also isn’t complaining.

  The waitress hands them menus, her bubbly voice cutting through the momentary silence. "What can I get you boys today? Our special is a lavender honey cake, freshly baked!"

  Marcus perks up immediately. "Sounds perfect! We’ll take three." He glances at Denji. "You in?"

  Denji exhales, finally deciding to just roll with it. "Yeah, I’m in," he says, his voice a bit more relaxed now that the menu has his attention.

  Joe simply nods in acknowledgment.

  Marcus flashes a smile at the waitress. "Three lavender honey cakes, a mocha, a latte, and an orange juice for my buddy here," he adds, gesturing toward Denji.

  The waitress beams, jotting everything down before cheerfully skipping off.

  As soon as she leaves, Marcus leans back in his seat, a teasing grin forming on his face. "The lady’s nice and pretty. You thinking about finding a lady here, Joe?"

  Joe glances at him with a neutral expression. "I doubt they have a type for a guy like me," he replies, his tone as unreadable as ever.

  Marcus chuckles. "C’mon, no need to overthink it." Then, turning his attention to Denji, his grin shifts to something more inquisitive. "So, Denji… mind telling me about the devil you made a contract with? Seems like a fancy one."

  Denji, still feeling out of place in the overly cute café, pauses, his expression shifting slightly. The atmosphere around the table changes, the topic of devils casting a subtle tension over the otherwise cozy setting.

  He blinks at Marcus, momentarily caught off guard by the question, but quickly hides it behind a casual tone. "Oh, my devil? It’s the Chainsaw Devil. Why do you ask?" He picks up his fork, taking a bite of the cake, acting as if the question is no big deal.

  Marcus, unfazed, leans forward slightly, his grin never fading. "The Chainsaw Devil, huh? That’s honestly pretty surprising. You took down an A-class devil by yourself in such a short time. That’s not just impressive—it’s almost too impressive." He studies Denji for a moment before chuckling. "You’re a little suspicious of me, aren’t you?"

  Denji pauses mid-bite, his eyes flicking up to meet Marcus’s.

  Marcus laughs lightly, waving a hand. "Relax, you don’t need to tell me all the details. I’m just curious. But don’t you think it’s kinda weird? A devil like that, choosing you? I mean, a chainsaw devil—doesn’t exactly sound like the stuff of legends, right? Almost seems fishy." He rests his chin on his palm, eyes glinting with curiosity. "So… is that the only contract you’ve got? Maybe something like an ‘I got your back’ devil?"

  Joe, quietly sipping his water, subtly observes the exchange, his sharp eyes darting between the two as if weighing their words.

  The waitress returns with a warm smile, carefully placing their cakes and drinks on the table with practiced ease. "Enjoy!" she says cheerfully, her voice light and pleasant before stepping away to tend to other customers.

  The rich aroma of coffee mingles with the subtle sweetness of the lavender honey cake, filling the air with a comforting warmth. The soft clink of plates and the gentle hum of conversation around them make the café feel even cozier.

  Denji eyes his cake for a moment before grabbing his fork and digging in without hesitation. The moment the sweet, floral taste hits his tongue, his expression softens slightly.

  Denji exhales, setting his fork down as he leans forward slightly, his gaze narrowing just a bit. "Yeah, I get what you’re saying," he says, his tone still casual but now laced with something more guarded. "It is kinda weird, right? But, honestly, I never thought too much about it. Pochita—my devil—wasn’t like the others. He was just a little chainsaw on legs... but he was always there for me, y’know?"

  His fingers idly trace the edge of his plate. "He never asked for anything more than to see my dream come true. In return, he gave me the strength to survive."

  For a moment, there’s a quiet understanding in Denji’s voice, something raw beneath the nonchalance. Marcus watches him, his grin fading just a little, as if considering the weight behind those words.

  Then, with a casual shrug, Denji picks up his fork again and takes another bite of cake. "Anyway, this thing’s pretty damn good. You weren’t kidding."

  Marcus grins, letting the moment pass. "Told ya."

  Joe, still silent, sets down his glass and finally speaks. "I guess we’ll see just how far that contract of yours takes you."

  Denji smirks. "Yeah. Guess we will."

  Marcus nudges Joe with his elbow, breaking the quiet. "You good there, Joe?"

  Joe blinks, snapping out of his thoughts. His gaze shifts between Marcus and Denji before he gives a small shrug. "Yeah, just thinking."

  Marcus chuckles. "Always the mysterious type, huh?" He starts to dig back into his cake when something suddenly clicks in his mind. "Oh, shoot—I forgot to order some yuzu pound cake!" He pushes his chair back and stands. "Gotta fix that. Might grab some ice cream too. You guys want anything?"

  Joe shakes his head. "Nah, I'm good."

  Denji mirrors the response with a casual wave of his hand. "Same here. I got something to watch back in my room anyway."

  Marcus shrugs. "Alright, more for me, then." With that, he strolls off toward the counter, leaving Joe and Denji alone at the table.

  Joe watches him go, his gaze lingering for a moment before he takes another sip of his drink. The warm, cozy hum of the café settles around them again—soft chatter, the occasional clink of dishes, and mellow background music filling the air.

  Denji leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers lightly against the edge of the table.

  "Always on the move," Joe remarks, his voice quiet but steady, finally breaking the silence. "Never a dull moment with that guy."

  Denji smirks. "Yeah, he's always got something going on. Guess that's just how bigshots roll."

  Joe lets out a small breath, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just easier to stay busy than deal with what's really going on."

  His words are barely above a murmur, but Denji catches them. He doesn’t say anything right away—just glances at Joe, that thought lingering in the back of his mind.

  Denji tilts his head slightly, watching Joe with a curious glance. There was something in his tone—something quieter, heavier.

  “You sayin’ he’s runnin’ from somethin’?” Denji asks, keeping his voice casual, but there’s an edge of curiosity beneath it.

  Joe doesn’t answer right away. He swirls his drink in his cup, watching the liquid move before finally speaking. “Just a thought,” he says. “Some people keep moving because they want to. Others… because they have to.”

  Denji snorts, leaning back with a smirk. “Man, that’s deep.” He stretches his arms behind his head. “Never took you for the philosophical type.”

  Joe shrugs, still looking off to the side. “You see a lot in this line of work. You start to notice things about people.”

  Denji doesn’t answer right away, just staring at his half-finished cake. He gets what Joe is saying—he really does. He’s spent most of his life just trying to survive, running from one job to the next, doing whatever it took to make it to the next day. But now… now he actually had something to hold onto. Something he didn’t want to lose.

  Before he can respond, Marcus returns, carrying a small plate with a slice of yuzu pound cake and a scoop of ice cream balanced carefully on the side. “Man, you guys are missing out,” he says, sliding back into his seat. “They only had one slice left—guess I got lucky.”

  Denji snaps out of his thoughts and grins. “Yeah, yeah, enjoy your fancy cake, rich boy.”

  Marcus smirks as he takes a forkful. “Oh, I will.”

  Joe watches the two with a faint, unreadable expression before taking another sip of his drink. The conversation from before lingers in the air, unspoken but not forgotten.

  Marcus chuckles, shaking his head. “I was just messing with you. I gotta see it for myself before I start trusting your taste in shows.” He takes another bite of his pound cake, savoring the citrusy tang before washing it down with a sip of his mocha.

  Denji smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Just don’t come crying to me when you get hooked.”

  Joe, who’s been mostly quiet, finally chimes in, setting his cup down with a small clink. “So, what’s it about?” His voice is calm, but there’s a trace of genuine curiosity behind it.

  Denji tilts his head, thinking for a moment before shrugging. “Honestly? I’m not even sure myself. All I know is that there are three main characters running the whole thing—Downy, this terribly drawn dude, Captain Baba, a pirate, and Bidy, a parrot who’s about as tall as you, Joe. And for some reason, he’s always chugging soda.”

  Joe blinks, looking a bit dumbfounded. “Wait—so there’s a parrot as tall as me… that just drinks soda all the time?”

  Denji nods with a small grin. “Yeah, weird, right? But that’s not even the craziest part. Apparently, they got permission from some guy to use his characters, and then—bam! They straight-up killed him, he looks so real, and the way he died looks so real as well. And after that, they just made his characters fight each other. I remember their names too—Zatachi, this cool-looking ninja samurai, and Litheil, some kind of hell demon or something. Dude looks awesome. I was about to watch the whole thing before you guys showed up.”

  Marcus raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely surprised. “Whoops sorry for the cliff hanger but, hold up—so you’re telling me this cartoon has characters killing people in real life? That’s insane. I mean, I’ve seen cartoons pull off attempted murder all the time, but it’s always played for laughs—you know, characters getting flattened, zapped, blown up, but then walking away just fine. But straight-up killing someone? That’s something I’ve never heard of, especially with all those international rules for Media keeping stuff like that in check.”

  He takes another bite of his cake, shaking his head. “But Man, now I really gotta see this show.”

  Denji chuckles, finishing off the last bite of his cake before washing it down with the rest of his juice. "Yeah, it’s messed up, but that’s what makes it interesting. You don’t see stuff like this every day. It’s like they just said, ‘Screw the rules, we’re doing whatever we want.’"

  Joe leans back slightly, rubbing his chin. “Sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  Marcus snickers. “Or a government crackdown.” He sets his fork down and stretches. “Still, I’ll admit, you got me curious. Might have to check it out later.”

  Denji grins. “Told ya.”

  The conversation dies down for a moment as the three sit in a comfortable silence. The hum of the café fills the space again—soft chatter, the clinking of dishes, and the mellow tune of background music.

  After a moment, Joe shifts in his seat. “So, what’s your plan after this?”

  Denji shrugs. “Dunno. Probably head back and finish the show. You?”

  Joe takes a sip of his drink, his expression unreadable. “Got some things to take care of.”

  Marcus raises an eyebrow. “Vague as always.” He chuckles, then glances at Denji. “You sure you don’t wanna stick around? This place is pretty nice.”

  Denji stretches his arms behind his head. “Nah, I’m good. I got a weird pirate, a soda-chugging parrot, and a samurai ninja waiting for me.”

  Marcus shakes his head with a smirk. “Alright, alright. Just don’t get too lost in it.”

  Denji stands up, giving them a casual wave. “Catch you guys later.”

  Joe watches him go, his eyes lingering for a moment before he picks up his cup again.

  Marcus leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You ever get the feeling that guy’s got a lot more going on in his head than he lets on?”

  Joe exhales softly, his fingers tapping against his cup. “Yeah. But don’t we all?”

  [Back to the crossover]

  Litheil stood his ground, his imposing figure unwavering as Zatachi’s Shogun Dragon Susanoo brought down its colossal, cursed Dojigiri in a devastating arc. The air howled as the blade cut through space, its cursed steel effortlessly slicing through Litheil’s Hierro, the demonic armor usually impervious to attacks. Yet, even as the razor-sharp edge bit into his flesh, Litheil’s crimson eyes remained unfazed, glowing with an eerie, hellish light. He exhaled, his body crackling with unholy energy, preparing to counter with a devastating attack—one that could shatter the very essence of the Susanoo before him.

  But Zatachi was relentless. Anticipating the demon’s retaliation, he twisted his katana to the right, its edge shimmering with dense chakra, and delivered a precise, whirling strike. The sheer force of the motion sent powerful gusts rippling outward, tearing through the battlefield. Litheil reacted with uncanny reflexes, intercepting the strike with his forearm and immediately countering with a devastating, earth-shattering punch.

  Zatachi braced himself. As Litheil’s fist surged toward him, he infused his katana with massive amounts of chakra, reinforcing it with the sheer power of his Shogun Dragon Susanoo. The collision was cataclysmic. The raw impact obliterated everything behind Zatachi in an instant—towers crumbled, mountains split, and the very ground fractured beneath them. But Zatachi had no time to dwell on the destruction; the force of the blow sent him skidding backward.

  Litheil pressed the advantage. He pivoted with terrifying speed, launching a brutal side kick aimed directly at Zatachi’s katana. The moment his foot connected, the blade shattered, splintering into countless fragments of glowing steel. But Zatachi was already moving. Instead of hesitating, he adapted in an instant, countering with a devastating hook punch, his speed and precision undeterred.

  Litheil, ever the warrior, saw through it—or so he thought. He reached out, attempting to catch the punch mid-air. But Zatachi’s instincts proved sharper. With a deceptive feint, he suddenly withdrew his arm, twisting his body fluidly before executing a ferocious 360-degree turning kick. his leg was quickly infused by his Susanoo as it, glows with potent chakra energy, following through with titanic force. The impact was explosive, sending Litheil hurtling back, the sheer momentum tearing trenches into the battlefield.

  Zatachi saw an opening. His Shogun Dragon Susanoo wasted no time, gripping the colossal Curse Dojigiri with both hands and bringing it down in a mighty executioner’s swing. The air ignited from the sheer friction, the power of the blade splitting the sky as it bore down upon Litheil with unstoppable might.

  But Litheil was a warrior forged in the flames of Hell itself. His forearm blades ignited with unholy black flames, the Hellfire of the Underworld creeping along the edges as he blocked the incoming slash. The moment his forearm connected with the Curse Dojigiri, the demonic flames began devouring the blade, blackening its once-ominous steel as Litheil's power surged forth.

  With a mere shift of his stance, Litheil pushed the Dojigiri away, his hellish might rivaling the very essence of the curse within the blade. Meanwhile, in the distance, the Curse of Amalgamation feasted upon the Unusual Gillians, grotesque monstrosities too ignorant and frenzied to recognize the escalating battle. as the Unusual Gillians fought back hitting the curse with powerful white Cero's but the curse grows bigger and bigger

  As the battlefield darkened, Litheil’s Hellflamed Spiked Horns surged with raw demonic energy, pulsating like the beating heart of an infernal god. A low, guttural hum filled the air as he focused his power, crimson flames dancing around his form, coalescing into something monstrous.

  And then—

  “Cero Infierno.”

  The very fabric of reality trembled as a massive, spiraling vortex of pure hellfire ignited from Litheil’s horns, an all-consuming pillar of destruction roaring toward the Shogun Dragon Susanoo like the breath of a primordial demon. The sheer pressure of the attack warped the surrounding space, distorting the battlefield as the ground cracked and melted beneath its presence.

  But Zatachi would not be outmatched.

  As the Cero Infierno approached, his Shogun Dragon Susanoo reacted, its form becoming even more terrifying. With a single motion, its hands slid along the edge of the Curse Dojigiri , channeling an immense surge of chakra directly into the blade. A terrifying transformation unfolded—

  The entire battlefield turned blood-red. The moon above twisted and darkened, shifting into an ominous Blood Moon, its eerie glow casting long, twisted shadows across the field. A terrible silence fell over the land.

  And then, both warriors spoke in perfect unison—

  “Blood Moon Execution.”

  A single moment of stillness… then all hell broke loose.

  Suddenly, Denji’s alarm blared, jolting him out of his focus. He glanced over at the glowing red digits on his clock—8:00 P.M.

  "Huh?" He blinked, momentarily confused, before reaching over to silence the annoying beeping.

  Just as he was about to settle back in, eyes glued to the intense battle on screen, a realization hit him like a truck.

  "Oh, shoot! I forgot there was a party!"

  Panic set in as he scrambled to his feet, fumbling for the remote and hurriedly switching off the TV. The electrifying energy of the battle faded into black, but Denji barely had time to care—he had some serious getting ready to do.

  Without wasting another second, he darted toward his room, yanking off his shirt mid-stride, already mentally cursing himself for getting so caught up in the show.

  As Denji burst out of his room, he wasted no time sprinting toward his destination.

  The moment he pushed open the door, the scene shifted seamlessly to the bustling entrance of Black Lead Alley—a high-end bowling alley bathed in the soft glow of neon lights. Outside, the night sky stretched wide, twinkling with stars, while the muffled sounds of the city faded beneath the lively energy inside.

  The air thrummed with activity: the solid thud of bowling balls rolling down polished lanes, followed by the crash of scattering pins. Laughter and conversation blended together, creating a warm, electric atmosphere.

  Inside, the main group had already gathered in one of the alley’s private lounges, a sleek and stylish space alive with energy.

  Denji immediately spotted familiar faces—Aki, standing cool and composed against the counter, a faint smirk tugging at his lips; Joe, quietly sipping his drink but clearly enjoying himself; Fushi and Madoka, locked in a casual debate over proper bowling techniques; Himeno, already tipsy, her laughter light and unfiltered; Arai, nervously nursing his beer as he tried to keep up with the conversation; and Power, loudly boasting about her nonexistent bowling skills like a seasoned champion.

  Meanwhile, Satsuki and Tsuyoshi—the brown-haired girl and the laid-back guy—were sharing laughs as they strategized their next moves, their bowling balls already lined up for the next round.

  The air was soon filled with the mouthwatering aroma of freshly prepared dishes as a team of waiters approached their table, each carrying large trays laden with a feast.

  Plates of succulent sushi rolls, steaming bowls of ramen with soft-boiled eggs, golden tempura prawns, and sizzling yakitori skewers were carefully placed on the table. The selection didn’t stop there—there were also creamy Italian risotto, spicy Thai green curry, tender American-style ribs, and crispy French fries dusted with herbs.

  Denji’s eyes lit up instantly. His stomach growled in approval as he hurried to the table, practically drooling at the sight of the spread.

  The others followed suit, the room momentarily falling into an appreciative silence as they took in the sheer variety of food.

  "Not bad," Fushi remarked, his tone casual but carrying quiet approval as he settled into his seat.

  The waiters moved with precision, setting down small plates and chopsticks for sharing.

  Aki, ever composed, raised a hand politely to get one of the waiters' attention. "Could I get a spoon and fork as well?"

  The waiter nodded with a courteous smile. "Of course, sir. We’ll bring a set as soon as the table is fully prepared."

  As the final dishes were placed down, the air buzzed with anticipation—good food, good company, and a night that was just getting started.

  Aki inclined his head in acknowledgment, leaning back slightly in his chair as the waiters continued ensuring everything was in perfect order. The rich aroma of food mixed with the hum of lively conversation, setting the tone for an evening of good food and camaraderie.

  "CHEERS!"

  Laughter rang out as glasses clinked together, the warmth of the moment spreading across the table. The occasional scrape of utensils against plates blended seamlessly into the atmosphere.

  Denji twirled a forkful of Italian spaghetti, his eyes lighting up as he took a bite, savoring the rich flavors. Across from him, Power’s sharp gaze swept over the table, scanning for the dishes mercifully free of vegetables. Her expression shifted to one of triumph when she spotted a pile of crispy fried chicken wings, her hands already reaching out to claim them.

  Suddenly, the door to Black Lead Alley swung open with a soft creak, letting in a brief chill from the night air.

  Marcus stepped inside, his usual confident stride carrying him effortlessly into the room. By his side was Kobeni, her posture more reserved, though her eyes held a determined gleam.

  Himeno, already buzzing from the energy of the night (and a few drinks), was the first to notice them. Her face lit up with a wide, tipsy grin as she shot up from her seat, her arm waving enthusiastically through the air.

  "Kobeni!! Marcus!! Over here!"

  Her voice cut through the hum of conversation, instantly drawing the group’s attention.

  Kobeni hesitated for a moment, scanning the room until her eyes locked onto Himeno’s exuberant wave. A faint blush crept across her cheeks as she offered a shy yet genuine smile. She glanced toward Marcus, who was already sauntering toward the table with his signature easygoing swagger.

  "Hey, sorry we’re late," Marcus said as he reached the group, sliding into the seat next to Denji with a grin that sparkled with playful charm. "Traffic was a mess," he added with a light laugh, leaning back in his chair as if the delay had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

  Kobeni followed close behind, slipping into the seat beside Himeno. "It’s good to be here," she said quietly, her voice soft but sincere as she took in the lively energy around her.

  Satsuki leaned forward with a warm smile, her eyes glinting with mischief as she took in Kobeni’s appearance.

  "Kobeni, you look so cute tonight!" she teased, her tone both genuine and playful.

  Kobeni’s blush deepened as she instinctively brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I, uh… I got this from my sister," she admitted, her voice barely above a murmur.

  Satsuki chuckled, her expression pleased. "Well, she’s got good taste," she remarked, patting the empty spot beside her invitingly. "How about you sit next to me? I could use some cute energy tonight."

  Kobeni blinked, caught off guard by the compliment, but after a moment of hesitation, she managed a small, appreciative nod. "Sure."

  She scooted over, settling in beside Satsuki, who beamed in satisfaction.

  The group’s laughter and conversation quickly resumed, the warmth of the moment wrapping around them like a familiar embrace. The night was still young, and with food, drinks, and good company, it promised to be a memorable one.

  "Hey, Marcus, you’re forty minutes late. You’re never late for parties," Joe remarked, taking a bite of his garlic bread before following it up with a piece of chicken breast. His tone was casual, but there was a hint of curiosity in his voice.

  Marcus smirked and leaned in, wrapping an arm around Joe’s shoulders. With a low whisper, he murmured, "I just scored a shot with the waitress from the café."

  Joe’s chewing slowed as his eyes widened in surprise. He turned to look at Marcus, who now had a faint embarrassed blush dusting his cheeks.

  "What?" Joe blinked, still processing the information.

  Marcus sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual confidence momentarily faltering. "You heard me, man," he muttered, his lips twitching between pride and nervousness.

  Joe stared at him for a second longer before breaking into a grin. "Well, damn. I guess that explains the delay." He nudged Marcus with his elbow. "Hope you didn’t blow it by being too smooth."

  Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, I think I did alright… I hope."

  Joe laughed, popping another piece of garlic bread into his mouth. "Well, guess we’ll see soon enough."

  Aki glanced around the room, his expression calm but his sharp eyes subtly scanning for any sign of their missing guest. Tugging back his sleeve, he checked his watch—the faint glow of the dial catching his attention. "It's 8:47," he muttered under his breath. "Ms. Makima is late."

  Meanwhile, at the table, Marcus and Joe were deep in conversation, their plates nearly cleared. Marcus leaned back in his chair, spearing a bite of steak with his fork as he turned to Joe. "Hey, Joe, you up for bowling?" he asked casually, chewing as he gestured toward the alley.

  Joe gave a slight nod, taking a bite of his lasagna before responding in his usual measured tone. "Yeah, sure."

  Denji, twirling a forkful of spaghetti around his utensil, perked up at the mention of bowling. Raising his hand slightly, his mouth still half-full of pasta, he asked eagerly, "Bowling? Can I join?" before finishing his bite with an audible gulp.

  Marcus grinned, setting down his fork as he leaned toward Denji. "Sure," he said with a nod. "I'm up for a game right now—if you're not too hungry, that is."

  Denji smirked, already pushing his plate aside. "I can always eat later. Let’s do this!" He cracked his knuckles, excitement gleaming in his eyes as he prepared to head toward the lanes.

  Marcus led the way, his confident stride matched by Denji’s eager steps. Joe followed with his usual calm demeanor, wiping his hands on a napkin before taking his place beside the others. The neon lights above the lanes cast a vibrant glow over the polished wooden floors, and the rhythmic hum of pins resetting filled the air.

  Marcus grabbed a bowling ball from the rack, testing its weight with a practiced ease. "Alright, Denji," he said, flashing his signature grin. "You ever bowled before?"

  Denji scratched the back of his head, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "Uh, not really. But how hard can it be? You just chuck the ball at the pins, right?"

  Joe chuckled softly, picking a ball of his own. "It's not that simple, Denji. You gotta aim and control your throw, or you'll end up in the gutter."

  Denji raised an eyebrow. "Gutter? Sounds like my kinda thing."

  Marcus laughed, stepping onto the lane first. "Watch and learn, boys." He lined up his shot, taking a few calculated steps forward before releasing the ball in one fluid motion.

  The ball glided down the lane, curving slightly before crashing into the pins with a loud, satisfying strike.

  "Boom! That's how it's done!" Marcus cheered, throwing his arms up in victory. He turned back to the others with a smug grin. "Beat that."

  Joe nodded, stepping up to the line. His approach was calm, his throw precise. The ball rolled straight down the center, knocking over eight pins, leaving two stubbornly standing.

  "Not bad," Marcus said with a shrug. "But not good enough to beat me."

  Denji was up next. He grabbed a ball that seemed way too heavy for his casual approach, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a life-or-death battle. "Alright, time to show you guys how it's done!"

  With all his strength, he hurled the ball down the lane. But instead of a clean strike, it veered wildly to the side, skidding into the gutter with a dull, disappointing thud.

  Marcus burst out laughing, doubling over as he clutched his stomach. "Oh man, that was terrible! You weren’t kidding about liking the gutter!"

  Denji shot him a glare, his competitive fire igniting. "Hey, that was just a warm-up. Next time, I’m knocking them all down!"

  The game continued with lighthearted banter, Denji's determination growing with each turn. Though his throws were far from perfect, his energy was infectious, keeping the group laughing as the night rolled on.

  As Denji clutched the bowling ball, still awkwardly adjusting his grip, he froze the moment he heard her name.

  "Ms. Makima."

  Aki’s voice cut through the hum of the alley, carrying a weight that made Denji’s ears perk up. His head whipped around just in time to see her approaching.

  Makima’s presence was immediate—calm, composed, utterly magnetic. Even with the lively ambiance around them, the soft click of her heels against the polished floor stood out, a rhythmic contrast to the rolling balls and crashing pins.

  Aki stood, pulling out the chair beside him. "Here, I saved you a seat," he said, patting the empty spot with a small, polite smile.

  Denji couldn’t help but stare.

  Makima gracefully took the seat, her yellow eyes, ringed in red, briefly scanning the room before settling on him. Denji’s heart skipped a beat. He was still gripping the bowling ball like it was a life-or-death decision, his posture stiff—more like he was preparing to fight than bowl.

  Makima tilted her head slightly, her expression as serene as ever, but there was a glint of curiosity in her gaze.

  "Denji," she said, her voice smooth, almost hypnotic. "Are you bowling?"

  The sound of her voice sent a jolt of adrenaline through him.

  He straightened up immediately, his grip on the ball tightening as if it were the key to his very existence. "Y-yeah! I am! And, uh..." His brain scrambled for words. "I’m gonna get a strike! Just you watch!"

  Marcus snorted from his spot near the lane, barely suppressing his laughter. "Bold claim, Denji."

  Makima’s lips curved into a small, amused smile. "I’ll be watching."

  She leaned back slightly in her chair, her air of quiet confidence only making Denji’s nerves skyrocket.

  Denji’s brain was screaming at him to play it cool, but his body had other plans—his legs were already carrying him to the lane. "Alright, here we go!" he shouted, more to himself than anyone else.

  Gripping the bowling ball so hard his knuckles turned white, he lined himself up. His inner monologue was on overdrive: Okay, Denji, just don't mess this up. Aim straight, don’t throw it like a maniac, and for the love of everything, don't gutter it.

  He swung his arm back, the weight of the ball nearly pulling him off balance, but he powered through and launched it down the lane with all his might.

  The ball wobbled uncertainly, veering slightly to the left. Denji held his breath.

  By some sheer miracle, it struck a cluster of pins, sending them clattering to the ground. Not a strike, but just enough to save him from complete humiliation.

  "Not bad!" Marcus called out, clapping his hands with a laugh.

  Denji turned back to the group, puffing out his chest, his signature grin stretching across his face. "Told ya! I'm a natural!"

  Makima’s calm gaze met his, her expression unreadable. Then, she gave a small nod.

  "Well done, Denji."

  It was just three simple words—but for Denji, it may as well have been the grandest victory fanfare.

  Perfect time to impress her? Mission accomplished.

  His heart was still hammering as he walked back to his seat, practically glowing with satisfaction.

  Aki, who had been watching silently, let his gaze linger on Denji’s triumphant grin before rising to his feet. His movements were measured, deliberate.

  Himeno’s slightly blurry vision snapped to him, the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in her system. A lazy smile spread across her face. "Aki, where are you going?" she asked, her voice light and teasing.

  Aki didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing lean, well-defined forearms. The way he moved—precise, composed, methodical—made it look like he was preparing for something far more intense than a casual game.

  He approached the rack of bowling balls, his sharp gaze scanning the assortment with quiet calculation.

  And then—something odd happened.

  From the ball return machine, a new ball rolled out, its surface gleaming a golden-yellow under the neon lights.

  The air shifted.

  It shimmered like something out of a dream, its glow unnatural yet mesmerizing. Everyone’s attention snapped to it, a flicker of intrigue spreading through the group.

  Aki’s eyes remained fixed on it as he reached out, his fingers brushing the cool, polished surface. The moment he gripped it, there was a strange rightness to it—as if it had been made for him.

  Testing its weight in his palm, Aki exhaled slowly, his body shifting with effortless fluidity. Every motion was smooth, controlled, and perfectly measured.

  He stepped up to the lane.

  And without hesitation, he lined up for the throw.

  The room fell into a momentary hush. The only sound was the soft whoosh of Aki’s arm swinging forward, his release precise, almost effortless. The golden ball rolled down the lane with a quiet authority, carving a perfect path as if drawn by an unseen force. It didn’t wobble, didn’t hesitate—it simply moved with an undeniable sense of purpose.

  The impact was immediate. A loud, thunderous crack shattered the silence as the ball met the pins, sending them flying in a spectacular burst of motion. It was destruction executed with absolute precision—a perfect strike.

  For a brief second, no one spoke.

  Aki stood still, unreadable as ever, his sharp features untouched by arrogance. He didn’t turn to admire the wreckage. He didn’t react at all. To him, this wasn’t luck or even skill—it was simply expected.

  (I just realized bro is Aura Farming Lol)

  Himeno, still pleasantly buzzed from the alcohol, squinted at him before letting out a low, appreciative whistle. “Well, that was impressive,” she slurred, her words carrying more weight than the casual tone suggested.

  Aki offered a single nod in response, then turned, his movements just as deliberate and composed as before. The golden ball rolled smoothly back into the rack, as if it had never left, waiting patiently for its next challenger.

  Marcus and Joe exchanged glances before nodding in mutual respect. "Not bad," Marcus said with a grin, clearly impressed. Joe, ever the quiet observer, simply gave a short, approving nod.

  Denji, meanwhile, was staring. His arms crossed, his lips curled slightly as if he wanted to brush it off, but his eyes betrayed his admiration. “Damn, that was sick.” His gaze lingered on Aki for a moment before he huffed, smirking. “He kinda reminds me of Lex sometimes. Except, y’know… way more serious.”

  The words left his mouth before he even realized it, and suddenly, a memory crashed into his mind—clear, vivid, like he was reliving it.

  Lex. Chaotic, relentless, larger than life.

  Denji could still hear the sharp, metallic rattle of ice chains as they coiled around Lex’s hands, his cleavers spinning effortlessly at his sides. The guy was grinning—wild, reckless, and completely in his element.

  "Take a look, Denji!" Lex’s voice was electric, filled with infectious energy. "When you do property damage, you gotta make sure it’s done the right way!"

  Before Denji could even ask what the hell he meant, Lex hurled one of his cleavers at a parked Hellcat.

  CRACK!

  The moment the blade struck, frost exploded outward, creeping over the metal like living ice, wrapping around the car in a glistening shell. The chains attached to his cleaver tightened, and with one hard yank, Lex ripped the vehicle off the ground.

  Denji barely had time to process what was happening before Lex, with a triumphant roar, swung the entire frozen car like a wrecking ball—hurling it straight at the Devil they were fighting.

  Denji blinked back into the present, shaking his head with a half-laugh.

  “Yeah… Lex would’ve turned this into a whole damn event.”

  He grinned at the thought, a weird mix of nostalgia and exasperation settling in his chest.

  Yeah. Aki was precise. Lex was a spectacle.

  And somehow, Denji was always right in the middle of it.

  It was a spectacle—raw strength mixed with pure, unfiltered theatrics. Unfortunately, Lex’s throw had one critical flaw.

  The frozen Hellcat soared through the air, spinning in a dramatic arc... and completely missed its target.

  A beat of silence. Then—

  BOOM.

  The car crashed into the distance with an earth-shaking thud, kicking up a massive cloud of dust and debris.

  "Bro… my car."

  The unimpressed voice came from the rubble. Emerging from the wreckage, a tall Black man with long dreads surveyed the destruction of his once-pristine vehicle. His expression was the picture of calm, deadpan disbelief, as if this wasn’t even the worst thing to happen to him this week.

  Denji barely held back a snort, shaking his head as the memory faded. “Yeah… definitely reminds me of Lex.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “Crazy bastard, but you gotta admit, he makes things entertaining.”

  With that, he turned away from the lanes, making his way back to the table. He wasn’t really in the mood for bowling—not when there was good food and a lively atmosphere to soak in.

  The steady rhythm of bowling balls rolling down the lanes and exploding into pins filled the private lounge. Joe and Marcus were locked in their own battle, their competitive fire on full display.

  Marcus leaned back after releasing a powerful throw, watching with sharp eyes as the ball barreled down the lane. It was close—so damn close—but at the last second, one stubborn pin wobbled… and stood defiantly upright.

  “Tch.” Marcus exhaled, hands on his hips.

  Joe smirked, picking up his ball with easy confidence. “Not bad… but you’re not winning this one.” His voice was calm, laced with just enough cocky amusement to get under Marcus’ skin.

  He stepped forward, his form precise, deliberate—and with one fluid motion, he sent the ball rolling. It glided smoothly down the lane, cutting a perfect path before smashing through the remaining pins in a flawless strike.

  Marcus groaned dramatically as Joe turned back with a satisfied smirk.

  “Yeah, yeah, enjoy it while it lasts,” Marcus muttered, grabbing his drink off the nearby table.

  At the other end of the lounge, the rest of the group was caught up in their own conversations, food, and laughter.

  Denji sat comfortably, working his way through a plate of yakisoba, his chopsticks deftly twirling the noodles. Occasionally, he glanced up at the game, smirking at Marcus’ exaggerated reactions.

  Beside him, Aki sat with his usual stoic calm, nursing a beer in one hand, his earlier display of skill seemingly an afterthought.

  Himeno, however, was rapidly becoming the center of attention—not for her bowling prowess, but for her increasingly tipsy state.

  She swayed slightly in her seat, her cheeks flushed pink as she babbled something half-philosophical, half-nonsense about the deeper meanings of life.

  Denji raised an eyebrow, slurping up a mouthful of noodles. "Yeah, she's gone."

  Aki sighed. “You just noticed?”

  The night was still young, and the chaos was just beginning.

  Aki let out a measured sigh, his grip tightening slightly around his beer glass. “Himeno, stop drinking so much.” His voice was steady but edged with mild annoyance as he cast a sharp glance her way.

  Himeno, already two drinks past tipsy, pouted like a scolded child. "Aw, come on, Aki. Live a little!" she slurred, leaning heavily against the table. "You're so stiff all the time."

  Aki’s expression didn’t shift, but the way he exhaled through his nose made it clear he had zero patience left.

  Meanwhile, Power was devouring a bucket of fried chicken with the reckless abandon of a wild animal. Her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s, grease smudging the corners of her mouth as she chomped noisily.

  “Bowling’s stupid anyway,” she declared, voice muffled through a mouthful of food. “If I wanted to, I could knock down all those pins with my bare hands!”

  Arai, who had been quietly enjoying his sushi, visibly tensed. "Please don't," he said, nervously sliding his plate further out of her reach. The cautious look in his eyes suggested he fully believed she might actually try.

  The night began to wind down. The once-rowdy atmosphere of the private lounge mellowed as the hours crept by. Empty plates and scattered glasses littered the table, remnants of their gathering.

  Marcus stretched lazily, his ever-present grin still in place, while Joe leaned back in his chair, watching the pins reset on the lanes.

  Denji slouched in his seat, absently twirling a chopstick between his fingers. His mind drifted through a haze of random thoughts, but one name kept rising to the surface—Makima.

  Without thinking, he glanced in her direction.

  She was graceful as ever, seated with perfect composure, exchanging polite words with Aki. But then—just for a moment—her gaze flickered toward Denji.

  And lingered.

  Denji’s breath hitched.

  Her expression remained unreadable, her faint, knowing smile never wavering. Then, with the same effortless elegance, Makima stood, brushing invisible dust off her coat.

  “Thank you for inviting me tonight.” Her voice carried across the table—soft, warm, yet distant.

  Her gaze swept across the group, but when it landed on Denji, it held for a second too long.

  "I'll see you all tomorrow."

  Denji straightened instinctively, his heartbeat kicking up a notch as Makima turned and exited the lounge with quiet poise.

  The room felt colder without her presence, though maybe that was just in Denji’s head.

  Power, now sprawled out across the couch, let out a dramatic huff. “Humans are so boring.” She shifted, curling up as if pretending to nap.

  Across the table, Himeno had fully dozed off, her head resting against Arai’s shoulder. Arai, for his part, sat frozen—too terrified to move.

  Marcus clapped his hands together, breaking the moment. “Alright, gang, fun’s over. Let’s call it a night.”

  Everyone began gathering their belongings, the night’s energy fading into the quiet aftermath.

  The lingering hum of the bowling alley was still there—the distant crash of pins, the low murmur of other late-night players—but the weight in his chest from earlier hadn’t budged.

  Makima.

  He couldn’t shake the way she had looked at him before leaving.

  It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. It wasn’t even that she had a way of making him feel special, like he actually mattered.

  It was the way she could do that while still making his stomach twist in ways he didn’t quite understand.

  Denji exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

  “Tch. What the hell am I even thinking about?” he muttered to himself before standing up.

  He had a patrol tomorrow. Whatever weird feeling was creeping into his brain, he’d just ignore it.

  I Wonder what it would feel like if a woman like her could just touch my heart.