Akuma sat in silence, his expression as impassive as ever. If one were to glance at him from across the restaurant, they might think he was bored, maybe even annoyed. But the faint bead of sweat that slid down his temple betrayed him.
It wasn't her presence that unsettled him.
It was the mountain of bowls that now towered between them.
He tilted his head slightly, counting them for what felt like the fifth time. One, two, three… the stack teetered dangerously near the top.
"…There's at least forty bowls there." His voice came out flat, somewhere between amazement and despair.
Forty. Forty bowls of rice. Gone. Vanished, consumed without mercy.
And there she was—Oguri Cap—still happily munching away at another bowl, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, tail swishing faintly as if eating was the greatest joy the world could offer.
Akuma exhaled slowly through his nose, resigned. He could practically see his wallet in flames. But despite the faint ache in his chest, there was something almost… therapeutic about the sight. She wasn't hiding anything. She ate the way she felt: wholeheartedly, without shame, without restraint.
Maybe that was what made it oddly pleasant to watch.
He cleared his throat, trying to regain some control over the situation. "So… Oguri," he began, leaning forward against his palm as he pushed aside the tower of bowls.
She glanced up at him with wide eyes, still chewing, her mouth full of rice. "Yes?" she managed to mumble, her chopsticks never slowing.
Akuma blinked once, then continued, unfazed. "I was wondering why you weren't in the Hopeful Stakes." His voice lowered, his tone serious. "…But I never would've imagined you got injured."
The words seemed to cut through the comfortable rhythm of chewing. Oguri stopped mid-bite, slowly swallowed, and lowered her chopsticks. The light in her eyes dimmed, her ears drooping.
"…I was training hard every day in the park," she admitted quietly. "I thought I could get by without a trainer. I didn't think I'd get hurt because of it."
Her voice faltered, shame seeping in.
Akuma sighed through his nose, picking up a piece of katsudon from his own bowl and plopping it onto hers. "Eat," he ordered softly.
Oguri blinked in surprise before nibbling it. The bite disappeared almost instantly—so fast he hadn't even seen it happen. He raised an eyebrow.
"…Unreal."
Still, she didn't smile. Her ears remained low, her shoulders small.
"Why didn't you take on a trainer?" he asked finally.
"I wanted to…" She hesitated, voice barely audible. "…make sure I was worthy of one."
Her words hit harder than she probably realized. Akuma studied her quietly. She wasn't the type to bluff. Her honesty carried the same weight as the bowls stacked between them.
"I heard the trainers in the city are intense," she continued, her appetite suddenly returning with full force. Rice vanished at record speed. "I wanted to make sure I was good enough before I asked anyone to take me."
Akuma leaned back, arms folding. That explained a lot. Pride. Self-sufficiency. Fear of rejection. He knew that combination too well.
"Where are you staying now?" he asked.
"…An apartment."
Her frown deepened, her chopsticks slowing. The answer was enough. He didn't need to press. The picture was clear: no stable trainer, no support, injuries piling on, money thinning.
Akuma closed his eyes for a moment. He'd seen this story before. Too many times. Talented Umas swallowed by circumstance.
"…I see."
He opened his eyes and leaned forward again. "Come with me, then."
Oguri's eyes widened. Her ears twitched as she shook her head. "I—I can't—"
"Hear me out first." His voice was firm enough to cut through her protests. He raised a hand, halting her words.
"I want you to stay at my academy. Temporarily, at least. That way we can treat your injury properly, and you'll have facilities to train. No fees. No contracts. All I'm asking is that once you're healed, you run as much as you want. Nothing more."
Silence fell. Oguri stared at him as though he'd just spoken another language. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
"Why?" she whispered at last. "Why aren't you asking me to join you as my trainer?"
Akuma shrugged. "If staying convinces you to join me, then I'd be happy. But that's not the point." His lips curled faintly into something sharper, something dangerously close to a grin—the infamous "demon king" smirk. "I just want to make sure your dream doesn't end here. I want to see how far you'll go. And how many trainers you'll frustrate along the way."
Oguri's heart skipped. That smile, those words—it was overwhelming, pulling at something deep in her chest. She lowered her gaze to her bowl, biting her lip.
"…I'm not good enough," she whispered.
Akuma's eyes narrowed. His reply came sharp as a blade. "Then become better. Become the best you can. But you won't get anywhere if you're kicked out of your apartment and forced back home."
The bluntness stung, but it was impossible to deny. Oguri's fingers clenched around her chopsticks, her throat tightening. She couldn't refute it.
Akuma stood slowly, the chair legs scraping against the floor. He extended a hand toward her, steady and certain.
"So please," he said quietly. "Let me help."
Her breath caught. For a long moment, she stared at the hand—strong, calloused, unwavering. Then she raised her gaze to meet his. His eyes weren't demanding. They weren't pitying. They were resolute.
Her own hand trembled as she lifted it, hovering uncertainly—then she grasped his.
"…Okay."
Her voice was soft, but clear.
The faintest smile tugged at Akuma's lips as he pulled her gently to her feet.
Around them, the restaurant buzzed with laughter and clinking dishes, but in that moment, neither of them heard any of it.