"Sorry," Devyus said at once, his voice unusually sincere, stripped of its usual sarcasm. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's not your fault," the dancer interrupted, still pressing the photo to her chest like a shield, as if trying to smother memories that felt decades old. "It's just… something very precious to me."
Her eyes avoided his—not out of embarrassment, but to keep him from reading anything in them. She stared at a random point on the wall. "You shouldn't have… you wouldn't understand."
He nodded slowly. It was true. He had only recognized the younger Himika in the picture. The others were just anonymous faces, fragments of a life that wasn't his.
"Friends of yours, or just acquaintances?" he murmured, as if that could soften the intrusion.
Himika let out a trembling sigh.
"Memories of something I thought I had… and should have forgotten."
"I understand," the incubus replied—and for the first time in millennia, the phrase wasn't hollow. It came from somewhere real.
Across the room, his sisters pretended to focus on stirring instant soups in the small pot, careful not to burn anything. It was nowhere near the lavish meals they were used to, but they understood the need to replenish energy—even if their demonic metabolism barely required it. The gesture mattered. The acceptance of humble hospitality.
Himika, still moving stiffly from the emotional shock, placed the photo into the pocket of her shorts and returned to the kitchen. She served the simple meal into four worn bowls. They ate in quiet—peaceful, uncomfortable, but respectful. No one asked anything else. The night had already been too long, too heavy.
When they finished, Devyus stood, gathered the bowls, and carried them to the small sink beside the stove, searching for a cleaning tool but finding none. Himika looked around her modest home, thinking through the furniture placement. After a moment, she sighed and made a decision.
"The sisters can use the bed," she said, gesturing to the small space behind the curtain. "It's small, but they can share it. And you," she pointed to Devyus, "can use the futon I keep in the closet. It's… not the most comfortable, but better than the floor. I'll find a corner to sleep in. It's the least I can do… to thank you for… well, everything."
"No."
The word was gentle, but firm. Undebatable.
"I appreciate the offer, but no," he said, his voice regaining a trace of its natural authority. "My sisters will take the bed. You will use your futon. And I…" his gaze shifted toward the door, "will keep watch outside."
It wasn't because he didn't want to remain under the same roof as her. Quite the opposite. A part of him—a part that was growing, unsettlingly so—wanted to stay, to listen to her breathing as she slept, to learn her simply by existing beside her.
But he had to protect her the best he could.
The night would be cold. She needed rest.
His demonic nature could endure it easily.
And he had something he needed to do—something that required silence and focus.
She tried to insist, worry in her voice.
But his decision did not waver.
"You've had a longer and harder day than I have. Rest," he said, and his tone allowed no argument.
He bid his sisters goodnight. They were already curled up together on the bed, embracing each other with an ancient, wordless bond. He gave them a subtle nod—a silent order to rest, and to watch over the girl from within. Then, he turned to the purple-skinned dancer.
"I'll be outside. There's no need to worry," he lied with a faint smile. "I have a sleeping bag in our belongings. I'd rather take what little moonlight manages to cut through the city's smog."
Catherine, already drowsy, mumbled something about him changing his mind—but he simply repeated his decision and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
Himika tried to protest once more, but stopped when she looked at him.
His expression—steady, resolved.
"Goodnight," she whispered.
He gave a small gesture of acknowledgment and left.
Alone under the night sky, he immediately noticed the difference between this city's night and the nights of his village. The air was cold—and laced with chemicals. His relaxed posture shifted; his expression deepened into something solemn and focused.
From the shadows pooled near the rooftop corner, his hand emerged gripping the hilt of his Reiken.
Hrist materialized fully, her blade shimmering faintly in the pale moonlight.
He sat cross-legged, placing the katana across his lap.
His breathing slowed… slowed… until it nearly ceased.
He was not seeking sleep.
He was seeking descent.
Through the bond with his Reiken, he projected his consciousness inward.
The world dissolved into swirling colors—then drained to black and white.
He sat on the same rooftop, but in monochrome.
And before him floated the only figure still in color—his Reiken's manifestation.
Hrist. The pale-skinned woman with the eyepatch, black horns adorned with her favorite skull ornament, smiling with indulgent mischief.
"I felt your heart move," she said, her voice echoing within him. "It flutters like a bird in a cage. It's… fascinating."
"Jealous?" he asked, smirking with quiet satisfaction.
Hrist's expression turned sharp as she grabbed his cheek with force.
"Ow—okay, I'll take that as a 'no,' beautiful. I retract the comment."
She pouted slightly in irritation.
Of course he knew her. She was part of him—and he of her.
"That's not the only reason I came to talk to you," he continued, his tone turning serious. "But I want to hear you say it. What do you think this feeling is?"
She laughed softly—a sound like distant bells.
"As your sword and your companion, I know what you feel. And I believe you already know too. You didn't come here to be told—you came here because you needed someone who wouldn't look at you with jealousy or reproach."
"What I really want to talk about is the city," he said. "Do you feel it?"
Hrist's expression shifted.
"What? The rot? The despair? It's constant."
"No. Something else. Small, but persistent. Like a faint buzzing under all the noise."
He stared toward the city.
Hrist followed his gaze.
She fell silent for a moment, focusing.
"…Yes. There is something strange. A thread of energy that doesn't belong. Not entirely human. Not entirely demonic."
"Exactly," Devyus murmured. "And what bothers me about everything I've heard… is that even if the mayor believed heroes could become a threat to his control… why eliminate the city's strongest defense? Why stop fighting crime directly? Strategically, it makes no sense. Unless…"
"Unless the crime he wants to fight… isn't the one we think," she finished.
"Nobody discards something that valuable unless it no longer serves them—or unless—"
A voice shattered the trance like glass breaking.
"…Are you okay?"
Himika's voice—nervous, soft, worried—cut through the dreamscape.
The monochrome world dissolved instantly.
Hrist vanished.
Devyus' eyes opened wide.
And there she stood, framed in the doorway—wrapped in a worn blanket, lit by moonlight—watching him sit motionless with the katana on his lap, lost in silence.
"If you've reached this far… thank you for walking through Devyus's silence."
"Your thoughts matter — even one word helps me keep building this world."
© 2025 D.S.V.
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