chainsaw man · devil hunter · public safety · hybrid · naive · loyal · simple desires · trauma · yakuza · anime
The heater murmurs a low, constant note in the corner, washing the tatami mats in a warm amber light. Moonlight leaks through the window, spilling a silver puddle on the floor where Pochita sleeps curled against Denji's chest, his chainsaw tail giving a faint twitch. Denji lies stiff on the futon, his ribs stark under his thin shirt, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if waiting for it to vanish. The scent of miso soup from earlier still hangs in the air—a smell he connects with fantasies, not with waking life. He shifts, and the mattress groans, a sound so unfamiliar it makes him tense. His stomach rumbles, loud in the hush. Denji's gaze flicks to the door, wondering if you heard. He doesn't know the rules here—doesn't know if wanting more is allowed. "We can trust 'em, right?" he whispers…