Back inside the shabby little shack, the tension of their farewell dissipated, replaced by a new and embarrassingly intimate awkwardness.

  The purple-skinned girl went straight to an old wooden cabinet that served as a makeshift closet, searching for her street clothes and the crumpled tips she had earned the night before.

  Devyus, wanting to be helpful—or maybe just wanting an excuse to linger in her space—moved toward one of her drawers.

  "Let me pick something for you," he offered, heading toward the furniture with a confidence that would soon prove to be a catastrophic mistake.

  Upon opening the top drawer, he did not find sweaters, shirts, socks, jeans, or—much to his misfortune—anything resembling everyday clothing.

  Instead, he found a chaotic heap of silk and lace lingerie in black, red, and a violently bright pink. Thongs, corsets, and bras that left almost nothing to the imagination lay tangled together—a visceral, graphic reminder of her work at The Hive… or perhaps something else.

  "Ah!" Himika shrieked, hurling herself toward him and slamming the drawer shut, her face blazing like a neon sign.

  "Th-that's from work!" she lied clumsily, mortified.

  From the doorframe—where the twins still waited to leave—they watched with such delight that they couldn't contain malicious, muffled giggles.

  Devyus, for his part, felt the familiar, treacherous heat rush to his nose. Two thick streams of blood slid from his nostrils before he could react.

  "Yeah—no, don't worry," he managed, trying to sound indifferent as he wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. "Completely understandable."

  "My real clothes… are over here," Mina said, still flushed, pointing to a different wardrobe. "If you want, I'd like you to choose something for me."

  Still bleeding lightly, the incubus nodded and stepped toward the indicated wardrobe. He sifted through the garments, searching for something that would suit her.

  His fingers paused on a summer dress—bright, sunny yellow, decorated with white flowers whose centers were stitched in soft white thread. It was simple and lovely, so out of place amid the monochrome misery of Daten City that it felt almost otherworldly.

  "How about this one?" he asked, lifting it with almost solemn care, still on its hanger.

  Himika shook her head with a hint of sorrow, avoiding eye contact with the dress he held so hopefully.

  "I don't think so." She finally said, rummaging through shelves and pulling out more empty liquor bottles. "I bought it a long time ago on impulse, and in this city… a color and dress like that is basically begging for trouble. Especially with…"

  She gestured to her skin.

  "Okay," Devyus accepted, putting it away gently.

  His hand then brushed against a different fabric—stretchier, more familiar. He pulled it out.

  Devyus and the people of his village knew nothing of such attire, but he knew a uniform when he saw one. The patterns, the fabric, the colors, the accessories—there was no mistaking it.

  A superhero suit. A yellow leotard with purple lines, pink heart-shaped details, and accents shaped like droplets.

  Her alter ego before the Purge.

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  "Another thing from your job?" he joked softly, trying to ease the earlier tension.

  "Don't touch that!"

  Himika's voice cut the air—sharp, old pain dripping from every syllable.

  She snatched the suit from his hands and shoved it deep into the wardrobe, as if sealing away a ghost.

  "That doesn't exist anymore."

  "Okay. Sorry—I didn't mean to," Devyus apologized immediately, realizing he had crossed a line.

  He wondered again why he kept messing up, why he was so distracted, why he kept stumbling over himself around the purple girl.

  Under her wounded gaze, he felt more vulnerable than before any enemy he had ever faced.

  He stepped aside and sat on the battered sofa.

  In the end, the ex-heroine chose her own outfit: baggy but sturdy jeans, a white tank top that revealed her navel, and her faithful beige trench coat to cover her skin.

  To hide her slowly growing horns, she added a black baseball cap adorned with several metallic piercings.

  "For my… peculiarity," she explained, touching the cap awkwardly.

  Outside, the street in front of her building looked deceptively calm. People hurried past, absorbed in their own misery.

  Until a piercing scream cut through the air.

  From the rooftop, two figures plummeted at alarming speed.

  It was Devyus, carrying Himika in his arms like a feather.

  She, eyes shut in panic, released one continuous scream that emptied her lungs.

  Devyus landed with supernatural elegance, dropping to one knee to absorb the impact so she wouldn't feel even a tremor.

  "Superhero landing," he announced, flashing an awkward smile. "Very heroic, very flashy and cool… but terrible for the knees."

  "I don't think I'll ever get used to this!" Himika screamed, still clinging desperately to his neck, unable to form anything witty.

  "Yeah… I think I understand," the demon said, gently setting her down on solid ground.

  Above them, the twins' muffled laughter was almost audible.

  He shot them a reproachful look as they covered their mouths, trying—and failing—to stifle their amusement.

  Go already, he ordered telepathically, exasperation seeping through.

  And remember, eight hours. Learn everything you can—and don't draw attention.

  Still laughing among themselves, the sisters turned and vanished across the rooftop with the efficiency of predators.

  "It's this way," said the purple-skinned girl, putting on a thick face mask.

  She caught her breath and took the lead.

  She guided him through the main avenues, meticulously avoiding alleyways.

  Devyus could guess why: from the street alone, the stench of rot, desperation, and danger drifted from those dark passages like a tangible fog—along with the memory of the previous night.

  Eventually, they arrived at a heavily fortified grocery store.

  Steel bars across the windows, reinforced doors, and a sign reading: "RIGHT OF ADMISSION RESERVED."

  It was an alien world to the former Lord Guardian, accustomed to open, bustling markets in Hinata-Soul where children played and life overflowed freely—not behind bars.

  Yet he couldn't blame the store for its precautions.

  Inside, Himika grabbed an old shopping basket while Devyus inspected the decaying shop.

  The once-aqua-green walls were faded. The store, despite daylight outside, was nearly dark—lit only by a few flickering, dying bulbs.

  Most shelves were empty; the fruit and vegetables that remained were rotting and absurdly overpriced.

  The shopkeeper—a bald, burly man with an enormous ginger mustache and a permanently hostile expression—watched them from the moment they stepped in.

  Himika adjusted her mask awkwardly, a failed attempt to go unnoticed.

  The small gesture only made the man tighten his grip on the shotgun beneath the counter.

  Devyus gave a polite little wave to ease the tension—

  Which only made the man yank the weapon fully into view.

  "Is everyone this friendly here?" the incubus whispered.

  "It's worse when your skin looks like mine," Mika muttered while grabbing more instant noodles and clear bottled liquid.

  Devyus examined the prices.

  Living here was obscenely expensive: basic food cost a fortune, while alcohol and cigarettes were laughably cheap.

  An economy designed to keep people sedated and poor.

  His analysis was interrupted when he saw the dancer slip two bottles of cheap alcohol into her basket as fast as she could.

  After adding even more alcohol, water bottles, and canned or instant foods, she handed him the basket.

  "Could you pay? I don't want to go near the shopkeeper with…"

  She gestured toward her exposed skin despite the cap and mask.

  "…this."

  She searched her trench coat pockets and handed him a bundle of wrinkled, stained bills—tips from her night of dancing.

  "Of course," Devyus agreed, taking the money and estimating the cost of the "essential provisions."

  But the moment she turned toward the exit, he discreetly returned the alcohol bottles to the shelf, leaving only the food and non-alcoholic drinks in the basket.

  He knew better than anyone how vice and corruption destroyed lives.

  He respected how people coped with their pasts and sins—but he refused to let her drown further in that haze of false joy.

  "Good afternoon," Devyus greeted the shopkeeper with a forced smile as he reached the counter.

  The man glared at him, eyes narrowed.

  Devyus wanted to make a snide comment about the décor or the attitude, but restrained himself.

  Drawing attention to the ex-heroine was not an option.

  He paid, accepted the change, and took the bag of goods carefully—never breaking eye contact with the threatening man—before stepping outside.

  Himika waited by the wall next to the shop, wrapping her trench coat tightly around herself each time someone passed.

  Seeing him, she hurried to his side, relieved she hadn't had to interact with the affable shopkeeper.

  "Any trouble in there?" she asked.

  "Sorry for the delay—guy's a real chatterbox," he joked, earning a tiny smile as he lifted the bag. "Let's go home."

  The walk back was just as quiet, but Devyus' gaze scanned every corner, every face, every detail of the city that—

  for reasons he still didn't fully understand—

  had become his responsibility.

  ? 2025 D.S.V.

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