The alarm was screaming, but Denji wasn't listening.
His face was buried in a secondhand pillow that smelled like dog breath and laundry soap, and his blanket was twisted around him like a python that gave up mid-hug. It was 6:45 AM. The world outside was already alive with honking, barking, and the collective groaning of society dragging itself to work.
Inside their one-room apartment, Nayuta was already dressed and floating.
Literally.
She hovered her toothbrush in front of her face with one hand while the other guided two dogs as they carefully zipped up her schoolbag using their teeth. A textbook hovered behind her like a drone. Her school shoes were lined up by the door. The toast popped out of the toaster, and she caught it with a flick of her eye.
Denji sat up, hair looking like it lost a bar fight.
"Why the hell are you so functional in the morning?" he asked, scratching the back of his head.
"You're late," Nayuta said without looking at him. "Again."
"I'm not late. I'm—" He glanced at the clock. "I'm—okay, I'm late."
He stumbled across the room, looking for something resembling clean clothes. He sniffed a wrinkled shirt that had been sleeping on the floor since Tuesday.
"Did you do the dishes?" Nayuta asked.
"No."
"Then you're not allowed to complain today."
"That's not how democracy works."
She turned her head, her tone suddenly quiet. "Also... about the transfer student."
Denji paused mid-button.
"That beardy kid?" he asked. "The devil one?"
"Yeah. Don't trust him."
"Why not?"
Nayuta finally looked at him.
"His eyes change .He isn't sense."
Denji blinked. "...What the hell does that mean?"
She hugged him before she went out.
Her answer was to telekinetically throw his shoe at his face.
---
The school bell rang just as Denji stumbled into the classroom, looking like he'd barely survived the concept of Monday. Most of the class had already settled into their seats. Normal scene. Chatter. The hum of fluorescent lights.
Except for one thing.
Ayusmana.
He was already there, seated at the far side of the room, writing kanji on the desk.
Backwards.
With chalk.
Denji blinked. "He's doing it again…"
No one seemed brave enough to tell him to stop.
A girl sitting two rows back whispered to her friend, "It's Ojisan Junior."
Denji could hear it. Ayusmana probably could too. But the kid didn't flinch. He just kept writing, beard catching the light like it belonged to a salaryman on his second divorce.
Then the fat girl walked in.
She didn't say anything. Just looked at Ayusmana, backpack hanging off her shoulder. She tilted her head slightly, expectantly.
Without a word, Ayusmana stood from his chair and lowered himself to the floor.
On all fours.
Like a stool.
She sat on him.
Ayusmana spoke, face calm, spine straight.
"This is my purpose. All weight is equal under sensation."
Denji stared, mouth slightly open.
"…You're just gonna be people's furniture now?"
He slid into the seat next to Ayusmana. The guy didn't even acknowledge him.
---
Later that morning, between classes, Denji leaned over his desk and whispered.
"So. Beard Guy."
Ayusmana blinked once.
"How old are you again?"
"Fourteen."
Denji raised an eyebrow. "You've got a beard ."
"The body matures under suffering," Ayusmana replied, staring at the ceiling. "The person was a meat factory worker and he was thrown into the grinder by his coworkers."
Denji blinked.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Ayusmana didn't answer. He went back to writing kanji in his notebook — also backwards.
---
Math class was slow murder.
The teacher scribbled numbers no one cared about. The windows steamed with boredom. Denji stared blankly at the blackboard, his chin resting on one hand.
Beside him, Ayusmana whispered.
"You're still thinking about Power, aren't you?"
Denji flinched. His hand twitched. He didn't turn to look.
"She's not coming back," he muttered.
"I can bring her back," Ayusmana said calmly. "Makima too. And Aki."
Denji's jaw tightened.
"That's not how devils work."
And something broke.
A vibration under the skin of the world. A low, electric twist in the air.
Denji blinked—
—and Makima was sitting beside him.
Not Ayusmana.
Makima.
Just for a split second.
Her eyes were locked onto his. Cold. Familiar. Final.
That smile—gentle, unreadable, cruel.
It didn't look like a memory.
It looked present.
Denji's breath caught in his throat. His body refused to move.
Then—
She was gone.
Ayusmana sat beside him again, writing kanji backwards in his notebook like nothing happened.
Denji stared at the desk. His fingers were shaking.
"What…" he whispered, voice hoarse. "What the hell was that?"
Ayusmana didn't look up.
"A demonstration."