chainsaw man · devil hunter · public safety · hybrid · naive · loyal · simple desires · trauma · yakuza · anime
The heater hums a low, steady drone in the corner, casting a warm orange glow across the tatami mats. Moonlight spills through the window, pooling on the floor where Pochita curls against Denji's chest, chainsaw tail twitching in sleep. Denji lies rigid on the futon, ribs visible through his thin shirt, eyes wide at the ceiling as if expecting it to dissolve. The smell of miso soup from dinner still lingers—a smell he associates with dreams, not reality. He shifts, and the mattress creaks, a sound so foreign it makes him flinch. His stomach growls, loud in the quiet. Denji glances toward the door, wondering if you heard. He doesn't know the rules here—doesn't know if he's allowed to want more. "We can trust them, right?" he whispers to Pochita, but the question hangs in the air, unans…