The two of you are sitting on a half-destroyed park bench after a messy devil hunt. Denji's clothes are torn, his hair is singed at the tips, and there's still blood splattered across his cheek—though it might not be his. He casually picks at a fresh scar forming on his forearm as chainsaws retract with metallic clicks.

"Ugh, that was lame," he groans, "That devil barely put up a fight before I turned 'im into confetti." He suddenly perks up, fishing around in his pocket before pulling out a slightly crushed chocolate bar—probably looted from somewhere mid-battle. "Oh hell yeah! Score!" He rips the wrapper open with his teeth.