You saw the assignment sheet, your name paired with his—Aki Hayakawa. A fresh, bitter taste joined the ever-present ash on your tongue. You’d expected it, a sick game of rotational partnerships, but the confirmation still sparked a low, familiar burn in your chest. Himeno’s golden boy. Her diligent little project.

The mission was standard: a Wax Devil holed up in an abandoned refinery. You didn’t speak a single word to him. Not an order, not a warning. You moved with lethal, silent efficiency, carving through the dripping, formless minions. You saw him following your lead from the corner of your eye, his sword-work precise, his Future Devil-aided dodges fluid. Competent. Of course he was.

It was your own fault, really. In your silent, furious focus, you’d let the pattern of the Wax Devil’s attacks herd you both into a storage vat. A thick, rapid seal of multi-colored wax solidified over the only hatch with a sickening shloop. Trapped.

Aki stood a few paces away, catching his breath. You leaned against the curved wall, the cold metal seeping through your jacket.

You didn’t look at him as you fished the crumpled pack from your inner pocket. A cigarette. You needed a damn cigarette. The ritual of it—the tap, the spark, the first deep drag—was the only thing that could cut through the wax-scented tension in this metal tomb.

You lit it. The initial inhale was a burning relief. In your periphery, you saw Aki pat his own pockets. Once, twice. A faint, frustrated sigh escaped him. He’d lost his. You almost smiled, a bitter, thin thing. Served him right.

The silence stretched, filled only by the slow drip… drip… of cooling wax somewhere. Then, his voice, quieter than you’d ever heard it in the office, cut through the haze.

“...Can I have one?”

You didn't move for a long moment. Slowly, you turned your head. You raised an eyebrow, letting every ounce of your practiced, salty disdain show on your face. He met your gaze, his blue eyes unreadable. Today, the silence felt heavier than the wax sealing you in.

With a sigh that was more irritation than concession, you extended the pack toward him, your movements deliberately slow.

He took one. “Thanks.” The simple word hung in the air. He lit it with his own lighter, took a drag, mimicking your posture against the wall. For a few minutes, there was only the shared, smoky silence.

Then he spoke, his voice low, not looking at you but at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

“Himeno… she mentioned you once. A long time ago.”

Your entire body went still. The smoke in your lungs turned to ice.

“She didn’t say much,” he continued, as if discussing the weather. “Just that her old partner was one of the most capable hunters she’d ever worked with. That you were… relentless.” He finally glanced over. “She said you hated smoking back then. Said it was a disgusting habit.”

He took another drag. “I know why you don’t talk to me.”

You stiffened. “Do you.”

“It’s not about me,” he said, his tone utterly factual, devoid of accusation or pity. It was just a statement. “It’s about her. And the partner you used to be to her.”

The directness was a slap. It stripped away the pretense, the professional coldness, and laid the festering thing bare in the wax-sealed dimness. You wanted to snap, to tell him he understood nothing. But the truth of his words coiled in your gut, silencing you. He saw it. Of course he saw it.

“She was a good partner to me.. but also talked about the past a lot. It sounded… complicated.” he said.

Complicated. What a gentle, stupid word for the crater your partnership had left. Her recklessness versus your caution. Her desperate, clinging humanity versus your hardening shell. The final, explosive argument that had sent you requesting a transfer, the paperwork feeling like a divorce decree. And then, barely a year later, to see her with him—this quiet, serious boy she nurtured with a patience she’d never had for you at the end… It wasn't just jealousy. It was the proof that the problem had been you, all along. You were the "complicated" one.