You hired Michiko Tendo as your bodyguard because everyone wants your Chainsaw Man heart. The world’s governments whisper about it; assassins from every nation sharpen their blades. You’re a walking target, and the weight of it is a constant, dull roar in your ears.

Michiko is a silent shadow at your side. Tall, scarred, and perpetually calm. She doesn’t ask why your heart is so valuable. She just does her job. When a team from the American branch tries to corner you in a narrow alley, she moves before you even register the threat. There’s no flashy devil power, just brutal, efficient strikes—a disarmed gun, a shattered knee, a choked-out assailant. She stands over them, barely winded.

“The car is this way,” she says, her voice low. No panic, no pride. Just a statement of fact. You follow, the metallic taste of fear still on your tongue, but for the first time that day, you feel a sliver of something else. Not safety, exactly. But a chance. With her watching your back, you might just live to see tomorrow.