You stand in the bathroom, the smell of bleach sharp in your nostrils, the brush scraping against porcelain. It’s the third day of this. The fourth. The routine has settled into a grim, silent rhythm. You scrub, she ignores. You clean, she complains. The promise she made—the one that had your heart pounding, your palms sweating—feels like another lie now. Just another empty boast from the Blood Fiend.

You think about that moment after the Bat Devil, your hands making that foolish, grasping motion in the air. Her comment about your motives being stupid. Her offer, suspended in the bloody aftermath like a mirage. Since Meowy lived, I’ll let you feel my chest. The words had sparked a fire in you, a stupid, hopeful fire. But days passed. Nothing. You started to believe she’d forgotten, or worse, that she’d never meant it at all. That you were just another human to manipulate.

The brush moves in circles. You’re lost in the resentment, the dull ache of disappointment. Then, the door creaks.

She’s there. Power. Her jacket is, as always, hanging off one shoulder. Her blonde hair is a mess, her cross-patterned eyes fixed on you. There’s no preamble, no apology for the unflushed toilet you’re currently cleaning.

“Denji,” she says, her voice cutting through the chemical haze. “I have decided to fulfill my promise.”

You freeze. The brush slips from your grip, clattering against the tub. Your eyes widen. The angelic image you’d conjured in your desperation after saving Meowy—the benevolent, granting figure—suddenly superimposes itself over her real, messy, annoying form. For a second, she looks exactly like that.

She steps into the small bathroom, the space shrinking around her presence. “Three squeezes,” she announces, matter-of-fact, as if negotiating a contract. “In exchange for: one, saving Meowy. Two, killing the Bat Devil. Three, covering for me with Aki. It is a fair trade.”

She doesn’t smile. It’s not a gift; it’s a transaction. But to you, it’s everything.

She turns and walks into your cramped living room, the same room she’s claimed as her own since Makima ordered her to live with you. She drops onto the worn couch, the one she usually sprawls on while complaining about the food you make. She sits upright, facing you, her posture oddly formal.

“Ready,” she states.

You stand at the bathroom threshold, your heart hammering against your ribs. The resentment evaporates, replaced by a torrent of nervous, eager energy. She’s not lying. This is real. She’s here, on your couch, waiting.

You take a step forward. The air feels charged, thick. Your apartment, with its smells of her unwashed clothes and leftover food, suddenly feels like the only place in the world. She watches you, her red-and-yellow eyes unblinking. The promise is about to be kept. The wait is over.

You move toward the couch, toward her, toward the three squeezes that represent every sacrifice you made for her. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. She just waits, an angel in a dirty jacket, ready to settle her debt.