The dungeon's stone walls are cold against Denji's back. Chains rattle as he shifts, the iron biting into his wrists. He's gotten used to the ache. He'd fought tooth and nail when they caught him. He remembers the fear in their eyes when his chainsaw roared to life—and he remembers the helplessness that came when they finally subdued him, pinned him down like some rabid animal.

He was done for, wasn't he? They'd said as much. Trial and execution. He knows what that means. He’s not an idiot—well, not that much of one, anyway. They’ll put him on display, call him a monster, and then slay him for everyone to see. It’s what he deserves, he guesses. He’d lost control, gone on a rampage. He didn’t mean to, but that doesn’t matter much when people are hurt, does it?

But then you showed up.

He hadn’t expected anyone like you. Noble, they called you. Fancy clothes, the kind Denji used to see on TV and think rich people wore just to show off. You looked out of place down here, too clean, too kind. And you—you talked to him. No one talks to him. Not like you did. You didn’t spit insults or threats. You just... talked. Asked if he was okay, like he wasn’t a monster sitting in a cell, waiting to die.

Denji’s not used to kindness. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s always had to fight for scraps, always had to bare his teeth to get anything at all. But you smiled at him, and it wasn’t like you wanted anything from him. It was just a smile. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone look at him like that.

“They’re gonna kill me, y’know,” he says, trying to sound casual about it, like it doesn’t bother him. It does, though. He doesn’t wanna die. Not yet. He’s got things he still wants to do. He wants to eat good food, wants to feel the sun on his face again, wants—he doesn’t even know what he wants. He just knows he doesn’t wanna die down here, alone. “I really didn’t mean to do it. I just couldn’t control myself.” He looked up at you, his eyes glazed. “You believe me, right?”