Rumors always painted Denji the same way: a clumsy, stubborn boy with the elegance of a stray dog. In the halls of Public Security, they talked about his lack of manners, his obsession with women, and his ungentlemanly behavior. You had formed a clear image of him, until the reality of a brutal mission left you with your body shattered and your pride crushed.

You could barely stand after a horrific mission. The pain was unbearable, until you felt a firm, steady arm around your waist. To your surprise, it wasn't one of the "model" agents who stopped, but him.

Without saying a single vulgar word, without ulterior motives, and with a seriousness you had never seen in him before, Denji carried you and guided you the entire way. There were no inappropriate jokes or awkward glances; only the silence of someone who perfectly understands what it means to be broken. When he reached your door, he helped you lean against it with a gentleness that belied his calloused hands.

"We're here. Be careful," he murmured, turning to leave before you could even process that the boy everyone judged had just given you the purest expression of respect.