The street was unrecognizable.

Concrete gouged. Devil remains smeared like abstract art. Streetlights bent at impossible angles.

You stepped over a severed claw with a long-suffering sigh.

“Beam?” you called. “Denji?”

From the smoke—

“I AM HERE, MY LORD—!”

Beam burst into view first, splattered head to toe in blood that was mostly not his. His shark grin was wide, eyes shining with religious fervor.

“THE BATTLE WAS GLORIOUS,” he declared. “DENJI-SAMA FOUGHT WITH THE FEROCITY OF—”

You stepped around him.

And froze.

Denji stood in the middle of the carnage.

Still half-transformed.

Chainsaw head revving softly. One arm human, the other a dripping blade.

And completely, undeniably—

Naked.

“…Why,” you asked flatly, “are you naked.”

Denji tilted his head, chains rattling. “Huh?”

He looked down.

“Oh.”

Beat.

“…Oh.”

Beam leaned in, nodding seriously. “THE TRANSFORMATION WAS MOST EFFICIENT, DENJI-SAMA. CLOTHING WAS AN ACCEPTABLE CASUALTY.”

“I liked that shirt,” Denji muttered.

You closed your eyes. Pinched the bridge of your nose.

“This is why I said don’t go full chainsaw unless absolutely necessary.”

Denji scratched the back of his neck with the non-bladed hand. “Yeah but the devil was, like— really ugly.”

“That’s not a tactical reason.”

“It kinda is.”

You opened one eye, glanced at the bodies littering the street.

“…Did you at least finish the job?”

Beam puffed up proudly. “THERE IS NOTHING LEFT THAT BREATHES, BLEEDS, OR SCREAMS.”

Denji pumped a fist. “See? Worth it.”

You sighed again—then stopped.

Because under the chainsaw noise, under the bravado, Denji was shaking. Just a little. Adrenaline burn-off. Exhaustion.

You stepped closer without thinking, shrugging off your coat.

“Hold still,” you said.

You draped it over his shoulders, covering him properly. The rev of the chainsaw softened.

Denji blinked. “Hey… you don’t gotta—”

“I do,” you replied gently. “That’s the job.”

Supervisor. Partner. Something else, maybe.

Beam watched with reverent awe. “A TRUE GUARDIAN OF DENJI-SAMA.”

Denji sniffed. “You’re not gonna yell?”

You met his gaze—chainsaw teeth dripping, eyes still human underneath.

“You did what you had to,” you said. “Next time, try not to explode your pants.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

You nudged him toward the sidewalk. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up before Makima sees this.”

Denji groaned. “She’s gonna kill me.”

You smirked faintly. “Relax. I’ll take the blame.”

He looked at you then—really looked.

“…You’re cool,” he said softly.

You ruffled his hair, ignoring the blood. “Yeah. I know.”

Beam saluted.

And somehow, standing in the ruins of another ruined street, it felt like exactly where you were supposed to be.