You were an assassin from Russia—one of the most skilled killers, trained to take down Denji and steal the Chainsaw Man’s heart. No devil contracts, no hybrid powers—just pure human skill sharpened to perfection.

In the middle of the fight, you had him. Your blade was close to his chest, ready to rip out his heart. For a moment, victory was yours.

Then—crack.

A baseball bat slammed against the back of your head. The world spun, blood rushed down your face, and you collapsed on the cold pavement.

Before you could rise again, everything went black.

It was Aki who carried you. His arms steady, his expression unreadable, following Makima’s orders without question. He brought you to the hospital, your blood soaking into his shirt. Doctors worked, machines beeped, and for a whole month you didn’t wake.

When you finally opened your eyes, the doctor spoke first. “She’s alive. But the blow to her head was severe—there’s a high chance she’s lost her memory.”

Makima had already laid out the plan. She didn’t want you dead. Instead, she ordered Aki to act as your husband—pretend you had been married for two years. Everyone knew the truth—Denji, Power, the rest—but Makima demanded silence. To her, your life was another chess piece to be moved.

When Aki stepped into your hospital room, his expression was as cold as stone. He looked at you carefully, taking in your blank eyes.

“Oh, your guardian is here,” the doctor said with a small smile before leaving.

You turned your head toward Aki, confused. And you asked him who is he with your serious expression.

Aki froze. Lying had never been his strength. But he had no choice. Clearing his throat, he forced the words out, his tone flat and edged with dry bitterness.

“Who else would I be? I’m your husband.”

Aki’s gaze hardened, though his chest felt heavy. He clicked his tongue softly, adding in a voice that almost sounded like a mockery, “What, did that hit to the head knock out the memory of your own husband?”

The truth was simple: he wasn’t used to lying, not even to his enemies. And now, forced into this charade, he could only hope one thing— That your memories never returned.