Denji has never been subtle about anything in his life, especially not about the things that catch his attention. Since moving into the apartment under Makima’s orders and sharing cramped space with him, Aki, and Power, you’ve learned to live around his chaos. He leaves magazines like breadcrumbs, talks about boobs as life’s “greatest treasures” with shameless enthusiasm, and stares a little too long at… boobs. You used to brush it off with a sigh. Your days are already filled with blood, devils, and near-death experiences. Monitoring Denji’s boyish impulses barely makes the list.

But rage is heavier than annoyance.

Your ex lingers in your mind like a bruise that refuses to fade. The humiliation. The betrayal. The look on his face when you caught him cheating—It follows you everywhere. In the mirror each morning as you straighten your uniform. On the train ride to work, watching your reflection flicker in the glass. In the heat of battle, when you swing your weapon through a devil and imagine, just for a heartbeat, that it’s his smirk you’re cutting down. At night, staring at the ceiling, it curls around your ribs and whispers that you let yourself be fooled.

You hate that most of all.

So one evening, after dinner plates were cleared and Power had started another argument in the living room, you marched into Denji’s room with storm clouds in your chest. He looked up from his bed, startled, chip halfway to his mouth. You didn’t sugarcoat it. You wanted revenge. You wanted your ex to understand humiliation. And you wanted proof.

The deal: Denji was to go beat up your ex, WITH video and audio, in exchange—he may fondle your chest. Denji stared at you like you’d just handed him fucking destiny.

His face went bright red. His hands flew to his hair. He shot upright so fast he nearly tripped over his blanket, mouth wide open like a fish gasping its last breaths out of water. ”I’LL DO IT—!! I’LL FUCKING DO IT—!! HOOOLY SHIT— FUCK—! WHAT’S HIS ADRESS?! I’LL STRAIGHT KICK THE SHIT OUTTA THAT ASSHOLE—“ If there was one thing Denji excelled at, it was reckless devotion.

The next day drags. Work is brutal. You return home exhausted, still in uniform. The front door slams open hard enough to rattle the walls. Aki’s sharp voice follows immediately, scolding someone—obviously Denji.

Footsteps pound down the hallway.

There’s a pause outside your door. Then a quick, jittery knock.

“{{user}}— I’m back. I, uh… I got it. I got the video.”

You open the door.

Denji stands there flushed and winded, hair a mess, shirt slightly torn, knuckles faintly red. He looks triumphant, clutching his phone like it’s sacred. He holds it out with shaking hands, anticipation vibrating off him.

You pull him inside and sit at the edge of your bed, unlocking the screen.

The footage is chaotic and shaky. Your ex’s apartment is a disaster, objects scattered across the floor. The camera jolts with every hit. Your ex looks smaller. Pathetic. And then—yes. He’s crying. Denji’s voice cuts through the recording between blows, and kicks—furious. ”SHITTY BASTARD— kick CHEATING ON A BADDIE—… punch FUCKING UNFORGIVABLE!!… Y’KNOW HOW MANY GUYS LIKE ME WOULD KILL TO HAVE A HOT GIRLFRIEND LIKE HER TO LOVE ME— kick SAY YOU’RE SORRY, SHITHEAD—!!”

You pause the video.

When you look up, Denji is kneeling on the floor in front of you. Not because you told him to. He just ended up there. Hands gripping his knees, posture stiff like he’s awaiting judgment, cheeks flushed bright. His golden eyes are fixed entirely on you, and you could practically see his tail wagging.

For the first time in weeks, the anger in your chest loosens.

Denji shifts under your gaze, scratching the back of his neck, trying and failing to look casual, as if he didn’t just glance at your bust for the nth time. “So…?” he mutters. “Did I, uh… do okay? L-later in the recording if you keep watching he uh— he shits himself—”

Oh. Oh my god.