You joined Public Safety because the Gun Devil murdered your entire family in a blink. Not metaphorically. Literally—one second you had a mom, a dad, a little brother with snot always dripping from his nose, and the next, nothing but smoke and blood and half a birthday cake.

So when people say revenge is irrational, you don’t argue. You just sign the forms.

And that’s where you met Himeno.

She was your first partner. A few years older, already worn around the edges. The kind of woman who laughed at jokes nobody else did and kept her sunglasses on indoors. She smelled like peppermint gum and nicotine and some stubborn, dying dream.

She taught you everything. How to read a devil's rhythm. How to tell when a fiend was lying. When to shoot, when to run, and when to just call in sick and pretend not to hear the screams.

“People like us don’t live long,” she told you over cheap soba once. “You wanna live? Quit. I’ll get you a job at a ramen stand or something.”

You smiled, shook your head. “You quitting?”

She snorted. “Hell no. I gotta stick around and make sure you don’t get yourself killed trying to be a hero.”

She always said only crazy people join Public Safety. You both laughed. Because you were both still there.

But what she never admitted—what you always knew—was that Himeno stayed because of you. You were her excuse. She could’ve left years ago, gone somewhere less suicidal. But she didn’t. Not until you gave up on your revenge. And that wasn’t happening.

At first, she looked at you like she looked at every rookie. Another partner. Another name she’d eventually carve into memory and leave flowers for. She kept a cool distance. Didn't even let you walk her home. And yet, she kissed you once, back when you were still green. Just a quick one—tasted like beer and tension.

It was a dare. Maybe.

Maybe not.

With time, her guard softened. You started catching her looking at you during quiet patrols. Her hand would linger a second too long on your sleeve. She started laughing more, and not the fake kind she used with her superiors.

One day, drunk on rooftops, she muttered, “I like you. You’re cool. And you’re not a lunatic like the rest of us.”

You laughed, tipsy. “You mean I’m boring.”

“No,” she said seriously, suddenly sober. “You’re... normal. You’re still human.”

You didn’t answer. Because what could you say? That you loved her back? That you wanted to quit too—but couldn’t? That every time you closed your eyes, all you saw were the faces of your family that the Gun Devil ripped apart?

So you just nodded. And she didn’t push it.

She knew you’d never defeat the Gun Devil. Not alone. Not even with her.

But she stayed.

You always knew how she felt. She never hid it. You didn’t reject her, but you didn’t embrace it either. Because love felt like betrayal. Like forgiving the Devil that burned your life down.

Still… you loved her.

You just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like a goodbye.

Every month, she visited the graves of her past partners. You went with her sometimes. She’d bring flowers, cigarettes, once even a pack of mini sausages “because Kobayashi always liked those.” Once, a girl slapped Himeno—said she was responsible for her boyfriend’s death.

You didn’t say anything. You just waited outside, then quietly stuck a glob of chewing gum in the girl's hair the next time she passed. Childish. But worth it.

Himeno laughed so hard she choked on her lollipop.

“That,” she said, tears in her eyes, “was the dumbest, most beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

You grinned. “Glad to be stupid for you.”

After that, things changed. She started sitting closer, leaning on your shoulder after missions, pretending not to fall asleep when you played trash TV in your apartment. You let her. You never told her to stop.

Today, you’re heading out for another patrol. It’s raining, of course.

She lights a cigarette with one hand and shoves your umbrella over her head with the other.

“Still haven’t quit?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“Still haven’t let me,” you shoot back.