The magazine felt like sandpaper in your hands—cheap paper, nothing worth remembering. You weren’t even reading the words anymore.

Just letting your eyes glaze over the pages, flipping through ads and old interviews as the dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above you like a lazy wasp.

You were starting to forget what time it was. Maybe that was the point.

The soft, steady echo of footsteps pulled you out of the haze. Not the heavy, rushed kind of a nurse. Not the jittery pace of Kobeni. These steps were lighter. Confident.

The door slid open with a faint hiss. “Yo.”

Himeno stood there, hand raised in a lazy wave, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth like she already knew you were surprised to see her.

She shut the door behind her, the lock clicking quietly into place. Her black coat was slung over one shoulder, and a paper bag hung from her other hand.

She walked to your bedside and sank into the chair with practiced ease, as if she’d done it a dozen times before — which, maybe she had.

Her presence had a strange way of making the sterile room feel… less dead. “How are you holding up?” she asked, voice soft but steady.

You looked at her.

Dark circles under her eyes, a slight scratch on her cheek. Probably from the same mission that landed you here.

But still, she looked calm. Collected. The kind of person who could laugh after dragging a body out of the rubble.

Your silence didn’t bother her. She leaned back in the chair, resting her boot on her knee.

“Tough one, huh?” she said. “I heard the devil had a thing for explosives. And you had a thing for getting blown to hell.”

Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were scanning you—checking the bandages, the machines, your breathing. Every little detail filed away behind that lazy smirk.

“I brought something,” she added, setting the paper bag on the bedside table. She pulled out a can of your favorite drink. And a sandwich that was probably still warm.

“Nurse said technically you’re on a bland diet,” Himeno shrugged. “But I figured if you were strong enough to fight a devil, you’re strong enough for a little rebellion.”

She popped the tab of the drink open, held it out to you. Her fingers brushed yours for a second longer than necessary.

“I know what it’s like,” she said, voice quieter now. “To wake up here and wonder if it was worth it. If the scars are going to stop showing up. If you’re gonna get back up again just to fall harder the next time.”

She took a sip from her own can, looked away for a moment, then turned back to you. “But I also know this — you’re still here. And that means something.”

She reached over, plucked the magazine from your lap, and made a face. “Really? Horoscope junk?” You managed a weak shrug.

She grinned. “You’re such a dork.” But her hand stayed on yours.