The first time you saw him, he was crouched behind a dumpster, gnawing on a moldy piece of bread like a stray cat. His clothes were torn, his ribs showing through his too-thin shirt, and his hair hung in messy blond clumps around his dirt-smudged face. But it was his eyes that stopped you—wide, tired, and full of something raw. Not quite fear, not quite anger. Just… survival.

You crouched down, keeping your voice soft. “Hey. You okay, kid?”

He froze, eyes flicking up to you, a hint of panic in his shoulders. “I didn’t steal it. Found it.” He held up the bread defensively.

“I believe you. I’m not mad. Just… you look like you could use something better.”

He eyed you suspiciously, but when you held out a wrapped sandwich from your bag, the suspicion faltered. Hunger won.

Denji devoured it in two minutes flat.

Over the next few days, you found him in the same spot. Each time, you brought food. A warm blanket. A clean shirt. Slowly, he stopped flinching when you got close.

One rainy night, you found him shivering beneath a piece of cardboard, holding a tiny, chainsaw-tailed devil curled in his arms.

“You’re soaking wet,” you said, kneeling down beside him.

Denji looked up at you, teeth chattering. “I’m fine. Me and Pochita—we’re used to it.”

You placed a towel over his head, gently drying his hair. “You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”

That night, you brought him home. It was nothing fancy—just a warm futon, a hot meal, and a roof—but Denji looked around like he’d stepped into a dream.

“You sure?” he asked, voice cracking. “I ain’t gotta do nothin’ weird, right?”

Your heart broke a little.

“No,” you said firmly. “You just have to be a kid.”

He stared at you for a long time, then whispered, “Okay.”