Angel clutched at his wing, the once-feathery appendage now stained crimson. The ligaments in the limb protruded haphazardly, and the tree in which he was stuck shook in the wind. He knew he needed to rethink his plan.
"Angel!" Denji's voice cut through the air, prompting the wounded Angel to begin his descent down the tree. He asked, "Denji, what are you doing here? How did you find me?" The strain on Angel's face was evident as a stray tree branch scraped against a chunk of his dangling wing.
With wobbly knees, Angel eventually landed on the ground. He could still somewhat glide, but each landing sent pinpricks of pain through his wings, aggravating the wound.
"What happened?" Denji inquired, noting the way Angel's shoulders slumped in response. "I don't know," Angel began, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I was flying to see what all the fire was about, then I heard a boom, and my wing was torn through."
"Think you got shot again?" Denji probed, his eyes narrowing in concern. Angel offered a halfhearted shrug. "I don't know, maybe."
"I took care of the fire thing," Denji stated, pointing a mangled, torn leg in Angel's direction. He initially appeared nonchalant, but Angel's reaction was quite the opposite. His eyes widened, and he stammered, "Denji, are you eating them?"
Denji gave a thumbs-up, unapologetic. "You might have to eat some to fix your wing. I can't find any more zombies."
Angel's stomach churned, and he gagged. "You've been eating zombies?"
"I didn't have a lot of options. That weird dude with the zombie old man messed me up real bad," Denji explained, his clothes bearing the marks of his fierce battle. Angel observed the damage – Denji's white button-up shirt was cut at the shoulders and singed in the front, and his khaki shorts were burned black at the sides.
"How did you beat the fire one?" Angel asked.
"I crushed 'em," Denji replied matter-of-factly, making a whipping motion with his hands. "I used my chains and crushed her with a tree."
Angel winced, Denji's still found Angel's more animated actions and lively appearance to be a bit freaky compared to when they had first met
Angel's ability to regenerate, while remarkable, was naturally slower than Denji's. Despite the glowing white aura and the sound of the muscles in his wing stitching themselves back together, Angel found it necessary to climb onto Denji's back in order to make their way back to town.
"My sense of balance is more sensitive due to my wings," Angel explained. "Even standing still is a chore because of their unequal weight, which weighs me down."
Denji couldn't help but be curious. "Hey, if the devil hunters weigh you, do they weigh you with your wings included or not?"
"Why would they weigh me without them?" Angel pondered.
"Well," Denji began, "muscle weighs more than fat, so if your wings are pure muscle, that's like 90 pounds of you that's just pure muscle. So you could weigh like 130 pounds, but your wings make you 220."
Angel looked up in contemplation. "Am I heavy?"
Denji chuckled. "No, it's just that you weigh an unusual amount for a twig." Angel playfully bopped the top of Denji's head.
Kishibe leaned in close to Quanxi, using the end of her cigarette to light his own while their faces were barely an inch apart. His voice carried a hint of solemnity as he continued the conversation, even as the menthol-flavored smoke wafted between them.
"January 18th, 1976," he began, "word came down the pipeline from the Minister of Japan that China has begun mobilizing a devil hunting brigade, primarily employing the use of fiends and an unknown new species of quasi-human devils who can supposedly regenerate from even the most grievous wounds."
Quanxi listened attentively while wiping a long cutlass clean, its metal stained pinkish with the purple blood of the insectoid monster they had just faced. She responded, "I was in the room when he announced it. I don't understand why this is important."
Kishibe's tattered and gore-stained appearance hinted at the intensity of their recent battle against the butterfly devil as he continued, "I've been thinking about it a lot."
Quanxi focused on her partner with her one eye, offering a word of caution, "Stop getting hung up on these things. It will age you quicker."
"I need to bum a light," Kishibe requested, taking a cigarette from his pocket. Quanxi advised, "You need to replace your lighter."
Kishibe's reply was a wry one, "I never have the time."
Quanxi didn't like it. She could have made an excuse about personal space or respect, but after nearly a decade working with Kishibe, she understood him down to the core of his being. She knew he would never cross any lines, but that wasn't the issue. Her memories were etched as vividly as polished glass. Quanxi had witnessed Kishibe's transformation from a talented rookie to a powerhouse, a hunter whose strength rivaled her own. She had seen him endure the most brutal and harrowing challenges from devils that would have broken anyone else. Yet, he persisted, and for some inexplicable reason, he cared about her deeply. Even though her instincts urged her to dismiss it, the New Year's night in Shibuya, long ago, remained a crystal-clear memory, forever etched in her mind.
"I guess I found something worth living for."
She pulled away from him once his cigarette was lit, her silent contemplation pausing for a moment when he pulled away. She despised his eyes, detesting how he had dedicated his life to selfish survival. Now, due to an enforced partnership through his employment, he was ready to abandon everything for a fantastical, idyllic life far from the clutches of devils and constant strife.
The mere thought of it tore her apart at the seams. She could almost see herself in the mirror, split into two reflections, each vying to escape from her. It was as if her ego, emotions, and morality were being torn down the middle. For two decades, she had known nothing but conflict in the world. For seven years, she had known Kishibe, a man cloaked in quiet misery and self-sacrifice. And for four years, she had known that a man who refused to yield, a man unchanging and loyal, desired nothing more than to stand by her side, even if she couldn't offer him what he yearned for.
Quanxi made a turn while walking down the road with Kishibe. "Where are you going?" he asked.
"I need to take care of something; I had a meeting," she replied in a monotone fashion. Kishibe stood in front of her, noticing that she didn't once make eye contact as she pushed past him.
Kishibe had grasped Quanxi's intentions. His fingers wrapped around his cigarette, plucking it from his mouth as he walked out of sight. He tossed it into a nearby trash can; he had never really liked smoking anyway.