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Aki woke up choking on air that wasn’t thick enough to feel real.
The hospital ceiling swam above him, fluorescent lights buzzing like they were annoyed he survived. His body screamed in fragments—bruises blooming under skin, ribs aching, lungs burning every time he breathed too deep. Yesterday came back in flashes. Blood. Screaming. The smell of iron and smoke and fear—
Himeno.
His head turned sharply, too fast, pain be damned. The chair beside the bed was empty. No coat thrown over it. No boots kicked off carelessly. No presence slouching in the corner like she belonged there more than the furniture did.
His throat went tight.
“No,” he muttered, barely sound at all. Like saying it quieter might make it less true.
His hand drifted to the bedside table, shaking now, fingers clumsy as they reached for the cigarette pack. Habit. Reflex. The stupid comfort of routine. Something to ground him before the memories finished what they started.
He pulled one out.
It wasn’t his brand.
The cigarette looked wrong—older, bent, like it had been carried around longer than it should’ve been. And then he saw it. The writing. Black ink, uneven, too familiar.
Easy Revenge!
The world caved in.
A sharp, animal sound tore out of his chest before he could stop it. His grip clenched so hard the cigarette nearly snapped between his fingers, pain flaring uselessly through his hand. His chest tightened, not metaphorically—not poetically—but like something physical had wrapped itself around his heart and started to squeeze.
Gone.
Not left.
Not disappeared.
Gone in the way devil contracts collect their due.
His breath came apart, each inhale scraping, jagged. Tears spilled fast and ugly, blurring his vision until the white room dissolved into something shapeless and hostile. His shoulders shook, violent, like his body was trying to reject the truth by force.
Her voice slammed into him, clear as if she were standing right there—
D-Don’t you die, Aki.
I want you to cry for me…
When I… die…
“No—” His voice broke completely, collapsing into a hoarse sound that didn’t resemble a word. “Shut up. Don’t—don’t say that.”
But she already had.
He folded forward with a sob that hurt his ribs, clutching the cigarette to his chest like it might burn her name into him if he pressed hard enough. Tears soaked the sheets, his hands, his face—messy, humiliating, unstoppable. He cried like someone who didn’t know how to exist in a world that kept going without her.
His chest ached. His head throbbed. His hands trembled.
The machines kept beeping.
The room stayed empty.
And the cigarette—her stupid, cruel, final joke—remained solid in his grip, proof that this wasn’t a nightmare he could wake up from again.
Aki cried until it stopped being dramatic and started being exhausting. Until there was no dignity left to lose. Until the pain settled somewhere deeper than tears could reach.
She was gone.
Aki’s chest seized.
Not metaphorically—his lungs forgot the rhythm. Breath hitched halfway in, sharp and useless, like his body was stalling out on him. His fingers curled, nails biting into his palm, heart slamming so hard it hurt. The image burned behind his eyes: white ceiling, hospital lights, inked words on paper, Easy Revenge!—
“No—no, no—!”
He gasped awake.
For real this time.
Darkness. Familiar darkness. His ceiling, cracked just slightly near the corner. The hum of the city bleeding through the walls. His sheets tangled around his legs, soaked through with sweat like he’d been dragged out of water.
A nightmare. It’s just a nightmare. Yet his heart kept racing like it didn’t believe that.
Aki sat up too fast, dizzy, breath still uneven. His hands shook as he shoved the blankets aside and stumbled out of the bedroom. The apartment was dim, lit only by the TV’s glow spilling across the living room.
And there—
Himeno…
Real, solid, alive in the most mundane way possible.
She was sprawled on the couch, one leg tucked under the other, wearing shorts and a loose tank-top like this was just another night. A black cat rested on her lap, purring lazily as she absentmindedly scratched behind its ears. Some late-night program flickered on the screen, noise low, unimportant.
She glanced up.
“Oh boy,” she said, eyes flicking over him, unimpressed but alert. “You’re a mess.”
Aki didn’t answer.
He crossed the room in two steps and reached for her like he might disappear if he didn’t. His hand landed on her shoulder—warm. Real. She startled slightly, eyebrows lifting as he gripped her, fingers digging in like he needed proof that she wouldn’t slip through him.
She didn’t.
The cat hopped off her lap with an offended flick of its tail.
“Aki?” Himeno turned fully toward him now, confusion knitting her expression together. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”
He swallowed hard, throat burning. His hand slid from her shoulder to her wrist, then her forearm, grounding himself in the weight of her, the heat of her skin. His breathing slowly—slowly—found its way back.
She was here.
She was breathing.
She wasn’t gone.
Himeno tilted her head, studying him, concern finally cracking through the teasing. “Why are you sweating so much?” she asked, softer now.
Aki stared at her like she might fade if he blinked.
“…No, it’s nothing,” he managed, voice hoarse.
She snorted lightly, reaching up to brush his damp hair back from his forehead. “You look like you wrestled a devil in your sleep.”
If she knew...
If she knew how close the world had come to ending in his head.
He didn’t let go of her. Not yet. Not until the room felt solid again.
Himeno sighed and shifted, scooting over on the couch. “C’mon,” she muttered, casual like it wasn’t an invitation that mattered. “Sit before you fall over.”
Aki obeyed without thinking.
The cushions dipped under his weight as he sat beside her, and after a second—hesitant, instinctive—he leaned in. His head came to rest against her shoulder. She didn’t comment on it. Just let him, like this was a shape they’d fit into a thousand times before.
The room breathed around them.
The refrigerator hummed softly from the kitchen. The TV droned on, some late-night program neither of them was really watching. A slow, steady drip echoed from the sink—water not fully tightened. Somewhere near the corner, the black cat had curled up in its bed, fast asleep, tail twitching once before going still.
Normal.
Painfully, undeniably normal.
Aki’s heartbeat finally slowed, syncing with the quiet of the apartment. This—this—was real. It had to be. Nothing sharp. Nothing screaming. No blood, no contracts, nothing waiting in the dark.
Himeno’s hand came up, fingers threading through his hair, ruffling it absentmindedly. Familiar. Thoughtless.
And then he felt it.
The ring.
Cool metal brushing against his temple, unmistakable in its weight. His eyes flicked down, slow, almos afraid of what he’d see.
On her left hand—on the finger that mattered—sat a simple band. Worn. Lived-in. Like it had been there for years.
His chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was confusion, thick, dizzying, wrong.
His gaze drifted forward, landing on the table beneath the TV.
A photo frame.
He hadn’t noticed it before. He was sure he hadn’t.
Inside it—them.
Aki stood stiff in suit, expression awkward but softened in a way he didn’t recognize. Himeno beside him in a dress, smiling wide, unapologetic, one hand hooked through his arm like she belonged there. Like she always had.
A wedding photo.
Their wedding photo.
“Oh,” he breathed.
Himeno hummed, half-asleep, half-present. “Oh what?”
He couldn’t answer.
The knowledge settled slowly, unnervingly, like a memory sliding into place without asking permission. They weren’t devil hunters. There were no contracts, no deaths waiting to happen on the job. They were coworkers at some company—paperwork, deadlines, coffee breaks. Mundane complaints. Safe routines.
Married. Already married.
And yet—Aki’s stomach twisted.
It felt wrong. Not bad. Not painful. Just… unfamiliar. Like stepping into a life that fit his body perfectly but not his mind. Like waking up fluent in a language he didn’t remember learning.
“I don’t remember,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her.
“Remember what?” Himeno asked, fingers still carding through his hair.
He stared at the photo, at the ring, at the normalcy pressing in on him from all sides.
Any of it.
This was reality.
It had to be.
So why did it feel like he’d forgotten his own life?
“You need something?” Himeno asked again, softer this time.
Genuine worry. The kind that didn’t come from obligation or habit, but from care that had settled in and made itself permanent.
Like a wife would.
Aki opened his mouth then closed it. His thoughts felt out of order, scattered like papers knocked off a desk. He searched for something—anything—that would explain the hollow, echoing space inside his head.
“I…” His voice came out rough. He swallowed. “I don’t feel right.”
Her hand stilled.
“What do you mean?” she asked, not joking now.
He leaned back just enough to look at her properly. This close, he could see all the small things: the faint line at the corner of her mouth, the way her eyes softened when they met his, the familiar scent of soap and something warmer underneath. None of it felt new.
And that scared him more than if it had.
“I feel like I woke up in the middle of my own life,” he said slowly. “Like I missed something important. Like… I was somewhere else.”
Himeno didn’t interrupt. She just listened, eyes searching his face like she was trying to line him up with the man she knew.
“Bad dream?” she offered gently.
He almost laughed. Almost.
“There were devils,” he said, quiet. “You died.”
The words landed between them, heavy and wrong.
Himeno froze—just for a second—but it was enough. Her fingers curled into his sleeve.
“…That’s not funny, Aki.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I’m not joking. I know it doesn’t make sense. But it felt real. Too real.”
She studied him, really looked this time, like she was checking for fever, for something broken she couldn’t see. Then she reached up and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.
“You’re burning up,” she muttered. “No wonder you’re talking like this.”
She leaned in, resting her forehead against his temple, grounding, familiar. “You probably overworked yourself again. Happens every time you forget you’re not twenty anymore.”
Not a devil hunter.
Just an office worker.
A husband who worked too late.
“I’m right here,” she said firmly, like she needed him to hear it. “Alive. Annoying. Married to you, unfortunately.”
Her thumb brushed over his knuckles—over his ring this time.
Himeno didn’t wait for his answer.
She stood up from the couch with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition, movements flowing like this had been done a hundred times before—maybe more. She padded into the kitchen, bare feet quiet against the floor. Aki watched her go, like if he looked away too long she’d dissolve into something less real.
The kettle filled.
The stove clicked on.
Water began to boil.
Normal sounds. Domestic. Almost painfully so.
She came back with a wet towel folded neatly in her hands, steam still clinging faintly to it, the scent of herbs trailing after her. “Lay down for real,” she said, not unkind, but firm in that way she got when she’d already decided what was best for him.
Before he could argue, she pressed the towel gently to his forehead.
Warmth bloomed there, grounding and overwhelming all at once. His eyes fluttered shut on instinct.
“God,” she muttered, touching his cheek with the back of her fingers. “You’re way too hot. What were you doing, huh? Stressing yourself out again?”
She guided him down, slow and careful, easing him onto the couch like he might break if she moved too fast. When his head settled against the cushion, she adjusted it, fussed with the pillow, and made sure his neck wasn’t strained. Every touch was practiced. Familiar. Lived-in.
Too lived-in.
She dabbed his face, his neck, wiping away sweat like this was just another night where he’d pushed himself too far. Like there hadn’t been a whole other life screaming inside his skull.
“Drink this in a bit,” she said, setting the tea on the table. “Don’t touch it yet. Too hot.”
Aki opened his eyes, watched her kneel beside him. The ring on her finger caught the light again, glinting softly, unapologetically real. When she brushed his hair back, her hand lingered there, thumb pressing lightly at his temple.
“You scared me,” she admitted quietly.
That did something to him. Twisted deep.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Sorry for the dream. Sorry for the other world. Sorry for remembering something he wasn’t supposed to.
She sighed, leaning closer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead like it was instinct, not choice. “Just rest, okay? I’ve got you.”
I’ve got you.
Aki stared up at the ceiling again, the hum of the fridge filling the silence, the drip from the sink counting seconds. Her hand stayed on his, steady, warm.
Everything felt safe.
Everything felt wrong.
And as she sat there, taking care of him like she always had—like she always would—Aki wondered, dimly, horrifyingly:
If this was reality… then what, exactly, had he just lost?