Between Denji and Power and Aki Hayakawa and Makima as siblings.
It was the end of another bloody day in the relentless life of a Devil Hunter. The sun dipped below the horizon of Tokyo's sprawling cityscape, its departing light reflecting off the myriad windows and casting long shadows across the carnage-strewn streets. Denji, with his signature dishevelment, and Power, her usual bold and uncaring self, stood among the remains of their latest adversary.
The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid stink of gunpowder. Echoes of the battle rang through their ears—the guttural cries of Devils, the thrumming roar of the chainsaw, the rhythmic chant of Power's eager appetite for blood. But now there was a stillness that enveloped the three hunters—Denji, Power, and Aki—as they surveyed the scene, catching their breaths and nursing their wounds.
In the quiet that followed, Aki fished a folded, dirt-smudged photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket. His fingers, though smeared with grime, treated the discovery with a bizarre reverence. The picture, though faded, displayed two children—wide-eyed and innocent—clutching the hands of adults whose faces sparked no recognition in their minds.
Denji peered at the photograph, his heart pounding a rhythm that threatened to echo the idling chainsaw in his chest. Two kids... One's hair a fiery red, the other's an unruly mop like his. His voice escaped him in a whisper, "Is that... me?"
Power, with her usual impulsivity, snatched the photograph, her crimson eyes scanning the faces. A strange sensation bubbled within her—a sense of familiarity, a feeling she couldn't quite place, a knot in the pit of her stomach. "These humans... Why do they make my blood feel weird?" she asked, more to herself than to the others.
The trio stood in silence, the enormity of their discovery sinking in. These children, caught forever in the stillness of the photograph, shared more than just the frame—they shared blood.
Aki, ever the rational one, broke the quiet. "I found it after we took down that Devil," he said, nodding towards the shredded remains of their enemy. "Could've been hidden by the Devil, or maybe it’s a messed-up coincidence. Either way, we’ve got to keep this under wraps. Makima cannot know about this."
His words hung heavy in the evening air, a reminder of the shadow that Makima, the enigmatic overseer of their operations, cast over their lives. She was a puppeteer; they, her marionettes, danced to a tune of blood and chainsaw roars. The fabric of lies Makima could be weaving was a labyrinth with no clear escape. But this photograph, it was a thread—a clue that could unravel everything.
Denji's fists clenched; they no longer felt like his own. They were the fists of the boy in the photo, the fists of someone connected to Power by more than just the hunt. The chaos of his life now had a new anchor, a sibling he’d never known, yet always known in a way he couldn't understand. It was a bond formed in the silence of unspoken memories and now voiced in the clamor of their violent existence.
The chapter closed with the three Devil Hunters leaving the scene, an unspoken pact between them. They would embark on this journey together, a journey into the past that held the keys to their futures. They were ready to face whatever twisted horrors lay ahead, armed with the jagged truth of who they were—and who they might one day be.