[Arto's mansion]
The mansion was quiet that night—too quiet after the storm of the past week.
Arto stepped through the front door just past midnight, shoulders heavy, face etched with the kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could immediately erase. The raid, the rescue, the trial, the executions—every moment had carved another line into him. He still heard the screams from the chamber where Shou Tucker had been injected with Eternal Night.
That man had smiled right until the end. Even as the chemical dragged him under. Even as he rolled on the floor, clawing at his own skin, shrieking at visions only he could see. Even as his body convulsed for two full hours—someone had been cruel enough (or merciful enough) to keep his heart beating just long enough to prolong the nightmare. When it finally ended, Tucker's eyes were hollow sockets, skin waxy and pale, mouth frozen in a rictus that no longer resembled a smile.
Arto hadn't stayed for Caesar Clown's turn. He didn't need to. The punishment fit. The monster was gone. That was enough.
He kicked off his boots in the foyer, hung his coat, and walked into the living room on autopilot.
The black cat was curled on the arm of the sofa—sleek now, no longer skin-and-bones. Nami had taken her in like a mission objective: premium wet food, brushed fur, a collar with a tiny bell, a heated bed that cost more than some people's rent. The cat had adapted fast—already claimed half the furniture, already learned that the moment Arto sat down, jerky would appear.
He dropped onto the sofa with a low groan.
The cat lifted her head—green eyes catching the lamplight—then padded across the cushions without hesitation. She hopped into his lap, circled once, and settled with her small weight pressed against his stomach.
Arto exhaled—long, slow—and reached into void space. A strip of jerky materialized between his fingers. Same recipe he'd carried in his past life: smoked, spiced, tough enough to last weeks in a pack. He tore off a piece and offered it.
The cat sniffed once—then took it delicately, chewing with focused pleasure while leaning into his scratching fingers. He watched her for a moment—ears larger than a normal housecat's, tail unusually thick and expressive—then spoke, voice rough from disuse. "How do you like your life here… Kuroka?"
The cat froze mid-chew. Then—slowly—her form shimmered.
Black fur dissolved into pale skin and black silk. Ears remained—large, black, twitching. Two tails unfurled behind her, thick and swaying. The small feline body stretched and reshaped until a young woman lay draped across his lap instead—black kimono slipping off one shoulder, golden eyes meeting his with quiet, knowing amusement.
Kuroka Toujou rested her cheek against his thigh, one hand lazily playing with the hem of his shirt. "Better than I expected," she murmured. "Warm bed. Full belly. A man who feeds strays jerky and names them after missing sisters. Could be worse...How did you know it was me?"
Arto smirks as his finger brushes her hair gently "I'm a Senjutsu user as well, it's hard not to notice you absorbing natural energy to maintain your cat form, especially hiding 2 tails here" his other hand brushes the tip of her tail, making it convulse a little out of sensitivity "Not only that, you have a nest outside my home near the place where Koneko's room is, and you sometimes follow Koneko to school when she parted ways with us to go to Kuoh Junior High"
Kuroka's golden eyes widened for a fraction of a second—surprise flickering through them like a candle flame caught in a draft—before they narrowed again in wry amusement.
She let out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound vibrating against Arto's thigh.
"So you've been watching me watch her." She tilted her head so her cheek slid along the fabric of his pants, deliberately slow. "Stalker."
Arto's smirk deepened. His fingers continued their lazy path through her raven hair—gentle, almost absentminded—while his other hand gave the sensitive tip of one tail another feather-light brush.
The tail jerked again—convulsing in that involuntary, full-body twitch cats (and apparently nekoshou in human form) couldn't suppress. Kuroka sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, ears flicking back, then forward again.
"Careful," she purred, voice dropping half an octave. "You keep doing that and I might start purring loud enough to wake the whole house… or scratch you up for fun."
Arto's thumb traced the base of her ear instead—slow circles that made her eyelids flutter despite herself.
"I noticed the first night," he said quietly. "You were careful—very careful—but Senjutsu leaves traces even when you try to hide them. The way the grass bends just slightly toward you when you sit still too long. The faint pull of natural energy curling around your fur when you're in cat form. And the nest…" He tilted his head toward the window. "Right under Koneko's room. Close enough to hear her breathing at night. Close enough to smell if she's upset."
Kuroka's playful expression softened—just a little.
"I had to know she was okay," she murmured. "After everything… I couldn't just disappear completely. Not when I could still smell her shampoo on the wind every morning. Not when I could hear her laugh through the walls sometimes."
She rolled onto her back in his lap—looking up at him upside-down, tails curling lazily around his wrist like living bracelets. "So what now, oh wise Senjutsu master?" Her tone was teasing again, but her eyes were serious. "You going to drag me in there by the scruff and make me face her? Or are you going to keep pretending you didn't know I was squatting in your garden like a stray?"
Arto's finger hovered just above the tip of her nose—glowing faintly violet for a heartbeat—before he touched her. The illusion shattered like frost under breath.
What had been flawless porcelain skin fractured into a map of old violence: thin white lines crisscrossing her left cheek like claw marks that never quite healed right, a burn scar that pulled the corner of her eye downward, patches of discolored tissue where chemicals had eaten too deep before her regeneration could catch up. One long, ropy keloid ran from temple to jaw—jagged, raised, the kind of mark left when someone tries to carve runes into flesh and the body fights back halfway through. Her lips—still full, still curved in that teasing smile—had a faint seam of scar tissue along the lower one, as though someone had once stitched them shut.
Beautiful. Broken. Both at once. Kuroka's golden eyes widened—pupils blowing out in instinctive panic. Her hands flew up to cover her face before the illusion had even finished dissolving. "No—no no no—" She twisted, trying to bolt off his lap, tails thrashing, ears flattening tight to her skull. The movement was pure reflex—prey animal cornered, wanting nothing more than to vanish back into the dark where no one could see.
Arto caught her wrist—gentle, but unbreakable—and pulled her back down. She landed against his chest with a small, startled sound. He didn't let go. Instead he lifted his other hand—slowly, deliberately—and pressed it to the side of his own face. Mana shimmered once—soft, dark—and the handsome mask he wore for the world peeled away.
What remained was no longer the sharp-jawed, high-cheekboned man Kuoh Academy knew.
Pale gray skin stretched too tight over sharp bones. Sunken eyes whose dark blue depths swallowed light instead of reflecting it, the blue fire within them now dimmed to a low, smoldering ember that made looking into them feel like staring down an open grave. Scars—old, deep, merciless—crisscrossed every visible inch: jagged claw marks across the cheeks and brow, burn-like welts along the jaw, deep gouges that had healed poorly and pulled the features into something harsh and monstrous.
One long slash bisected his left eyebrow and continued down to split the upper lip. Another cluster of puncture scars dotted his throat like someone had tried to tear it out more than once. He didn't flinch when her gaze darted across the wreckage. He just held her wrist—thumb brushing the inside in slow, soothing circles. "Don't be scared, Kuroka," he said quietly. "We're both ugly."
He lifted his free hand—slow enough she could pull away if she wanted—and let his fingers trace the longest scar on her cheek. Not pity. Not revulsion. Just… recognition. "So you don't need to be afraid," he continued, voice low and rough. "There's someone here who was torn apart like you. Someone who knows what it feels like when they cut too deep and the body forgets how to heal pretty. Someone who knows what it's like to look in the mirror and see ambition carved into your skin instead of a face."
Kuroka's breathing hitched—small, stuttering gasps. Her free hand rose—hesitant—until her fingertips brushed the edge of the gash on his jaw. "You…" Her voice cracked. "You hide it too."
"Every day," he said simply. "Same as you." Her tails—still wrapped around his wrist—slowly loosened, then curled tighter in a different way. Not escape. Anchor. She leaned forward—forehead dropping to rest against his collarbone.
She leaned forward—forehead dropping to rest against his collarbone. "They took pieces," she whispered. "Not just skin. Not just blood. They took… me. Every time he smiled and said 'for progress' I felt another part disappear. But I kept telling myself—if I take it all, Shirone stays whole. If I break enough, they won't need her."
Arto's arms came around her—slow, careful, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn't. She pressed closer instead—face buried against his neck, breath warm and uneven. "I hated the mirror," she continued—voice muffled. "Hated how I looked. Hated that I couldn't smile without seeing the stitches. Hated that every scar reminded me I wasn't strong enough to stop him sooner. But I never hated Shirone for being safe. Never."
Arto's hand slid up—cupped the back of her head, fingers threading through black hair. "She knows that now," he said. "She read the logs. She knows every time you begged him to leave her alone. She knows you took it all so she wouldn't have to. She's been crying for you—apologizing for being scared, for hating you when she didn't understand."
Kuroka's shoulders shook once—silent sob swallowed against his skin. "I want to see her," she whispered. "I want to tell her I'm sorry. I want… I want my little sister back." Arto pressed his lips to the crown of her head—soft, steady. "Then go to her, embrace her, tell her that you're home to her, and you two will never be apart again. Koneko would love to have her sister back, and we would love to welcome a new residence, especially Nami"
Kuroka stayed curled against him for a long minute after his words, breathing uneven, tails slowly loosening from their tight coil around his wrist. The trembling in her shoulders eased—not gone, but quieter, like a storm that had finally broken instead of raging on. She lifted her head at last—golden eyes wet, but clearer now.
The scars on her face caught the lamplight: silver threads and burn-patches that no illusion could ever fully hide again. She didn't try to cover them this time. "You really think she won't… flinch?" Her voice was small—almost childlike in that moment, stripped of every teasing layer she usually wore like armor.
Arto brushed his thumb along the edge of the longest scar on her cheek—gentle, deliberate. "She's been flinching from the memory of you for three years," he said. "Not from you. From what she thought you became. When she sees the truth—when she sees you standing there, whole, still loving her the same way you always did—she won't flinch. She'll run. Besides, she has seen this horrific face"
He points at his jagged face "She is immune to this kind of sight, what she wanted to see now is only her sister" Kuroka let out a small, shaky laugh—half sob, half relief—when Arto pointed to his own scarred face. The sound was raw, unguarded, like something long caged finally being let out to breathe. "You're really bad at pep talks, you know that?" she murmured, but there was no bite in it. Only warmth. Only gratitude.
She lifted one hand—hesitant at first—and let her fingertips trace the deepest gash that ran from his temple to jaw. Not flinching. Not pulling away. Just… mapping the damage the same way he had mapped hers moments ago.
"Immune, huh?" she whispered, echoing his words. Her thumb brushed the edge of the burn that had taken part of his eyebrow. "Good. Because I'm tired of hiding mine."
[Arto's mansion - Koneko's room]
Arto paused outside Koneko's door, one scarred hand already raised to knock. Beside him, Kuroka stood frozen—ears flat, tails wrapped so tightly around her own waist they trembled. Her golden eyes were fixed on the wood grain like it might bite her.
He glanced sideways. "Ready?" he asked—voice pitched low enough that only she would hear. Kuroka swallowed. Nodded once. Then shook her head. Then nodded again. Arto didn't push. He simply lifted his knuckles and rapped twice—gentle, deliberate.
Inside, a small, wet sniffle cut off mid-breath. Fabric rustled. A shaky exhale. Then silence. "Come in, Senpai…" The voice was small, congested, trying so hard to sound normal. Arto turned the knob slowly—pushed the door open just wide enough to slip through—then lifted a hand to Kuroka.
Wait here. Just for now.
She nodded—small, jerky—claws digging into her own sleeves. Arto stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft click. Koneko sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The nightlight on her nightstand cast long shadows across her face. She was staring out the window—past the garden, past the fence, past the streetlights—into the cold black horizon as though something out there might finally answer if she looked hard enough.
She didn't turn when he approached. Arto sat on the edge of the mattress—careful not to crowd her—hands resting loose on his thighs. "Who're you looking for?" he asked quietly. Koneko's ears twitched once. Her voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "…nee-san."
She hugged her knees tighter. "I keep thinking… maybe if I look long enough… she'll be out there. Walking back. Like she just went for a walk and got lost for three years." A small, broken laugh escaped her. "Stupid, right? She's a stray. She's SS-rank. If she wanted to be found… she'd be here already."
Arto stayed silent—letting her words fill the space. Koneko's gaze never left the window. "She suffered so much," she continued—voice cracking on every other word. "For me. All those logs… every time she begged him to leave me alone… every time she took another needle, another cut, another… everything… just so I wouldn't have to. She carried it all. Alone. And I—I hated her. I was scared of her. I thought she wanted to hurt me. I thought she was a monster."
A fresh tear slipped down her cheek—caught the nightlight and glittered. "But now… now the lab's gone. The monsters are gone. The truth is out. Her name is clean. I'm safe. I'm home. And she's still running. Still hiding. Still thinking she has to protect me from herself."
Koneko's voice broke completely. "I don't know how to call her back. I don't know if she even wants to be called back. I don't know if she thinks I hate her too much now. I just… I just want her to know she can stop running. She can come home. She can be my sister again. We can be family again."
She finally turned—eyes red, swollen, pleading. "Senpai… how do I tell her that?" Arto reached out—slow—cupped the back of her head the same way he'd done for Kuroka minutes earlier. His thumb brushed gently over one soft black cat ear. "You don't have to find the words," he said quietly. "You just have to open the door."
He stood—offered his hand. Koneko stared at it—then at him—then slowly placed her small hand in his scarred one. He led her to the door. Opened it. Kuroka was still standing in the hallway—exactly where he'd left her. No illusion. No cat form. Just her—scars laid bare, kimono slipping off one shoulder, tails drooping, ears trembling, golden eyes wide and terrified and hopeful all at once.
Koneko froze...Kuroka froze...For one long, shattering heartbeat—neither moved. Then Koneko's breath hitched—once—sharp. "Nee… san…?" Kuroka's face crumpled. "Shirone…" And then Koneko was moving—fast—small feet slapping against the floorboards as she ran the three steps between them and threw herself into her sister's arms.
Kuroka caught her—staggered back one step—then sank to her knees right there in the hallway, clutching Koneko like she might disappear if she let go. "I'm sorry," Kuroka choked out—voice breaking on every syllable. "I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to leave you. I just… I just wanted you safe. I took it all so you wouldn't have to. I'm sorry, Shirone. I'm so sorry…"
Koneko clung back—face buried in Kuroka's neck—small hands fisting black silk. "I know," she whispered—over and over. "I know now. I read everything. I'm sorry too. For being scared. For hating you. I didn't understand. I love you, nee-san. I never stopped. Please… please don't run anymore. Stay. Stay with me. Stay home."
Kuroka's arms tightened—shaking. "I'm here," she sobbed. "I'm not going anywhere. Never again. I'm home. I'm home…" They stayed like that—kneeling in the hallway—sobbing into each other's shoulders—two sisters who had lost each other for three years finally found again.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Akeno texting]
The next morning arrived soft and golden, sunlight spilling through the tall windows of the mansion's living room like spilled honey. Radia's voice floated through the air—bright, lilting, a cheerful nonsense melody about "pancakes that dance and syrup rivers"—as though the horrors of the previous days had never touched this place.
On the longest sofa, Nami sat cross-legged in triumph.
Koneko was tucked under her left arm—human features restored, ears and tails hidden, expression fixed in its usual flat annoyance. Her small hands pushed half-heartedly at Nami's side every few seconds, but she made no real effort to escape. Kuroka occupied the right side—human illusion firmly in place again, scars hidden beneath flawless skin and that familiar teasing smile. She leaned into Nami's petting hand with shameless pleasure—eyes half-lidded, one tail (still visible despite the glamour on the rest of her) lazily flicking against the cushions.
Nami's fingers moved in perfect rhythm—scratching behind Koneko's human ears (even if they weren't out) and stroking down Kuroka's back in long, indulgent sweeps. "My two perfect cats," she cooed. "Look at you. So fluffy. So soft. So mine." Koneko huffed—tiny, resigned. "Stop calling me fluffy."
Kuroka laughed—low and warm—then tilted her head so Nami could reach the spot just behind her ear better. "Keep going," she purred. "I'll allow it. For more jerky later." Nami grinned—then—without missing a beat—nudged her tablet toward Kuroka with her elbow. "Hold this for me, pretty kitty? Swipe left when the red arrow pops up. That's a sell signal. Green arrow—buy. Don't let the screen lock."
Kuroka accepted the tablet with exaggerated grace—balancing it on one palm while her free hand stole another strip of jerky from the plate Nami had set between them. "As long as the snacks keep coming," she said, already obediently swiping when the first notification pinged. Nami sighed happily—both hands now free to resume dual petting.
"Best employees ever." The moment lasted exactly twelve seconds. Grayfia appeared in the archway—perfect posture, silver hair gleaming, carrying a small silver tray with fresh tea. "Kuroka," she said—voice calm, warm in that understated Grayfia way. "Your room has been prepared. It is the one immediately adjacent to Koneko's. The closet has already been stocked with clothing in your size and style. The bed is made. If anything is missing, inform me."
Kuroka's teasing smile softened into something quieter—almost shy. "…Thank you, Grayfia." Grayfia inclined her head—small, graceful. "You are family now. Welcome home." Koneko's head lifted slightly—eyes flicking toward her sister. Kuroka met her gaze—golden eyes shining. "Permanent," she whispered.
Koneko's ears (still hidden) would have flicked if they were out. Instead she just leaned a little harder into Nami's side—silent acceptance. And then Arto walked in. Newspaper folded under one arm. Hair still damp from a quick shower. Expression calm—but the faint tension around his eyes told everyone who knew him that he'd already read the headlines. He stopped in the center of the room.
Unfolded the paper. Began to read aloud—voice low, steady, carrying to every corner.
"Underworld Bulletin – Immediate Release Following comprehensive review of evidence submitted by joint Gremory-Sitri task force and royal investigators, the wanted status of SS-rank Stray Devil Kuroka Toujou has been lifted with immediate effect.
The killing of Kunal Clement is hereby ruled justifiable homicide in defense of self and another (minor sibling Shirone Toujou). All charges related to unauthorized Senjutsu usage, murder, and treason are dropped.
Kuroka Toujou is no longer classified as a Stray. She is restored to free Devil status with full rights of movement, residence, and employment across all territories under the Four Satans. The two Bishop Evil Pieces formerly implanted by Kunal Clement remain hers as lawful inheritance—power boost intact and unregulated.
The Underworld extends formal apology for the misclassification and offers reparations as determined by the joint tribunal."
Arto lowered the paper. Silence held for two heartbeats. Then Koneko moved. She slipped out of Nami's arms—crossed the space between sofa and Arto in three quick steps—and simply wrapped her arms around his waist. Face buried against his stomach. No words. Just a tight, wordless hug.
Arto rested one hand on the top of her head—gentle, steady. Kuroka rose more slowly—kimono whispering—until she stood beside her sister. She looked at Arto for a long moment—golden eyes shining—then stepped forward and joined the hug. Two sisters—one small and fierce, one older and scarred—holding onto the man who had helped bring them back together.
Nami was already crying—happy, messy tears—while Robin quietly passed her a handkerchief with an extra hand. Rias leaned against Akeno—smiling through her own tears. Grayfia folded her hands in front of her—silver eyes soft. Albedo simply watched—ring glinting on her finger—smile small, proud, content.
Radia—perched on the curtain rod—shifted her song to something softer, warmer, a lullaby about coming home after a long journey. Arto looked down at the two sisters clinging to him—then up at the rest of his family. His voice—when he spoke—was quiet. Rough. Real. "Welcome home, Kuroka."
Kuroka's arms tightened around him and Koneko both. "I'm home," she whispered.
[Meanwhile]
Akeno sat curled on the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, phone cradled in both hands like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the room. The living-room chatter—Nami cooing over the two nekoshou sisters, Grayfia's quiet footsteps, Radia's soft morning trill—washed over her in gentle, distant waves. She heard it all. She felt none of it.
Her thumb hovered over the chat thread labeled simply Elias. Four months. Four months of messages exchanged under the alias Loreen Ravenna, PhD – Clinical Psychologist (Online).
Four months of careful, measured replies that had slowly—agonizingly—turned into something real. She scrolled upward until the timestamp hit that night three weeks ago.
The night he'd typed the words that still made her chest ache every time she read them.
Elias (02:47 AM): I took the gun out of the drawer tonight. Held it for almost an hour. The screams were loud again. Her voice calling for me. The fire. The way the roof came down. I almost did it. I almost pulled the trigger just to make it quiet. Then I remembered what you said last week. About how the quiet isn't peace if it's permanent. About how the people we lose don't want us to follow them into the dark—they want us to carry the light they left behind. So I put it back. Locked the drawer. Cried like a child. And I'm still here. Thank you, Loreen. I mean it. Thank you.
She had stared at that message for seventeen minutes before she could type.
Loreen Ravenna (03:04 AM): You're welcome, Elias. I'm proud of you. Truly. And I'm glad you're still here.
Another long silence—three dots dancing, disappearing, dancing again.
Elias (03:12 AM): Can I ask something personal? You always seem to… understand. More than textbook understanding. Have you… been there too?
Her thumb had hovered over the keyboard for almost two full minutes.
Then she typed the truth—the first real truth she'd given anyone outside this house in years.
Loreen Ravenna (03:14 AM): Yes. I've been there too.
She stared at the blinking cursor for so long the screen dimmed, then brightened again when she tapped it awake. Her heart hammered against her ribs—loud enough that she was sure someone downstairs would hear it.
Loreen Ravenna (03:17 AM): I was eight. My mother held me until the last second. I remember her hair catching fire first. The smell. The way she tried to shield me even when her own skin was peeling. When the roof came down she pushed me under her body. I woke up clutching her. She wasn't breathing anymore. The house was cold after that. So cold. Even with the fire still smoldering in places. I sat there for hours—holding her—until the neighbors finally broke through what was left of the door.
She stopped. Swallowed. The phone screen blurred.
Loreen Ravenna (03:19 AM): The grief didn't arrive all at once. It came in pieces. First confusion—why isn't she moving? Then pain—when they tried to pull her away from me. Then fear—because if she could die, anyone could. Then the anger. It had to go somewhere. So it went toward the only person left. My father. He arrived too late. Hours too late. I remember his face when he saw us—saw her—saw me still holding her like if I let go she might wake up. I screamed at him. Threw things. Told him it was his fault. That if he'd been faster, if he'd been there, she'd still be alive. I blamed him because blaming myself was worse. Because if it wasn't his fault, then it was just… random. Cruel. Meaningless. And I couldn't survive that.
She had to stop again. Her breathing was uneven now—shallow, like she was back in that burning house, smoke in her lungs.
Loreen Ravenna (03:23 AM): I held onto that hate for years. I couldn't look at his face without seeing her body. Couldn't hear his voice without hearing her last breath. I pushed him away. Shut him out. Told myself I was protecting the memory of my mother. But the hate was eating me alive. Every time I looked in the mirror I saw her eyes—accusing me for surviving when she didn't. Every time I heard a door close I thought it was him leaving again. Every time someone showed me kindness I thought they'd leave too. I became… bitter. Sharp. Afraid to let anyone close because closeness meant loss. Meant fire. Meant cold houses and cold bodies.
Another long pause. The three dots appeared—Elias typing—then disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared.
She kept going before she lost her nerve.
Loreen Ravenna (03:28 AM): Hearing your story… It cracked something open. You lost your daughter in the fire. You blame yourself for not being faster. For not being there. You've carried that guilt like a second skin. And suddenly I saw my father in you. I saw a man who arrived too late. Who watched the people he loved burn. Who blamed himself every single day. Who probably still wakes up hearing screams. I never asked him what he felt that night. I never let him speak. I just… threw my pain at him. Because it was easier than carrying it myself.
She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand—quick, angry at the tears.
Loreen Ravenna (03:32 AM): Maybe he's been suffering the same way you are. Maybe he's been drowning in the same guilt. Maybe he's been afraid to reach out because he thinks I still hate him. Maybe… we're both carrying the same wound. Just on different sides.
Akeno's phone buzzed softly against her thigh—once, twice—pulling her out of the half-daze she'd fallen into. She turned it over slowly, screen lighting up her face in the dim living-room glow.
Elias (03:41 AM): I read your last messages three times. I'm sitting in my kitchen right now with the lights off because turning them on felt… wrong. Like I'd be pretending the dark wasn't still here. I don't have the right words. I never do. But I'm going to try anyway because you've given me more honesty than I've had in years.
She felt her throat tighten before she even finished the first paragraph.
Elias (03:42 AM): I wasn't the one who stood there holding my wife while she burned. I was the one who came home too late. The fire trucks were already there. The neighbors were crying in their yards. Someone tried to stop me from running inside but I threw them off. I got as far as the front steps before a firefighter tackled me. Said the roof was coming down any second. Said no one could still be alive in there. I fought him anyway. They had to hold me down on the lawn while the flames ate everything. I kept screaming her name. My daughter's name. I still hear myself screaming sometimes when it's quiet.
Akeno pressed her knuckles to her lips—hard—trying to keep the sound inside.
Elias (03:45 AM): You said you threw everything at your father. Blamed him. I did the same thing. Not to anyone else—to myself. Every day for years I stood in front of the mirror and told the man looking back that he was too slow, too weak, too useless to save the two people who mattered most. I hated him. Still do, some nights.
Akeno's vision blurred. She blinked hard—once, twice—but the tears kept coming anyway.
Elias (03:49 AM): You don't have to forgive him tomorrow. Or next month. Or ever, if that's what you decide. But if you ever want to try… Maybe start with one question. Not "Why weren't you there?" But "What did it feel like for you when you finally got home and saw what was left?" Because I think that's what I needed someone to ask me. Not blame. Just… curiosity about the pain. About the part that hurts too much to speak out loud.
He sent one last message—short.
Elias (03:51 AM): Thank you for telling me your story. For trusting me with it. You didn't have to. But you did. And that means more than I can say. I'm still here tomorrow. If you want to talk again. Good night, Loreen.
The living room had gone quiet. Radia's song had trailed off into soft, curious chirps. Nami's hands had stilled on Koneko and Kuroka's heads. Rias lowered her tablet. Grayfia paused mid-step with the tea tray. Even Robin's extra arms froze mid-page-turn.
They were all looking at her. Arto was already moving—crossing the room in three long strides. He reached her before she could turn away, scarred fingers gentle as they brushed the tear track from her cheek. "Akeno," he said quietly, voice pitched for her alone. "Are you okay?"
She covered his hand with hers—palm warm against his knuckles—and held it there for a second longer than necessary. "I'm okay, darling." Her voice was soft, almost too soft. "Just… read an extra emotional story." The lie tasted familiar. Comfortable. She had used versions of it for years.
Arto didn't call her on it. He never did when she needed the space. He just searched her face—blue eyes steady, patient—and nodded once. She leaned in—pressed a quick, feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'll go for a swim," she murmured, lips brushing his skin. "Join me if you want, my love~"
Then she slipped past him—graceful, deliberate—leaving the warmth of the living room behind. The glass doors to the garden slid open with a soft whoosh. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of chlorine and jasmine from the poolside planters. Akeno didn't bother turning on the outdoor lights. The moon was bright enough—silver across the still water, turning the surface into a dark mirror.
She stepped onto the tiled deck—kicked off her slippers—and let the robe slide from her shoulders. It pooled around her feet like spilled ink. She walked to the edge and dove in without a splash.
[Inside the living room]
The living room had gone quiet the moment Akeno slipped out through the garden doors, her teasing "join me if you want" hanging in the air like smoke after a firework. No one moved at first. Radia's song trailed off into uncertain chirps. Nami's hands stilled on Koneko and Kuroka's heads. Rias set her tablet down slowly. Grayfia paused mid-step with the tea tray. Robin closed her book with a soft snap. Kiba leaned forward, elbows on knees, frowning. Koneko's ears twitched—still hidden under glamour—but her golden eyes were sharp, worried.
It was Kiba who spoke first—voice low, careful. "What's going on with Akeno-senpai?" All eyes turned to Arto. He stood near the couch armrest where Akeno had been sitting moments ago, arms loosely folded, scarred face unreadable. He didn't answer immediately. Instead he looked at Rias.
Rias exhaled—long, slow—and rose from her seat. "It's a plan," she said quietly. "One Arto, Robin, and I cooked up months ago. We called it Campaign Anonymous Healing." Nami blinked. "Campaign… what?"
Rias walked to the center of the room—hands clasped in front of her like she was giving a peerage briefing. "Akeno's father is Baraqiel. You all know that. But what most of you don't know—what she's never let most of you see—is how deep the wound goes."
She paused—glancing at Arto, then Robin—before continuing. "Kiba. Koneko. You remember the meetings I tried to arrange. Two years ago. I thought if I could just get them in the same room… if I could force them to talk… maybe she'd listen. Maybe she'd forgive."
Kiba nodded slowly. "They always ended the same way. She'd scream at him. Call him a coward. Blame him for everything. Refuse to hear a single word. After the third time… she stopped coming to the arranged meetings. She told you if you ever tried again, she'd leave the peerage."
Rias's smile was small—bitter. "She almost did. I stopped pushing after that. I thought I was helping. I was only hurting her more." Koneko's voice was soft—almost lost under Nami's protective arm. "She never told us why she hated him so much." Rias looked down at her hands—then back up at the room. "Because it was never really about him. Not at the core."
She took a breath—steadying herself. "Akeno never hated her father. She hated what he represented. Her heritage. The fallen-angel blood in her veins. The reason the Himejima clan hunted her mother down and burned their home to ash. The reason they called her a monster from the moment she was born. The reason her mother died shielding her while the flames took everything else."
Silence settled—thick, heavy. Rias continued—voice quieter now. "When Baraqiel finally arrived… too late… she was eight years old, clutching her mother's body in the ruins. He tried to hold her. She fought him. Threw things. Screamed that if he'd been faster—if he'd been there—her mother would still be alive. She blamed him because blaming herself was worse. Because if it wasn't his fault, then it was just… cruel. Random. Meaningless."
Grayfia's gloved hand rose—covered her mouth for a moment—then lowered again. Rias's eyes shimmered—unshed tears—but her voice stayed steady. "She agreed to become a devil because she thought it would wash the fallen blood out of her. Erase it. Make her clean. Make her belong somewhere that didn't want to kill her for existing."
A small, pained sound escaped Nami. "But it didn't work," Rias continued. "The fallen traits stayed. The wings. The lightning. The heritage. And every time she looked in the mirror… she saw the monster the Himejima clan had named her. She hated it. Hated herself."
Kiba's fists clenched on his knees. "She tried to cut them off," Rias said—voice dropping to a whisper. "The wings. With a knife. In the bathroom. Late at night. I found her. Blood everywhere. She was crying—sobbing—calling herself filthy, tainted, unworthy. I had to wrestle the blade away. I slept in her bed for weeks after that. Held her every night so she wouldn't hurt herself again. Listened to her cry until she fell asleep. She kept whispering… 'I'm sorry, Rias. I'm sorry I'm like this.'"
Robin's extra arms had stilled completely—book forgotten on her lap. Rias looked at each of them—meeting every gaze. "That's what she's been carrying. Not just grief. Not just anger at her father. Self-loathing so deep she thought the only way to fix it was to destroy the parts of herself that reminded her of where she came from."
Nami's voice was thick. "And the messages…?"
Rias nodded. "Arto, Robin, and I set up an anonymous account months ago. 'Loreen Ravenna'—a psychologist. We found a man—Elias—who'd lost his wife and daughter in a house fire. He blamed himself. He was… considering ending it. Akeno started talking to him. Not as herself. As someone who understood. She told him pieces of her story—enough to connect, not enough to expose. And he started healing. Slowly. Because she was helping him carry what she couldn't carry herself."
Rias looked toward the garden doors—where sunlight shimmered on the pool's surface. "But what she didn't know… is that Elias is actually Baraqiel." The words landed like a dropped stone in still water. Ripples spread through the room in stunned silence.
Nami's hands froze mid-pet on Koneko's head. Kuroka's ears flicked upright, golden eyes widening. Koneko's tails stilled completely. Grayfia's gloved fingers tightened around the edge of the tea tray. Robin simply closed her book with a soft snap—calm, expectant.
Robin stepped forward first—voice even, almost gentle. "Indeed. I heard—via an ear I planted in Grigori HQ—that Azazel was quietly asking Baraqiel to take therapy sessions. He'd been… deteriorating. More self-destructive. More withdrawn. Talking about 'finishing what the fire started.' Azazel was worried. So I took the opportunity."
She met every gaze in the room without flinching. "I contacted him under one of my oldest aliases—Loreen Ravenna, licensed clinical psychologist, online-only practice. I offered free sessions for first responders and grieving parents. He accepted within hours. I listened to him for weeks—his guilt, his nightmares, the way he blamed himself for not being there, for not saving them. And when the moment felt right… I handed the conversation to Akeno."
Robin's extra arms folded neatly behind her back. "She continued as Loreen. They spoke from the shadows—two strangers who had survived the same kind of night. She never told him she was his daughter. He never told her he was Baraqiel. They just… talked. Shared pain. Shared silence. Shared the parts too heavy to carry alone."
Arto nodded once—slow, certain—arms still folded across his chest. "Indeed. Baraqiel and Akeno are experiencing the same wound… but from two different sides of the same fire. The lies they wove to hide the supernatural parts—the fallen-angel clan, the holy-light burns, the execution of her mother—made them think they were talking about two separate tragedies. Two different families. Two different nights. That's why they could understand instead of hate. Empathize instead of blame. Because in their minds… they were strangers carrying parallel scars."
He looked toward the garden doors—where faint ripples still spread across the pool's surface. "But they weren't parallel. They were the same story. Just told from opposite ends." Kuroka's tails curled slowly—once—thoughtful. "So all this time… she was healing him… without knowing she was healing her own father?"
Robin nodded. "And he was healing her… without knowing he was healing his own daughter." Nami's voice came out thick—almost angry. "That's… cruel. And beautiful. And so fucking stupid."
Arto smiles "Yeah, but it's working well, now, why don't you go swim with Akeno and take her mind off the past a little, I need to head to the Underworld to register myself to be a hunter of Gremory Stray Hunting Agency"
Rias clasps her hands together "Finally, I've been waiting for this day to come, when you and I go on stray hunting missions together, it would be so romantic, my Chubby Wolf" Rias wraps her arms around her future husband.
"A what now?" Nami looks at Rias, mid awe. Rias looks back at Arto with a smirk "Should I tell them how scandalously you've let yourself go, my love~?" Not waiting for his answer, Rias starts stirring the pot. "Our beloved Arto Abyssgard has gain some weight from the moment head maid Grayfia Lucifuge started her service, and unfortunately, due to her exceptional cooking skill and Arto's lack of exercise when he was in the lab all the time, Arto's 6 packs has been reduced to 4 in the last 2 weeks"
Arto's smile turned wry as Rias wrapped her arms around him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder like she'd claimed her favorite perch. He didn't pull away—never did when it was her—but one scarred eyebrow arched high enough to disappear under his bangs. "Chubby Wolf?" he echoed, deadpan. "That's the new one?"
Rias hummed happily against his neck, completely unrepentant. "Mhm~ My big, strong, slightly softer Chubby Wolf. I like how it rolls off the tongue." She gave his midsection a teasing little pat—light enough to be playful, firm enough to make her point. "Besides, it's accurate. Grayfia's cooking is lethal in the best way. Two weeks ago you still had that nice six-pack shadow. Now?" She poked again. "Four-pack territory. I'm mourning the loss daily."
Nami's jaw dropped so fast it nearly hit the floor.
"Wait—wait—hold up." She pointed between Rias and Arto like she'd just witnessed a crime. "You're telling me Mr. 'I Bench-Press Portals For Fun' has been secretly getting dad-bodded by homemade meals and late-night lab sessions? And nobody told me?!"
Kuroka—still half-draped over Nami's lap—lifted her head, ears perked with sudden interest. "Wait. Really?" She squinted at Arto's torso like she was appraising livestock. "I thought that was just… tactical bulk. For intimidation." Koneko—still tucked against Nami's side—gave the tiniest snort. "Senpai's been eating Grayfia's tarts like they're oxygen," she muttered. "Four-pack was generous."
Grayfia—standing near the tea cart with perfect poise—didn't even blink. "I merely provide nourishment befitting the household," she said serenely. "Master Arto's caloric requirements have increased with his workload. If the aesthetic consequences are… noticeable… that is an acceptable trade-off for sustained performance."
Robin closed her book with a soft chuckle, one extra hand already reaching for her phone to presumably start a group chat titled "Arto's Abs Watch." "Scientifically speaking," she offered, "a temporary shift from six to four is well within normal variance for someone whose daily routine now includes emotional support, interdimensional logistics, and regularly carrying multiple crying family members. The muscle/fat ratio will stabilize once the current crisis cycle ends."
Arto pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're all enjoying this way too much." Rias beamed up at him—completely shameless. "Of course we are. You spent three thousand years being terrifying and untouchable. The fact that Grayfia's apple-cinnamon tarts finally cracked your armor? That's romantic." She squeezed him tighter. "My Chubby Wolf is officially cuddly. I'm framing this moment."
Nami cackled—loud enough that Radia startled and nearly fell off her perch. "Boss! You've gone soft! Literally!" Kuroka grinned—sharp and delighted—tail flicking against Nami's thigh. "I like him squishy. Makes him more… approachable. Less likely to scare small children. Or sisters."
Koneko gave the tiniest smirk. "Senpai was always squishy on the inside." Arto groaned—long-suffering, theatrical—and dropped his head back against Rias's shoulder in mock defeat. "I destroy hidden labs, dismantle centuries-old conspiracies, bring back lost sisters, and this is what I get? A nickname and a roast session about my abs."
Rias kissed the side of his neck—loud and obnoxious. "Yup~ Welcome to family life, darling. You're officially too loved to stay scary." He sighed—deep, dramatic—but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Fine. But if anyone starts a group chat about my 'dad bod arc,' I'm void-portaling every phone in this house to the bottom of the Mariana Trench."
Nami gasped—clutching her phone protectively. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me." Rias laughed—bright and victorious—and kissed his nose. "Come on, Chubby Wolf. Go register to be a hunter so that we can go on missions together. I'll keep Akeno company in the meantime"
[Gremory Domain - Gremory Stray Hunting Agency HQ]
The Gremory Stray Hunting Agency headquarters stood like a fortress disguised as an office building—unassuming gray stone on the outside, layered wards and concealed armories within. The guards at the main gate were polite but firm, clad in dark tactical uniforms with the subtle crimson Gremory crest embroidered over the heart. They scanned Arto with practiced eyes, mana detectors humming softly as he approached.
He offered the invitation letter without flourish. Heavy cream paper, sealed with the Gremory wax sigil, addressed to Adam Alket – Candidate (Special Achievement).
One guard's brows rose slightly as he read the name and the handwritten note from Director Iroh himself. The other guard ran the letter through a quick verification spell—violet light tracing the seal—then nodded once. "Director's office is on the top floor. Elevator's straight ahead. Don't wander."
Arto gave a small nod of thanks and stepped inside. The lobby was quiet—polished marble, a few potted plants that looked suspiciously fire-resistant, a receptionist who gave him a once-over and pointed toward the private lift without a word. The ride up was silent except for the soft chime of passing floors.
When the doors opened, the hallway beyond was narrower, warmer—dark wood paneling, low lighting, the faint scent of incense and good tea. Iroh's office door stood at the end, half-open, soft laughter drifting out.
Arto knocked once—light, polite—then pushed it wider. Iroh sat at a low table near the window, Pai Sho board spread before him. Across from him lounged a lean man with sharp features and a lazy grin—probably the "friend" who'd helped invent this version of the game. Tea steamed from two cups; a plate of moon peach tarts sat between them.
Iroh looked up first. His smile was warm, genuine, but his eyes held the weight of someone who'd seen too many hunts end badly. "Adam Alket," he said, rising smoothly. "Right on time." The other man stood as well—gave Arto a quick once-over—then inclined his head to Iroh. "I'll leave you to it, old friend. Don't cheat while I'm gone."
Iroh chuckled. "No promises." The friend slipped out—door clicking softly shut behind him. Iroh gestured toward the chair the man had vacated. "Sit. Tea?" Arto took the seat—posture relaxed but eyes sharp. "Tea would be welcome."
Iroh poured—precise, practiced—then slid the cup across the table before settling back into his own chair. He studied Arto for a long moment—not with suspicion, but with the quiet appraisal of a man who'd learned to read people the hard way. "You know why you're here," Iroh said at last. No preamble. No ceremony.
Arto nodded once. "Special Achievement candidacy. The Phenex incident didn't go unnoticed." Iroh's smile turned wry. "'Didn't go unnoticed' is putting it mildly. You humiliated Riser and Razer Phenex in front of his entire peerage and half the Underworld nobility, suspended Grayfia's arranged marriage and walked out of a noble Auction House with a succubus who should have been sold at auction, and left no bodies behind. That's not a mission report. That's a legend."
He reached into the drawer of his desk—pulled out a slim black ID card, matte finish, no visible text on the front. Only a faint crimson G crest that shimmered when tilted. Iroh slid it across the table. "Adam Alket," he said. "Your official designation in the Agency. Same initials you seem to prefer—keeps things simple. Your real name remains sealed at the clan's highest level. Only the Director and the Four Satans have access to it."
Arto picked up the card—turned it over. Embedded mana signature pulsed once against his thumb—recognized him instantly. A small holo-display flickered to life when he pressed the center: clearance level Special, access to internal mission boards, secure comms, bounty listings, trajectory trackers.
Iroh leaned back. "Missions update constantly on the internal site. Standard bounties, stray sightings, trajectory intel—everything's there. You can access it with that card from any secure terminal or your own encrypted device. But the special assignments…" He tapped the table once. "Those come directly from the clan's upper echelons. Section leads. Zeoticus. Occasionally the Satans themselves. You'll get a priority ping when one drops. Reply yes or no within the window. No explanation required either way."
Arto slipped the card into an inner pocket. "Expectations?" Iroh's expression sobered. "You're not rank-and-file. You're a scalpel. We point you at problems too dangerous, too politically sensitive, or too strange for regular teams. You decide which ones you take. But when you do take one… we expect results. Clean. Quiet. Final."
Arto met his gaze—level, unflinching. "Understood." Iroh studied him another moment—then smiled again, warmer this time. "Good. Then welcome to the Agency, Hunter Alket." He raised his teacup in a small salute. "Try not to make too much of a mess. The paperwork is already hell."
Arto lifted his own cup—mirrored the gesture. "I'll try to keep the collateral low." They drank in silence for a moment—the tea hot, fragrant, grounding.