I woke up to the faint hum of traffic filtering through the thin curtains of the cheap hotel room. The place was a dive—peeling wallpaper, a bed that creaked like it was older than me, and a bathroom sink that dripped relentlessly all night. But it was shelter. After leaving Public Safety yesterday, I'd wandered until I found this spot near Akihabara, paid with a conjured wad of yen (simple paper and ink, barely a stamina hit), and crashed hard. My body—Naoya's body—felt rested, cursed energy thrumming steady like a full battery.
I sat up, blonde hair with those dark green roots falling into my eyes. Brushed it back. Stretched. Today was day one in this devil-infested world.
Showered quick—hot water was a luxury I didn't take for granted. Dressed back in the teal kimono and hakama, waraji sandals silent on the carpet. Checked out with a nod to the sleepy clerk, then stepped into the morning haze of Tokyo. Early light painted the streets gold, salarymen already hustling to trains, street vendors firing up takoyaki stands. The air smelled of exhaust and fresh rain from overnight.
The walk to Public Safety took about twenty minutes. I kept Projection Sorcery on low—framing my steps for smoother movement, dodging pedestrians like they were standing still.
The building loomed same as yesterday: concrete fortress in the government district. Guards nodded as I entered the lobby. The same woman at the front desk—glasses, bun, tired eyes—looked up from her paperwork.
"Morning," I said, leaning on the counter with a casual smile. Tried to dial back Naoya's natural arrogance; make it friendly. "I'm back. Naoya Zenin. You said to come for the assignment stuff."
She blinked, then recognition hit. "Oh yeah, you're Naoya Zenin, right? The new recruit with the contracts. Hold on." She rummaged under the desk, pulling out a plain canvas bag. "Here you go. Uniform's in there—standard issue. Key to your apartment, Public Safety ID card. Should be a paper with the address and room number too. Division assignment's on the ID: Tokyo Special Division 4
I took the bag, peeking inside. Folded white shirt, black slacks, black tie suit jacket, even a pair of polished black shoes. ID card with my name, a grainy photo (how'd they get that? Must've snapped it during interview), and a badge number. Key on a ring, labeled "Apt 302." Paper with an address in Nakano ward—public housing block for Devil Hunters, I guessed.
"Thanks," I said genuinely. "Appreciate the quick turnaround."
She waved it off. "No problem. You can go change, drop your stuff at the apartment, then start patrolling. Report any incidents via radio—they'll issue you one next week, but for today, just handle what you can and call in backups if needed. Stay safe out there."
"Will do." I flashed another smile—likable, right? Not the smirking prick Naoya was in canon. "See you around."
Outside, I hailed a taxi—conjured more yen, low drain. The driver eyed my outfit but said nothing. The ride to Nakano was quick, weaving through morning traffic. Apartment building was nondescript: five stories, gray brick, security gate that buzzed me in with the key. Elevator smelled like old takeout.
Third floor, room 302. Unlocked the door—small studio: bed, kitchenette, bathroom, desk. Bare bones, but clean. Better than the hotel. I set the bag down on the bed, unpacking.
Changed into the uniform. White dress shirt black tie knotted neatly Black slacks fit perfectly, like they'd measured me. Shoes were there, but they pinched a bit—leather, stiff. Screw it. I focused Construction: simple black dress shoes, comfortable fit, reinforced soles. Energy tug was minor; basic materials.
Looked in the mirror—tall, slim, blonde hair slicked back now. Brown eyes sharp. Uniform made me look official, less like a samurai cosplayer. Decided against the suit jacket; too restrictive for movement. Rolled up the shirt sleeves to elbows—practical.
Weapon time. Held out my palm, visualizing. Basic katana: straight blade, black tsuka, no frills. Cursed energy flowed, forming steel from nothing. Weight settled in my hand—solid, balanced. Sheathed it in a simple scabbard I conjured next (another small drain). Tucked it into my belt
Locked up, headed out. Patrol: no specific route given, so I picked central Tokyo—Shibuya, Shinjuku. Busy areas meant more people, more potential devils. Walked at first, then amped Projection Sorcery for speed. Framed paths: cross street in three frames, dodge bike in one. Moved like wind.
An hour in, nothing. Crowds thinned in a quieter park near Yoyogi. Sat on a bench, katana across my lap, watching. Thoughts wandered: Makima's words yesterday—loyalty, family. Chilling. I knew her game; control freak extraordinaire. But for now, play along. Build rep. Stay off her radar until I figured the timeline.
Then—screams.
High-pitched, panicked. From the park's edge, near a cluster of office buildings. People running, scattering like ants. A low rumble shook the ground.
I bolted—Projection full on. Vision framed: trace sprint across grass (five frames), vault bench (two), arrive at scene (ten total). Executed in a blur. To bystanders, I vanished and reappeared.
There it was.
Towering over a smashed fountain: a giant calendar. Like a wall calendar ripped from an office, but alive. Fifteen feet tall, paper body fluttering in the wind, edges sharp as razors. Each "day" square had a face—skinny human eyes bulging, mouths gaping in silent howls. Multiple faces per day, overlapping, screaming now. Arms like torn paper limbs, ending in scissor-like claws. Legs sturdy, calendar stand twisted into bony supports.
The Calendar Devil. Born from fear of deadlines? Time passing? Whatever. It swung a claw, slashing a lamppost in half. Sparks flew. A woman lay nearby, bleeding from a gash—alive, but hurt. Others fled.
It turned those eyes on me. Dozens blinking asynchronously. "Time... up!" it rasped, voices overlapping like tearing pages.
No time to think. I drew the katana—grip firm. "Not yet."
Projection Sorcery surged. One second: twenty-four frames. Traced path: forward dash (eight frames), low sweep to right leg (five), follow-up palm strike (three), retreat if needed (eight spare).
Go.
I exploded forward, body contorting unnaturally—knees bending mid-stride, torso twisting. The devil swung—slow in my framed world. Blade met leg: clean cut through "paper" flesh. Blood sprayed—devil blood. Leg buckled.
It roared, faces contorting. Fell back, claw swiping air where I'd been.
Contact phase: as it toppled, I lunged—palm out. Slapped its central "month" panel. Rule imposed: abide by 24 FPS.
It didn't. Wild thrash violated the frames. Froze solid—locked in a single animation cell, mid-fall, eyes wide in confusion.
One second of vulnerability.
I didn't waste it. Katana up, two-handed grip. Sliced horizontal through the frozen frame. Blade bit deep—felt like cutting glass. The stasis shattered; devil body crumpled, faces screaming one last time. The body dropped with a small boom
Breath steady. Sheathed the katana. Crowd stared from distance—whispers, phones out. Woman on ground groaned; I knelt, checked wound—shallow, but needed stitches.
"Paramedics en route?" I called to a bystander.
He nodded, phone to ear. "Called 'em!"
Waited five minutes. Sirens wailed; ambulance pulled up. Medics took over—efficient, used to this. Gave them a quick report: "Devil Hunter Naoya Zenin, Public Safety. Calendar Devil—eliminated."
They nodded, no questions. Perks of the badge.
Patrol resumed. Nothing crazy after—few false alarms, a stray cat that looked devilish but wasn't. Walked until dusk, mind replaying the fight. Clean. Efficient. Powers meshed perfectly.
Back to apartment. Collapsed on bed, katana by side. Day one: survived.