Chapter Text
One Year Ago
Transfer periods at Kuoh Academy always carried a quiet buzz—new faces in the halls, whispers about foreign students or unusual backgrounds. Rias Gremory moved through the corridors with her usual grace, crimson hair swaying as she nodded politely to passing underclassmen. The Occult Research Club had no urgent matters today, so she allowed herself a rare leisurely walk, listening to the chatter that floated around her.
"Did you see the new transfer? American guy. Scarlet hair—kinda like her's, but messier."
"He's short, but cute! Talks about comic books nonstop. Superman this, Batman that."
Rias paused near a cluster of second-year girls by the vending machines, her interest piqued. An American transfer with hair similar to hers? Unusual. And comic books—human pop culture she enjoyed studying in her spare time. Curiosity won out.
She followed the trail of whispers to the courtyard, where a lone boy sat on a bench under the cherry trees. He was indeed short for a foreigner—lean build, uniform slightly rumpled as if he hadn't quite mastered the tie yet. Scarlet hair fell in untamed waves over his forehead, and his blue eyes were fixed intently on the comic book in his hands: a bright Superman cover, the Man of Steel soaring across the page.
The boy is short, with vivid scarlet hair that falls in slightly messy, medium-length waves—often with subtle blue highlights catching the light, giving it a dynamic, almost fiery look. His skin is pale, almost porcelain-like, which makes the red hair stand out even more. He has large, expressive blue eyes that convey his earnest, kind-hearted nature, and his overall build is slim/lean—athletic but not bulky, with a boyish, approachable face that makes him look younger and more innocent than he technically is.
Rias approached with a warm smile. "Mind if I join you?"
The boy looked up, blinking once in surprise before closing the comic politely. He stood—manners intact—and offered a small bow that was a little awkward but sincere.
"Not at all," he said, voice calm and straightforward. "I'm Bell. New transfer."
Rias sat beside him, crossing her legs elegantly. "Rias Gremory. Third-year. Welcome to Kuoh. I hear you're from America?"
Bell nodded, settling back down. "Yeah. Moved here recently. Still getting used to everything—the food, the trains, the uniforms." He glanced at his tie with a faint smile. "This thing fights me every morning."
Rias laughed softly. "You'll master it. I couldn't help noticing the comic. Superman fan?"
Bell's eyes lit up—just a little, but genuine. "Big time. He's... everything a hero should be. Strong, but kind. Protects people without asking for anything back. Doesn't let the power change who he is."
Rias tilted her head, intrigued by the earnestness. "That's a good way to put it. Most people focus on the flying or the strength."
Bell shrugged. "Those are cool, but it's the choices that matter. Anyone can be strong. Not everyone chooses to help."
They talked a bit longer—about favorite issues, the differences between American and Japanese schools, the cherry blossoms starting to bloom. Bell was polite, direct, no flirtation or pretense. He asked about the Occult Research Club when she mentioned it in passing, curious but not pushy.
The bell rang eventually, signaling the end of the break.
Bell stood, tucking the comic into his bag. "I should head to class. Nice meeting you, Rias."
"Likewise," she said, watching him go with a wave.
He disappeared into the building, footsteps light.
The moment he was out of earshot, Rias's smile faded. She sat very still, senses extending.
His aura...
It wasn't human. Not entirely.
Powerful—vast, like staring into an abyss that stared back with quiet intensity. War. Destruction.
The old school building felt quieter than the main campus, tucked away behind a row of cherry trees that were just starting to bloom. Bell followed Rias up the path, hands in his pockets, curiosity keeping pace with his steps. She had invited him to the Occult Research Club a few days ago—something about after-school activities and good company. He liked the sound of that. Clubs were normal. Normal was nice.
Rias opened the door to the club room with a practiced smile. "Welcome, Bell. Come in."
The room was cozy in an old-fashioned way—wooden floors, bookshelves lining the walls, a large desk at the far end. Three people were already there.
Kiba stood first, offering a warm, princely smile and a small bow. "Yuuto Kiba. Nice to finally meet you properly."
Akeno rose from a couch, violet eyes sparkling with playful interest. She waved delicately. "Himejima Akeno. We've heard a lot about you~"
Koneko remained seated, legs tucked under her, methodically working through a bag of sweets. She glanced up long enough to nod once before returning to her snacks.
Bell bowed politely to each of them. "Bell. Nice to meet you all."
Rias gestured to an empty chair. "Please, sit. Tea?"
He took the seat, nodding gratefully as Akeno poured him a cup. The room smelled faintly of jasmine and old paper. For a moment, everyone just sipped in comfortable silence.
Rias set her cup down. "Bell... there's something I need to tell you. About this club. About us."
Bell tilted his head, listening.
"We're not an ordinary club," Rias continued. "I'm a devil. High-class. These three are part of my peerage—my family, in a way. We handle supernatural matters in this territory."
Akeno smiled wider. Kiba nodded calmly. Koneko crunched another candy.
Bell blinked once. Then twice.
"Oh," he said simply. "Okay."
Rias leaned forward slightly. "You're... not surprised?"
Bell shrugged. "I've seen weirder. My sister's a daemon hunter. Dad's... complicated. Devils make sense."
The room went still.
Rias recovered first. "Your sister is a daemon hunter?"
Bell nodded. "Mors. She's Death. One of the Horsemen. I'm War. Reincarnated, I guess. It's why I transferred here—better control or something."
Koneko stopped eating. Akeno’s teacup paused halfway to her lips. Kiba’s smile faltered for the first time.
Rias stared. "You're... the Horseman of War?"
Bell scratched his cheek. "Yeah. I mean, I don't feel like it most days. Just trying to be normal."
Silence stretched. Then Rias stood abruptly, chair scraping back.
"This changes things," she said, voice steady but eyes sharp with calculation. "Bell, your power—it's immense. Untapped, but immense. If you're willing, I'd like to add you to my peerage. Officially. It would give you protection, resources, a place."
Bell blinked. "Like... become a devil?"
Rias nodded. "Yes. I'd use my Evil Pieces. For someone of your potential... I'd need all eight Pawns."
She produced the chess pieces—eight glowing red Pawns floating above her palm. The others watched in stunned silence as she arranged them in a circle on the floor.
Bell stood, stepping into the center without hesitation. "If it helps... sure. I trust you."
Rias began the ritual. Crimson light flared, the circle activating. The Pawns rose, spinning, energy pouring toward Bell.
Nothing happened.
The light flickered, then died. The Pawns fell to the floor with soft clinks, inert.
Rias stared at them, confused. "That's... impossible."
Bell looked down at the pieces, then at her. "Does this mean I'm not allowed in the club?"
Rias recovered quickly, shaking her head. "No. Of course not. The club is still open to you. Peerage or not, you're welcome here." She managed a smile. "Just... call me President from now on."
Bell bowed deeply, earnest as always. "Yes, Madam President."
Akeno giggled behind her hand. Koneko resumed eating. Kiba smiled faintly.
Rias sighed, but her eyes were warm. "Close enough. Welcome to the Occult Research Club, Bell."
Bell pushed open the apartment door, the familiar scent of Azrael's cooking—roast chicken with herbs—greeting him like a hug. The living room lights were low, the TV paused on some old action movie menu. Voices drifted from the kitchen: Azrael's deep rumble and Mors's sarcastic drawl.
Azrael is a tall, strikingly handsome man in his apparent mid-40s, with the kind of rugged, lived-in attractiveness that makes people do double-takes without quite understanding why. He carries himself with the quiet, coiled intensity of someone who has seen—and ended—far more violence than most could imagine.
Mors is a tall Hispanic woman with warm brownish skin and long, dark brownish hair usually worn loose. Her build is strong and athletic—muscular arms/shoulders from constant combat, but still feminine curve with sharp, intense dark eyes.
He kicked off his shoes and headed in. Azrael stood at the stove in his pink apron—yes, the one with the cartoon angels Mors had bought as a joke years ago—stirring a pot. Mors sat at the table, feet propped up, demolishing a plate piled high with chicken and mashed potatoes.
"Hey," Bell said, dropping his bag by the door. "Smells good."
Azrael turned, smiling faintly. "Welcome home. Rough day?"
Bell shook his head, sliding into a chair. "Normal. Classes, lunch, club stuff."
Mors swallowed a bite, smirking. "Club stuff? That occult thing again? You still hanging out with the devil girl?"
Bell nodded, serving himself from the platter. "Yeah. Rias invited me officially today. The Occult Research Club. It's... interesting."
Azrael set a glass of water in front of him, expression neutral. Mors paused mid-chew, fork hovering.
"Rias Gremory," Mors said slowly. "Be careful around her, kid. Devils like that... they've got layers. Agendas."
Bell looked up, confused. "She's nice. Helps with homework, talks about books. Why careful?"
Mors leaned back, wiping her mouth. "Ran into some issues with her kind before. Territory stuff. Devils play games—politics, power grabs. One wrong step, and you're a piece on their board."
Azrael shot her a look. "Mors. Enough."
She shrugged, but didn't push.
Azrael sat across from Bell, voice calm. "Your sister's not wrong to be cautious. Rias Gremory is high-class, sister to a Maou. That comes with complications—alliances, rivalries, expectations. Just... stay aware. You're not in her world the same way."
Bell nodded slowly. "I get it. Political drama. I'll be careful."
Mors smirked again. "Good. Now pass the potatoes before I starve."
Dinner passed easily after that—Azrael asking about classes, Bell recounting a funny moment from English, Mors teasing him about his tie being crooked again. The tension faded into familiar warmth.
Later, they migrated to the living room. Azrael dimmed the lights, Mors sprawled on one end of the couch with a bowl of popcorn, Bell in the middle. The TV flickered to life.
"Sam Raimi trilogy again?" Azrael asked dryly.
Mors grinned. "Tradition. Hundredth time's the charm."
Bell smiled, settling in as the familiar Columbia logo appeared. Spider-Man swung across the screen, red and blue against the New York skyline.
For a few hours, it was just family—laughing at the same lines, quoting Tobey Maguire's dramatic pauses.
The late-afternoon sun slanted across the school courtyard, turning the grass a warm gold. Bell sat alone on the edge of a low stone wall, legs dangling, completely absorbed in his comic book. The pages crackled softly as he turned them—bright panels of caped heroes leaping across rooftops, fists glowing with righteous power. Every so often his eyes lit up behind the fall of his red hair, and he’d mouth a quiet “whoa” under his breath.
Across the field, the infamous Perverted Trio held court on the bleachers. Matsuda and Motohama were in full swing, gesturing wildly while Issei laughed and egged them on. Their conversation—loud, crude, and laser-focused on the female student body—was unmistakable even from a distance.
Bell glanced up, recognized the trio, and hesitated. He’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. But rumors weren’t the same as people. And he’d never actually spoken to them beyond the occasional hallway nod.
He closed the comic, tucked it under his arm, and walked over.
“Hey,” he said, stopping at the foot of the bleachers. “Mind if I sit?”
Three pairs of eyes turned to him. Matsuda adjusted his glasses. Motohama leaned forward, smirking. Issei just looked curious.
“Uh… sure,” Issei said, scooting over. “You’re the transfer kid, right? Bell?”
Bell nodded and climbed up to sit beside them. “Yeah. I was just reading this new issue—there’s this huge team-up with the Crimson Strike Force and—”
“Boring,” Motohama interrupted, waving a hand. “Superheroes in tights? Pass.”
Matsuda snorted. “Yeah, man. We’re discussing real art here.”
Bell blinked, then smiled easily—no offense taken. “Okay. What’s interesting to you guys, then?”
The floodgates opened.
For the next ten minutes Bell sat quietly while Matsuda and Motohama launched into an enthusiastic, highly detailed breakdown of the female student population’s physical attributes, complete with rankings, percentages, and vivid fantasies. Issei contributed the occasional hype-man cheer, but mostly listened with the same amused grin.
Bell didn’t really get it—the obsession, the measurements, the frantic energy—but he didn’t judge either. He just nodded along, occasionally asking innocent follow-up questions that accidentally derailed their rhythm and made Issei snort.
Eventually Motohama turned to him. “So what about you, new guy? What’s your type?”
Bell thought about it seriously. “Someone kind,” he said. “Who smiles a lot and doesn’t mind quiet days. Maybe likes reading or walking around town. Just… someone I can trust, I guess.”
Silence.
Then Matsuda and Motohama burst out laughing.
“Dude!” Matsuda wheezed. “That’s the most vanilla answer I’ve ever heard!”
“Seriously,” Motohama added, wiping his eyes. “You basically just described a golden retriever in human form.”
Issei, though, was quiet for a second. Then he shrugged, smiling. “Nah. That’s solid. Respect.”
Bell grinned back, relieved.
After that, something shifted.
Bell started hanging out with Issei more—first in the courtyard, then walking home together, then studying at one another’s houses. Issei still launched into his usual perverted rants from time to time, but with Bell there he dialed it back without seeming to notice he was doing it. The wild gestures became smaller. The volume dropped. Sometimes he’d even catch himself mid-tirade, glance at Bell’s politely confused expression, and switch topics to video games or food instead.
A few of the girls in class noticed the change and mourned dramatically in the hallways.
“Bell-kun’s been corrupted,” one sighed, clutching her books to her chest. “He’s part of the Perverted Trio now. His pure soul is gone forever.”
Another nodded solemnly. “I saw him laughing with Hyoudou. It’s only a matter of time before he starts peeping.”
But the truth was simpler. Bell didn’t change much at all. He still read his comics, still helped carry groceries for old ladies, still blushed when someone thanked him too enthusiastically. He just had a friend now—someone he could sit with in comfortable silence or trade dumb jokes with over convenience-store snacks.
And Issei, for all his loud bravado, found himself enjoying the quieter moments more than he expected. Studying actually got done when Bell was around. The house felt less empty.
Neither of them mentioned it out loud, but the shift was there all the same.
Bell had appointed himself unofficial club secretary about a week ago, after noticing how many stray papers and contracts tended to pile up on Rias’s desk. He’d arrived with a bright smile, a fresh notebook, and an earnest declaration: “Madam President, let me handle the little things! You’ve got enough to worry about.”
Rias had raised an eyebrow at the formal title, amused, and agreed. It kept him close, gave him something useful to do, and—though she hadn’t admitted it aloud—his presence was oddly calming.
Today, though, the experiment was showing its limits.
Bell stood at the side table, attempting to sort a stack of magical contracts, club budget forms, and what looked like centuries-old devil correspondence. Papers kept slipping from his fingers. He’d already knocked over the inkwell once (thankfully capped) and accidentally stapled two completely unrelated documents together.
Rias watched from her chair behind the desk, chin resting on her folded hands. She was trying to focus on a letter from her family—elegant script, sealed with the Gremory crest, every word a polite reminder of the engagement she dreaded—but her gaze kept drifting to Bell.
He was humming under his breath, concentrating fiercely as he tried to alphabetize a pile that clearly wasn’t meant to be alphabetized. A stray sheet fluttered to the floor. He bent to pick it up, bumped the teacup he’d just poured for her, and only quick reflexes saved it from tipping entirely.
“Ah—sorry, Madam President!” He straightened, cheeks pink. “Tea’s still hot. I’ll… I’ll reorganize this stack again.”
Rias exhaled softly, setting the letter aside. The words on the page—arrangements, alliances, duty—pressed against her ribs like a closing vice. She needed help. Real help. Someone outside the devil system, someone the Phenex family wouldn’t expect…
Someone like Bell.
She opened her mouth.
“Bell,” she began, voice quieter than usual, “could you do me a favor? A… personal one.”
Bell froze mid-motion, a contract half-folded in his hands. His eyes widened, earnest and attentive. “Of course, Madam President! Anything. What is it?”
Rias’s fingers tightened on the edge of the desk. The words hovered on her tongue—There’s an engagement I don’t want. A political marriage. I need someone to help me break it.—but they stuck there, heavy and impossible.
Dragging him into pure-blood devil politics would be cruel. Dangerous. And if her family found out she’d even considered involving an outsider…
She looked at him—at the hopeful, trusting expression on his face—and felt something in her chest twist.
She couldn’t.
Rias forced a small smile instead, letting her gaze drift pointedly to the chaos on the side table. “Could you… please stop organizing the contracts by color? The blue ones aren’t less important than the red ones, Bell. And the budget reports really shouldn’t be filed under ‘miscellaneous snacks.’”
Bell blinked, then looked down at the mess in his hands as if seeing it for the first time. His shoulders slumped. “Oh… right. Sorry, Madam President. I thought the colors looked nicer that way. I’ll fix it. Promise.”
He immediately began reshuffling papers with renewed determination, muttering apologies under his breath.
Rias watched him for a long moment, the unsaid words settling back into the ache behind her ribs. She picked up her teacup—still perfectly warm, despite everything—and took a careful sip.
“Thank you, Bell,” she said quietly.
He glanced up, surprised. “For the tea?”
“For trying,” she answered.
Bell’s confused but pleased smile was almost enough to make her believe everything might still turn out all right. Almost.
Bell pushed open the door to the Occult Research Club room. He’d come straight from class, backpack slung over one shoulder and a small plastic bag of convenience-store snacks dangling from his hand. The air inside carried the faint scent of black tea and old books.
He stopped just past the threshold.
Issei sat on the edge of the long table, shoulders slumped, staring at the floor like it owed him money. Rias stood nearby, arms folded, her expression calm but watchful. Akeno poured tea with her usual serene smile, and Koneko munched quietly on a doughnut in the corner. The mood was heavy—nothing like the relaxed clubroom Bell had come to expect.
Issei looked up first. His eyes were tired, but he managed a weak grin. “Yo, Bell.”
Bell hesitated. “Hey… everything okay?”
Rias gestured to an empty chair. “Close the door, please.”
Bell did, then crossed the room and sat. He set the snack bag on the table like an offering. “I actually came to beg for homework help again—math’s trying to kill me—but… this feels more serious.”
Issei exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Uh… funny story. I kind of died yesterday.”
Bell blinked. “You… what?”
“I got stabbedright through the chest on a fake date.” Issei’s voice was flat, like he still couldn’t quite believe it himself. “Buchou brought me back. Reincarnated me as a devil. I’m part of her peerage now.”
Bell stared. The room was silent except for the soft clink of Akeno setting down the teapot.
“Reincarnated… devil,” Bell repeated slowly. He looked at Rias, then back to Issei. “So you’re okay? You’re really okay?”
Issei gave a tired shrug. “Alive, I guess. Just… processing.”
Bell nodded once, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay. My turn, then.” He met Issei’s eyes. “I’m the Horseman of War.”
Issei’s jaw actually dropped. “You’re the what now?”
“War,” Bell said simply. “One of the Four. It’s… complicated. But yeah. That’s me.”
Akeno’s smile faltered for the first time. Koneko stopped chewing. Rias’s crimson eyes narrowed slightly, studying him with new intensity.
Issei recovered first. “Dude. You’re telling me the quiet transfer student who blushes when girls say thank you is literally the apocalyptic Horseman of War?”
Bell scratched his cheek, embarrassed. “I mean… I don’t really feel apocalyptic most days. I still suck at math.”
Rias stepped forward, voice measured. “Issei is my pawn now—my servant in the Rating Game system. He’s part of my family.” She glanced at Bell, gentle but firm. “The club isn’t a recruitment front, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Bell raised both hands quickly. “No, no—I didn’t mean it like that! I just…” He gestured vaguely at the room, the tea, the doughnuts, the strangely cozy atmosphere. “It’s nice here. Feels safe. I wasn’t judging.”
Rias’s expression softened. “Good.”
Bell reached for the plastic bag and slid it across the table toward her. “Anyway… I brought melon-pan and strawberry Pocky. Payment in advance if you’re still willing to rescue me from quadratic equations?”
Rias stared at the snacks for a second, then laughed—quiet, genuine, the sound easing the last of the tension from the room. “Sit,” she said, pulling out a chair. “We’ll start with factoring.”
Issei exhaled, tension leaving his shoulders as he grabbed a melon-pan. “Man… devils, horsemen, homework. Just another Thursday, I guess.”
Bell grinned, opening his textbook. “Pretty much.”
The days after Issei’s reincarnation settled into a new rhythm. Bell found himself drifting toward the old school building more often, drawn by the easy camaraderie he’d started to feel with Issei and the quiet curiosity he had about the rest of the club.
One afternoon he arrived to find the clubroom door ajar and soft voices inside. Issei was talking—nervous, stumbling over his words—and a gentle, melodic voice answered him. Bell hesitated in the doorway.
A small blonde girl in a nun’s habit sat on the sofa beside Issei, hands folded in her lap, cheeks pink. Her green eyes were wide and kind, and when she noticed Bell she stood quickly and bowed.
“Hello! You must be Bell-san. Issei-kun has told me about you.”
Bell blinked, then smiled and returned the bow—maybe a little too deeply. “Hi. I’m Bell. Nice to meet you…?”
“Asia Argento,” she said, beaming. “I’m new here too.”
From across the room Rias watched with faint amusement, but she said nothing. Issei rubbed the back of his neck, clearly flustered. Bell caught the way Asia’s gaze lingered on him—soft, grateful—and the way Issei’s ears turned red when she laughed at something he said.
Over the next few weeks, Asia became a regular fixture. She and Issei grew closer in the quiet, clumsy way of two people who had both been hurt and were surprised to find someone who didn’t judge them for it. Bell watched it happen with a warm, uncomplicated happiness. He liked Asia immediately—her gentleness reminded him of the kind of people he wanted to protect—and he liked even more that she made Issei smile in a way that wasn’t loud or boastful.
He started bringing an extra melon-pan or strawberry milk to club meetings, sliding them across the table to Asia with a shy “I grabbed too many.” She always thanked him earnestly, eyes shining, and Issei always pretended to be annoyed that Bell was “stealing his thunder” while secretly looking relieved that someone else was looking out for her too.
Bell tried, in his earnest way, to get to know the rest of the club.
Kiba was easy. They fell into conversation about sword forms one day—Kiba demonstrating a flawless arc with a practice blade, Bell asking wide-eyed questions about balance and footwork. Kiba answered patiently, clearly enjoying the chance to talk shop with someone who wasn’t trying to challenge him. Soon they were sparring lightly in the courtyard after school, Kiba correcting Bell’s stance with gentle precision while Bell laughed at his own clumsiness.
Akeno was… a lot.
Every time Bell entered the room she’d lean just a little too close, voice dropping into that velvet purr. “Bell-kun, you’re looking heroic today~” He’d go scarlet, stammer something about homework or snacks, and retreat to the safest corner possible. Akeno never pushed too far—she seemed to find his flustered reactions endlessly entertaining—but Bell still spent most club meetings strategically positioning furniture between them.
Koneko was trickier. She rarely spoke, rarely looked up from her snacks or her phone. Bell tried greeting her, asking about her day, offering polite compliments on her strength. She’d glance at him, nod once, and return to her doughnut. The only time her golden eyes showed real interest was when he arrived with a fresh bag of sweets. Then she’d accept the offering silently, maybe mutter a small “thanks,” and resume her vigil. Progress, Bell decided, was measured in pastries.
Then, abruptly, the club grew quiet.
One week the room felt half-empty. Rias was often absent, citing “family business.” Akeno’s smiles were tighter. Kiba trained harder, alone. Koneko ate more but spoke less. Issei and Asia still came, but even they seemed distracted, exchanging worried glances when they thought Bell wasn’t looking.
Bell asked once, carefully. “Is… everything okay? Everyone seems busy.”
Rias had smiled—too smooth, too practiced—and said, “Just some peerage matters. Nothing to worry about.”
He didn’t push. If it was important devil business, it wasn’t his place to pry. He trusted them.
So he filled the sudden quiet with his own small missions.
He tried carrying stacks of books for the library committee and dropped half of them in the hallway, apologizing profusely while scrambling to pick them up.
He attempted to fix a wobbly desk in an empty classroom and accidentally tightened the screws too hard, snapping one clean off. The teacher found him staring at the broken leg in horror fifteen minutes later.
He offered to help the cooking club carry heavy pots and nearly scalded himself when he underestimated the weight, hopping around clutching a singed hand while the girls fussed over him.
He even tried directing traffic in the crowded hallway during class change and ended up causing a minor pile-up of confused students who couldn’t figure out which way his frantic hand gestures meant.
Each failure left him red-faced and apologetic, but also determined to try again tomorrow. The school started buzzing with affectionate stories about “the sweet transfer student who keeps accidentally breaking things while trying to help.”
Bell didn’t mind. If the club needed space for whatever big thing they were preparing for, the least he could do was keep the rest of the world turning—even if he occasionally knocked it off its axis in the process.
The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.
Mors stalked into the Lin house like a storm front, boots leaving faint smears of black ichor on the entryway tile. Her jacket was torn at the shoulder, bandages underneath stained dark. Daemon blood—thick, oily, and still steaming faintly—clung to her hair, her gloves, the hem of her pants. The metallic tang of it filled the air.
Azrael appeared in the kitchen doorway, apron already tied, wooden spoon in hand. He took one look at her and sighed.
“Shower,” he repeated, pointing down the hall with the spoon. “I’ll burn the clothes if I have to.”
She flipped him a lazy salute and disappeared toward the bathroom. The pipes groaned a moment later as the water kicked on.
Bell emerged from the living room a minute after that, comic book still in hand, marker ribbon dangling. He’d been waiting for the sound of the door—had heard the bike pull up twenty minutes ago and wondered what was keeping her.
He found Mors in the hallway outside the bathroom door, peeling off her ruined jacket with a grimace. Steam billowed out behind her, carrying the sharp scent of industrial soap trying to fight daemon gore.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Rough day?”
Mors glanced at him, expression softening a fraction. “You could say that.” She tossed the jacket into a waiting trash bag Azrael had left by the door. “What about you? You’ve been quiet since you got home.”
Bell shrugged, leaning against the wall. “It’s been… weird at school. Everyone in the club’s been super busy lately. Rias, Akeno, Kiba, Koneko… even Issei and Asia keep disappearing for ‘family stuff.’ I barely see them anymore. Club room’s half-empty most days.”
Mors raised an eyebrow, wringing daemon blood from a strand of hair. “They’ll be back. Devil politics—always something.”
“Yeah, I figured. Just… miss hanging out.” He scuffed his shoe against the floor. “And homework’s been killing me. I tried asking a couple teachers for extra help, but I still bomb half the practice quizzes. Feels like I’m letting everyone down.”
“You’re not,” Mors said immediately.
Bell gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve been trying to stay useful, you know? Helping around school while they’re gone. But I keep messing it up. Dropped an entire stack of library books in the hall yesterday. Nearly set the home ec room on fire trying to carry a pot for the cooking club. Got lost directing traffic during class change and accidentally sent half the second-years the wrong way.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just want to do something right.”
Mors studied him for a long moment, water still running in the bathroom behind her. Then she stepped forward and ruffled his damp red hair—careful not to get any lingering blood on him.
“Listen, squirt. You’re doing fine. Better than fine. You’re trying—that counts for more than you think. And the people who matter see it.”
Bell looked up at her, eyes earnest. “Do you think… I’ll ever get my powers? Like, real ones? The kind that don’t make me feel like I’m always playing catch-up?”
Mors’ expression softened completely. She crouched a little to meet his gaze.
“They’ll come,” she said quietly. “When you’re ready. Not before. Chaos doesn’t hand out gifts on a schedule—it waits until you’ve earned them. Until you need them. So just… keep being you. Keep trying. Keep caring. It’ll happen.”
Bell absorbed that, then nodded slowly. A small, genuine smile tugged at his mouth. “Okay. I’ll wait.”
He paused, tilting his head as he finally noticed the streaks of black-red still clinging to her sleeves and the faint splatter on her cheek the shower hadn’t quite reached yet.
“Uh… why are you covered in so much daemon blood, anyway?”
Mors straightened, smirking as she turned back toward the bathroom. “Told you. Messy job.”
She disappeared behind the door, leaving Bell in the hallway with the faint smell of soap, spaghetti sauce, and the quiet certainty that—powers or no powers—things would work out.