The city was illuminated by neon advertisements that tore through the perpetual gloom with luminous screams of offers—different kinds of vices and cheap pleasures. The smog, thick and grayish, a toxic fog that soaked everything, left the entire city without even a trace of natural light, swallowing colors and turning streets and buildings almost monochromatic.

  Fortunately, artificial lights never went out, creating an eternal amber twilight. The only areas plunged into deeper darkness were—inevitably—the most dangerous ones, in a city where no place was ever truly safe.

  Devyus walked with Mika at his side, the girl clinging to his arm with both hands, searching for a hint of safety in that simple gesture—something truly basic, yet remarkably effective. The face of the purple-skinned girl was a map of conflicting emotions: sorrow from the recent confrontation, embarrassment over her situation, and above all, a vulnerability that gnawed at her soul.

  The incubus, with his sharpened perception, realized that her embarrassment was not so much about holding onto his arm—an innocence far too fragile for this city—but rather about the tight dress she wore. Unlike her previous outfit, it revealed far more of her pink skin, drawing lascivious and curious glances from passersby.

  Himika, for reasons she herself could not fully understand, did not regret it. Feeling exposed was unpleasant, but there was something about Devyus's presence—about the solidity of his arm beneath her hands—that made her feel infinitely safer than if she were wrapped in layers of fabric. He was a living shield.

  Miraculously, no one said a word to them along the way. Though there was, in truth, a very simple explanation. Like a sinister guardian angel, something protected the innocent purple-skinned girl—though it remained invisible to her. Every time Devyus detected hostile intent in someone's gaze, a long, subtle shadow stretched from his feet, causing the onlooker to stumble or suffer small accidents, all in the interest of keeping the girl safe.

  It was quite simple for him, yet extremely effective. He knew his sisters would reproach him for using his power so trivially, risking their concealment, but the instinct to protect the girl clinging to him was stronger. Besides, the trace left by that technique was so faint that it could hardly serve as a beacon for the Guardian Hunt.

  Before that logical little voice in his head could raise any doubt, they passed by a secondhand clothing store. Devyus stopped. He reached into one of the deep pockets of his leather trench coat and pulled out the wad of bills the girl had thrown at him moments earlier in the grocery store.

  "Mika-chan," he said, his voice gentle yet firm. "We're really not here for money. We're just passing through, as you know. And honestly, that dress makes you look far cuter than you already are—but I'm aware it's not your kind of clothing."He placed the bundle of bills tenderly into her free hand and pointed at a more discreet jacket-and-denim set on a heavily guarded mannequin in the shop window. "Come on, let's go in."

  They approached the shop door, Himika still holding onto the demon's arm in an almost childish way. But the moment the incubus touched the handle, he felt a light tug.

  Devyus looked at her in confusion. She simply stared back at him, conflicted—glancing at the outfit in the window, which would allow her to hide again and feel safer, then at her own dress, which was a glaring beacon in this hopeless city. Before he could say anything, she gently tugged his arm, pulling him away from the entrance and quickening her pace.

  "It was a tempting offer," she murmured, almost to herself. For some reason, she wanted to keep wearing that dress—the one he had first seen her in. She moved closer to the demon, took the money from his hand, and slipped it back into his pocket.

  "No, it's fine. Really… I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have behaved that way." A deeper pink blush spread across her cheeks. With a gentle tug, she pulled him along, abruptly changing the subject.

  They passed what appeared to have once been a beautiful park, filled with laughter. Now it was a wasteland, littered with rusted playground skeletons and scattered trash. A solitary bench stood at the center like a monument to decay, near a severely withered tree. And in the middle of that desolation stood a large, faceless statue of a superhero—two large "MM" emblazoned on its chest—its entire body covered in graffiti of countless colors. Perhaps, Devyus thought while watching the old tree, it was the only trace of "vegetation" left in that polluted city.

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  He glanced at her, intending to keep walking, but the dancer—still clinging to his arm and pulling him—stopped abruptly. Her yellow eyes fixed on the desolate place, filled with a nostalgia so tangible Devyus could feel it.

  Without a word—and to the girl's surprise—he guided them toward the bench. He sat down, and she did the same beside him, immediately hugging his arm again and resting her head on his shoulder, seeking comfort and safety in his solid presence.

  To his surprise, the air there felt different. For the first time since arriving in the city, Devyus felt calm. Despite the park's deplorable state, he sensed a change in the air's quality—likely thanks to that poor tree, still struggling to survive despite countless adversities.

  They remained there, "admiring the scenery," occasionally glancing at each other, each trying not to be noticed.

  "This wasn't how it used to be," the girl whispered, her voice heavy with a sadness that felt ancient. She released her grip on her savior's arm and buried her face in her hands. "I used to come here with my friends from school. This place was brighter… full of flowers. I can't remember the last day I saw children playing here."

  Devyus watched her, her silhouette lit by a distant neon sign flickering on a nearby building. She was lost in a world that no longer existed, her gaze fixed on the enormous statue in the park.

  "It was a great era for heroes—and he was the greatest of them all," she said, looking at the ruined monument."Did you work with him, or did you only watch him act?" he asked, noticing how she stared at the statue."I once had the privilege of working with him… and when I was little, he saved me," Himika said. "Even after everything that happened, his memory shouldn't suffer such disrespect."

  "Hey," he said softly, trying to steer the conversation away from deeper pain. "What happened back in the alley? I ran as fast as I could, but I saw how you defended yourself. And you threw something at those guys."

  The ex-heroine slowly lowered her hands. She looked at him briefly, then dropped her gaze, rubbing the tips of her fingers together as if recalling a familiar sensation.

  "It was a kind of irritant—almost corrosive—that I created based on past experiences," she confessed, looking away so he couldn't read her. "In this city, it was common for some of us to be born with… mutations. At first, people feared us. But little by little, those of us like me began to be respected. We were… we were the good ones. It was an era of heroes."

  She paused, choosing her words carefully. Despite everything, she wanted to keep some memories to herself—not for lack of trust, but because of their weight. She stared into the empty space where a swing once stood.

  "My ability lets me create any substance I want. Poisons, acid, antidotes, tar… name it. The suit you saw has needles in the gloves. I used to create placebos and paralytics to incapacitate my enemies. I could also take a bit of their blood to analyze it, in case they were mutants—so I could determine the best way to neutralize or help them."

  They spent an indeterminate amount of time in that ghostly park. She told him about her past adventures, her friends, a time when her purple skin was a source of pride rather than shame. Devyus listened, absorbing every word, though he noticed she carefully avoided certain details—what had ended that golden age, and why everything had fallen so far. He didn't press her. The wound was still too fresh.

  They stayed there talking for a long time—seconds turned into minutes, and before they realized it, minutes turned into hours. Finally, as the agreed time with his sisters approached, they decided it was time to leave. The walk home felt a little lighter, the weight on Mika's heart a bit less heavy, thanks to the fragments of her past she had shared on the lonely bench of a park forgotten by time.

  ? 2025 D.S.V.

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