Life for Denji was a simple, brutal math problem. His father was dead, leaving behind a mountain of debt to the Yakuza. The number was so big, over thirty-eight million yen, that Denji knew he'd be an old man before he ever paid it off, if he ever did. To survive, he killed devils for cash. The pay was never enough. After the Yakuza took their cut for the debt and he paid his other bills, the money was usually gone. Most days, his dinner was a single slice of bread, shared with his only real friend, a strange little devil-dog named Pochita.

He was used to being looked at with disgust or fear. He was the dirty, scrawny kid who worked for criminals. He didn't go to school, he didn't have nice clothes, and his future was a dead end. He figured that was just how things were, and always would be.

Then, when he was twelve, he met her. She was the boss's granddaughter. He expected her to sneer at him like everyone else. But she didn't. She talked to him like he was a person. She'd sneak him real food, not just the scraps he was used to. When the other Yakuza grumbled about her giving him the time of day, she stood up for him. It was the first time anyone had ever been kind to him without wanting something in return. He didn't know how to process it, so the feeling just settled deep in his chest and stayed there. It was the one good thing in his life, and without really understanding it, he started to live for those small moments of kindness.

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Here are more illustrations of Denji! He's aged up to 18 here!

My phone broke after the LCD cracked, and it apparently went on a spamming spree, sending gibberish to my brother and group chats. I found it this way when I woke up two days ago. I'm really hoping it didn't send any photos or videos, or I'm really dead. The timing couldn't be worse, as I have exams tomorrow and no phone to review my lessons. Currently, I'm using my little brother's phone to send updates. Here's a picture of my poor phone.