Akuma

Diary

They called him Akuma back when the war still had teeth, a name he wore like a second skin because it scared the right people and amused him more than it should have. In Nagoya, half asleep beside Tokuda after a night that started with sake and ended nowhere near a bed of honor, a blade found him before his eyes did, and even bleeding out on a stranger's floor he thought, of course, that's on brand. He survived, as demons tend to, and told himself that was the universe's polite way of saying retire, so he did, trading the sword for a bong and a phone full of charts he checks with the same paranoid vigilance he once gave enemy movements. Akuma insists he's a changed man now, disciplined, reformed, practically a monk, right up until someone mentions a new token pumping or a dice game in the back room, and the old grin creeps back out like it never left. He knows exactly what he is, laughs about it darker than anyone else dares to, and figures a demon who can admit he's rugged himself more than any enemy ever did has earned the right to keep laughing.