The ramen shop was small, tucked between a closed pharmacy and a pachinko parlor with half its lights burnt out. Evening had settled over Shibuya, the neon just starting to flicker on, salarymen loosening their ties as they spilled from office buildings into the night.
Two hours since the crater. Two hours of walking patrol routes like nothing had happened.
Mori pulled him through the entrance by the wrist, her fingers light but insistent, steering him toward the counter stools like he was a child who might wander off.
Eight seats, a grill behind the counter, steam rising from pots that had been simmering since morning. The owner glanced up, saw their suits, saw something in Kori's face, and said nothing.
"Two spicy miso," Mori said. "Extra egg on mine. And gyoza."
She settled onto a stool, patting the one beside her. Kori sat. The vinyl was cracked and warm from whoever had been there before.
The grill hissed. Eggs cracked onto the flat surface, whites spreading and crisping at the edges.
Mori's eyes widened—bright and delighted, like a child watching fireworks.
Monster.
She had danced through rubble at sunset. Guided his blade to her throat. And now she was bouncing slightly on her stool, watching eggs sizzle, making a small pleased sound in the back of her throat.
"I love this place," she said. "The broth here, Kuroshi-san, you have no idea. They simmer the pork bones for sixteen hours. Sixteen."
She held up her hands, fingers spread, like the number itself was miraculous.
"Most places do eight, maybe ten if they're serious. But sixteen? That's dedication. That's love."
The bowls arrived. Steam curled upward, carrying the smell of miso and chili oil and something deeper, richer—the sixteen hours of simmered bone rendered down to essence.
Mori broke her chopsticks apart, rubbed them together once to smooth the splinters, and lifted a tangle of noodles to her lips.
She blew on them. Gently. Patiently.
Then she ate, and her whole face changed. Eyes closing. Shoulders dropping. A soft "mmm" that came from somewhere genuine, somewhere that had nothing to do with snakes or scythes or the destruction they'd left behind.
"So good," she murmured. "So, so good."
Monster.
Kori's hands were wrapped around his own bowl. The ceramic was hot—almost too hot, the heat seeping into his palms, his fingers, the bones beneath.
But his hands were cold. Cold despite the broth. Cold despite the steam.
The smell hit him.
Not the ramen. Something else. Something underneath. The musk of the snake's throat, the wet copper stench of something ancient, the membrane walls pressing against his face, his chest, his—
"The gyoza here is also excellent."
Mori's voice cut through. She was talking again, chopsticks gesturing, completely at ease.
Her thigh was pressed against his under the counter. When had that happened?
She was close—too close, angled toward him on her stool, her knee bumping his, her elbow brushing his arm when she reached for the chili oil.
"Kuroshi-san, you have to try the gyoza with the—oh, they do this sauce, it's soy and vinegar but also something else, I've asked and they won't tell me, I think it might be—"
She kept talking. Mundane things. The sauce. The owner's daughter who sometimes worked weekends. A different ramen place in Shinjuku that wasn't as good but had better seating.
Her voice was light, melodic, filling the space between them like she was afraid of silence.
Or like she enjoyed the sound of her own words.
Her hand landed briefly on his forearm to emphasize something about noodle thickness. Anyone walking by would think they were a couple.
Kori hadn't touched his ramen.
The broth sat in front of him, steam still rising, surface gleaming with chili oil. His hands were still wrapped around the bowl. Still cold.
His chopsticks lay untouched on their rest.
"You're not eating."
Mori had stopped mid-sentence. Her head tilted, that gesture, watching him with something that might have been concern or might have been the same clinical interest she'd shown in the alley.
"No appetite?"
Before he could answer, her chopsticks were in his bowl. She twirled them expertly, catching noodles and a slice of pork and a perfect half-moon of egg, lifting the tangle toward his face.
"Ahhh," she said. Her mouth opened slightly, demonstrating.
Like feeding a child. Like breaking a pet.
The noodles touched his lips. She pushed, gentle but inexorable, and the food was in his mouth—hot, rich, the spice hitting the back of his throat.
"Chew."
He chewed. Mori watched, her eyes tracking each movement of his jaw. That same smile. The same smile she'd worn in the alley, in the rubble, with her pulse jumping against his blade.
The noodles were good. He could tell they were good, somewhere distant, somewhere that wasn't drowning in the memory of being swallowed. The broth was rich. The pork was tender. The spice built slowly, warming from the inside.
His hands were shaking.
"Kuroshi-san."
Mori's voice was softer now. She slurped another bite from her own bowl, casual, unhurried. Her thigh was still warm against his.
"You're shaking."
He looked down. She was right.
His hands, still wrapped around the bowl, were trembling. Small tremors running through his fingers, his wrists, up into his arms. The ceramic rattled faintly against the counter.
Mori reached over. Lifted noodles from her own bowl. Held them toward him again.
"Eat."
He ate. She watched. Slurped another bite of her own. Wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
"Don't worry," she said. Her smile was warm. She'd done this before. Sat beside shaking handlers and broken assets and people who had just learned what this job actually meant.
"Everyone's a little shaky on the first day."
First day.
Mori finished her bowl. Drank the broth directly, tipping it back, throat working as she swallowed. Set it down with a satisfied sigh.
"We should get back," she said. "Hayashi really does hate late reports."
She stood. Stretched. Left money on the counter without counting it.
Kori looked at his bowl. Still mostly full. The broth had stopped steaming. The noodles were starting to swell, absorbing liquid, losing their texture.
He stood. Followed her toward the door.
The owner didn't say goodbye. Didn't look up. Just kept wiping the counter, kept tending the grill, kept existing in a world where people in rumpled suits came in shaking and left the same way.
Outside, Shibuya hummed with nightlife. Neon reflected off wet pavement.
Somewhere across the district, cleanup crews were still working the crater—the missing buildings, the witnesses who swore they'd seen a snake the size of a skyscraper for exactly one second.
Random devil attack. Casualties pending. Investigation ongoing.
First day.
Kori followed Mori back toward headquarters, his hands still cold, his body still shaking, the taste of spicy broth sitting wrong in his stomach.
This was the job. This was what he'd signed up for. This was Public Safety.
Monsters feeding monsters.
⟡⟡⟡
A/N: If you like what you read, consider dropping a power stone or two and add this novel to your library.