The Chuunibyou Kid and the Not-Demon

The incantation rang out in the dim room, each word heavy with forced gravitas.

"...?"

Not a twisted mutant or a raving lunatic, but an ordinary human. A child who looked no older than a middle-schooler, at that. Shoulder-length black hair, an androgynous face that made gender identification a critical failure, and a voice caught in that awkward limbo between a boy's cracking tenor and a girl's high pitch. A worn, oversized robe straight out of a history book, and an unidentifiable black tome held open in one small hand. A terminal-stage (suspected) chuunibyou patient of uncertain gender, standing before a survivor who was one step from the ending.

Faced with an abnormality that shattered any pretense of normalcy, I had only one response.

"A contract, you say. How interesting."

"?!?!"

If escaping that cursed hell meant becoming a demon, then so be it.

Excuse me, but are you my master?

***

Yellowed, discolored wallpaper. A wooden ceiling laced with spiderwebs in every corner. No furniture. A narrow, barren room stripped of any trace of daily life. And standing proudly in its center, a black-magic-cosplaying kid of unknown origin, unknown gender, and confirmed chuunibyou, kindly announcing exactly who owned this miserable space.

The small hand thrust toward me trembled, perhaps from the strain of holding the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pose. Or maybe the sleeves were simply too large; I couldn't even see the hand. Five cheap candles arranged in a pentagram dripped wax and flickered on the verge of extinction, illuminating not a beautiful vista but cold red walls. A window that had forgotten its purpose, nothing more than an unlucky pane of glass trapped between bricks. Rain hammered against it violently.

In that narrow space, thick with the charmingly suffocating scent of mold, only the sound of rain and occasional breathing existed.

"...."

"...."

After the kid finished their dramatic speech about blood, true names, and the abyss, my smooth "how interesting" had triggered an indefinite, meaningless, speechless stalemate. Five full minutes. In an era where brushing sleeves counts as fate, we spent three hundred seconds exchanging nothing but quiet breaths. What I realized was simple.

We both had terrible ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠social skills.

The kind that deserved unflattering modifiers like "extremely" or "catastrophically." A singularly pathetic communication singularity.

In a hardcore apocalyptic survival VR game where corpses rampaged and the only trustworthy face was the one in the mirror, I had solo-played for decades. It wasn't something to brag about, but I was confident my social skills were abysmal.

So what kind of humiliation had this pretty boy or girl suffered at such a young age to become this shy? Their arms had started trembling, and now even their legs were shaking.

Hmm.

Amusingly, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the answer came from the long black fingertip that habitually rose to my face whenever I pondered something.

Tap.

The three slender fingers meant to cradle my jaw met not an angular chin but something smooth and hard. A long protruding beak, dark lenses, seamless black leather fused with glossy black steel in an uncanny harmony. It evoked a medieval plague doctor mask while somehow blending modern tactical aesthetics into a single bizarre artifact.

This was clearly the source of the child's communication issues.

I see. Objectively speaking, I probably looked extremely off-putting.

Creak.

"...!"

"...."

Holding the same posture for long periods is difficult for any living thing that seeks change, even if it costs no stamina. The discomfort wasn't physical but emotional. Even someone like me, who kept a deliberate distance from normality, found it uncomfortable to stand motionless too long. So I simply shifted my weight.

The moment my boot left the floor, an unclean sound ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠followed. The boy or girl flinched. Living things react to stimuli. Therefore, shifting their gaze toward the "off-putting sound" from an "off-putting being" was perfectly natural.

"!!!"

The kid stared at my polished combat boots with an open mouth, unable to hide their awe. Though to be precise, they were likely horrified by the viscous bloodstain now marring their floor.

Doctor, even in death you refuse to let me succeed. I hate you.

At least no blood clots or fat had stained my coat. Kkachi had eaten it all quite cleanly.

"Kyu!"

"...!"

"...."

The suspiciously sharp ability to read my thoughts caught the fleeting hint of praise, then expressed that joy outwardly and made the already awkward atmosphere even worse. The cute sound that absolutely should not have come from a two-meter-tall, emaciated crow-headed monster triggered cognitive dissonance. The boy's, girl's, young gentleman's, young lady's focus began to fracture.

The once-confidently outstretched arm had long since dropped. The black pupils quivering like aspen leaves held panic and confusion, fear and curiosity.

And a faint thread of expectation and hope.

Those small, trembling lips looked full of things to say yet remained tightly sealed. The tiny Adam's apple (if it existed at all) worked overtime swallowing dryly.

Just watching their face is entertaining.

A small, refined hobby born in a post-apocalyptic world where I had many fans but zero actual humans among them: observation. A minimalist observer who found joy in subtle differences between discolored ceiling tiles, who smiled while leaning against rain-streaked windows to stare at water droplets and the stains they reflected.

To someone like me, this was a long-awaited rain after a drought. The sole survivor of the post-apocalypse, whose emotions had dried and converged toward zero, had finally encountered something new.

It was a shame I never reached the ending, but this situation was insanely fascinating. Every shifting expression the child made in reaction to the stimulus called "me" was vividly colorful. I feared that opening my mouth carelessly would make all of it vanish like a fleeting dream.

As an extreme coward, I simply stood there in silence, pretending to be a mysterious demon, striking a pose. I would wait until the black-magic kid brought up the abyss and the contract again.

It would look too weak if the demon begged for a contract first, wouldn't it?

Of course, I wasn't actually a demon.

"...."

"...."

An adult would have spoken first and guided the conversation, but for someone who pulled triggers faster than words, normal communication and taking the lead were far too heavy a burden. The one field this super-coward of an adult was confident in was waiting. Waiting for hope to arrive. Or for the end of an unhappy life to arrive. Simply waiting without end.

The waiting of the past, when the subject had never been clearly defined and its existence was unconfirmed, had been a form of torture, forehead slowly scraped away by endless falling droplets. But now it was different.

Because there was a clear subject of waiting right in front of me, breathing, meeting my eyes, small lips twitching as though about to speak at any moment. I simply needed to observe this fascinating, astonishing being at leisure and savor the seasoning of anticipation.

Yet if I truly did nothing but wait in silence, that would make me a hopeless adult who had never understood the aesthetics of waiting.

Thump.

"...!"

I knelt on one knee to match the child's eye level. Deliberate respect, manufactured gentleness. Yes. True waiting is active waiting! How contradictory! If you're going to act, then don't just wait, you idiot!

The kid's mouth opened wider in surprise, forming a perfect circle. After a moment, after some time had passed, the child seemed to reach a decision. They bravely furrowed their black eyebrows and took one step toward me.

Step.

Ah, magnificent. Is this how it felt to stand beside the first astronaut who planted a footprint on the moon? Gratitude, deep emotion, being moved, admiration, reverence, inspiration. A festival of countless emotions that all began with the same syllable.

It might have been a small step for the kid, but in my eyes it was a great leap. Look at that majestic figure stepping past fear and reaching toward the unknown! They were trembling like a newborn chick and their gaze was subtly awkward, but none of that mattered. The important thing was that they had taken a step forward.

I had rotted in that gutter for decades because I couldn't manage even that.

"...."

Everything is unfamiliar and awkward at first, but small courage swells in an instant like a snowball rolling down a mountain. Before long the kid stood right in front of my beak. There was still a slight tremble, but no hesitation in their eyes. From the slowly opening small mouth came a pleasant voice. Reconstructing the language that emerged from those underdeveloped vocal cords, low yet high, gave this:

"Please make a contract with me! Mr. Demon!"

The demon(?)'s reply:

"I'll think about it."

"Eh?"

And so the strange cohabitation between a boy or girl and a weirdo wearing a crow mask began.

Or so I had hoped in a wave of sentimental nonsense. Reality was far less accommodating.

"Um... I'm sorry, but if you're not going to make the contract, please leave quickly. And I'd appreciate it if you could clean the blood off the floor."

"!!!"

Ah. Did this kid truly not understand the art of playing hard to get? Their emotions must have been completely destroyed.

This... isn't how it's supposed to go....

Day One of Cohabitation. The curtain rises on a catastrophic crisis.