DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Except the story.

The bittersweet aroma of black coffee permeated the air of his broken down cafe.

He sat by the remaining table in his shop, sipping his brew quietly while his eyes would wander every now and then. Shattered glass, dismantled bricks, and smashed pieces of wood littered the floor of his establishment. A gaping hole now served as an entrance into Murakami instead of the small, oaken door that had a small chime above it to indicate the presence of a customer.

He took relief in the fact that the wooden counter behind him, complete with the row of stools, the shelves lined with various brewing ingredients and bottles of exotic drinks, and the kitchen had all been spared from the earlier chaos that had ensued within the confines of his shop and abode. He'd spent a fortune collecting those too, and he was very confident that the total of everything behind him cost more than the rest of what he'd spent for the completion of his little project. It would be difficult to revive his small business if those had all gone, whisked away on a whim.

A chilly draft passed into the shop, cold fingertips that shyly touched his pale cheeks. Night was almost upon him, yet he was compelled to stay on his seat, finish his drink, pour himself another cup, and continue waiting for a certain guest.

A guest he was sure to provide him some answers concerning all the queries that had come to mind.

Really, he'd been looking for peace and quiet all this time—only for the calm for the past two years of his life be shattered because of a single day's turn of events. Just as his life had been turned upside-down from the ordeal brought upon him by one girl, yet another female had become a herald of the breaking of the silent world he'd struggle to build from the remainder of his bloody and grueling past.

Sighing, he took another sip of the bitter beverage.

His thumb found itself on one of the joints of his index finger, pushing down hard until he could hear the all too familiar crack. Old habits die hard, they used to say, and the ones he had since way back then only manifested nowadays whenever he was under stress, with the worst of them showing under more extreme conditions.

Like when that black-winged exhibitionist and her friends started hurling spears of energy at him.

A company of four, he'd remembered—three females, and older fellow. They'd all order the same thing, just the most usual from his small menu. He never forgot the more interesting ones of his customers. Ever. Especially when all of them suddenly sprouted feathery wings shaded charcoal behind their backs, with lines of energy crackling in the palms of their hands and extending into weapons that could both be wielded and thrown. He'd just arrived by their table to serve their orders when it all happened, and in his opinion, it was all a waste of good coffee.

Yoshimura-san would have been furious, he thought.

He narrowed his eyes when they attacked, not bothering to ask his assailants why they were after him. He wasn't really sure if they would have even bothered to answer him properly, they were too busy trying to disembowel him. Since that line of action then was pointless, he resolved to dodging, observing their movements and pattern of attacks, and gauging their overall combat proficiency.

After five minutes of moving around and getting the inside furniture get destroyed, he decided he would not jeopardize any more of himself and his establishment, choosing to finally bring out his kagune.

Four tendrils of scarlet shot out from below the small of his back, weaving through the air nimbly and grabbing his attackers. He forcibly flung them out of the cafe, destroying the wall lining entrance in the process. Wasting no time, he whizzed through the settling dust, spearing two of his then sharpened tendrils into the chest of the still dizzied older man.

He recalled the one of the others yelling the man's name—Dohnaseek, he silently passed on his lips. The resilience he found in the man's eyes were commendable, in the least, but it was something he found no true value in. After all, what use was it when one was about to cease breathing?

His tendrils reshaped into a wedge-like shape, slicing outward from the center to each sides until the area of the chest up went flying, leaving a crumpling form of the abdomen down to the legs spouting out blood like a broken water pipe with a leak.

Searing pain jolted him, with three spears perforating his left shoulder. He jumped back, turning his focus to the smallest of the girls, her palm still hissing with heat. His tendrils shot out to swat away the other two flanking his sides in midair, distracting them long for him to rush in, pull her down to the ground with his kagune, and plant his fist deep into the younger girl's gut. The blood she'd coughed up dirtied his already messed up uniform, and his own painted it red further when she'd plant another spear into his ribs, puncturing one of his lungs. A choked gasp escaped him, before he bit back and pushed his fist deeper into the girl, eliciting a sharp-pitched shriek as he grabbed and pulled out her entrails.

Perhaps she had ought to be congratulated, having made all that effort to try and kill him while she herself was in the process of being skewered.

He eyed the remaining two as he took a bite out of his second victim's stomach, feeling his Ghoul regeneration quicken and the pumping of survival biochemicals activate. Disgust was present in their eyes, before turning into rage at the fact that another of their comrade had been slain. The one clad in nothing but straps of leather tightly biting into her curvaceous shape was about to rush him before here remaining ally reluctantly instructed her to fall back and regroup. The two began to fly off, after the leather-clad one hurled abuse at him. The eyebrow above his kakugan raised, having never encountered such a foul-mouthed lady before. There was Touka-chan, and there was this, he supposed.

He attempted to give chase to the two, jumping in midair and swiping at them with his sharpened tendrils before they'd intercept with their spears, swinging them like swords and parrying his attack. They shot the beams at him, while he then maneuvered his body to twirl and dodge; one had managed still to graze his neck, the bleeding staining the collar of his shirt and his undershirt.

Both were already flying away a distance when he'd landed, too far for his liking to give chase. For all he knew, he could've been lured into a corner filled more of their allies. As much as he would want answers to the predicament he found himself, he fell on one knee and breathed heavily, assessing that his regeneration was not working quick enough to repair the damage he'd suffered. From the periphery of his vision, however, he was sure he had found a temporary solution to that.

The recollection of that afternoon was quite vivid to him—especially the different taste of the corpses he'd taken in. He'd gotten tingles all over his body as he was digesting his earlier meal, unsure of whether or not it was actually something healthy for him to have eaten, even if his injuries did heal a little too fast for his liking. It was obvious that those things were not humans—and if they weren't, then just what were they?

And so, he had decided then, after a brief repose, to make use of a contact.

The brown parchment of paper was lying on his now-shabby table. Contact details were printed on it, and the paper itself had been in his care after a sweet, young lady left it with him a while back. She had been quite the fascinating one to exchange words with, visiting his shop almost daily. She'd come by during the after-school hours, entering Murakami alone and ordering the same cup of caffe latte and a plate of pasta carbonara. She'd told him that she did not tire of the taste, after he'd ask her once, and even went as far to compliment him and hold him in quite a high regard. The girl was of noble upbringing, as she'd relay to him in a conversation, and knowing that he'd gone and prepared meals rivaling that of a five star chef gave him quite the swell in pride and confidence.

Of course, he knew people had there own eccentricities—and when she'd made hers known, he had to pace his thoughts and words. He did not wish to frighten her in her search for the supernatural, when there was a prime example serving her food for quite some time already.

It had been an afternoon on a weekend, when she'd ask about his hobbies, apart from his tasks in the shop. He had amorously shared his being a bibliophile, both a passion and a vice that he would not dare change about himself. It was something the girl had found quite appreciative in him, as she had related knowing so few who would still be interested in literature. Apart from that, they'd also discover a similar affinity for the game of chess, where he had to admit he'd never faced anyone as formidable as the girl.

Then came the question poised to her, where he'd discover that she had quite the liking for supernatural entities. The shine in her eye gave him an idea just how much she'd pay to get ahold of such a being, and it gave him a chill down his back for a some reason. Before the girl had left, she had handed him a brochure, asking him to call her in the case of one popping out in his vicinity.

Naturally, he'd oblige her request, even if the supernatural in the vicinity was none other than himself.

However, their meetings had long been scant after that. Every time that she did come, he'd notice a growing dread and melancholy around her, and the girl who was jolly and a tad passionate was far gone. Advice would be what she would order together with nothing else but a cup of the bitter drink—advice on what one should do with one's choices, and being torn between your own happiness and the familial responsibilities one should carry.

He was disappointed when he had found it difficult to answer. Truly, he wanted to help, just like how Yoshimura-san had done so for him, yet words could not leave his tongue nor could they come to mind. The girl would go and tell him it was fine if he did have words of wisdom to spare, but it irked him to see her growing sadness deepen from a puddle into a lake.

And soon after, she no longer came. He never even asked for her name, nor did he introduce himself. Typical me, he'd thought, mentally slapping himself.

Remembering the parchment then, he'd thought he'd call the girl and ask her about the winged creatures that had laid waste to his shop (it was technically still his fault for the entrance—but, oh well) and attempted to murder him. She was quite the intelligent girl, and maybe she could shed some light on this without him directly involving her within the events. Bad enough that he was a target for unfathomable reasons, there was no way he was involving a civilian into these matters.

After all, it was a favor only from one supernatural to another.

Surprise, however, captured him as what occurred next was entirely out of his expectations—the a sigil or circle full of runic letters appeared with a red glow behind the paper, with a similar marking then appearing on his telephone. The voice on the other side answering him was clearly male, instructing him that the "lady" was out for the moment, and that a different representative would be sent to him for further discussions in the matter of an hour or so. And then there was that familiar beeping sound, signalling him that the call was over long before he could even have uttered a syllable.

By then, he'd return to his seat, mystified that the contact details had since then disappeared from the paper, and that all that remained was the now black circle on the back. He sighed, exhausted that so much was happening in so small an amount of time, that he'd never expected something of such magnitude to already happen as he enjoyed his more silent years of living covertly.

The chime of the clock on the nearby wall alerted him to six o'clock; his hour of waiting already up. As if on cue, a red glow flickered out of the corner of his sight, vanishing as quickly as it came. Where his front there was supposed to be stood two figures, one in a business suit and the other in a uniform he recognized to be from Kuoh Academy, the nearby school in the area. He stood from his seat eyeing the pair as they went into his shop warily.

Red hair met his sight, similar to that of the young girl who had frequented his shop.

It was as if the man was a carbon copy of her, made taller and transformed into a male version. Then again, there might be a simple reason behind it, and he recalled that explanations came sooner than one could expect them. He could've sworn a ghost of a frown passed the man's expression, before giving him a small smile of sorts. His escort was a handsome, blonde young man, who was, for some inexplicable reason, glaring daggers at him.

As the pair neared, the tingling sensation had returned, albeit quite much more irritable this time around. It was as if his body was asking him, begging even, for him to move and alleviate it. Yes, the sensation had become familiar enough that he could tag what it was—

It was the need to kill. He was being drawn to kill the pair before him.

He felt his right hand tremble, cold sweat forming within the closed fist that shook slightly. He took deep breaths, composing himself as the two faced him.

"Kiba-kun, please stand guard."

"Yes, Lucifer-sama."

The man raised a hand as he neared, holding a piece of paper similar to the one on the table. A red glow appeared on its surface, like small embers burning an insignia of a circle with runes into the parchment. The light settled, leaving behind the same marking he'd seen, almost as if what had remained was printed by mere ink.

"How are you related to the young girl I got the same paper from?" The man's eyes widened for a moment, before giving a light chuckle, almost as if it wasn't the exact question he was expecting.

"I thought you'd be asking me if I was human first, but that was quite unexpected." The man smiled when he tilted his head in confusion, then asked the redhead to take a seat across him from the table. He had already prepared another cup in front of the man, and poured him the same drink that he'd been consuming since earlier.

"The girl you refer to is my dear younger sister. And to answer another obvious question, no I am not human—so are my sister and the young man over there."

At least it had answered why he'd always gotten a weird feeling around that girl. There was something almost unnatural with her that he'd always dismissed it, yet here it was—something he'd chosen to ignore had come biting him back.

The man gave the room another look, before then imposing his own curiosity. "I'd like to know what's happened here."

He closed his eyes as he took a slow sip of coffee. "Black-winged people attacked. There were four of them. I assumed your sister may help me track what they were, as she's told me she's a fan of the supernatural, and decided to give a call. Apparently, she forgot to tell me she, too, was part of the world she was so fascinated with."

The man lifted his own cup, staring into the liquid in deep thought. "Black wings... Well, Fallen Angels to be exact. Have you ever heard of them, for example, in myths and such?"

"Beings once of purity and holy power, they succumbed to earthly temptations and carnal pleasures that in turn dyed their white and golden wings black with the darkness of sin; and so, because of sin, they were cast out of Heaven, stripped of their ranks and shamed, with the love of their Father now lost forever from their grasp." Literature was a source of knowledge, and knowledge was power. Fiction had always proved to be entertainment and a source of inspiration, however that didn't mean he possessed no inclination to non-artistic writings. He also drilled knowledge various mythos and practical information into his head, swimming in the pools of wisdom that he always enjoyed wallowing in.

"Poetic, and quite neatly summarized." The redhead finally took a sip of the coffee, eyes widening with mild surprise. "A fine brew. Surely, they did not leave you and your establishment battered over a bad batch of coffee?"

"I can only wonder."

"You've mentioned four of them. You must've held your ground quite well to still be this fine, brewing with beans and relaxing with a warm drink."

"Two of them flew away. They might come back here, too—I still have no inkling as to why they would attack me of all people."

The man's brows knitted for a bit, but the small smile never left his face. "And the other two?"

There it was. The line of conversation had seemingly appeared quite casual, and he was sure the redhead was aiming to have reached this point—where he himself would be inches to exposing his identity, one he had wished not to expose to keep his silence. But, as things were in the present, could he really achieve that same peace once more? With the increasing supernatural forces all around him and making themselves all the more apparent, he was finding that notion impossible to reach. As reluctant as he was to come clean with who he was, perhaps it might be for the better for him to find, if ever, a temporary ally in this man.

At least, so that he could discover what his assailants were after. And have them pay back what they for the cafe.

"... I ate them."

Disbelief was apparent in the man's face. "I beg your pardon?"

"I ate them. Consumed. Devoured. Ingested. All things synonymous, and in between—you get the point."

"I... see. And just what are you, pray tell?" The curious look he was being given was quite disconcerting, in all his honesty.

He gave a long sigh, manifested his kakugan and stared at the man dead in the eyes. A surge of strength flowed through the entirety of his body, filling him with a rush that put his senses on high. Red tendrils shot out from behind him, glowing scarlet with their scaly and fluid looks. The tingling sensation had gone, replaced by a murderous instinct that he was having quite some trouble holding back.

He could feel cold steel touch his throat ever so slightly, tracing its killing intent back to the blond boy who was now beside the red-haired man, eyes locked onto him with an emotion that spilled venom. A trickle of sweat flowed slowly down his neck and to his chest, soaked by the shirt he wore.

"I am a Ghoul. Anything apart from the coffee on this table or the flesh on another is completely abhorrent to my kind. I am a natural predator of humans."

His eyes did not leave the red-haired man's, his face completely relaxed and impassive. His attention would not even care about the blade so close. This was the moment to see whether or not trust would be possible with the pair, if it would even be remotely possible to seek out their assistance.

"... Stand down, Kiba-kun. He does not appear interested in any sort of attack, whatsoever." His face was as calm, but the tone he spoke with carried steel.

The boy frowned, not even bothering to look at his superior. "He spoke of the Fallen as how a priest of the Church would. Those... things behind him are bathed in the Light. This place has scattered powers of Light. I find it... quite difficult to put trust into his words and actions. For all we know, this could be a trap, Lucifer-sama." The way he addressed the man sounded too forced.

"It's obvious Fallen Angels make use of the Light—even if they'd been abandoned by Heaven, they are still capable of wielding the Light to their own wills, preferably for combat. A fight had evidently taken place here, and so the Light and its remnants can be felt. Even I feel it. But now that you've told me he's bathed in the Light... Tell me, Ghoul, what happens if you ate, perhaps, another special being other than a human? Does it entail consequences?"

The man was sharp, he admitted. For cannibalistic Ghouls, there were certain types that exhibited the formation of a kagune that covered the body of its wielder. Its strength and capacity was nothing to laugh at—it could go head to head with an Investigator's quinque and withstand what could come its way. Kakuja types were formidable that way.

Memories of his shattered psyche came flooding back. He had cannibalized before, and damned if it wasn't such a disastrous experience. Its power was nothing to take easy, both for enemy and wielder alike. The Centipede nearly broke him and his spirit, destroying almost all vestiges of sanity left within him. It wanted him to keep eating and eating, to consume more Ghouls and take their prized kagune, become stronger and stronger in order to survive and keep fighting for his life in the twisted world, onethousandminussevenwhat'sonethousandminussevenithurtsithurtsfuckfuckfuckitssopainfulhahahahawhywontitfuuuuuuckingstooooop—

He stopped there, feeling the migraine that threatened to come recede and slowly disappear. It was definitely a hard task keeping that thing in check.

"I'm not entirely sure. Ghouls that cannibalize another can develop unique abilities by devouring the kagune, the unique organ Ghouls possess in order to hunt and consume humans. But if you're insinuating what I think you are..." The idea that he could somehow manifest a spear in his hands like magic seemed quite ludicrous at the moment.

The man laughed. "Of course, it's mere speculation. But from you've told me, I can only surmise that what you consume can have effects on your physiology, correct?"

Bullseye, right there. Eating human food weakened them, while human flesh improved combat proficiency and the overall health of a Ghoul. Perhaps nothing spectacular happened because humans were just too "normal" by physiological standards of a Ghoul. Cannibalism, however, has the possibility of granting them drastic changes that can make or break them; and if these were the situations that determined a Ghoul's ability to keep adapting and perhaps evolve further, what could eating Fallen Angels, or supernatural beings in general, for that matter, entail?

It was both a fascinating and chilling thought. After all, no choice could ever be without a consequence.

"If that's the case, then the 'Light' you keep talking about may be contained within me, yes?" The red-haired man nodded to him, confirming the suspicions both of them shared. The boy beside him finally chose to put down his blade, but did not sheathe it into any scabbard. Perhaps he was still on guard since he himself did not yet dismiss the tendrils that snaked behind him, almost like sentient beings.

"Now that that is out of the way, and that you have determined the identity of your little friends, I'd like to ask if you have an idea of what I—no, what we are." There was a glint in the man's eyes, almost quite challenging in his opinion. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd present himself as quite the academic, that it left behind an impression. Even if it were true, he dismissed the thought—it was not in his place to raise the pedestal upon which he stood on, nor was it his to assume what impression others have of him. He preferred it if things were just objective for the sense of understanding natures without bias, to assess without subjectivity the worth and the capabilities of an individual.

"Are you the Devil?" The man smiled, finding favor in his answer.

"I'm not the Devil, but to be more accurate, I am a Devil. And so is Kiba-kun." A? The implications of having made use of an indefinite article were only so few and specific, that the answer was all too obvious to him.

"You are a race?" The man nodded. The idea was quite hard for his head to wrap around on, after all, he had not expected such a revelation.

The Devil, considered mostly through mythos as a singular entity, was mainly portrayed as the Adversity humanity must overcome in order to fully acknowledge the love of God and be free of the many temptations that bring one to sin. The most known one went by the name of Satan, whose name had roots that tied to the word Adversity. If the Devil was only depicted as one such being whose task was to make known to man its earthly desires, how come there was a whole race of them?

Then again, the D—no, a Devil was right in front of him. If he had questions to ask, firsthand facts can be given. Perhaps he should also give human scriptures and sources of information the benefit of a doubt, recalling that not everything could really be found as entirely true and complete as recorded through ink and paper.

"Our kind has few pure-blooded Devils left, and as such we have created a means to rekindle the numbers we have lost through humanity—that is, by converting them into Devils, if they wish it so."

"Is that so..." Curiosity was biting deep into him, hungry for information. However, there was one reason he had to discover before any other query concerning Devil-kind. "Do you have an idea why they attacked me? The Fallen Angels, I mean."

The man leaned in, setting down the porcelain cup back on the table. His impassive features were washed over by a more contemplative one, but the fascinated look in his eyes somehow did not fit the expression he wore.

"My sister has told me she was greatly interested in you—not that she knew you were a... Ghoul, beforehand. No, there was another reason. A power that only few can dream of having; power desired by many, given to few, and made to acknowledge human desire. Humans have been given these over time, but the rarity and uniqueness of each is to be expected.

"Sacred Gears, we've called them. Power that has come from the extinguished life and the last vestiges of strength of the Biblical God. You possess one, Ghoul. Supernatural beings are quite the sensitive ones to the aura of a mortal in possession of a particularly strong one. In fact, even I could sense now the power that lies sleeping within you."

He was growing quite impatient, to say the least; however, he reined in any growing discomfort he had and managed to stay all the more calm to digest the answers he was receiving. "Are you saying the Fallen Angels were after that?"

"That, or they had viewed you as a potential threat, and as such found it a better method to kill you instead." He could not grasp the logic behind such an attack. Then again, they had attacked in a group, and a group of combined powers had an advantage of sorts in battle.

But that doesn't mean quantity was always better than quality.

"I see. It sounds plausible enough, I guess." Crack. His thumb had moved over his middle finger's second joint. The situation was putting more duress on him that he was sure his stress had become tangible enough to strike down with his kagune.

However, the revelation that he had some sort of "Gear" within him gave him mixed feelings. In the past, he'd throw himself at any chance to obtain power in order to become stronger. Strength to protect what mattered. Strength to keep what mattered.

In the end, power was an illusion.

True, the powerful held dominance over all that come into their way. However, power was not the only way to protect, to preserve all that was worth caring for in his tragic existence. There were other ways, alternatives that had always existed. Yet he'd poison himself with such a thinking that getting stronger was the only way. He'd learned it all the hard way when he'd lost everything after realizing everything when he was too late.

He'd lost a lot because he chased after strength. Family, friends, loved ones, and even his sanity. His life had gone haywire. His own power devoured him.

Yet here it was—he'd been told that he'd been given what he loathe to seek. Just like that, fate was toying with him again. He knows something will be taken again, but what? He did not wish to forfeit his life that easily, not when he'd promise Akira. He was definitely not losing his life. But just what could be wanted of him that his peace would be broken just like this?

Crack.

If only it was easy enough that he could rip it to shreds with his tendrils.

"Sirzechs Lucifer." The man had stood from his seat, offering his right hand politely. He nodded, then stood from his own seat, sheathing his kagune back into his body. He took the man's hand with a firm grip, and gave it a good shake—he had appreciated that there was at least another person that day sane enough to be civil with him.

"Haise Sasaki."

He snapped himself out of his earlier reverie, and decided to oblige the man a final query as their hands parted. "Where has your sister gone?"

The man exhaled, and had quite the sour look despite the sad smile he gave. What bothered him some more was that the man did not even look him so in the eyes.

"She got married."

A/N:

This fic is not meant to last more than a few chapters. I know I've said earlier that it was going to be a one shot fic, but I then changed my mind—it was quite the pain in the ass to write, and writing a singular work with more than 18000 words is just not my style. Though I can appreciate how other writers do so, I am much more comfortable writing my own works in smaller scales so that people don't get too overwhelmed with the length. I'd like to practice condensing quality in a shorter span (say, 4000 – 8000 words) rather than have so many things happening or explaining so many things in long paragraphs that could otherwise be told in one or two.

You can interpret the lead here as an AU Ken/Haise of sorts. Apart from that, I won't be saying anything—my major plan in this fic is to actually see if people would be bothered enough to speculate just about what the fvck happened to Tokyo Ghoul in Ken/Haise's AU past, and just what has gone wrong in this DxD AU. A divergence point lies in the past, but I'm too lazy to elaborate on it; which is why I'll try to see if anyone curious enough would try to rack his/her brains on this one.

Key phrase: try to see. I'm crossing my fingers I can develop this well enough to have people actually speculating. I'm trying to develop writing skills here, people. Hahahaha. I might get around to ending this short story in maybe five or six chapters only.

I also appreciate all the support Sine Faciem has been getting, it's a really great feeling to know that a lot of people actually like what I put out. I don't promise an update so soon, but I'am already working out stuff on it so expect one later, but not so soon. Period. I've been steadying myself as I get back into writing, and damn, it's a liberating feeling to write again with very little worries.

I'll be doing my best to write a lot more while vacation is still on-going (school's back in a few days -_-), but again I'd like to remind people that I won't be promising any quick updates. Especially on this one. I'd like to shift my focus first on Sine Faciem, Memento Vivere, and Non Omnis Moriar.

Read, review, and drop a line. Tell me what you liked, what went wrong, and stuff you'd like to suggest. Comments help me be creative, as long they are not worthless, waste-of-time flames.