Minutes passed with the two of them simply sitting side by side, sharing the kind of silence that didn't feel awkward, just… oddly comfortable. The storm of chaos had finally passed, and now they were left adrift in its calm aftermath.
Aren shook Raven's hand—an action both symbolic and absurd—and with that, a strange new chapter began between them.
"So…" Aren broke the silence, his tone casual, almost lazy, like he was just now remembering they lived in a world where things needed doing.
"I'm off to get my share for that dungeon raid. Wanna come?" he asked, holding out his hand with a nonchalant shrug, like he was inviting her to grab lunch rather than deal with the aftermath of national-level scandal.
"I guess," Raven replied, reaching up and taking his hand with practiced grace. Despite everything, she accepted it smoothly, using his grip to pull herself up.
"I don't really have any dungeons to worry about right now. I get my pay when random people commission me to take them on."
Aren raised an eyebrow. "Is that how all S-Class Hunters get money?" he asked while tugging off his blood-splattered shirt and reaching for something slightly less horrifying—though the cleanest shirt in his closet still looked like it had beef with a vacuum cleaner.
"Nah," Raven answered with a casual shrug, adjusting her glasses with the flick of a finger. "Only independent Hunters like me do that. Beats getting orders from some idiot boss."
Her gaze shifted around the apartment. She visibly cringed.
"Anyways, you live in a dump…" she muttered, frowning at a suspicious pile of socks that may or may not have been sentient.
Aren let out a snort of laughter, completely unfazed by her bluntness as he yanked a hoodie over his head. "I'm an E-Rank, not exactly making big bucks, you know?"
"Fair enough, I guess," she said, pulling a sleek, matte-black mask from the inside of her jacket. She blinked at it in surprise, chuckling awkwardly. "I forgot I had this…"
With a swift motion, she slipped it over her face, the high-end design giving her a mysterious, almost cinematic flair.
"You're fairly unknown, so as long as I hide my own face, we shouldn't draw too much attention," she said, matter-of-factly. Then, with zero hesitation, she wrapped her arm around his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Aren stared at the contact, then slowly raised an eyebrow. "You really gonna do this?" he asked, crouching to grab his worn-out sneakers.
Raven didn't answer with words. Instead, she flicked his forehead—hard. A sharp snap echoed through the room.
"Ow—!" he flinched, rubbing the spot.
"Shut up," she said, lips curling into a smirk beneath her mask. "Part of the agreement is for you to make me fall in love. Consider this me helping you."
Aren mumbled something unintelligible as they stepped outside into the urban sprawl once more, the air cooler than before, the streets quieter than expected. Maybe word of his face hadn't spread quite as fast as the chaos itself had.
For now, it was peaceful.
They walked together at a relaxed pace, drawing few stares, looking—at worst—like an oddly paired couple.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Aren caught sight of something… holy.
A café. Bright. Air-conditioned. Playing soft lo-fi music.
Inside, a waiter placed a tall, glossy glass of iced macchiato on a marble table. The golden swirls of espresso over chilled milk glistened under soft lighting.
Aren stopped walking, eyes locked on it like a starving predator spotting prey for the first time in days.
"Can't wait to try one…" he muttered, a string of drool practically threatening to escape. He caught it just in time, swiping his sleeve across his mouth like a man barely holding himself together.
Raven tilted her head, watching him like someone examining a strange new species. "Coffee lover?" she asked, peering through her mask.
"Nope. Haven't even tried one," Aren replied without missing a beat, eyes still locked on the macchiato with religious reverence. "But after I get my pay, I'm definitely tasting one immediately."
Raven froze. Her eyes widened behind her glasses. "You haven't tasted coffee!? You're missing out!"
Without hesitation, she grabbed his hand—again—and marched straight toward the café entrance, shoes clacking against the sidewalk with purpose.
"My treat," she declared, like a queen bestowing a royal favor. "Can't believe a poor soul like you never got to taste one!"
Aren blinked several times, brain buffering from the speed of it all.
He followed without resistance, still clutching her hand, still stunned.
'She's… paying for my coffee…?' he thought, mind struggling to compute the gesture.
A pause. Then, deep inside him—somewhere beneath the lazy sighs and the apathy of a godlong past—something stirred.
'What a sweet soul…!'
It was his inner death god speaking—the reaper within, moved by the sheer generosity of a single overpriced beverage. A literal divine being, humbled by the sacred gift of caffeine.