The Devilman smiles. It is not a nice smile. It is the smile of something that has already lost everything and therefore cannot be threatened.
The angel tilts. Light bleeds from its joints like yolk. apocalypse of the devilman
They called him devil before the end. Now there is no one left to name anything. The sky is a wound the color of spoiled wine. The earth is a mouth full of broken teeth. The angels came down not with harps but with surgical blades of light, and they cut the cities open to see what prayers would spill out. The Devilman smiles
So he raises his head.
The Devilman looks down at his hands. They are red to the wrist. He has killed demons. He has killed saints. He has killed the part of himself that prayed. And somewhere, in the ruin of his ribcage, a tiny ember of the man he was still whispers: no. The angel tilts