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Chapter Text

"When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled."

– John 11:33

February 7, 2017

The first thing Goro Akechi did after waking up was reach for the needle at his bedside.

It was a sewing needle—a small, shiny thing with a point at one end and a small eye at the other. He rolled it between his fingers, let the cold of the metal sink into his skin.

Then he turned the point towards his forearm and jabbed.

One of the first things he had noticed about Maruki’s reality was that physical injuries received inside the Metaverse had no effect in the real world. In his prior experience, exiting the cognitive world without fully healing from any wounds would leave some sort of pain behind, physical or otherwise. Rarely would it match the intensity of the injury—a long gash across his arm from an ambush in Mementos had turned into a faded scar and a few days’ phantom pains in reality—but it was still there, a reminder that he hadn’t been careful enough back then. In Maruki’s reality, however, you could leave the Metaverse with a broken rib and walk back into the streets of Odaiba feeling only slightly winded.

Akechi had noticed this change before anyone except Akira, and while the leader of the Thieves had treated it as a convenience back then, Akechi had needed to know how it worked. He wasn’t content with walking through the carnival house the mad doctor had stuck them in without at least trying to know the rules. So after their first excursion to the Metaverse in January he’d gone to a 100 yen store and purchased the needle, then attempted to make himself bleed with it.

Not even a scratch on his skin, back then. He’d tried multiple times, then attempted to injure himself with more damaging objects such as a kitchen knife or a blunt hammer. But the implements bounced off or broke every time. He had been stuck in Maruki’s grip, and there had been nothing he could do.

Today, at least, his body was behaving normally. The tip of the needle was a bright red as he pulled it back from the epidermis. A miniscule red bead had formed on his arm, the blood already starting to clot. Whatever reality he was stuck in, it wasn’t the same as last time.

He sat up from his bed and stretched as much as the button-up shirt he was wearing would allow—apparently he had fallen asleep without changing into pajamas last night. He stripped down to his underwear before making his way to the bathroom, his feet tensing up against the cold tile floor of the hallway.

He stood in front of his mirror and reached for his toothbrush. Normally the motions of putting toothpaste on the bristles and scrubbing his mouth would’ve been ignored, but there was nothing he could take for granted anymore. So he carefully watched himself go through the routine, his jaw slack and his other arm limp at his side. 

He refused to look in his reflection’s eyes.

At 7:00 that morning he found himself under the sharp glare of Sojiro Sakura.

“You again?” he asked as he stood directly across Akechi on the other side of Leblanc’s counter, a mug in his hands that he seemed ready to throw at any moment.

“I’m simply a fan of your coffee,” Akechi responded with a false smile.

The fake cordiality hadn’t been on purpose—even though Akechi was done caring about outward appearances, the desire to save face and avoid suspicion refused to go away, even around people that knew better. Such as Sojiro, who just rolled his eyes. “You tried to kill Akira. Cut the crap.”

Akechi knew he deserved that response. He looked away and ran his finger down the grain of the countertop, wondering if a shard of the wood might stab his finger. “I’m only here for your coffee, Sakura-san. I’ll finish my cup and leave you be.”

The old man’s gaze lingered for just a moment longer before he turned towards the back of the cafe. “Fine. But only because he’d let you stay.”

The detective returned to a neutral expression. He knew that he had no right to be here, but it was hard to not come back. Even if Akira wasn’t here and everyone else had no reason to pretend to tolerate him anymore, he had positive memories of the place. He remembered one summer afternoon when he and Akira had argued over something pointless for over an hour, more as an exercise in mental acuity than as a battle of wits. Maybe he’d feel more welcome in the cafe if the other boy wasn’t rotting in a prison cell right now.

Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have come at all.

He was startled out of his recollection as Sojiro slammed a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. “Order up.”

Akechi nodded to show thanks (Sojiro likely wouldn’t respond well to spoken gratitude) and wrapped his bare hands around the mug. The heat was slightly uncomfortable, but it was nothing he wasn’t used to, and he preferred it scalding anyway. He brought the cup up to his lips.

The door to the cafe swung open and Wakaba Isshiki stepped through.

He put the coffee back down on the table as calmly as he could. He should have expected this.

Wakaba’s eyes flashed in recognition. “Goro-kun.”

A furious white burned through his mind as he pulled a thousand yen note from his pocket and pressed it onto the counter. Then he got out of his seat and brushed past the woman without a word. The wind was biting against his cheeks within moments.

He should’ve known better than to come to the cafe.

Sae’s voice buzzed dully from his phone over the drone of the snowflake-filled wind. “Talk me through everything you’ve checked.”

One of the things that had carried over from Maruki’s world to this one was that Akechi’s history as the Detective Prince had been erased from the memory of the public, the Phantom Thieves and their acquaintances being the only exceptions. As such, he was free to express his irritation vocally while walking through the streets of Kichijoji, and so he did. “I’ve contacted Maruki’s last five places of employment for information regarding his whereabouts, including the branch of social services he was working at after his departure from Shujin. I’ve placed cameras around his home without any result. His family and friends appear to have had zero contact with him since December 23rd of last year. And no evidence that his social media, email, or phone have been accessed since that time, either.”

She sighed. “It’s almost like he’s disappeared off of the face of the earth.”

“I doubt that, if only because of his insistence that every life is valuable.”

“Is that something you disagree with?”

He brushed past a middle-aged woman grumbling about the inclement weather. “I simply find it hypocritical given how willing he was to toy with said lives when he had control of the Metaverse.”

“I see.”

He could visualize Sae leaning against her desk, trying to wrap her mind around the limited information Akechi was providing her. It was a familiar dynamic from their previous work together, although this time the power imbalance was more due to his reticence than a desire to manipulate her.

“I recall learning about his academic pursuits in his Palace,” he continued. “That will likely be the focus of my investigation for the next few days. Is there any help you could provide in that area?”

“I’ve got my hands full dealing with Shido’s and Akira’s cases, but I’ll see what I can do after hours,” she said.

It was more than he deserved. “Thank you.”

“Akechi.”

He paused. Her voice had taken an unfamiliar tone—inquisitive, but not prosecutorial. Almost as if she was concerned about him.

“What exactly are you trying to find out from him?”

He curled his hand into a fist.

“I need to make sure that this is the real world, Sae. I refuse to live in another illusion, no matter how ‘accurate’ it feels. I’ll kill him if it means he won’t have his claws around me any longer.”

There was no way the feral edge to his voice went unnoticed by Sae, but she didn’t comment on it directly. Instead, she took a clipped breath.

“And what will you do if this is the real world, Goro?”

He stopped in place, the storm slamming against his coat.

What if this was the real world? What if they were truly alive, him and Wakaba both? What if he was living in a world where his life was meaningless to all but a few people? Where his trauma and his sins would follow him around everywhere he went?

Where Akira was just a text away?

He hung up and continued to push his way through the billowing snow.

Chapter Text

The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face.

– John 11:44

February 6

Futaba watched her mother eating porridge and tried to figure out if that mole on her left cheek had been there two years ago.

It was the stupidest detail possible, and yet she couldn’t shake it from her mind. She didn’t remember it at all when she tried to imagine her mom’s face, and the recording Necronomicon had taken of Futaba’s time in her Palace had shown that her cognition of Wakaba didn’t have the mole. But that could’ve just been her misremembering, right? For someone who’d managed to turn her mother into a sphinx, forgetting a mole would be fairly trivial, all things considered.

Wakaba hadn’t had the mole in January, Futaba knew that much. But that didn’t mean the woman in front of her was real; it just meant that Maruki had decided that getting rid of the mole fit his ideal reality. If someone less concerned with idealism was in control, keeping a mole that Wakaba had in her first life would make sense. Maybe Maruki got rid of it because it was going to become cancerous. Oh God, was her mom going to get melanoma?

Mom was giving her a look. Right, breakfast. She ate a spoonful of the porridge so that Wakaba wouldn't get upset. Her mom didn’t usually make her breakfast while she was alive. She was usually rushing off to work in the mornings, and Futaba wasn’t a breakfast eater anyway. Usually she’d just have a piece of toast, back when she woke up in the morning for school.

Middle school felt like ages ago. Her nerves aside, Futaba had figured out the train system really quickly for a girl her age. When she’d gotten back from middle school all by herself in sixth grade, Wakaba had been so proud that she’d grabbed her by the cheeks and kissed her on the forehead. She’d done that once yesterday, too, after Futaba had told her about some of the things she’d done as Medjed and Alibaba. It had felt so nice that she’d almost melted in her mom’s arms then and there.

She took another bite. It was too good to be true, wasn’t it? Her mom being back, blabbing to her about research, making her breakfast. It had been too good to be true a month ago, which is why she’d had to forget about the past two years of her life in order to accept it.

But both of them knew this time. That had to mean it was different. Wakaba remembered what had happened with Shido, right until she’d had the mental shutdown caused by… And Mom didn’t remember January, either. So it couldn’t be Maruki’s reality.

But it could very well be someone else’s. If Maruki had stolen Mementos from Yaldabaoth, couldn’t someone else steal it from the therapist? Maybe Shido, or Takemi, or that one reporter girl Akira knew? Anything felt possible, and when her mother and Akechi were back, how could she assume that everything else was normal?

She needed Akira to be here. Someone she could talk things out with. But he was stuck in prison, sacrificing himself for everyone else yet again. So it was just her.

“Futaba?”

She gazed up. Wakaba was looking at her nervously. “Yes, mom?”

“Well, I was just…” Wakaba pulled on her collar. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to Akihabara later today.”

“Why?”

“I mean, it was your favorite place to go back… back then. We went there to buy your computer parts for your first tower.”

Futaba felt a smile growing on her face as she remembered that build. The two of them had spent hours poring over the web to figure out the best parts for everything, and Wakaba had let her go wild with the expenses. She’d ended up with a rig that was powerful enough to run advanced math computations and play Crysis 2 on max settings. That was one of her favorite memories with Mom.

Which meant it was exactly the thing someone would bring up to make Futaba vulnerable.

Something horrible wrapped around Futaba’s chest as she looked her mother in the eyes. The woman was so earnest, so concerned, so herself —exactly how Futaba remembered her. Ryuji had told her to just enjoy the time she had with her, and Futaba desperately wanted to cherish her, to not be alone again.

But she’d already chosen her mom over reality once, and she’d betrayed Akira to do it. And she couldn’t even risk doing that to him again. Especially when he wasn’t here to stop her.

She shook her head, breaking their gaze by looking into her bowl of food. “N-no, Mom. I’m… not feeling up to it.”

After a moment’s pause, Wakaba nodded. “Alright. Just let me know if you need anything, okay ‘Taba?”

“Yeah.”

Silence settled around the two of them like a shroud. Futaba swallowed another spoonful of her porridge. It slid down her throat cold, and she couldn’t tell if the subsequent shiver came from the food or just another haunting memory.

Chapter Text

February 8

The digital bell connected to the security system rang in Haru’s room—someone had entered the mansion through the front door.

Haru pulled her phone out of the pockets of her silk pajamas and opened the camera feed. A familiar bob of brown hair standing at the entryway: looks like Makoto was back from the Phantom Thieves meeting. And even though the door locked automatically every two minutes, Makoto still pressed the button on the touchpad that would do it manually. The habitual diligence, something that was so familiar by now, made Haru smile.

She briefly considered making herself more presentable for her girlfriend before deciding against it. Her father would've insisted on it, but Makoto wasn’t overly concerned with appearances, and Haru didn’t want to work up the energy if she didn’t need to. So she just turned to lie on her back and stare at the ceiling.

This is so unlike you, Haru. You should be the one taking care of Makoto, not the other way around.

The bedroom door creaked open and the thought bled away.

“Hello, Mako-chan,” Haru said quietly as Makoto’s head peeked through the entry.

The worry knotted into Makoto’s forehead relieved itself somewhat as she spotted Haru in her bed and made her way over. “How are you, Haru?”

She looked around the room realizing that the sheets alone had likely cost her father tens of thousands of dollars. “Well, compared to the average person, I think I’m doing okay.”

Makoto sad on the side of the bed and gave her a knowing look. “What about compared to the average Haru?”

She didn't respond.

The older girl smiled sadly before lifting up the covers and wrapping her arms around Haru.

"You're cold, Mako-chan."

"It was very windy today."

"I could hear it from inside. And the weather app said the low was in the twenties."

A nod. "I hope you got some warm soup for lunch so I can have leftovers."

No response.

"Haru."

"How did the meeting with the Thieves go?"

"Haru."

"I'll eat right after this. But I need to know."

"Promise?"

After a pause, she nodded shakily.

"Okay."

Makoto took a moment to gather her thoughts. "We were able to contact the woman who Shido forced to testify against Akira."

"Oh, that's wonderful."

"It's still going to take some time to work out the details. But Sae thinks we might be able to negotiate his release before Valentine's Day."

“I don't doubt it one bit,” Haru said with a smile.

"Me neither."

"Did anything else come up?"

"I don't think so. We're all very focused on this, and anyone who might have brought up something…"

Haru could interpret the meaning of the pause. "Akechi wasn’t there."

"No. He says he's still looking for Maruki."

"One more target to kill, hm?"

"Haru…"

"I mean, he's expressed to all of us that he doesn't want to be alive. If he doesn't have the decency to kill himself, surely the next best thing is to murder whoever is responsible for his life."

Makoto stayed silent.

After a long moment, Haru exhaled and shifted in Makoto's grip. "That was rather unlike me, wasn't it?"

"I'd feel the same in your position."

"You are in my position, Mako-chan."

She shook her head. "Whether he was a good man or not, my father died doing what he loved. Your father died miserably, before he ever got a chance to redeem himself."

"...I suppose."

Haru's voice was flat, but Makoto could feel her whole body shaking.

The brunette pulled a hand up and ran it through the girl's hair slowly, her fingers running through the amber curls. She listened carefully to Haru's breathing to make sure it was steadying.

Haru, meanwhile, listened to the drone of the heating system as it blasted hot air, trying its best to make her life bearable.

"It's so hard, Makoto."

"I know."

"It feels like he died again. Like Akechi stole his life again. And even though I know that's not true, my brain won't let it go."

Her voice cracked. "Will it ever get better, Makoto?"

Makoto bit her lip.

"Makoto?"

"It does hurt less as time goes on," she said at last. "But even I wished for my father back in Maruki's reality. So…"

She shook her head. "I don't know, Haru."

A pause.

"I wish we did know," Haru said.

And they laid together like that for a long time.

Chapter Text

Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them.

- Matthew 5:17

February 13, 2017

“Unfortunately, Akira, there’s… one more thing I need to tell you.”

Akira stared at Sae’s dark expression from the other side of the glass of the prison’s visitation chamber. This woman had already dropped two massive bombs on him since she arrived to tell him he was no longer on probation. What could even be on the same magnitude as Wakaba and Akechi being alive?

“Go ahead,” he said.

A nod. “It’s about your parents.”

Akira blinked.

“On the afternoon of February 4, they were discovered dead in their homes. The cause of death is unclear, but an autopsy discovered no evidence of foul play. On the contrary, it seems that their passing was relatively painless.”

Akira’s heart throbbed as, for a brief moment, he thought he was actually upset about the news. He remembered being pushed on the swing by his mother at some playground in the small town he used to live in, being taken into the city for the best birthday weekend he’d ever had.

The moment didn’t last long.

“Thank you for letting me know,” he said. “How will this affect my residency with Sojiro?”

Sae hesitated for a moment; she must have expected a stronger reaction. “All of the extended members of your family that we’ve been able to contact have been unwilling to host you until you reach adulthood. Until that situation changes, it appears that you’ll be staying in Tokyo with Sakura-san for the foreseeable future.”

“Alright. Thank you for letting me know.”

The bell signaling an end to the visiting period rang. The lawyer stood up from the fold-up chair she’d been sitting in and started to walk away before turning back to Akira. “If you need anyone to talk to about your parents, I’d… be more than willing to listen. I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you.”

The kindness in Sae’s eyes was evident; she’d changed a lot in the past few months. Akira figured she deserved to know he appreciated that. “I’ll let you know, Sae.”

She gave him a small, soft look before leaving.

Akira sat silently in the concrete room.

Part of him wanted to be more distressed by his parents’ passing. Sure, they hadn’t been the most loving people, but they were his parents. They’d fed him for 16 years of his life and had made sure he got a reasonable education. Didn’t he owe them at least a little heartbreak?

Then he thought of Okumura’s Shadow offering Haru as a plaything to the cognitive Sugimura. Shido’s Shadow talking of “disposing” of his son so casually, as if he was just a tool, because to Shido he was.

He thought of the bruises left on his arms and back after one particularly painful evening, almost ten years ago to the day.

He forced the thought away and stood up. There were more important people to think about.

Chapter Text

Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

- John 6:68

February 13, Afternoon

The first thing he did as he entered Sojiro’s car was ask for his bag.

Sojiro pointed it out on the floor with one hand, his other still glued to the steering wheel as they pulled away. Akira gave his guardian a quick nod of thanks, then dug into the bag’s pockets until he found his phone. He unlocked it with a swipe, cleared all his notifications, then pulled up his text history with Akechi.

No messages since February 3.

He began typing as the car started moving forward.

“Hey.”

Akira turned towards the voice—Futaba was sitting in the seat next to him and he hadn’t realized. “I’m sorry, Futaba. I was just—”

“Texting Akechi, I know. Makoto mentioned that Sae told you.”

He put his phone face down on the cushion. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” she said. “We need to figure out what’s going on.”

The way her jaw tensed up meant she was lying. 

“Futaba, you’re more important to me than the Metaverse.”

She raised an eyebrow. “But not more important than Akechi?”

He winced.

She froze for a moment before turning away and putting her head between her hands. “I shouldn’t have asked that. I know you wouldn’t put Akechi before me, and you’re just trying to make sure we’re not stuck in a false reality. I’m just… not taking things well.”

“Because of your mom.”

“Yeah. Because of… her.”

The pain he felt for her was unfamiliar, but not any less real.

Akira reached over and massaged her scalp slowly. “We’ll figure this out, okay? I promise.”

There was a moment of hesitation, small but unmistakable, before she relaxed. “Thanks, Akira.”

He smiled as broadly as he could. “Of course.”

The hugs Akira’s teammates gave him when he walked back into Leblanc weren’t the ones he’d dreamed of. They were certainly passionate, of course, but their friendliness was punctuated by a deep fear. Every touch was done with the knowledge that it could all fade away at any moment, that Akira or Ryuji or Futaba could very well disappear in the other person’s fingertips.

After the greetings, everyone settled into one seat or another in Leblanc. There was a familiarity to the event: Ryuji and Ann sitting in their own booth, Yusuke watching the entire room from a distance, Morgana perched on a windowsill with his tail swishing restlessly. Still, the feel of the room matched the February weather outside: cold and dreary in a way that sunk into the bone.

Other than Sojiro being absent to give them some space, only one absence stood out. “Where’s Akechi?” Akira asked.

“He wasn’t invited,” Haru replied matter-of-factly.

Akira gave her a quiet look. The undercurrent of pain beneath her calm demeanor was both obvious and understandable. He didn’t know why he’d assumed that Akechi would be there, other than the fact that he wanted to see him. 

There were so many other things he needed to ask about. He wanted to ask Sumire if she had been okay without him there, if Yusuke had been able to secure housing for his senior year, if Ann was having any luck with modeling. He just wanted things to be back to normal.

But they weren’t normal. So he leaned against the wall and crossed his legs. “Alright. Catch me up on what’s happened since Maruki.”

Makoto cleared her throat and assumed her usual position as second-in-command. “After we returned to this reality on the third of this month, Akechi was dead and Maruki was nowhere to be found. We assumed that everything had returned to the way it would have been if the doctor hadn’t been involved after the defeat of Yaldabaoth.”

“Nobody else was alive at that point?”

“Not that we know of.”

Yusuke nodded. “We spent hours looking for you before returning to Leblanc in the evening, so I’m certain we would have noticed any other aberrations in the fabric of reality if they were present at the time.”

Ann picked up the thread from there. “We got back to Leblanc, realized you were in prison since Akechi wasn’t alive to cover for you, and then…”

“Then we went home.” Ryuji shrugged. “We were going to start working on getting you out of jail in the morning, but there was no point when we were all pooped.”

Akira nodded. “And then the next morning?”

A few people turned to Futaba, who pulled on her hand nervously as she looked at Akira. “Well, I’m sitting in Leblanc at 9 AM with Sojiro. I hear some thumping upstairs, which didn’t make sense, because nobody should have been up there and it was definitely footsteps. Then Akechi runs down the stairs into the cafe and asks what the fuck is going on, and I have no idea how to respond to that because I don’t know either, and then–”

Futaba’s voice choked. Akira almost reached over to pat her on the shoulder, but by the time he hesitated, she’d cleared her throat and kept talking. “And then Mom walks down and asks the same thing.”

Sumire, who’d been silent up to this point with a detached expression, nodded. “We spent most of the day trying to figure things out. Although when Akechi realized that we knew just as little as he did, he left to investigate on his own. He still comes to Leblanc sometimes, but only when he knows none of us will be here.”

“Typical,” Morgana remarked.

Well, at least his behavior wasn’t different in this reality. “And Wakaba?”

“I mean, she’s handling it about as well as anyone else would.” Futaba said with a weak laugh: a failed attempt to play it off as a joke. “Confused, happy, disoriented, a bit of everything. Kinda fascinated by the whole thing, but it is related to her research, so it’s not that weird. There’s no huge red flags or anything.”

“And the Metaverse?”

“Nothing,” Makoto said. “No MetaNav, no word from Lavenza, nothing Morgana can sniff out. It is clear that the public doesn’t remember anything about Akechi. Everyone thinks he’s just another intern at the SIU. But besides that, everything is the same.”

Akira looked at the floor and sighed. “So we know nothing.”

The others looked between themselves.

“Unfortunately, that’s accurate,” Makoto admitted after a moment. “We’re sorry we couldn’t–”

The door to Leblanc rang open, sending a blast of cold wind through the threshold. Akira glanced over instinctively and his heart skipped a beat.

It was Akechi.

The energy in the room changed immediately. Makoto stood up and moved to stand in front of Haru with her fists balled, while Yusuke assumed a defensive posture nearby and Morgana’s back curled. Futaba and Sumire, in contrast, seemed to shrink into their seats, and Haru simply turned away. Only Ryuji and Ann seemed calm, and even then their faces were still clouded with mistrust.

“What do you want?” Makoto asked, not bothering to conceal her hostility.

Akechi shut the door behind him and stayed at the entrance. The expression on his face was complex: a mask of geniality concealing a pain and mistrust that even Akira couldn’t read fully.

“I heard that he would be here,” the detective said, gesturing to Akira.

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t think discussing that would be productive,” he evaded. “However, I do have a suggestion for determining the nature of our current circumstances.”

Haru spoke up from the back. “We don’t need your help, Akechi.”

He looked out the window, saying nothing.

Akira stood up from his seat and put his hands in his pockets. Whatever Akechi was here for, he appeared to be acting in good faith. “Tell us what you have to say.”

He turned back and pulled on his glove. “Thank you, Kurusu. And as for everyone else, I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

Akechi took a moment to collect himself before he cleared his throat. “It’s simple on the surface. Akira and I visit Lazenva and ask her to confirm if our reality is the true one.”

“That’s it?” Ryuji interjected. “We could’ve come up with that.”

“And why does it have to be you?” Futaba asked. “Couldn’t Akira just go himself? Or are you just feeling left out?”

Akechi rolled his eyes. “Akira can’t go by himself because we can’t trust any one person to relay Lavenza’s message to us. It’s a basic principle of information gathering.”

Makoto clearly wasn’t convinced. “Be that as it may, why should the person who goes with him be you?”

“All of you,” he said with a gesture around the room, “are known to the police as suspects in the open investigations regarding the Phantom Thieves. Going to a public place with him the day he steps out of prison is more than enough to attract the attention of law enforcement. My presence won’t cause that issue, thanks to my association with Shido having been wiped from the public memory.”

Morgana growled from the corner. “What about me?”

“And that’s the other reason–because Akira could pressure any one of you to lie about what Lavenza said. You especially, Morgana.”

“That’s not–”

“Can you really say that I’m wrong?”

The rest of the Phantom Thieves looked around the room, with occasional glances towards Akira. He held back a shudder. Were they skeptical of Akechi, themselves, or…

“You don’t really think he’d make us do that, do you?” Sumire finally asked.

Akechi’s tone remained passive. “Regardless of his intentions, it’s a possibility we need to account for.”

“I find it hard to believe that you’re less biased than us, considering that your life is on the line,” Yusuke said.

Akechi turned towards Akira without saying a word.

Akira had stayed quiet for the entirety of Akechi’s proposal, partially because he was still trying to figure him out and partially because he didn’t want to color everyone else’s opinions. Now, though, it seemed like he had to bring up the one thing he least wanted to talk about.

He pulled at a loose strand of his hair. “The night before we stole Maruki’s Treasure, the doctor came to Leblanc and told Akechi and I that if we made his reality vanish, Akechi would die. After learning this, Akechi…”

He took a deep breath.

“…still insisted that we finish the job.”

The anger on the Thieves’ faces dissolved somewhat.

“Holy shit,” Ryuji whispered.

Akechi’s face was passive. “Are there any further objections?”

The room was silent except for the restless flicking of Morgana’s tail.

“I think Akechi’s right about this being our best move,” Akira said at last. “And the worst that could happen is that we learn nothing.”

One by one, everyone in the room showed their assent, starting with Sumire and Ryuji nodding and proceeding until only Haru was left. 

Her reluctance to agree with his plan was evident. “If you try something, Akechi, we won’t let it go unpunished.”

“I can assure you that my time invading your lives unnecessarily is over,” he replied.

After another small pause, she nodded, her eyes still fixed on Akechi’s forehead.

It was settled, then. Akira slid out of the booth and walked forward as casually as he could. “We should be back soon. Then we’ll celebrate in earnest after that, yeah?”

The mood in the room didn’t change.

Akechi gave him a look as Akira stopped beside him. “Let’s go.”

After taking an apologetic glance behind him, Akira followed the boy into the frozen afternoon.

Chapter Text

Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends.

- John 15:13

The subway station in Yongen-Jaya was more empty than usual, with only a few stray college students and businesspeople waiting for their ride.

Akechi gave his temporary companion a look. Akira had balanced his weight on one leg and was tapping his other foot restlessly. Another person might have found something artistically tragic in his profile: the well-defined features affected by a pallor, the way the clouds of uncertainty were visible inside his gray eyes. 

Akechi was unwilling to admit he had thought of that.

“If you need something to keep you preoccupied,” he said, “I can answer any questions you have.”

Akira gave him a look that was supposed to be careless, but Akechi knew better. “So you do care. I assumed you were going to ghost me after this based on how distant you’re being.”

“Questions, please.”

“Alright, alright.” 

Akira turned away and his characteristic grin faded.

“Do you actually think I would try to lie about whether this is the true reality?”

Akechi fixed his eyes on the train tracks. “Well, you were very insistent that my life was important to you. I convinced you to let me die once, but I don’t know if I could convince you again, as trivial as my predicament was.”

Akira opened his mouth before closing it and laughing quietly. “I was about to say it wasn’t trivial. Just like that night.”

“I’m not surprised that you’re reliving the second of February.”

“And you aren’t?”

Akechi ignored the prod. “There’s also the matter of Wakaba. Don’t you think you’d be biased in regard to bringing Futaba's mother back to life, for the girl’s sake?”

“Futaba doesn’t seem particularly happy about it.”

“I’m sure it could be different if she knew it was truly her mother. Or ‘believed,’ I suppose.”

Akira didn’t respond.

“And you didn’t bring up your parents, either.”

That caught Akira off-guard. He stared at Akechi. “You knew?”

“Sae has kept me updated on all the details of the Shido case. Since you’re a primary player, your personal circumstances are, unfortunately, quite relevant.”

Akechi almost expected another joke from Akira, but the boy stayed silent.

“Their deaths really have rattled you, then.”

“Not because of them.” Akira’s laugh was cold.

“Why, then?”

Akira adjusted his glasses. “Maruki never killed people in his reality. We found so many instances where he brought people back to life, tried to repair relationships. Bad parents were simply… rewritten into good ones. But murder? That’s unprecedented.”

“It’s possible that we simply didn’t see the full scope of his reality.”

“The Maruki I knew wouldn’t have done that.”

A tsk. “He brainwashed everyone in Tokyo, Akira.”

Akira shook his head. “Death is different. For him, at least.”

Akechi didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry, Goro. That wasn’t what I—”

The train slid into the station the same way it always had. The few stray people in the station started to mill towards the opening doors.

He walked forward. “Let’s go.”

After a second of hesitation, Akira followed him.

Akechi still hallucinated whenever he rode the subway. He would blink and the walls would be covered by the pulsing red veins of Mementos, the tendrils winding around the tunnels like an anaconda. The color reminded him of blood, which was only fair: he’d spilled more than enough of his own in the hallways of the public subconscious. 

There had always been a rush of adrenaline associated with crawling through the depths. He had spent hours on end manipulating the whims of the public on television and social media, driving himself mad with the inanity of his audience. But his time in Mementos was the reward for his patience: the freedom to inflict his personal brand of terror upon the dregs of society in the depths.

He hadn’t had to think of the implications back then. There was no life or death, no right or wrong, no worrying about the well-being of those around him. Just the red flooding his vision and the remains of Shadows seeping into his armor.

Akira was staring at the tunnel walls, too. He wondered what the other boy was seeing, what kind of fear was crawling through his veins. 

Akechi hadn’t known fear, once upon a time. And then he had died.

“Do you remember?” Akira asked.

He glanced over.

“Being dead,” he continued. “Was it… anything?”

He didn’t remember anything between his death on the ship and Christmas Eve, likely because of Maruki’s influence. But in the time between Maruki’s fall and his return…

“It was the color of the night sky,” he said quietly. “There were other souls there, gleaming like stars. I could have talked to them if I wanted to.”

“Did you?”

Akechi was silent.

Akira continued to push. “Was it… better, compared to here?”

There was an undercurrent of worry in Akira’s voice. A thought that Akechi would leave again, a desire to prevent that horrible fate—horrible from Akira's perspective, of course. Akechi had to keep himself from laughing at the boy's naivete. 

“It was better than how my life used to be.”

“And what about your life now?”

A vague discomfort settled in Akechi's stomach as the subway started to slow down.

“Let’s find out if I have a life, first.”

Chapter Text

For with You is the fountain of life;
In Your light we see light.

- Psalms 36:9

“You’re telling me there’s an entrance to the Velvet Room in an alleyway off of Central Street?” Akechi asked.

Akira shrugged as they walked past the bookstore marking the entrance of Central Street. “There’s also one in Akihabara, Shinjuku, and Kichijoji.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s not like anyone can see them or interact with them. I think they were just placed in spots that were convenient for me.”

“He may have tried to kill you and enslave humanity, but at least Yaldabaoth cared about your train fares.”

It was the familiar banter they had developed over the past year, something they could slide into no matter the circumstance. Normally it would put Akira at ease, but when the nature of Akechi’s existence was in question, it didn’t quite work.

It would be fine. They would know soon. Either the world is healed and Akechi would be back, or…

Anyway. The two of them turned into the alleyway leading into Untouchable, and there it stood as always: the ethereal blue door that was the entrance to the Velvet Room, Lavenza standing in front as its stalwart doorkeeper.

Akira suddenly realized the awkwardness of leading someone to a place they couldn’t see. “The Velvet Room is there,” Akira said. “Just stay by my side and I’ll lead you there.”

“I know,” Akechi said. “I can see it.”

Akira turned to him. “You…”

“This is the first time I’ve noticed either its presence or Lavenza’s,” Akechi explained, his curiosity visible. “Something must be different this time.”

And as if on cue, the girl at the entrance turned towards where the two of them were standing. “Hello, you two.”

Akira walked forward quickly,  his desperation getting the better of him. “Lavenza, is this–”

She shook her head politely. “I believe these matters would be best discussed inside the Velvet Room. My master wishes to see both of you, after all.”

“Both of us?” Akechi repeated.

“Indeed.”

The girl raised her hand and the door to the Velvet Room swung open wordlessly.

“After you,” Lavenza said.

Akira took a step forward before hesitating and looking back. “Are you… okay with going in?”

Akechi walked until he was standing directly beside Akira.. “My trepidation aside, I suspect that if the denizens of the Velvet Room wanted to harm us, we would already be dead.”

Lavenza only smiled.

“Well, on that very comforting note,” Akira said, “Let’s go.”

He took another step forward and crossed the threshold into another world.

The place Akira walked into was altogether different from the Velvet Room he was familiar with. While the decor and atmosphere retained the same sensation of blue–so thick that he could almost reach out and feel the color–the prison that he’d once inhabited was gone,  replaced by a simple room lined with thick indigo curtains, decorated with only an unoccupied piano and Igor’s simple desk and chair.

“You seem disoriented,” Akechi said from behind him–the boy must have walked in almost immediately after him.

“The room is… different, this time.”

A familiar high-pitched voice interrupted them. “Welcome to the Velvet Room.”

Akira started as he realized that Igor was now sitting at his desk despite having been absent from the room a second ago.

“I apologize for alarming you,” the long-nosed man said as he wove his hands together. “I had anticipated a visit from the both of you, but your timing was… unexpected.”

“Really,” Akechi said. “There are dead people walking around and you didn’t expect us.”

Igor continued without hesitation. “I hope the new trappings of the room are not uncomfortable for you, Trickster.”

The detective gave Akira a look. “Do they like ignoring the things we say?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Rather like you.”

Akira ignored the comment and focused back on Igor. “Why does it look different, if I can ask?”

The question was handled by Lavenza, who appeared through the door the boys had walked through and slowly made her way to her master’s side. “The Velvet Room changes its appearance to match the fate and heart of its visitors. Your hearts are as different as can be, and when confronted by such opposites, the Velvet Room chooses a neutral appearance, so as to not show favoritism to any particular guest.”

Akechi frowned. “You talk as if the room is alive.”

“Why else would Yaldabaoth have worked so hard to contain it?”

As always, Lavenza and Igor spoke in riddles and obfuscations, but Akira was surprised by the amount of information they were receiving.

Akechi was less satisfied by their half-answers. “If you’re expecting me to wait on your every word like a dutiful schoolboy, you’ll be disappointed. We have important things to ask.”

“He's right.” Akira took a step forward. Even in the cool atmosphere of the room, his palms were getting clammy. “Is this Tokyo we’re experiencing… the real one?”

Igor’s grin curved upwards. “An interesting question. ‘Reality’ is not such a simple thing, is it? I believe your companion told you as much on Christmas Eve.”

Akechi narrowed his eyes. “It’s a question with an answer. Answer it, old man.”

A ringing laugh through the chamber. “My my, it is rare for a guest to talk back as much as you have. But I suppose your impatience is understandable. Please, bear with me for a moment.”

Igor raised a hand into the air and snapped his fingers. As he did, skeins of red and blue yarn appeared in the air and began to divide themselves into long, distinct strands.

“One could see reality as the interaction between the cognition of the public and the world they inhabit. These strands of thought and matter are interwoven in ways that we can and cannot perceive, forming what we might call the ‘fabric’ of reality.”

Another wave of the hands, and the blue threads aligned themselves into taut columns while the red wove between them.

“Warp and weft are both equally important to the integrity of the world. Without objects to perceive, the human mind would drift alone in a void of emptiness. And without the human mind, matter would be devoid of purpose.”

Akira watched as the threads tightened, creating a doily that fell into Igor’s palm.

“The cognitions of people, both individual and public, are possible to manipulate, as you and many others have experienced. Rumors becoming reality, thoughts becoming prophecies, people vanishing in a crowded street—all of these are possible through the influence of gods or those with knowledge and purpose. It’s something you’ve done yourselves, for good or ill.”

Akira could see the distinction the old man was making. “But resurrection is different.”

“Indeed.” Igor lifted the weave into the air as it began to contort. “The will of matter is nearly absolute. To cut off a life outside of the natural laws, or to bring life into the world through unnatural means… Both require the power of a god. Few have achieved this, and none have used it while preserving both their capabilities and their lives. But in the right circumstances, and with a strong enough force of will, anything is possible.”

Another snap, and the yarn evaporated into smoke.

“But what does that mean?” Akira asked. “How can we tell if it’s a god’s power or cognitive manipulation?”

“There is no way to tell for mortals like you,” Lavenza said. “To confirm the nature of such a thing requires insight that only we in the Velvet Room can provide.”

“And? Can you tell us?”

Lavenza looked towards Igor, who gave her a smile and a nod.

"My master has confirmed that the influence of the false gods you have faced is no more,” she said. “No more are false delusions tearing at the fabric of reality.”

“Which means there’s only one option left,” Akechi said dryly.

Akira’s eyes widened.

Lavenza fixed Akira with her piercing golden eyes. “This is the true reality, Trickster. The lives and deaths of friends and family are unnatural, but they are as undeniable as the ground upon which you stand.”

His arms and shoulders began to shake.

This was real. Goro was real. When they’d brushed against each other in the train car and he’d felt the fabric of his coat, it hadn’t been something he’d made up or forced into the public cognition.

Akechi, meanwhile, gritted his teeth for a moment before flexing his hand to reassert control. “Such a dramatic change in the world must have a cause.”

“The answer to all questions will become clear in due time,” Igor said as he pressed his fingertips together. “For now, I believe our business is finished.”

The door to the Velvet Room swung open behind them, letting a few snowflakes inside.

Lavenza gave them a bow. “I wish you both well in the future. And…”

Her eyes softened as she turned to an uncomposed Akira. “May your journey’s end become a place of healing.”

Akechi shoved his hands into his coat and spun on his heels. “Well, it’s better than nothing,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

One pair of footsteps rang through the room until Akechi realized that his rival wasn’t following him.

And Akira trembled in place as his tears fell onto the blue carpet of the Velvet Room.

Chapter Text

“Put your sword back in its place,” Jesus said to him, “for all who draw the sword will die by the sword.”

Matthew 26:52

The only sound in Leblanc was the clink of Ann stirring her coffee with a spoon.

Makoto hated this. Ever since they’d realized that Akira was stuck in prison and Akechi and Wakaba were back, she’d had to take over in his place, and all indicators suggested she wasn't doing a good job. It was obvious how unsure everyone was about the current situation, and even though she had done her best to keep them from dissolving into a mess of in-fighting, it was clear that the stress was starting to get to them.

“So, anyone seen any good movies recently?” Ryuji asked.

Ann visibly rolled her eyes while Yusuke gave him an innocent look. “I unfortunately haven’t had the money for movie tickets. I’ve been more focused on–”

“None of us called Akechi,” Futaba said quietly.

Everyone turned to her.

“It was Akira,” she said as she fiddled nervously with the cord of her headphones, facing away from all of them at her seat at the counter. “He texted him as soon as he got his phone back. He didn’t mention Leblanc but Akechi isn’t stupid, he knows where we live. So can we please stop acting like we’re going to slit each other’s throats? Because it’s making me feel awful.”

Makoto whispered a silent thanks to Futaba before taking the initiative. “Futaba’s right. Akira must have had his reasons. Let’s just start thinking of things we can do once he gets back–”

“I… also messaged Akechi.”

Makoto was almost surprised that she could hear Sumire’s voice, given how quietly she was speaking. Her voice started to build in volume as she kept talking, though, as if she was slowly working up confidence. “Just because he’s not working with us doesn’t mean we should keep him in the dark. He deserves to know that Akira is back just as much as we do.”

“Does he, though?” Morgana asked as he hopped onto the counter. “He tried to kill everyone here but you, Sumire.”

“Akira thinks he does.”

“Perhaps Akira is wrong,” Yusuke proposed.

“But we can’t make those kinds of decisions for him,” Sumire argued. “We’re not the Kurusu police, are we?”

There was a pause in the conversation. Makoto had to admit that the redhead’s argument was compelling: Akira was the real leader of the team, and he was the one who just got out of prison. He should be able to decide what he wants right now.

Then she realized that Haru was shaking in the seat next to her.

“There’s a lot of decisions we didn’t get to make,” her girlfriend said, her voice quivering.

“Haru?” Sumire asked nervously.

The girl slowly stood and walked over to the bench Sumire was at, her feet dragging just a little.

“I didn’t get to decide when my father died,” she said, her eyes locked on Sumire’s face. “I didn’t choose at all. Akechi did.”

Sumire shrunk slightly in her seat. “That wasn’t what I–”

“Did you watch that press conference, Yoshizawa? Did you see what happened to my father?” Makoto couldn’t tell if Haru’s voice was more angry or more distraught, and her chest throbbed as she realized that Haru probably didn’t know either. “There was black ooze pouring out of his eyes. The doctors still don’t know what it was. Blood isn’t supposed to look like that, Sumire.”

“I’m sorry, I–”

“Akira gets to choose to tell Akechi. Akechi gets to choose to go to school instead of turning himself into the police. But me? Me?” Tears started to run down her face. “I get to sit around and let other people decide for me. What I eat, where I go to school, whether or not I see my father’s murderer in the streets. And it’s not fair!”

They stared at each other for a long time, Haru’s shoulders and legs shaking while Sumire looked at Haru with a mixture of terror and shame.

“It doesn’t matter,” Futaba whispered.

Haru’s pivot on her feet was almost alarmingly quick. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”

“None of it is real,” she said. “Akechi, Mom, none of it. They’re just ghosts. Just another fake reality someone came up with. Maruki, Yaldabaoth, some other bastard.” 

Futaba started emoting haphazardly with her hands.  “It can’t be real. Because if it was real, we wouldn’t feel this awful. We’d be kind to each other, glad that there are people alive that don’t deserve to be dead. We wouldn’t be doubting each other like this… doubting ourselves like this.”

“Sometimes the things we don’t want are the most real,” Haru responded, her furor replaced with a quiet, heavy pain.

The door to the cafe squealed as it opened.

Makoto took a look at Akira’s face as he crossed the threshold with Akechi. It was filled with relief at first, a smile visible only at the edges of his mouth and only to the people who knew him well. Then his good mood dampened as he saw the way Haru and Sumire were positioned, how Futaba was looking at him weakly.

“It’s real,” Akechi said.

The entire room went silent.

The first person to react was Futaba, who climbed out of her chair and pushed past the two boys to the open door. “I need to be alone.”

Akira reached out for her shoulder. “Sis–”

“Let her go,” Makoto said gently.

The hesitation her statement caused was just long enough for Futaba to run through the entrance and into the snow.

“We should go, too,” Ann said, grabbing Ryuji’s arm and pulling him out of his seat.

Ryuji caught on to Ann’s intentions and gained his footing. “Text me later, ‘Kira?”

“Sure,” Akira said, his eyes wide.

Yusuke made a similar excuse to take his leave, followed by Sumire, who turned around and gave Akira a look before stepping out of Leblanc.

Makoto was at a loss for words. “Haru, should we…”

Her girlfriend had calmed down somewhat and was breathing slowly and deliberately. “Yes, let’s.”

Makoto stood up and took her girlfriend’s hand–it was far too cold–then walked with her towards the door.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she passed to one side of Akira.

And then she and Haru were gone, too.

Chapter Text

Jonathan became one in spirit with David, and he loved him as himself.

- 1 Samuel 18:1

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Akira said as he set two plates of curry on the counter of Leblanc, his apron tied around his waist. “Sojiro left a full pot for everyone, but I still had to heat it up.”

“I’d hardly consider myself the type to object to a few minutes’ delay,” Akechi replied.

“See, I would say you’re like that, but I’m anxious anyway. Although maybe that’s just because this furball made me sensitive to people begging for food.” Akira quickly put a third serving together and put it at the far end of the counter where Morgana was waiting eagerly.

“In time-sensitive situations, I may be a bit impatient,” the detective conceded as Morgana dug into his food. “But not right now. After all, I know how you use food preparation as a way to relieve stress, which I’m sure is a high priority at the moment.”

Akira grabbed two mugs. “Do you want your coffee or not?”

“Hmm, you’ve even picked up on some of Sojiro’s mannerisms.”

Leblanc’s apprentice barista rolled his eyes and got out the beans for Akechi’s favorite brew.

Akira was the kind of person who was motivated by the people close to him. Every single member of the Phantom Thieves had driven Akira to improve in one way or another, whether it was Haru’s kindness, Yusuke’s desire to improve himself, or Futaba’s determination to change herself.

But Akechi pushed against him in an entirely different way. When the weight of the world had been on his shoulders last year, sometimes the only thing that got him out of bed had been the desire to one-up Akechi, to have something new to challenge him with the next time they crossed paths. The way sparks flew in every one of their conversations wasn’t better than the way his friends supported each other, but it was distinct from it, and Akira craved it.

And maybe the intensity of the craving came from the fact that Akechi had been taken away from him. First he’d lost the boy to the machinations of fate in Shido’s Palace, and then he had to give him up for the greater good. He’d chosen the world over Akechi and pretended that he was okay with having to make that decision. He hadn’t been okay with it.

And now that the gods were well and truly dead, he wasn’t going to let Akechi go ever again.

After a few minutes of silence punctuated by the noises of Leblanc’s kitchen, Akira sent the mug sliding across the counter to where Akechi sat. “Order up.”

Akechi nodded quietly as he grasped the moving cup and took a sip. Akira leaned against the wall and drank his own cup before he looked at the empty booths in front of him and a wave of melancholy washed over him.

“You do understand that their argument was about me, don’t you?”

Akira sighed as his hope for a quiet moment with his friend was ruined. “We didn’t hear the conversation.”

“What else would Haru Okumura, a polite girl according to everyone who knows her, be yelling at someone about?”

“It could have been anything. It could have been…”

He trailed off into silence. Akechi was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

The detective just shook his head and took another sip. “Given that my presence is revealing itself to be problematic, I think it would be best if we limit our interactions for the time being.”

Panic started to race through his chest. This conversation kept getting worse. “Until when?”

Akechi ignored the question. “I’m still convinced that Maruki is involved with our current situation. Even if it is irreversible, I still want to get to the bottom of things, if for nothing other than settling my anxieties.”

Akira’s mind was aflame. “You’ll investigate alone?”

“I don’t exactly see your friends champing at the bit to help me.”

“I’m sure if you explained—”

“They know,” he spat out. “What, did you think we never interacted while you were in jail? I had the decency to tell them my plans, if only so they would know that I wasn’t planning on murdering anyone in the near future.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m sure the gods are laughing somewhere.”

Akira watched him take another sip. Morgana was staring at him crossly as he ate his curry, but Akira didn’t particularly care. He had until his rival finished his coffee to convince him to not isolate himself, to stay near the people who could help him. To stay near Akira.

“Let me investigate with you,” he blurted out.

Both Morgana and Akechi gave him a look.

“I knew Maruki far better than you did, and I can ask the others about their experiences with him. You’ll need my knowledge if your leads are running dry.”

“You really think so little of me?” Akechi evaded.

“He’s a man who used to have the powers of a god. And we don’t know if he altered reality to hide himself.”

Akechi took a long, slow drink from the coffee that had been made for him, his eyes impossible to see through.

“Fine,” he said as he stood up and cracked his back with a confined stretch. “But only because you’re right about the practicalities. Don’t start thinking I was swayed by your charm.”

Akira did everything he could to hide the relief that filled his chest and lungs. “I never would.”

Akechi pulled on the sleeves of his coat and set his coffee on the counter. “I’ll be in touch. My number hasn’t changed.”

“Got it.”

The detective walked out of Leblanc without looking back at Akira.

“Jeez,” Morgana said at last after the door to the cafe swung shut. “I can’t believe you convinced him.”

Akira let himself slide down the wall slightly as he hung his head in exhaustion. “Neither can I, to be honest.”

Not that he should have been surprised. He was Akechi’s rival, wasn’t he? The person that the boy competed with in order to define himself. Shouldn’t that have been enough to get him to stay?

Akira noticed the cup that Akechi had left on the table. Out of morbid curiosity, he picked it up—and immediately wished he hadn’t.

For the first time since they’d met, Akechi had left without finishing his coffee.

Chapter Text

February 13, Evening

“So why did nobody tell me that Yusuke was into bowling?” Ryuji asked.

“I don’t think we knew,” Ann replied as she bit down on a slice of pizza. “Must be a recent thing.”

It did seem like Yusuke was enjoying their trip to the Shibuya arcade’s bowling alley quite a bit. The pair of them watched as he took a careful stance, ball raised to his chin and eyes locked straight ahead, before taking a few steps forward and sending the ball rolling in a perfect curve.

Ryuji sighed as the computer display at their table flashed “STRIKE” in bright red lettering. “I’m glad someone is enjoying themselves, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Yusuke commented as he returned to where the other two were sitting. “I come here often when I need to distract myself from incessant thoughts, but such a tactic is proving ineffective today, despite my bowling technique being as good as ever.”

“No kidding.”

Ann hadn’t been able to shake the discomfort either. She was usually pretty good at any arcade machines with timing-based minigames—hell, there was a whole collection of Jack Bros. plushies sitting in her room that she’d won so she could give them to Shiho the next time she visited. But she was so antsy today that she kept slamming the buttons either too early or not at all. She’d decided to cut her losses after sending fifteen hundred yen down the drain on a digital whack-a-mole board with a gopher mascot that taunted her every time she missed.

The pizza was getting colder by the minute, so she took another bite and sighed with her mouth half full. “Is it bad that I wish we had another god to fight?”

“Whaddaya mean?” Ryuji asked.

“I’d rather not be on the verge of death again, to be honest,” said Yusuke.

“Well, yeah, but it’s a whole lot simpler than what we’re dealing with right now,” Ann responded. “All we had to do once we broke out of Maruki’s illusion was cast enough spells in his direction, right? Same with Yaldabaoth, Shido, Makoto’s sister, and basically everything else. But now the thing we’re fighting is ourselves. We can’t punch our way out anymore.”

The others sat quietly as they processed what Ann had said.

“I suppose you have a point,” Yusuke said.

“Yeah, for sure,” Ryuji agreed. “Even after that Holy Grail dude nearly killed all of us, all I needed to get goin’ again was a pep talk from Akira. But he can’t really pep talk us out of this, huh?”

“If only it were so simple.”

Ann nodded. “I think the only time I was really, really worried that things were going to fall apart was when Morgana ran off that one time. It felt like the team was going to split in half right then and there.”

“And it felt extra gross to be the one responsible,” Ryuji said with a shiver. “Makes me wonder how Akechi feels about the whole thing, seein’ how he’s the reason most of us are so upset.”

Ann scoffed. “He’s probably happy to be causing some mischief, honestly.”

“I must admit that I’m… unsure if that’s the case,” Yusuke said. He was picking underneath his fingernails with a guilty expression. “The Akechi that greeted us today seemed quite morose compared to last month.”

“But that could’ve been just his polite face,” Ann argued.

“He would have laid it on thicker if that were so.”

Ann groaned and slumped down in her seat. “Ugh, couldn’t he just tell us if he was depressed or something?”

Ryuji and Yusuke didn’t have a good answer for that one, so Ann decided to brood with them.

The worst part of the whole situation was that it wasn't anyone's fault. Well, Akechi did kill Futaba's and Haru's only living parents, but it seemed pretty obvious that he wasn't trying to ruin the girls' lives by doing so. Nobody had tried to turn their lives into a clusterfuck of emotions without an easy solution.

They weren't going to wrap a bow around this after a few days of niceties, either. Everyone had a lot of healing to do, but some people had more support in their lives than others. Maybe they needed to look out for a few people in particular. Like–

Ryuji cut her chain of thought off. “We should probably be checking in on Haru and Makoto, right?”

Ann's head flipped up. "Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Futaba and Akechi have Akira, and Akechi wouldn't talk to us anyway."

"Shouldn't someone pay a visit to Yoshizawa-san as well?" Yusuke asked. "While she seems to be doing better than she was before, processing the passing of her sister must still be difficult."

Ryuji nodded. "And she probably doesn't feel good about the way Haru kinda blew up at her."

"Well, there's three of us and three of them," Ann said. "I guess we can start by taking one each and work forward from there?"

“Sounds good to me.”

“I would like to be responsible for checking in on Haru,” Yusuke suggested. “I feel that she’s the team member from our list that I have the best understanding of.”

“And I’ll take Sumire,” Ryuji added. “We’re both jocks, so we’ll probably get along?”

“Which leaves…” Ann frowned. “Makoto for me.”

Ryuji squinted. “You upset about that?”

“I mean, no, not really. It’s just… I don’t feel like I know her that well.”

“What are you talking about? You two hang out pretty often.”

“I mean, yeah, but…”

Ann adjusted her jacket slightly. They weren’t wrong that she and Makoto were reasonably friendly. After they’d made up about everything that happened with Shiho, the two of them had taken some time out of their schedules to go shopping together, continuing the practice even after Makoto and Haru had gotten together in November. But despite all that time, Ann still felt like she didn’t know enough about her. Everyone knew that the senior cared about justice and grades, but she wasn’t open about a lot of her deeper vulnerabilities to anyone except Akira and Haru.  

Plus, when she was around Makoto, Ann couldn’t help but feel a little… inferior. Ann knew that she was a unique and talented person, but something about Makoto’s diligence in the real world and ferocity on the battlefield made Ann feel like she could never measure up. And could Ann really be that helpful if Makoto already had the unfailingly kind Haru as someone that she could confide in?

“Come on, Ann,” Ryuji said. “You’d be better at it than I would, at least.”

The thought of Ryuji attempting to cheer up a depressed Makoto by doing push-ups (he swore that wasn’t what he did when he talked to Akira but she knew better) was enough to convince her in the moment. “Alright, alright, I got this.”

“When should we reach out to them?” Yusuke asked. “It would probably be best to do so sooner rather than later.”

“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day, so I’ll text Sumire tonight and see if we can hang out on the 15th,” Ryuji said. 

“I’ll likely do the same.”

“I might just head over to their place tonight,” Ann said, wringing her hands to try to get rid of her nerves. “Maybe I should think of a gift to bring?”

Yusuke pulled out his phone as Ryuji startled slightly. “A gift? You’re just hanging out.”

“It’s just a nice little gesture,” Ann answered. “Maybe it’s a girl thing.”

It wasn’t a girl thing; Ann only said that to piss him off. It was just a way to make her feel like what she was doing was meaningful. And if she had to be the person supporting someone as brilliant and accomplished and beautiful as Makoto, then she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to go all out to make her feel good.

Anyway. She pulled out her phone and looked up a list of good platonic gifts you could buy for a friend. Was chocolate too much?

Chapter Text

If Akira was being honest with himself, he didn’t want to do anything right now. His inactivity in prison had left him too exhausted to want to exercise, and that wasn’t even talking about the mental fatigue of everything that had happened today. Part of him wanted nothing more than to lie in bed and fall right asleep.

But he had people he cared about. So he spot-cleaned Leblanc, picked up Morgana in his arms, and dragged himself over to Sojiro’s house.

Sojiro had given him a key in November after the interrogation in case Akira needed to hide somewhere other than Leblanc, so he let himself into the house. It sounded like Sojiro and Wakaba were talking upstairs. The faint smell of stew wafted through the air, and he wondered for a moment who had cooked it. Maybe both of them?

Morgana leaped out of his arms as he crossed the threshold and mewed angrily. “I can walk around, you know.”

Akira brushed some cat hair off his sleeve. “Is there something wrong with wanting a little personal time with you?”

“Personal time is fine, having someone pull on my collar isn’t!”

A grin from Akira. “Well, then I won’t pull on your collar next time.”

“You’re hopeless,” Morgana said as they turned away. “I’m going to go upstairs for a while. Go bug your sister or something.”

He watched Morgana’s feline body slink up the stairs, smiling at all the things that had gone unsaid. That was one thing Akira had always appreciated about him: obstinate and self-centered as the cat could be, he could always tell when Akira or someone else needed alone time.

Anyway. He walked forward to Futaba’s door. They’d torn off the caution tape and “DO NOT DISTURB” sign together a while ago, but there were still a few places where the glue she’d used to stick them on were stuck to the wood. He rubbed his hand against them for a moment before knocking.

Three thumps, pause, two thumps. Their code for Akira wanting to check in on her in a non-emergency situation.

After thirty seconds, Futaba pulled the door open. Her hair was messy enough that he knew she’d been turning around in bed a lot.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

As stressed as she looked, she still managed to give him a smile. “Yeah, totes.”

He stepped through and immediately took the chance to flop onto the beanbag they’d thrown in the corner after trading in a trash bag of arcade tokens for it. (When asked by Yusuke if Futaba hacked the game to eliminate the tricks it used to steal your coins unfairly, he’d left no comment.)

“Getting comfy, huh?” Futaba said as she closed the door and sat back onto her bed.

“You have a problem with that?”

“Nah, I was doing the same thing.” She rolled back onto her bed and covered herself with a blanket dotted with oranges and lemons. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah.”

They laid like that for a minute or two, not saying anything, listening to the muffled footsteps ringing through the ceiling.

“Sorry about running out on you,” Futaba finally said, a hint of shame in her tone.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“But I feel like I should.” She sighed. “I mean, you walked in and told us that my mother and one of your closest… well, whatever Akechi is, are alive. And then I just run out of the room like an aggrieved housewife. ‘Oh no, you gave me the best news possible! I hate you for it!’”

“That wasn’t what I felt at all.”

“But you were upset.”

He had been upset, and in the mess of that moment, he wasn’t sure why. He took a second to look inward, pull apart his feelings from earlier.

“I was sad that you were sad. Not because you shouldn’t be–your feelings are understandable–but just that circumstances wound up in a way where hearing that your mom was alive had to be bad news.”

“And what about how I feel about Akechi?”

A pang in his chest. “I don’t know.”

“Jeez, I was hoping one of us would.”

He stayed silent.

“God, it’s just…” She groaned. “I wanna hate him, honestly. He killed my mom, he tried to kill us, he’s kinda a bitch to everyone but you…”

Akira wouldn’t have phrased it that way, but he had to admit it was a fair criticism.

“But then I think about him on Shido’s ship, when he was screaming after we defeated him, and I can’t help but pity him. And I can hear his response to that, that he doesn’t want to be pitied, and that makes me even more sad for him, you know? Because he really just… had nobody but himself.”

He couldn't forget the way Akechi had shrieked at them, how he'd bent his own mind into a frenzy just to run away from himself. “Yeah.”

“And I want him to be happy! And I want you to be happy, and watching him chafe around us last month was so funny too. But it’s just so… gah.”

She kicked her legs in the air a few times to emphasize her point.

Akira chuckled a little. “Well, at least it seems like he’s giving us lots of space away from him to figure things out.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty true.” She sat up in bed, her face and askew glasses visible to Akira for the first time in a few minutes. “Seems like he’s learned a bit of decency in the last week or so.”

“I hope so.”

And he really did hope so. Akira wasn’t foolish enough to think that Akechi would be able to fit in with the rest of the group without changing a few of his habits. But if their cadre was known for anything, it was making amends and changing attitudes fast. If the detective could be convinced to go along with it and soften his shell, he was certain they could figure something out now that time was on their side.

Well, mostly on their side, anyway.

Akira turned to his sister, softening his tone just a little. “And what about your mom?”

There was a long silence before she spoke.

“Honestly, when Akechi said everything was real, my first thought was that everyone was an illusion but me.”

He sat up as she pulled her legs into herself and turned over.

“Every time I look at her, I see somebody else. Sometimes it’s a memory of how I used to think about her before we changed my heart–some ghoulish monster with claws at the tips of her fingers. Sometimes it’s the version we got in Maruki’s reality, all cordial and friendly and toothless. If I’m lucky it’ll feel like I’m remembering how she really used to be, but then I can’t tell if I’m making up memories so I can feel better, or if Maruki’s still got a hook inside my brain.”

“And none of that is who she is right now.”

“Exactly! How am I supposed to talk to her if I can’t even see her!”

Futaba squeezed her arms as Akira climbed up onto the bed and sat on the other side of it.

“I can’t talk to a therapist about my undead mom, and I’m about as certain as it gets that I don’t have a Palace–Al Azif said so. So I just have to… have to t-talk to her and hope it w-works.” Her voice started to strain. “But it’s so hard, Akira. I’m so worried I’m going to fuck it up and make her want to leave. And then I’ll hide in my basement again and Sojiro will get sick of me, and I’ll have to go back to–”

“Hey.”

Akira put a hand onto her shaking shoulders.

“You’re not going to be alone again. Sojiro’s not leaving, and I’m not leaving.”

The new information made her look up. “But your parents–”

“There’s been…” He caught himself, realized he didn't want to talk about it yet. “They’re letting me stay until I graduate. Since everyone I knew back home still hates me.”

“Oh. Well.” Her grip loosened a little. “That’s… I feel guilty about being relieved to hear that, but that’s… really, really good.”

He shrugged of the guilt he felt for lying. “I’d rather be here anyway."

Futaba smirked and sat up. "Yeah, I bet we're way better than those losers at your high school if they think you're a baddie."

"I mean, I do look pretty threatening."

"With hair like that? Pssh."

Futaba reached out and tangled her fingers in his hair, making Akira swat her away and starting a small catfight. It ended with the top of them sitting next to each other on the bed, their backs against the wall.

"You'll be here to help me figure this whole thing with Mom out, right?" Futaba asked as her breathing steadied.

"Absolutely."

"That's… that's good. I think I can do it if you're here."

"We'll make it happen."

"Yeah, we will." 

Futaba let out a long exhale, and Akira could almost feel the relief flooding into the room. Even on the messiest days, it seemed like he still knew how to be there for people.

"And… hey."

Futaba was looking away from him now, her fists bunched up around her blankets.

"You can talk to me if you need help too, okay? If you're there for me, then I've gotta do the same thing."

A lump caught in his throat.

Of course he knew she wasn't lying. She'd probably go to the deepest recesses of Shibuya for him, wouldn't she?

But she didn't need to. Nobody needed to handle his problems. He would work things out.

"Sure thing, 'Taba."

She put her head onto his shoulder as he listened to the whirr of her computer fan.

Chapter Text

Haru had been twelve when her father had yelled at her for the first time. He had brought her into his office in the mansion and explained that he was increasing the rigor of her private tutoring. She had been upset, of course—she was a child then, and her main priority was spending more time with her friends or in her father’s garden. And then Kunikazu Okumura, who hadn’t even raised his voice around her before, slammed his fist on his table and turned to her with gritted teeth. “Can’t you see this is necessary to protect our future?” he shouted. “Why can’t you just be an obedient girl?”

She’d dissolved into tears on the spot, and back then her father had still had the sensitivity to apologize for being unkind. But it was a moment that had stuck in her memory for a long time.

She found herself sitting in that same study tonight. She hadn’t arrived there intentionally–she tended to lose track of herself when she wandered around the house nowadays–but now she was sitting in his chair, looking at the walls he had decorated with expensive paintings devoid of sentiment and meaning.

She hadn’t lost control of her emotions like her father until today. Before meeting Morgana and the Phantom Thieves, she had always responded to the dominion of her father and Sugimura with muted obedience. And even when she was screaming at her father’s Shadow or tearing through demons in the Metaverse, the act of calling upon her Persona, whether it took the form of Milady or Lucy, provided a focus and clarity to her anger and pain that she could channel into her every swing.

Her outburst in Leblanc had been the exact opposite of that. She had been speaking without thinking, had taken a hurricane of emotions and thrown them at Sumire without stopping to think if it was right. And of course it wasn’t right. The poor girl hadn’t done anything to Haru at all, just phrased her thoughts poorly, and Haru had nearly torn her head off for it.

Sumire, bless her heart, had already sent Haru a detailed apology over text about how she should have been more sensitive. But the way their conversation had fallen apart was all Haru’s responsibility. It felt like her grief was warping her into a worse version of herself, someone less sensitive to other people’s needs.

“Haru?”

She glanced over at the office’s glass door and noticed Makoto was standing there, holding it open and looking in.

“You can come in,” Haru said.

Her girlfriend let herself in slowly, shutting the door behind her and leaning against the wall opposite of Haru. “It took me a while to find you.”

Haru laughed. “I didn’t choose the most obvious place to hide, did I?”

“Were you actually trying to hide?”

“I just needed a place to think, that's all.”

She turned in her father’s chair to look out of the room’s only window. The stars were covered up by a sheet of clouds tonight, closing over the outside world like the door of a cage.

“I want to stop feeling like I’m being suffocated, Makoto.”

“Suffocated?”

“Like I’m in… danger all the time.” She rocked in her seat uncomfortably. “It’s making me lash out at other people. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I’m so angry and afraid, and it’s…”

She let out a little sob and Makoto drew closer, kneeling down beside Haru and putting one hand on her cheek. “Haru, everyone understands how hard it is for you right now. Futaba and Sumire both accepted your apology, didn’t they?”

“But what if I keep losing control?” Haru asked. “If I can’t be kind to everyone, then they’re not going to want me around, are they?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Makoto said firmly. “You’re the kindest woman I’ve ever met.”

“Am I, though?”

Pain flashed in Makoto’s eyes and Haru immediately felt awful. “Do you see what I mean, Makoto? I can’t even accept a compliment properly anymore.”

She pushed her girlfriend’s hand away gently, then put her own into her lap. “I’m going to figure out what I need to do to get over this, Makoto. To fix myself, so I can take care of my friends instead of the other way around.”

Makoto’s face knotted up with concern. “Everyone needs to be taken care of sometimes, Haru.”

“I know that,” she said weakly. “But I want to get better as soon as I can. I don’t want to…”

She thought about how she had yelled at Sumire, how everyone had been looking at her with worry just like Makoto was now. How bitter and distraught she’d felt when Akira had walked out of the door with Akechi.

“...I don’t want to be a burden,” she finished. “To myself or to my friends.”

There was a drawn-out silence between the two of them. There was barely any physical space between them, and yet Haru could tell Makoto wanted to say something.

But eventually Makoto stood up and nodded. “If that’s what you want to do, then I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

Haru followed her up and put her arms around her waist slowly, letting her head sink into her girlfriend’s strong shoulders. “Thank you so much, Makoto. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

There was a moment of stiffness before Makoto returned the embrace. “I don’t know what I’d do either.”

Chapter Text

February 14

Akira blinked as beams of sunlight shone through the windows of Leblanc and hit him directly in the eyes.

He arched his back under his covers, grimacing slightly as a joint in his back popped. Futaba had mentioned Sojiro was looking into a better mattress, but that would probably only happen after they’d figured out long-term accommodations for Wakaba. Guess he'd deal with it for now.

Then Morgana’s tail whacked him in the face.

“Good morning, furball,” Akira mumbled as he pushed the tail away and sat up.

A feline yawn in response. “Morning, Joker. Get a good rest?”

“Think so,” he said as he did a few more stretches to get his back closer to working order, shivering slightly in the morning cold. “Better than I would’ve gotten in prison, at least.”

“Must’ve been awful in there, huh?”

Akira rolled back up from touching his toes and paused.

It had been awful, of course. He’d gotten to spend a week dealing with shitty food, constant observation, and cruel treatment from the guards. The prison system was designed to be degrading and it worked.

“It was pretty bad. But it could’ve been worse.”

“Seriously? How could it have been worse?”

Akira stood up and walked over to the shelf he’d turned into a makeshift cabinet. “Well, they could’ve beat me up and drugged me like they did in the interrogation room. I think they made sure the guards didn’t touch me in case I had to make a public appearance at a trial.”

A low growl. “They better not have touched you, or I would’ve clawed them up myself.”

He chuckled. “I bet you would’ve.”

“Hey! Just because I haven’t done it before doesn’t mean I can’t!”

“Relax, Mona. I wasn’t doubting you.”

Morgana retracted his claws as Akira pulled his sweatshirt off and reached for his pants waistband. “That wasn’t the only thing, though.”

“Huh?”

He rolled up his pajamas carefully before putting them on a shelf, just the way he had since he was a kid.

“Nobody expects anything from you in prison. You’ve already disappointed every guard and cafeteria worker in the facility. Yeah, they treat you like shit, but it’s not personal. There’s nobody telling you that you should be doing better. Nobody…”

“Did you really think that we’d be happy with this, son?”

He looked down at the kitchen tile that he’d mopped just yesterday. “No, but I tried—”

“Trying doesn’t matter,” she spat. “Society is cold, and it only cares about results. C’s aren’t good enough for the high schools you need to get accepted to.”

He didn’t say anything; experience told him that it wouldn’t matter.

His father finally spoke, mouth moving while the rest of his features were cold as stone. “You’re grounded from television for a month. And you’re going to get all A’s in your subjects next semester, or else we’ll resort to… other methods of discipline. Do I make myself clear?”

Morgana’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Akira?”

He realized that he’d put his entire uniform on without being conscious of it. “Yeah?”

The cat had walked over to him during the reminiscence and was now standing by his feet. “You kinda zoned out there. Are you okay?”

Akira kneeled down to lace up his shoes, his movement displacing the dust on the floor.

“It’s nothing.”

“Seriously, Sojiro? Natto again?”

Sojiro rolled his eyes as he set a tray of food down in front of the booth Futaba was sitting in at Leblanc. “We’ve already talked about this, Futaba. It’s good for you.”

“Fiiiiiine,” she said as she picked up her chopsticks and got to work on her pickled vegetables while trying to hide a warm smile. “But I’m not happy about it.”

“That’s fine by me,” he said knowingly before walking back to the kitchen to dish up another batch.

Akira chewed through his own breakfast slowly, doing his best not to stare at Wakaba, who was sitting across from him at the table and stirring a piece of seaweed in her soup. He’d passed on eating dinner with the makeshift family last night in favor of Leblanc leftovers, so he hadn’t seen the tension present between Wakaba and Futaba firsthand until now, and it was almost worse than he had expected. Futaba was avoiding eye contact entirely, while Wakaba was glancing over at her daughter at least three times every minute.

He and Futaba had tried to come up with strategies for making their conversations less awkward without forcing anything, and they hadn’t had much luck. Talking about shared interests? Wakaba had already tried that. Talking about Phantom Thief stuff? Not when Wakaba’s murderer could come up at any moment. Talking about politics? “LMAO,” as his sister put it.

Wakaba cleared her throat. “Do you have any plans for Valentine’s Day, Akira?”

He nearly spat out a mouthful of water. Directing the conversation towards Akira was the fourth thing they’d considered, but decided that there wouldn’t be enough material to sustain a conversation. Apparently Wakaba thought differently.

“N-not really,” he said as he put his glass down and wiped his mouth with one sleeve.

“Really?” Wakaba seemed genuinely disappointed as she put her elbows up on the table. “I would’ve thought someone as handsome as you would have a nice girl by now. You’ve got so many cute friends, after all.”

Futaba snorted. “Him? Handsome?”

“You don’t see it, Futaba?”

“Of course not!” She swallowed the rice in her mouth. “Like, you look fine, Akira, but you aren’t a lady-killer or anything.”

“Thanks for the endorsement,” he deadpanned.

“Well, I think you look great,” Wakaba said. “And you still have enough time to ask someone out. Is there anyone that you might have in mind?”

“Don’t embarrass him,” Futaba said, half in sport and half with a genuine nervousness.

Akira caught the edge in her voice and waved a hand in reassurance. “It’s not bothering me, ‘Taba. Besides, it’s an interesting question. Haven’t thought about it much.”

He started going through a list of his friends in his head. The first person who came to mind was Ann, since he’d known her the longest and she was definitely attractive. But he couldn’t quite see himself doing anything romantic with her. Makoto and Haru were obviously already taken, and his affection for Sumire and Futaba wasn’t romantic in the slightest. Hifumi? Not his type. He thought about the brief infatuation he’d had with Kawakami, but he’d realized pretty quickly that he’d only felt that way because she had been a motherly figure during what was a very lonely year.

“...I honestly don’t have any girls I’d ask,” he finally admitted.

“Maybe you swing another way, then,” Wakaba speculated. “Any people of different genders you’d consider?”

He and his sister exchanged a look for a moment. “I… didn’t think you’d ask that,” Futaba admitted as they returned to eating.

“I’m not that old,” Wakaba said with a chuckle.

Well, good to know she’s not homophobic, he thought as he took a bite of an omelet and considered his other friends. He had no romantic interest in Ryuji or Yusuke, and definitely not Mishima. There wasn’t anyone else at school that had caught his eye. Apparently his life was completely devoid of romantic feelings. Hell, not even he could–

He made sure to prevent his eyes from widening as he put his chopsticks down gently and pushed away the thoughts that had just entered his mind. “Guess there’s nobody.”

Wakaba frowned. “Well, you’ve got time, I suppose.”

“He should be using that time to study,” Sojiro called out from the back of Leblanc. “Just because he was a Phantom Thief doesn’t mean he doesn’t have entrance exams coming up. Speaking of which, you should be getting to school by now.”

“Two years have passed and you’re still a spoilsport,” Wakaba said with a laugh as Akira checked his watch and grabbed his bag.

“Yeah, you better get to school,” Futaba taunted as he pulled out of the booth. “Think of all the girls you need to reject!”

He punched her on the arm. “You don’t get to talk until you get a girlfriend, kid.”

“That’s not fair, NEETs like me have disadvantage on seduction rolls!”

“Tell it to the judge,” he said as he walked to the door and threw his arm up in a wave.

He made it to the Yongen-Jaya station without incident, eventually settling against one wall as he pulled out his phone and started to wait for his train to arrive. He was about to open a news app when a message from Futaba appeared on his screen.

One step at a time, he agreed as he put his phone back in his pocket, only for it to vibrate again.

Shit.

He put his phone on silent and stuffed it in his bag next to where Morgana was sleeping, feeling a bit of guilt as his hand brushed against a single leather glove.

Chapter Text

February 14

Akechi was very grateful that he had taken time to learn about the Phantom Thieves’ daily routines. His initial motivation had been to track the movements of the Thieves to get a better handle on their operations, and it had proven very useful for that purpose. This month, however, the information served a different purpose: ensuring he could avoid all of them during his morning trips to school.

It was a complete reversal from how he’d behaved earlier in the year. During the fall semester of school he had often gone out of his way to cross paths with the Thieves during the day, both to add to their stress levels and for his own amusement. He’d quite enjoyed toying with his prey back then.  But it was a different time now.

He arrived at the Shibuya platform at 7:15, around ten minutes before even the most punctual Thieves would arrive at their own. A cursory glance around the station confirmed that none of them were present. Good, he had the morning to–

“Goro-senpai?”

Sumire had never been an official Thief when he was actively monitoring them, and he had assumed that their lack of coincidental contact up until this point was going to continue. A poor assumption, apparently.

He exhaled as quietly as he could before turning around. “Yoshizawa-san.”

“Right,” she said, walking forward and coming to a stop near him. “It’s good to see you!”

“Sure.”

The two of them stood next to each other for a minute without saying anything. Akechi was sincerely hoping that the girl was too shy to continue talking to him.

“Do you have any plans for today?” she asked.

Apparently she wasn’t too shy. “Well, I’m certainly not going to ask anyone on a date, if that’s what you mean.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” she said quickly. “I… actually didn’t remember that it was Valentine’s Day.”

“Really? I figured that a girl like you would be very interested in it.”

“Well, you’re not exactly wrong. But with everything that’s been going on since January, I haven’t really been able to think about… things like that.”

Insensitive bastard, he thought to himself. “My apologies. I should have been more thoughtful about how I spoke.”

“Oh, it’s fine. Besides, the person I was interested in…” She wrapped a strand of her hair around one finger impulsively. “...doesn’t feel the same way.”

Considering how she’d been isolated from almost everyone else during the past year by Maruki’s delusion, and all the attention and adoration she’d directed at Akira during the past month… Well, it would be him, then. “My condolences.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m sure you have more interesting things to think about, anyway.” A short laugh. “Like finding Doctor Maruki, for example.”

That was really what she wanted to talk about, wasn’t it. “Do you have something to say regarding that?”

“Well, I…”

The hand at her side tightened into a fist.

“I want to help you look for him, Goro-senpai.”

“Really.”

A firm nod. “I’m the person who interacted with him the most out of all of the Phantom Thieves. Akira met with him occasionally, but that was only on a casual basis, and he didn’t have appointments every other week like I did. I think I could be useful to you because of that.”

She was clearly forcing herself to sound more confident than she actually was. And selling her ability to contribute to the search, since she thought he wouldn’t let her assist unless she would be useful…

“And…” She looked down and shuffled her feet. “I want to talk to Doctor Maruki again. Just to… to understand him a bit more.”

He scoffed. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him.”

“Don’t you?”

Of course not, Akechi thought to himself. Certainly he understood the tragedy inherent in Maruki’s loss of his fiancee, but that didn’t excuse his attempts to brainwash the entire world’s population into being his thralls. Maruki may have had the best of intentions, but he didn’t deserve anyone’s tears.

Akechi would know; he didn’t deserve any pity, either.

He adjusted his jacket. As much as he wanted to say no to Yoshizawa-san, he supposed he didn't have the right to ignore her wishes. “We’ll meet after classes end tomorrow. I’ll send you and Akira more details later.”

Sumire was clearly surprised by his acceptance, but chose not to say as much. “Oh, Akira will be there too?”

“He also insisted on being involved, to my dismay.”

“Your… dismay? I thought you got along with him.”

The subway pulled into the station at that exact moment, giving Akechi an opportunity to break away from the conversation. “This is my train, Yoshizawa-san. My regards.”

There was a bit of disappointment in her face as she waved goodbye. “Alright then. Thank you, Goro!”

He didn’t wave back as he walked through the train doors.

“Please go out with me, Goro-senpai!”

It took Akechi a moment to process the fact that he was being talked to, let alone confessed to. He lifted his gaze from the school lunch he was eating to look at the girl that was bowing in front of him.

The girl was perfectly normal, as far as he could tell. A few inches above five feet, her hair cut in a standard bob with bangs to conceal what might otherwise be a broad forehead. Her school uniform was freshly ironed and starched, which probably meant that her family was rich enough to have servants in the home—not particularly uncommon for the private school Akechi attended, but still worth noting. There was something about her that seemed familiar compared to the other people in Akechi’s class, but he couldn’t quite name the reason. 

Akechi wasn’t particularly prepared for a love confession. The erasure of his history as the Detective Prince in this reality had meant that his reputation had changed significantly at the school: rather than being seen as an unapproachable celebrity, he was simply an academically gifted student with a prestigious government internship. Still, this incident made it clear that his sense of what others thought of him was more warped by his own self-image than he'd accounted for.

He managed to put on a genial expression as he put his chopsticks down. “I’m sorry, but even though we’re in the same class, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Oh.” Dismay settled in her face as she straightened up. “Well, I’m Hotaru Okazaki. You can call me Hotaru-chan. I’m on the swim team and my marks are among the top in the class–only beneath yours, actually. I’ll be attending Tokyo University after we graduate.”

The name rang a bell but he still couldn’t quite place it. Not that it particularly mattered: whoever she was, he had to put her down gently, just in case he needed information from her or anyone else in the room later. “I apologize for being so bad with names, Okazaki-san. May I ask why you would like to date me?”

“Well…” The girl stood up straight and did her best to look at him directly. “Whenever you talk in class, you seem very intelligent, like you’ve thought through everything you said ahead of time. You are really handsome. And… you work with the SIU, and they’re the people who helped find the person who killed my uncle. So I really admire that.”

His stomach sank. So that’s why her name had seemed so familiar.

The details of the case were easy to recall now. Okazaki Shinobu had been one of the major financiers of a political party that had existed before the collapse of the previous parliamentary coalition. The man was remarkably bearish about Shido’s political chances, outright refusing to lend any monetary support when Shido had approached him regarding funding for his campaign as Prime Minister. Akechi had induced a mental shutdown in Shinobu on Shido’s orders, allowing his father to convince his widow that supporting him would be fulfilling the deceased man’s wishes.

Hotaru would have been one of his nieces, then. Akechi now remembered seeing her at the funeral, her eyes red from crying as the coffin passed her by on its way out of the church the proceedings had been hosted in. For all his political conniving, he must have been kind to his family for a niece to be so bereaved by his passing.

Akechi had almost completely forgotten the man’s name. To him, Shinobu had just been another one of his victims. And yet he still remembered the way the man’s Shadow had cried out in pain in Mementos as Akechi had seized his arm and broken it with the hilt of his blade, the way it had begged for mercy as Akechi tore away its limbs one by one, the sheer pleasure he’d felt as his torso leaked pitch-black ooze and vanished into smoke on the floor–

Akechi gave the girl a regretful smile. “I appreciate your forthcomingness, Okazaki-san, but I’m afraid to say that I’m not interested in dating at the moment. I’m sorry to let you down like this.”

Her disappointment was visible in her eyes, but to the girl’s credit she was able to keep her composure as she bowed to him again. “I understand. Thank you for being so honest and kind to me, Akechi-senpai. And good luck with your work in the SIU.”

He managed to turn his compulsion to grit his teeth into a cheerful grin. “And good luck in your studies, Okazaki-san.”

Akira was waiting for him at the Shibuya station as he stepped off of the subway.

Akechi sighed and walked through the afternoon crowd to the corner where his rival was leaning against a wall. “What do you need, Kurusu?”

The boy was characteristically restless—his attention wasn’t being pulled away from Akechi towards the crowd, but there was still something else on his mind. More curiously, Morgana wasn’t present with him. Did he not feel the need to have the cat around anymore? 

Despite all that, Akira was still trying to look at ease. “I wanted to see if you were doing anything about the search for Maruki today.”

“You could’ve just texted me.”

A shrug. “I’ve got nothing better to do right now.”

No, restless wasn’t the right word to describe Kurusu’s behavior—the boy’s engagement with him wasn’t lacking, but there was a quality to it that seemed uncertain, as if this conversation wasn’t actually what was on his mind.

Akechi decided to test the waters. “You could have told me you’d be waiting, at least. What would you have done if I’d had Valentine’s Day plans?”

Akira tensed up.

“That was a joke.”

The boy’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’m the one who makes the gags in our relationship.”

“I hardly think it matters.” 

Akechi pulled out his phone and pretended to flick through the calendar. “I didn’t think I’d get anything done if we tried to meet today, Kurusu—even with open schedules, we won’t be able to follow any leads due to most of the people we’d want to talk to being on romantic excursions. So let’s meet tomorrow at 3 o'clock. Yoshizawa will be present, but don’t mention it to anyone else. I’d rather not cause any more conflict between your friends.”

Akira looked like he wanted to object to the last sentence, but another detail caught him off-guard first. “Sumire will be there?”

“She insisted on it,” he responded dryly. “It is what it is.”

The boy only nodded, but Akechi noticed a slight twitch in his mouth; apparently her presence was making him reconsider something. What could—

Akechi turned on the heels of his feet as the realization hit. “Well, unless you have anything else, I’m going to head home. I have some personal affairs to take care of tonight.”

He took a few steps into the crowd before Akira called out his name and he had to look over his shoulder. “Yes, Kurusu?”

“It’s—”

The boy had extended one arm out, but after a moment he pulled it back in and drew up a neutral expression. “Nothing. See you tomorrow.”

Akechi frowned as he walked away.

It was too early to be certain, but there were certainly enough signs pointing at the thought Akechi had just had. Akira rejecting Sumire, his nerves throughout their recent conversation, his tensing up at Akechi’s joke about romance…

Akechi hoped he wasn’t right about what Kurusu was feeling. Because if he was, then he had a significant problem on his hands.

Chapter Text

February 15, Morning

Sumire had spent most of the last month trying to find a reason to continue doing everything she’d done as Kasumi. And everything wasn’t an exaggeration. Gymnastics, school, eating: she’d felt some sort of purpose for all of it while under Maruki’s delusion, because that was what her older sister would have done. 

That drive had vanished when the curtain fell. The rebuilding process had been long and hard so far, and some things had sorted themselves out more quickly than others. Her reasons for competing in gymnastics competitions were an emotional journey all their own, and she still wasn’t putting in the same level of effort into her schoolwork as she had before. But normal, plain exercise—she’d wanted to do that from the moment she came back.

She could feel the euphoria of movement even now, running through a barely-lit park at six in the morning as snowflakes drifted around her. Kasumi had always called it a “runner’s high,” a term which Sumire hadn’t liked because it made it sound like drugs. Her aversion to hearing about chemicals had eroded after being around Futaba and Ryuji for more than a few hours, but the word still didn’t feel right to her. It was more like… a thing of beauty. Her concerns melted into the energy she pushed into the pavement with her feet, leaving only the parts of her mind that could appreciate the world around her: the crystals in the air, the trees blanketed in white, the apartments standing overhead, the wind brushing against her cheek.

Her watch timer went off—thirty minutes had passed, marking her stopping point for the morning. She slowed down to a jog and made for the nearest bench, sitting down and wiping some sweat off her brow before starting to stretch to wind down.

She had been cooling down for over a minute when Ryuji plopped down on the park bench next to her. “Holy shit… You’re… ridiculous…”

She blanched inside as she realized that she’d forgotten he was with her. She had been losing track of things like that lately; it was probably a lingering side effect of Maruki’s influence. “I’m sorry, Ryuji-senpai,” Sumire said, her breath clouding in front of her mouth. “I should have slowed down for your leg’s sake.”

“Nah, leg isn’t… Bothering me today.” Ryuji wiped the sleeve of his running shirt against his forehead. “You’re just… the superior athlete.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You should, though.” Ryuji leaned forward and braced his arms on his knees as he opened the plastic water bottle he’d been carrying with him. “You’re one of a kind, Sumi. Don’t be afraid to… brag about it.”

The worries returned quickly. Was she really one of a kind? There were so many other girls she worked with and competed against in gymnastics, and all of them were as dedicated as she was.

You dummy, Ryuji’s trying to compliment you. Just accept it!

She laughed at herself just a little as she pushed her anxieties to the side. “Thank you, Ryuji. I’ll try to be more positive about myself.”

“Glad to hear it.”

They sat together in that park for a minute, Sumire’s head turned to the sky as she leaned back on the bench. The sky had cleared significantly since the storm a few days prior, leaving a few thin clouds in the sky, as if they had been left behind by the vanishing cold front. There was something that felt sadly poignant about it to her. Back when she was Kasumi, she would have just thought it was cold.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Ryuji lean back next to her and stretch his arms out. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

She followed a trail of white into the distance. Now that her heart rate was dropping, she could feel her mind returning to normal, all her fears and concerns coming along with it. About meeting expectations, dealing with hecklers, and of course…

“I’m thinking about Goro.”

He tilted his head. “Really?”

A nod. “I’m helping him to find Maruki, you know.”

“Surprised he let you, to be honest.”

“So am I. He must think I’ll be useful somehow. Or maybe he’s taking pity on me.”

“You say that like it’s not effed up.”

She shrugged. “I think I can deal with it. He wouldn’t be the first person to think that way.”

He raised his bottle up in a mock toast. “Well, power to ya.”

Sumire listened to the boy drinking from the bottle greedily for a minute. A few specks of snow fell onto her nose and melted.

“Ryuji.”

“Yeah?”

“Could you… not tell Haru about what I’m doing?”

He pulled a shoe up to the bench to adjust his laces while looking at her, waiting for an explanation.

“I don’t want to hide what I’m doing from everyone. I don’t want to lie to anyone else… Or myself.” Sumire twisted the cap of her water bottle back and forth. “But I don’t want to make Haru feel hurt, either.”

Ryuji finished with his knot and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. “Yeah, I getcha. I won’t tell her.”

Sumire did her best to smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He sighed, cold air billowing out of his mouth. “Just wish we didn’t have to jump around hoops like this.”

“Me either,” she said as she watched the lights in a window of a nearby apartment building turn on. It was a new year, and she wasn’t alone inside her mind anymore. There were people around her now, for better and for worse.

Chapter Text

February 15, Afternoon

As she sat across from Yusuke at a small tea table in one of her mansion’s lounges, Haru did her best to focus on the new things she learned about her friends every day. “I never realized you were so well-trained in etiquette, Yusuke.”

He gave her a nod as he held a ceramic teacup delicately in both hands. “I was instructed by Madarame as a child so that I could present myself appropriately at public events, although I’ve since come to appreciate the formalities as both an artistic ritual and as a way to express appreciation to a host.”

“That’s very impressive,” she said as she took a sip of her own tea. She’d chosen a blend of matcha known for having a convivial herbal warmth today, hoping that it would help to ease her nerves. The way she was currently trying to suppress a gag reflex while drinking matcha told her that it wouldn’t be that simple.

She pushed the sensation down carefully, ensuring her expression stayed friendly and neutral. She’d learned to be careful to avoid forced smiles. “I am curious about why you’re visiting me today, Yusuke. You weren’t specific when you messaged me about it.”

“I was unsure how to word it,” he confessed. “I’m not often the person to take the initiative in situations like this.”

“I understand,” Haru said warmly.

Yusuke nodded. “Ann, Ryuji, and I all decided that we should ensure that all of our friends had someone to confide in at times like these. You do have your girlfriend, of course, but I couldn’t help but think that you might want to have someone else to talk to as well.”

“I appreciate that very much,” she said, and she genuinely did. She hadn’t been a part of the Phantom Thieves for very long, but their willingness to go above and beyond for Haru’s sake had made her emotional more than once. “Are Ryuji and Ann reaching out to some of the others, then?”

“Yes. Ann’s spending some time with Makoto today, as you’re probably aware, and I believe Ryuji has done some exercises with Sumire recently.”

A flash of white: an image of her screaming at Sumire in Leblanc, her arms shaking, her eyes blind with tears.

“That’s… wonderful,” she said tightly. “I hope the company is helpful for everyone.”

“As do I,” Yusuke agreed. Haru noticed that his tone was more careful than it had been before; he had always been a bit more observant than the others had allowed themselves to think.

He loosened his shoulders and took another sip of tea. “That being said, our conversation doesn’t need to be serious in the slightest. We can discuss some of the art you’ve hung in your home, for example, or perhaps any books that you’ve been reading recently. I would like to be your confidant, but I am a dear friend, or at least like to think as much. I have no desire to make you uncomfortable.”

“Just having you here has already brightened my day,” Haru said with a smile. “I don’t think I could ask for anything more.”

“You most certainly can,” Yusuke said, “but I suppose I’ve made the point already.”

They drank in silence for a moment. Once again, Haru found herself paying attention to her friend’s body language. She was used to thinking of artists as eccentrics controlled by their impulsive thoughts, and Yusuke certainly fit in that category. And yet it didn’t seem like his mind was carrying him away at this moment at all. If anything, he gave off an aura of serenity, like a statue of Buddha in a shrine. 

And yet just a year ago he’d been abused by Madarame Ichiryusai, a man who he’d seen as his own father. Makoto had mentioned it once when they were discussing the others over a meal at school: how Madarame had given him a pittance of room and board and claimed all of his artistic work as his own in return. For him to be as present as he was, undistracted by the torment of his past…

“Actually, I do want to ask you something, Yusuke.”

He looked at Haru. “Yes?”

She put her cups of tea down on its dish. “It’s about… Madarame, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” he said simply. “Ask whatever you like.”

Haru pulled at the edge of her skirt as the clock in the room ticked forward. It felt indecent to ask Yusuke about his former sensei, like she was digging up a dead body just to look at it. That same guilt surfaced whenever she thought about her father: what right did she have to speak ill of the dead? But how could she disassemble the emotional wall in her way if she couldn’t even voice her real feelings? Was she just stuck?

The thought let her form something close to a starting question, at least. “Do you feel like you’ve… moved on?”

“From my feelings about Madarame?” Yusuke asked.

Haru nodded. “Whatever those feelings are. Anger, sadness, longing, doubt… Are they still there, or do you just… not think about him?”

Yusuke’s head turned downwards slightly, his gaze focused on the coiling steam rising from his tea. Pensiveness slowly overtook his expression.

“I doubt that he’ll ever be completely free from my thoughts, Haru. That man raised me, directed the way I perceived art and human behavior from a young age. The naivete he cultivated in me to prevent me from realizing the scope of his corruption continues to hold me back in my interactions with friends and strangers alike.”

“I see,” she said quietly.

Yusuke glanced at her for a moment; he must have been able to tell that wasn’t the answer she wanted. “I will say, however, that the ways he occupies my thoughts are less… intense than they used to be. In the first months after I joined the Phantom Thieves, I was aggrieved by the thought that my desperation to secure a living for myself was equivalent to the filthy decadence that had corrupted Madarame’s heart. I felt like a swan that had been overcome by a flood of oil, and even the most diligent of preening could do nothing to cleanse my feathers of his rot.

“I had many other thoughts that felt similarly infected by him, even though many of my concerns were reasonable for a person in my situation. It took both honest self-reflection and discussions with friends to detach my fears from my needs, and it’s something that continues today.” He raised his hands above the table and looked at them. "But I do not feel that his corruption… plagues me as much as it used to.”

So he had managed to find some closure, then. That knowledge came as a relief to Haru, both for his sake and for her own. She took a sip of her tea. “I’m glad everyone was there to help you.”

A satisfied nod. “I’m incredibly grateful as well, especially for Akira’s advice. He seems to always know the right thing to say.”

She hummed in agreement. He certainly did, didn’t he? If there was anyone to talk to, it would be him—

He’d walked out of Leblanc with Akechi, hadn’t he? Nobody else had wanted to see Akechi except him and maybe Sumire. But he’d gone with Akechi anyway. And he’d stayed with Akechi when everyone else left Leblanc, too. They were his friends, whereas Akechi had tried to kill him, killed Wakaba and her father and bragged about it—

“Haru?”

She’d lost track of herself again. A smile. “Sorry. I lost my train of thought.”

“I see.” If he had something else to say, he chose not to say it.

Their conversation moved on to Haru’s preparations for college, but the exchange had made something clear for her. The thing she needed right now was her friends to support her, to give her the same reassurance that Yusuke had received. And if her fear of Akechi were the barrier getting in the way of that, she would just need to learn to adjust to it. Even the thought of it made her stomach twist, but if Yusuke had moved past it, couldn't she

She had to try, at least. She owed Makoto that much.

Chapter Text

The cafe that Akechi had chosen to meet at was entirely unremarkable, if a little dimly lit. Akira supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised—Akechi’s cash flow had probably decreased significantly now that he was just a normal intern, so they weren’t about to get anything extravagant like elephant dung coffee. He could almost hear the boy’s drawl at the suggestion: “Do you really want to spend your money so wastefully?”

Akira pushed the glass door open and walked forward as he scanned the seats for his friends. Thankfully Sumire’s loud hair color stuck out against the dark wooden walls. He made his way over to their booth quickly.

Her and Akechi were both in their school uniforms, the girl’s red coat folded up at her side while Akechi had hung his over the extra space on his bench to discourage anyone from sitting next to him.

“Hello, senpai!” Sumire said cheerfully as she noticed him and moved her coat away. “How was your day?”

“Boring, honestly,” he said as he slid next to her in the booth, giving Akechi a quick glance. “School stopped being difficult a few months back.”

Akechi didn’t look away from the tea bag he was inspecting. “If today was so boring then you shouldn’t have been late.”

“Had to take Morgana back to Leblanc first. I didn’t think you’d want him here.”

“Well, thank you for your discretion, I suppose.”

“Any time.”

The discomfort that had settled between them in Leblanc two days ago was just as present as it had been then, if not more. Which was hardly surprising to Akira, considering that on top of everything that had happened in the past few days, he was now dealing with the revelation that he had a crush on Goro Akechi. He’d always registered that the boy was handsome, of course—his consistently immaculate appearance made it impossible to think otherwise—but never really considered it before, at least not consciously.

But Wakaba’s question had shifted things. Now he was rethinking every interaction they’d ever had—the lingering glances, the furious competition, even the wild intimacy of fighting to kill. The electricity running beneath it all was more furious and passionate than Akira had ever realized, and now it wasn’t just his mind that was greedy for more: his heart and body were, too.

Which made Akira even more frustrated by their current stalemate. He’d probably made it worse by looking for Akechi yesterday: whether or not Akechi had picked up on Akira’s vague longing, the unusual behavior could only make the detective more alarmed and more cautious. As it was now, the boy’s handsome face was basically taunting him from across the table.

Even Sumire could pick up on the stiffness, apparently. She turned to Akira for a single moment, then turned back—she probably didn’t want to make Akechi feel like he was being isolated in this situation. Not that it would help much; the detective didn’t need any help with being emotionally distant.

“Anyway.” Goro reached into his bag and extracted a leather three-hole binder that he splayed out on the table with one gloved hand. “This contains all the information I’ve collected on Maruki so far. The front page is an index of the categories of data, while the page following summarizes the state of my investigation.”

Akira turned the notebook towards him and Sumire, quickly eyed the thickness of the pages within—at least 150 pages if he had to guess—then turned to the second page of the binder. It contained two columns. The first, labeled BACKGROUND INFORMATION, was filled from top to bottom with small, neat handwriting in several colors. The other one, CURRENT WHEREABOUTS, had only a few lines of text that were largely speculative. 

“Well, we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Akira commented.

“Indeed.”

Sumire’s eyes skimmed across the information in the first column. “There really wasn’t any useful information from his background?”

“Biographical profiles can only assist with deductions when accompanied by concrete evidence, and we have little of the latter,” Akechi replied. “And even the information that could be directly relevant is too vague to be of assistance. Maruki has lived in several different districts of Tokyo, for example, and none of the people I interviewed could suggest which was his favorite. Add the fact that he lived in several cities during his childhood, any of which he may have an emotional attachment to, and it becomes impossible to guess where he may have chosen to live after his hold on the Metaverse broke.”

“This is assuming he’s the one responsible for you and Wakaba being alive,” Akira said.

“I fail to see why a hypothetical alternative culprit would have worked so hard to hide him from us. And if there is a reason I’m not aware of, finding Maruki would be the best lead we have.”

He was probably right, Akira conceded.

“So how do we get more information?” Sumire asked.

Akechi turned the binder back towards himself. “Either we manage to find traces of his presence in Tokyo, which seems rather unlikely, or we derive a lead from information that I haven’t collected or deduced.”

“So we sit here and think a lot,” Akira said.

“Precisely.” Akechi brought a hand to his chin, his expression sharpening. “That won’t be too troublesome for you two, will it?”

Sumire nodded. “I’m not nearly as experienced as you two are, but I’ll contribute the best I can.”

A terse smile. “And you, Kurusu?”

No, the tension simmering between them was worse than it had been in Leblanc. Back then, Akechi had been keeping himself distant because he was Akechi, and rejecting emotional investment was his way of handling any situation that pressured him to care about people. But now he was being distant as a tactic, which is why his derision lacked the playfulness that their conversations had before. It was meant to send a message now, a message that Akechi was above Kurusu, that he didn’t need the attic-dwelling boy anymore.

Well, fuck that. Akira met Akechi’s glare head-on. It didn’t matter if he didn’t understand the depth of his feelings for Akechi, or that the detective was pretending their connection wasn’t important. They were rivals, and they were a team. 

“And we’ll crack this, Akechi. Together.”

There was a flash of something deeper in the boy’s eyes before he stuffed it down with a weary sigh. “I certainly hope that we’ll solve it, Kurusu.”

Akira kept his satisfaction at the small victory hidden, if only for Sumire’s sake. “Time to look through the binder, then.”

Akira and Sumire managed to comb through all the information after about an hour and a half of reading and asking Akechi questions. Akira hadn’t doubted that the detective was thorough during his investigations, of course, but he also had never seen the boy collect and organize his information first-hand. Then again, he didn’t know if Akechi did it at all while he was the Detective Prince. Shido could have just handed him all the information he needed to parrot on TV, with Goro making some small modifications at most.

Nevertheless, the sheer volume of information present made it clear that Akechi possessed at least some of the skills he advertised, so Akira pushed his misgivings aside. Besides, he was more occupied by trying to rack his brain for information that was missing from the dossier in front of him. He wasn’t having much luck.

“You’ve been really comprehensive,” Sumire said after Akechi said he’d already looked into a suggestion of hers.

“Of course I have,” he answered. “And that’s why I didn’t ask for either of you to help me.”

Akira restrained the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, I’m sure something will come to us. We should take a break in the meantime.”

The other boy raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe in breaks.”

Sumire’s eyes widened. “Really? Even I take breaks during my gymnastics practice.”

“I never had time for such luxuries,” Akechi replied. “If my mind grew tired of one subject, I simply switched to another.” 

Sumire seemed uncertain how to respond.

“Well, your habits aside, Sumire and I need a break either way,” Akira said as he stood from his seat. “And I think the manager doesn’t like that we’ve been here for so long. I’ll order us another round of coffee and some sandwiches.”

The drinks and snacks came by relatively quickly, which was a relief given that there was no small talk happening at the table. Akira took a sip of the coffee, which was decidedly mediocre, and watched Akechi drink his own. A pang of jealousy emerged from the fact that the boy had finished his first cup from this cafe and was working through his second, but hadn’t bothered to finish the brew Akira had made for him two days ago.

Sumire interrupted his thoughts. “I’m… sorry I haven’t been very helpful today,” she said in between bites of her sandwich. “I’ve been stressed by a lot of things lately, including gymnastics and school, so I’ve been getting distracted sometimes.”

Akechi didn’t say anything, although the look on his face wasn’t particularly critical. Akira shook his head. “You’ve been just fine, Sumire. Has Usami-sensei been putting you through the works again?”

“No, it’s actually our Japanese class,” she answered with a frown. “Our review session for the year’s final exam has been really intense, and I’m not feeling very confident. I hope Kawakami-sensei is less stringent than my current teacher is.”

“I can help you study once we’re done with this Maruki business. And as for Kawakami…” Akira smirked. “Just tell her you’re a friend of mine and it’ll work out.”

Akechi’s attention seemed to sharpen at the mention of the teacher. “Do you actually have a rapport with her, Kurusu?”

“Yeah,” Akira said, choosing his words carefully to avoid revealing too much. “She warmed up to me after she learned I was falsely accused. She gave our class extra study breaks sometimes so I could read or make lockpicks.”

Sumire and Akechi both stared at him in shock.

“What’s with that look?” he asked.

“Your homeroom teacher knew you were a Phantom Thief,” Akechi said slowly.

Dammit, he’d just said he’d be careful. “She figured it out after I changed the hearts of some parents of a former student of hers,” he explained.

Sumire seemed to be taking the information in with some awe, while Akechi's face displayed a mixture of disgust and exasperation. “You really are something,” he said.

He grinned. “Sure am. Anyway, why did you want to know?”

“Because she was one of the only teachers who actively refused to talk with me about Maruki,” Akechi said. “She might be more willing to discuss him if you’re the one asking the questions.”

“So that’s a lead we can follow up on?” Sumire asked.

“Seems worth a shot,” Akira said. “And I think she got along with Maruki pretty well. I don’t know why she was avoiding you, though. Wouldn’t she just think of you as a SIU intern?”

“I couldn’t say,” Akechi said. “Maybe the memory distortions in this reality haven’t affected your accomplices, leading to her noticing the contradiction between her memory of me and the current reality.”

Akira stood up again. “Well, we won’t figure it out just by sitting here. I’ll text her and see if she’s at school or at her apartment.”

The others stood up with him, Sumire carrying the sandwiches they’d ordered in her hands and giving the waitress at the door an apologetic look. 

“You know her phone number and home address?” Akechi asked.

“It’s a long story.”

Akira could feel Akechi glaring a hole into his back. “I hope I don’t have to hear it.”

“Then I definitely won’t tell you,” Akira said. “I’m just glad it’s going to be useful—and that Sumire had us take a break,” he added with a grin.

Akechi didn’t say anything, and probably wouldn’t for the next minute or so after a jibe like that. But Akira couldn’t help but poke at him. The sooner his rival’s resolve to keep him out wore down, the sooner Akira would be able to understand just exactly how he felt about him. And there wasn’t much he wanted more than that.

Chapter Text

“You mean you and Haru both got accepted to Tokyo University?” Ann asked with wide eyes.

Makoto was embarrassed by Ann’s enthusiasm, hiding her face slightly behind the pastry she was eating. “It’s not that big of a deal, you know.”

“It is,” the blonde insisted. “It’s one of the best universities in the country, and you both got your acceptance letters early, which means they really want you there. That’s a big deal, and you should be proud of yourself.”

Ann knew she was laying it a little thick, but she also knew that Makoto needed a bit of a push to acknowledge her own successes sometimes. It seemed like the girl had a harder time with self-esteem than Ann herself did sometimes, and Ann had to deal with the fashion industry constantly critiquing her appearance.

Unfortunately, though, it seemed like it wasn’t the right time for praise. Makoto sank down in her chair and sighed. “It’s just… not something that feels important right now.”

Ann could see that the senior’s mind had moved to something else. “Because of all the other stuff going on,” she said quietly.

Makoto nodded. “Haru’s father is dead, the culprit is alive and spending time with her friends, not to mention how we nearly died multiple times within the last two months.”

“I can barely focus on school because of all of it," Ann agreed. "I can only imagine how bad it has to be for you and Haru.”

“Yeah.”

They ate their desserts without speaking for the next minute, unsure of what to say. Ann found herself incredibly jealous of Akira’s ability to connect with people and figure out what they needed. It was like he had this intuitive sense of how the people around him felt, and even though Ann considered herself an empathetic person, she just couldn’t figure people out in the same way.

Makoto was the one who started speaking again. “The worst part is that I don’t feel like I have anyone to talk to about this.”

“What do you mean?” Ann asked. “What about Haru, or your sister, or Akira?”

Makoto spun her fork around on its tail end. “My sister doesn’t really get what this all feels like for me. She tries to sympathize, but she didn’t notice that anything unusual happened last month. So it’s hard to discuss it with her. As for Haru, I… I don’t want to weigh her down with my feelings when she’s already dealing with her own. I want to be the one supporting her right now.”

Ann felt a twist in her heart; Makoto was really so caring for the people around her. “And Akira?”

The girl’s hand shook slightly. “I’m sure he’d know what to say. But Futaba told me he’s going to be working with Akechi until they find Maruki, and if Haru finds out I’m talking to him while I know he’s doing that…”

Then shit hits the fan, Ann concluded.

“So I’m mostly keeping everything to myself,” she finished. “Just like I used to. It’s not a good feeling.”

Once again, that desire to know how to connect with Makoto arose in Ann’s mind. Makoto looked so forlorn in her seat across from Ann, so lonely. As a foreigner with absent parents, Ann knew exactly what it felt like to feel isolated in a sea of people, even when some of them were supposed to be close. She wanted to comfort Makoto. She needed to. And apparently she needed it bad enough to say something stupid.

“Well, then I’ll be the one you can vent to.”

Makoto was shocked by the answer, leading to Ann stammering out a poor explanation. “I mean, only if you’re comfortable talking to me about it, of course. I don’t want to impose or anything. I just thought—”

“Thank you, Ann. That means a lot to me.”

Ann blinked. “It does?”

“Of course.” Makoto gave her a soft and genuine smile. “How could I not appreciate a friend as generous as you?”

Ann found herself staring at what was left of her dessert, trying to cover up the heat flaring up in her face. “I was just trying to be nice…”

The senior’s expression turned into something a little more playful. “I didn’t realize you were so susceptible to praise.”

Of course Ann was. She was being complimented by one of the nicest and most beautiful people she knew. Who wouldn’t be—wait, Makoto was teasing her. “Well, I’m going to stop being vulnerable if you’re going to manipulate me like that!”

“Alright, alright.” Makoto glanced at her phone. “I have to go in a few minutes, but do you want to meet up tomorrow or the day after?”

“Yeah, totally!” she said. “My schedule’s wide open for the next week or two. Couldn’t really get jobs booked while I was in an alternate reality.”

“At least there's some upside to that,” Makoto said. “And… it means a lot to hear praise from someone else, Ann. So thank you.”

Something warm bloomed in Ann’s chest as the words sank in. “O-of course, Makoto!”

Chapter Text

The response to Akira's rapping on the apartment door was immediate. “It’s unlocked,” a tired feminine voice, presumably Kawakami, said from inside. “Can you let yourselves in?”

Akechi followed Akira and Sumire into the living room. It was about the size and condition you’d expect for a unit in a middle class apartment complex: clean and in good repair, but not particularly noteworthy otherwise. A few spare decorations lined the couches, including several stuffed animals from a generic popular toy line.

Kawakami herself walked into the room from a hallway that led to the other side of the apartment. Much like her picture on the Shujin website, the woman herself looked decidedly milquetoast, although that normalcy was offset by the comically tall stack of papers she was carrying.

“Sorry about not getting the door,” she said as she made her way across the room towards a table in front of her couch. “I was just about to start grading some essays.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Akira responded.

Sumire’s attention appeared to be caught by one of the teacher’s decorations. “Oh, is that plush a cat made of sushi?”

Kawakami turned to Sumire as she heard her voice. “Oh, right, you mentioned some of your friends would be coming. Could you—”

Her eyes widened as her gaze shifted to where Akechi was standing. She took a step backwards as her grip slackened, the papers scattering as they fell from her hands. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Akechi glanced over at Kurusu, who seemed to be having a terrible realization at that exact moment. Which could only mean… Oh, he hated this boy.

Sumire didn’t quite realize the implications of her sensei’s reaction. “Sensei, this is Goro Akechi. He’s a friend of Akira-senpai and interns at the—”

“No he doesn’t,” Kawakami interrupted as she backed herself against the wall, looking between him and Kurusu. “Akira said you were dead. He said that you—that you—”

Part of Akechi wanted to appreciate the humor of the moment, but most of him was too busy suffocating the apoplexy rising through his body. He balled his fists inside his coat pocket and gave Kurusu a murderous look. “You told her that I was the culprit? How the fuck could you do something so irresponsible?”

Akira’s face was as pale as a tissue. “You were dead. I had to talk to someone about it.”

“And you chose your Japanese literature teacher.”

“She’s done a lot for me,” he responded. “Helped me prepare for heists, brought food when I was too busy to cook, even gave me some life advice.”

A scoff. “Oh, because that justifies it. You exposed all of your operational secrets to a random civilian because she gave you advice.”

“You were DEAD!” Akira shouted.

The room went completely still, everyone staring right at Akira.

“You were dead,” he said again, more quietly this time, eyes locked directly on his rivals’. “You were gone, bleeding out in that goddamn ship, and it was my fault. I would have gone mad if I kept it all to myself.”

Akechi’s voice was low and scornful. “And none of your friends would have comforted you. I’m the one who tried to kill them, after all. So you had to turn to someone outside of your circle. How pathetic.”

Yoshizawa stepped in between the two of them. “I’m not saying that you two shouldn’t talk about this, but maybe not right now, and not in front of…”

She glanced over at Kawakami, whose discomfort was evident in her face.

Furious as he still was, Akechi had to concede that he had let the situation get the better of him. After a small pause in which the boys’ eyes met again, the detective huffed and adjusted his coat. “Fine by me. I’ve said everything I needed to, anyway. My apologies, Kawakami-san.”

Akira was obviously displeased with what he’d said, the pain showing on his face as he gathered himself. “I’m sorry, Sadayo. We didn’t mean to…”

“It’s… fine,” she said slowly, the words almost reluctant to leave her mouth. “But I would appreciate it if someone could explain what the hell is going on. And… also help me pick up all these papers.”

Kurusu, consummate gentleman that he was, walked over to the mess on the floor and bent down next to where Kawakami had just knelt. “It’s a long story.…”

“And that was all Dr. Maruki,” Kawakami whispered as Akira and Sumire finished explaining everything that had happened with the Metaverse in the current year. “I never would have thought it would have been him.”

“Sadness can do terrible things to people,” Sumire said quietly. She and Akira were on the opposite end of the sofa Kawakami was sitting at, with Akira explaining the situation as the girl finished straightening the papers. Akechi had seated himself in a chair at the other end of the room, figuring some distance would help with the teacher’s nerves.

“And that’s why we’re looking for him now,” Akira said. “He’s not in control of things anymore, but if anyone has answers about what happened with Akechi and Futaba’s mom, it’s going to be him.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” the teacher said. She was clearly struggling to understand everything she’d just been told, but she appeared smart enough to get the basics. “Although I don’t get why your friends in the… in that ‘blue room’ don’t just give you the answers themselves.”

“That’s the real question, isn’t it,” Akechi commented.

Akira shrugged. “Not much we can do about that.”

There was nothing to be done, and it made Akechi want to choke someone. These godlike beings knew exactly what kind of torment he and all the other Phantom Thieves were going through, and yet they were so aloof, so certain in their choice not to provide any answers. It was less likely that they believed in non-interference and more likely that they were trying to guide everyone towards a specific endgame.

And Akechi could guess what that endgame was. Wasn’t it serendipitous that Kawakami would remember who he had been before the new year, that it would be revealed that Akira had been so sad about his rival’s death that he’d cried about it to a surrogate mother figure in unadvisable circumstances? Akechi was certain that Kurusu had romantic feelings for him, and this interaction was yet another set piece trying to push them towards admitting their feelings to each other and kissing under a sakura tree. What a farce.

He gathered himself and smoothed over his slacks before placing a neutral expression on his face. “Given all of this, Kawakami-san, the three of us wanted to ask if you had any information regarding Maruki’s whereabouts after he left Shujin. Anything you can recall would be useful, but information from this year would be very helpful, especially regarding the time period after the 3rd of February.”

The teacher frowned. “He didn’t say much about his plans, unfortunately. I think he mentioned a project he was working on in the teacher’s lounge one time, but that’s probably just the cognitive psience paper he put together with Akira’s help.”

“Sounds about right,” Kurusu said.

Akechi sighed. “Well, I’m not surprised that he didn’t communicate with the school once his employment ceased. And I know that any tax documents that Shujin may have sent him were already picked up from the mailbox at his old address, so that lead is cold as well.”

“Could we get his current address when he files his tax return?” Sumire asked.

Akechi scoffed. “If we can’t find him before the federal government processes those documents, I’ll be disgraced with myself.”

“Wait, wait.” Kawakami’s face scrunched up in thought for a moment before she slapped the couch with one hand. “Oh, how could I have forgotten! Doctor Maruki sent letters to all the teachers at the school. They came in just this morning.”

Kurusu stared at her. “Really?”

“Yes! The envelopes listed him as the sender, but there wasn’t a return address. And it was oddly apologetic—not that he wasn’t polite  before, but he talked about doing a disservice to multiple students, which didn’t make sense until just now. I honestly just assumed it had been a prank organized by a student who didn’t like him.”

“I probably would have thought that too,” Sumire said.

“I suppose an apologetic tone would be consistent with him experiencing a change of heart,” Akechi thought aloud. “But it’s still possible that the letters are an imitation. Would we be able to examine a copy?”

“Of course,” Kawakami responded. “But I have to go meet a friend for something soon, and by the time I’m done with that the school will be closed for the night.”

“One of us could pick it up during class tomorrow,” Kurusu offered.

“That works for me,” the teacher replied.

Sumire looked relieved at the news. “We might actually have a lead now. It’s a good thing we came to talk to you today, sensei!”

Oh yes, Akechi thought. How fortunate that they met with Kawakami at the perfect time. There was nothing he needed in his life more than that vapid, god-provided serendipity.

After a short and cursory farewell to the teacher, the three of them left her apartment complex and walked back onto the Tokyo streets.

“Seems like it’s getting dark,” Yoshizawa commented with a glance towards a reddening sky. “Should we call it for today?”

“I’ve got to go help at Leblanc,” Kurusu replied, “so I’m done too. Although both of you are welcome to come with me if you want some coffee.”

Kurusu glanced at Akechi as he finished talking. Akechi wasn’t sure if the look was deliberately made, but the emotion behind it was as transparent as possible, and it was more aggravating than the wind biting at Akechi’s nose.

“I have better things to do,” he said as he pulled on his gloves.

“You sure?” Akira asked. “It’s on the hou—”

“I’m sure you have other people to hang out with as well,” he said dismissively as he turned away. “We’ll meet tomorrow, same time and place. Bring the letter from Maruki, and have Sakura-san check the security cameras in case he delivered it by hand. And if either of you have other scraps with his writing on it, bring those as well so I can compare the handwriting.”

He didn’t bother to listen for a response as he walked forward and let the crowds of the city swallow him up. Here, at least, he could pretend no one had plans for him. Here, at least, he was alone.

Chapter Text

“Would you like to explain why you followed me here, Yoshizawa?”

She and Akechi were crowded next to each other in the subway car, their shoulders bumping occasionally as the train pushed forward on the tracks.

“I–I wasn’t following you,” Sumire said hastily. “This is the fastest line home for me.”

“Really.”

“I swear! My family lives in Mikata Apartments. It’s a three minute walk away from the station I get off at. Here, I can pull out my phone and—”

“No, it’s fine.” Akechi pinched the bridge of his nose. “My complex appears to be adjacent to yours.”

“Oh, I never realized.”

“Neither did I.”

A disquiet settled over the two of them in the stale air of the subway car. Part of Sumire had hoped that Akechi might be more positive about learning that they were neighbors, but she supposed that was an unrealistic expectation.

The other Thieves had been more than willing to let her into their inner circle and even talk about some of their insecurities with her around. She’d exercised with Ryuji, asked Ann for fashion advice, and even hung out with Futaba one afternoon when her mom being back was making her especially anxious. Goro, on the other hand, seemed determined to keep his walls up around everyone, even Akira. She understood why he acted that way, of course, but she still wished he would let someone in, if only so—

“I don’t enjoy it when people pity me, you know.”

Sumire was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Due to the tight confines of their surroundings, the two of them were both oriented towards the front of the vehicle, which meant that Sumire couldn’t see Akechi’s face as he spoke.

“Whenever there’s silence between me and the Phantom Thieves, I can tell that they’re thinking about me. Either they’re furious about the things I’ve done to them and their friends, or they’re afraid that I’ll do it again. Or even worse, they feel sorry”—he said the word as if it was something vile he was spitting out of his mouth—“that I ended up the way I am. Anger is understandable, and I’d be concerned for their sanity if there was none of it. Pity, on the other hand, is sickening.”

Goro had never spoken this strongly to her before. “I’m sorry, Goro, I wasn’t—”

“Think before you speak, Yoshizawa.”

The intensity he had spoken that last sentence with, enunciating each word as if he was considering murder, made her take pause. He’d known she was going to say she wasn’t pitying him—was the pattern of thought that obvious? It probably was. As far as Sumire knew, Goro had no friends besides Akira and no genuine acquaintances except the Phantom Thieves. The idea that he had figured out some of their emotions as a result of being around them wasn’t all that surprising.

Sumire thought back to when Goro had walked into Leblanc a few days ago, how everyone had either shrunk back or sprang forward. Someone like him wouldn’t have missed any of that. And she had reacted the same way as everyone else, hadn’t she? She didn’t feel rage when she thought about him, but she did feel sorry for him. The thought that he could have had a much better life if his father hadn’t held him back, that he didn’t deserve anything that had happened to him. The feelings were genuine on her part, yes, but what use were they to Goro Akechi?

“...You’re right, Goro. I’m sorry.”

That got him to turn and look at her. “Excuse me?”

She bowed her head. “I’ve been pitying you without thinking about how that might make you feel, just to assuage my own guilt. It was inconsiderate of me.”

His expression remained steady. “Your remorse is appreciated, but it’s not as much of a problem as—”

“But I should have known better!”

The words came out louder than she expected, earning a glance from a middle-aged man a few feet away, but she was too focused on her own thoughts to notice. 

It took more effort than she expected to keep talking.  “There were so many people that expressed their ‘pity’ after Kasumi died. How it was such a shame that my sister left us so early, how I didn’t deserve what was happening. They said the same sorts of things about my slump, too.”

Her free hand tightened into a fist. “But none of those adults and classmates who pitied me did anything to help me. Even my coach didn’t know what to do. The only person who actually helped…”

A brief pause; they both knew that story. She looked away. “Anyway, that’s enough about me. I promise not to pity you any more, Goro-senpai.”

Silence returned as the train continued forward. Akechi continued to look at her with the same sullen expression as before, and Sumire was almost certain that she’d overshared and missed her point entirely, that Goro was even more annoyed by her presence than before.

“You’re the first person who’s actually listened to me this week, Yoshizawa.”

The reply caught her off-guard. “That’s… that’s a good thing, right?”

“From your perspective, I suppose.”

He flicked a strand of hair out of his face with one hand as Sumire processed the fact that she’d actually been complimented by him. “Although, now that you no longer pity me,” he continued, “I expect you no longer want to help with my search for Maruki.”

They made eye contact for a moment, making it clear to Sumire that the statement was a test of some sort. Was he making sure she wasn’t pitying him? Asking if she had ulterior motives? Trying to prove to himself that no one actually cared about him? She didn’t know.

“Well, I still want to talk to Maruki myself,” she said finally. “I won’t be able to do that unless I’m working with you, right?”

His face remained passive. “I suppose that’s fair enough.”

“And…”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, shouldn’t I want to help a friend with something like this?” 

There was an almost invisible hesitation before Akechi turned away from her. “I’m not your friend, Yoshizawa. But I’d rather not argue about it, either.”

Her expression lightened. “I’ll count that as a victory.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

The two of them didn’t speak for the rest of the trip, and Sumire received only a cursory goodbye from Goro when they separated just outside of the station. And yet as Sumire watched the snow blanket the streets leading back to her home, she knew that she'd done something right for once.

Chapter Text

February 15, Evening

Futaba still wasn’t sure how she’d ended up in the arcade tonight. She’d planned on holing up in her room as soon as she finished dinner to watch a badminton anime Sumire had brought up the other week, but right as she’d finished her noodles Wakaba had announced that the entire “family”—which was the word she was using for herself, Futaba, Sojiro, and Akira—were going to the Shibuya arcade. Sojiro had weaseled out of it with the excuse that he had to do inventory at Leblanc, but neither Futaba nor Akira had been able to say no, so here they were.

At least it was an arcade instead of somewhere else. The dark walls lined with various flashing and buzzing machines were as close to Futaba’s natural habitat as possible, which meant that her sensory issues didn’t flare up. The social anxiety had still been relevant for a while, but after a few trips with the Thieves she’d realized that everyone visiting was too focused on cabinets and prizes to pay attention to her, and that had helped a lot.

She would have been perfectly comfortable tonight if it wasn’t for her mom being there with her. But Wakaba was there, so she had one hand clumped in her coat pocket while the other clung tightly to Akira’s arm.

“Wow, I can’t remember the last time I went to an arcade,” Wakaba said as she stood at the entrance and looked inside. “Maybe five or six years. Think skinny jeans were still in back then.”

Futaba might have chuckled if her stomach wasn’t twisted up. Instead she just stood on her tiptoes so she could whisper into Akira’s ear. “You’ve got a plan, right?”

Akira was the only reason she had agreed to come along. She still had no clue how she was supposed to warm up to her mom’s presence. For the past two days, Futaba had focused on just trying to match the woman’s witty banter with her own jokes and gags, and while the conversations had definitely gone better, they hadn’t changed how she felt inside. Hell, even now she could look at her mom’s silhouette and see something that wasn’t there. A mom who was trying very, very hard to be present for her daughter all the time? It was the same kind of trap Maruki had concocted for all of them.

But if Akira was around, things were different. The reason the Thieves had all gathered around him was because he knew how to help everyone he met. Ryuji had described his knack for saying the right thing as a “magic bullet,” but Futaba didn’t buy that—Akira was as thick-headed as the rest of them sometimes. What he did have, though, was awareness. Him and Futaba were both wallflowers, but while she’d sink into her own world when she was at the fringes of a social setting, Akira would watch. He’d explained it to her one night, saying that he’d spent enough time watching that he had started to understand the things people wanted and needed. That skill had slowly turned into an instinct, and then he’d shown up in Tokyo and used that instinct to change the world.

So Futaba was confident that he was about to respond with either the details of his plan or just a confident smile to wait and see. They’d both struggled to figure out what to do with Wakaba, of course, but when push came to shove Akira always knew what to do.

Akira had no clue what he was supposed to say.

He was supposed to understand these things. His friends and confidants all counted on him to help them through their social woes, and he could almost always figure out a plan, or at least intuit his way towards saying the right thing.

Unfortunately, during the fall of the last year, he had realized that his emotional intelligence had one massive hole: parent-child relationships. He was fine whenever he was talking with the parents, like with Sojiro and Iwai; but whenever he tried to understand emotions that the parents of Shinya, Hifumi, or his other confidants might be feeling? He couldn’t understand anything that wasn’t surface-level. He couldn’t even make sense of Chihaya’s readings for them when he tried.

And that was fine last year. Those parents had been so twisted that his last resort—find them in Mementos and take their heart—had always been the best option, and the kid and the shogi queen had been able to work it out with their parents just fine after.

But Wakaba wasn’t suffering from any obvious cognitive distortions, and the Meta-Nav was gone anyway. He was looking at a mother and daughter who both loved each other, and he had no idea what they needed to do to repair the bond between them that fate had tragically severed.

So he just shrugged and scratched the back of his head, trying not to pay attention to the way Futaba was looking at him expectantly. “Let’s, uh… see what multiplayer games they have? Co-op, since family is about working together.”

Wakaba was looking at the two of them and smiled. “That’s what I was thinking. Nothing like killing aliens to bring a family closer!”

The enthusiasm was clearly forced on the woman’s part, as was the nod Futaba followed it with. “Uh, sure. I think there’s a few over this way…”

The night that followed was… fine. They spent around two hours at the arcade, starting with the multiplayer adventure games themed after kaiju movies or horror franchises, then switching over to some competitive arcade games. The three of them had healthy banter throughout, but it was punctuated by heavy silences that swallowed up any sort of positive emotions that might have been brewing.

Akira could tell that everyone’s mood was nosediving and suggested they do one last game before heading back to Yongen-Jaya. They settled on a machine based on an American B movie about supersized gorillas competing to demolish the most buildings.

“Jeez, 100 yen a pop?” Wakaba said as she handed Futaba and Akira change from her back pocket. “You kids are going to drain my wallet dry.”

Futaba just rolled her eyes—“it’s Sojiro’s money anyway”—but Akira found himself wincing without understanding why. He used a knuckle-cracking motion to obscure himself trying to shake the unease away. “Hey, at least we’re not the people in these houses. Think about the repair bill for getting your wall torn out.”

“No kidding,” Wakaba said. “Would not be a fun time to be a family.”

Futaba sniggered.  “That’s the nice thing about being a kid. I wouldn’t have to pay for it.”

Wakaba sighed exaggeratedly. “Like I said, draining my wallet.”

Another wince from Akira. He gritted his teeth to ignore it and turned to the screen as the first round of the game loaded up.

It was a well-designed competitive game—there were lots of objectives to compete over simultaneously and multiple opportunities to sabotage other players. But the moment that derailed Akira was about ninety seconds in, when Wakaba managed to deflect an explosive that had been aimed at her onto Futaba’s avatar.

“Hey!” the girl shouted as her beast staggered over in the game. “What was that for?”

“That’s just my right as a parent,” Wakaba said with a smirk as she punched a hole in a nearby elementary school.

As useless as Akira’s emotional perception had felt throughout the night, Akira could still tell that it was a lighthearted moment between the two of them. But the second Wakaba said that phrase, his upper body started to feel locked up. It felt like he was losing track of his senses. What was—

“That’s our right as your parents,” his mother said. “We know what’s best for you.”

He stood at the other end of the hallway, eyes filling with tears as his father lifted up a garbage bag that his mother had thrown his newest light novels into. “But mo—”

“No buts.” The phrase was sharp, making him physically recoil. “I’ve seen the degeneracy that they put into some of these so-called ‘books.’ You’re going to be reading real literature from now on.”

There were lots of things he wanted to say: how the last light novel he’d read had gotten him interested in astronomy, how his teacher had recommended multiple books in the collection. He wished he could talk about this with his parents, that they would listen to him. They always said they loved him. If they loved him, wouldn’t they listen?

But he couldn’t see any love in his mother’s and father’s eyes. There was a wall, and if there was something behind it, it wasn’t for him to know.

His head slumped down. “Yes, mom.”

The recollection raced through his brain and choked out most of the information he was supposed to be getting from the game. His inputs got sluggish and stilted, and his performance in the game dropped as a result. By the time the round ended he was in a distant third place.

“Well, guess the night ended well for Futaba,” Wakaba commented as her daughter’s game avatar flexed on top of a skyscraper.

“Yeah,” Futaba said absentmindedly. She was staring at Akira instead of the screen, her concern evident on her face.

He noticed the look and tried to force the memory down while giving them a performative shrug. “The controls weren’t clicking with me, I guess.”

Wakaba seemed to accept his lie. “That’s just how it is at arcades. Don’t worry about it.”

Futaba knew better, though. Her expression sank, and it was hard to tell if it was disappointment or worry, or maybe both. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He rolled his shoulders back. “Are we heading out?”

The lie was almost instinctual, but he also didn’t really want to call it a lie. Yes, he was clearly dealing with some emotional baggage, but he knew he was capable of handling it. He had managed to work through a lot of his pain about Sae’s Palace and the interrogation room after a few conversations with Makoto and some meditation; he should be able to resolve his feelings about his parents in the same way.

Even if they took so much away from him, tangible or otherwise. Even if he’d never be able to ask them about why they did the things they did.

Anyway, back to reality. Wakaba and Futaba had nodded and were walking towards the door now, so he followed them. Hopefully the night had gone better for Futaba than it had for him.

Futaba laid face-up on her bed, her headphones blasting electro music at unsafe volumes and her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

She wasn’t angry with Akira. A little hurt that he wasn’t going to share what was wrong—he’d gone back to Leblanc instead of staying over with her—but she understood that she didn’t have the right to make him share anything until he was ready. He’d gone at her pace while changing her heart and while helping with her promise list, and she’d respect his boundaries just as much.

She wasn’t angry about how he wasn’t able to help her get closer to her mom, either. She was still frustrated, of course, and confused and distraught too. She kept thinking back to the tangled insides of her Palace, about how difficult it had been to find her way through it. Futaba wasn’t a suicidal recluse like she had been last year, but she felt just as lost as she had then.

She hadn’t been worried about that feeling a week ago. After all, Akira was back, and that was all she thought she needed to make her way through the labyrinth. After what happened earlier, though…

Futaba crumpled up her blanket with one hand as she loaded up a video game on the phone with the other. Time for another restless night.

Chapter Text

February 16, Morning

Today was one of the few days when Sumire didn’t have to do any early gymnastics training—her personal trainer gave her a short break for exam prep—which meant she got to sleep in until just before 7 instead of getting up at 5 like she normally would.

It was the first real downtime she had gotten in days, so she indulged herself a little by taking a detour from her usual train route into Shibuya’s Underground Mall. While she wasn’t a huge shopping fan like her sister had been—and she’d re-learned how bad she was at it last month—there was still something relaxing about looking through the stores’ displays. The crowds were still tame thanks to how early it was, so she was able to focus on a few specific people: an old man asking all of the clerks how their day had been, a woman incredibly dissatisfied with a certain coat rack, a bored girl standing inside a smoothie stand. She wasn’t sure exactly why the experience felt meditative for her. Maybe it was because she enjoyed the chance to see how other people interacted with the world, now that she wasn’t stuck inside her own illusion anymore. Or maybe it was just a distraction.

“Yo! Sumire! Over here!”

She turned and saw Ryuji waving her down from near a bakery, a steamed bun in his mouth and Akira leaning against a wall next to him. She returned the wave and crossed the walkway quickly. “Hello, Ryuji. Hello, Senpai.”

Akira gave her a nod as Ryuji started to mope. “Man, nobody’s ever gonna call me senpai.”

“It’s not like it’s important or anything,” Akira said dryly.

Ryuji took a bite from his breakfast. “That’s because everyone looks up to you, bro. You take it for granted.”

Sumire would have expected Akira to chuckle, but he just took a drink from the smoothie he was holding, creating a silence that Ryuji jumped in to fill. “No training right now, huh?”

“Nope,” she said as she took a spot next to Akira on the wall. “My coach wanted to give me some time off so I’d be ready for finals. And since she’s letting me skip after school too, it’ll be the first day I haven’t trained since last month.”

Ryuji turned his head. “The afternoon, too? What are you doing?”

“Maruki,” Akira said.

“Oh, right,” the blond said. “Hope you guys figure that out quickly so we can put it behind us. I don’t wanna think about the Metaverse unless I can hop into it.”

Sumire nodded. “We’ll do our best.”

Akira shrugged. “You can help out too, if you want.”

Ryuji looked at Sumire nervously. She knew exactly what he was thinking—there was no way he could do that when it would make it even harder to keep Haru from finding out. But before she could say anything, he pivoted into a different response. “There’s no way Akechi would let me, dude. He’d complain that I was holding you all back or something.”

“He’ll warm up to it eventually,” Akira said.

Sumire thought back to the fight he and Akira had had yesterday in Kawakami-sensei’s home, how Akechi had walked away from them afterwards without a second thought. “Do you really think so, senpai?” she asked.

“Of course he will,” he replied. “He was getting along with us last month, and there’s nobody else who knows who he really is, not even Sae. If he doesn’t realize that he needs us…”

There was a long moment as Sumire and Ryuji watched Akira while he continued to look straight ahead, so dead-set on the wall across from him that it seemed like he had forgotten they were there. Eventually he sighed and drank the rest of his soda. “He’ll come around.”

Nobody responded.

Sumire had spent most of the past year eating alone. Well, technically she had eaten in her classroom like most other kids did, but nobody had wanted to talk to the girl getting special privileges from the school, and she hadn’t been good at making friends thanks to her identity being manipulated. She frequently found herself wolfing her tripled servings of food down within a few minutes, only to remember there was nothing to do with the time left once she finished. She had ended up intimately familiar with the school courtyard, from the most popular benches to the nooks that birds most commonly nested in.

All of that had changed last month. Joining the Phantom Thieves in the Metaverse had resulted in them basically strong-arming her out of her classroom and up to Haru’s rooftop garden, which had become their de facto meeting place during school. She had been incredibly shy for the first week, only contributing to their conversations when asked. Even now she still felt a fair amount of trepidation at the thought of debating something silly with one of them—what if it turned into an actual fight, or she accidentally said something awful?

But even with some anxieties present, she still felt comfortable. There was something wonderful about sitting with everyone in the garden—maybe the knowledge that it was a place that had been cultivated by Haru’s hard work, maybe the fact that it was a secret that she was in on. She was content to sit and watch Mona walk around the plants in the grow boxes, listening to everyone talk while the wind blew gently through her hair.

Today was similarly quiet. She’d finished her lunch quickly and was now kneeling next to Haru, helping her transfer some winter yams from planters into soil. Meanwhile she was half-listening to the row Ann and Ryuji were having about the best instant ramen brands money could buy.

“You can’t tell me that your favorite is actually Indomie!” Ann said as she shoved a piece of sushi in her mouth. "That doesn't even make any sense!"

"Why not?" Ryuji said. "It's delicious, easy to make, and it even comes with fried onions. It's basically a whole meal."

"But it’s not even ramen!" she objected. "Mi goreng is an Indonesian thing. We're talking about instant ramen, not instant noodles."

"She does have a point," Makoto commented.

Sumire spotted a smile growing on Haru’s face. Haru was the only person who was as quiet as Sumire was—she wasn’t naturally loud like Ann or Ryuji, and it wasn’t as easy to rope her into an argument as it was with Makoto and Akira. But she was maybe the best listener of the whole group, able to remember conversations from several weeks back that everyone else had long forgotten. It was her own brand of love, Sumire figured.

Ryuji huffed. "Noodles, ramen, it's the same thing. And Ann picked a yakisoba pack as her favorite, so we're both wrong."

"But yakisoba and ramen use the same kinds of noodles!" Ann said.

"No they don't," said Akira, looking up from the tummy rub he was giving to Morgana.

Ann blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah, it’s chukamen,” Ryuji said with a grin, knowing he’d won. “Totally different from ramen. Guess a foreigner like you can’t tell the difference.”

Everyone chuckled a little at that one, even Haru and Sumire.

Ann sighed. “Okay, okay, Indomie is allowed. I’m not some sort of pedant like Akechi.”

The rooftop went silent.

Sumire had been about to pick up a planter, but now she was looking at everyone else. Ann was grimacing at their mistake and Makoto had winced, while Akira had turned stone-faced. Even Morgana and Ryuji had managed to notice before they said something dumb to make Haru feel called out.

And Haru…

Her hands were buried in the dirt, but Sumire could tell that her arms were shaking. The girl was taking deliberate breaths and her mouth was drawn tight.

She managed to compose herself after a few seconds, sitting up slightly and looking around. “What’s wrong, everyone?”

Ann was the first to stammer out a reply. “I’m s-sorry Haru, I didn’t mean to. It jus-”

“I’m not going to fall apart just because somebody says his name.”

Haru was clearly trying to be cheerful, but everyone could see the tension present in her voice. She gave them a practiced smile. “Besides, you were making fun of him. I’m very much in support of that.”

A gust of wind blew through the rooftop, making Sumire shiver.

Ryuji restarted the previous conversation loudly. “Anyway, it’s Indomie versus yakisoba, huh?”

“Uh, yeah!” 

Ann and Ryuji returned to their argument with a stilted fervor. As awkward as it was, Sumire thought it was reasonable—dwelling on the moment or apologizing more would have just made Haru more embarrassed. Makoto and Akira went back to reading a textbook and playing with Morgana, respectively, although the pallor on their faces was easily visible.

And Sumire jerked back as a watering can was placed in front of her face.

Haru was the one holding it. “Once you’re done with this planter, could you water all the plants, Sumire?”

“O-of course, senpai!”

A smile. “You can just call me Haru. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Right.” Sumire tried to smile back as if nothing was wrong. She didn’t feel like she was doing a good job. “I’ll do my best, Haru!”

There were a lot of plants to water, and so Sumire ended up not quite finished when the lunch bell rang. Akira and Ann took off together for their class, Ryuji following them slightly, grumbling about how much he hated exam season. As for Makoto and Haru—

Sumire tried her best to disappear from existence as she walked over to the last planter box she had to take care of. Still, she couldn’t help but overhear them from the table they’d ended up sitting at.

“You don’t have to be okay, Haru.”

“I know, Mako-chan. But I am. I promise.”

“But you don’t look like it. You look so—”

Haru reached over and rested a hand on top of her girlfriend’s wrist. “Makoto, I would tell you if something was wrong. But I’m fine right now.”

A pause. “...You promise?”

“I promise.”

Another pause. “...Alright.”

They stood up and left the rooftop together, not saying anything. It didn’t seem like they’d noticed Sumire had still been there, watching and listening to everything. But Sumire had seen it anyway.

“And you thought I was the best person to discuss this with?”

Sumire faltered under Akechi’s glare. “Well, everyone else has really strong feelings about you. Plus, if I talked to them about it more, it could increase the chance that Haru finds out about this whole thing.”

After a moment of consideration, the boy folded his arms. “I suppose you have a point. Still, I wouldn’t recommend coming to me for life advice, considering how I've ended up.”

The two of them were in the same cafe as yesterday, waiting for Akira to arrive with the letter Maruki had written. Akechi’s profile was illuminated by the light from the window above their table, and to Sumire it seemed almost wrong to see him like this: she was used to his face being obscured by the beaked mask he wore in the Metaverse or the dim interior of Leblanc.

"Let me put it this way, Yoshizawa-san." He turned towards her and tented his hands. "In every conflict, physical or social, someone has to lose. And in the conflict that's happening within your little group, the current loser is Haru."

"But nobody’s fighting, are we? It’s just a disagreement."

Akechi shook his head. "This isn’t a debate over which restaurant you should go to for dinner. Even if you can’t admit it, you're all currently in conflict over the extent to which I should be involved in your futures. Haru and Niijima are on one side, while Kurusu is on the other. Everyone else is stuck in between, trying to avoid setting either side off." A pause. "Just like you're doing right now."

Something twisted in Sumire's gut. "But…"

"Trying to avoid confronting your own guilt?"

She glanced down at her hands. 

“I thought so.”

Sumire knew she had to admit that Akechi was right about this, to recognize that she was feeling guilty about the situation. Part of her was still resisting things, though. "But that doesn’t mean someone needs to lose. I'm sure if we can just sit down and talk, we can work something out."

"A compromise? That just means everyone would lose.” 

“That seems too pessimistic, Goro-senpai.”

He stared at her again, almost as if he was shocked by her talking back, before allowing himself to laugh. "I suppose you have a point. What someone gains from a compromise is often more than worth what they might lose, and it’s certainly better than negotiations collapsing.”

Sumire was briefly proud that she had made him change his mind, but the feeling was disrupted when he continued to speak. “The issue, however, is that both parties need to be both willing and able to make such a compromise. With how you've described Haru's current mental state, she would have to sacrifice her emotional stability for me to be present with the group, which she can’t reasonably do. And as for willingness, I think Niijima and Kurusu will both be inflexible on this issue, the former for Haru’s sake and the latter for his own."

That couldn’t be right, could it? But even as she tried to doubt it, she thought back to earlier in the day—Akira’s refusal to consider that Akechi might not become friendly with everyone, Haru’s inability to say how she felt, with everyone else trying to avoid the issue entirely. Her expression sank. "So it's inevitable that we’ll end up fighting.”

"Not quite. If we can find Maruki before conflict breaks out openly, I can simply choose not to do anything with your group afterwards. That might make Kurusu unhappy, but it avoids turning the others into collateral. So long as we're discreet, it should be fine."

There was a pause as Akechi took a drink from his cup of coffee, the steam billowing around his face like a fog. Sumire felt like her brain was bursting from how much she was thinking about, from trying to accept things that didn’t fit the ways she felt about her friends. But despite how tired she felt, she felt like there was so much more that she had to understand.

And Akechi was the person she understood the least. She didn't get how he could be so angry at Akira, someone that he clearly cared about…. Although then again, she had been just as angry at Kasumi, hadn't she? Maybe she just wanted to understand why Akechi was so furious, why he always approached Senpai with an air of disdain. 

Still, she didn't think she was close enough to Goro to get that answer out of him. So she asked about the next thing that was on her mind—something that Akira had mentioned that morning.

“I’m almost… surprised that you’re willing to avoid being around Haru and our group, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What, do you think I’m attached to all of you?”

“I mean, a little bit.” She pulled at the skin on her hand anxiously. “You would start conversations while we were in Mementos sometimes, and people would talk with you. It really did seem like you were… enjoying yourself. Enjoying our company. I didn’t think you would give it up so willingly.”

Sumire had expected another dismissive response from Akechi, something along the lines of how she was thinking too highly of her friends. But instead, Akechi looked away from her, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry, Akechi-senpai,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize to me.”

It came out as a hiss, but she knew that the anger wasn’t directed at her. Akechi was wincing, his gaze focused on an undefined point outside the window. Here he was again, at his most impenetrable, and yet Sumire felt like he was close to sharing something with her, to revealing a part of himself he had kept locked away.

His mouth twitched—

The door to the cafe opened and Akira stepped in.

Akechi noticed this immediately and shifted back into his normal posture. Sumire found herself wanting to do the same, but she knew forcing it would just make her nerves more obvious, so she just reached for her mug and took a drink to obscure her face.

Akira made his way over to them at a casual pace. “How’s it going?”

“About as you would expect,” Akechi said coolly, all traces of his previous discomfort smoothed over. “We were so bored that we were discussing the weather, so I hope you can provide something more interesting for us to talk about.”

Sumire was relieved that he was so good at improvising. Akira, for his part, laughed as he took a seat next to her. “Well, I guess you could say that. I’ve got Maruki’s letter.”

Akechi nodded. “Well then, let’s take a look.”

Akira pulled something out of his pockets and placed it on the table. They all leaned forward to take a look, but not before Sumire gave Akechi a small glance that he didn’t return. The moment they had been about to have was gone now, and considering how much pain he’d been in, she didn’t feel like she had the right to bring it up again.

And as Akechi asked for the samples of Maruki’s handwriting in her bag, she realized that for the first time in her life, she was slightly unhappy that Akira was in the same room as her.

Chapter Text

Akechi found Maruki’s writing to be just as irritating as the man himself.

To the faculty of Shujin Academy,

I would like to apologize for the mistakes I made as a counselor during my short time at your school. While it may not have been obvious to you, the students of this school were served poorly by the inadequate solutions I offered to the challenges they faced. I will refrain from mentioning the private details of these situations, but my errors cause me great pain, and I regret that this apology is inadequate for the students who were under my care.

Despite my faults, I will always remember my time at Shujin fondly. I appreciate the ways that many of you supported me, and I will think of you fondly as I move forward. I hope that you can act with greater wisdom than I did.

Maruki Takuto

The letter was typed, suggesting that all faculty had received it. However, there was also a small handwritten message at the foot of the page.

Sadayo, I have no right to ask this, but please take care of Akira and his friends for me. We both know how important he is.

Maruki

The others watched Akechi as he scanned over the letter. “I had Futaba check the school’s cameras,” Kurusu said. “There was definitely someone who wasn’t a postal worker there to deliver the letters, since the envelope doesn’t have postage. But the camera quality was too grainy to make out any features.”

Akechi had rarely interacted with Kobayakawa, but he did remember how the man’s Shadow had babbled about its own insecurities in Mementos, which tracked with that kind of incompetence. “Yoshizawa, did you bring samples of Maruki’s handwriting?”

Sumire nodded as she began to dig through her backpack. “I think I have a few permission slips from when he would call me to his office during school. I put them in a folder this morning.…”

“The diction seems about right,” Kurusu said to Akechi as they waited on her. “Complex but approachable and congenial. And the emotions read like they’re genuine.”

Oh, that was rich to hear coming from Kurusu. “Depending on what you mean by ‘genuine,’” Akechi said despite himself.

Kurusu raised an eyebrow as Sumire pushed a plastic folder across the table. “Elaborate.”

Of course he would notice Akechi’s tone. “It was just a passing thought,” the detective lied. “If the document was written by Maruki, then I don’t think he was expressing emotions that he wasn’t actually feeling, which is what you meant.”

He had a faint hope that that would be enough to pacify Kurusu, but it naturally wasn’t. The boy continued to stare as he examined the papers, while Sumire glanced between the two of them uncertainly.

Akechi finally sighed. “Are you really so insistent on hearing what I have to say?”

“You know I am,” he replied.

“Then don’t complain if it upsets you.”

Akechi put the documents down.

“When your group stole a person’s desires, it’s not as if you replaced the person with a mirror version of themselves that was never mentally warped in the first place. You removed a core part of their mental framework, their motivations, the way they saw the world. That isn’t healthy for their psyches.”

“Are you saying we shouldn’t have done it, then?”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Akechi continued. “It’s a useful way to stop an individual from hurting others, and there may be a genuine argument for it when dealing with suicidal urges like Sakura-san’s. But core desires can't just be removed in the normal course of events. There’s always an event that leads to the desires being abandoned, and usually a new desire takes its place very quickly. Stealing someone’s heart provides neither of those things. And so the way someone thinks and acts after you ‘take their heart’ may not be as normal as you like to think.”

“But wasn’t getting rid of their twisted thoughts good for them, too?” Sumire asked. “Surely they’ll be happier if they can form genuine connections with other people, instead of using them as tools.”

“In the long term, possibly. But you should know that I interviewed every one of your major targets for the SIU, as well as several others whose Shadows you confronted in Mementos. The most common trend among the interviewed was a general aimlessness. With the desire to commit crime or abuse taken away, and nothing provided to replace it, they struggled to find a new goal in life to pursue.”

The two of them processed the information in silence for a minute. Finally Kurusu folded his arms, keeping his voice steady. “Even then, I wouldn’t change what I did.”

“And I didn’t say you should. I simply wanted to emphasize that your actions were not without consequence for the people you targeted. Our powers weren’t given to us by a benevolent god, after all.”

After a moment of silence, Akechi put Maruki’s letter back in its envelope and gave everything back to Sumire. “Back to the topic at hand. I’m no forensics expert, but the handwriting on the letter did seem to match with the other samples you gave me. And since we know of no one with a motive to imitate the doctor, we should act as if the letter was sent by him.”

Sumire nodded. “So this is big news, right? We know Maruki is out there, and since he sent a letter, he has to be somewhere with access to mail as well.”

“We know even more than that,” Kurusu said. “The letter was hand-delivered, wasn’t it? There’s no postage, either.”

“And Maruki isn’t the type of person to obscure things by having a proxy deliver his words for him,” Akechi said. “He talked to us directly in his Palace, after all.”

Sumire’s mouth opened at the realization. “Then Maruki has to be staying in Tokyo!”

Akechi deliberately restrained himself from expressing his satisfaction. There was little he was looking forward to more than giving that mad doctor a piece of his mind, but he didn’t want to give Kurusu the impression that Akechi appreciated his help. “It’s possible he could live in an adjacent prefecture and chose to deliver the letter by hand for sentimental reasons,” he said coolly. “It’s less than an hour from here to Yokohama, for example. But he’s likely within Tokyo proper.”

Akira nodded. “So now we just have to find him.”

“If only Tokyo wasn’t such a big city,” Sumire said.

“The world’s largest by some metrics,” Akechi agreed. “And the fact that he hasn’t visited us directly says that he doesn’t want to be found. Still, we do have one asset on our side.” He raised an eyebrow in Akira’s direction. “Assuming she’s still willing to work with me?”

A nod. “Futaba wants to find out if Maruki was involved just as much as you do.”

The detective cracked his knuckles. “Then I suppose we should give her some ideas.”

Chapter Text

February 16, Evening

“Are you sure you couldn’t think of anything more concrete?” Morgana asked.

Akira shook his head from the other side of the booth they were sitting at in Leblanc. “I guess I knew less about Maruki than I realized.”

Futaba and Akira had spent the last half hour going over all of the ideas they had for pinning Maruki down, something that his trio had spent even more time discussing themselves. The problem boiled down to the fact that everything they knew about him from before this year seemed… really normal. Futaba had tons of experience trying to identify people based on data sets of their spending habits, but Maruki’s traits of being lower-middle class, enjoying tempura, and wearing open-toed sandals weren’t nearly enough for her to work with, even after two energy drinks.

She groaned as she continued to add the finishing touches to the criteria she was going to run against any purchases made in the city with a new card. “This would be way easier if he hadn’t completely abandoned his old accounts. Did he use the Metaverse to change his name legally or something?”

“Seems like it.”

"What a pain," she said before closing a code terminal. “For now, the best I can do is monitor new bank accounts to find one that checks all our boxes. But there’s tons of new checking accounts made in Tokyo every week, so don’t expect anything.”

Akira nodded. “This isn’t the only option we have, just a first step. And we can investigate even the most vague leads you get.”

Futaba raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t get how many ‘vague leads’ we’re talking about, do ya.”

“Guess not.”

They stewed in frustration for a while, Akira polishing his glasses while Futaba typed out several lines of search queries and deleted them halfway through. 

Eventually Morgana broke the silence by jumping onto the floor. “I’m going to go walk around the block. Maybe my brilliant mind will come up with something.”

“Don’t steal onigiri from the grocery store again!” Akira shouted after him.

“Why not?”

“You know the owner’s a nice old lady! At least leave some change behind.”

“Fine,” the cat drawled as he pushed the door open and slid through.

Akira rolled his eyes as the door shut again, while Futaba closed her laptop and slumped forward on the table, her headphones bumping against her cheeks. “Ughhh.”

“Sorry we didn’t have anything better,” Akira offered.

She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s just… everything’s been a bit frustrating today.”

“Mom stuff?”

Futaba hesitated as she opened her mouth. Normally this would be the exact sort of thing she would want to talk to Akira about, but last night's arcade trip was making her hesitate. An image had been looping in her mind for the last couple minutes as they sat together—Akira standing at the controls of that arcade game, eyes glazed over, completely disengaged from the whole thing. And then the awkward silence on the way back. What was the point of talking with Akira if that would be the result again?

But then she remembered how many nights she’d spent alone in her room, her only human contact for the day being Sojiro dropping food at her door. Sometimes she’d dig her nails into her mattress and scream because of how everything just felt stuck inside her, stuck with no way to get rid of it, no one to share it with. Futaba couldn't let that happen again. And if Akira zoned out again and felt guilty, she'd just tell him to mope with her. Surely he'd agree to that.

So she sat up and took her headphones off from around her neck. "She took me to Akihabara today because she wanted to shop for PC upgrade parts. We went to Kichijoji afterwards too.”

“It sounds like she’s trying, at least.”

“She is trying, really hard.” She looked out the window into what was already a deep winter night. “She wanted us to have a project to do together, which is really nice. And the stuff in Akihabara was fine. But when we got to Kichijoji I kept thinking about when I went there with her during…”

She trailed off, but apparently Akira got the meaning of it. “You got thinking about last month.”

“Yeah. And I just got stuck thinking it was all fake. First her voice, then my voice, and then I started imagining my body vanishing into thin air… It turned into another panic attack.”

“Did Wakaba handle it alright?”

A nod. “She wasn’t really sure what to do. I didn’t have acute attacks until after she died. But her instincts were good. Got me away from the crowd, held my hand to ground me, didn’t try to rush me. Way better than most adults. I calmed down pretty quick and we headed home.”

“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t worse.”

Futaba was glad too, but the experience was still eating at her. What if Wakaba was only so helpful because she’d been made that way? What if the small uncertainties in her initial response, the hesitation before she took Futaba’s hand, was manufactured to make it seem more genuine? And even if it wasn’t, the fact that Wakaba had to be learning these things now instead of having known from the last two years of Futaba’s life was sickening in and of itself. Hell, Futaba might not have gotten this bad if her mom hadn’t been—

She blinked as she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Akira was smiling at her, concern visible at the edges of his face. “Don’t disappear on me, 'Taba.”

She took a few deep breaths like he’d taught her, grounding herself and letting the air in her lungs calm the vortex in her head. She could feel gratitude oozing through her body, as well as happiness that talking with Akira had been a good decision. Even if he couldn’t fix her problems, he was still her key item, right?

“All better?”

She gave him a grin. “Of course.”

The door to Leblanc swung open again, and Futaba heard a smooth voice from behind her—Sojiro had just come back. “Everything close up alright, Akira?”

“Yeah, no problems here,” he replied as he gave Futaba a quick look. She nodded and he stood, heading to the back of the counter with Sojiro.

“Glad to hear it,” Sojiro said. Something landed dully on the counter, probably a bag of ingredients he’d brought back. "And what about the other genius in the room?”

Futaba turned and gave him a small smirk. “Still hangin’ on.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She watched the two of them compare the cash in the register to the receipts for the day. They had done it enough that it was more of a rhythm than a process for them, at least from Futaba’s perspective. Akira would add up the totals in his head while Sojiro pulled coins and bills out of the till like clockwork. It was hard for Futaba to believe that Akira hadn’t always been there, that the old man had sorted through the money alone some nights, hunched over the counter and sighing whenever a car’s headlamps flashed through the café.

The two of them finished up after a few more minutes. Akira started to make his way back to Futaba, but Sojiro tapped him on the shoulder first. “Hey, wait a second.”

He turned. “Yeah?”

Sojiro reached into the bag he’d thrown on the counter earlier and pulled a manila envelope—it hadn’t been groceries like she’d thought earlier. He grabbed a few papers and handed them to Akira, whose eyes widened after reading a few lines.

“You just need to put your signature in a couple places,” Sojiro said. “We didn’t have anything like this last year because it was temporary, but since it’ll be an official thing now, Niijima-san said this was best.”

Futaba shot up straight. “Wait, permanent?”

Sojiro nodded. “I’m his legal guardian now that his parents are… well, you know.”

That confirmed her guess that it was about living arrangements, but hearing about Akira's parents gave her entirely new questions. Her brother had almost never mentioned them since they'd met, and any time they came up he said as little as possible. So why was Sojiro mentioning them now?

The confusion must have shown on her face, because the old man gave Akira a look next. “You didn’t tell her?”

The boy shook his head after a moment, clearly shaken.

“Damn.” Sojiro looked away. “I should have asked.”

“Tell me what?” Futaba prodded.

Sojiro and Akira had their eyes meet for a second before the boy broke contact, staring at the wall. Sojiro shifted on his feet. “Well, uh, his parents died a couple weeks ago. Nobody knows exactly what happened. None of his other relatives wanted to take him in, and he’s been pulling his own weight here, so I figured—”

She felt her hand clench around the table. “What day?”

Sojiro’s brow furrowed. “What do you—”

“It was the 4th,” Akira mumbled.

She stared.

“There weren’t any details that were relevant to the other stuff that happened,” he continued, avoiding eye contact with her. “So I didn’t bring it up.”

Futuba stood up, making the table clatter as she bumped into it. “You’re lying.”

Akira's eyes widened. Sojiro raised a hand in her direction. “Futaba—”

“I’m not saying you're evil or something,” she continued. “Even though their deaths are definitely not a coincidence, you're right that it probably doesn’t tell us much about who did it. But why did you keep it to yourself? Why did you—"

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through anyway, her voice faint. “You have all these people who want to support you, who would do anything for you. We’d have done everything we could to comfort you if you knew. And yet you can’t tell anyone? Not even me?”

She didn’t mention the conversation they’d had on the day he got back, how she’d said he could tell her anything. She knew that saying he didn’t trust her would be going too far. But even if she didn’t say it—even if she didn’t believe it—the thought that it could be true hurt almost as much.

The two of them looked at each other for another few seconds, anger in her eyes and a sort of darkness in his, before Futaba saw Sojiro shift uncomfortably and she realized just how awkward he must be feeling. She sat down quickly and mumbled, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Akira said, and she could hear how automatic of a response it was. “I’m just… tired.”

“Yeah.”

Futaba let the two of them finish their business without saying a word. Akira gave her a “bye” when she started to follow Sojiro out, which she returned so quietly that she didn’t know if he heard. As she shut the door to Leblanc, there was a brief moment where she saw her brother’s face warped through the window of the door, the eyes covered by shadow, and she could imagine him running through the decaying halls of his mind, just as lost as she had been in hers.

And then the lights inside Leblanc blinked out, leaving her alone in the February cold.

Chapter Text

She shouldn’t be thinking about this. She should be having a good time studying for finals with her friends in her flat (which they’d only chosen because going to Leblanc felt like taking sides). She should be getting distracted by Ryuji’s jokes or Ann’s incredible snack choices. She should be able to believe the people in her life when they told her she didn’t need to worry about them.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket.

MN: Sorry to message you again, Futaba.

MN: Has Haru made it home yet?

She shoved the device away and sighed.

It was blatantly obvious that Haru had lied about being fine. Who on earth would be fine with knowing that their father’s killer was in the same city as them and was spending time with their friends? Who could be satisfied with the fact that the person who had irrevocably worsened their life would never be held accountable? Maybe with more time to heal it could be possible—Makoto had read about situations where families chose not to press charges for murder out of compassion for the victim, for example. But Makoto knew Haru's tics, and the way Haru had stayed stiff after hearing Akechi’s name earlier in the day made the situation clear.

Even worse, that conversation during lunch at Shujin had made it clear that Haru wasn’t going to be honest with Makoto about how she was actually doing. And so after school got out, Makoto had done something she still felt horrible about: she’d asked Futaba to keep a tab on Haru so that Makoto could be sure she wasn’t hurting herself.

Every part of Makoto hated that she was doing this, and yet she felt like she had to. Haru was her girlfriend, maybe the most important person in her life. Didn’t she have an obligation to make sure that Haru was okay? But did she have the right to violate Haru’s privacy, and to involve Futaba in a lovers’ quarrel?

At least Futaba had said that keeping track of Haru was barely any work for her, and there had been no signs that Haru’s afternoon had contained anything except for normal business meetings. But Futaba hadn’t responded to Makoto’s texts for an hour now. It was probably just Futaba getting a bit too sucked into a video game, but Makoto was nervous anyway.

“Hey, Makoto, can you explain this problem to me?”

Ann’s voice jolted her back into the present. Makoto scooted around the dinner table slightly and peered at the textbook she had open. “Are you already on inverse trigonometric functions?”

“Yeah, I finished reviewing the last section just a second ago.”

Which Makoto would have missed during the past few minutes. “Makes sense. We’ve only done calculus this term, so give me a second to read the textbook…”

Ann picked up on the concept pretty quickly, and after working through a couple problems, she gave Makoto a warm grin. “Thank you so much!”

“Of course,” Makoto answered, slightly surprised that she felt embarrassed at the praise. “I’d do the same for anyone. And speaking of which…” She turned to Ryuji.

Ryuji had been silent for the past couple minutes, his forehead scrunched up in frustration. He looked up at Makoto now and groaned. “I’m still trying to piece together what they want from me when they ask about the ‘structure’ of a tragedy. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a very vague question, I agree.” Makoto shifted her head. “Here, maybe let’s talk about something you’re familiar with. I’m sure you remember what happened to Feather Gray in the last Featherman series, right?”

He nodded. “Oh, totally. I still tear up about that sometimes.”

“Wow, Ryuji crying?” Ann snarked. “Never would have guessed.”

Ryuji threw a wrapper in her direction. “Shuddup!”

Makoto rolled her eyes before continuing. “Well, it’s not Japanese literature, but that definitely counts as a tragedy, and seeing the ending of a tragedy isn’t sad unless you’re given reasons to care about them. Can you think of anything like that from the show?”

Ryuji sat upright and pulled on his sleeve. “Well, I don’t think I gave a damn about the guy until he started to open up to Red, so I guess that’s one thing. The time he saved everyone from the bomb without telling the rest of the team about it was great too, ‘cuz he didn’t want everyone else to know he cared about them.”

“Those are great examples,” she agreed. “If a story is going to try to create an emotional response to a tragedy, they have to add weight to the character’s loss with things like that. Usually there’s dramatic irony, too—we learn something about the character that the rest of the cast isn’t told.”

Ann gasped. “Like that burner phone call with Samael in episode 6!”

“We didn’t know he was calling a villain then,” Makoto replied, “but it was still really shady, right?”

“Oh, I getcha now,” Ryuji said before deflating slightly. “Man, I wish I could write about Featherman for the test.”

“Me too,” Makoto said, thinking briefly about all the times she’d wanted to use a character from a yakuza movie to illustrate a point in class. “However, now that you know the signs, you can look for them in your assigned material. I know Ms. Chouno had you read Kokoro this year, so try to think of—”

Her phone vibrated and she pulled it out without finishing the sentence.

FS: yeah she got home 45 minutes ago

FS: went straight to bed

FS: not asleep tho

FS: sorry for the late response

MN: Well, at least she’s home safe.

MN: Don't feel pressured to respond immediately. I'm sorry if I come across as nagging.

FS: stop apologizing it’s fine

FS: me and kira just had an argument

FS: that’s all

MN: an argument?

FS: i’ll tell u later

FS: gonna veg out for a bit

MN: Let me know if you need anything.

“You know,” Ann said, “it almost feels like you’re the one who needs help focusing in class.”

Makoto realized that her friends were both staring at her.

As she hid her phone away, she instinctively tried to come up with a way to lean into the slight humor in Ann’s callout and obfuscate the actual situation. But she quickly processed that both Ann and Ryuji wouldn’t take that for an answer. Ann’s attempt at friendliness couldn’t hide the worry present in her expression, and Ryuji wasn’t even trying to hide it at all.

Besides, her entire day had been a turbulent mess because the people she cared about couldn’t talk about things that were hurting them. She’d spent years dealing with this from teachers, classmates, and even her own sister. In fact, she had made a promise with Sae that they wouldn’t hide their insecurities from each other anymore. So why was she hiding it from her friends?

Makoto shut her notebook and stared at the cover. 

“Makoto?” Ann asked.

“I feel like the only one who wishes Akechi was still dead.”

No one spoke for a few moments.

Makoto looked up apologetically. “Sorry. I shouldn’t just say that without explaining myself first.”

“No, it’s fine,” Ann said. “I think we’re all thinking about him too.”

Ryuji nodded. “The guy has a way of sticking in your head.”

She flinched as she remembered something Akechi had said to her last summer: So you’re just the good-girl type of pushover. “No kidding.”

“And you’re really worried about Haru too,” Ann added. “So of course you’re thinking about it.”

“Especially because she’s trying to seem stronger than she is.”

“D’you think it’s because she wants to be an example for us?” Ryuji asked. “Or is she just afraid?”

“She’s… She’s definitely afraid,” Makoto said, thinking about the way Haru had looked like a porcelain doll while standing in her father’s study several days ago. “And I just don’t know how it can get better as long as Akechi is looming over us. Which is why… well, you know.”

The others nodded.

Another pause, then Ann spoke. “I mean, it’s not like I trust him or anything, but he definitely talks like he wants nothing to do with us. After he and Akira find Maruki or whoever brought him back to life, he might just… go away himself.”

“That’s what it sounded like to me too,” Makoto said. “Almost like he wanted to disappear.”

Another memory of Akechi talking, this time from a week ago: I can assure you that my time invading your lives unnecessarily is over. Her brow furrowed. “Do you really think so?”

“I mean, I don’t think we can say for sure,” Ann said. “But don’t you think he’d be acting differently if he was? Futaba said he doesn’t even go to Leblanc anymore.”

Makoto frowned. “And Akira isn’t happy about that, I’m sure.”

Ryuji nodded. “Yeah, we talked earlier today, and it was real obvious that Akira wants him around. But if Akechi walks off, Akira can’t really stop him.”

Makoto stood up and grabbed her empty water glass as she walked to the sink. “So we’re just supposed to wait for him to be gone, then? If we’re even right about him wanting nothing to do with us in the first place?”

A shrug from Ryuji. “It sucks, but I guess so.”

She made it to the sink, turning on the faucet and staring blankly as it filled up with water. Was that how Haru felt right now? All the memories and pain and emotions pouring into her until she couldn’t keep it in? Was that what had happened when she yelled at Sumire? Was keeping her distance from Makoto her attempt to shut off the water? And how could Makoto just wait if her girlfriend was hurting this much? Why couldn’t she just get Haru to—

A hand touched her shoulder gently, and she turned to see Ann right next to her.

“It’ll be okay, Makoto,” she said as she turned off the overflowing faucet, her voice quiet and soft like flower petals. “Haru’s hurting, but she’s strong. And…” She squeezed Makoto’s shoulder. “And you are too. So trust yourself, okay?”

There were a dozen ways Makoto could disagree with Ann, could try to argue that their leader was too stubborn, that Akechi wouldn’t go away, that Haru was closer to a breaking point than anyone else knew. But as she tried to form one of those arguments into a sentence, she looked into Ann’s eyes and was taken aback  by the sheer admiration that was there. The light in her blue irises was so clear, so genuine, that Makoto knew she meant every word she had said. And that made Makoto want to believe her, too.

So instead of fighting back and despite all of her misgivings, Makoto pulled her friend into a tight hug. “Thank you, Ann.”

She could feel Ann’s face heat up as the blonde returned the gesture. “I-I mean, I just said what I was feeling…”

“And that was what I needed to hear.”

Makoto let the embrace continue for a while—she had been craving this kind of intimacy far more than she thought—but eventually broke it once her embarrassment overwhelmed her comfort. Ryuji was still in the room, after all. “We should probably do a little more studying, though.”

Ann looked away from Makoto as she dusted off her jacket, her cheeks bright red. “Right. Studying. Okay. Um. Trigonometry?”

Makoto gave her a smile. "Yeah. We got this."

Chapter Text

February 16

The digital clock on her night stand read 2:37 AM. She’d been trying not to look at it for hours now, but it was the only light in the hazy darkness of her room, and even though its unblinking glow was picking away at her composure like a child peeling a scab, she couldn’t unplug it because it was the only thing telling her that she was still alive.

She had been told that grief and stress could lead to a person’s sense of time warping around them, like how a heavy object placed on a stretched blanket creates a sinkhole, and she’d felt it when she first learned that her father had… had died. But if that moment had been one giant wave that had crashed onto her, today had been a storm swallowing her whole, and she’d been flailing between the roiling waters for hours. Several times that night she had been unable to breathe automatically—her body’s survival instincts had been so overloaded that she had to walk herself through each breath, her head throbbing as she inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled again, the drone of the room’s heater continuing all the while.…

2:43 AM.

It was impossible to explain, because how could she say exactly what she had been thinking about during those six hours? There was so much hatred, for herself and for Akechi and even for her friends, because why couldn’t they do anything about why she was hurting? Why couldn’t they just say that Akechi wasn’t welcome around them? Couldn’t they tell that Akechi’s voice was the same horrible white as her father’s dead eyes, or could they not hear it? How could they accept the idea that she might accidentally run into him on the subway, or start to walk into Leblanc only to realize that Akechi was sitting at the counter and talking with Akira, and Akira was laughing and smiling, and then they’d both turn to look at her and grin and say You’re not welcome here?

Her belief that she could stop feeling so adverse to Akechi through sheer willpower had been pure naivete. The confidence that she’d gained after talking with Yusuke had disappeared as soon as she heard the detective’s name at lunch today. She'd tried to obscure her upset about hearing it, and at the start of the night she had tried to repeat his name under her breath to force herself to acclimate—Goro Akechi, Akechi Goro—but it was like forcing a sword down her throat, and she was no circus performer.

Her hand was throbbing from having held onto her blanket for too long. She had to grab that wrist and squeeze it to force herself to loosen her grip about the fabric.

2:48 PM.

Her bitterest thoughts imagined that Akechi was reveling in her misery, soaking in every drop with a bloody smile. But he wasn’t enjoying it at all, was he? Hadn’t he said that he didn’t want to interfere in their lives anymore? But then why was Akira still so attached to the idea of that boy? Couldn’t Akira see she was suffering? And if Akechi could lie to them so thoroughly, could even use Makoto’s sister as a pawn to destroy all of them and kill their leader, wouldn’t he be willing to lie about his future intentions too? That sadness behind his eyes could be an act. Maybe he never regretted anything he did, and his attempt to avoid their pity was just another way to garner it.

But he wasn’t lying. He was furious at so many things, Haru could tell, but the one thing he had never been furious at was Haru herself. Before they had learned about his true intentions, he had always talked to her with callous disdain, and even during January he had always been closed off to her in a way that she interpreted as a sense of superiority. But when they had talked in Leblanc on the day Akira had returned, she had finally realized that his withdrawal from her, both then and now, had been a defense mechanism, an attempt to hide how much he despised his own past self. So why did part of her still want him dead?

2:57 PM.

It was all about Akechi. It started with him and it was going to end with him. And unless she wanted to continue to hurt every person she loved, unless she wanted to continue to hurt Makoto, she needed to know what Akechi was going to do.

And it was hurting Makoto. The lie she had told Makoto on the rooftop had severed something between them. She could feel it in the silence that followed, in the way they had parted just a minute later, where Makoto’s fingers had lingered too long in Haru's hand as they separated at the bottom of the stairwell, as if the girl still wanted to grasp for something that was no longer there.

Haru had so many apologies to make and so many things to fix. But she couldn’t do any of it without knowing what Akechi would do.

She grabbed her phone from her nightstand and pulled up her contacts list.

Chapter Text

February 17, Afternoon

“Thank you for allowing us to talk to you, Shibusawa-san,” Sumire said as she and Akechi took a seat in his apartment’s living room. “I hope our presence isn’t too much of a bother.”

“Oh, not at all,” the man said as he took a seat on an armchair across from them, one foot tapping on the floor and one hand touching his goatee. Sumire had seen him once before today—not in person, but in one of the memories they’d found in Maruki’s Palace. Just as in the recollection, the man carried a suave energy to him, looking ready to stand back up even as he sat in place. “Akechi here said there were good odds he’d come calling again. Although I don’t think he mentioned you last time.”

“I’m Sumire Yoshizawa.” She bowed. “I was a student at Shujin who worked with Doctor Maruki.”

Akechi nodded. “I brought her along to help us find details that we may have missed in our previous talk.”

“Of course, of course.” There was a brief pause as Shibusawa looked at Sumire for a moment, as if he was trying to remember something, but the moment vanished as he turned back to Akechi. “The way you talked with me on the phone, it sounded like something new had come up in your investigation.”

“Indeed. In fact, we’ve…” 

Goro frowned, almost as if he was grasping for the right words. It wasn’t the first time Sumire had seen him do it today, and it was something that stuck out to her when it happened. For as long as she’d known him, Akechi had been the type of person who was always ready to speak. If talking was a game, then Akechi was a master player, better than anyone except maybe Akira. So seeing him stumble was worrying.

Still, he was Akechi, and so he was able to return to normal quickly. “We’ve found evidence that Maruki is still living within the Tokyo area.”

Shibusawa blinked. “Well, I’ll be. The way you talked about him, I imagined that he’d disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“I would have done that in his position,” Akechi commented dryly.

A chuckle. “Well, Maruki was always a sentimental one. Wore his heart on his sleeve and all that. It makes sense he couldn’t leave everything behind.”

"That does sound like him," Sumire said.

"Are you thinking of any particular areas in Tokyo?"

"That's what we came to ask you about,” Akechi said.

They spent the next thirty minutes going over what Shibusawa knew about Maruki's previous residences within the city, as well as questions about any places he might have expressed favoritism towards. Unfortunately, despite Shibusawa's willingness to share, he didn't have much helpful information.

"Maruki was the kind of man who was dedicated to a few very specific things," the man elaborated. "Mostly his work and his fiancée. If he was at a park it was just the closest one. He was never a royalist."

Akechi ended up penciling down a list of restaurants that Maruki had favored based on a question Sumire asked, although it didn’t seem like there was a promising pattern based on their location. Besides that, the conversation was essentially pointless.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help," Shibusawa said as Akechi pocketed his notebook.

"It's fine," Akechi commented as he stood. "If I got upset every time a lead went dry, I wouldn't be suited for this work."

"And we don't know that your information won't be helpful yet," Sumire said as she got up and bowed again.

"I guess you're right," Shibusawa said. He had left his chair to give Sumire a handshake, but upon seeing her bow he pulled his hand back and matched her pose. "Thank you, Yoshizawa-san."

"Of course."

She began to turn away, but as she did, Shibusawa made a small noise of recognition. "I just remembered."

Sumire gave him a confused look and he laughed awkwardly. "I'm sorry, it's not about Maruki—at least, not about his location. I just remembered that he'd talked about you with me, Yoshizawa-san."

Akechi raised an eyebrow. "What did he say?"

"Nothing in detail. Respecting patient confidentiality, and all that. But he did say that he was… He was very proud of how much he'd been able to help you. That your success was one reason he felt like he could keep going with his work."

Sumire stiffened.

Shibusawa's eyes widened. "Oh, I'm sorry. I should have asked before I shared that."

"It's… It's fine." Sumire brought a hand up to touch her glasses, trying hard to keep her body from shaking. "My experience with Doctor Maruki wasn't bad. It's just a little…"

"Complicated?"

"Yes."

"I understand. I mean, not exactly, but I know how strange people can feel about each other." He tried to smile. "Call me if you walk to talk to someone about it, okay?"

"Thank you, Shibusawa-san."

The elevator ride back to the lobby was claustrophobic. Neither Sumire nor Akechi said a word as it moved down, and all she could imagine was the metal box closing in around her, trapping her like she'd felt after Kasumi died, leaving nowhere to run from the dread in her stomach. She had learned this was just a memory of the trauma from back then, that she wasn't actually trapped any more, but knowing that didn't stop her veins from pumping. At least Akechi didn't seem to be paying attention to her; he instead was looking at his phone with a frown for the entire ride down, only pocketing it when the elevator slid to a stop. She would have asked what was bothering him if she wasn't in such a bad state herself.

She was able to breathe more normally as they returned to the apartment building's lobby. She took a seat in an armchair next to Akechi while the boy reviewed his notes, and she tried to focus on the water flowing down the glass waterfall installed in one side of the room. It didn't help as much as she liked, and she found herself wishing that Akira was there to talk to, but Akechi had rejected Akira's offer to come with them today, suggesting that having a third person with them would make them stick out too much if they went to follow up on any of Shibusawa's leads together. Probably true enough, but also a way to avoid Akira, if Sumire had to guess. As it was, she had to settle with using her own mental resources to steady herself.

After several minutes and some success at calming down, she heard the snap of Akechi's notebook. "I wish Maruki would just show his face already," he muttered.

"It would be easier, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, well, the man has clearly shown that he doesn't care about what's best for us as much as he's concerned about his own ends."

"Do you really think it’s that simple?"

The boy gave her a look.

Sumire continued to stare at the waterfall as its stream cascaded down unnaturally. "I don't think he was doing the right thing, or that he wasn't deluded about being the savior of humanity. But I do think he cared about everyone. He genuinely thought he was helping people, and that his way of doing it was the best way."

"Helping you, you mean."

She flinched.

"There's no point in dancing around things, Yoshizawa."

Akechi wasn't trying to embarrass her, but it still stung to be exposed so completely. "You're right. After all, that's what I did last year, wasn't it?"

"Because he took advantage of your vulnerability."

"But I don't think he was taking advantage of me." She looked back up at him with a new energy. "Not consciously, anyway. He wanted to be a good person and help me recover. Even if his course of action was incorrect, he was motivated by benevolence."

"He was so convinced of his correctness that he thought he was doing the right thing?"

"Doesn't that make more sense to you?"

There was a long pause as the water continued to flow, splashing soundlessly into its pool.

"It makes him even more pathetic than I previously thought," Akechi said finally. "But I suppose you're right. I always thought of Maruki as a simple megalomaniac, but maybe his delusions were less about that."

"What do you mean?"

Akechi opened his pocket notebook again and stared at it. "We knew his cognitive distortion was rooted in the suffering his fiancé went through and his inability to secure research funding. I conceived of his Palace as a response to this: a manifestation of his desperation for power. But your suggestion is that we can view his distortion as being rooted not in him lacking power or influence generally, but specifically that he couldn't help those around him."

"And so he had a Palace all about helping everyone..."

Akechi nodded, his eyes focusing on a spot in the distance as his brain whirred in thought. "I had wondered why he hadn't sought to reunite with his fiancé in his perfect world. If he wanted to be a god, after all, couldn't he fix her life entirely?"

"But that wasn't what mattered to him…"

"It was never about his needs." Akechi laughed darkly. "He wasn't a god because of his power; it was because he saw himself as being willing to sacrifice everything for the world."

Sumire started to speak, but before the words came out she winced.

Akechi glanced at her. "Were you going to say that was noble of him?"

"I… I w-wanted to," she answered as she slowly released her grip. Her words came out strained. "But it doesn't feel right when he hurt so many people."

"Delusion and nobility go hand in hand.” Akechi spoke quietly. "It takes a special kind of person to believe that they can fix everything wrong with people's lives. But whether or not it's 'noble' doesn't matter. The only thing that matters…"

"...Is if they help you or hurt you," she finished.

"Exactly."

Sumire's hands were shaking.

There was silence as Akechi got out his pen and added to his notes. After several minutes, he slipped the stationery into his pocket and stood. "I had further plans for the both of us today, but if you'd like to head home, I can accompany you back."

As uncomfortable as the conversation had been, she wasn't about to let herself give up on things now. "No, I'm fine to continue. Honest," she said as Akechi narrowed his eyes.

A pause as he studied her for a moment, making her realize that he was genuinely concerned about her. Was that a first? Then the moment passed and he clicked his tongue. "You seem determined. And it suits my purposes, anyway."

"Your purposes?"

He stood and walked towards the door. "We're going to visit some of the restaurants Shibusawa mentioned and ask if they've seen Maruki. It probably won't lead to anything, but it's our best option at the moment."

Sumire felt her stomach rumble. "I am hungry."

"I suppose we'll see what the prices are like."

Sumire nodded as they left the complex and stepped into the stormy Tokyo afternoon.

Chapter Text

February 17, Afternoon

“You know, you don’t have to spend time with me if you don’t want to.”

Futaba blinked. She had been so preoccupied with her nerves since she’d sat down on her mother’s bed that she hadn’t noticed the woman turning around in her chair and giving her an amused look.

“Seriously, though,” Wakaba said with a smile. “I know kids your age are busy doing their own stuff. You can hang out in your room instead of here. I won’t be offended.”

The second sentence made Futaba realize she hadn’t said anything since she asked to come in, making her wave her hands in a panic. “Oh, no, no! That’s not why I’m here at all. I actually wanted to…”

Wakaba raised a hand. “I can’t give you an allowance, Futaba. I don’t have a bank account.”

Futaba rolled her eyes. “Please. If I wanted money, I would just steal it from some billionaire.”

"I was joking, but I do appreciate the show of independence." A grin. "Now I’ll stop interrupting you. What’s wrong, kiddo?”

And as her mom's expression shifted into something genuinely concerned, Futaba remembered why she had locked up for the past five minutes. It wasn't that she didn't want to talk with her mom, necessarily, but the thought that the woman in front of her was a simulacrum made to deceive her didn't exactly make the task easy to enjoy. But she still remembered how dark it had been on the other side of that closed Leblanc door last night, with her and Akira on different sides. She really had no other choice.

She shoved her palm into the folds of the scruffy blanket, which was one of Sojiro's spares—another reminder that Wakaba had just shown up in her life again. "I wanted to ask you for some advice. About… my friends."

Wakaba’s smile faded. “It must be really serious if you can’t talk to them about it.”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s pretty bad. And I don't want to weigh Sojiro down with it either, since he's not the best with people stuff.”

Wakaba started to scoot closer to Futaba on the wheels of her office chair. “Well, I don't know how much better I am, but I can listen at the very least.”

“Even listening is great. Maybe you should just, uh, sit next to me on the bed, though. Instead of the whole office chair thing.”

“Yeah, it’s not really working, is it?”

Wakaba abandoned the chair and took a seat next to her daughter on the bed, grasping one of Futaba’s hands as she did so. Every part of her body threatened to go numb, but she forced herself to take several deep breaths and grasp the rough fabric with her other hand. You’re not gonna lose it here, girl. You’ve got this.

“All good?” Wakaba asked after another moment.

Futaba opened her eyes. “Good enough.” 

Over the next couple minutes, Futaba explained the gist of the social tensions to Wakaba: the issues most of them had around Akechi, the tension that could come up from even saying his name, and the way Akira felt isolated from everyone else.

“I don’t think it’s just Akechi that has him feeling this way,” Futaba said. “Apparently his parents died when you came back to life, and he didn’t tell anyone, so he’s probably got a lot bothering him. I just know that if a fight starts, it’s going to be because of Akechi.”

“And what has Akechi said about all this?” Wakaba asked.

Futaba stared at her. “I still don’t know how you’re this okay with the guy who killed you.”

Wakaba shook her head. “He’s just a kid. I’m not good at holding grudges against somebody who can’t legally own property.”

As confusing as the sentiment coming from Wakaba's own mouth was, it was consistent with how she’d talked about Akechi before. After the boy had left Leblanc a half-hour or so after he came back to life, the gang and Sojiro had sat Wakaba down in Leblanc and taken a couple hours to explain what had gone down over the past two years, knowing that there was one thing none of them wanted to talk about—which meant it was the first thing Wakaba asked about, of course. And when nobody answered, she stared everyone down until Ryuji cracked. Poor boy wasn’t ready to handle that kind of pressure.

Wakaba’s response to learning about her murder was much more tame than everyone had expected, though. After hearing the full story, she mostly seemed to feel sorry for Akechi, with most of her anger directed at Shido.

“I can’t believe that bastard,” she had growled over lunch a couple days after. “I knew he’d stoop low enough to kill people, but using a kid to do it? What a despicable little rat.”

 Anyway, that was then and this was now. Futaba sighed. “Do you think he deserves a second chance?”

“I do,” Wakaba said. "I won't pretend that he didn’t ruin people’s lives, but he was a child being manipulated by the worst father he could have gotten." 

The woman paused. "But whether your friends should be the people giving him that second chance is a different story.”

“Yeah.” Futaba swung her legs out, feeling the air vents chill her skin. “Haru and Makoto don’t want anything to do with him, while Akira wants him to join our circle of friends pretty bad. I think Sumire’s getting along with him too?”

“Really? A girl as quiet as her?”

“She’s got a lot going on in that head of hers.”

“Hopefully it doesn't fall out from all the gymnastics.”

Futaba snickered at the playful comment, but her mood quickly flatlined again. She stared at her flip flops. “Not that any of that matters, though. Akechi is going to do whatever he wants, and I feel like he just… doesn’t want to stick around us.”

“Has he said so?”

Futaba shrugged. “Besides the stuff about trying to find Maruki, he’s completely avoided us. I’ve asked Sumire about it and she says he seems like he regrets things, but I don’t think he’d ever admit it to us.”

“I think his staying away says more than words ever could.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how much that matters. The real problem is us fighting about it, and unless he vanishes completely, I don’t know if we can avoid that.”

"And what are you doing about it right now?"

Futaba blinked. "Me?"

“Of course.” Wakaba turned to look at her. "Are you taking a side? Helping everyone? Blocking Akechi's outgoing texts?"

Futaba had to resist the urge to crawl to the other side of the bed. “Well, I mean…”

Wakaba squeezed Futaba’s hand. “I’m not interrogating you, dear. I just want to learn who you’re growing up into.”

There was something oddly familiar about the question to Futaba. It wasn’t the phrasing, but more so the general direction it went in: a certain kind of inquiry that aligned with how Wakaba had talked when they were younger. She had a sudden vision of her mom sitting at her desk and tilting her head while poring through a spreadsheet, the pungent smell of Sojiro's coffee permeating through the room. Wakaba's head was turned in the exact same way now, and sure enough, there was an empty mug on her desk now.

The déjà vu was uncanny, and being the target of her mother's intellect amplified it. It took a moment for Futaba to stammer out a response. “I’m, uh… I guess I’m not sure what I’m doing. I’m helping Makoto keep an eye on Haru, I’m helping Akira and Akechi with their search for Maruki.… Haru just asked me to tell her where Akechi is going to be today, so I guess that too.” She blinked. “That’s a lot more than I realized.”

“That is a lot."

“Yeah. And for different people, too.” Futaba felt blood rushing to her face. “Do you think they’ll get mad if they know how much I’m helping Akechi? It’s helping my brother too, but it definitely feels like a gray area.…”

Wakaba shrugged. “I mean, I think the whole thing is a gray area.”

“I guess…”

Futaba jumped as Wakaba grabbed her shoulder gently.

“Whoa there, kid.” The woman laughed as she let go and watched Futaba sit back down. “I was just trying to be comforting.”

Futaba squeezed her leg to ground herself. “Oh. Sorry. I’m just…”

“Still skittish about me?”

Futaba looked away guiltily. “...Yeah.”

Wakaba nodded. “It’s okay. We don’t have to rush anything. It’s your safety that matters.”

Wakaba said this softly, but Futaba could see the strain in her face—it must hurt to be so disconnected from her daughter. But Futaba wasn’t going to point that out, not when it was so painful to both of them. So she just nodded.

“Good.” Wakaba gave her a smile. “And as for your friends… Honestly, I think they know you’re trying your best, Futaba. No matter what happens, I don’t think they’ll blame you for anything.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess. I just hope they’ll… figure everything else out, I guess."

“Now that I don’t know about. But I think they’re a good bunch, and it sounds like you’ve all gotten through hard things. You’ve just gotta… have faith in them, I think. And in Akira. He’ll open up eventually. Everyone does.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Futaba stood up gingerly. “I’d be lying if I said that it makes me feel good to just wait and pray, but it doesn’t make me feel terrible, so…”

“Call it a draw?”

“Yeah, a draw.” Futaba turned to face Wakaba. “Thank you, mo—Wakaba.”

They both winced at the same time. Futaba lowered her head. “Sorry…”

“It’s okay,” Wakaba said with another difficult smile. “You’re more important, okay?”

Even if that wasn't true, that wouldn't make it right, Futaba thought to herself as she walked out of the room and sat down in the empty kitchen, her feet cold against the tiled floor. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

Chapter Text

As they stepped out of the subway station and into Kichijoji proper, Sumire noticed Akechi grimace.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, one hand pulling her hood on to shield herself from the snowstorm.

Akechi seemed unaware of the wind buffeting his hair—instead, his focus seemed to be keeping his eyes away from the other side of the street. “I’m sure you remember Lavenza, yes?”

“She’s the little girl helping Akira.”

Akechi pursed his lips. “So she says, anyway. The important thing is that ever since I… returned to this reality, I’ve been seeing entrances to her dwelling throughout the city, such as the one we’re currently on.”

Akechi's gaze shifted momentarily; Sumire followed it to the corner of a pedestrian crossing. “Her ‘dwelling?’”

“It’s some fantasy bullshit I don’t care to understand. All I know is that I don’t like the feeling of being watched.”

“At least she probably has good intentions.”

Akechi barked out a laugh.

After another couple minutes of walking, they arrived at their destination—a sports bar with dim neon lighting and gauzy decorations.

"It's hard to imagine Doctor Maruki in a place like this," Sumire said as she took a seat next to Akechi at the bar, her eyes flitting between the televisions behind the counter that displayed a variety of sports.

"His taste seems generic enough for it," Akechi said dryly.

"I guess it's hard to imagine him anywhere now. I've got so many complicated ideas about him."

Akechi didn't respond, but before Sumire could speak again, an employee in her thirties with sharp features and a bob cut walked up to them. "Aren't you two too young for drinks?"

Akechi's demeanor immediately snapped into something more affable—if Sumire hadn't known him from his Detective Prince days, she would have received some whiplash. "Ah, my apologies. I simply wanted a better view of the television behind you. I'm a fan of American basketball."

The façade worked—the employee relaxed immediately and pulled out a pair of menus from her apron. "Fair enough. Look through these when commercials hit, okay?"

"We will, thank you."

"It must be strange to lie like that," Sumire said as the bartender walked away from them.

"Only if you aren't used to it," Akechi replied, ignoring the television and flitting through the menu. "Besides, isn't that the power of Persona—a mask you use to face the world? We all change our behaviors in response to the people around us."

Sumire knew he had a point, but the act of keeping up appearances was different for her than for him. For one thing, he was more rigorous about it than anyone she'd ever met. Sure, she was being more polite than she usually would be to the restaurant staff, since she knew they'd be asking them questions later, but that fact hadn't altered her decision on what food she ordered. She picked a burger with avocado because it sounded filling and more nutritious than some of the other options. But when the barkeeper returned, Akechi went out of his way to ingratiate himself with her, asking for recommendations and ordering a virgin cocktail so he could compliment her as she made it. And before this year, Akechi had kept up appearances with everyone : not just random bartenders, but the Thieves, Akira, and all of his social media followers. From what Futaba and Ann had told her, the only time he'd been truly honest with any of the Phantom Thieves was when he'd tried to kill them.

But then again, didn’t she deceive people in the same way? She did earnestly want to know more about Akechi, but at the same time she was also choosing her words carefully so that she didn’t irritate him. And with the amount of work it had taken her to confess her actual feelings for Akira, it wasn’t surprising at all that she tried to hide any discomfort she felt around all of his friends. Maybe she wasn’t trying to manipulate them like Akechi was, but she was still choosing the emotions she showed around them.

Their food arrived as this thought sank into her mind. Sumire mumbled a quick “thank you” to the waiter and realized she was second-guessing her actions now. Did she actually feel grateful to the waiter, or was she just trying to avoid being rude to them? How could she say for certain that she understood anyone’s intentions if she didn’t know her own?

She stewed in these uncertainties for a couple minutes while she ate what was a decidedly mediocre burger. Akechi, meanwhile, mostly continued to feign interest in the basketball game, although there was a moment where he pulled out his phone, stared at its screen with a frown, and pocketed it again. This gave Sumire pause. Was it Akira texting him? Sumire knew that he hadn’t enjoyed the way Akechi had told him to not come with them today, but she didn’t know if he would be confrontational about it.

Eventually the bartender came over to them again. “How’s the food?”

“Wonderful,” Akechi said, quickly wiping away the dourness from his face.

Sumire threw in a nod mid-chew to support him, feeling a twinge of guilt at assisting with his deception.

“Glad to hear it,” the woman said with a smile. “Let me know if you need a refill on your sodas, okay?”

Akechi turned towards the bartender as he walked away. “Actually, I just remembered something I wanted to ask. Do you have a moment?”

The woman took a quick look at the reasonably empty bar before reaching for a drying rag and a glass and taking a seat across from Akechi. “Sounds ominous.”

“Hopefully not,” he said with an affable chuckle, and Sumire could see the tension diffusing in the employee’s face. “I came here based on a recommendation from a colleague of my father’s. I believe his name was Doctor Maruki. I was wondering if he’s come here recently.”

She blinked in recognition. “Oh, you know Doctor Maruki! He was actually my therapist for a while.”

“It sounds like you think fondly of him.”

“Yeah, he was great,” she said. “I saw him for a couple years. He’s the one who actually helped me feel capable of working here. I switched to a different counselor after he took a stint working at a school, but he’d still come by here around once a month and grab a drink just to check up on me. He really liked the bar peanuts.”

“That does sound like him.”

“Yeah, he was a good man. He hasn’t been back for a while, though—last time was October. I think he mentioned that he was really busy finishing up a research project?”

Akechi put on a vaguely concerned mien. “My father had heard similarly, but all we know now is that he quit unexpectedly at the start of the month. Nobody’s heard from him since.

The barkeep frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he’s okay.”

“I do as well.” Akechi grabbed his pen and tore out a page of his notebook. “Do you think you could contact me if he visits again? If it’s not too much of a bother, of course.”

“Absolutely!”

They traded numbers quickly before the employee moved to greet another man who had just arrived at the bar. Akechi placed the slip of paper with her number into a back pocket in his notebook. “Well, that’s taken care of.”

“Um, Akechi?”

He turned to her. “Not a fan of my methods?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not about right now. At least not directly.”

“Interesting.”

Sumire found herself biting her lip. Ever since Akechi’s rare moment of vulnerability at the cafe, she’d wanted to ask him about his feelings towards Akira and the Phantom Thieves. Her anxiety around the question had only increased seeing his frustrating text message exchange with Akira from earlier today. But she still felt as if the moment wasn’t right. Trying to get Akechi to discuss their dynamic without his consent would be as futile as talking to a locked door.

But a different question had popped into her mind during Akechi’s conversation with the bartender, and it seemed even more complex than what she’d wanted to ask before. Surely he’d find it interesting, or at least amusing. (And he was probably already amused by how she was calculating the acceptability of her question—it was proving his earlier point, after all.)

She realized she had some ketchup on her face and wiped it off embarrassedly. If she was going to try to impress Akechi, she couldn’t do it like that.

After another moment gathering her courage, she clenched her fists and spoke. “The only reason we know so much about Doctor Maruki is because we went into his Palace. Everything there is built around his ideas and goals, so it was possible for us to confirm the ideas we had about him. But most people don’t have Palaces. So how can you know if anyone is telling you the truth, or what their intentions or motivations are?”

As the question sank in, Akechi turned away and stared at the television, his hands clasped above the counter. His eyes were too steady to be watching the game—clearly he was thinking intensely. It reminded her of how he'd looked in the coffee shop, except she noticed less of a sense of pain in his demeanor and more one of conflict, as if he was pulling apart a knot inside of himself. It made sense that the question was personal to him, given how he'd spent years lying to everyone he knew, but that was why she'd phrased it to be about just people instead of a specific someone. That difference must have been too miniscule to matter, in the end.

“What if I told you that after this ordeal with finding Maruki is over, I plan on leaving Tokyo permanently?” Akechi asked.

Sumire’s brain felt how television static sounded. “Sorry?”

“Treat it as a mental exercise,” he said dryly—Sumire couldn’t tell if his tone was derisive or bored. “And speculate out loud. You’ve been thinking far too much since we arrived, and verbalizing things will help separate the wheat from the chaff.”

“But are you actually—”

He gave her a withering stare. “Yoshizawa, please.”

She gave him a terrified nod.

“Thank you.”

She took a moment to collect her thoughts before starting to think out loud.

“Well, I suppose my initial reaction is disbelief, because that’s a major commitment for anyone, especially a high schooler. But that’s not fair to you. You’ve done much more difficult things than moving cities, and since you’re an orphan, you may have done it before anyway. And even though I haven’t known you for that long, I do know that you tend to not say things unless you intend to follow through on them.”

“Fair enough,” Akechi said. “Continue.”

“Well, since I know you’re capable of leaving Tokyo, now I’m wondering if you’d actually want to. And I think you’d have some reasons to. Maybe you don’t like your school, or how loud the city is—but no, that seems too trivial for you. Maybe you don’t like working for the SIU or law enforcement more generally. Makoto and Sae said some of Shido’s lieutenants are still working there, right? Or maybe you just… really don’t like being around us. But you wouldn’t need to leave the city to avoid us. Unless you’d still feel guilty being geographically close?”

As she kept speaking, she could sense the clarity Akechi had mentioned forming inside her. Instead of her thoughts swirling in her head like a tempest, she was pulling them down from the clouds and examining them before choosing to keep them or throw them out.

“But there are reasons you might want to stay as well. Even if you plan on avoiding the other Phantom Thieves, you’ve developed a friendship with Akira-senpai, and I know you liked going to Leblanc. I’m sure there’s a lot of other places you’ve grown fond of in the city. Although then again, most of what I thought I knew about your personal tastes came from your social media, which was part of your act as the Detective Prince. Still, there have to be some places or people you’re attached to.”

“You’re failing to consider something important,” Akechi interjected. 

Her posture weakened. “Really?”

“This isn’t just you speculating about my actions. You could do that without me saying a word to you. Instead, you’re considering a statement that I told you.” He gestured between the two of them with a pen. “You have to consider why I would tell you my plans, or why I would lie about them.”

Akechi’s tone and expression remained completely neutral—if anyone had a perfect poker face, it was him.

Sumire turned to face him, swallowing the anxieties posed by this new angle of approach. “I mean, I don’t know why you’d tell me this if it was true, honestly. You know I’d want to keep talking to you about it, and that I’d probably try to convince you to stay. It seems like a hassle. But you do seem to value my company somewhat. Maybe that’s enough motivation? People don’t want to be lonely, after all.”

Akechi’s eyebrow twitched. “And what about the reasons for lying?”

“Well, there aren’t many of those, either. I suppose if you're trying to teach me something, you would choose a statement that would elicit a strong response from me, since it’s easier to sort through louder thoughts. Then again, maybe you want to pretend you’re lying so that I don’t expect you to actually leave. Or maybe someone is blackmailing you to leave, and presenting it as a hypothetical makes it seem less forced.”

“Good enough. Now tie it all together. Do you think I’m telling the truth, or lying?”

Tie it all together? Even with her feelings and ideas more organized than they had been before, she couldn’t reach a definitive conclusion about anything. How could she reach a simple yes or no answer?

…That was the point, wasn’t it?

“If I had to choose,” Sumire said slowly, “I’d say that you lied when you said you were going to leave. But I don’t know that for sure. You have almost as many potential reasons to leave as you do to stay.”

Akechi looked her in the eyes for a moment before nodding. “You understood perfectly, Yoshizawa.”

Sumire slumped forward as the tension left her body. “Thank goodness.”

Akechi turned towards the bar again. The television was playing commercials now, and Sumire could see the bright colors flashing on his face. “Without the involvement of the Metaverse, knowing the truth of a person’s words is an impossible thing. No matter how hard we try, all we can do is speculate. The only way to avoid disappointment is to prepare for as many possibilities as we can.”

“So we should make plans for someone lying to you, even if you think they’re telling the truth?”

“Within reason, of course. You shouldn’t bring a poison detection kit to a restaurant on the off chance that the waiter is trying to kill his customers.”

She nodded. “It's a judgment call.”

“Yes. Maybe your source isn’t lying to you about which yakuza family was involved in an arms smuggling deal, but if they are, you don’t want to be taken by surprise.”

“That makes sense.” Sumire smiled a little. “I hope you haven’t had to deal with any arms smuggling deals, Akechi-senpai.”

“The only guns I had to investigate were my own,” he said.

They were silent for another minute, Sumire staring at Akechi while the boy stared in the direction of the television, the unstated question hanging between them.

“Are you actually going to leave Tokyo?” Sumire finally asked.

Silence.

“Because if you are—I mean, if you did, then I—”

“What makes you think you could believe me if I gave you an answer?” Akechi said.

She watched the television lights flash on him as another ad played, a shifting splatter of reds and yellows on his cheeks and mouth.

“Because you’re my friend,” she said finally.

Akechi didn’t say anything.

They left the sports bar eventually, visiting two more restaurants before she had to return home. And although they spoke a fair amount during that time, both to each other and to the strangers Akechi directed his questions towards, he never spoke another word regarding that question. 

As the evening began, Sumire found herself in her room, lying on a messy bed and staring at wall decorations that she’d only just begun to put up. And as she thought the day over, she realized that Akechi had given her that challenge at the sports bar for a specific purpose: to warn her not to get attached to him. Even after they'd had several vulnerable moments, he was deliberately keeping her at arm's length, and he wanted it known.

She had wanted to get to know Akechi, and she did understand more than she had before. But he was still concealing himself. And if she tried to guess why?

Well, it was just like what Akechi had said—she had no way to know for sure.

Chapter Text

February 17, Evening

It wasn’t fair of Haru to call Akechi's apartment uncomfortable, considering that she had created the dour mood by sneaking in uninvited. Even so, she was still taken aback by the absence of decorations. She’d been in most of the Phantom Thieves’ rooms, and all of them had something that showed off their personality, whether it was Futaba’s posed vinyl figures, Ryuji’s shelf of games and movies, or the Buchimaru merchandise that Makoto kept inside a display cabinet. Akechi, however, had nothing on display at all. Even the magnets he kept on the fridge were purely economical, without any companies or mascots that might indicate where he got them from. Maybe there was something distinguishing inside his pantry—perhaps a sizable variety of coffee?—but she didn’t feel comfortable digging through the parts of his house that weren’t fully visible already.

It was surreal that Haru was trying to assuage her own guilt, considering she was already breaking the law by being here. But she didn't have another course of action. She'd contacted Akechi earlier in the day but hadn't received a response, not even a mark indicating he'd read the message. She had asked Futaba to track his location in the hopes that she could arrange an encounter somewhere, but apparently he had spent the whole afternoon with someone else, and Haru didn't want to involve any strangers. So she used the lockpicking lesson Mona had given her when they'd first met and made her way inside Akechi's apartment, so that he couldn't spot her from outside and avoid her.

Makoto would have a conniption over what she was doing, talking about how Akechi was too dangerous to trifle with and how he could weaponize her domestic invasion to his advantage. But even if Akechi was going to ruin her life again, even if he shot her in the head just like the Shadows he'd killed in the Metaverse, Haru had to know what he was going to do to her. An awful reality was something she could start to work past. The promise of an awful future was unbearable.

The front door of the apartment croaked open.

Because there was a direct line from the door to the kitchen, all Haru had to do was turn to face the entrance and wait for Akechi to turn on the light, which he did immediately. She stared at his body being framed by the entryway, making him look almost small inside his winter coat as he gave her a surprised look.

“I suppose I should have expected this,” he finally said. He looked exceptionally weary, and he sounded the part too, as if he was about to crumple onto the floor.

"I'm sorry about this," Haru said. "But it was imperative that I talk to you, and you weren't responding to my messages."

"I'm sure it was." Akechi took a moment to recover some of his usual poise as he closed the door behind him. “I assume you aren’t here to murder me, then. May I take my coat off before we talk?”

He looked down at his clothes, and Haru realized he was covered in snow—the storm must have gotten worse since she arrived. Haru nodded.

Akechi began to unravel his scarf and peacoat in silence, and the mess of her feelings Haru had towards Akechi swarmed in her chest like a thunderhead. She took several deep breaths to tighten down on everything. Get through the conversation first, she whispered to herself. Figure out everything else later.

Akechi only had one chair in his kitchen, so after removing his winter clothes Akechi moved to stand at the counter, his hands resting on its edge, his eyes skirting around her.

Haru wanted nothing more right now than to be in her garden. That garden on top of Shujin Academy wasn’t special, but there was nothing there that couldn’t be solved with a little bit of elbow grease and water. She could pour her love into the plants she grew and watch the soil soak it up like water, the roots intertwining and thickening as the young plants grew and matured. Not like here, where she didn’t know what Akira or Makoto or Akechi or anyone thought about her. There weren’t walls in her garden, just fences and panes of glass for light to filter through gently. That was all she wanted.

“Well?” Akechi asked.

But she remembered how her hands and legs had been shaking when she had heard Akechi’s name yesterday, on that very same rooftop that had felt like a safe haven to her. How all of her friends had been dead silent, afraid to talk. How they were looking right at her.

If she wanted to destroy the walls in the garden, she had to remove them herself.

“W-what are you…” Haru’s speech was slow and stammering, her hands clenched around her skirt. “What are you planning to do after you find Maruki?”

Akechi’s gaze was fixed on her now.

“I’m sorry about the vague question,” she continued, her breathing shaky. “What I mean to say is, what are your plans regarding… us? The Phantom Thieves? Akira and Makoto and Futaba and all of the others? Are you going to continue to… associate with us?”

He didn’t say anything.

“I know it’s personal, and that you’re probably conflicted as well—I know you’re not exactly in a normal position in your life, and there are a lot of options laid out before you. I just—well, I want to know because—it’s that—”

Akechi sighed. “I’m leaving Tokyo, Okumura.”

She was too dumbstruck to even wince at hearing her name in his mouth. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you.”

“You didn’t,” Akechi said, his arms folded tight. “I’m moving away from the city.”

"That’s…” Haru still wasn’t believing it. “But how?”

“Maruki’s reconfiguration of my life included granting me a full scholarship to the University of Tokyo in exchange for my continued involvement with the SIU. His intention was probably for me to stay in the city and…” He grimaced. “...and ‘deepen my bonds’ with you all. But after talking with Niijima-san and the youth program coordinators in the judiciary, I’ve arranged for the scholarship to be transferred to Osaka University, and for off-campus housing to be given to me as soon as I graduate from my high school."

“That’s…”

“Exactly what you wanted?”

Haru was silent.

“I know roughly what you’re thinking right now.” Akechi turned around and opened a cabinet above his sink. “That there’s no way it could be that easy for you. You wanted me out of your life, but because of the bullshit way that my life has become entangled with the lives of your friends, you assumed that you were going to have to dance around the presence of the man who killed your father for the next several years at a minimum. Perhaps forever.”

Haru wasn’t surprised he understood what she was thinking—it was fairly obvious based on what she asked—but Akechi taking over control of the conversation made her feel uncertain. Hadn’t she walked in here with the resolution to get answers from him?

“That’s too simple,” Haru said. “You can’t expect me to believe that you’re just going to completely uproot yourself.”

“I don’t expect that,” Akechi replied, a glass of water now in one hand. “And I wouldn’t believe it in your position. After all, why would I completely abandon the city I was born and raised in? Why aren’t I turning myself in to the police, or staying and trying to earn your undeserved forgiveness?”

Haru gritted her teeth. “Don’t even say that, Akechi.”

There was a flash of something in his eyes—recognition? anger? fear?—before he lowered his gaze just slightly. “You’re right. I shouldn’t take my anger out on you. I apologize.”

He had never apologized to her before; she needed a moment just to take that fact in. “I accept that apology,” she said finally. “But you still haven’t given me a reason why I should believe you.”

"I know I haven’t," he said. "And you shouldn’t just take me at my word. Let me start with this question: why exactly would I want to stay in Tokyo?”

Haru stared at Akechi, who was looking back so intensely that he barely seemed human. And maybe that was his intention—if she became convinced that he was some aberration without human feelings, then she could believe that he had no desire to stay in Tokyo. Even now she couldn’t shake the thought that he was still manipulating her, still trying to beat her at a game that only he wanted to play.

But she did have to play that game to continue talking with him, and so she asked herself: why would he want to stay in Tokyo? There were many potential reasons, but as she considered them, she realized that they were weak. Osaka University was just as prestigious as Tokyo University; Haru would know, having applied to both herself. There was no fame left for Akechi to seek here, seeing that his entire career as the Detective Prince had been erased. And he’d admitted himself that he hadn’t tried to make friends at all. In fact, the only person who had ever considered him an actual friend was probably…

“What about Akira?” Haru said.

Akechi’s hand twitched.

“You two have something going on between you. I don’t know what it is, and I'm not sure if I ever want to. But whatever is going on between you isn’t something you can just abandon without a thought. I don’t think I can believe that you’d so readily abandon that.”

Neither of them spoke for five seconds, then ten. Then Akechi looked away from her, towards the room’s only window. “It’s a small price to pay for our sanity, Haru.”

Haru’s grip tightened on the seat of her chair. “Our sanity?”

“I’m not trying to earn your sympathy.” Akechi’s voice was muted, as if the weariness from when he was standing in the doorway had returned all at once. “I’ve been placed in a world where everything important about the past three years of my life, all of the bloodlust and manipulation and pitiable delusions, has been washed out like a stain on someone’s shirt. There is no way for me to be held accountable for anything I’ve done; no neat conclusion to the farce of the Detective Prince. Nothing that either of us would be satisfied with.

“Whoever did this wants to create a world where there is some sort of happy ending between me and the Phantom Thieves, between me and you, me and… him. Where we reconcile and become friends, or at least something close to friends. They want to force us into a future we do not want, and just like I found it revolting in Maruki's reality, I find it revolting now.”

He looked back at her. “I refuse to live in a world where my future was chosen by another person. And you deserve better than to be manipulated into reconciling with the person who killed your father. Compared to that, there's nothing in this city that is worth staying for. Not even my own sentimentality."

Akechi set his glass down on the counter, making the water's surface quiver. "That's all I can say on the matter, Okumura. I understand this isn't satisfactory, but—"

“No, it's more than enough, Akechi.”

He stared at her, his eyes widening. "You believe me?"

"I do."

And she did believe him, although she couldn't say why. There was nothing that she could rely on in this scenario except his word; any documentation he might supply to support his narrative could be a forgery, especially considering that he would know where and how to procure the relevant forms. And the plan was so absolute in its abandonment of his past that she found herself questioning her certainty just at the thought of the details.

But she believed him anyway. Maybe it was because he had always seemed detached from everything in his life, in a way that made such a dramatic plan seem feasible. Maybe it was because its violent upheaval felt particularly like Goro Akechi, a boy who never could do anything halfway.

Maybe it was because she could hear the same haunted fear in his voice that she felt in hers. It was a terror that was both existential and animal, and she couldn't describe it with a simple word or phrase. When she had tried to before, in conversations with Makoto or Akira, she could only explain it as something like being placed in a box and left to wither as someone sealed the exit shut and laughed. She'd learned what it felt like as the day of her marriage to Sugimura crept closer and closer, and she'd discovered it weighing down her psyche again in the past week as she imagined trying to exist in the same room as Akechi. She hadn't been able to grasp the connection between those two states of mind until she had heard Akechi speak, but it was as clear as could be now.

It was twisted that she had learned something so important because of the sympathy she had for her father's murderer. But that was something to think about another day.

Akechi scanned her over as if he was seeking some sort of deceit or uncertainty in Haru's being, but apparently he couldn't find what he was looking for. "I suppose I shouldn't complain, then."

She could hear the unspoken complaints in his tone—you shouldn't believe me, I need you to believe me—but there was nothing she could say in response. Comfort, mockery, and fury were all pointless in the face of this real, broken person.

So she stood from her chair and picked her damp coat up from where she'd left it on the floor. "In that case, I'll be going now. I'm sorry again about surprising you, and thank you for being honest with me."

Akechi shrugged stiffly, which was as much of a farewell as Haru thought she'd get. She walked past Akechi, out of the room and out of his apartment's front door, pausing only to see the water dripping from the boy's clothes at the threshold.

She made her way down the stairs of the building and stepped outside, zipping her coat up to block out the wind. But she found that the winter chill was more bearable than it had been in the past few days. The wind's bite was less painful and the snow was mild as it melted on her face; the snowdrifts' shadows were less ominous, instead being almost remarkable in their height.

She stared at her gloved palms, flexed them a little. There was still a sort of fear nagging at her about the uncertainties of the situation: she could be wrong about Akechi's honesty, or perhaps his plans could fall through. But those weren't the reality in front of her now. For now, she could take the subway home and go to bed. And tomorrow she could start rebuilding things.

I'll get better, Makoto, she whispered as she walked along the recently shoveled sidewalks. I promise.

Chapter Text

Futaba's jaw dropped from across the Shibuya diner table. "You have to read how many books for your final?"

"Well, I've already read them," Sumire said as she put down one novel and grabbed another from her backpack. "But I want to skim the important parts so I can remember the details for the test. I need to use direct quotes, too, so I'm finding good ones to put on flash cards."

"Maybe I shouldn't go to high school," Futaba mumbled as she chewed on a French fry from Sumire's plate. "This seems like way too much work."

"I mean, I have to keep my grades high because of my scholarship. You don't need to do as much studying as I do."

"Have you seen Akira's grades? I can't get D's when he's at the top of his class."

"That's… a fair point."

"Tell me about it."

The conversation trailed off as Sumire skimmed through several chapters of her book, the chatter of strangers and clinking of silverware filling in the silence. She'd started studying here last year on Akira's recommendation and found the ambience enjoyable; it reminded her of the clatter that was always present in the public gymnasiums she trained in. Futaba, on the other hand, had put on her noise-canceling headphones and was in her own world as she typed on her laptop—which was odd, since she'd asked to join Sumire due to being lonely. Apparently being nearby Sumire was good enough for now, since the girl would throw her a shy smile occasionally (and steal more French fries).

She seemed stable at least, which was more than Sumire could say when Futaba had come in shaking and squeaked when a waiter asked where she wanted to sit. Sumire knew about Futaba's agoraphobia, of course, but it was easy to forget when the girl was chattering along comfortably in Leblanc. The anxiety was probably what the headphones were for, come to think of it—a way to shut out other people that scared her.

Sumire put down her book and sighed. Why was she trying to read into Akechi's hidden feelings when she still didn't understand the basics for anyone else?

“Are you okay?”

Sumire blinked before she realized it was Futaba talking to her—apparently the headphones weren’t loud enough to stop conversation. She reached for her chicken wrap and took an unenthusiastic bite. “Do you ever just wish you could read somebody’s mind?”

Futaba shrugged as she did something with her computer trackpad. “Honestly, usually reading their bank account history is good enough for me.”

“That probably does cover a lot of it.”

“You’d be surprised, yeah. Although…”

Futaba looked at her hands for a moment before pushing her laptop aside and taking her headphones off. “I know exactly how you feel right now.”

“Who’s on your mind? I-If you don’t mind me asking.”

Futaba grabbed another fry and stared at it. “Well, for starters, if Wakaba isn’t actually my mom and she knows she’s just faking it, it’d be nice to know that up front.”

“I can see that.”

“Yeah.” Futaba looked down at her knees and swallowed. “But mostly it’s Akira I’m worried about right now.”

“He's been upset about Akechi, right?”

“I mean, that part is kinda obvious. It’s more the…” Futaba paused. “I don’t think I’m supposed to say, actually. It’s something he didn’t tell anyone about except Sojiro. I found out by accident.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They looked at each other awkwardly for a couple seconds before Futaba chuckled. "Jeez, even we don't know how to talk about it."

"I wish I knew how to talk about Akechi."

Futaba snorted. "Good luck with that. He's not going to give anything to you straight."

"I feel like I've started to understand him a little. But… not enough, I guess?" 

Sumire debated mentioning the new sense of urgency that her most recent conversation with Akechi had inspired, but ultimately decided against it. The time Akechi took to answer her question at the sports bar was significant enough that she could tell he was insecure about what he said, and she wouldn't betray his confidence.

Futaba didn't notice Sumire’s internal debate. "That was one nice thing about the Metaverse. If we ever didn't know what was going on with somebody's brain, you could just talk to their Shadow. Those guys spill all the deets."

“Watching you all talk with a target almost felt like a big therapy session.”

“Yeah! Nothing like a little pressure to make people blab.”

Sumire recalled a particular fairy sweating bullets while Joker had his knife pressed against its neck. “It was definitely effective.”

Futaba grinned. “Do you think that’s how regular therapists get people to share so much?”

“I mean, I don’t think so?”

“Laaaaaame.”

Sumire smiled nervously. “I mean, most people who go to therapy choose to go, so they’re willing to talk. And even the people who are unwilling end up… well…”

Maruki gave her an impressed look. “I’m impressed that you care so much about nutrition. You must be really on top of things.”

Sumire looked into her lap. “I’m just active, that’s all. I’m a gymnast.”

“I see. How’s practice been going for you? Has it been rough lately?”

“Hey? Sumire? Are you okay?”

Sumire didn’t know why she was confessing this to a man she hardly knew, but the words were spilling out of her mouth anyway like an overflowing dam.

“Only Kasumi could have done it. No matter how long I try to compete… It’s not going to change anything.”

And Sumire could feel herself shaking, could remember the way her vision twisted and realigned as she took off her glasses and became someone entirely different—

“...Sumi?”

She pressed her palms into her legs, forced herself to feel the warmth of her own skin and the salt left on her tongue from the last of those fries she’d shared with Futaba, with her friend who liked her for who she was, not who she could’ve been. Forced herself to breathe.

“I’m alright now,” she said quietly. “I just started thinking about… about some of my sessions with Doctor Maruki.”

Futaba blanched. “Oh shoot, I shouldn’t have brought therapy up.”

“No, it’s not your fault. Even I didn’t realize it would be such a difficult thing to think about.”

Futaba still looked a little guilty, but she relented. “If you say so…”

“And it’s not like you made a bad point either. Doctor Maruki was very good at getting people to open up about themselves.”

“We all ended up sharing big stuff with him, didn't we? He had a cognitive psience book when he visited Leblanc, so I ended up…” 

Futaba trailed off.

“What’s wrong?” Sumire asked.

“He was the first stranger I talked about my mom with,” she said, her eyes widening with the realization, her mouth struggling to make the words. “Other than Akira and the others, but they weren’t really strangers, since I’d been spying on them for a while. I just… I didn’t know anything about him except that he worked at Akira’s school and wasn’t outright evil.”

“That’s…”

“Wow.” Futaba stopped crouching in her seat for the first time in their entire restaurant trip. “I kept making jokes about how everyone was blabbing to him because of the snacks, but then I spilled my mouth just as easily.”

“He was just that easy to talk to,” Sumire concluded.

“Must have been.”

Sumire kept thinking about this for a while as she took a few bites of her now-lukewarm meal. Maruki really had felt easy to talk to—not supernaturally so, not like the way he’d altered her cognition, but just as an approachable, kind, helpful person. People trusted him because they knew he wanted to help them. How many people shared all of their insecurities with him? How many people had listened to his suggestion to escape from their problems, had let their minds be warped by his influence? And did their lives actually get better because of it, like Sumire’s life arguably had for some time? Or did it just push them farther away from an actual solution to their problems?

Futaba, meanwhile, had folded into herself again, her forehead pressed against her arms. “Ugh, now I feel like all my screwy feelings about my mom right now are my fault because I talked to him about her.”

“I’m sorry about that, Futaba.”

“It’s whatever.” She waved a hand around half-heartedly. “I’ll force him to fix my brain when we meet him or something, and steal some of his weird nutrition bars while we’re at it.”

Sumire blinked. “What do you mean, ‘weird’?”

A shrug. “I dunno, I just remember Akira bringing home some tacky meal replacement bar after he chatted with Maruki one time. It had this bright orange lettering on it. I’d never seen it anywhere else.”

“Wait, I know what you’re talking about.” Sumire straightened up. “Wasn’t it called Fulfiller or something?”

“Yeah, exactly! I remember because Akira used it on Yusuke in the Metaverse a week later.”

“I didn’t realize those were rare because my dad eats them a lot. Although he did mention that he has to order them from a specific health store in Kichijoji.”

“It must be a really small brand,” Futaba said. “What a coin—”

Their eyes met and Sumire gasped.

“Shit,” Futaba spat out as she grabbed her laptop and almost yanked it open. “Was it really right in front of us the whole time?”

“I hope he still uses them,” Sumire said as she moved to sit next to her.

After ten minutes fiddling with commands and making incredibly specific browser searches, with Sumire providing input when needed, Futaba finally seemed happy with what she’d typed up. She shut her laptop and pushed it away from her. “Alright, I’ve got the queries running on my home computer. We’ll be able to find all of the people purchasing items from that company that match Maruki’s demographics.”

“How long is it going to take?” Sumire asked.

“I mean, it’s still a pretty intense search because the brand does online sales too. But having a specific brand to zero in on means the amount of data we’re sorting through is millions times smaller. We went from a timespan of months to like…” Futaba counted on her fingers. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

“You’re a genius,” Sumire said.

“You’re the one who realized it was important,” Futaba said with a wave of her hand. “And besides, what’s important is that Maruki is in our sights.”

“Yeah.”

They'd almost found Doctor Maruki. The man who’d been so kind to her, who’d warped her life and endangered her friends, who’d trapped the whole world in his benevolent grasp, who had left wounds on all of them that might never heal completely. And not only that, they were also one step closer to Akechi leaving the Phantom Thieves behind—leaving her behind.

"We've almost found him," she said, quietly.

Chapter Text

Akira walked down the snow-dusted sidewalks of Shinjuku and tried to reason out exactly what was wrong with himself.

Well, what was wrong compared to usual, anyway. He knew he had a bevy of neuroses tied to an undiagnosed something , quirks that he'd learned to live with and sometimes used to his advantage. (The constant need to have his hands occupied was how he'd gotten so good at making infiltration tools, for example.) But his brain wasn’t giving him any advantages today. Akechi had nixed his offer to assist with interviews earlier, with the thin excuse that having a third person in their group would make them stick out too much, and that had left Akira just about ready to throw the coffee mugs he was filling at Leblanc against the wall.

After deciding that half of the problem was his hatred of boredom, he had put on his coat and took the subway to Shinjuku, where his ennui would at least be punctuated by muffled lounge music and neon lights reflecting off snow. And as for the tangle of emotions making up the other half of his problems—well, that was why he'd gone to Shinjuku specifically.

To his relief, the fortune teller's stand was still set up at its usual place at one side of the main road, an outdoor lamp glowing coldly under what appeared to be a new canvas canopy. The snap of cards he heard as he approached confirmed he was in luck.

"Do you like the tent?" Chihaya asked with a smile as Akira took a seat across from her, the cards flowing between her gloved hands despite the cold. "Business has been better than it usually is this past month, so I was able to afford this. It should help with the rainy season too."

"I'm mostly surprised you get customers in this cold weather," he said as he looked around the quiet streets.

"It's certainly slower, but not quite as bad as you'd think. People need insight into their fates no matter the season.” She gave him a look. “Just like you.”

"It's that obvious, huh?"

She smiled. "I can read it in your face, dear. What exactly is troubling you?"

As Akira was about to speak, he felt his phone vibrate.

Akira shoved his phone back into his coat pocket, his hand gripping it far too tightly.

This was all wrong. He had spent the past week trying to break through the walls Akechi had put up while trying to keep the peace within the Phantom Thieves, and despite his best efforts he was somehow failing at both. He didn't know how to reassure Haru that Akechi was turning over a new leaf, or how to mend the rift in Futaba's relationship with her mom. Part of him believed he was running out of time, as if everything was being carried away from him by the tide. And maybe he was stranded at sea—after all, he couldn't figure out how he felt about anything nowadays, not even the death of his own parents. Wasn't he supposed to be glad they were gone, instead of feeling this empty sadness about it that he couldn’t untangle without tearing up?

He resisted the urge to bend over and cover his ears, and forced himself to breathe, to focus his thoughts until the most pressing issue crested above the violent sound.

“I need a relationship reading. Not romantic—about my friends. There’s… there’s a lot of tension surrounding a member of the Phantom Thieves, and I don’t know how to ease everyone's fears.”

“Do you have a specific spread you would like?”

“I don’t know how to read my fate, just how to change it.”

Chihaya didn’t respond—she’d already started to focus on the whisperings of the fates. Akira watched her shuffle for a minute and then lay out several cards on the table tentatively, before shaking her head and gathering them back up. The wind pressed hard against Chihaya’s tent as she mixed the cards again, making it rattle and gnaw at his nerves.

After another moment, Chihaya was finally able to create an arrangement of cards she was satisfied with, although it wasn’t one that Akira knew of. The cards were laid out in a simple cross pattern, but the spokes of the cross had two cards overlaid on each other, while the fulcrum was an isolated card. 

The fortune teller turned the cards over one at a time, carefully preserving the way they were stacked, and slowly revealing one of the most polarized readings Akira had ever seen.

"I assume the Major Arcana are supposed to represent me and my friends?" Akira asked, his eyes on the Fool and Justice cards.

"Generally, yes," Chihaya said tepidly. "However, I do not believe that is the case for the Star."

Akira had to agree: the Star was beneath its stack unlike the other Major cards, and it was the only one to not be inverted as well. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” Chihaya furrowed her brow as she continued to examine the spread. "The structure here is curious. Many conventional readings in a cross shape overlay cards in the center to create a sense of stability or centeredness, but the weight on the ends here speaks to the opposite."

Akira could hear Akechi quoting Yeats during one of their chess games: "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold." Not promising, to be certain. "But why a cross shape at all, then?"

"Perhaps the shape presents multiple meanings." She placed her finger towards the center. "Is the Queen of Cups reversed to indicate the cross is a weight she cannot bear? Is her centrality meant to indicate she is the creator of the conflict, or that she is being crushed in a crossroads? Is it none of these, or all at once?"

Akira frowned. "This is much less clear than your usual readings."

"Are you upset?"

"Not with you. I know you don't control the cards. But I'm frustrated with everything else."

"Perhaps that is part of the issue." She gestured at the Swords cards along the edge of the reading. "Swords speak to conflict, of course, but also knowledge and awareness."

Chihaya looked up from the cards and directly at Akira, her gaze more piercing than usual, almost a challenge. But what was she asking? Something related to his awareness? Was he supposed to already know what the tarot was telling him?

But maybe he did understand some of it. Akechi's pairing with the Six of Swords aligned with his attempt to hide away from the group. Makoto didn't seem like she wanted to start a conflict, but her Five of Swords could indicate that she felt the need to prepare for one anyway. And the image of a man with ten swords in the back summed up Akira's feelings over the last week.

Maybe the reading was less about being given a solution to the conflict and more about being forced to see the situation in front of him. Although not everything was clear—if Haru was the Queen of Cups, why did she have a card not paired with her? Was the reading trying to paint her as helpless, unable to take a path forward? And who was the Page of Swords on the fourth spoke of the wheel? 

More concerning was his opposition to Makoto in the reading instead of Akechi. Akira hadn’t talked to her much in the past several days, and while she was certainly going through things, it didn't seem like she was upset at him specifically. And was he supposed to believe that Akechi wasn't antagonizing him? Their entire relationship had been defined by rivalry, and he refused to believe that was going to change.

"This reading isn't about answers, is it?" he said finally.

Chihaya nodded. "Many spreads provide a dedicated space for an answer within its structure, but I cannot see a solution within these cards. It appears to be more of a system within itself, a structure that is and is yet to be."

"A lock without a key."

"I can't say for sure."

But Akira could already envision it that way. The cards were arranged like pins in a radial lock. It didn't matter that he wasn't across from Akechi or that he didn't know who the Page of Swords was, because the exact arrangement wasn't as important as the way the parts functioned. And even if he wasn't being given a key, he just needed to apply pressure to each of the pins in order to free the mechanism—free his friends.

"I think I'm starting to understand it," Akira said as he stood up. "Can I take a picture for later?"

"Of course," Chihaya said. "And I'm glad it was helpful. I believe in you, Akira."

"That makes one of us," he said dryly as he snapped a photo, his hands already cold from it. But despite the weather and his sour mood, and even with his psyche weighing him down, the buzz in his mind was beginning to clear, and he knew that he'd be able to heal his relationship with Akechi and keep the peace among all his friends. He just needed to find the right time to act.

Chapter Text

February 19, Morning

Due to being held up by student council duties before school, Makoto hadn't had a chance to see Haru until lunchtime, a fact which had her jittery as she walked up the stairs to the rooftop garden. They had talked yesterday of course, but Haru had been uncomfortably distant then. Instead of paying careful attention to her plants as she watered them, her gaze had stayed fixed on the buildings lining the skyline around the school. She hadn't been following any of the conversation happening around her, either. Clearly something had been weighing on her mind, but when Makoto asked, Haru just distractedly said that everything was fine like before, her eyes fixed on the same spot far away from them. 

Which was a lie, of course, but not one that Makoto could confront easily. How was she supposed to tell Haru to stop deceiving her? Even that word, deceive, was wrong, because it implied some sort of ill intent that Haru didn't have. She didn’t want to wait for Haru to stop hiding things from her, but what right did she have to complain when Haru was clearly the person suffering?

Her thoughts spiraled higher as she climbed the stairs, building into a dizzying uncertainty as she finally reached the door to the roof. She forced herself to collect herself and breathe. She'd figured out harder problems before. And if it got unbearable, she could talk to Ann again. Ann knew how to calm her down.

That last thought, the idea that she wouldn’t have to deal with her doubts alone, gave her the confidence to open the door and step through, only for everything to shift beneath her as she saw Haru smiling and humming as she kneeled in her garden.

Haru had noticed Makoto as soon as the door opened and waved in her direction. “Oh, Mako-chan! I missed you this morning.”

“I was, um, busy with the student council,” Makoto stammered as she walked towards the flower beds. “I missed you too.”

Haru stood as Makoto reached her side, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Makoto had to try not to run away. “You seem like you're in a… a really good mood, Haru.”

“I am! It's…” Haru looked down, casting shadows on her face for the first time since they'd started to talk. “It's complicated, but I was able to figure out a lot last night. I'm feeling a lot better than I was before.”

“…I'm glad to hear that, Haru.”

Haru gave Makoto another kiss. “Could you get the fertilizer for me, dear?”

“Of course.”

Her legs were impossibly light as she walked over to the supply shed at one corner of the roof. It couldn't have been as simple as Haru working herself out of her grieving so quickly, because people didn't do that. Makoto could still see the weight of grief on her girlfriend's shoulders, but it was dramatically lessened compared to before, and that wasn't the kind of strength one person could acquire in a single night. So something else had happened, something significant. Had Haru talked with someone? Learned something about her father, or about Akechi? Makoto doubted that anything like Maruki’s memory altering had happened again, but the fact that it seemed a possibility spoke to Makoto's uncertainty.

And why hadn't Haru talked to her about it?

Even as she helped Haru in the garden and their friends joined them for lunch, Makoto couldn't shake the sensation that she was alone.

Makoto's phone lit up during her sixth period class. Seeing that it was Futaba, she checked that her teacher was occupied with the blackboard before opening the notification.

She held in a scream as she put her cell in her pocket.

Haru talked to Akechi? The last time the two of them had spoken, Haru had been ready to kill him. Makoto had comforted her after multiple nightmares involving him over the past few months, had been there to placate her when she pulled back from the front lines in Maruki's Palace because being near Akechi had her on the verge of a panic attack. And she'd just talked to him without telling anyone. Without telling her.

Did Makoto deserve to feel neglected? She had only known Haru for half a year and was still surprised that they were dating—it was yet another surreal change in Makoto's life that had come from her teenage rebellion. Haru didn’t have to tell Makoto about everything happening to her, but the two of them had shared so much that Makoto had just… assumed she would. 

But Makoto had seen the guilt in Haru’s eyes as she danced around what had happened the night before. The illusion of their closeness was an outcropping of salt in the face of a whirlwind, formed over years but dissolved in an instant. All she could do now was listen to the teacher’s lecture on English literature and pretend that the words mattered to her at all.

February 19, Afternoon

After thirty minutes of staring at the paragraphs she’d written for Makoto on her phone, Haru’s eyes were starting to hurt. She put the device down on the coffee table and covered her eyes with her hands, a technique Akira had taught her to help reset her vision. The message was basically complete, but she wanted to make sure it was as good as she could make it before sending it to her girlfriend, since she knew it would be the most that she’d talked to her in at least a week.

Haru lifted her hands away and looked through the windows of her home at the lawn and concrete that sat outside, the afternoon sun casting an unusually warm glow over it. She had always found the grass outside to be sterile and the concrete even more so. In her darker moods, she would imagine that the rest of her life would doom her to be similarly barren for the sake of Sugimura’s decrepit vanity. But now the estate was hers to nurture and reform. She could replace the monotonous landscape with wild grasses and stone paths, patches of wildflowers and lavender, and a lake with the fish she’d learned about from Yusuke. Makoto could be there, helping her to keep the plants healthy and whole. An entire life for them to build together.

She read over what she’d written one more time. It wasn’t perfect, but her and Makoto could talk together and sort through what she’d missed. It was enough to start with.

She copied the text and opened her text messages, only to notice a new set of messages in the Phantom Thieves group chat.

They’d found Maruki, which meant that Akechi was one step closer to being free, and that Haru was closer to her own resolution. But…

And Haru meant it. Akechi was going to leave soon, after all. He said so himself. And she didn't begrudge either him or Sumire for trying to tie up their loose ends.

But she still felt the blood pumping in her head as she watched Akira start typing, stop, then start again.

It was fine. Haru's hands were shaking. It was fine.

She could barely type.

So it wasn't just her he'd told. That had to be enough for Akira, didn't it?

Wasn't it enough for her?

It wasn't going to happen. Didn't Akira understand? No matter how much he wanted it, no matter how hard she tried, she wouldn't just get used to it. None of them could get used to it. She couldn't just change her feelings about— 

Sugimura reached his arm around Haru, letting it rest on her waist. “Is something wrong, honey?”

Haru stiffened, desperately looking around the interior of Sugimura's limousine. Not that anyone there could help her—the only other person present was the driver, who was deliberately refusing to look around at them.

Sugimura spoke as if he was addressing a doll. “Just tell me what's wrong. Not getting enough spending money from your daddy? I can help you with that now, you know. Or is it something…”

He squeezed her side slowly. “More personal?”

Haru tried to scoot farther away from him. “Just because I'm arranged to be married to you doesn't mean you get to do whatever you want with me.”

Sugimura's expression soured as he tightened his grip on her. “Oh, don't be like that. I'm quite the pleaser, I've been told.”

“I'm not interested.”

“But you will be, sooner or later.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “It'd be a shame to ruin your father's plans, wouldn't it?”

She wanted to push him off again, but his words made her freeze.

“But don't you worry,” he said as he put his other hand on her thigh. “You'll end up loving me, Haru. I know you will.”

And as his hand sank into her skin, a light inside her heart was smothered and died.

Haru screamed as her phone broke through a glass window and shattered against the concrete outside, its pieces scattering on the ground. She couldn't bring herself to clean it up, to do anything except stumble backwards onto the couch.

It's going to happen. He’s going to take away my freedom. I won't let it happen. I won’t be allowed to choose. It doesn't matter what I want. No one is going to help me. I can't let it happen again. I'm all alone. I can’t do anything about it.

She lay shaking on the expensive couch, hyperventilating, as wind howled through the room.

Makoto sat shaking on a bench inside of Shujin's train station, her phone ice cold in her hand. She'd tried to call Haru multiple times now, but the line wouldn’t even ring before going to voicemail, so all Makoto could do was look at her girlfriend's phone number as she tried to ignore the notifications coming from the Phantom Thieves group chat.

Why was Akira acting like that? He had always been sensitive to their friends’ concerns, giving them advice only when it was right. Him forcing his own feelings onto them was unprecedented.

She shook her head and stood up, beginning to walk towards the train platform. Akira didn't matter right now. She needed to go to Haru's house and find her, comfort her, do something. It was her duty to protect her girlfriend, and she wasn't going to let Haru down.

Unless she already had.

She stopped in place right in front of the turnstiles, her hand quivering in front of the card reader.

Haru hadn't asked for Makoto's assistance earlier this week with Akechi. That had to have been a conscious decision. And what if the reason was that she thought Makoto couldn't help her?

It was such a mean idea, the notion that her own girlfriend didn't want her help. It likely wasn't true. But she couldn't rule it out, either. And even if it was false, there was a part of it that she couldn't dispute: Makoto's efforts to help Haru had largely been useless. The emotional comfort she'd provided had been temporary at best, erased by Akechi's continued haunting of Haru's life, something that Makoto could do nothing about. No wonder the girl had needed to do something so drastic to try to resolve that issue—all Makoto could do was wait for it to go away!

She pulled her hand away from the card reader and back into her pocket, where she felt her phone vibrate again. Another message, probably from Akira, probably him trying to defend the indefensible.

The knot in her chest began to twist and writhe, as if it had been lit aflame.

Maybe she couldn't help Haru. Maybe she couldn't do anything about Akechi. But there was something she could do right now, someone she could talk to some sense into.

She began to cross the station at a rapid pace. She had three minutes until the line heading to Yongen-Jaya arrived, and she wouldn't accept anything less than the next train out of the station.

Chapter Text

The bell to Leblanc rang and Makoto stepped through the door with the wind raging behind her.

Akira was expecting a customer, so he straightened up and brushed off his pants before recognizing her. “Oh.”

Makoto’s fists were balled at her side. “We need to talk, Akira.”

He looked around the room uselessly, a wounded animal searching for a way out. Wasn’t he supposed to be sticking to his guns? Trusting his instincts? “I’m watching the store for Sojiro. We can talk outside when he gets back.”

“How long will it be?”

“He just went to the grocery down the street.”

“Fine.”

Makoto sat down at the booth closest to the door, not even bothering to take off her damp coat. Whether the red filling her face was from the cold or her own fury was difficult to say, but one thing was certain: Akira had never seen her this angry before. No, he’d seen it once—when she’d first awoken to Johanna.

Several minutes passed with no words spoken between them, the only sound being the howling outside. Makoto barely moved the entire time, her eyes focused on the seat across from her. Akira found himself checking the news absentmindedly on his phone, trying to place his attention anywhere except on what he’d said to Haru half an hour ago. It wasn’t going particularly well.

“Where’s Futaba?” Makoto asked.

Akira shrugged.

“It’s… probably better that she doesn’t see, I suppose.”

“You sound like you’re going to kill me.”

Silence.

The door to Leblanc opened again—Sojiro this time, a bag of groceries in each hand and dirty snow caking his shoes. “God, the weather is horrible. Anyone come in, Akira?”

“Just me,” Makoto said quietly.

“Ah, Makoto. Do you need anything? It’ll take me time to start the next batch of curry, but—” Sojiro paused as he got a proper look at her. “Is something wrong?”

Makoto stood up, made eye contact with Akira, and walked out of Leblanc.

Sojiro sighed as the wind slammed the door shut. “What the hell did you do, kid?”

Akira reached for the coat he’d stowed behind the counter and stood. “Nothing I can’t fix.”

“I saw that look she gave you. You really think you’re going to be able to fix that?”

“I’ve got to try.”

Akira pulled his hood up and grabbed his gloves from his pockets. As he put them on he found himself tugging on their sleeves like he would with the ones he wore in the Metaverse. It didn’t feel the same out here, though: the winter gloves were thick and didn’t give him the range of motion he was used to. A wave of sadness passed over him, but he couldn’t let himself think about it more. Makoto was waiting.

The two of them ended up going to the alley outside of the laundromat to minimize their exposure to the weather. Akira pulled his hood up further to try to keep the remaining wind away from his face, but Makoto’s hood stayed down, and she didn’t seem to notice the weather at all. 

Once she was sure no one was there to hear them, she placed herself between Akira and the road proper and folded her arms. “You need to apologize to Haru.”

“I wasn’t trying to offend her.”

“Offending isn’t even half of it. We’re the only people she has to support her, and you pushed her away!”

“Look, I…” A draft tried to blow his hood off; he raised a hand to secure it. “I didn’t want that to happen. I honestly think that she’ll be happiest if she and Akechi are able to reconcile.”

“And just because you think that’s true, you have the right to force her to agree?”

“I never said that—”

“But it’s how you acted.” Makoto took a step towards him. “I don’t know why you like Akechi so much, but you do, and so you're telling everyone around him that they need to like him too.”

Akira’s blood was pumping. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“When you try to coerce people into liking him, yes.”

“Do you really think I was coercing?”

“I do!” They were only a foot away now. Akira could see the creases around Makoto’s eyes. “You’re our leader, Akira, and you know that gives you influence over us. And you tried to use that influence to make us go along with your plans for Akechi.”

“I was never going to force anyone to do anything!”

Makoto gritted her teeth. Akira used her silence to try to settle his heartbeat. He was talking in circles, talking just for his own sake, and they both knew it. Unless he could figure out the right thing to say—

“What are you so afraid of, Akira?”

He froze.

“You don’t just want everyone to agree with you about this. You need it.” Makoto’s anger seemed less reckless now, more controlled. She took a step forward. “Something about the idea of Akechi leaving has you terrified. You're so scared you can't even admit it. Are you really so afraid that you’d put him above the rest of us? Because if you would, then you’re not the leader of the Phantom Thieves. You’re a coward.”

The storm around him seemed to fall silent as Akira’s psyche zeroed in on Makoto: her clenched fists, her penetrating glare, the way she was balanced on the balls of her feet.

“Shut the fuck up, Makoto.”

“Am I wrong?” she snarled. “Are you going to do the right thing? Or are you going to drive everyone away from you?”

Their faces were nearly touching now.

“I’ll do whatever I want,” Akira said.

“Then do it.”

Akira knew the ways this conversation could end. There was the quiet way: he’d admit he’d crossed a line, agree that his friends were more important to him than Akechi, accept that he didn’t have the control over his life that he wanted, needed, craved. They’d reconcile quickly after that—they were good at that, because they trusted each other. And everything would go back to normal.

Then there was the other way.

Akira punched Makoto square in the jaw.

He saw the surprise in her eyes when he made contact, but she'd been ready for something to happen, and was able to grab his wrist and yank him forward into the snow. He managed to barely blunt the fall with his hands, sending pain racing up his arm and snow up his nostrils.

He turned his head slightly from the ground to see Makoto standing above him in a defensive posture. “Are you done being a child?”

He feigned shifting his balance back to his feet as he removed one of his gloves, then turned and threw it at Makoto’s face. As she recoiled in surprise, he used the momentum from the turn to knock her legs out from under her, sending her crashing into the ground with a shout. Quickly he scrambled on top of her and attempted to pin her down, but she shoved him off with a shot to the elbow and lifted herself back onto her feet.

The fight continued like this, Akira attempting to knock her down and Makoto evading him. She couldn’t avoid everything he threw her way; he was able to land hits here and there, giving her a cut lip and a limp in one leg. But he never was able to hit her where he intended, and never without receiving a worse injury in return. Makoto was clearly in control, and they both knew it.

He became desperate as the fight continued to sour, trying to move in ways that he simply couldn't in the real world, making it even more trivial for her to avoid him. Eventually a failed attempt to get around her guard caused him to slip on his feet, allowing Makoto to grab him by the shoulders and knee him directly in the solar plexus. His vision went out temporarily as he crumpled onto the ground, his breathing reduced to mere gasps.

Makoto was quivering as she managed to prop herself against the wall outside the alleyway—they must have rolled into the street proper sometime during the fight. “Can you even tell me what you're fighting for, Akira? The right to be an asshole?”

He couldn’t inhale enough air to speak.

Makoto wiped her cheek with her sleeve and stared at the bloody smear that it had made. “My sister's gonna kill me.”

“What the hell are you two doing?”

Both of them turned to the new voice: it was Futaba, running towards them in flip flops, with Wakaba following close behind.

“Futaba…” Akira whispered.

“Somebody called the cops on you two!” Her eyes were red and clouded with tears. “They're gonna be here in five minutes! You gotta go!”

Makoto's eyes widened. “The police?”

“You can stay at Sojiro's home for now, Makoto,” Wakaba said as she caught up with her daughter. “It's far enough off that they won't look there.”

Makoto shook her head as she stood. “I'll clean up in the subway station restroom and take the next train.”

“Are you sure?”

As Akira struggled to get onto all fours, he looked up and saw Makoto staring at him. There was a flash of pure venom in her eyes; then it disappeared and she turned away. “I can't be near him. I'll find somewhere to go.”

Wakaba nodded after a moment's observation. “Be careful.”

“I will. And Akira?”

He looked up at her helplessly.

“If you don't apologize to Haru, I'll be back.”

He watched her disappear in the winter squall as he tried to lift himself up, then fell face-first into the snow. Wakaba sighed and squatted next to him, reaching around his body with one arm. “Thank you…” he rasped.

“She did a number on you, huh?” Wakaba said as she lifted him onto his feet slowly.

“I mean…” Akira trailed off as he remembered Futaba was still there, shivering and looking at him with horror.

The girl tried to open her mouth for a moment, but it didn't amount to anything—her face contorted into a sob as she turned and ran away.

“...Maybe we should take you to Leblanc instead,” Wakaba said as the girl disappeared around the corner.

“I don't think I can say no,” Akira said hoarsely.”

“No, you can’t. Come on, go as fast as you can, okay?”

So he stumbled back to the café with Wakaba's help, the storm fighting against his every step and blood souring in his mouth.

Chapter Text

The doorbell to Ann’s apartment finally rang, and Ann scrambled up from the couch to answer it. She still didn’t know why Makoto had asked to stop by the apartment without giving a reason. Ann hadn’t wanted studying help, and Makoto didn’t have anything urgent going on. Maybe she wanted to talk about Akira and Haru—god knows that everyone else was talking about them—but then why wouldn’t she have said so?

Her fingers slipped on the doorknob twice before she managed to undo the lock. She pulled the door open—and gasped as she saw a bloody, bruised Makoto standing in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” Makoto said, holding her jaw gingerly. “I couldn’t think of anywhere else. If you don’t want me to come in—”

“I’ll find my first aid kit,” she said before running to the bathroom. She had to reach underneath the sink and push a few bottles of hair dye to the floor before she could grab the kit, but she didn’t even notice anything tipping over. Ann did remember, however, that she forgot to explicitly tell Makoto that she was invited in. She ran back out of the room to the doorway, only to realize that the girl wasn’t there.

Makoto’s voice was quiet. “Living room.”

“Thank god,” Ann said as she walked in there and sat beside Makoto on their red leather couch. “I did not mean to just leave you out there.”

“I wouldn’t blame you,” she replied. She looked like she wanted to fall into the couch, but she was sitting up gingerly, presumably in case there was blood on her jacket. “This is how I look after cleaning myself up in a public restroom.”

She was definitely a mess, with a cut lip, multiple bruises, and several tears in her pants that clearly weren’t there for style. Even more than that, she looked deflated. Ann couldn’t imagine Makoto losing a fight, but her sunken posture certainly made it seem like that was what had happened.

Ann cracked the first aid kit open and examined the contents. “Well, you’re lucky I keep this thing around.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“I guess so… Here, I should check your lip first.”

Makoto nodded and scooted towards Ann, tilting her chin up so that her face was in the light. “Try not to touch my chin, if you can.”

“I’ll tell you if you need to move your head, okay?”

Makoto nodded and Ann leaned forward to examine her. It was vaguely terrifying to be so close to Makoto’s face, considering how pretty she was, but Ann was used to keeping her composure thanks to the frequent awkwardness of the Metaverse. “It doesn’t look too bad. Let me clean it with a gauze pad, and then we’ll apply some ointment, okay?”

The cleaning was done in relative silence. Ann could barely hold back the impulse to ask Makoto what had happened, but the sourness in Makoto’s face made it clear that she shouldn’t press her for details. And she wasn’t brave enough to ask people what was wrong out of the blue like Akira could. No, she’d wait, and hope Makoto trusted her enough to share.

She sterilized the cut successfully, then ran to grab a small trash can and a pair of ice packs from the kitchen. She came back to Makoto taking her jacket off, revealing another burgundy-blue bruise on her toned forearm. “I didn’t even know about this one,” Makoto mumbled as she stared at it.

“At least that means it’s not hurting,” Ann said as she sat back down.

Makoto’s face curled as if she was going to say something vile, but she stopped herself. “Yeah, I guess.”

Ann pressed an ice pack down on the injury as she gave Makoto the other one. “You can stay the night if you need to. The storm is getting bad out there.”

“I might have to take you up on that.” Makoto looked out the apartment window towards the quickly darkening sky. Ann usually enjoyed the view, but there was hardly anything visible right now thanks to the mounting snowstorm. She wasn’t even sure if she could open the balcony door without hurting herself. “Even if I could head back in this weather, I’m not sure if I could handle a scolding from Sae.”

“She wouldn’t scold you, Makoto,” Ann said. “I know things are still tense between you two, but her first priority would be making sure you were okay.”

“Not if she knew who I hurt.”

“That wouldn’t matter to her. It doesn’t matter to me, either.”

“Even if it was Akira?”

Ann’s firm expression wavered. “Did… did you actually?”

“He punched me first.”

The ice pack was cold against Ann's hand.

Makoto sank into the couch. “We were arguing about what he'd said to Haru, and he was so afraid. I'd never seen him look like that, Ann. But I was furious. I convinced myself that I could win the argument because of how scared he was.”

“But it backfired.”

“Well, I did win something.” She flexed her free hand. “Wakaba had to help him walk back home.”

“I guess I'm just…” Ann paused. “I'm surprised you didn't go to talk to Haru instead. Picking a fight, even just a verbal one, doesn’t feel like something you’d do.”

Makoto stiffened.

Ann shook her head. “I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to criticize you. I just was…”

“No, it's not you. I just…”

Makoto stared at the ceiling, her eyes staring at the spots where the paint was too thin to hide the building's concrete bones.

“I don't know if Haru wants my help, Ann.”

“That's not true, Makoto.”

“She didn't ask for my help when she talked to Akechi yesterday. She's been covering up her feelings all week. And if she isn't talking about this with me, how do I know she trusts me at all? How do I even know if she loves me?”

Ann frowned. “She's been alone for so long, Makoto. Before we showed up—before you showed up—she had to endure everything herself. She's probably afraid that we'll judge her for her weaknesses.”

“But—no—fuck…”

She put her hands over her face and groaned. “I’m so stupid, Ann. I’m just as afraid as Akira.”

“Makoto, you're the smartest and bravest person I know.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, that's why I'm here. To remind you that you're better than you think you are.”

“I…” 

Makoto sighed. “Why are you so nice to me, Ann?”

Ann pulled back from Makoto. “I'm just saying what everyone else—”

“No, you aren’t.” Makoto cut her off. “You go out of your way to spend time with me, to reassure me. You don't act the same with any of our other friends, not even Ryuji.”

“It'd be weird to be that nice to him…”

“So why isn't it weird to do it to me? Why are you on my side even after I fought with your leader? Why are you so terribly, horribly kind?”

Makoto's eyes were tearing up; the ice pack she had been holding to her jaw was forgotten in her hand. Ann tried to gather her thoughts while crumbling under the girl's terrified gaze.

“I mean, I-I-I think it's because…” Ann picked at her skin. “Well, you're so inspiring to me. You're amazing at things that I can't imagine doing. You're so tough and so kind, but you're human, and you’re not afraid to admit when you feel insecure about something. And it's just… How could I not be in love with you?”

The words hung over them like a thunderhead.

“...What did you say?”

Ann’s face contorted as she looked down at the couch. Every inch of her body told her to run away, to lie, to do something. But she couldn’t. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize it until now. It just…” She felt her eyes watering. “I can't believe I said that on top of everything else you're dealing with today, and while you're having relationship issues. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm sorry.”

There was a long silence. Then:

“Can you… can you hold me in your arms, Ann?”

Ann blinked. “What are you—”

“I'm not trying to be romantic.” Conflict was visible in Makoto's face. “I'm just… I'm so lonely right now, and I don't know how I feel about Haru, or Akira, or you, or—I just need to—it’s selfish. I'm sorry.”

Ann looked at Makoto lying on the couch weakly, watched the girl's hands shake. She swallowed. “I’ll try.”

“You don't have to—”

“Makoto.”

“...Alright.”

Ann placed the first aid kit on the floor without closing it, then shifted towards Makoto gingerly. Slowly she placed herself against Makoto's side, slipping one arm around her back and embracing her awkwardly. “Is… is this okay?”

She felt Makoto wrap her uninjured arm around in return. “I…”

Before Ann could say anything else, the girl began to cry.

Ann shifted to hold Makoto a bit more completely, and tried to wipe away some of her tears. “I'm right here, Makoto. I'm not going anywhere.”

And as the girl began to gasp and heave, hot tears rolling down her face, Ann tightened her hold on her. And she held her for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Then Peter said, “Ananias, how is it that Satan has so filled your heart that you have lied to the Holy Spirit and have kept for yourself some of the money you received for the land? Didn’t it belong to you before it was sold? And after it was sold, wasn’t the money at your disposal? What made you think of doing such a thing? You have not lied just to human beings but to God.”

When Ananias heard this, he fell down and died. And great fear seized all who heard what had happened.

- Acts 11:3-5

February 20, Midday

Sumire arrived at the subway station closest to Maruki’s house forty minutes before Akira had told her to. She knew she was early and knew there was nothing to be done about it, so she bought a canned mocha from a vending machine and found a bench to sit at. She then tried not to think about everything that she had been told about yesterday from the other Phantom Thieves. She tried to not think about it very hard.

Twenty minutes before the scheduled time, Akechi appeared around the corner. Sumire raised her arm feebly to get his attention.

He approached slowly, his arms at his sides, and took a moment to examine her. “Something’s happened, I take it.”

Sumire sighed. “You were right about them, Akechi.”

“Excuse me?”

“About Haru and Akira and…” She checked the time on her fractured phone screen. “Do you mind listening to me?”

Akechi sat down next to her and folded his legs. “Speak.”

So Sumire talked about everything she’d heard about from Futaba and Ryuji, and showed him the messages from the group chat before it had imploded. She mixed up the details several times and dropped her phone at least once, but Akechi kept his irritation suppressed as he asked for more details. In fact, the only emotion he showed at all was a widening of his eyes when he learned what Haru said about him. Besides that, he was as unreadable as ever.

“And has anyone gotten into contact with Haru?” Akechi asked finally.

“Um…” She checked her texts quickly. “I think Yusuke and Ann went to her mansion this morning, but security didn’t let them through.”

“And Makoto didn’t join them on their visit.” Akechi shook his head. “I expected a confrontation, but I didn’t anticipate violence.”

“I don't think anything like this has happened before. Usually everyone defers to Akira's authority.”

“Because he was the leader,” Akechi said flatly. “The first to awaken, the Wild Card, the one chosen by Yaldabaoth. But none of that matters when the Metaverse is gone. None of us are special anymore.”

Sumire remembered his cold laugh as they discussed Lavenza two days ago, the disdain in his eyes whenever Akira tried to invite him to come back to Leblanc. But Ryuji had said that Akechi had been chosen by Yaldabaoth too.

The boy checked his watch. “He's late.”

He was right—two minutes late, and no text from Akira. “Maybe he missed a train?”

“Mm.”

They sat without speaking, Sumire running her finger along the edge of her empty drink. She understood that these silences were more than just awkward now, that if she paid attention she could find an undercurrent of tension if there was one. Akechi had sensed it among the Phantom Thieves ever since he'd come back to life, had identified himself as the origin point and predicted the tension that had just been unleashed. She could ask why he didn't try to stop the conflict before it happened—but no, if he'd said anything to the Thieves, Akira likely would have protested. He likely told Haru of his plans to leave only because of a sense of culpability. But then…

“Why do you want me to mistrust you?” Sumire said.

Akechi didn't turn to face her, but his cheek twitched.

“You didn't have to bring up the idea of you leaving,” she continued. “There were so many ways to make your point about how you can't believe people blindly. So why choose the scenario that was actually real? The one that was supposed to make me doubt you?”

“I didn't expect Haru to confront me that night,” he said. “I intended to disappear without anyone knowing.”

“But if you wanted to scare me away, then why teach me like you have been?” Her throat was dry. “What's the point of you leading me along like this, complimenting me and teaching me about people? Am I just a toy to you?”

Akechi stiffened.

Sumire forced herself to pause, gripped her knees. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to accuse you of all that. Or at least, not to suggest you were a bad person. I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize for being right, Sumire.”

His voice sounded like the crunch of broken glass, and Sumire couldn't help but look at him then, look and see the weight that he was somehow carrying with an unbent back. He was sitting in a crowded train station with an acquaintance at his side, and yet he had never looked more alone than he did now. It was a feeling Sumire knew all too well.

They waited for Akira for several more minutes. Sumire kept to herself. Akechi needed the silence more than she needed to speak.

Twelve minutes after the appointed time, Akira finally walked into view. Sumire had seen him in a worse state physically before—he’d had more bruises and bandages on his face after he escaped from the police in November. But there had been a defiant spirit in his eyes then, an impression that even as he limped behind the counter of Leblanc, there was something driving him forward. If that drive was present within him now, then Sumire couldn’t see it.

“You’re late,” Akechi said, all of the darkness of the previous conversation hidden from his voice, covered thick with disappointment.

Akira shrugged. “Are we going?”

“Sumire told me about what you did yesterday.”

Sumire looked away from Akira, her eyes fixed on the laminate flooring of the station.

“I'm sorry,” Akira said.

“You don't just get to say that and pretend it makes things fine.” Akechi stood up and glared at the boy. “You don't get to tell me what my future is. You don't get to use me as a prop when I—”

“I know!” Akira shouted.

A few eyes from the crowd of people darted towards him.

“I know,” he said again, more quietly. “I started a fight and hurt Haru and made a mockery of myself. And I just… I can't talk about it right now. Please.”

Akechi clearly had a lot more to say, but he just sighed and stepped away, heading for the stairs leading out of the station. “There are more important things than you right now. Let's go.”

Akira watched the boy walk away for a moment, another part of his spirit seeming to leave him. He then gave Sumire a look. “Are you… Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Sumire said.

“Okay. Yeah. Let's… let's go.”

He moved to follow Akechi, and she joined him.

Maruki's address belonged to an uninteresting apartment complex in an uninteresting neighborhood in Asakusa. The three of them walked through the pale streets, dirt-speckled concrete towers looming above them, the sounds of passersby muffled by sooty snowdrifts. Sumire found herself imagining a god watching them from on high, and became distinctly aware of how different the three of them were from the ordinary people around them. They had risked their lives to save the world, Akira more than once; their wounds were fresh and slow to heal. The woman on their left holding a young child’s hand, or the businessman jogging across the street, hadn’t had easy lives, but they hadn’t been put under such intense pressures as Sumire had. How would a god feel about that?

The apartment complex was a pillar of bleached concrete in line with the rest. Akira stared up at the top as they approached, while Akechi kept his eyes focused on the ground level. The security office in the lobby was empty. Futaba had timed their arrival to align with the guard’s lunch break, Akira explained in a muted tone. Not that the guard was who they were worried about.

A short elevator ride brought them to the seventh floor, and they were able to easily find Maruki’s door. The three of them stood in front of door 712, in a moment devoid of fanfare or poetry. There was no twisted apple tree to climb, no pulsing threads of white and black at the edge of the horizon, no infectious energy from her companions to help push her forward. It was just three teenagers and a door.

“Are you ready?” Akechi asked.

Sumire nodded.

“No,” Akira said. “But ring the doorbell anyway.”

Akechi knocked four times.

After a moment, Sumire heard movement from the other side of the door—first the creak of furniture, then footsteps. Finally the doorknob turned.

Maruki was dressed in a polo and jeans, his hair reasonably unkempt for what must have been a day off. His eyes widened as he realized who he had opened the door for. “...Akira. And Akechi and Sumire. I didn't expect this.”

Akechi frowned. “But you knew I was alive.”

“...I did.” Maruki opened the door wider. “I assume you'd like to come in?”

Akechi stepped past Maruki through the entryway. Akira followed silently, and Maruki's gaze seemed to linger on him for a moment before he turned to Sumire. “I hope you're doing well?”

“Better than before,” Sumire said, her tone colder than she had intended.

“That's good, that's good.”

If they had anything to say to each other, it died in the confined air. Sumire eventually followed her friends through into the apartment.

Maruki's living room was pedestrian to an extreme, with the only notable decorations being a picture of Rumi and an issue of a research journal on the coffee table.

“I'm not working in the field anymore,” Maruki said as Sumire's eyes latched onto it. “I’m just a taxi driver now. But I still am curious about new findings.”

Sumire nodded as she sat down on a couch, which was likely secondhand based on the pilling on the upholstery. Akira sat next to her quietly while Akechi leaned against a wall.

“I would've made tea if I knew you were coming,” Maruki said as he sat in a recliner across the room, in front of a window shrouded by white curtains. “Still, I do keep a bowl of snacks on the table out of habit. Feel free to take one.”

Sumire hadn't noticed it until he gestured to it—there it was, with the same candies and nutrition bars she remembered. A juice box sat next to it, presumably opened by Maruki before they had arrived. Seeing the collection of snacks evoked what was almost a fond memory of her past visits with the doctor. Almost.

“How have you been doing?” Maruki asked, turning to Akira. “I know that time in prison can be a difficult experience, but I hope that you've been able to have time to rest with your friends since you were released.”

Akira blanched.

“We aren't here for chit-chat and treats,” Akechi seethed. “We want answers.”

Maruki’s lips tightened, his eyes studying Akira, looking for something that wasn’t there.

“What Akechi said,” the boy mumbled.

Maruki looked between the two of them. “...Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll try to share everything that matters.”

Akechi pulled out his notebook. “We’ll decide when you’re done.”

Sumire swallowed.

Maruki wove his fingers together and leaned forward, the light reflecting off his glasses and obscuring his eyes.

“It was when I was defeated by all of you, of course. Adam Kadmon had been felled, and Akira had indulged in my desire to spar with him.”

“To get rid of all your regrets,” Akira said.

Maruki nodded. “A very dramatic request, but I had watched my own apotheosis collapse before my eyes. And it was helpful, to some extent. I realized how small my problems were, and how ill-suited I was to my own aspirations. But as I lay sprawled out on the ground, watching shards of glass fall through the sky like snow, I was still afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Sumire asked.

“Of what would happen to the world.” Maruki frowned. “Our society is deeply flawed. Even if Shido’s rise had been orchestrated by a false god, the fact that he had been elected to the Parliament before Yaldabaoth began his ‘game,’ entirely due to his own charisma and deceptions, speaks volumes to how our society operates. There truly are so many people who need help and don’t receive it, who suffer through unimaginable pain with no support or recourse, or to whom life is simply unfair. Like my dear Rumi…” He shook his head. “Why do you think I told the students of Shujin Academy that it wasn’t wrong to try to escape from their problems? It was because I saw no other recourse at the time.”

Sumire could see the tension in Akechi’s lips—he was restraining himself from responding. To let Maruki continue, she assumed?

“I knew that my false utopia deserved to collapse. But what could replace it? Who could create a world where people could heal and succeed?”

Maruki then turned to Akira, overcome with emotion. “And then as my Palace collapsed in on itself, you saved me. Me, the man who had tried to rewrite all of reality, destroy your bonds. I saw your hands outstretched to me, and I knew the answer. You were the future.”

Akira stared in disbelief.

“And I knew that I wanted to make sure you could succeed. Not control your life, but help you continue on the path to greatness. And when I realized I still had a little power left…”

“You committed murder,” Akechi finished.

“Murder?” Sumire asked.

Maruki sighed. “I couldn't create life by itself. The versions of Wakaba and Okumura in my false reality were just imitations. But an exchange of life was within my power. And if anyone was going to hold Akira back… It was his parents.”

Sumire turned to Akira in shock.

“They were found dead on February 4,” Akechi said to Sumire. “Akira didn't tell you. Only the people familiar with his legal situation were aware.”

Akira looked at the floor.

She could hear the restraint in Akechi's voice. “I suppose the reasoning for bringing me back is clear, then—one less ghost to haunt Akira. But why resurrect Isshiki?”

“Futaba doesn't need her mother back to heal,” Maruki said. “But it will improve her life, and help her grow into the woman she deserves to be. And Wakaba was an innocent woman, someone who was revolutionizing cognitive psience. She can improve the world in a way I couldn't.”

He turned to Akira. “I know this is a lot to take in, Akira, and a lot to expect from you. But I do earnestly believe that you can change the world for the better. You already have. I just want to help you succeed.”

And everyone stared at the boy who saved the world.

Akira laughed weakly.

“Akira?” Sumire asked.

“Doctor Maruki, I saved your life because I liked you.” He spoke with the bitterness of an old man. “It wasn't about forgiveness, or grace, or anything like that. I'm not some saint.”

Maruki smiled. “Nobody is, but—”

“Do you really think I wanted to save the world? To become Japan's most wanted criminal? To risk death over and over and over again? I was just trying to do the right thing. I'm not some sort of fucking… hero.” The word seemed to hurt as he said it. 

“Even so—”

“And even if I wanted to be, did you see what I did last night? I punched my own strategist because she didn't want me to hurt her girlfriend. Did you know that? Did you even care?”

“I didn’t—”

“Shut up!”

Akira shot out of his chair, knocking the coffee table askew. The juice box that had stood there ricocheted off the wall onto the floor, spilling red onto the carpet.

“I know what it feels like for people to be disappointed in me,” Akira continued, smothering Maruki’s attempt to console him. “I remember it from how my classmates looked at me two years ago. Hell, I remember it from prison two weeks ago. But I never cared about those people. I didn’t even care about my parents hating me for it—they didn’t really love me, at least not the real me. But I disappointed my friends this time. Hurt them. And that’s… That’s actually painful.

“Not that you would care,” he said as he turned to the former doctor. “You weren’t thinking about me when you tried to set up a perfect future for me. No, you were thinking of some idealized version of me in your head, some messiah that could redeem the entire world. You’re just like my parents. They just wanted me to be a perfect child. And when I wasn’t that, they punished me. Tried to bend me into shape.”

Akira’s posture shifted suddenly, as if the life had been sucked out of him. “Maybe that’s why I’m not happy that they’re dead,” he said quietly. “Or at least one reason. Because I wanted to go home and show them the person I’d become without them. To show them the friends I’d made, the people I’d helped. Show them that I would never be the person they wanted to be, and that I was better for it. And because of you, I won’t ever get that chance.”

Maruki’s mouth hung open in horror.

“It doesn’t matter,” Akira said finally as he began to walk away. “None of it matters. I’m leaving. You two can stay and—and get more answers, try to make him feel better. I don’t care.”

He stopped beneath the entrance to the hallway, his body a small and crumpled thing beneath the weight of the doorway. Then he disappeared.

Grape juice continued to spread and stain the carpet. Sumire’s ears rang quietly. Maruki continued to look down the hall, even long after Akira had slammed the door to the apartment shut.

“Is there anything else that we need to know, Maruki?” Akechi asked. “Do you still have any latent powers we need to be aware of, any plans to resurrect more people?”

“N-no,” Maruki said after a moment as he struggled to compose himself. “The Metaverse’s collapse left me as a normal person. I’ve lost my connection to Adam Kadmon, too. It’s… probably better that way.”

Akechi snapped his notes shut. “Mm.” 

“I’m sorry I made you search for me like this. I wasn’t intending to deceive you or make things difficult. I was ashamed of who I’d been, of what I’d done to all of you. I wanted to stay out of the way. And I had hoped that you would all be able to just… move forward. Towards the lives I hoped you would have.”

Akechi placed his notebook inside his coat. “Were you raised as a Christian, Maruki?”

The man blinked. “My parents were Protestant, although only casually. We only attended church for Christmas and Easter. I stopped practicing when I went to college.”

“I see.” Akechi turned his pen over in his hands. “I’m not religious myself, but I read the Bible out of curiosity in junior high. When I reached the New Testament, I found one part of the story of Christ’s crucifixion particularly interesting.

“Before he was betrayed and murdered, the anticipated savior of the world went to the Mount of Olives to pray to his father. And while he prayed, the account doesn’t record his requests for strength, or his assertions of devotion. No, the words that we know were him asking that he not become a messiah. ‘Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.’

“Christ could have said no to his God; he could have abandoned his cause and his followers, left Jerusalem, and disappeared into the night. But instead, he was perfect, and chose to sacrifice himself for the world and for his father.

Akechi gave Maruki one last scathing look. “Christ wasn’t real. He had nothing to sacrifice. And your ego was so malformed, your sorrow so entrenched, that you couldn’t understand that. But Kurusu? Kurusu has a life that matters. And he’s more of a person than you’ll ever be.”

Then Akechi walked out, leaving Sumire and Maruki alone.

A cloud passed over the sun outside, darkening the room.

“You don’t need to stay,” Maruki said, almost whispered, to Sumire. “I know I’ve hurt you and your friends.”

He’d never looked so pitiful in front of her before. His head bowed, his hands laced together—it almost seemed like he was praying for forgiveness. Sumire almost wanted to comfort him.

Her hands tremored.

“I don’t want you to hurt like this,” Sumire said as she stood from the couch. “I really do hope you can find peace, Doctor Maruki. But… I don’t think I can be a part of that.”

“...I understand.”

She tried to find something else to say, some perfect phrase to give herself a sense of closure and peace as she lingered at the edge of the room, her hand grasping the doorway. To help Doctor Maruki believe that his life wouldn’t become a series of endless mistakes.

But the words never came. And as she walked away, crossed the threshold of his apartment and closed the door behind her, she knew that she would haunt Maruki forever, just like he haunted all of them.

Chapter Text

February 21, Midday

Ryuji appeared on the rooftop the way Ann had expected him to: alone.

“Makoto wouldn't come?” Sumire asked.

“She locked the door to the student council room,” Ryuji said. “I didn't even know they were allowed to do that.”

Figures, Ann thought to herself. She would've done the same thing. Hell, she almost didn't leave the house today. She had wanted to stay curled up in the blankets of her apartment, ignorant to the consequences of what she'd done. But her apartment reminded her of Makoto now, and, well…

“At least she was able to make it to school,” Sumire said quietly.

Ryuji grabbed a chair and sat down across from the girls, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Akira is staying in Kawakami’s classroom, and Haru isn’t here today. So it’s just the three of us, then.”

Ann looked down at the sandwich she was supposed to be eating—it wasn't very appetizing. She hadn't eaten all day.

Sumire pulled at her fingers. “I should share what happened yesterday, I guess.”

“Better than stewing in silence,” Ann said.

“Yeah. Well, here goes…”

So Sumire told them, and Ann's gut turned as she listened.

“What the hell…” Ryuji said as she finished.

“There's so much to process there,” Ann said.

And she could barely conceptualize it. Akira had always kept his cool up until this point with the Phantom Thieves. Of course he got emotional sometimes: frustrated, sad, furious at the world. But he always bounced back, always persevered in the face of everything, like a tree that refused to break in the face of a typhoon. He’d never taken it out on anyone. But for him to get into a fistfight with Makoto, and then insult Maruki, even if the doctor had deserved it.… Was that strength a lie he told to reassure his friends? Or had he just been pushed too far this time?

“What the hell was wrong with Maruki, man?” Ryuji finally said, long after Sumire stopped talking. “I thought that if he brought Akechi and Wakaba back, he was trying to apologize, or something. I didn’t expect him to kill Akira’s parents for it.”

“It’s almost like we didn’t steal his heart at all,” Ann said.

“I've been thinking about that, actually,” Sumire said. 

Sumire pulled out a small notebook from her jacket. “Akechi takes notes on everything,” she explained as she noticed Ann's expression. “I’m not, um, quick enough for that, but I was trying to think about everything that happened while I was at practice last night, and I remembered him using the book. I thought it might help if I wrote my thoughts down. And I think it did.”

“Makes sense,” Ryuji said.

Ann nodded. She was a bit uncomfortable seeing Sumire was picking up habits from Akechi—but no, that wasn’t fair. Akechi wasn’t trying to hurt them anymore. She could hate what he’d done in the past, but she couldn’t be mad about him existing in the present.

“Right,” Sumire said after a moment. “So, Akechi said something last week about how he interviewed some of the Thieves’ targets, and that stealing their desires had left them aimless or confused. And that got me thinking about how little I know about distorted desires in general. We didn't know exactly what Maruki’s cognitive distortion was—we only had a vague idea based on what we saw in his Palace.”

“Yeah, that's basically right,” Ryuji said. “Any time we could've looked at a Palace's treasure in detail, we were kinda… running for our lives.”

“Or fighting a cognitive shadow,” Ann added, recalling every single mad dash they had to make when a Palace was collapsing, and the sheer exhaustion that overwhelmed them afterwards. “And when we escaped from the Metaverse, the distorted desire became just… an ordinary object.”

Sumire nodded. “Maruki believed that there were people who couldn't solve their problems on their own, who would suffer unless somebody helped them. He thought that they needed a miracle to get better sometimes. What if that wasn't part of his distorted desires? What if the cognitive distortion that formed was specifically the idea that he should be that Messiah?”

Ryuji’s mouth widened. “So when we beat him, he still wanted everyone to be saved. And if he couldn’t do it…”

“Then he'd attach his hopes to Akira,” Ann finished. “And use his powers to help him accomplish that goal.”

“Even if Akira didn't want that,” Sumire said.

“Holy shit,” Ryuji said.

And Akira held that all in. Didn't tell anyone else about his parents, or even about what Maruki thought about it. Just like Haru.

Ann put her head in her hands. “We really fucked up, didn't we.”

“I mean, what else could we have done?” Ryuji asked.

“Anything!” Ann gestured wildly. “We could've asked Akira how he was feeling instead of just watching him brood. We could've told Haru we were on her side instead of just ignoring the problem, or asked Akechi to stay away. I could’ve told Makoto—” 

She blanched. “We said we were going to look out for Haru and Makoto, but we didn’t do anything that mattered to protect them! Because we were too afraid to start a fight. So it blew up in our faces. And even the things we did went wrong. They went so, so wrong.”

Sumire and Ryuji shared a look. The rooftop fencing rattled.

“I didn't know enough about all of you to say anything,” Sumire admitted. “Or at least, that's what I told myself. If I'm being honest, I just wanted an easy out.”

Ryuji nodded. “I felt bad about the stuff everyone was dealing with. Didn't want to hurt anyone more. But I still should’ve been louder about being sensitive to Haru’s needs. ‘specially to Akira.” He looked in the direction of Yongen-Jaya. “I just didn’t think he was capable of all that…”

“And maybe it wouldn’t have mattered,” Ann said. “But at least we'd know that we tried.”

Sumire wrote something down in her notebook. Ryuji pulled on his sleeves. Something in the air had changed.

“So what do we do now?” Sumire asked.

Ann looked down at her hands. Hands that had been holding Makoto's own last night. Fingernails that she'd scrubbed dirt out from under just weeks ago while she was helping Haru in her garden. It had been a nightmare to fix the nail polish afterwards, but she would've done it again without question. Because it was for Haru.

“We have to be honest,” Ann said. “To ourselves, and to the others.”

“Right,” Ryuji said. “Hiding shit is what got us into this mess.”

Sumire nodded. “No more pretending there isn't a problem.”

“That’s if Haru gives us a chance to talk to her, though,” Ryuji said. “I don't think she's gonna just run away from us, but…”

Ann nodded, as much as her stomach was turning. Because the other two didn't realize that honesty was going to be harder for her than it was for them.

She stared at the gray clouds lingering above from the storm two days ago, a terrible certainty creeping through her body.

Chapter Text

February 21, Afternoon

A single bird’s caw rose above the river in Inokashira Park.

“They’re quieter than usual today,” Yusuke remarked, pencil and drawing pad in hand, sketching deftly despite the dry skin around his fingertips.

Akira stood next to him on a bridge, holding an umbrella to keep the snow from ruining Yusuke’s paper, his eyes focused on the rippling surface of the water running beneath him. 

“Even with the umbrella, the snow is falling on you,” Yusuke said. “Would you like to move somewhere else?”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I've been cold before.”

Yusuke nodded.

They stood in solitude for a long time. Occasionally a stranger passed them by, their face indistinguishable under a mask or scarf. Ducks squabbled with each other in the river; Akira couldn’t see what they were fighting over from where he stood. The water glimmered under his gaze.

“We’re all afraid, aren’t we, Yusuke?”

Yusuke's hand paused.

“We’re afraid of losing things. Of failing people. Of not having control. And so we become desperate, and we try to prevent our fears from coming true however we can. And our wild flailings just make things worse.”

The snow was beginning to collect on Akira’s shoulder.

“I was always able to get people to listen to me last year. I convinced you all to join the Phantom Thieves; I was able to change criminals’ hearts; hell, we got all of Japan to believe in us. And I was always doing the right thing. Even if we were manipulated into targeting Haru’s father, we had to save her. Maybe that was part of Yaldabaoth's game—that I was given the life of a hero, and people to help.”

“Are you not a hero any longer?” Yusuke asked.

Akira removed his phone from his pocket, unlocked it. The tarot reading Chihaya had given him stared back at him, his Fool sitting atop the Ten of Swords, as if promising the blades would pierce his back.

“Maybe sometimes,” Akira said. “Maybe to someone else. But mostly, I'm just a person now. One spoke in the wheel, instead of the axle.”

A burst of wind blew between the two of them.

“‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer’,” Yusuke intoned.

“Did Akechi tell you about that poem, too?”

“No. It was a fellow student of Madarame.”

“I see.” He shook his head. “Maybe I'm a falcon who never had a falconer.”

“And are we not all beasts slouching towards Bethlehem to be born?”

Akira remembered the primal terror that he'd seen in Futaba's eyes two days ago, as she'd watched him stumble to his feet after his fight with Makoto, clutching his stomach and bleeding in several places. It hadn’t been disappointment or anger he’d seen in her—just fear, fear of what he'd become in that moment, of what had happened to her brother. Maybe he had been a beast then. Maybe he always had been one, and his lashing out had removed the mask he wore to hide it.

“I'm just like Maruki,” he said as the realization came to him. “I thought I knew what was right for everyone, and I tried to control them so that they'd follow my ideal. And they fought against it, just like I deserved. Makoto, Akechi… Even Haru, as much as she's hurting right now.”

“You taught them well,” Yusuke said.

Akira laughed darkly.

“But you aren't Doctor Maruki,” Yusuke continued after a moment. “Perhaps the path forward is not clear, but I do not believe your actions have been beyond the pale, Akira.”

“I mean, I didn't try to take over the world, I guess.” He put his hands back in his pockets. “I just need to figure out how to apologize to everyone. To do right by everyone, instead of to them.”

“I believe in you.”

“Thanks, Yusuke.” Akira looked over at his drawing pad. “What is that sketch for, by the way?”

“It might be a future masterpiece,” Yusuke said as he lifted it up and examined it with the park river in view. “Or it may be an ordinary scrawl. But for now, it is what it needs to be.”

Akira nodded. “I get it, somehow.”

And the two of them watched the snow fall on the river.

Chapter Text

As Ryuji stepped onto the subway platform, he got a true curveball of a text message from Futaba.

This was the first any of them had heard from her since last night, and she was insulting him? She was always a bit of a troll over text, but she was being more grumpy than usual, even for her.

Ryuni scratched his head as he queued to enter the train that had just arrived. I mean, he wasn't opposed to getting ramen with Futaba, but he still felt like a tensed spring after the past couple days, and had been hoping to catch a movie today to try to relax. Besides, why was Futaba asking him when Akira—

He stumbled out of the line for the train car, getting strange looks as he tried to type while walking.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, Ryuji ended up inside his favorite ramen booth in Ogikubo, stomping the snow off of their boots with a muted Futaba in tow.

“That was the shortest wait I've ever seen,” Ryuji said as he brushed his sleeves down.

“Well, duh,” Futaba said as she tried to clamber onto a bench without sitting on her hair. “Have you seen the weather?”

“Trust me, the cold just makes the broth that much better. Have you ever had a bowl of hot ramen on a cold winter day?”

“No. My mom didn't make ramen.”

“Oh.”

Futaba's face darkened for a moment before she mustered up a smile. “But that's what we're here for, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah!” Ryuji did a big sniff, trying to soothe his nerves with the scent of starch and green onions. “Trust me, you gotta go with the pork bone broth. It's the nuts.”

“Well, two of those, then?”

They placed their order and watched as the chefs prepared their food in front of them. Futaba feigned interest, bur Ryuji could see the edges to her behavior that she was trying to sand down: the way her eyes darted around the edges of the booth, how she leaned towards him and away from the other customers. She was definitely better at pretending to be okay over text than in person, but she couldn't fool him anymore.

The ramen was served quickly enough. Ryuji was starving, but Futaba was watching him carefully, so he made sure to take time to savor the aroma first so she'd know the proper etiquette. Then he kept an eye on her as she took her first bite of the noodles. The last thing he wanted was for the ramen to fall flat and ruin the afternoon. Thankfully, this was the best ramen in Ogikubo, and her eyes widened as the full-bodied flavor hit her mouth. 

“Pretty good, right?” Ryuji said as Futaba slurped down a giant spoonful of broth.

“Insanely good,” Futaba spluttered out between bites.

“Told ya,” Ryuji said as he grabbed his own cluster of noodles.

They devoured their food quickly. Ryuji couldn't tell if Futaba was happier, but she did look a bit more alive with warm food in her stomach and oil around her lips. They both thanked the cooks and stepped back into the snow, which seemed to have let up only slightly.

“Feeling any better?” Ryuji asked as he pulled his hood up.

“Kinda,” Futaba said, the snow crunching under her. “Kinda like… Does you brain ever get stuck in a fog and you need something to shake you out of it?”

“Don't think so.”

“Well, that's what it's like right now,” Futaba said. “I don't feel better, but I feel more.”

“Is that good?”

Futaba stopped walking and stared into the billowing snow, watching traffic lights flash off and on. Ryuji held his tongue for once: she wouldn't talk until she was ready.

“I used to only have the fog,” she said. “After Mom died. Thinking about her hurt so much that I needed to keep myself from feeling it as much as I could. Like a defense mechanism.”

She reached her hand out to the sky, and a snowflake fell onto her palm and began to melt. “Then you all saved me from that. Especially Akira. We're like siblings now, but even more than that, I thought of him as a hero. But I guess he's not, huh?”

Ryuji stared up into the clouds and watched them drift with the storm. “You know, when I met Akechi, I thought he was just a prick.”

“He was.”

“Then after he forced us to infiltrate Sae's Palace and we realized he was setting us up, I thought he was a villain. And when we beat his ass and he broke down in front of us, I thought he was a victim.”

“Was he not?”

“I mean, if he was just a victim, he wouldn't have given up his life to beat Maruki, right? And a villain wouldn't apologize for bothering us, like he did when Akira came back.”

“...So he's not any of those things.”

“He's just Akechi.” Ryuji let the snowflakes fall onto his face. “And Akira is just Akira, and you're just you.”

“...and Mom is just Mom.”

“Huh?”

“It’s nothing, I just…” 

Futaba let out a long sigh.

“Are you okay?” Ryuji said.

“I feel like a mop that somebody just wrung out a bunch of ramen broth from.”

“That doesn’t sound okay.”

“I mean, it’s better than keeping all the soup in there. It probably starts getting moldy or something.”

“Yeah, Sojiro would kill me if I brought you back covered in mold.”

“Oh, he definitely would.” She gave him a smile. “Thanks for wringing me out, Ryuji. You’re pretty smart.”

“That doesn’t really sound like a compliment.”

She flashed him a grin and turned to head back to the station, and Ryuji’s scowl vanished as she watched her kick up snow clouds with more energy than he’d seen from her all month. If Futaba was acting like Futaba again, then he must’ve done something right. Nothing to do but take her home in one piece.

Chapter Text

February 22, Afternoon

Ever since Akechi had begun to work for Masayoshi Shido, he had experienced dreams about being a wooden puppet. His father would pick him out of a toy box and slowly attach strings to his limbs and head, then parade him in front of an audience on a child’s stage. There would be cheering, of course, but it was all directed towards the puppet master, and he was just a part of the show. And if he looked offstage with his lifeless, painted eyes, he could see his mother, hung with a noose made of the very same strings he now wore.

Even after he learned that his father had been arrested, the dream had stayed with him. His tormentor wasn't only his father now. Sometimes it was a many-armed god controlling him, with more strings attached than ever before. And other times the puppeteer was himself, moving his own black-inked puppet in line with many others—the Phantom Thieves, Shido’s conspirators, and his own victims.

As he stood in front of the Velvet Room's entrance in Shibuya on a dour afternoon, people churning around him and clouds scattered above, he couldn't help but remember the nightmare, and feel it in his bones like a bruise. But there was nothing to be done about it. He had business behind the blue door.

Akechi walked through and, after his eyes adjusted to the otherworldly light, found himself on a platform of some kind. His footsteps echoed off the marble flooring as he walked forward towards a podium immaculately carved from stained wood. It was only as he reached the stand and looked out that the full scope of his surroundings was made clear. It was a courtroom of impossible proportions, with gold-lined terraces spiraling infinitely like a fractal, lit only by strands of blue light drifting down from the ceiling.  The lecterns placed throughout were populated by faceless figures that were watching him silently. At the very bottom of the spiral waited a singular blue chair, with an unidentifiable person chained to it. There was no jury seat.

The only space with clear dimensions was where he stood. He stepped past the podium he stood at to the edge of the improbable balcony, then ran a finger along the patterns in the gilded wood. “In the French style,” he said to himself.

“Very observant of you,” a voice said.

It was Igor, sitting at his desk to one side of the platform, velvet blue carpet supporting his shined shoes. Lavenza stood at his side, a large leather tome in one hand. “Welcome to the Velvet Room.”

Akechi didn’t respond to them. “The modern architectural style of Tokyo’s government buildings always rang false to me. Why construct towers that pretend to the impartiality and honesty of justice when everyone knows it to be a false pretense? Government exists to assert power, to dominate.”

“Then who stands as dominus?” Lavenza asked.

Akechi frowned. “A year ago, I would have said my father. But if that were the case now, I would see him here.”

He wandered back to the podium and opened a drawer located partway down its length. A filing cabinet, full of folders labeled with the names of people he knew. He removed one document, reading the label: KURUSU AKIRA. “Are these yours, Lavenza?”

“We do not keep documentation about visitors of the Velvet Room,” she said.

Because they could see everything they needed at a whim, he was sure. Then this must be unique to the room’s current manifestation.

He opened the folder and looked at its first page. It was a criminal court document, with the header: “IN THE HIGH COURT OF ■■■■■, AKECHI GORO V. KURUSU AKIRA”. A brief perusal showed that the facts of the “case” contained every significant interaction between the two, from their fight on Shido’s ship to their first time playing billiards together. On the last page was a blank space to write in a verdict and sentencing instructions, followed by a line for his signature.

“It appears I've been given fiat to decide on the outcome of the case,” he said. “Although I don't know who claims authority over me.”

“If anyone has authority at all,” Igor said.

Akechi put the folder down. “Didn't Lavenza just say there was—”

“Every last part of this room,” Lavenza said, “besides the tools we use as the Velvet Room's permanent occupants, is shaped according to the circumstances you perceive yourself to be in. If the documents within state that you are subject to the rule of an unnamed force, it only indicates that you believe yourself to not be truly free.”

“Or that you're the ones still controlling my life.”

“Are you here to present an accusation?” Lavenza asked, her grip tightening around her tome.

Igor raised a palm. “Come now, Lavenza. This boy here is our guest, and is under our protection. He may speak freely.”

“But why am I under your protection?” Akechi put the manila folder down and made his way towards Igor. “Whatever status Yaldabaoth gave to me as a Wild Card should mean nothing to you. He's a false god. It follows that you must be making contact with me for your own purposes. So tell me, what exactly do you want?”

“The Velvet Room has always made itself available to those who have need of its services. This it does in service of its mission to further the future of humanity.”

“And you think I can just trust that you're telling the truth?”

“Can you trust anyone, Goro Akechi?” Lavenza asked.

The shadows under Akechi's body deepened. He froze.

“You were begotten from betrayal,” the girl said. “You didn't know this then, of course. You only knew that your mother loved you and took care of you—until she abandoned you with the hangman's noose.”

The varnish on the wood beneath Lavenza's feet began to peel.

“You bore witness to the failures of society: an underfunded orphan care system, the blatant lies of public officials, the hollowness of education in a world of exploitation. Society would never take care of you. It would extract every ounce of your spirit until you were no longer useful to it, and then it would throw you away. Any kindnesses you received existed solely to ease the consciences of those who ran the grinding mill.”

The geometry of the hall twisted and lengthened around Akechi, the strands of light reaching down and coiling around his limbs, the walls pressing inwards with a harsh glow as if they meant to swallow him. He opened his mouth to silence Lavenza, but a stabbing pain took his breath away. There was a knife stuck in his abdomen—no, a fountain pen that curved into a gleaming dagger blade at the tip, black ink leaking from it.

“So you began to play by society’s rules. You learned to deceive and manipulate, to play with others’ emotions and perceptions like they were puppets. Eventually you learned of your father, and swore to get revenge for his sins against you and your mother. And Yaldabaoth gave you the opportunity to do just that.”

The podium behind Akechi collapsed in on itself, sending shards of wood and shreds of paper flying. A single folder flew from the wreckage unharmed; Lavenza caught it with a single motion. It bore his own name.

“Why do you keep ledgers of the actions of everyone you meet, Goro Akechi? Do you expect them to betray you? Do you believe they deserve a punishment that society will never deliver?”

She opened the folder with his name, and pages began to pour out as if from the mouth of a river, filling the platform up to his neck. The papers clawed at his lips and threatened to swallow him.

“Or are you passing judgment on yourself?” Lavenza asked.

“STOP!”

In a single moment, the architecture of the room restored itself. The shadows retreated; the endless retchings of paper disappeared. The pen-knife fell from Akechi’s side and clattered onto the floor. Akechi reached a hand to where it had wounded him, and felt that the gash it had left was gone. But his coat still ran black with ink, and he could taste blood.

“What do you expect me to do?” he hissed. “Ignore my pain, stay in Tokyo, and subject myself to every lashing you can give me?”

“I never said you shouldn't leave Tokyo,” Lavenza said quietly. “I only ask if you know where you're going.”

He tried to wipe the ink off of his hands, and only succeeded at spreading it further. “I don't have to listen to this. There's nothing for me here.”

Igor's face remained inscrutable. “This will be the last you see of us, Goro Akechi. I do hope that you can reach a verdict that is to your satisfaction.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Akechi walked to the lone doorway in the alcove. “I'll do whatever I want.”

“Fare thee well,” Lavenza said, and he could tell that she meant it.

Akechi threw the door of the Velvet Room open and left.

The afternoon was as uninteresting as before, with meek sunlight poking through its edges. The door Akechi had just stepped through had disappeared. The only evidence of its presence was that the snow that had laid underneath was untouched by any footprints except his own—and a small toy, dry despite being nestled in the snow. Akechi leaned forward and grabbed it.

It was a puppet, earnestly rendered in his likeness with a sour expression and a pen in its hands. Its strings had been snapped and hung aimlessly from his grasp. And its eyes shone with the gentle brightness of a sea of stars.

Akechi recoiled and threw the puppet onto the ground. He walked back into the Shibuya crowd at a controlled pace, trying to keep himself calm. But he could never forget the light coming from those eyes.

Chapter Text

February 23, Evening

The double doors of Haru's mansion reopened, but Ann only saw a maid on the other side. “Miss Okumura says she'll come to greet you, Miss Takamaki, but she'll need some time to make herself presentable first.”

“Of course,” Ann said politely.

The maid pulled the door open further. “She said you're welcome to wait in the tea room until then. I can direct you there, Miss Taka—”

“Please, just call me Ann. And…” She paused. “I'll stay out here.”

“It's rather cold, madam.”

“I spent part of my childhood in Finland. I'll be alright.”

“If you insist. I'll come get you if anything changes with Miss Okumura.”

“Thank you.”

The maid closed the door with a nod.

Ann took a few steps away and sat down on the concrete stairs leading out to the driveway. The groundskeepers had done a good job keeping the front of the property clean, but the constant snow had kept them from completely clearing the area in front of the garage. The snow lay undisturbed where tire treads should have been. Haru hadn't left the house today.

The bustle and steam of Tokyo was absent on the isolated roads leading to Haru’s home. The snow suffocated what little noise there was, and there was no active precipitation to create motion in the stillness. Ann found herself staring at clouds like they were tea leaves, with only the chill of the ground to keep her company.

Eventually, Ann heard footsteps. Haru took a seat beside her, a thick winter coat thrown over purple silk pajamas, two mugs of tea in hand. She offered one to Ann. “You must be cold. Didn't the house staff ask you inside?”

“I spent a few years in Finland,” Ann said, but she took the drink anyway. “And it didn't feel right to go in. What if you didn't actually want to see me?”

“...I would be lying if I said I hadn't considered it.”

Ann took a sip of the tea. Chamomile, not her usual choice. Haru must have boiled the kettle for herself originally. But it had the exact amount of sugar and cream Ann liked.

“What changed your mind?”

“I broke my phone when… I broke it four days ago. I got a replacement the next day, with the same phone number. But Makoto hasn't texted me since. Only you and Yusuke have.”

Ann swallowed.

“I think… I think I need to know what happened.” Haru drank from her mug. “If you don't mind.”

“That's why I'm here. Part of it, anyway.” Ann sighed. “It’s a lot to explain.”

“That's alright.”

“Well, here goes…”

The retelling itself wasn’t difficult—Ann knew enough of Makoto’s motives from talking with her after the fight, and Sumire had kept detailed notes on the meeting with Maruki. No, the difficulty was in seeing Haru’s hands freeze up when she learned Makoto was avoiding all their friends, in the necessary efforts to talk about Akira and Akechi without taking sides. And Ann’s tongue refused to move when she tried to bring up what she’d told Makoto. Just a quiver in her tea, that’s all the urge to confess became.

When it was over, Haru took a final sip from her mug before placing it on the ground by her feet.

“I know it’s a lot,” Ann said. “And I still wish I knew more. But I can still—”

“You love her, too.”

Ann’s eyes widened in dread.

Haru’s smile was knowing, and warm like thawing ice. “You kept looking at her when you brought us chocolates last week.”

“I mean, I do think she's pretty…”

“It's not just that. I can hear the admiration in your voice when you talk about her. It reminds me of how I feel.”

“I mean, how can I not admire her when she’s…”

“The strongest woman you’ve ever met?”

Ann sank back until her head met with the stairs. “Fuuuuuuuuuck.”

“It certainly feels that way, doesn’t it?”

“It sure does.” And yet there was some relief blossoming in Ann’s chest, as if the worst had somehow passed.

The wind was steady and low, carrying the floral notes of the chamomile tea up to the sky. The concrete steps weren’t comfortable, really, but they were what she had, so Ann continued to lie down on them—and eventually Haru joined her too, the hood of her coat pulled up as a cushion.

“I told myself that I needed to be stronger,” Haru said. “Like Makoto was. I thought I couldn’t let my grief or my trauma hold me back. But when you told me about Akira’s parents, I realized how foolish I was. Because I’d never want him to fight through that pain alone, would I? But I expected myself to do it.”

“You sound like you already forgive him.”

“I  think I see myself in him. As for the rest of it, I'm still… too close to it all to say.”

Haru's hands still trembled.

“Yeah, that's fair. That's…” Ann watched her breath spiral into the cold air. “I hope you don't feel like I'm pressuring you, Haru. I just… Makoto thinks she  failed you, and she's going to avoid you because of it. So I wanted to make sure you knew what happened, since you're going to have to initiate.”

“I don't suppose I can ask you to reach out to her for me, can I?”

“Well, she hasn't talked to me since that night either.”

“Even though she went to you?”

“I might have accidentally said I love her while she was there.”

“...Accidentally?”

“She was talking down to herself, and I was trying to compliment her, and the words sort of… slipped out.”

Haru managed to chuckle. “Oh, Makoto…”

The weight in Ann's chest lightened once again.

“Would you… like to come in for a while?” Haru sat up from the concrete and grabbed both of their mugs. “I just received a box of artisan chocolates from a relative, and I won't be able to finish it myself.”

“Are you sure I won't be imposing?”

“I insist.”

Haru's expression was kind, but clearly pleading. Ann restrained herself from slapping her forehead. “I'd love to, Haru.”

“Thank you, Ann.”

“Anything for you, Haru.” And she meant it.

Chapter Text

February 25, Evening

Akira wasn't sure why he was in Sojiro's living room. Well, he knew that Futaba had barred him and Wakaba from the kitchen for the evening, and that he could occasionally hear Futaba's yelps and the clanging of pots from the doorway leading in. But the details were a mystery.

Him and Wakaba were sitting on separate couches, doing nothing in particular as they waited. The television was set to a random news channel, with mouths opening and closing endlessly, but neither of them were listening.

“Do you have any clue what she's cooking?” Wakaba asked.

Akira sniffed the air. “Smells like there’s a dashi broth of some sort, but that doesn't say much.”

“Well, Sojiro's keeping an eye on her, so it should be okay.” She grinned. “Mostly okay.”

Wakaba’s smile faded as she watched Akira look away from her. Shards of snow pressed down against the windows. 

“I'm sorry about the fight,” Akira said. “And that you had to carry me home.”

Wakaba shrugged as casually as she could. “It was a pointless fight, but I'm not going to let you get arrested after everything you've done for Futaba. Especially when Shido’s conspirators want an excuse to lock you up. They don't deserve the satisfaction.”

“They don't.”

Something was playing on the news, something unimportant that didn't involve him. He used to pay attention to the news, to see if anyone mentioned might be a potential target for the Phantom Thieves. Or to see when Akechi was on the talk shows.

“You liked that boy, didn't you?” Wakaba asked.

There was no point in pretense. “Yeah. I did.”

Wakaba watched the TV flicker. “They say love is something you can’t choose, but that's only half right. You don't choose who you catch feelings for, but everything after that is up to you. Do you pursue them? Do you give up your life or friends or career for them?”

“Sounds like you were in love once.”

“I was committed to the relationship.  He wasn't. That's the other catch—love needs to go both ways. You both need to make sacrifices.”

A headline scrolled by on the news chyron: “SHIDO PLEADS GUILTY ON CORRUPTION CHARGES”.

“He wouldn't have given up anything for me,” Akira said, then paused. “No, that's not right. He couldn't have.”

“I know what it’s like. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

The news anchors continued talking meaninglessly. The sounds from the kitchen had died down somewhat, although the aromas invading the room had only gotten stronger.

“She must be nearly done,” Wakaba said. And as if on cue, Sojiro stepped into the living room with a harried expression. “Alright, the kid wants you in now. You coming?”

Akira and Wakaba shared a look, then stood from their seats and filed into the kitchen. Steam was rising pleasantly from a pot on the stove, although small oil splatters on the nearby counter indicated a battle of some kind had been waged before. The dining table had been set up with four soup bowls and accompanying spoons and chopsticks; Futaba was presently washing the rest of the table down with a damp rag, trying to avoid touching the utensils. “Agh, I should’ve done this first!”

“Do you want help serving?” Sojiro asked.

Sharply: “No!” Then softer, “Thanks, but no. This is my thing.”

The rest of them sat at the table and watched as Futaba finished wiping the table down, then placed udon noodles in each of their bowls, followed by bringing the large pot from the stove to the table and giving each of them a generous ladleful of curry from it. She had made curry udon, and although the soup’s texture was slightly lumpy and the vegetables inside were cut unevenly, it still looked quite good.

“Thank you for cooking, Futaba,” Wakaba said as she reached for her chopsticks, only to be stopped by Futaba dropping her pot on the table and grabbing her wrist.

“Sorry,” the girl said as she pulled her hand back. “I just… I wanted to say something first. Before we eat.”

Her eyes flicked between Wakaba and Akira. They nodded.

“Okay. Right.” 

Futaba put the curry pot back on the stove and returned to the table, taking a seat. Sojiro was still standing to the side awkwardly—she must've asked him to earlier.

She pulled on her fingers as her mouth shifted awkwardly, like there was a bone she couldn't spit out. Akira waited. It was the least he could do after everything. 

“I’d never made t-this before,” Futaba said. “Well, I’ve never even cooked a full meal before. You both know how much instant ramen I eat.”

Wakaba smiled, and Futaba quivered slightly. “And I probably messed something up when I made it. And it’s probably not going to taste how I imagined. But I wanted to make it anyway, and I want to keep trying to get better at cooking, because… because…”

She looked between Wakaba and Akira awkwardly. “Well, I mean, um… I know things are awkward between everyone right now, and I kinda messed some of it up, and… I can’t…” She looked down at the tiles. “Maybe we could learn to cook together? As a… as a family?”

Wakaba’s eyes widened. Sojiro dropped a dishrag he’d been holding. And Akira…

He knew what it meant to lose a piece of your soul, now. To see a relationship be torn into and mutilated by his own hands, and to watch the silence that followed, interrupted only by dripping viscera. He wasn't completely alone: Ryuji and Sumire had checked in on him at Leblanc, and he'd gotten texts from several of the others. But that didn't clean the blood off his hands, didn't change that he was a beast who had taken the veins of light connecting him to his friends and severed them.

But here Futaba was: standing in front of him, holding the shared light they had lost in her hands, offering it back. A torch held aloft in the cold like a brilliant star.

He almost crushed his sister in a hug, his tears dripping down onto her hair. Wakaba joined and pulled Sojiro in with her. Eventually Futaba had to pull everyone apart to avoid being squeezed like a lemon.

The curry udon was the best any of them had ever had.

Chapter Text

February 27, Afternoon

Sweat clung to Makoto's forehead as she slammed her fists into her standing punching bag. She'd turned to it years ago when her sister had stopped having time to train in aikido with her. She'd relied on it as an outlet for emotions she couldn't understand before she'd awakened to her Persona, and used it to practice fighting with the aggression needed in the Metaverse. Now she was using it to drive away the dull, painful buzzing in her own head.

But there was no relief in it, no catharsis in the twinges of pain in her wrists. Anger was supposed to be clarifying—it was what she'd learned once she'd awakened to Johanna, once she'd stopped ignoring the dread that had been growing day by day in her breast. Pain and fury were supposed to tell her what mattered. But instead she could only remember the blows she'd landed in Akira's solar plexus and the horror on Futaba's face afterwards. She felt the stiffness in Haru's hand as she lied about having visited Akechi, as she lied about the intensity of her distress, as she hid her pain from everyone. And Makoto had failed them. With every punch, every bead of sweat, she'd failed them.

The doorbell rang. Makoto grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat off her forehead, then left her room and went to the door. They didn't get people knocking often. Maybe Sae had forgotten her keys? She had been coming home earlier ever since she'd begun her preparations to leave prosecution behind. She was about the only person Makoto could imagine letting in. Anyone else, even Ryuji or Sumire, would probably get an apology at most from her. 

She opened the door. It was Haru.

She'd never seemed more genuine. Not that Haru wasn't a genuine person, but there was none of the makeup that she wore for social expectations’ sake, and her outfit was just a coat and leggings instead of purposefully matched pieces. She looked cold.

“I’m sorry about not telling you I was coming,” Haru said, quietly.

Makoto nodded. Her throat was dry.

“I just want to talk. Can I come in?”

Another nod. 

Makoto’s father had collected sake cups. Not the beautiful kind, the pieces one could see in a museum, but cheap things with aquariums and cities printed on. The shelves of their old apartment had always been populated with knickknacks from as far back as Makoto remembered, but she remembered the sake cups the best, because her father would always use a different set whenever guests visited. When Makoto had asked, he told her that he could point at each of them and remember who he’d last drank from it with.

The living room of the Niijima apartment wasn’t decorated. Sae and Makoto had moved in several years after their father had died, and had chosen not to display any of their father’s trinkets. Her sister had chosen quality handmade furniture for the space, pieces that emphasized restraint and craftsmanship, and yet the room had never felt truly human.

There were two couches in the room, placed perpendicular to fill a corner. Makoto and Haru sat on one couch each.

“Did someone tell you about…”

“Ann explained everything,” Haru said.

Makoto’s eyes flared. She’d expected to have to explain why she’d punched Akira, but if Haru knew everything, then…

And yet Haru seemed so gentle, still. Makoto had seen her angry before: in Okumura’s Palace, when she learned about Akira being in jail, after he and Akechi had left Leblanc to visit the Velvet Room. Haru’s hands were shaking, but she was able to look at Makoto calmly. It was almost like the girl had reached some sort of decision, without Makoto’s help.

The ceiling fan buzzed.

“He punched me first,” Makoto said.

Haru didn’t speak.

“I shouldn’t have shown up to Leblanc, or called him a coward, or egged him on. But he punched me first. I was only defending myself.”

“Why did you confront him like that?” Haru said.

“I wanted to protect you. Even if you weren’t telling me what was wrong, or who you were talking to. I had to do something to help.”

“And I didn’t tell you what I actually needed.”

“You didn’t.” Makoto’s voice quivered somewhere between anger and disbelief. “The fact that you visited Akechi without telling anyone… without telling me? How could you?”

“I had to. The pain was building and building, and if I hadn’t done anything about it…” Haru looked towards a solitary window. “But it happened anyway.”

“Because of Akira.”

“Because of…” Haru sighed. “I don’t want to blame anyone, Makoto.”

“You don’t—did you read what he said? And he doubled down when I confronted him! We can’t just let him say things like—”

“Makoto.”

She stopped, gritted her teeth. Breathed in and out. “I’m sorry.”

Time ticked by with the clock on the wall. Makoto’s hands ached. There were ghosts in the room, but they seemed only to weigh down on Haru’s shoulders, while the ones around Makoto were prodding her heels, trying to push her forward, towards conflict, towards…

“I’m sorry I made you fight for me, Makoto.”

“You don’t have to—”

“You know I do.”

Makoto flexed her hands. She nodded.

“I thought this was the kind of problem I had to solve for myself. That placing burdens on everyone was unfair to them. But you all found me when I was at my lowest, taught me how to fight in the Metaverse. You were all there for me right after my father died. Especially you and Akira.

“The pain I’m dealing with around Akechi and my father is more messy than that. It’s more difficult for people to work around their feelings. But that doesn’t mean I should hide from everyone else. It just means I need to be honest.”

“And if they’re like Akira?”

“Then at least we know.” Haru smiled. “And not everyone will be like Akira. Some of them will be like you.”

Makoto looked away. “I’m not just going to forgive him.”

“I only want you to forgive yourself, Mako-chan.”

“I…”

Makoto squeezed her legs. She looked at the empty walls around her, bereft of human touch. “When I was little, I asked my dad everything. About the best foods to have for breakfast, about how to stop kids from fighting over the best seats at lunch. Even when he was working long nights for multiple days in a row, he’d always make time to give me answers.”

“He was a good man.”

“He was. And I still asked him for help as I got older. I had fewer questions, but harder ones. And he always tried his best to answer. Until he was gone. I’ve always missed him, but I don’t think I’ve needed his advice more than I do now.”

“I don’t know if it gets easier,” Haru said quietly. “But I think we can figure out something.”

She was saying it so easily, as if Akira hadn't pushed her into hiding, as if Makoto hadn't lost her faith in everyone she knew, hadn't thought of kissing Ann's lips that night and leaving Haru behind. Part of her wanted to follow Akechi into the dark tunnels of solitude and never come back out. At least that way she couldn't fail anyone else.

But Haru’s brow was tight. She wasn't speaking easily, but fervently. She had faith in herself, somehow, after all this time. Faith in Makoto, after everything that had happened. Faith to see through the pain and terror and find something more.

She could hear her tears blotting the couch. “I can't do it alone, Haru. It needs to be together. It needs to be.”

Makoto reached across the couches in search of Haru's hand, and found it. Their fingers interlocked shakily.

“It will be this time, Mako-chan. I promise.”

Chapter Text

March 10, Evening

The sun was sinking into the horizon as Sumire waited outside a small arcade near Shujin Academy. She pulled her gloves on tighter to cover the cold exposed skin on her wrists. That was her fault, though: she’d arrived early, and Akira was always slightly late to hangouts.

Sure enough, Akira arrived two minutes late. “Hey, Sumire.”

Sumire bowed out of habit, then blushed. “Hello, senpai. What did you want to meet me here for today?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to play some air hockey.”

He probably did, but Morgana wasn’t with him, so this wasn’t truly casual for him. Was there something he wanted to talk about? If there was, Sumire wasn’t going to force the issue now. “I haven’t played air hockey in ages. I wonder how good I’ll be.”

“I’m the one that should be worried, honestly.”

“That’s not true, senpai. Nobody can match your dexterity at arcade games.”

He moved to the arcade door. “Let’s find out.”

The arcade was on the cheaper end of the places Sumire had been, with thinly painted white walls and a sparse board of prizes near the entrance, although it did have a full batting range setup towards the back. Students in school uniforms with loose collars were rolling skee-balls up ramps; one boy near the back was drifting through the easy courses of a rhythm game. It was as if they were waiting for something else to take them away from the arcade.

Sumire and Akira found the air hockey tables, which were installations from the 2000s with a surplus of LEDs lining the edges. They started playing and, sure enough, Akira was beating her, but by far less of a margin than she had expected.

“How’s gymnastics training going?” Akira asked as he angled a shot to bounce behind Sumire’s wrist.

“It’s definitely gotten more serious,” she said while responding with a straight rebound. “My coach has been pushing me harder than ever before.”

“Too early to see results, probably.”

“Definitely. But I’m staying motivated.”

Akira took a shot aiming at a bend in the rink’s plastic frame to create an unusual rebound angle. He would’ve executed it perfectly two months ago. He missed it today, and Sumire was able to lock the puck down and score. “Very motivated,” he said.

“Or maybe just lucky.”

Akira shot her a look above the rim of his glasses. “Did anyone tell you about the third eye?”

“I think Futaba mentioned it once.”

He retrieved the puck and started another volley. “It came from Yaldabaoth. He let me see hiding places in Palaces, treasure in Mementos, people who'd be useful to me in the real world. I could also use it to slow time down. Like a light switch.”

“It must have been useful.”

“It was cheating. And it's gone. It's just me now.”

So he’d been using the third eye to supplement his reflexes. Sumire was a little jealous at first—imagine how useful that could be to help her stick a landing during a routine. But she remembered the unease she'd felt imagining a god watching her above the streets of Asakusa. She wouldn't be able to handle that sensation every day of her life. How did it feel for Akechi to see Lavenza standing at every street corner?

They kept going until long after they lost track of their score, working up a light sweat. Akira’s eyes turned to the batting cages as they walked away.

“Do you want to go in?” Sumire asked.

“Only if you want to.”

Sometimes Akira had a tendency to bounce back questions with another of his own. Not today. Was this deference? “It sounds fun.”

“Alright.”

They found an employee to reserve a cage for them, then went in. It was a dim concrete area, with several batting areas separated by nets and dotty tarps hung up for aiming. They were the only people inside.

“You can go first, senpai,” Sumire said as she took a seat in the back section of the cage. “I want to stretch.”

“Sure thing.”

Sumire began doing seated stretches as Akira walked into the batting area. She could feel the chill of the metal seats even through her clothes, and dust irritated her nose. Her arms burned pleasantly as she pulled them across her chest. She hadn’t felt things like this a year ago—her senses had been that detached while under Maruki’s influence. She could know the bat was cold or hot, but she wouldn’t be able to sense how it felt to her. She had scalded her tongue several times while drinking tea because of it. Not anymore.

But even compared to last month, she was noticing things she wouldn’t have paid attention to earlier. Akira’s batting rate, for example, was notably lower than usual, about 60 percent instead of nearly 90 like before, and with far fewer home runs. That could be another consequence of losing the third eye. But the unsteadiness in his grip around the bat’s handle wasn’t.

After about five minutes at bat, Akira paused the machine and stepped away, walking back into the spectating area. “Do you want a turn?”

Sumire looked at the unused machines around her—they could always rent another. But Akira was probably looking for a chance to stop. “I’ll be right up.”

The metal bat was slightly imbalanced. She reached for the controls of the batting cage and set it to 80 kilometers per hour, then planted her feet firmly in place and tightened her grip. Remember to keep your eye on the ball’s trajectory and follow through with your swing. Akira had told her this.

Her first hit was solid, landing due west of the pitching machine. She'd gone to enough baseball games with her father to know it was probably a single.

Thunk-ting. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk-ting. It became a rhythm, each swing leading into the next, hit and miss alike.

“I still have a power of sorts from last year,” Akira said after a minute. “Probably from the Velvet Room, instead of Yaldabaoth.”

“What is it?”

“It’s… You know how they call relationships between people “bonds” or “connections”? It’s literal for me, at least with the people I met last year. They’re like threads of light. If I reach out, I can sort of…” 

He grasped onto something in the air, and Sumire felt a tug in her chest coming from Akira’s direction. She shivered and whiffed her next swing.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t do that often.”

“It’s fine,” Sumire said, taking another swing. She could feel the runner’s high building in her again—still the wrong word, still sublime. Her clearest epiphanies in the past weeks had come during these moments of peak athletic performance. It wasn’t something she’d noticed until journal writing had given time and place to her thoughts. But she pulled herself away from the feeling now. She didn’t need an epiphany; she wanted to listen.

“Every connection is a little different,” Akira said. “It depends on my relationship with that person. A lot of them are tense after… after what happened last month.”

“What about ours?”

He reached out into the air again, grasped something without pulling. “It’s strong, tight. Still healthy. Thank you for that.”

Another miss. “I know what it’s like to hurt people because you’re scared, senpai.”

“Yeah.”

Two more misses, then finally a hit again. Thunk-ting. Thunk. Thunk.

“Makoto’s thread is frayed. One wrong touch and it’ll snap. Akechi’s is… It’s not gone. Just slack.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I’m not totally sure. Something similar happened with Kawakami at one point, but not to the same extent. I think…”

He inhaled audibly.

Sumire put her bat down and turned to him. For a moment, she could see the thread connecting them, glimmering gold and silver and coral red.

“I know that he needs his distance from me. I know he does. Maybe he doesn't ever want to see me again.” There were tears in Akira’s eyes. “I don’t know if I can survive that, but I’ll have to.”

The netting between Sumire and Akira occluded his face like prison bars.

“But I’m more worried about if he can survive it. Being alone, in a new city. No social connections. No one who knows who he is beneath the facade. Not even revenge to keep him company.”

Baseballs rolled around Sumire’s feet like bruised apples. Thump. Thump. Thump. She had the same doubts as he did. But what was she supposed to do?

Akira slumped forward. “You knew I had to say something tonight, huh?”

Sumire turned the pitching machine off, put the bat down. “I did.”

“You’re one of a kind, Sumire.”

Sumire left the cage and sat next to Akira. She put her hand on his.

“You know, I think I get a lot of happened now,” he said. “What I did wrong, what I didn’t understand. But what I don’t get is how I feel about my parents. There’s no rope for me to pull on there.”

“A third cousin died when I was five,” Sumire said quietly. “I had never met them, but I went to the funeral with my family. Everyone was sad. Most people were crying. I was a little sad too. But I didn’t loseanything.”

“No, it's not that. It's…” Akira sniffed. “You smell like bread.”

Sumire lifted her sleeve up to her nose—sure enough, there was the warmth of yeast and red bean. “I went to the bakery with my father after school. He works the evening news, but he makes time for me on days where I don't have practice.”

“That's good. I'm glad that he…”

Akira's hand quivered.

“Senpai?”

“My father. He never did that sort of thing. He never…”

The dam broke, and Akira began to sob in large heaves, desperate for breath. Sumire pulled an arm around him, and they sat there together, baseballs hitting the ground around them, mourning what he had never had.

Chapter Text

March 19, Morning

Akechi sanitized his sewing needle with rubbing alcohol and pricked his upper arm with it. Sure enough, a small dot of red formed on his skin. The world was as it ought to be.

He applied a small bandage before returning to his bed and laying on top of the sheets. He had woken up about 20 minutes before his alarm, and the sun wasn’t visible from his westward-facing apartment window yet. Normally, he would’ve started his morning routine, but this was his last proper morning in his apartment. His departure for Kyoto was scheduled for early tomorrow, and everything he owned would be packed in luggages by then. He’d already disposed of his excess belongings to avoid incurring fees, so he was essentially living in an empty tenement.

He hadn’t had a single intelligible dream since he’d last visited the Velvet Room. He stared at the white ceiling and wondered if his bedroom had been painted a different color once. Maybe the next tenant would put a child in the room, or perhaps a couple would squeeze a queen bed into the space. Someone else could turn it into a home. Not him.

He laid there until his phone alarm went off at 6 AM. He stood from his bed and went to the restroom to prepare for the day.

He refused to look in his reflection’s eyes.

“I’m surprised you agreed to this,” Sae Niijima said as she walked over to Akechi outside the restaurant she’d chosen, her silver hair shifting with the afternoon breeze.

“I would be eating out anyway,” Akechi said, arms folded. “I decided I may as well save some money by letting you treat me.”

“I meant the conveyor belt sushi.”

“If that still bothered me, we wouldn’t have a working relationship.”

A smile. “I suppose that’s reassuring.”

The restaurant was fairly quiet due to it already being half past one. A few teenagers taking advantage of school break were scattered around various tables, chattering over the gimmick prizes the restaurant awarded for every few clean plates. One quiet man in a business suit sat in a corner, alone with several portions of tamago.

“You said you were interviewing for a defense attorney firm earlier today?” Akechi said as they sat down near the back of the restaurant.

“Finalizing my offer.” Sae removed her coat and put it on her lap. “I’ll be an associate at the firm. It’s a demotion compared to my previous position, but given the circumstances, it’s still very generous.”

“I’d consider the demotion to be a benefit in your case. The less reason Shido’s allies have to pay attention to your legal career, the better.”

“I’ll still be assisting in the prosecution of Shido himself for some time.”

“Never mind, then.”

Sae gave him a serious look. “I won’t let them silence me, Akechi. You have my word.”

“It hardly matters to me,” he said as he turned to examine the dead fish rolling by him. “I’m no longer involved in the case.”

She didn’t say anything to that, even though she surely had an entire imploration she could give on the spot. He could see it in the twitch at one side of her mouth. It was a tell of hers that he would never see again.

The conversation turned to other things as they began to eat. The sushi was thoroughly average, as usual. Akechi struggled through an uncomfortably dry piece of salmon nigiri as Sae told him more about the defense firm she was joining.

“I actually learned about the firm’s director through the man who will be your government contact in Osaka,” she said. “He recommended them via email once he learned about my planned career change.”

“How generous of him.”

“He’s a good man. I’ve told him that you’d prefer a hands-off approach to mentorship.”

“If he chooses to be involved with it at all.”

“Like I said, he’s a good man.”

Akechi said nothing.

After their lunch concluded, Akechi returned home to pick up workout clothes before going to an indoor rock climbing gym. The intention was to exhaust himself, and because he hadn’t needed to go to the Metaverse in over a month, it was easy to do. No exercise regimen could match the exertion required when fighting for your life. He hoped to never be that tired again.

He returned home to shower before taking the train to Kichijoji. It was a purposeless choice at first—he would’ve stayed in his apartment all day if it didn’t feel haunted. He wandered the sunlit streets there for a long time, watching students from all around Tokyo celebrate the end of another school year with shopping bags and friends in tow. He bought a serving of takoyaki and found himself checking to see if there was a red ball of dough hidden underneath the curling bonito flakes. There wasn’t.

Eventually afternoon became evening and the streets crowded past his comfort level. Without anything else to do, his feet carried him to Jazz Jin. There wouldn’t be a vocal performance tonight, and he didn’t particularly want the introspection the place always invited in him, but he went anyway. 

The manager greeted him loudly at the door; it was still reasonably early in the night, so the bar hadn’t crowded yet. “Good to see you, Akechi!”

Akechi wasn’t remembered as the Detective Prince, but Maruki had deigned to preserve his status as a regular at the jazz club. “Hello,” he mumbled.

“Your timing’s good. No vocal performance, but we’ve got a new pianist in tonight, a good one. Want the usual?”

“That’ll be fine.”

He tipped his hat to Akechi. “I’ll let the servers know. Pick whatever seat you like.”

Akechi found a table a reasonable distance away from the performance stage. His drink came soon enough, a cranberry red mocktail, and he drank it quietly as he listened to the music, which was good as always. The new pianist was young and nervous, with stray black hairs poking out from his coiffure, but he followed the wandering melody of the brass effortlessly. He looked too similar to Akira.

When he was about halfway through his mocktail, the manager greeted a new customer at the door. They spoke too quietly for Akechi to hear their voice.

One minute later, Wakaba Isshiki sat down across from him.

Akechi shot up from his chair.

Wakaba raised a hand towards him. “Goro-kun, please.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said through gritted teeth as he grabbed his jacket.

“Akechi-kun. Please.”

“Neither of us will benefit from this.”

“You’re the only other person who knows what it’s like to die.”

He stared at her, his eyes swollen. She stared back.

He suffocated the burning white in his mind and sat back down.

Wakaba was wearing jeans, trainers, and a hoodie. Akechi had met her several times during his first few weeks of working with Shido, and had only ever seen her in professional clothes. She looked out of place. She was out of place.

“You wouldn’t have come if I told you ahead of time,” Wakaba said.

“How did you even know I was here?” Akechi asked. “I didn’t put this in a digital calendar. Were you surveilling me?”

“Akira mentioned this was a favorite place of yours, and so I’ve been coming to Kichijoji and watching the entrance for a week now.” She pulled up the hood  for a moment and pulled a surgical mask out of her pocket to demonstrate how she’d hidden from him. “I’ve eaten a lot of yakisoba.”

“Did you truly have nothing better to do?”

She shrugged. “That doctor didn’t bother to rewrite my life history, so I’m still dead, legally speaking. Sojiro is having trouble getting false documents that’ll stand up to scrutiny.”

“So you can’t apply for work or government aid. What a damn mess Maruki left us.”

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

His hadn’t been.

The band shifted into a downtempo piece. A few more guests filed in, and the waitstaff brought Wakaba her drink—no alcohol. She sipped it quietly, then asked, “How long were you dead for?”

He found himself answering despite himself. “Only for a day or so, as far as I can tell. I suspect Yaldabaoth prevented my soul from properly passing on until his defeat, when Maruki took hold of it.”

“It was over two years for me.” Wakaba stirred her drink. “I was distraught at first. My death was deeply unpleasant, and Futaba had been left without me. I remember trying to scream in that sea of souls, only to realize that I didn’t have a voice. I’m eternally grateful that Sojiro did right by her.”

She didn’t seem to be trying to extract an apology from him; she was just being honest.

“It took me a long time to accept that it was over,” she continued. “I thought that I had the right to go back and be with my daughter. My favorite professor from graduate school had passed a year before me, and he agreed. I couldn’t tell you how long we talked together. Time isn’t normal back there, and you can’t keep track with sake cups.” She laughed to herself. “And then I woke up in Sojiro’s attic.”

“I didn’t speak with anyone,” Akechi said.

She nodded. “How did it feel for you? To be there, I mean.”

Akechi stared up at the large bulbs hanging from the ceiling, casting the whole room in a false warmth. It was nothing like that place.

“Did you ever think you were better than other people, Isshiki-san?”

“Absolutely. I was a faster learner than my peers, and I considered that to be more important than it was. It wasn’t until I watched Futaba take her first steps that I was properly humbled.”

“After my mother died, I never considered anyone important except myself,” Akechi said. “It was a defense mechanism. I never shared food with hungrier children at the orphanage; I never helped other students until my public persona required it. My entire life was focused on my survival, and then my revenge. Murder was easier when I could say that I mattered more than the people I killed.

“When I failed to defeat my father, I was bereft of a reason to live, and so I accepted my death. But that wasn’t good enough for Maruki, so I spent another month fighting for my right to disappear. Not because I wanted to die, but because no one else deserved to decide my fate.” A pause. “Then I died properly, and went to that place.”

“And?” Wakaba asked.

Akechi tightened his grip around his drink. “I was confronted by the enormity of every person who had ever lived and died. Every soul shone with such light in that soft darkness, as bright as they should have in this life. And in that place of fundamental equality, in the soft peace of the night, I was forced to recognize that the ideas I had built my life upon were wrong.”

A nod. “It almost feels like something out of a thought experiment. It’s so elegantly simple.”

“And then… Then I woke up in the bedroom of a boy I had tried to kill, next to someone that I had killed.”

“And you left before I could find out who you were.”

He frowned. “Would you really have wanted me to stay?”

Wakaba took a sip of her drink. “If I say it’s water under the bridge, would you throw your drink at me?”

His hand twitched. “I’d strongly consider it.”

“Why?”

“Because you should stay away from me.”

“For whose sake, Akechi-kun? Yours or mine?”

His lips tightened.

Wakaba took a swig of her drink. “Look, I didn’t come here to push you. I have other reasons. First, I wanted to see if my memories of the afterlife were true representations or just the human brain trying to construct meaning out of neural impulses. You’ve made it clear that there is a commonality to our experience, and therefore something real to it. Thank you for that.”

“I only said what you asked.”

“I’m thanking you anyway,” she said. “Second, I was curious. I had never met you, and for better or worse, everyone in my life does talk about you from time to time. I wanted to at least have my own impression of you.”

“Good for you.”

She chuckled. “I figured you’d prefer honesty over trying to protect your feelings.”

He didn’t say anything.

“And finally,” she said after a pause, “I wanted to tell you how I felt.”

Of course she did. Everyone wanted to tell him how they felt about his life, his actions, the blood on his hands. Usually he could just ignore it. But Wakaba was a victim. He prepared himself for a taste of hell.

She stood up from the table and finished her drink. “But I don’t think you want to know how I feel, do you? And I don’t think it’d help anybody. The last thing I should be doing is tying another weight to your legs.”

He released his grip on his leg. “Really.”

“Surprised?”

“I killed you.”

“You don’t need me to tell you that, do you?” 

She turned to leave, but stopped after taking two steps. “Still, I am from an older generation than you, so I will say one last thing.”

“Of course you will.”

“What can I say? I talk too much.” 

Wakaba took a deep breath and looked up at the lights. “Everyone hurts people, Akechi. You’re not better at it than anyone else. So don’t tell yourself that you’re any different.”

Then she walked away, and left Akechi sitting alone.

Chapter Text

March 19, Evening

Futaba's shoulders sagged as she reached across Leblanc’s sink for another potato to peel. “I really shouldn't have said we should learn cooking.”

Akira chuckled from his seat at the counter where he was wiping down the counter. “Well, you were probably thinking of home cooking. That doesn’t usually require you to peel this many potatoes.”

“I don’t think there’s a good amount of potatoes to peel.”

“What about the last one?”

“That’s a list index, not an amount.”

“A what?”

Futaba turned to him. “Have you not done any computer programming before?”

“You act like I should know everything.”

“I mean, not everything, but that’s like… week two sort of stuff.”

“Week two of a class I’ve never taken. Shujin’s traditional.”

“I hate old people.”

“Me too, ‘Taba. Me too.”

They continued to chatter as Futaba prepared ingredients for a huge pot of curry and Akira got the place appropriately clean. It was all talk about nothing: the trailer for the newest season of Featherman, the awful crepe Akira had eaten with Ann the other day, the worst books he’d had to read at Shujin. But they were the kind of nothings that settled his nerves. 

The weather had been unusually warm for March earlier in the day, but afternoon was descending into evening, and an early spring chill was settling over the streets of Yongen-Jaya, one that he’d never felt before. Soon April would be here, and he would know what it was like to relive a season in Tokyo. But not yet.

The first person to come through the door was Sumire. She waved hello to the two of them and took a seat in one of the booths, more quiet than usual. Akira could guess why, and didn’t say anything. There was nothing to be said.

The next person to come through the door was Morgana, carrying a bag of groceries with his teeth. “I shtill donf thinf thish ish efficiensh,” he said as he dragged the bag across the floor, bottles rattling inside. 

Futaba bent down and picked up the soy sauce, then drizzled a small amount into the curry pot. “Look, you can’t pay rent, so this is the next best thing.”

Morgana spat out the bag handle. “You aren’t making Akira pay rent!”

“I’m not an adult,” Akira said.

“My human form was your age in January!”

“That doesn’t count,” Futaba said.

The two of them continued to bicker for a while. Akira listened silently, continuing to clean the counter even after it was spotless.

The next person through the door was Haru.

The cafe went quiet. Haru walked up to the bar and took a seat across from Akira, her finger entwined in her lap. “Hello, Akira.”

“Hey, Haru.”

Akira wasn’t the kind of person who knew exactly what to say anymore. The two of them said nothing for a while, just stared down at the counter.

But he had to say something. So he just said, “I fucked up, Haru. And I won’t do it again. I promise.”

Haru nodded. “I know, Akira. And… I really do forgive you.”

Somehow, she was smiling. Akira smiled back.

“And if he does it again, I’ll take his computer,” Futaba said.

Haru giggled. “It’ll probably stop working before that happens.”

“It’s true,” Akira said. “It crashed three times yesterday.”

Things slowly began to move again. Haru kept her seat at the booth, and got up at one point to supervise Futaba’s cooking with Sumire. But even though one knot had loosened in Akira’s gut, he couldn’t relax.

Five minutes later, Makoto walked in.

She looked cold, even with the leather jacket she was wearing. She walked past Akira without looking at him, moving to where Haru was at the stove and saying something that he couldn’t hear. They probably arrived separately to avoid overwhelming him, or maybe just so Makoto wouldn’t see him letting Haru down. He wasn’t sure which.

Makoto kissed her girlfriend on the cheek after a moment and walked back to where Akira was. She didn't take a seat, just stood stiffly across from him, staring at the Sayuri hanging on the wall. He could tell she wanted to speak, so didn't say anything himself.

“I don't know if I forgive you,” she said finally.

He nodded.

“I don't hate you. You’ve saved my life, probably several times. But you broke everyone's trust, and you hurt Haru. And I just can't… I can't let that go. Maybe I could do it someday, but not right now.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” She adjusted her jacket. “So, knowing all that, if you don't want me here, I can leave.”

“Are you a Phantom Thief, Makoto?”

Their eyes met. Her posture straightened. “Always.”

“Then you're always welcome here. Even if you just want to grab a coffee and dip.” 

“I appreciate that. I really do.”

He nodded again, and Makoto went to sit with Sumire. And he forced himself to accept the discomfort that he still felt, the sense of failure that coiled around his lungs. His relationships wouldn’t be magically fixed. He’d have to break down every wall he’d ever put up. And that was okay. Somehow, it would be okay.

“It’s too cold for me to be like this,” Ann muttered as they turned onto the street that Leblanc sat on.

“Whaddaya mean?” Ryuji asked, hands in the pockets of the winter coat he was somehow wearing unzipped. The boy had entirely too much energy, but at least it meant he was willing to walk her to Leblanc.

“March isn’t a time for somebody to be nervous,” she said. “I should be curled up in a blanket with a coffee right now. Watching a good drama on television. Maybe a bad one.”

“Yeah, but blankets only hold one person.”

“A really big blanket can hold two. One that’s soft and fuzzy and… I’m missing the point, aren’t I.”

“Kinda.”

Ann groaned.

They were at the front door of Leblanc now. Ann stared through the glass and into the lit interior. And sure enough, there were Haru and Makoto, sitting next to each other in a booth seat that was mercifully facing the stairs. Her stomach flipped at the same time as a blush grew on her face.

“Do you need to leave?” Ryuji asked, looking at her shaking knees. “We could always hide at the udon place down the street.”

Ann clenched her hands. “No. I need to do this eventually. Even if I hate it.”

“Just lemme know, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ann reached for the doorknob. “Thanks, Ryuji.”

“Wouldn’t be here without ya, bestie.”

Then she stepped through.

It wasn’t a dramatic entry. She didn’t know how Akira managed those—it seemed like he drew everyone’s eyes when he opened a door, regardless of whether he was entering a classroom or a department store. Futaba didn’t even notice her from the stove, which was fogging the girl’s huge glasses. Sumire gave her a small wave from her seat, as did Akira from the counter.

Then Makoto stood up. 

Every ounce of modeling training fled Ann’s body as her knees locked. Hadn’t they been shaking a second ago? Ryuji came in through the door behind her as—

As Makoto gave her a full-bodied hug.

“Makoto?” Ann squeaked.

Makoto’s arms tightened around her. “Thank you for being there for me, Ann.”

Makoto wasn’t angry. She was grateful.

Ann melted into the hug like milk chocolate. “You’re welcome. And… sorry for making it awkward.”

“Don’t worry about that right now. Just… Come sit down with me and Haru, yeah?”

Ann looked over at Makoto’s shoulder to see a warm smile from Haru.

It was so much easier than she deserved. But at this point in her life, she’d take a small mercy.

She smiled back. “Anything for you, Makoto.”

Akira didn’t know what was going on between Ann and Makoto, and he didn’t need to. The important part was that they were enjoying each other’s company. It wasn’t his team anymore, but he was glad that they were all still together, despite everything.… Or they would be, once Yusuke arrived.

He stumbled in fashionably late, wearing the same ridiculous scarf that he’d brought to their get-together on New Year’s Eve and carrying a large package. Akira looked up from the eight coffee cups he was lining up on the counter. “How’s it going, Yusuke?”

“Well enough.” Yusuke took a seat at the counter directly in front of Akira. “I apologize for my lateness. I had to take care of something.”

“The package?”

“I wanted to ensure it didn’t get wet. My phone suggested there was a chance of rain.” Yusuke patted his pockets. “Do you have a knife I could borrow?”

Akira found a butter knife in a drawer somewhere, and Yusuke proceeded to cut at the edges carefully before extracting a picture frame and handing it to Akira.

It was the sketch that Yusuke had been working on a month ago at the park, more complete but somehow unfinished at the same time. The water flowed through the bottom half of the page in slivers. Figures stood above the current on the bridge, presumably him and Yusuke, depicted with formless faces and overlapping, messy lines. Everything was washed in watercolors with shades of gray and blue. Despite the rough edges—no, because of them—it was a perfect recreation of how he’d felt in the dark of winter.

“Jesus Christ,” Akira whispered.

“I leave it to you to give it life,” Yusuke said so only he could hear. “However you see fit.”

“Thank you. Truly.”

Yusuke smiled before leaving the counter to go talk to Ryuji. As Akira continued to look at the drawing, Futaba came over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Curry’s all ready. Rice too, so whenever—what’s that?”

“Just a reminder,” he said as he put the painting under the counter. “Can you grab the plates?”

“Yup!”

As she did, Akira grabbed the pitcher of coffee he’d prepared and began pouring it into the cups he’d chosen. Eight cups, not nine like he’d wanted. But there would be time to feel it all later. For now, it was time to eat with his friends.

Chapter Text

About halfway through the group hangout at Leblanc, Futaba loudly announced that she wanted to buy some chips and that Sumire was coming with her.

Sumire blinked. “I am?”

“I said I want chips,” Futaba said. “And you want chips too.”

“I don’t want chips, though. I’ve already had my snack for—”

Futaba grabbed her arm with uncharacteristic force. “You want chips.” 

Sumire got the message and let the girl pull her out of Leblanc.

As they walked towards the convenience store, Futaba opened something on her phone and showed it to Sumire. It was a screenshot of a transit app of some kind—a long-distance ticket to Osaka, slated for departure tomorrow morning. Sumire understood immediately.

Futaba sent the photo to her via text and pocketed her phone. “I didn’t want to show you where Akira could see. He said not to tell him anything.”

“Thank you, Futaba-chan.”

She shrugged. “Hey, you asked. Just… make sure you know what you're doing, I guess.”

Sumire didn't know what she was doing at all. Of course she had fun talking with the other Thieves and stealing a few of Futaba's potato chips that night, but whenever the conversation died down, she remembered the screenshot and felt the taste in her mouth sour.

She didn’t dream that night. Akira had mentioned his dreams in the Velvet Room, and knowing that Akechi had visited once, she had hoped that she might receive guidance of some kind. Surely Lavenza would know what to do, right? But she woke up to silence.

She got out of bed and prepared for the day, cloud-filtered light gently brightening her blinds. School was over for the year, but she had always been an early waker, and would be for the rest of her life. Some things about people didn’t change.

She wasn’t hungry, but she made breakfast anyway. She skipped the pickled vegetables she usually ate and placed a few strawberries on a plate. They had always been Kasumi’s favorite. Sumire hadn’t cared for them much before her sister died, but she did acquire a taste for them last year while living under the lie. She kept a small box in the fridge at all times now: as a reminder of who Kasumi had been, and who she was now. Some things about people did change.

She went to the door and put on her scarf and coat, then tied up her hair. No one else in the house was awake yet. Her hands shook as she finished securing the ribbon. 

She might never know what she was doing. She might never have the certainty of conviction that Akechi had.

She texted her coach to say she would be late to practice. Then she left.

The train station was quiet except for the sound of rain hitting on the roof. Akechi had bought a ticket for the third train of the day, so most of the people traveling by choice were probably still asleep. The woman manning the security post took a heavy drink from her coffee as she glanced at Futaba’s screenshot and waved her through. It was easy to lie if you committed to the illusion. She’d learned that from him.

She found him after checking a map of the station’s gates. He was standing behind the yellow line, his suitcases flanking him like security guards. He didn’t move as she approached. “I wasn’t sure if it would be Akira or you,” he said.

She stopped beside the suitcase. “Akira won’t be here. Just me.”

“I’m glad someone has the sense to not stalk me, then.”

“Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?”

“I would have minded my own business.”

The clocks in the station ticked down towards the end.

“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if one small thing had been different?” Sumire asked.

He said nothing.

“Every day, I wonder what it would have been like if Kasumi hadn’t died. If the driver had been going slower, or if I had run into a different intersection, or if I had been hit by the car instead.” She chuckled. “For a while, it was basically a hobby.”

He nodded. There was respect there, mutual recognition.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop doing it,” she said. “But even so, I still try to tell myself that it doesn’t matter. That I’m here now, and that the past can’t be changed. That the only road that matters is the one in front of me.”

“Is that why you came all the way here? To tell me a platitude?”

“It’s a nice platitude. I almost believe myself when I say it under my breath.” She paused. “Then a car drives by too quickly and I flinch.”

Akechi laughed. “I suppose you know better than to give me a pep talk.”

“I guess so.”

A few other people began to gather at the platform. Akechi had arrived early, and Sumire doubted he had done so accidentally. But what was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to do?

“You’re allowed to leave,” Akechi said quietly.

“Why would I leave?”

“Why would you stay?”

“Because you’re my friend.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“It means something to me.” Sumire turned to him and put a hand on her chest. “You fought Maruki to protect me, even when I fought back. You’ve taught me to think more carefully, to understand things about people I didn’t understand before. You saved the world with me.”

“And I’ve killed more people than you can name.” His voice had shrunk into a hiss. “You should want nothing to do with me.”

“But I do want something to do with you,” she said. “I want to see you succeed at university. I want to see you make new friends and try new foods and find professors that you like. I want to see you save someone’s life, because I know you can.”

“Then you’re insane.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” She gave him a long look, trenchcoat and hardened face and all. “You told me that I could never be certain of anything. And I know that, from a rational point of view, you’re right. But I have a heart too, and because of it, there’s something I’m completely certain of: that I care about you, Goro. And I believe in you.”

And before she could hesitate, she reached across his luggage and pulled him into a hug.

Even under the coat, she could feel how skinny he was. How long had he lived as a skeleton? She tried to pour all her hope and confidence into the awkward embrace, hoping that he’d understand what she was saying, even though she hadn’t found the right words, even though she’d probably never see him again. It was all she could do.

Then Akechi wrapped his arms around her.

She released her hands in shock at first. Then the realization sank in, and she tightened her grip and started to sob. He cried too, long ugly breaths that he couldn’t quite finish. They stood there, locked tight in each other’s arms, unable to speak, until the bullet train pulled up to the platform.

They pulled apart then. Sumire had never seen tears in Akechi’s eyes before. He almost looked like a different person with his composure gone.… But no, he was the same person he’d always been. 

“Thank you, Sumire,” he whispered.

Sumire reached for a gloved hand and squeezed it. “Stay in touch?”

He nodded.

Then he took his luggage and left.

Chapter Text

“I broke one of my father’s models once,” Haru said.

She and Makoto were sitting at the dining table in her mansion. Steam rose from the two cups of tea on the table—chamomile, a shared favorite. Makoto was reading an introductory book on defense law that her sister had recommended for her, now that college was approaching and she had to choose a degree to pursue. She looked up as she turned a page, and Haru was stunned as always by the depths of those red eyes. “You must have been clumsier as a child,” she said, her voice soft as cotton. “I can’t imagine you breaking anything like that now.”

Haru laughed. “I couldn’t tie my shoelaces properly when I was six, so I’d trip on them every so often. One time I hit the side of his display cabinet. Everything that was inside it was safe, but the model hadn’t been painted yet, and so he’d put it on top temporarily.”

“And it broke.”

“Not completely. It was an expensive kit, mostly metal. Some pieces had bent in the fall, but nothing was snapped completely.”

Makoto nodded. “Why are you thinking about it now? Did I break something on my way in today?”

“Well, of course. You’ve broken my heart by not adding cream to your tea.”

“How knavish of me.”

“Very.”

Haru listened to Makoto’s laughter for a moment—oh, she’d missed it in those few days it had been gone—but eventually it became clear that Makoto still thought she had something to say. And as her eyes drifted to the box of the model spaceship they had recovered from her father’s palace, she realized that her girlfriend was right.

“I thought he would’ve been mad at me,” Haru said. “He had spent a precious weekend assembling it, only letting me help him with specific pieces under his supervision. And he was angry. But he didn’t take it out on me. He just told me that things broke sometimes, and all we could do was put them back together.”

“He handled that with more grace than I would’ve,” Makoto said.

“I think you would’ve done just fine.” She sighed. “But I suppose I forgot my father’s lesson as I grew up. We all break sometimes, little pieces falling off throughout our whole lives. And when he died, I forgot that I could build myself up into a whole person again.”

“Well, you remember now. And… I hope I’ll be able to rebuild too, with you by my side.”

“And maybe even with Ann, too.”

Makoto almost choked on her tea mid-sip. “Sorry?”

“We have our whole lives ahead of us,” Haru said with a mischievous smile. “Who knows what’ll happen?”

“I-I guess we do,” Makoto stammered, before regaining her composure. “And… I’m excited to spend it with you.”

“I am too, Mako-chan.” She looked out her new window and into the clear skies. “I really am.”

Chapter Text

This is why you were born: to silence me.
Cells of my mother and father, it is your turn
to be pivotal, to be the masterpiece.

I improvised; I never remembered.
Now it’s your turn to be driven;
you’re the one who demands to know:

Why do I suffer? Why am I ignorant?
Cells in a great darkness. Some machine made us;
it is your turn to address it, to go back asking
what am I for? What am I for?

- from “Mother and Child” by Louise Glück

Buildings drifted by through the train window, unable to leave an impression in Akechi’s mind. Some part of him had hoped that the trip to Osaka, with its padded chairs and railed defiance of geography, would keep him occupied enough that he wouldn’t need to think. But no, he got to think for the next two-and-a-half hours. Good for him.

He spent the first hour reading a book on environmental sciences he had found on clearance, then wasted fifteen minutes perusing the various pamphlets sticking out of the seat in front of him. At that point, the train service brought him a mediocre bento box that he picked at idly.

Finally, with forty-five minutes left in the trip, he opened his phone contacts and began deleting numbers one by one.

The first half was easy. SIU contacts from before Maruki had rewritten his reality, television hosts and journalists, students he’d done mindless group projects with. There were several whose purpose he couldn’t ascertain, and he let them disappear like soap bubbles, without a second thought.

Next came some of the harder ones. As his thumb hovered over the SIU Director’s name, he felt the urge to choke the man’s elongated throat and had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself. Shido’s number didn’t inspire such a violent reaction—if anything, it felt like an inevitability to abandon it. That violence had already carried itself out.

Some numbers stayed, of course. Sae would reach out to him whether or not he kept her number. There were one or two people in the news industry that he respected, whose numbers he kept in case something happened. The chance of needing the point of contact was low, especially after Maruki’s alterations to reality, but he would always be paranoid. Some things about people didn’t change.

Then came the last eight names.

Haru was first. He remembered the conversation in his apartment, how seeing Haru in the kitchen had made him feel like a terrified child again, for the first time in years. He was relieved to delete her number, and she would be relieved that he was gone.

Yusuke was next. Akechi had no reason to dislike him; there was presumably a world where they would have gotten along. Not this world.

He skipped the next name and went to Sakura’s entry. When he had killed the girl’s mother, he didn’t know how much it would derail the next two years of her life. Still, she lived, and perverse as their circumstances were, she would likely be able to derive something of worth from her mother’s return. Isshiki would probably insist on it, like she had with him.

The impression Ryuji and Ann had left on him was loud and shallow. It wasn’t fair to them, he knew, and the way Akira talked about them made it clear that there were depths to them that he had never seen. They would remain unseen.

He had been cruel to Makoto at times, he knew. She had reacted visibly to his snide comments about her uselessness; he must have struck a nerve that he hadn’t seen. Using Sae’s Palace as a trap for the Phantom Thieves was even worse. He was fairly certain that she’d rise above it, but that didn’t justify anything. It never would.

Then he returned to the name he had skipped—Akira’s name.

He had held people’s lives in his hands before. This moment felt similar, to some extent. He knew that Akira would have a full life without him, and he knew that there would be a hole in the boy’s heart if he never contacted him again. He knew this without any evidence.

He remembered his puppet laying in the snow with cut strings.

He left Akira’s entry alone. Maybe he would delete it someday; maybe he wouldn’t. But there were no gods here, no urgency. He had time to decide for himself. He could believe that now.

One last name. He clicked on the message icon next to it.

It took ten minutes for Sumire to type a response.

He turned the screen off. Then he turned it back on.

Her reply came more quickly this time.

That was better. He settled back into his chair and put his phone in his pocket. And then, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Akechi allowed himself to rest.