Chapter Text
Being with you
here, in this room
is like groping through a mirror
whose glass has melted
to the consistency
of gelatin
You refuse to be
(and I)
an exact reflection, yet
will not walk from the glass,
be separate.
Anyway, it is right
that they have put
so many mirrors here
(chipped, hung crooked)
in this room with its high transom
and empty wardrobe; even
the back of the door
has one.
There are people in the next room
arguing, opening and closing drawers
(the walls are thin)
You look past me, listening
to them, perhaps, or
watching
your own reflection somewhere
behind my head,
over my shoulder
You shift, and the bed
sags under us, losing its focus
there is someone in the next room
there is always
(your face
remote, listening)
someone in the next room.
– The Circle Game, Margaret Atwood
Kaito asked for a time out, as if this is a game or something akin to it, and went to retrieve a towel that he soaked under the sink with warm water and proceeded to wipe away some of the blood staining his entire head.
He’s mildly successful.
Returning to the room where the “incident” took place, he pauses further to stare at the wall.
“If I framed it, would that make me crazy or cool?”
“What are you talking about?” Hakubuddy asks, his voice steeped in exasperation.
[why not both?]
⟨how to scream unhinged motherfucker to the masses. but like, subtly⟩
Well, if the American singer Pink can frame the hole her husband punched through the wall, then Kaito can sure as hell frame the bullet hole that marked his temporary suicide.
“Yeah, I’m framing it.” He says into the phone, not caring in the slightest that Hakubro has no clue what he’s talking about; honestly, it’s normal by now, Hakuba never really knows what he’s talking about.
“Whatever you say.” Hakuboo mutters, probably shifting from one place to another, if the noise in the background is any indication. “Are you ready to talk now?”
Kaito parks his cute little ass on the nearest piece of furniture available and sighs wearily into the phone. “I’ll be honest, Hakuboy–”
“That’s not my name.”
“–I’m kind of having a shitty day. But like, only very mildly.” Kaito says.
[yeah, it’s not like you just blew your brains out and this is the worst day of your life or something]
⟨you’re right, it’s the fourth worst day of his life!⟩
“I fucked up.” Kaito blurts out, guilt wounded through each letter.
“Mmh.”
“I could have done it, I could have stopped that fucking elitist fucker.” Kaito is surprised by his own words, by how much sincerity is seeping into his voice. “But then…I guess a ghost from my past jumped out at me.”
He bites his lips, the piercing silence on the other end almost comforting.
“I couldn’t do it, because—because…we have history.”
“I know.”
Kaito frowns—he’s never told Hakuba about his woeful past. As a matter of fact, he has never complained about his life to anyone, not even once, not even when it became unbearable keeping it all in.
There was no point, there was never any point seeking comfort that just wouldn’t come.
“It’s not the first time you cross paths with them.”
Kaito’s frown drags down his face. “...what?”
“Why do you think I warned you to stay away? You’ve already clashed with them.”
Kaito is very confused. “I…don’t remember.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What are you saying?”
Hakuba sighs, stalling for time, perhaps, like it’s difficult to put the truth into words. “They have Enhanced people on their side. Do the math.”
Kaito’s stomach plummets through the floor.
“...amnesia.” The word tastes like battery acid on his tongue. “That’s how he was able to—!”
Of course. All these years—how many memories has Jii rewritten? How many nights has Kaito woken up crying from nightmares he can’t remember, his brain carved open and rearranged like magic tricks on a stage?
A choked laugh scrapes his throat raw. Jii could have done him the favor of erasing his father’s fucking abuse from his mind: the bruises, the locked closets, the sound of his father’s belt snapping through the air—but no, he needed Kaito in pieces and subdued to carry out his shady affairs in peace; a broken child is easier to manipulate after all.
“Hakuba.” Kaito grinds out his last name, unmangled for once, the gravity of the moment strangling any humor from the situation. “How long has the Deus Group been operating?”
A sigh, weighted down by something like pity. “They’ve been active in the last decade.”
So, right around the time Kaito was adopted. Tears prick behind his closed eyelids, but he crushed that weakness years ago, hours ago, minutes ago. Coincidence? Not fucking likely. Jii had scooped him up like salvage, all false kindness and poisoned mentorship, right as the group took root. A hand-painted chess piece, moved into place before Kaito even knew the game existed.
He wants to banish Jii to the deepest recesses of hell.
When he opens his eyes again, crimson clears his vision.
“Alright. Hit me, Hakubaby. I’ve already hit myself once today, might as well keep the theme going.”
A soft rustle of paper on the other end. Hakuba’s voice is flat, almost gentle, which is how Kaito knows it’s bad.
“I’ve been running financials on the shell companies that own the hotel where the ‘meeting’ was supposed to happen.” He explains, a rustling sound muffles his voice, like he’s shifting the phone to his other ear. “Shell company that owns the hotel also pays the lights and ‘maintenance’ on a decommissioned psych wing in Nishitama. Locals call it the ‘White Room’. Abandoned fifteen years ago. Except it isn’t.”
Kaito’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.
[White Room™! Now in extra-creepy flavor!]
⟨sounds like a boyband nobody asked for⟩
Hakuba keeps talking, calm as death.
“Physical visitor log.” Hakuba says—he only got his hands on it because he physically went to the Nishitama city archive at 3 a.m. with forged credentials and a lot of caffeine. “One entry, every third Wednesday, for five straight years. Same handwriting. Same fake surname your old man used when he didn’t want to be found: J. Kon.”
Kaito’s lungs forget how to work.
Hakuba reads the comment field like he’s reading a grocery list.
“Quote: ‘White Room. Bring the kid if he starts remembering.’ Next one is in two days. 11:45 p.m.”
Silence stretches so thin it could slice bread.
[well that’s not ominous at all]
⟨it’s like a spa day but for emotional dismemberment! book now, slots fill up fast~⟩
[we’re the kid]
⟨congratulations, you’re the loyalty punch-card! ten visits and the eleventh memory wipe is free!⟩
Kaito laughs. It comes out sounding like someone choking on barbed wire.
So every time Kaito had a nightmare that felt too real, every time he asked Jii-chan why there were whole months missing, he didn’t hug him and give him warm milk. He drove him to the brain-laundromat and had him dry-cleaned.
[cool. cool cool cool]
⟨I vote we burn the building down and salt the earth⟩
[seconded]
⟨motion carries, unanimous, where’s my gasoline and angry pop rock playlist?⟩
Kaito wipes his face with the sleeve that isn’t soaked in blood. “Two days, huh?”
“Two days.”
Kaito stares at the bullet hole he’s definitely framing on the wall.
“Guess I’ve got a prior engagement with some redecorating.” He whispers. “White’s a terrible color for a room anyway. Too much like surrender.”
Hakuba’s voice softens a shade. “You don’t have to go alone.”
Kaito smiles; it could cut through steel.
“Oh, Hakuba. I was never alone. I just wasn’t allowed to remember who was holding the leash.”
He hangs up before Hakuba can reply.
[road trip?]
⟨road trip from hell, baby! snacks, trauma, and possible arson⟩
[don’t forget tissues]
⟨we’re gonna need the industrial size⟩
Kaito stands up. His legs shake, but they hold.
“Two days.” He tells the empty room. “Then I go back to kindergarten.”
On one side of the bathroom counter are normal, white band-aids.
On the other side, a neon-pink box with Hello Kitty band-aids—the hot pink so violent it burns the retinas of anyone reckless enough to look directly at them.
Kaito nods seriously.
He grabs a Hello Kitty band-aid and plasters it over his forehead.
There. All better.
The mirror shows his reflection, bruise-ringed indigo eyes, blood-mussed chocolate hair, a snow-white and scarlet-smeared suit hugging his frame.
His reflection is grinning.
“‘Sup?” Kaito says.
KID raises an unimpressed brow. “That’s all you have to say?”
Kaito shrugs wearily. “I’ll be honest, I’m not in my right mind right now.”
KID smirks. “Are you ever?”
Kaito barks a laugh, only once.
Then, KID stares back at him with something akin to disappointment, to muted rage—KID doesn’t get angry, he can’t, the anger belongs to Kaito.
“You shut me out.”
Kaito balks, affronted. “I did not shut you out, you—!”
“Not consciously.” KID interrupts, voice like a scalpel peeling back his skull to poke at the rotten truth inside.
⟨denial’s a river in Egypt, buddy⟩
[that’s the beauty of a breakdown! you get free confetti!]
“Alright boys, we’re clearly all here.” Kaito grinds out, pressing the band-aid harder over his already-healing wound. “Let’s go. Four heads are better than one.”
⟨we don’t have heads. we’re technically dangerous disembodied projections of your traumatized and fractured psyche⟩
[ooor in other words…we’re like ghosts, but cooler! sike!]
Kaito sighs through his teeth. “Look, you can talk. If you can talk, you can come up with ideas. I’m especially looking at you, Angle. You’re the ruthless one here.”
[it’s true, dude. you’re a bully]
⟨you only hate me ‘cause you’ll never be me⟩
Kaito deadpans. “...remind me again why I put up with you guys?”
“‘Cause you can’t escape.” KID simply states with a syrupy, plastic smile.
Something in Kaito’s stomach churns at that.
⟨I say we kill everyone and take the money!⟩
[what money?]
⟨oh shit, wrong show. my bad, dudes⟩
“Well, Angle is right about one thing, at least.” KID mutters, a hint of exasperation seeping into his voice—but his perfect(ed) poker face morphs into something lethal. “You can’t let Jii walk out of this alive.”
Kaito stares down at the single drop of blood staining the countertop, darkening the edges of his soul. “...is that okay?” He hates how his words tremble. “Is...killing him okay?”
⟨you’ve never had qualms about killing anyone before⟩
[yeah man, we’ve even kept a list of all your murders, they’re in alphabetical order! you wanna see ‘em?]
“It’s different.” Kaito argues, teeth gritted. “I never had any connection to my targets. But now…”
“Kaito.”
Kaito’s eyes jerk up to meet his self’s, his own reflection, so dissimilar, but oh god, so similar.
KID is staring through him.
“Do you need to be saved again?”
The question twists like a knife in his chest.
Before he knows it, Kaito has slammed his fist into the mirror—his middle finger snapping on impact, sending a rain of glass shuddering across the floor.
“Shut up!” Kaito yells, voice shredded, throat raw.
A single shard lodges itself in his knuckles, but he doesn’t feel it.
“...shut up.”
Thick silence greets his outburst.
⟨you know you’re all alone, right? you’ve always been⟩
He’s doused in ice water, (un)realization so cold it chills his bones.
His mirror, his reflection, broken into shards, disconnected, the walls ricocheting with his own voice.
There is only one person living, dying, existing, imploding in this room.
“...yeah.” Kaito whispers to himself, all alone in the house. “...I know.”