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The note arrives in what he considers to be the most intriguing way a note can arrive – slipped surreptitiously beneath the office door, a flash of white that catches his eye as he sips at his mid-morning coffee. He wanders over and, after opening the door and glancing around to find no one, shrugs and picks up the piece of paper, unfolding it to reveal lines of neat print.
“To Mr. Hidari Shotaro,” he reads aloud. “I am writing to you because I have heard good things about your reputation, and I am hoping you will take my case…”
Gradually, his eyes widen.
“Akiko! Philip!” he’s calling a minute later, having tossed back the rest of his coffee in a hurry and grabbed his hat. “I’m going out.”
Akiko whips around the bottom of the stairs to peer up at him with a frown. “Oi. Going out where? Didn’t you say you’d finally do something about the leak in the ceiling today – ”
He lifts a hand to cut her off, a small smile playing on his lips. “Ah. I’m afraid that will have to wait. You see, my services have been requested.” He brandishes the note proudly, and Akiko climbs the steps to take it from him, eyes skimming over it. Philip, seemingly attracted by the noise and stifling a yawn behind his hand, trudges up behind her and leans in to read it over her shoulder. “If I’m heading out to meet a client, you can’t have any objections, right, Chief?”
Slowly, Akiko lifts her gaze from the paper to him. “Shotaro,” she says. “Isn’t this kinda. Suspicious?”
It’s his turn to frown at her, now. “Suspicious?”
“Why do they want you to go meet them?” Philip muses, more to himself than to Shotaro. He grabs the note from Akiko’s hands and holds it up to the light, tilting his head. “In such a strange location, too. Why wouldn’t they just come into the office and talk to you here?”
“That’s – because it’s not safe,” Shotaro protests, indignant. “Her enemies are keeping watch over all the private eyes in the city! You can tell she’s nervous from the way she writes. She probably had someone else deliver it for her.”
Akiko and Philip both stare at him, incredulous.
“‘She’?”
Shotaro’s smile falls back into place, and he lifts a hand to trail a thumb along the line of his jaw as he nods to himself. “Of course, I can see when a plea for help is written by a beautiful woman. It’s obvious in the word choice, and the handwriting. A woman caught in a web of intrigue, trying her hardest to escape and live a normal life… I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I didn’t help her.”
Akiko is rolling her eyes. “Sure, whatever,” she sighs, turning away with a wave of her hand. “You’ve got your Memories, right? In case someone tries to mug you.”
“You know, Shotaro,” Philip says, eyes brightening, “I was actually reading the other day about a recent uptick in armed robberies across the country – ”
Shotaro snatches the note back from him with a scowl.
Deep down, he can’t deny that this is a somewhat strange choice of meeting place. Somewhere with more people would be preferable, wouldn’t it? So that her enemies couldn’t make a scene. And yet the hand-drawn map on the note has led him to an old, seemingly not-very-inhabited apartment complex on the side of town he doesn’t visit often – a few of the windows boarded up, the rusted fire escape looking like it’s about to wrench itself free of the faded brick.
But then again, less people around means less chance of being overheard. That must be it, he decides with a nod, adjusting the brim of his hat and straightening his tie before pulling the front door open. The interior smells musty and mildewed. The tiled linoleum beneath his feet probably used to be white, once upon a time, but is now an unpleasant shade of cream yellow.
He picks his way up the stairs to the second floor, stopping in front of apartment 2C and steeling himself before lifting a hand to knock.
The door swings open beneath his knuckles. He blinks; clears his throat and takes a hesitant step inside. The apartment is dim and sparse, nothing inside but a few dusty boxes scattered around a sunken old couch, where someone is sitting, staring at the glow of their phone screen.
“Hello?”
The person turns to look at him. A man, maybe in his late twenties, with a handsome face offset by tired eyes and a bad case of five o’clock shadow. He’s wearing a formless black windbreaker zipped up to his chin. Shotaro doesn’t know him, but he smiles broadly upon seeing Shotaro, as if they were old friends.
“You really showed up,” he says, with a sharp laugh of disbelief.
Shotaro can feel his brow knit together. “Are you…?”
“The one who wrote the note? Yep.” He gets to his feet, stretching out his shoulders. “You were probably expecting a woman, right? I wrote it like that on purpose, y’know. Had a feeling it’d get you. You seemed like an easy con. Mr. Kamen Rider.”
Instantly, something drops like a rock in the pit of Shotaro’s stomach. He takes a small step backward without meaning to. “Mister what?” he says, trying for an air of bewildered amusement. “Sorry, but. I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
“Really? What about this, then?” The stranger takes something from his pocket – a stack of photos. He fans them out and holds them up so that Shotaro can see what looks like a step-by-step process of himself becoming Double, the camera having caught every split second of the transformation.
His mouth feels dry. “That’s…”
“Undeniable, right? Shocked me, at first. To think such a soft-looking guy would be Fuuto’s superhero.”
Shotaro takes another small step back, trying to disguise the movement as best he can. “What do you want?”
The stranger waves a hand, dismissive. “We can talk about that later. For now, let’s just have you come along with me.”
That, he doesn’t like the sound of. He wavers for only a second longer before spinning on his heel and bolting for the door, throwing it open and –
And nearly colliding headlong with someone else. A hulking, heavyset man with his face half-obscured by a bandana blocks the doorway, and he grabs Shotaro before he has time to even react, his one hand like a vice around his shoulder, fingers digging into the nape of his neck as his other hand reaches out to press a cloth against his mouth and nose. He tries to jerk away but it’s too late – the dizzying smell of chloroform is slamming into him like a wall, his vision already swimming. His legs go weak, buckling beneath him; he crumples to the floor, cheek pressed against the dusty floorboards, watching his favorite hat roll away through unfocused eyes.
The stranger steps directly on it as he makes his way over. He flattens the crown beneath his heel, and Shotaro tries to make an affronted sound that doesn’t quite get past his lips as a switch seems to flip off in his mind and he’s swallowed a moment later by blackness.
He wakes groggily, with a dull, pounding ache in his temple.
It takes his brain a long moment to catch up with his body, realizing with a jolt that he’s not lying on the floor anymore. Instead, he is hanging suspended from the wrists by a thick metal chain attached to the water pipes overhead, close enough to the floor that his toes can barely touch. The strain on his arms is already vaguely painful, the chainlinks digging into his skin.
He swallows hard. So. Maybe this is kind of not good. The room is entirely unfamiliar to him, too – the walls and flooring look nothing like the place he just was. He would guess a basement by the flat, unfinished grey surroundings, though oddly it seems fairly clean, the smell of disinfectant and lemon in the air. There is no furniture save for a table, where his wallet and Gaia Memories have been placed (Joker isn’t there, at least; he can still feel the outline of it in the secret inner pocket of his vest). No windows, either, and only one door, off to his right, which he watches with trepidation as he hears footsteps approaching.
The man from before smiles at him, eerily pleasant as he steps inside. “You’re awake, huh? That’s good.”
“Listen,” Shotaro says, attempting to instill his voice with a confidence he’s not quite feeling at the moment. “Whatever the issue is here, we can – can talk it out, right? That’s the real gentleman’s way of doing things, don’t you think?”
The stranger looks at him steadily. His eyes are very dark, Shotaro notices – like chips of flint.
“No, I don’t think so,” he says finally. “There’s nothing to talk about, really. You’re a hostage, Mr. Kamen Rider. All I want is the money.”
“The – the what?”
“Mo-ney,” he repeats. “C’mon, I’ve heard the rumors. Everyone has. That the Sonozakis aren’t all dead. That there’s still one of them kicking around somewhere in Fuuto. And that they have a… particular connection to Kamen Rider Double.” He arches an eyebrow. “One person can’t possibly have a use for that entire family fortune, can they? And y’know. There’s those of us out here who could really use a donation. I’m just taking the initiative.”
Shotaro forces himself to laugh, though it sounds strained and nervous even to his own ears. He twists his hand, trying to loosen the chain, but the metal only digs harder into his skin. “Sorry, but I haven’t heard anything about any surviving Sonozaki. And I make a point to know everything that happens in this city. And even if they were alive, I don’t think some rich socialite would have anything to do with me – ”
His head snaps to the side, pain blossoming across his cheek, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s been punched. He hadn’t even seen it coming. He looks back at the man in front of him with wide, startled eyes, tasting the coppery tang of blood in his mouth.
The stranger sighs, shaking out his knuckles. “You don’t have to lie to me, Mr. Kamen Rider. I trust my info. And even if, somehow, none of it’s true… Well. At least I can work you over hard enough that you won’t be able to do your little vigilante shtick ever again.”
Something icy cold seems to wrap itself around Shotaro’s heart. “…What?”
“My partner got put away because of you,” the man muses. “I guess technically it was more the other guy. The red one. But I did some digging into him, too, and I’m not so stupid that I’d abduct a cop. Taking it out on you is gonna have to do.”
He reaches underneath the table, then, to take something out. An old wooden baseball bat, which he holds as if he were a batter at the plate, judging the balance of it in his hand.
Shotaro licks his lips. “H-hey,” he says weakly. “Didn’t you skip a step here? Aren’t you supposed to ask for the money first, before all this? Isn’t that, y’know… proper kidnapping etiquette?”
His captor gives him an amused look. “I don’t think it matters so much, really. They’ll pay for you no matter what state you’re in. As long you’re not dead, of course.”
And at that he winds up and swings the bat full-force at Shotaro’s legs.
It connects with his left knee with a sickening crack, and the edges of his vision seem to go momentarily white as he screams. The pain is searing hot, like a serrated blade as it courses up the length of his thigh, then down again to the soles of his feet, and for a long time he can’t seem to breathe, lightheaded as his mouth moves wordlessly. He doesn’t think anything broke, and yet his leg feels shattered all the same, hanging there uselessly, the pain turning into a pulsing thrum that seems to steadily increase in intensity.
When he finally remembers how to breathe again it’s ragged and shuddering, difficult against the panicked tightness in his chest.
His captor rests the bat against his shoulder as he studies him, contemplative. “What next…?”
He circles around, Shotaro trying to follow him with his eyes until his own arms block his view. Not being able to see him makes his pulse spike, pounding even faster than before, deafening in his ears.
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me?” his captor’s voice says from behind him. “About that last surviving Sonozaki. Might take it a little easier on you if you’re honest.”
Shotaro shakes his head, clenching his teeth as his knee throbs. “I already… said I don’t know anything,” he grits out. “You’re wasting your time.”
A pause. “Is that so,” the man says. “That’s too bad, then.”
A soft swish of displaced air, and the weapon connects with Shotaro’s side before he has time to so much as flinch. There is an awful crunching sound that he knows instinctively is one (or more) of his lower ribs breaking, and it takes his body a moment to catch up, the shooting pain slamming into him like a wave that had been looming over his head. His delayed scream turns into a choked gasp in the back of his throat as he jerks and twitches helplessly on the chain holding him up.
The hit had knocked the breath out of him, but his struggle to get it back is like countless thin knives in his torso. Each inhale and exhale, no matter how shallow, feels like torture.
He can sense his captor stepping in alongside him; closes his eyes and bites his lip hard enough to draw blood as he waits for something else, waits for –
“Boss, you got a call.”
Shotaro’s eyes snap open to see the hulking man from before standing in the doorway. His voice is muffled through the fabric of the bandana.
“It’s those guys you met with last week. Said it’s urgent.”
“Oh, really?” His captor’s nonchalance hasn’t faded for a second. He sets his weapon down on the table and turns to smile at Shotaro, who flinches despite himself. “Lucky you, you get a break. I promise not to take too long, though.”
He follows after his subordinate, the door slamming shut behind him, the sound of the metal deadbolt sliding into place a decisive punctuation.
In the silence left behind, a noise wrenches itself out of Shotaro’s chest that probably qualifies as a sob. (He regrets it a moment later as his shattered rib stabs at him.)
This… is pretty undignified, he thinks, trying to ignore how his eyes are prickling. Pathetic. Some hero he is.
Slowly, he glances up at his bound hands. The metal of the chain has chafed through the skin around his wrists at this point, turning them raw and red. That ache almost seems irrelevant, though, compared to his leg and torso, and when he twists his hand he only hisses a bit as the metal scrapes deeper, drawing blood. He tries it again. The slickness of the blood against the metal actually seems to be making it easier to move, and he twists his hand once more, purposefully, tugging down with his jaw set against the pain.
His wrist is a mess of blood and torn skin by the time he slips his hand free, trembling as he reaches into his vest pocket for Joker, but he finds himself laughing with delirious relief all the same.
His fingers curl around the Memory. Philip, he thinks.
The reply is instantaneous, an anxious sharpness to Philip’s thoughts that he hasn’t heard in a while: Shotaro? Where are you?
He glances at his surroundings. Dunno. I… could narrow it down for you, though.
What happened?
He forces a thin smile. Even if Philip can’t see his expression, he can surely sense it. You guys – you were right to be suspicious. About that note. I feel… like an idiot. Getting all worked up about a girl who doesn’t even exist. He takes a shaky breath and winces. Someone – someone got me. They know I’m half of Double. They want –
He stops. Clears his throat. Doesn’t matter, he continues hastily. Just. I’m in a basement somewhere. Probably pretty far down, since there’s no cell service. I’m thinking it might be an office building. One that got closed for renovations within the past few weeks, since it’s still pretty spotless in here. That give you anything?
Hold on. Keywords ‘office’ and ‘renovation.’ It’s always odd, feeling the tug of the Library by proxy – the breadth of it, the quiet background hum of countless ideas carried over from Philip’s mind to his. Yes, I think I’ve got one. Sakakibara Financial Holdings. The layout shows three basement levels, and it was closed for electrical system overhaul last week.
Shotaro tries to stifle down the sheer relief that hits him like a slap in the face. It’s not guaranteed, he tells himself. His hypothesis about this place could be completely off. And yet the thought someone’s coming for me sinks its claws into him and refuses to let go.
I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Shotaro, Philip thinks, and Shotaro promptly snaps back to reality.
O-oi, he protests. I just meant to tell Terui! Don’t show up here, idiot –
Obviously I will. There’s an undercurrent of tense anger bleeding over across the divide between their minds. You can’t expect me to let someone else rescue you while I sit around and do nothing.
Philip, seriously –
But he’s alone in his own head again before he can complete the thought, the connection having already faded, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t wanted to bring Philip into this any more than he had to.
This really is pathetic, he thinks, the corners of the Joker Memory digging into his palm as he closes his hand around it.
His right arm is still caught above his head, putting undue strain on his side (which, next to the stabbing pain of his ribs, is beginning to feel like one massive bruise), but he can’t seem to work up the energy to try and free himself. Minutes that might as well be hours tick past as he hangs there limply, trying to focus on something, anything other than his injuries, counting the seconds in between the rattling of the pipes above.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” that voice says, and Shotaro’s head snaps up, panic twisting inside him yet again. His captor stops and stares at him, blinking at his bloody arm in wide-eyed surprise. “Wow. You really managed that while I was gone, huh? That’s pretty impressive.”
He crosses the room to pluck the Joker Memory from Shotaro’s hand, who doesn’t have enough strength left in him to maintain his grip. He turns it over between his fingers and hums thoughtfully. “Sneaky of you. I told that idiot Matsu to search you thoroughly. Last time I leave that sort of shit to him, I guess.”
He places Joker on the table next to Metal and Trigger, tapping a finger against it. “This have some kind of use to you? Other than the obvious.”
“Not… particularly,” Shotaro lies.
The man sighs. “Still won’t tell me the truth. You’re only making this harder for yourself, y’know.”
His hand reaches out to curl around the handle of his weapon.
A moment later and there is a muffled crash, which seems to have come from several floors above them. Shotaro jumps at the sound and is rewarded with a wave of pain from his knee. His captor drops the bat to stare up at the ceiling with a frown.
“The hell?”
Another crash, followed by distant, pounding steps and the shout of voices too indistinct to hear.
His captor turns slowly to level him with a flat, unamused look. “Oh, I get it now. You did something, didn’t you? Called for help, somehow?” He hangs his head; runs a hand through his hair with an aggravated huff. “This is my own fault, I suppose. Should’ve accounted for you Kamen Riders and your bullshit. But you know I can still use you as leverage – ”
He is cut off as a tiny white blur comes hurtling through the open door to headbutt him square in the solar plexus. He goes sprawling across the floor, and the creature that just bodied him hops up on the table to pose in a manner that seems rather pleased with itself.
Shotaro can feel his brow furrow. “Fang?” He wonders where this sense of déjà vu is coming from. It only gets more vivid when Fang leaps up to snap the metal chainlinks between its teeth, leaving Shotaro entirely unprepared – he hits the floor a second later with enough force to nearly wrench a scream out of him again. His leg feels like it’s on fire as he lays there, half-dazed from the impact, his cheek pressed against the concrete.
Philip is there, then, flush-faced and breathing hard, as if he’d ran all the way here. He stands there in front of him and stares down with an expression Shotaro can’t remember ever seeing on his face. Like someone who’s just unexpectedly been slapped, the words they were about to say lost. And Akiko is –
“Akiko?”
Her face is a mask of horror. “Shotaro,” she breathes. She’s running to him, kneeling down and pulling his head into her lap. She doesn’t seem to know what to do after that. Like she’s afraid to touch him and accidentally make something worse. In the end she simply brushes his hair back from his forehead with a shaking hand. Her palm feels nice when she rests it there, he thinks. He stares up at her and watches as her expression shifts and changes from shock to fury, angry tears glinting in the corners of her eyes.
“You,” she says, and the force with which she glares at his captor is startling even to witness. “What did you do.”
The man is climbing to his feet, nursing the place where Fang collided with him. “So you’re his friends, huh?” he says, and makes a ‘tch’ noise under his breath. “Neither of you look like rich kids to me.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Philip asks. His voice is like a sheet of ice.
His captor shrugs. “Nah, just thinking that, even if this plan has officially gone south… It’d be fun, to at least meet the person I was trying to extort.”
“Stop,” Shotaro says weakly, but if the man hears him he doesn’t let on.
“A real live Sonozaki showing up to fetch this guy,” his captor continues. “That’d make for an interesting story, at least.”
Shotaro stares up at Philip’s face – at the slight widening of his eyes before they go hard and cold, the tightening of his jaw.
“Philip, don’t,” Shotaro protests, anxiety twisting a knot in his chest. Philip’s gaze flicks towards him, but he’s clearly already made up his mind.
“Well you’re in luck,” he says. “I am Sonozaki Raito.”
The man blinks. His laugh is sharp and taken aback. “No way,” he murmurs. “You? The heir to that entire fortune?”
The corner of Philip’s mouth twitches downward. “There is no family fortune. Not anymore. And even if there was I wouldn’t have taken it.” Other people might not be able to detect the quiet tremble of rage in Philip’s voice, but Shotaro can hear it, can see the gradual white-knuckled clench of his fist at his side. “That’s really what this was for, then? You did this to get my money?”
Slowly, he holds out his hand for Fang.
Shotaro lunges forward to grab his ankle, landing on his injured side in a way that sends spots across his vision and nausea crawling down his throat. “Don’t,” he gasps. “Philip, you can’t. He’s… he’s just a normal person. He’s not a Dopant. So you – you can’t.”
Philip’s eyes are wide as he looks down at him. “Shotaro,” he says, and that is the last thing he hears before he finally, mercifully blacks out.
He’s always hated the lighting in hospitals. So sterile and washed out. Somehow, that is his very first thought as he comes to, blinking up at the white ceiling with a grimace.
His second thought is that he feels like he’s been run over by a truck.
“Ow,” he says, and everyone in the room whips around to stare at him. They all look rough, he thinks. Sleepless and on-edge.
Akiko pulls a face like she’s about to burst into tears. “Sho-chaaaan,” she whines, lunging forward to hug him as best she can, what with him sunken deep into the pillows. She buries her face against his shoulder, and he lifts a hand with some effort to pat her on the back. “You stupid idiot, we were so worried.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles. He can see Terui over her shoulder relaxingly visibly, his expression softening. And Philip –
Philip has returned to the medical textbook he has open in his lap, studying the diagrams intently in a manner that is far too conscious of his surroundings to be genuine. He keeps almost ripping the pages as he turns them.
In a bad mood, then.
“What’re you researching?” Shotaro asks.
As expected, he receives no answer.
“I told you not to come,” he sighs. “I didn’t want you to have to listen to that guy going on about your family – ”
Philip snaps the book shut and lifts his eyes to glare at him. “Again,” he says hotly. “Again because of me, you were…”
He trails off; swallows visibly.
That’s right, Shotaro thinks, realization finally dawning on him. This did happen before. Somehow, in the time since, he’d almost forgotten the circumstances behind Philip accepting Fang. All of that feels like so long ago. Before Foundation X, before living in Terror, before the Year of Charming Raven.
“Well how do you think I feel?” he snaps, wincing a moment later as his side throbs. Akiko pulls back to give him a concerned, chastising look, which he tries his best to ignore. “Being a useless hostage again. Making you deal with stuff you shouldn’t have to anymore – ”
Philip jumps to his feet, the textbook falling from his lap to land on the floor with a resounding thump.
“Shotaro, you – ” Anger flashes behind his eyes. “You think that matters at all? When you’re stuck like this? You…”
He stops. Takes a shuddering breath. Gradually, the tense set of his shoulders seems to unwind, sinking low, leaving him looking rather small and tired. He takes his seat again and hesitates before reaching out to curl his fingers around Shotaro’s hand, clearly trying (and failing) not to grip too hard.
“I left him to Ryuu-san,” he mutters, staring down at his own hand pointedly. “That person. I can’t believe… you wouldn’t even let me get back at him.”
Shotaro can feel himself smile, just a bit. “‘Course not,” he says, and reaches out his other hand to rest it on the top of Philip’s head, his hair comfortingly soft beneath his fingertips. “You’re a hero, right?”
In the long stretch of time since his last serious injury, he’d forgotten how much he hated being incapacitated around this place.
Akiko, he supposes, isn’t so bad. She seems to have a preternatural sense for when he needs another painkiller, sometimes setting the bottle of meds and a glass of water down next to him before he’s even really thought about it himself. It’s only her vaguely smug smile as she places another stack of bills and paperwork on his desk (“since you can’t do anything else, Sho-chan~”) that makes him glower back at her in annoyance.
Philip, though.
“Shotaro, did you know that in some places, slices of raw potato pressed against the forehead are used as a home remedy for headaches?” He leans across the desk, a gleam in his eye. “It seems so implausible. I wonder if that could be used for other pains as well? Would you like to test it?”
Shotaro scrubs a hand across his face wearily. “No, Philip.”
He seems to discover a new potential cure-all every half hour. Shotaro sighs, staring dispassionately at the brace around his knee, the crutch leaning against the filing cabinet. He’d love to just get out of this office for a while, but even trying to make it down the steps earlier had been an ordeal and a half.
“Oi, isn’t there a case you should be working on?” he asks Philip. “That missing kid?”
“Already found her,” Philip murmurs, distracted, pulling his laptop back towards himself and tapping something new into the searchbar.
“Wha – already found her? When?”
“When your meds kicked in earlier and you conked out for two hours,” Akiko offers from across the room.
Shotaro frowns. He could’ve sworn he’d only nodded off for about twenty minutes. He checks his watch and blinks down at it, disbelieving. It really is already five o’clock.
He makes a frustrated noise, throwing himself back against his seat with more force than he probably should have, a sharp twinge jolting through him. The bandages around his wrist are suddenly, aggravatingly tight, and he tugs at them until Akiko comes over to swat his hand away.
Maybe, he thinks, his irritation has nothing to do with these two.
Maybe it’s himself he’s still angry at. For letting this happen to begin with.
He hefts himself to his feet with a wince, limping the few steps to the filing cabinet with his stack of newly filled-out client information in hand. This is always a process – he still doesn’t totally understand the Boss’s old organizational method but he refuses to stop using it, and as a result he only knows where things are about forty percent of the time. He opens the top cabinet to see that the folder he needs is hidden far in the back. When he reaches for it he feels that now-familiar stabbing sensation in his torso, the files slipping through his fingers as he curses.
“Need help?” a voice says, from close behind him.
It’s like being suddenly submerged in icy cold water. Dread seizes him as he spins around, heart hammering, losing his balance on his bad leg and staggering back against the hard metal cabinets.
Terui’s eyes are wide as he stares at him.
Shotaro stares back. He opens his mouth and closes it again wordlessly. The erratic beat of his pulse begins to slow again, little by little, leaving him breathing hard in the silence, needles of pain in his side that he barely notices.
Terui’s voice. In that moment, it had sounded just like…
Shotaro lifts a hand to his mouth, his breath hot against his palm. He glances away, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes, though he can feel Akiko and Philip watching him, too. “I’m,” he says, voice splintering. “Sorry. I don’t know… what that was.”
A tense pause.
“It’s fine,” Terui says finally. His words are careful. “It was my fault for startling you.”
Shotaro stumbles back to his desk, lowering himself down into the chair, a faint buzzing in his ears making him feel distant from his own mind. His hands are trembling as he folds them in his lap.
“I’ll… go make some tea,” Akiko says out of the blue, a forced kind of cheeriness to her voice. She puts a quick hand on Shotaro’s shoulder as she passes by, and somehow it seems to bring him back to himself, just a bit. Like an anchor. Philip drags his chair around to the other side of the desk without a word, curling up in it with his laptop so that his knee is barely touching Shotaro’s.
He focuses on only that until he can no longer feel his hands shaking.
Weeks pass by, slow and torturous, until he’s almost fully healed, with only a faint stiffness and occasional dull ache left in his leg to show for it. (Though he wonders if a few of the scars encircling his wrist might be there for good. A man always looks cooler with a few battle scars, is what he used to think, but now for some reason he’s not so sure.)
It’s on a slow Tuesday that he finds a letter with no return address mixed in with the mail.
Dear Mr. Hidari, it reads. I am sending this letter in the hopes that you will consider taking my case…
Akiko must have noticed him going slightly pale, as she yanks the paper from his hand right before he’s finished reading it. Her expression turns stormy a mere moment after, making a move like she’s about to rip the letter in half, but he throws out a hand to stop her.
“W-wait,” he weakly. “What if it’s a real person, this time? I mean. She signed an actual name. And I know that address. If someone really needs the help of a detective, then. I can’t ignore it.”
Akiko stares at him blankly. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s what the Boss would do,” he fires back, and she falters, unable to argue with that.
“Still,” she mutters. “If you’re set on going, then…” And here Philip seems to pop up out of nowhere, emerging from the basement stairwell just in time for the two of them to say, in perfect unison:
“This time, I’m going with you.”