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Chapter Text

There are two things on her mind.

Kasumi fiddles with her phone as she waits for her stop, the train carriage rocking her and the other passengers. With a sly eye, she does her best to observe the people around her without seeming rude or sketchy (though with her height at a proud 5’4, she doubts anyone had ever looked at her with anything resembling fear in their eyes).

One was that everyone around her seemed different. Changed. Not bad, per se, but there’s a shift in the atmosphere that’s so radical that she feels it in her bones, deep in her cells. It’s as if there’s been a secret that everyone was in on except for her.

It wasn’t bad, per se—because everyone was happy.

People around her had a peculiar expression on their faces; varying mixtures of cheer, carefree, content. They were laughing, smiling, and on a normal day, Kasumi would find herself feeling infected by the delightful energy around her. But it had done nothing but run a chill down her back, and she doesn’t know why.

The second thing on her mind (which is arguably the more crucial between the two) was seeing the Palace in Odaiba; a sight that she had hoped to never see again.

So she does the one thing she’s come to rely on, a habit she has yet to break. Kasumi goes to someone who looks like he can have the weight of the world on his shoulders and not even flinch.

“Yongen-Jaya, this is Yongen-Jaya.”

—

She wasn’t ready to see Akechi on the same platform as her.

“Oh!” she exclaims, opening her mouth to properly greet him, but he holds a hand up.

“Hello, Yoshizawa-san,” he says politely, almost uncomfortably so. It’s as if someone had dumped an extra cup of sugar in her tea and made her drink. She feels her stomach drop—had he been affected by the strange atmosphere as well? “I’m surprised to see you as well. Yes, I did have a good New Year’s and I am deeply sorry but I have something I have to do, now if you can excuse me—”

“Um!” Kasumi says. She’s unwilling to let go of the first person who personally knows who’s been changed recently. “May I join you?”

Akechi looks at her, and Kasumi resists the urge to fidget.

“You’re acquainted with Kurusu, aren’t you?”

She blinks. “Yes. That’s actually where I was headed before I bumped into you. Um, to LeBlanc. The cafe that Kurusu-senpai—“

“Yes, I’m well aware,” he interrupts. He’s staring at how even harder now, red eyes peering into her in a way that’s almost invasive. Whatever he sees makes him nod. “Join me, will you? I was just headed for some coffee myself.”

Kasumi nearly sighs in relief. Maybe she can finally figure out what on earth is happening. “Thank you, Akechi-san.”

“And hold the formalities. It makes me sick.”

“R-right.”

They exit the station in silence: Akechi walking with purpose while Kasumi trails behind, one step late. She struggles to find what to say. How can she possibly bring up her strange feeling? Was he or was he not affected? Did he know about the Metaverse?

Kasumi’s eyes slide over to him, taking in his appearance. He’s dressed well, as usual, but something about him was changed, and not in the way everyone else has. His expression, which was once constantly smiling and lovely, has morphed into...well, nothing. It’s like he had never had that charming smile in the first place. Or, maybe it was never supposed to be there at all.

“What is it?” Akechi asks, still facing forward.

She jumps. How did he even notice?

“You want to ask me something,” he continues. Eyes flickering to her for a split second, “Spit it out then. I can’t stand waiting games.”

She chews on her lip, thinking. They walk in silence for half a block before finally, “What do you think about Kurusu-senpai’s cat?”

Akechi stops and Kasumi has to turn around to face him. He’s staring at her again, but it’s different this time; instead of the questioning look, his eyes are careful, analytical, calculating. After a moment, she realizes why it’s such a familiar expression to her—it’s how her competitors look at her during meets, how the student body had looked her up and down in the halls.

He’s sizing her up.

She stares at him back, unblinking.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he smirks. “An annoying brat who’s wind attack can’t land and has an embarrassingly small amount of knowledge concerning the Metaverse.”

Kasumi gasps, eyes wide. “You know?”

“Of course I know. I’ve been in this game even longer than your precious senpai,” he continues his earlier pace, not waiting as Kasumi scrambles to keep up. “However, I can’t say I’m not impressed—a carefully loaded question that only people who’ve been to the Metaverse before would understand. “

She grins, “A safe gamble if I do say so myself.”

“I’ve stopped taking gambles myself, actually.”

Kasumi peers up at Akechi, his face unreadable. One question at a time. “Are you a Phantom Thief?”

He scoffs. “Lord no. I’ve never been a part of their fairytale heroism fetish and I’d like to keep it that way. But their combined powers are nothing to ridicule, unfortunately, and it seems that, ah,” a group of teenagers walk past them, all laughing and grinning from ear-to-ear. “Recent events have been pushing me towards the naive group once more.”

Kasumi inhales sharply and reflexively grabs his arm, to which he immediately rips it away, a cold glare in her direction. She represses a shiver.

“S-sorry, but um,” words roll around wildly in her head like a sack of marbles. “Have you noticed—”

“How the population as a whole is in a fantasy world where happiness seemed to have infected everyone without their own knowledge?” Akechi turns the corner and the quaint cafe finally comes into view.

“Wha—yes!” The tension in her finally eases up a bit at finding a teammate in this mess. “Guess they weren’t lying when they called you the Detective Prince. It’s great that we’re on the same team for this, isn’t it?”

He sends her a sharp glare, and her voice dies in her throat. “Don’t make assumptions.”

Teammates might be a bit of a stretch, then.

They walk in silence the rest of the way—a mercifully short distance. She rolls around the idea of mentioning the Palace to Akechi and ultimately dismisses it. After all, he said it himself that he isn’t part of the Phantom Thieves and, given their reputation, they don’t need more enemies from within the police (if Akechi even is associated with them anymore).

Akechi places a hand on the doorknob and looks back to her. “I’ll go in and get Kurusu outside. Do what you want.”

“But—”

He pulls and she watches him enter. The ringing of the bell is faint, muffled by the glass. She stays at the door for a few long moments before heaving a deep sigh.

“Breathe, Kasumi,” she mutters to herself. “It’ll be fine. You don’t even know if there’s a problem.” Grimacing, she shakes her head to her own words. Fool herself, maybe, but Akechi? Especially this new Akechi? Not a chance.

Leaning against the cool bricks, she lets her eyes flutter close for a second, breathing in the cold winter air. The whole Metaverse topic is something she still doesn’t have a grasp on. Personas, Palaces, distortions, Shadows—it was all dropped on her on a random afternoon, so sudden that it was like an illusion, a figment of her imagination. A dream. But then she remembers the girl that stood in front of her, a mirror image of Kasumi.

She shivers, uninflected by the January wind. Not a dream, but maybe a nightmare.

“Yoshizawa?”

Kasumi jumps a foot in the air, eyes flying wide open. She blinks rapidly at the boy in front of her.

To his credit, Ryuji looks apologetic. “My bad, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, don’t worry. It was my fault for zoning out. In public, no less!” Smoothing out her track jacket, she sends him a small smile. “Happy New Year to you, Sakamoto-senpai. Are you here to wish Kurusu a happy new year?”

She tries her best to see if there was any way to gauge if he’d been affected before scrapping the idea. He was already cheerful to begin with, and she simply didn’t know enough about him other than being another friend of Akira.

“Hell yeah! Oops, I mean heck,” he grins. “Best not to swear in front of a kohai, don’t wanna leave an impression or nothing.”

“That’s not an issue, think nothing of it,” says Kasumi. “What will you be doing today, then?”

“The two of us are headed to the temple. My ma says it’s real important for us to go during New Year’s, since, you know.” He waves a hand nonchalantly.

She tilts her head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“You don’t? That’s weird. Rumors are fast in Shujin, or at least I thought Akira would’ve told you,” rubbing the back of his neck, he lends her a half-smile; far and away from his usual grin, much softer and gentler. “We’re—”

The door to LeBlanc swings open, interrupting Ryuji.

“Akira!” His expression turns so bright that it’s nearly blinding. “Are you—oh, Akechi’s here, too.”

Kasumi turns around, eyes landing on Akira. She blinks. Twice. Thrice, just to make sure.

Akira is someone who finds the weight of words to be inconsequential next to the weight of actions. But even with the presence of physical gestures, what he does reveal are minuscule. Reserved. It makes his already crucial actions all the more vital once you realize that a flick of his head or the quirk of his mouth is practically half the conversation. Kasumi’s used to having to squint a little to grasp at every fray like a spotlight to reveal what he’s trying to tell her without saying it.

So when Akira’s face morphs into a huge smile reaching all the way into his eyes and honest-to-god dimples sprouting at the very top of his cheekbones like untamable weeds, all she can focus on is the dread that makes her stomach feel like it’s supporting bricks.

“You can head in, Ryuji,” Akira says, and his voice is warm enough that for a second she forgets they’re in the dead of winter. “Akechi just wants to talk for a second.”

She pries herself away from his alien expression to glimpse at Akechi’s instead. His cool passiveness doesn’t surprise her.

A worried frown clouds Ryuji’s features. “Yeah, sure, of course, dude. I know you gotta do what you gotta do.” He turns to Akechi. “Hey, we ain’t close or nothin’, but I’m here if you need an ear.”

For some reason, Akechi recoils infinitesimally. Instead of answering, he walks away, Akira close behind him.

Kasumi quickly bows to Ryuji. “Excuse me, but I must get going now.”

Without waiting for a response, she follows Akira and Akechi as they round the corner. Immediately, the scent of detergent and essential oils invade her nostrils, not unpleasantly. A sudden wave of heat washes over them, hot enough that she almost considers taking off her coat.

They turn and enter a small, cramped laundry room. The floors are covered with a thin layer of dirt and grime, obscuring the once colorful pigment of the tiles underneath. Lining the walls are aging washing machines and dryers, all of them silent and unmoving. Nobody is going to enter a run down coin laundry room in the middle of Yongen anytime soon.

But even with that in mind, she still flinches when Akechi grabs Akira’s collar and slams him into dryers hard enough for all three machines to rattle.

“Cut the bullshit, Kurusu,” he snarls, knuckles a stark white next to Akira’s coat. “You know I can’t stand your games.”

“Akechi-san, there’s no need to hurt him like this over a couple of questions!”

Akira’s lips tilt upward, almost apologetic. “It’s okay, let him get it out of his system.”

“Are you mocking me?” Akechi asks, eyes narrowing. “Why are you pretending there isn’t something wrong in your damn cafe?”

“Because there isn’t?”

“Wait,” Kasumi says, raising an eyebrow. “Sorry for interrupting, but what’s wrong in Leblanc?”

“Beats me,” Akira shoves his hands in his pockets, worryingly nonchalant with the fact that someone is still holding on to him threateningly.

Akechi takes a deep breath. “Alright then,” he releases Akira from his grip. “How about you tell me who’s in the cafe, hmm? Perhaps something as simple as that can finally inspire that brain of yours to be put to use.”

“Thank you, you’ve always been such a charmer.” Straightening out his jacket, “Don’t know why you’re so desperate for me to say it, since you were literally there with me—”

“Cut. The. Bullshit.”

“Okay, okay. There’s Futaba, Sojiro, and Morgana. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Akechi tilts his head back and it’s almost like he’s speaking to a toddler when he asks, “And, pray tell, what species is Morgana?”

Akira stares at him for several very, very long moments, and his tone matches Akechi’s when he slowly answers: “A human.”

The noise from the train tracks had become audible all the way from the station for a few moments.

He takes a step away from the boy in front of him, eyes widening ever so lightly. “You really don’t know, do you?” Akechi asks.

As if he sensed the change in his attitude, gray eyes seem to search red ones. Whatever he was looking for, Akira came up empty-handed. “I really, really don’t.” Looking up, he turns his attention on Kasumi, “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“I…” Shoulders tense enough to launch an arrow from it, her mind moves a hundred miles an hour. Eyes flickering towards Akechi, a quiet shock seems to be emanating from the way his jaw is clenched, as if the rug of the world was pulled from underneath him in this run-down laundromat. “There’s something very wrong, senpai. And you need to realize it.”

And then like a perfect fit of a puzzle piece, the solution finally clicks into place. A way to make Akira see and possibly save Akechi’s sanity along the way.

She bows at a perfect ninety-degree angle (more out of habit than anything).

“Senpai, please accompany me,” Kasumi implores. “I know you already had plans with Sakamoto-senpai, but this is too important to postpone any longer. Akechi-san and I would not lie about matters like this,” she tilts her head up, eyes locking on Akira’s dilated pupils. “Please.”

A heartbeat passes, and another, before finally, “Okay.”

Kasumi stands up straight and beams. “Thank you! Please follow me.”

They exit the laundromat and she’s mourning the loss of heat when Akechi falls into step with her.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.

“You look like needed help back there,” she takes a peek to make sure Akira’s still following them and tries not to feel guilty when he’s furiously texting on his phone. “So this is me helping.”

Akechi looks at her. It’s probably a habit of his. “You know about the Metaverse, yet you aren’t a Phantom Thief.”

“Neither are you, Akechi-san,” even without looking, she can feel his glare on her. “I’ll go into detail about that later, but I think that the priority here should be to bring Kurusu-senpai back, right? And besides,” she smoothes down her hair. “It can be a bargain, since it seems I’m not the only one keeping secrets.”

They’re nearing Yongen-Jaya station when Akechi finally heaves a sigh, somehow frustrated and dignified at the same time. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

So do I.

She throws a smile his way.

—

Kasumi is perfectly split into relief and dread when they hopped off the train and rounded the corner to see the massive, looming, incomprehensibly-constructed Palace in front of them. Swirls on swirls, blinding lights, beams that stick out like stubborn branches in a packed forest. A building (if she can even call it that) so out of this world that it seems hand-crafted of the fragments that manifest dreams; unreal, untouchable, and impossible to understand.

“Alright, I’ll admit it,” Akechi regards the Palace with a begrudged sort-of awe. “The idea to take us here isn’t half-bad.”

“Thank you. In truth, I only know of this Palace by complete accident.”

“Hmm, I thought so,” he nods, never taking his eyes off of the immaculate structure in front of them. “How did you find it?”

“By pure chance! I like to visit Odaiba, and since today is New Year’s—”

“I meant,” Akechi flashes her a wide smile, so large and unnatural that she has to catch herself from flinching. With his teeth bared and the curve of his lips sugar-sweet, it’s reminiscent to how a Cheshire cat may look while holding a loaded pistol in its paw. “How did you first find it, and how are you certain that it’s a Palace, Yoshizawa-san.”

“I, um, still by pure chance. Actually, it was with Kurusu-senpai and—” Kasumi’s eyes widen before rushing towards Akira, doubled-over and trembling, desperately clutching his head so tightly that she’s half-convinced that he’s trying his damndest to pull his hair out. “Senpai! What’s wrong?”

She frets over him uncertainty, at a loss. “My head,” he mutters, eyes scrunched tight. “It feels like it’s about to split open.”

Akechi presses a knee to the cold concrete in front of Akira. “Head up,” he orders. When he doesn’t react, he clicks his tongue. “Come on, Kurusu. Work with me.”

Nothing happens. Only the stuttering staccato of Akira’s labored breathing plays on repeat like a busted vinyl. After a few moments, the haggard rise and fall of his chest subsides, turning into something more manageable.

Then, slowly, Akira starts to look up.

Akechi smirks. “See? Was that so—”

“Akechi.”

The air around the three of them seems to still with the weight of his tone. The resounding note of levity in Akira’s voice is gone, and what’s in its place is impossible to identify. “How are you here?”

“Ah,” Akechi mutters, straightening up. “It’s about time you’ve come to.”

“Wait,” Kasumi says. “What’s happening? Is he okay now?”

His eyes stay glued to Akira. “I believe,” he says. “That whatever spell he was under has dissipated.”

“How are you here?” Akira repeats. He shakes his head vigorously, as if trying to rid of some mythically induced punch to the jaw. “Aren’t you supposed to be in, I don’t know, prison? Honestly, I still have no idea how you’re even alive.”

“You were in prison?” Kasumi asks. “Wait, you died?”

“If we’re being real here, I don’t know if he died.”

“It’s a bit of a gray zone, even for me.”

Akira squints. “You don’t know if you died? How is that even possible?”

“Can we please focus on the matter at hand?”

“How is you dying not the most crucial thing right now?”

“That’s old news, it happened back in November.”

“And you still don’t know how you died even though it was two months ago?”

“I was busy.”

“I am so lost,” Kasumi groans.

“So is Akechi, apparently.”

“Point is,” Akechi cuts in, seemingly bored about the topic of his passing. “One moment I was in the Tokyo Detention House, aggressively interrogated, and the next I’ve been released, no questions asked. An action that’s merely impossible to rationalize.” Akechi catches Akira’s expression. “What is it? Don’t believe me?”

“No, it’s not that,” Akira clenches his eyes shut. “Sorry, just give me a minute.” He focuses on his breathing, an unsteady intake of air, held in for five seconds, and slowly lets it out gently as if he were trying not to blow out a flame in front of him.

Kasumi frowns and turns to Akechi. “Do you think it’s a side effect of his memory lapse?”

“It’s possible, but guarantees are a long shot until we get more information.”

Nodding, she turns her attention back to Akira. “How are you feeling?”

“Honestly? Like if Makoto went ham on a wall and I was the paint.”

“If there’s one thing I can give Niijima, it’s her alarming upper body strength.”

“Oh, are you friends with Niijima-senpai as well, Akechi-san?”

Akechi shares a quick glance with Akira before answering, “No, never,” the same time Akira says, “Eh, in a weird way, sure.”

“Anyway,” Akechi pushes on, “If we ever finish with the emergency first-aid and idle chatter,” he points a finger at the looming Palace, unphased by the three of them loitering on its premises. “Let’s get a move on.”

“Yes,” Kasumi looks around. “The entrance should still be the same last time, so.” She makes her way to the gate.

Akira tries to follow her, but a hand tugs him back. He rolls his eyes before forcibly ripping Akechi’s hand off of his coat. “What happened to the ‘no idle chatter’ rule?”

“What was that?” Akechi hisses, the tempo of his walk increasing as Akira attempts to outpace him. “I’ve seen you drugged, beaten, spat on, yet never have I seen you so—”

“Oh, this is interesting,” Akira doesn’t even glance at him. “Has Akechi Goro had a change of heart? There wasn’t even a calling card.”

“Knock off this sassy shit, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kurusu—”

“Why do you care?” Akira finally whirls on him. “What, do you suddenly have empathy now? Thank you, by the way, for taking my place in December but that doesn’t mean anything changed.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” he scoffs. “Not that I wanted it to, heaven forbid.”

“Then what is it?”

“I just wanted to make sure that whatever your headache was back there won’t happen again, because there is no way in hell I’m babysitting two toddlers in this Palace.”

Akira frowns and continues his walk, slower this time. “Lay off her, she’s stronger than she looks,” his gray eyes slide to Akechi’s direction. “Not to mention, she’s one of the only people who doesn’t hate you.”

“Are you truly an idiot to think you can trick me a second time?”

“What?”

“Your little trick about Niijima back there?” says Akechi. “Might’ve worked on strawberry shortcake, but I’m almost insulted you think you fooled me in the art of misdirection.”

“Gah, should’ve known it was too easy.”

“You should’ve. We can’t afford to lose your head somewhere else when we have this,” he gestures at the building they’re nearing. “To focus on. So, will you, or will you not, be able to handle yourself?”

“I’ll be fine, Jesus. I was just,” Akira tugs on his forelock, frustrated. “Realizing that my memories were messed with, realizing that some things aren’t…” He takes a deep breath. “Real. It shakes you, okay?”

“I must agree. Hearing about Wakaba in a passing conversation is already disturbing, but seeing Morgana as a human is truly harrowing,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m thankful that your memory seems to be the only thing that changed about you.”

“...Yeah. Me too.”

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Akechi says as Kasumi yelps when her outfit changes in a flash of fire. A few more steps have Akira and Akechi following suit, albeit calmer than her. “I suppose it’s time to begin.”

Tugging on his red gloves, Akira turns to the other two. Almost unconsciously, his posture has changed; he’s taller now, broader, and his chin is tilted with a hint of smugness to it.

His tone is sharp but not unkind. “Akechi, since we’re missing both Mona and Futaba, you’re on as Navi. We’re also missing our heavy hitter, but if I remember right, Cendrillon packs a punch, so Kasumi will be filling in. I’ve got a few Personas with Mediaharan so we've got some leeway with a healer on the squad. Don’t forget, the key point here is to gain information, not crack some heads.” His eyes look cooly into Akechi’s mildly bored expression and Kasumi’s flustered one. “Any questions?”

Akechi leans to his right, voice low. “In case he didn’t make himself anymore obvious, yes, he’s the leader of the Thieves.” Then louder, “No questions.”

“Same,” she replies as she processes the new information. Being part of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts is big enough already, but leading them—

“Good,” he turns, coattail fluttering behind him. “Then let’s get to work.”

—

Working alongside Akechi in the next hour or so is exactly what she would describe being like missing a step on the stairs, or a monkey bar on the playground: intense discomfort, but not necessarily life-threatening.

While she’d never doubt Akira’s decisions to make him the navigator, she’s definitely a little surprised, to say the least. (She still cringes a little bit just how hard the shadow bursts into ash from Akechi’s gleeful smackdown.)

On the bright side, Kasumi is now completely certain that there’s something absolutely, undeniably, fundamentally changed about the famous Detective Prince she thought she knew. There’s an aspect about him that’s just unhinged enough to make her uneasy, but that doesn’t change the fact that he's a monster in battle: lethal, calculating, and most importantly, ruthless in every sense of the word.

She can at least take comfort in Akira.

He’s gotten stronger since they last fought. He’s faster now, more clever. If Akechi was a monster on the battlefield, Akira would be something like an assassin—quiet, and strikes with precision in order to take care of the Shadow as efficiently as possible. The ashes he leaves behind are in a small pile instead of a confetti imitation.

And just like before, Akira speaks with confidence, with power; like he’s so sure of what he’s ordering that the person who heard it would simply follow because there isn’t even an ounce of doubt minced into his words. Even Akechi conducts what’s asked of him with no hesitation. How she never pieced together that he was the leader of the notorious, internationally known Phantom Thieves is beyond her.

The three of them fly by the Palace with only a little difficulty, and she lets herself relax a little bit. It’s going well, and she starts to let herself believe that this might be easier than she expected.

That is, until they run into Dr. Maruki in a clean, white suit and make her watch a video that shakes her reality and makes her fall to her knees, hard.

—

Shattering glass. That’s what it’s like.

If what she knew was true is a tall, glass wall, it had been smashed to tiny pieces reminiscent of a mug being put on high heat on top of a kitchen stove. Everything is crashing down.

While the world ends around her, Maruki’s voice comes in from a few meters in front of her (though it can just as easily be from another planet away as far as she can tell). She’s vaguely aware that she’s back in her normal clothes and that Akechi and Akira are standing in front of her, weapons drawn and fingers twitching towards their masks.

The only thing tethering her here is the sharp pain that shot up her legs when she collapsed and it hurts just enough to make sure she keeps breathing. Otherwise, she’s sure that her brain would’ve simply stopped functioning.

“You see?” Maruki says, voice coated in regret. Even faced with three other Persona users, he has nothing but kindness and sympathy to offer. “You understand how much pain she’s in now, don’t you?”

Akechi sneers, flexing his fingers around the handle of serrated steel. “So you, what was it? Brainwashed her, muddled up her cognition in order to change her reality for her own wishes?”

“That’s right,” Maruki smiles, similar to a teacher gently explaining the course material to a struggling student. “I had the power at the time to actualize her wish, limited as it was. She had undergone a deep and traumatizing tragedy, forcing her into carrying the excruciating baggage of survivor’s guilt.”

He sighs heavily, as if the words he speaks physically wound him to say out loud. “She only had one wish during that dark period of her life, one she was so desperate to make true that she was willing to confide with a complete stranger in order to make that wish bloom into reality: for Yoshizawa Sumire to becoming Yoshizawa Kasumi instead.”

Yoshizawa Sumire. Yoshizawa Sumire. Yoshizawa Sumire. That name is flung around her skull like an echo in a cave, ingraining itself into the bone, or perhaps it’s reinstituting itself back into her cells, but whatever it is it hurts, it hurts so much, her head is pounding and she’s not sure why until—until—

Sumire.

Her heart clenches painfully tight in her chest. The echo continues, and she realizes it’s not just a random voice speaking her name, but her sister’s.

Sumire, come on!

She’s tempted, so tempted to cover her ears to block off the voice, but that would be impossible.

Sumire, let’s go out today!

No. That’s not why she won’t cover her ears. Even if it was possible to force the ongoing calls in her mind to cease, she still wouldn’t stop it because—

Don’t tell them, but I stole some ice cream for us, Sumire!

Because—

This is my sister, Yoshizawa Sumire, and we’re going to reach the top of the world together!

Because the voice in her head spoke with a voice absolutely dripping with pure love and adoration.

Silently, with legs shaking and hot teardrops hitting the carpet in a continuous stream, Yoshizawa Sumire stands on her own two feet.

“If Sumire-san can live a healthy, positive life by becoming Kasumi-san,” Maruki continues. “Then I believe that this reality is what would make her happy.”

“Is that what you believe, doctor?”

Three heads turn as Sumire speaks, red hair still fallen from its ribbon, eyes filled with tears, and an inexplicable expression painted on her features.

“In our countless sessions, I’ve spoken to you about what would make me happy, what would grant joy in my life,” she slowly makes her way to Maruki, and though she spoke quietly, her voice carries over with ease. “One topic would be saying that Yoshizawa Kasumi would make my life better. For that, I apologize. That was a lie that I wasn’t even aware I was telling. Being Kasumi was a simple solution, an easy way out, but it’s not what would bring me happiness. I had desperately wanted to become Kasumi because I would do anything to stop being Sumire.”

She doesn’t even bother to wipe the tears that blurred her vision as she continues, “And so I did something truly horrible,” Sumire looks up and gave a small, bitter smile. “By getting rid of Sumire, I killed not only Kasumi, but also someone Kasumi loved very, very dearly. Could I be even more selfish?”

“That’s not selfish,” Maruki says firmly. “Self-preservation is not something to look down on, Sumire-san. And if it would help you to stay as Kasumi—”

“Dr. Maruki, I’m not here for a counseling session. I’m trying to tell you that I did something I deeply, deeply regret,” her eyes harden. “I appreciate what you tried to do for me. I know that you only wanted to help. However, you gave me no say in the matter. You didn’t let me decide or let me think about what you were trying to give me. And, doctor, whether or not you wanted for it to happen, by granting me this wish, you inadvertently wanted me to forget the existence of Kasumi.”

She didn’t even need to look down, the bright flash of fire had once again engulfed her body for the briefest moment—her Metaverse outfit had returned. “And that is something I can never, ever forgive for as long as I breathe.”

Silence had sheathed the room, only the panting of Sumire’s breath puncturing it. And then Maruki lets his eyes slide shut.

“I’m saddened that you see it that way, Sumire-san. However, it’s clear that your mind is already made up. Maybe after a long period of time, you may even begin to heal.”

“Does that mean you’ll let up your...fake reality?” she asks.

“Fake reality?” his brows furrow. “Nothing about what I brought people was fake. Everything is quite real, in every literal sense. All it takes is some tweaking,” he looks past Sumire. “You’re looking well, Akechi-san.”

Akechi lets out a sharp laugh. “What you’re doing isn’t altruism. You’re just so desperate to prove your research that you’re willing to drag the entire city in with you.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “It seems that you’ve run out of allies here, doctor.”

The regret in Maruki’s eyes deepen even further, making him look older. “Even you, huh?” he says softly. “Why are you fighting so hard against what would only bring you happiness?” He scans their faces, and his eyes land on one of them. “You’ve been awfully quiet this entire time, Kurusu-kun.”

“Give it up,” Akechi rolls his eyes. “Do you need me to spell it out for you? You lost.”

“Your wish,” Maruki continues, eyes still locked on Akira. “Were you displeased with it?”

A beat passes.

Kasumi hesitates. “Kurusu-senpai’s...wish?”

“He didn’t have a wish.”

“Oh, but he did, didn’t he?” It’s Maruki’s turn to take a step forward. “I was wondering why he looked slightly off when you all entered. I can only imagine how disorienting it must’ve been to be ripped away from that reality and back into this much crueler one.” Taking in their expressions, “He didn’t tell you?”

Even Akechi had nothing to say.

“Kurusu-kun, let me ask again: were you displeased with your wish?”

For a long, long moment, Akira only stared blankly, before finally, with the softest voice, “No, I wasn’t.”

“Were you happy?”

Akira takes a shuddering breath, “Happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

“Fuck this,” Akechi hisses, grabbing Akira’s shoulder and shaking him aggressively. He doesn’t spare him a glance. “Why are you giving this fraud your time of day?”

“Love can make people act out of the ordinary,” Maruki answers.

“Love…?” Sumire’s eyes dart around, thinking. With her extremely limited information, her mind flips through the events of the day, extracting whatever she can remember to see if anything has been let slip about what his wish could possibly be. He’s such a reserved person that it would be impossible to pry something from his expression unless it was completely—

A huge smile. Plans earlier that day. New Year’s.

—Obvious.

Sumire lets out a loud gasp, eyes wide and landing on Akira.

“Senpai…” she can hear something like pity from her own voice. “Your wish is...Sakamoto-senpai?”

The hand on Akira’s shoulder goes deathly still.

“I admit, I was surprised as you are,” Maruki says. “But as it turns out, even someone like Kurusu-kun here is just as human as the rest of us.”

Sumire stands there, mouth slightly gaping. For it to be as plain and simple as to be able to love and be loved in return is…unexpected. Heart clenching, she turns to Akira and asks, just barely above a whisper: “Did you really think it was so impossible that you have to resort to wishing?”

Akira cracks a smile. His eyes flicker towards her and, even in the poor lighting, she has no problem seeing the way defeat is etched into every feature of his expression. “Yeah, I really, really did.”

Directing his gaze back to the carpet, he continues. “But what I want doesn’t really matter. I got more than what I ever thought I would, more than what I thought was possible.” Akechi retracts his hand slowly, as if he wants nothing more than to avoid being caught. “I got my memories of this reality, and I’ll always remember what I could’ve had. So, really, I’m fine with letting this go.”

Akira looks up, and his voice carries new weight to it, a discovered strength. “If it’s for my friends, I’m fine with letting this go.'”

Sucking in a breath, Sumire opens her mouth to say something, anything. Instead, Akechi pulls out his pistol and presses the muzzle lightly to the back of Akira’s skull.

In a split second, Sumire has her rifle out and pointed to Akechi. “Akechi-san,” she says, voice low. “What are you doing?”

“Did you listen to a word he just said?” he says. Akira doesn’t react when he feels the shift of the muzzle.

“Yes,” she says, hands sweaty around the stock. “He refuted Maruki’s sentiments.”

“No, he didn’t. What he actually said was ‘if it’s for my friends, I’m fine letting this go.'”

“That’s right,” her brows furrow. “So what’s the problem?”

“If there’s one, single thing I learned about Kurusu,” he clenches his teeth. “Is that there isn’t a damn thing he wouldn’t do for his idiotic friends.”

A beat passes.

“Nice catch,” Akira huffs out a laugh. “I don’t really care about my wish, but if it’s for them? For their happiness?” he turns his head and looks directly into the barrel, unblinking. “That’s something I have to fight for.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You don’t know them like I do. You don't know how much it means for them to have their lives back.” Body swerving to completely face Akechi, “Are you going to try and stop me?” he smiles crookedly. “I think we both know how this’ll play out.”

Akechi doesn’t respond, but his weaponized hand begins to tremble.

Sighing, Akira turns to Sumire. “I’m really proud of you for breaking free and standing up for what you think is right. It hurts, it sucks, but you did it.” His jaw clenches, “I just hope you know that I’m trying to do the same thing.”

“Tell me you’re not going through with this, senpai,” her voice shakes. “Please. You’re right, it hurts. It hurts to know that reality is horrible and unforgiving and so unfair, but it’s better than living a lie.”

“That might be how you see it, Sumire,” he pivots and makes his way to Maruki’s side, Akechi’s hand still extended. “But they might disagree. They’ve been through so much, too much. And just as they’ve helped me, I want to protect their happiness.” He stands tall next to Maruki, black and white, only a few feet apart. “Even if it means standing against the two of you.”

Maruki is positively beaming at the boy next to him. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I truly thank you. Seeing you agree with me on this means the world. I promise, I won’t let you down.” Akira nods.

“And as for you two,” Maruki looks back at Akechi and Sumire. “I implore you to reconsider your decision. There’s no ploy here, no scam, or trick, or fine print. I honestly just want to see both on the side of happiness that you deserve. If this new reality ceases to exist, then your potential wishes and everyone else’s will disappear with it. So I beg of you, please reconsider.”

He pulls out his phone. “I’ll give you both a week. A week from now to discover the world. Take a look around, see how happy people are. I pray you change your minds by then.”

Maruki exits, walking deeper into the depths of the laboratory, Akira on his heels. Pausing, he turns, gloved hands tucked into his pockets.

“I’m sorry it has to be like this. But I owe it to them, and to you two,” his eyes flicker. “Especially you, Goro.”

Akechi sucks in a breath, gun still pointed to Akira’s head even as he turns and disappears from their view.

Silence suffocates them once his footsteps fade away.

“Dammit," Akechi mutters, finally lowering his pistol. “Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.”

Swerving, he raises his gun to the wall instead. “God fucking dammit!” he hisses, unloading all of his ammo until the clicking of trigger results in nothing. “Fuck.”

Sumire’s eyes dart towards the direction they left. “Should...should we fight them?”

He waves a hand, shoving his pistol back in its holter. “No use—even at my strongest, it still wasn’t enough to bring him down. With someone as powerful as Maruki alongside him, it would be suicide.”

The sound of heavy footsteps overlapping one another echo from the hallway. “And so would staying here,” Sumire forces the lump down her throat. “We should leave.”

“Agreed.”

She makes her way to the exit and, in the corner of her eye, catches Akechi glancing at the direction Akira went in with an indecipherable expression, and silently joins Sumire.

—

The crisp winter air hits them as a flash of fire takes away their Metaverse costumes once more. Sumire looks up to be greeted by the moon and stars. They’ve been in there for a whole day.

“That was...an intense experience, to say the least.” When no response came, she faces Akechi, glaring hard at nothing. “Are...do you want to talk about Kurusu-senpai?”

“No,” he decides. Pulling his coat sleeve back, he peers at his watch. “Damn him,” Akechi mummers. “First he acts like an idiot, now he made me waste an entire damn day.” He holds his hand out to Sumire. “Your phone, and unlock it.”

She blinks. “Sorry, but why?”

“You want to have a discussion at length, yes? I’d need some way of contacting you,” he wiggles his fingers impatiently. “Phone.”

Sumire hands him her phone, unlocked. As he types in his contact, she hesitates before saying, “I’m glad that you still want to go back and save senpai.”

He scoffs. “I most definitely do not give a single shit about that empathetic moron,” holding her phone out, she gingerly places it back in her pocket. “I’m here to make sure that my reality isn’t skewed by some doctor with an obvious sob story and someone with a bleeding heart for the first seven people he met.”

“Thank you,” she answers honestly. Sumire wasn’t sure if he’d only been placating her when he agreed to talk, and she’s glad she doesn’t have to convince him that they’re on the same side of the fight. “I’m happy to hear that we’re allies.”

“Allies, hmm?” Readjusting his scarf, “Seeing as how you didn’t crumble under the temptation of Maruki’s ideas, I’m not averse to the idea of an alliance between us.”

She gives him a small smile. “I can’t say I’m completely free from the temptation, but the idea of getting rid of someone my sister loved is, to be frank, disgusting.” Sticking her hand out, “I look forward to working with you, Akechi-san.”

He looks down at it before shaking. Akechi smiles back, sugar-sweet. “If you don’t drop the ‘san,’ I may reconsider.”

“My apologies, Akechi-san,” she says before she can catch herself.

His eyes narrow and drops her hand. For a moment, her heart lurched in fear that he was somehow serious about the threat. Instead, he starts walking towards the station. “I’m free all day tomorrow. Text or call me for the address; I’ll meet you there.”

“What if you don’t respond?”

“I always respond.”

Sumire sighs, relieved. One less problem to worry about, at least. She waits until he’s completely out of sight before heading to the station, exhaustion finally getting to her.

Whatever it takes, she’s going to save Akira, because she can say with complete and utter confidence, she is the Yoshizawa Sumire.

Chapter Text

They both agreed to meet at noon at an address of Sumire’s choosing. Considering that Tokyo is still in a post New Year’s mindset, the streets and the stores that reside there are fairly sluggish; only a few elderly couples and a handful of families with toddlers tugging them along are mindlessly walking through the streets of Shibuya.

Akechi takes one look at the restaurant. “No.”

“Huh?”

“No,” he repeats, glaring at the adorable restaurant with no small amount of disdain. “Why here?”

“I thought that a small, public setting like this would be smart,” she scratches her cheek. Maybe she’d misheard when—”Kurusu-senpai mentioned that you liked this type of food, back before school went on break.”

“Did he now?” His tone is light, but his jaw looks worryingly locked in place. “How kind of him.”

“We can go somewhere else—”

“No need,” Akechi narrows his eyes at the bright neon signs once more before going through the glass double-doors. “I’m not so petty as to refuse a restaurant for no good reason.”

“Okay,” Sumire says for a lack of better response, following him in. Why Akechi has such a fierce vendetta against eating at an IHOP, she’ll probably never know.

They were seated right away by a flustered waitress. Akechi smiles at her, charming and non-threatening. It’s almost kind of jarring seeing it now.

After she shakily hands them the laminated menus, she stumbles away to the kitchen—no doubt to rave about how sweet the detective is in person, how approachable.

“Finally. I was afraid I’d snap at her if she’d stayed a moment longer.” He starts skimming the menu, ignoring her curious stare. “You have a question.”

“I do, but I don’t want to come off as rude.”

“I’ve dealt with people who would dispose of me if I so much breathed the wrong way,” he flips the page. “Give me some credit.”

She thinks of the halls in Shujin, filled to the brim with rumors and hate and animosity towards her. This aspect, at the very least, can act as a middle-ground between Sumire and the boy in front of her.

“You’re not really the Detective Prince, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“But it’s an act, isn’t it?”

He chuckles mockingly. “Everything is an act, Yoshizawa. There isn’t a single person out there who isn’t pretending in some way or another. But, if you’re referring to how I’m no longer keeling over to lick people’s gum off their shoe, then sure, I’m not really the Detective Prince.” Akechi pauses when her eyes dart toward the kitchen. “Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. If it’ll benefit me, I can be whoever I need to be.”

The door to the kitchen bursts open. Akechi smirks. “Exhibit A.”

The waitress returns, slightly red and clutching the handle of a steaming coffee pot like a lifeline.

“On the house,” she blurts out as she pours the hot liquid into their mugs. “Um, are you ready?”

They give her their order (Sumire gets a breakfast platter with double pancakes while Akechi seems adamant on not ordering anything on the breakfast menu, asking for cream and sugar instead). When they finish, Akechi flashes the waitress a smile, tilting his head so that his brown hair brushes his shoulders, and induces yet another wave of red to flood towards her cheeks.

She scampers away and Sumire gives him a look. “Did you trick her to...get coffee?”

“To prove a point,” he corrects. Lifting his mug, one sniff has him grimacing. “Leblanc has truly spoiled me. This smells rancid.”

She lifts her own mug; it smells delightful. “That sounds exhausting, having to constantly change how you act.”

“Perhaps. But if it gets the job done, then I can’t complain. Survival, after all, must come before anything else, only closely followed by the notion of winning. Many times, those two coincide.”

“And if you get caught in the act? What happens then?”

“That doesn’t happen.”

“Sure it does,” she picks up her teaspoon and absentmindedly stirs the contents of her mug. “Why else would you be interacting with me without your…persona?”

“You think you caught me in the act?” He asks, an eyebrow arched.

“Oh, no, not at all. But someone must’ve figured it out for me.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “It’s a bit of a stretch to say ‘figured it out,’ but in a way, yes. It’s more coincidence and luck. Less figuring out and more,” Akechi pauses. “A different perspective.”

Leaning back into the (slightly sticky) faux leather of the booth, he folds his hands together in a polished manner. “Are you sufficed with this interview? Or is this an interrogation?”

“I thought it was more of a nice chat,” she replies.

“Chat?” Sumire freezes. Akechi’s voice had dropped an octave, and her stomach along with it. “Chats are what people have when they’re gossiping about what some boy is doing after school, or when they have the luxury to waste time. Chatting is what friends do, Yoshizawa, and forgive me if I wasn’t clear enough. However,” he leans forward, his red eyes dark and lips pulled back ever so slightly. “Being allies with the same goal does not make us besties.”

He leans back, and Sumire can only stare at him. She tries to push away the intense waves of disappointment, irritation, and embarrassment at tricking herself twice now. A million words are stuck on her tongue like a fly caught on sticky paper—struggling, but an ultimately fruitless endeavor.

“Okay,” is what comes out. Clearing her throat, “Let’s focus back to the matter at hand then, shall we?” Sumire spoke timidly, but not out of fear of the man in front of her, but rather in fear of scaring him away. It’s obvious he has a bus load and a half of issues, but they’re allies and right now, they don’t have anyone but each other. This is one objective she can’t afford to slip up on, and with her knowledge of the Metaverse being shaky at best, she needs all the help she can get.

“Let’s.”

As he’s about to continue, the waitress returns with Sumire’s staggering order, Akechi’s sugar and milk (in tiny, blue capsules) and mysteriously straightened hair. “So sorry for the delay,” she says, most of her attention on a boy who seems infinitely more interested in the creamer than her.

“Thank you,” Sumire blurts out when he doesn’t reply, more to fill the awkward silence than anything. At least it seems to snap the waitress out of whatever disappointed stupor she’s in, after the detective had a full one-eighty on his personality.

The waitress walks back, shoulders drooping, and Sumire points a side eye at Akechi. “That was mean. Kindness has its own benefits too, you know.”

“Alright, Maruki. Can we get a move on?”

“Please.”

Akechi folds his hand over each other. “I mentioned that I’ve worked with the Thieves in the past.” At Sumire’s nod, “I believe that can be used to our advantage.”

She frowns, and picks up her fork. “Our advantage? Did you learn something back then?” She starts cutting into her pancakes, the scent absolutely mouth-watering.

“Not quite. Most of the intel I gathered from them were useless. Never in my life did I need to know about half of the bakeries in Tokyo, or which days of the week were the most plentiful in terms of grocery sales. Really, it’s all garbage. However, three things were clear by the time my truce with them had ended.”

He plucks a single capsule from the table, inspecting it with interest. “One: Kurusu Akira is very good at what he does. It pains me to admit it, but he’s powerful, much more than lets on. His ability to utilize multiple Personas to fill in any holes his team might have, the natural tendency to anticipate his opposer’s attacks. This made me knock out the initial strategy.”

“Which was?”

“Battle him on the spot,” he answers nonchalantly. “Beat some sense into him, in whatever form that may be. However, as history decides it, that plan was doomed to fail before it even began. Maybe as a last resort.” Sumire very nearly asks him what on earth he could be referring to in terms of history, but Akechi continues before she works out how to ask without setting off another aggravated landmine. It’s a lot like her floor exercises; one misstep can be her downfall.

“His power also extends past the Metaverse,” Akechi crosses his legs neatly. “He’s made a plethora of confidants splattered across the city, ranging from ridiculous to slightly worrying. The most crucial of those confidants, as you can imagine, are his pesky friends.”

Placing the capsule back onto the table delicately, he continues. “The second is what I’ve mentioned before, back in the Palace—Kurusu would walk backwards into hell for his little troupe. However, the very notion of teammates demands more than one side of the party.”

He begins to stack the capsules on top of each other until a structure is created on top of the polished table (they both pretend not to notice the elderly couple eyeing them with annoyance). “And finally, number three—” Akechi leans back, gazing uninterestedly at the miniature pyramid made out of eight creamer capsules. “Is that every single one of his teammates would do the same for him.”

Like a lock and key, the pieces of it click in her mind. When he lays it out like that, it’s almost obvious.

Sumire gestures to the pyramid. “May I?” At his nod, she (reluctantly) moves her barely-touched plate out of the way and considers the structure before her.

“Kurusu-senpai is doing this for his friends,” she states.

“Indeed.”

“So, if we plan accordingly…” extending her pointer finger and, carefully, prods the base. All eight pieces fall over, the one at the top crashing down to earth the hardest.

Sumire looks up to see Akechi smiling at her, if one would be willing to call it that; it’s slightly too sinister to be called a grin, with the way his eyes are filled with subsided manic energy, though it’s shadowed by the forelocks of his brown hair—he’s the spitting image of a classic Disney villain if it were an R-rated film.

“Now you’re playing the game.”

—

The plan was simple. Straight forward.

It wasn’t too different from a hostage situation—you can’t make a move if the hostages are held over you as leverage, forced to comply with whatever the gunman wanted so long as nobody gets hurt. Take away the citizens and suddenly the situation gets a lot simpler.

Maruki had, inadvertently or not, held a gun to the Thieves’ heads with Akira playing negotiator. All Akechi and Sumire have to do is remove the hostages from the scene safely. If Akira, the negotiator, can’t be reasoned with, then they’ll just have to place their trust in the rest of them to convince Akira themselves. They just need a bit of a wake-up call.

Really, it’s a simple solution to a complex problem. All that’s left is the execution.

—

YS: are you there? i’d like to ask you something.
AG: What?
YS: i understand that splitting up would be smarter to make this a lot speedier and id like not to stay in this reality any longer than necessary
YS: but after thinking about it, isn’t it better to do it together to guarantee success? if we can’t fail on convincing them that their reality isn’t real, then doing it together is probably a good idea!
AG: That may be true. I’d like this entire fiasco to be over as soon as possible.
YS: same! And you also know them way better than i do :)
AG: Please don’t remind me.
YS: noted
AG: Are you opposed to meeting in leblanc tomorrow? We can begin our plan there.
YS: starting with Morgana-senpai? that’ll be good actually. he’s the only one i at least kind of befriended
AG: You’re aware that he’s not here, right? That he is not physically reading the word ‘senpai’, right?
YS: yes
AG: Just making sure.

Leblanc is blessedly empty when they enter, the blunt yet strong fragrance of coffee beans seeming to waft from every direction with only the slightest hint of smoke drifting towards them from the bright orange tip of Sojiro’s cigarette. He tilts the corner of his lip up at their entrance, even as his eyes light up with curiosity.

“Morning,” he greets, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and snuffing out its embers on the ashtray. “Sorry bout that, shouldn’t be smoking in front of you kids—Niijima gives me a nasty look whenever I do it. So, what can I do you for? If it’s coffee you want, it’s on the house.”

“As tempting as that may be, we’re going to have to decline,” Akechi answers. He’s once again donning a mask of pleasantness, layered so thick that Sumire has to wonder how she ever believed it. “However, we’d love to speak with Morgana for a moment, if you don’t mind?”

“Sure,” Sojiro jerks his head at the wooden staircase. “Head on up.”

They nod their thanks and make their way upstairs.

Sumire had learned early on in her life that she wasn’t someone who was prone to falling for jump scares. Horror movies aren’t really an issue for her and haunted houses were always more of an interesting location to gauge visitors’ reactions rather than try to get anything out of it herself. Often times, it is psychological horror that affected her, the creepiness of it sliding into her mind that causes her to shake and tremble.

Even though Akechi had reminded her once more, even if she spent a good amount of time trying to picture if, even though on a technical level, she knew what she would be looking at—

“Yoshizawa? Oh, Akechi too! I didn’t expect to see you guys here.”

—Nothing could have possibly prepared her for the sight of human Morgana.

He’s sat on what she’s almost sure is Akira’s bed, though it’s a futon placed on top of a bunch of grocery pallets. He has dark hair that could be mistaken as black had the sunlight from the window not shined on him, and the only remnants that could have resonated his cat form is his once-collar turning into a gold chain paired with his bright, blue eyes. With a manga perched on his lap, he looks like an ordinary boy that she wouldn’t even think twice about.

It's a really unnerving thought.

“Hello Morgana,” Akechi says when Sumire can’t seem to find her words. “May we speak to you for a second?”

“Of course! Make yourselves at home. Er, sorry it’s a little messy,” he stands and clumsily beats the run-down couch with his human hands. “Don’t know how I never noticed the mess in here before—”

Sumire leans to Akechi, eyes never leaving the fussing boy. “You’re right.”

“About?”

“This is truly harrowing.”

“You overheard that conversation?”

“—But better late than never!” Morgana finishes, giving the sofa one last pat and gesturing for them to sit. “Oh, and just let you know, I can’t stay for too long; Lady Ann wants me to carry her stuff while she walks around Shibuya and, well what kind of gentleman would I be to say no?” He laughs, so elated that it’s almost like they missed out on a gut-busting joke.

“That’s fine, this won’t take long, Morgana-senpai.”

Morgana juts his chin out, poorly concealing his smugness. “Anything for you, Yoshizawa! Just like back in Odaiba.”

He blinks, brow creasing. “Odaiba...with Akira.” His tone turns confused, like the words that were coming out of his mouth were leaving without his consent. “That was a wild day, we just found a Palace. And you had your awakening, and I was so shocked and….” A hand comes up, clutching his head and eyes scrunched tightly. “I was…”

Sumire and Akechi lock eyes, the same thought going through their mind: it’s the same reaction that Akira had. A weight left her shoulders, knowing that just as they planned, it wasn’t difficult to remind them of the true reality.

What they didn’t expect was for Morgana to disoriently glance at them and say in a quiet voice, “I gotta go...take a walk.”

“Wait, hold on—” Sumire tries.

“Feel free to stay, but I, uh, have to think,” Morgana moves towards the staircase, only half-glancing at their perplexed faces before escaping.

They don’t move until they hear the bell ringing downstairs.

“That could have gone better,” Akechi sighs, voice tight with mild irritation.

“I don’t know why I didn’t put two and two together and predict this. I mean, that’s pretty much my reaction, too!” She throws her hands in the air. “I was too distracted by how Kurusu-senpai reacted.”

“Well, as we learn time and time again, Kurusu is the exception, not the rule.” Akechi moves to lean against an old work desk, and rather than normal student supplies littering it’s surface, it has strange-looking metals and hardware. “While it’s a shame to have failed in recruiting the cat, all is not lost. As long as we can convince one of them, it’ll at least be enough to make Kurusu hesitate. That’s all we need.”

“Is that the best move?” she asks, walking around the room and inspecting the fun little knickknacks strewn about. It’s probably not the most courteous move of hers to look at someone’s room without permission, but she can’t help it. “Should we try and convince Mona-senpai?”

“It’d be a waste of time, especially while we have six other people to speak to, and our time frame is limited as is.”

“Maybe they’ll naturally come to realize it, without our prompting? He already seemed pretty on the fence about his memories.”

“Perhaps. But like I said, I don’t do gambles.” Sumire peels her away from the realistic-looking ramen bowl just in time to see the flint in his eyes. “And hell would freeze over before I let this counterfeit reality become the real one.”

Sumire smiles, though her eyes are just as hard as his. “I understand the sentiment.”

They regard each other for a long moment.

Akechi readjusts his coat. “We should leave and try again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good. Oh, maybe Boss is still up for the free coffee he mentioned.”

“Ugh, finally some good news.” They head down the stairs. “Hopefully we can make it quick—don’t want to take any chances.”

“Chances? I thought you liked the coffee here.”

“Oh, I do. But the regulars here might put a bit of a damper on the—”

The moment Akechi’s foot hits the main floor, the door to Leblanc swings open once more and a young girl with bright orange hair bursts in.

“—Situation.”

—

YS: who should come after Morgana-senpai?
AG: It doesn’t matter.
AG: But there are a few people who I want to postpone, if possible.
YS: that’s fine, but why?
AG: No reason, but if we can guarantee that we’ve convinced the others before them.
AG: It’s a stroke of luck that Morgana’s wish was easy to figure out, but we have no such advantage afterwards. However, I have a select few...intuitions, for what their wishes might be.
YS: that’s better than nothing! Lay them on me.
AG: For some of them, nothing may be the better option.

“Ah, did you forget something?” Sojiro chides, chuckling. “I told you to double-check your bag before running off.

Futaba slaps her forehead. “Gah, I know, but there’s no way I’m missing out on a day of Akihabara with mom! It’s like getting the motherlode cheat in the Sims.” She hops over the counter and slides behind the bar, very nearly knocking over the yellow landline. “Agility plus three!”

“We have guests, Futaba, and business is hard enough as is without you jumping around.”

“Huh? People?" Futaba scans the cafe, her mouth rounding to a perfect O as she is, in fact, not alone. “People! People I know!”

Sumire waves, charmed at the other girl’s exuberance. “Sorry to intrude.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s nice to see this place having some people around to move the dust every once in a while,” gesturing to the wall of canisters, her arm outstretched like an experienced realtor. “Feel free to have whatever you’d like, free of charge!”

“Futaba,” Sojiro exasperates, with no small amount of adoration laced in every syllable. He turns to them in a what can you do? gesture. “She’s right, though. Say the word and I’ll brew something up.”

Futaba gasps. “Mom! She’s still out there waiting. Oh, big brain idea comin’ in!” She redirects her outstretched hand to point at them, still standing awkwardly at the staircase. “I’ll bring mom in here and introduce you both!”

Akechi stiffens on her left. “No need, we were just about to—”

“Ah, ah, ah! Nope!” she interrupts, already halfway out the door. “I’ll be back before you can recite the national anthem.” Futaba runs out, leaving the ball ringing behind her.

“That girl is a whirlwind,” Sojiro says gruffly. “Hope she didn’t scare you off. Especially you, Akechi,” he ducks behind the bar, rummaging through its shelves. “You ran out real fast last time you came in here.”

Sumire’s eyes dart towards Akechi when he doesn’t answer. “Are you okay?”

He’s about to answer when Futaba decides to burst in for the second time, chest heaving and face pink. A grin takes up every crevice of her features as she clutches the hand of a woman looking fondly at her. “I come bearing gifts! Well, a gift.”

Sojiro sighs. “Sorry Wakaba, can’t reign her in like you can.”

“You’d be a fool to think anyone can reign her in,” Wakaba laughs, before tilting her head curiously at Akechi and Sumire. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“They’re friends with Akira and I!” Futaba says, chest puffed out. “Yoshizawa and Akechi, meet my mom—” For a split second, Futaba’s eyes widen before grabbing the counter’s ledge. “Nngh…”

“Sweetheart?”

“Futaba, what’s wrong?”

Sumire turns to Akechi, a clear question in her eyes. What triggered it?

“My head,” Futaba groans. She removes her glasses and rubs her eyes furiously with her palm.

However, the minute she pulls her hand away, Futaba’s eyes open and Sumire feels her stomach lurch uncomfortably. Those are no longer the eyes of the girl playfully giving away the contents of a humble coffee shop to mess with her dad; they’re the eyes of someone who’s confused, shocked, and, above all else livid.

And she’s directing it all at Akechi.

“Mom,” she says, voice trembling. “I feel better, so let’s go.”

Wakaba frowns. “Are you sure? You look so pale."

“Don’t worry! I just—I just really want to go.”

Futaba throws another glare at Akechi and an inquisitive look at Sumire before leaving, her previous energy sapped away.

Sighing, Wakaba gives them an apologetic look. “Sorry about that. Futaba has such a one-track mind. I’ll be sure that she apologizes—”

“Don’t,” Akechi says. “She doesn’t have to apologize for anything.”

“Oh, that’s very sweet of you," some of the tension in her shoulders dissipate. “I’m so glad to have people like you looking out for my Futaba.”

Akechi doesn’t say anything, even when Wakaba gives them a wave, following Futaba out to the backstreets of Yongen.

It was quiet for a long moment.

Sojiro clears his throat. “You still up for that coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Akechi replies, his voice possessing an odd quality to it. “I must get going now. If you’d excuse me,” In a few quick strides, he’s out of the door.

Sumire bows quickly. “Thank you for having us,” she says politely before following him out.

Looking left and right, Akechi is briskly heading towards the station. She catches up to him with ease.

“You knew that would happen,” she says flatly.

He keeps walking. “I did.”

“And you didn’t tell me? Didn’t you think that, I don’t know, would have affected our mission?”

“I didn’t tell you because it’s none of your business, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s still the case.”

“None of my business?” She ups her pace and stands in front of Akechi, forcing him to stop in his tracks. With him standing six inches taller than her, their height gap is a wide one, but in no way is Sumire going to let him keep looking down on her. “It became my business the minute we wanted the same thing: to fix this reality. I’ve come to understand that you’re not interested in being friends, but do not go against your own word by refusing to see me as an ally.”

They stare each other down for a few seconds, a handful of the neighbourhood’s residents whispering about them and scuttling away in fear that they might get caught in the middle of some teenage spat.

“Fine,” he relents. “It wasn’t the best move to withhold information. This won’t happen again. But,” looking around, there’s still some people milling about, an old man dutifully listening to the radio. “Not here.”

“Do you promise?”

Akechi scoffs and moves around her. “Would you like to pinky swear?”

“Akechi.”

“Fine, yes, I promise. Are you really such a goody two shoes that you need a damn contract?”

Sumire frowns. “Goody two shoes?”

“As straight laced as the student council president herself,” he confirms, pulling out his commuter's card as they near the station. “At least Niijima broke out of it once she realized what she was fighting for,” he looks back at her. “Have you?”

Clenching a fist, she says, “You have no idea what I’m fighting for. And I’m still not sure if you know what you’re fighting for, Akechi.”

His gaze hardens. “I know damn well what I’m fighting for. Not everyone has philanthropy running through their veins. That’s Kurusu’s job.”

A crowd of people exit their trains, filling up the station. By the time it dissipates, Akechi is gone.

—

YS: shouldn’t we try to approach Sakamoto-senpai first?
YS: i’m sure kurusu-senpai doesn’t play favorites, but he IS his best friend, and, well, in love with him. it would be smart to guarantee that he’s on our side
AG: True. Whether we like it or not, that jester is an important factor to the success of the mission.
AG: But that’s why I think we should save him for last. It’s better to guarantee everyone first and then Sakamoto as a last resort.
YS: (´;︵;`)
AG: ...What.
YS: that’s rude to sakamoto-senpai. he’s really nice!
AG: No, I mean what is...that?
YS: an emoji? i love them, they’re very expressive.
AG: Stop that.
YS: .·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·.

Instead of taking the train right away, Sumire decides to take a look at the inner workings of Yongen.

It’s a lovely little area—away from the insatiable hustle of Shibuya but close enough in case you want to indulge yourself in shopping and the never ending waves of shoppers. Yongen is like it’s younger, humbler cousin; small groceries, a quiet movie theatre, batting cages, and of course, a quaint cafe with a dedicated fan base of elderly couples, pretentious film critics, and a large group of teenagers.

She goes to none of these commodities, finding herself drawn to the second-hand shop run by a kind old man. An expensive habit it may be, but Sumire has always fallen back to shopping whenever she’s feeling frustrated at the world. She may not have a closet worthy of Vague, but it’s an enjoyable distraction at the very least.

And after that conversation with Akechi, she’ll take any distraction she can get.

Sumire takes a deep inhale. It would be laughably easy to let herself snap on the detective, with the stunt he pulled earlier. This mission is difficult enough as it is, especially without the mind games. It’s like playing tug-of-war with a brick wall; she’s lost the game before she even began. No, she refuses to lose. If there’s one thing she’s learned in gymnastics (except how to execute a flawless aerial cartwheel) is that half the competition is the mindset you have walking on to the mat. If you take a step with the slightest belief that you’re going to fail, the medal was doomed to fall in someone else’s hands.

Sumire begins to shop even harder.

She’s in the middle of inspecting a strangely charming glasses case that her father would absolutely love when she hears a surprised, “Yoshizawa?”

Nearly dropping the case, she turns to find a sweaty, grinning Ryuji, hand gripping one of his earphones that she can hear even from here. “Sakamoto-senpai!” Carefully placing it back down, she heads towards him, waving. “Do you run in this area?”

“Heck yeah! Life hack:” he looks around like someone who’s about to spill the beans on nuclear codes. “If you look tired enough, Boss’ll give you free drinks.” Sumire can’t help but laugh, and he goes on. “And y’know, I see ‘Kira here all the time, so that’s always a plus.

She fights not to let the smile drop from her face. “That must be nice.”

“Eh, it ain’t half-bad,” he says ruefully, but there was no hiding the clear fondness his voice possesses. “Hey, you got something goin’ on right now?”

“Um, not particularly.”

“Eff yeah! How about you and I walk around? There’s a real nice park down the street and, uh,” his expression turns sheepish. “In all honesty, you look like you could use a bit of a breather right now.”

Three things run through Sumire’s mind in the span of a breath: Ryuji’s definitely one of the nicest senpais she’s ever had, Akechi would probably warn her that hanging out with Ryuji might be stupid on her part, and that’s a huge part as to why she’s most definitely going to agree to spend time with him.

“I’d love to, as long as I’m not interrupting your workout in any way.”

“Nah, I’m on my cool down anyway.” Yanking out his other earphone and shoving them in his track pants (trademark Shujin red and white). “Let’s get this show on the road!”

“Yes, let’s!”

A fourth thought ran through her mind; a quiet, subdued, selfish thought that she herself is too wary to consciously think about. Her goal right now is an honest one. She just wants a window—the same window that Akira had looked out from. What does he see? What’s going through his mind when he sees Ryuji? All she wants is a little bit of perspective.

“What were you listening to?” Sumire asks. “During your run.”

“Oh, nothing crazy,” Ryuji shrugs. “Just some political podcasts.”

“Really?” She always assumed he listened more to punk songs that hurt her ears.

“Yeah, I mean there’s a lot of shit going on in the world, and there ain’t much I can do ‘bout it. I might as well get pissed off in, like, a smart way, so I know what I’m talking about.”

“That’s really impressive! I usually don’t listen to anything while I run since I have to actively focus on my form.”

Ryuji’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “You run? I mean, yeah, no duh you run, you’re like all gymnasticsy and stuff! And you don’t listen to music?”

“Not really.”

“That’s hardcore. That’s like what monks do on the mountains.”

“Oh, I’m nowhere near that level.”

“You’re closer than I am, at least. You need crazy good concentration when you do your…” Ryuji does a messy hop-and-spin move. “How long you been doing that by the way?”

“Gymnastics? Since I was really young.”

“No way. You gotta tell me about it!”

The two of them walk around the park with Sumire explaining her journey of experiencing the competitive world of gymnastics (carefully exempting the darker parts) and Ryuji oohs and ahhs at the appropriate times, eagerly asking her technical questions on her regimen with a crazy amount of detail. It’s clear that he’s passionate about athleticism and Sumire can’t help but be infected by his genuine enthusiasm, asking him for tips on how to avoid cramps while running long distance in return.

But one thing that Sumire can’t help but notice is how permanent Akira’s presence is in their conversation, despite not being here physically. Whether it’s Ryuji mentioning him in passing, or rolling his eyes at something he did, or just asking in a teasing tone if Akira’s actually a good senpai (“c’mon, he ain’t here, I’m no snitch I promise!”). Despite all that, it’s obvious it’s all done with a bucketful of tenderness; a clear and unbreaking thread that ties the two together that no blade in the world can cut apart.

And that’s the moment that Sumire realizes, only for a split second, she got what she wanted: perspective.

While she herself may not harbor those feelings, it’s easy to see how someone could—especially if they were a transfer student who had distressing rumors surrounding them since day one. Sumire can understand the impact that one person may have on you when it feels like you’re fighting all of Shibuya. She can comprehend the need to fight for that person’s happiness—after all, isn’t that what she’s doing?

A realization jolts her as she watches Ryuji speak, eyes bright and hands moving animatedly, that he’s probably still under the rose-tinted lenses of Akira’s wish.

He drops her off the station with a wave once they’re done. Sumire’s left to deal with sifting through which parts of their conversation was either byproduct of the wish or which was the real Sakamoto Ryuji.

—

AG: There’s also the matter of finding their locations. Some of them aren’t as straight forward in their hangouts, while others are as predictable as playing poker with Sakamoto.
AG: Knowing Kitagawa, he would be loitering around the museum in Ueno. It would be easy to ambush him there.

They find Yusuke gazing at the portrait of Sayuri in Ueno the next day.

It was an odd sight, seeing Sayuri out in the open again. Sumire only knew about its history through public knowledge—a once internationally renowned artist named Madarame had been stealing his students’ art and abusing them under his care. While Yusuke’s name had initially been anonymous, it was impossible to completely leave him incognito with how massive the case had been; the painting of Sayuri, once praised to high heaven and appreciated by people who had never even picked up a paintbrush, forever bastardized and tainted by the greed of Madarame.

And now it’s on display once more.

“Let’s get this over with,” Akechi says as they close the gap between them and Yusuke.

“Be nice,” she reminds him, and clears her throat. “Kitagawa-san?”

Yusuke slowly peels his eyes away from the painting and lights up once he processes who was speaking. “Yoshizawa, Akechi, hello. Have you come here to look at my mother’s painting as well?”

“Yes,” says Sumire. “It’s truly beautiful and...a shock to see.”

He nods, his vision trailing back towards the portrait. “It’s all thanks to my sensei’s unyielding patronage that I’m lucky enough to view it from a museum,” Yusuke speaks with warmth, a tone contradicting the bluntness that Yoshizawa had associated him with. “Everyday I thank the hand of fate that dealt my cards; had I not had my sensei supporting me, I don’t know where I’d be today.”

Sumire swallows. “Do you mean Madarame?”

“Of course!” Yusuke claps his hands together, elated. “Speaking of, would you two like to join us for dinner tonight? I’d so dearly love for you both to meet him,” Yusuke smiles and she feels her chest tighten. “To spread the word of my sensei’s excellence as a thank you for what he’s done for my mother...nothing would make me happier.”

You don’t know them like I do. You don’t know how much it means for them to have their lives back.

Akira’s voice enters her mind, and she almost sympathizes with his words. Mostly though, all she can think about is the cruelty of letting Yusuke continue on like this.

“Kitagawa,” Akechi cuts in, unfazed. “Is that Sayuri you were looking at?”

Yusuke’s brow creases. “Sayuri...? That isn’t what it’s called….”

“Is Madarame-san a good sensei?” Sumire presses, and holds back a flinch when his resolve begins to crumble in front of her.

“Madarame,” he whispers. “Am I being fooled again?”

“Only if you let yourself be,” says Sumire.

“So focus,” says Akechi.

They wait with bated breath as they watch Yusuke struggle to reign in the whirlwind of thoughts flying through his brain, clenching his fists and shoulders tensing.

And then, slowly, he raises his head at them, defeated.

“Excuse me, but I must be going.”

Sumire winces, and stretches her hand out. “Kitagawa—” But he was already gone.

Beside her, Akechi lets out a hiss. “Useless. They’re all useless.”

“We still have four to go,” she reminds him. “And please try to understand his pain. He lost his mother and he has to find out that he was being used. That’s horrible.”

“Oh, boohoo. So did I, but you don’t see me having a breakdown in the middle of a museum.”

Her eyes widen and Akechi scoffs. “Save me the pity bullshit, we don’t have time for that. Besides,” he heads for the exit. “That hasn’t bothered me in a long, long time.”

—

YS: oh, i know where one of them may be! Takamaki-senpai frequents the underground mall, and i bet we can find her there :)
AG: Understood.
AG: (*❛‿❛)→
YS: sorry?
AG: What? You were correct in that they’re useful for conveying expressions.
AG: The arrow indicates that it’s pointing. I.e. you have a point that Takamaki is probably there.
YS: ooh! I never thought about it like that. nice one!

Sumire didn’t know how she didn’t realize it sooner.

Rumors are a staple of Shujin Academy; if you weren’t the focus of one, you’d be the one spreading it—the gust of wind amidst a wildfire. In her first year, there were really only three hotspots in the rumour mill that were constantly being shoved in Sumire’s ears: the vulgar used-to-be ace of the track team who’s now a violent delinquent, the serial killer/arsonist/elephant trafficker criminal transfer student that came in early April, and the gorgeous foreigner that no one can take their eyes off, least of all the coach of the volleyball team.

Sumire isn’t a stranger to the cycle, having been the focus of one ever since she was made an honors student. While it had made her life unnecessarily difficult, it granted her a different outlook on those three. It has shown her an obvious truth that people seem to forget when they’re parroting false facts: most rumors aren’t true.

The delinquent isn’t actually a delinquent, but someone who refuses to stay quiet in the name of injustice. The transfer student is only a criminal in the eyes of the law, someone who had the opportunity to save someone and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, no matter the cost. The foreign student is just a girl who’s unfortunate enough to end up in the spotlight of an irredeemable scumbag of a teacher that never hesitated to hold his power over students.

But.

There was another rumor that followed Ann, one that didn’t get displayed on a billboard and screamed from the rooftops. It was passed around quietly, like a drug deal, and it was buried beneath the Kamoshida hearsay.

Most rumors aren’t true, but seeing Ann and Shiho interact with each other in the mall, Sumire didn’t know how she didn’t realize sooner that they’re head-over-heels in love with each other.

“Ugh, Shiho, I seriously can’t stop thinking about that spike you did in the last game!” Ann gushes as they shop for shoes. “It’s just like bam! Like some kind of cannon! I’m so glad it was taped.”

“Stop, you’re overreacting,” Shiho rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling wide enough that it wipes away any heat.

“No way, I’m gonna keep yelling about how incredible my girlfriend is until—Oh, hold on Shiho—Hey! Akechi! Yoshizawa! Over here!”

Ann enthusiastically waves them over. “Fancy seeing you two here. Doing some New Year’s shopping? Shiho and I are just celebrating the fact that she was the MVP in her last volleyball tournament,” she puffs out her chest. “But it really stinks that I couldn’t be there to watch in person with her, with her school being so far and all. She’s coming back this year, though! I’m so excited!”

Sumire nods, smiling, and tries not to stare at Shiho. Everyone’s seen a glimpse of what Shiho looked like after that day. No one thought that she’d be walking at all anytime soon, and even after intensive therapy it would be difficult to bring it back a hundred percent. But here she is now, speaking casually about playing in a volleyball tournament like she was born to do it.

“Oh my God, Ann, they don’t need to know that.” Shiho turns to Akechi, sheepish. “Sorry you hear all that, especially when I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Suzui Shiho. It’s good to meet you, detective.”

“Pleasure,” he replies, smiling politely. “It seems to me that you’re looking much better, Suzui-san.”

Sumire should really stop being surprised at the complete lack of reservation that Akechi possesses when it comes to reminding people of the true reality, no matter how heart-wrenching their past is.

“I’ve always been fine,” says Suzui, the comment flying over her head. “I hope you’re doing well, too.”

Akechi’s eye twitches and Sumire hurries to jump in. “It seems the two of you are happy,” she glances at Ann, and tries not to feel too bad when she says, “Especially considering what happened with Kamoshida.”

A beat passes before Ann’s gaze begins to cloud over with a now-familiar expression of disorientation and pain. Holding her breath, hoped that they could finally have their first ally amongst the Thieves.

Then Ann shakes her head aggressively and they knew it was a lost cause.

Chuckling nervously, Ann grabs Shiho’s hand. “Sorry, I just remembered we had plans to go somewhere. See you later!” Ann begins to drag Shiho—and herself—away.

Akechi clicks his tongue. “Four people in a group founded on justice and they’ve chosen to ignore their own. This is getting pathetic.”

“We still have three to go,” Sumire says. “There’s still time.”

Eyeing her with disdain, “How is that you don’t seem the least bit bothered about this?”

“There’s still three people to get to! And, not to mention, there’s a possibility that they’ll come to terms with their feelings in due time.” She tilts her head. “Have you forgotten the bonds that Kurusu-senpai has with his friends?”

“Of course not.”

“Then it’s fine,” she says. “We just have to believe that they’ll be there for him when he needs him most. Even if they aren’t here at this very moment, that’s okay.” Tucking one of her long, red locks behind her ear, she smiles. “Faith is an advantage in its own right.”

Chapter Text

On a technical standpoint, rain doesn’t bother Akechi.

Whenever it rains, no matter if it was just a drizzle or a downpour, people scramble to the nearest overhang, praying that they don’t get drenched. Such a trivial thing to get panicked by, he thought. City rain like this was hardly something to fear, yet it remains a constant in societal culture—water starts falling from the sky and people stop whatever they’re doing to duck for cover.

And since Akechi had long since accepted to reform himself into the mold of society rather than the other way around, here he was, in the middle of Kichijoji, shoulders pressed back against the building of Darts & Billboards, waiting for the rain to tire itself out.

Out of all the habits he’s practiced and perfected from his days of deceit, it’s strange that hiding out from rainfall is one of the few that he still can’t shake, inconsequential as it was. He had learned that mimicking what can be considered societal norms and exercised it in everyday life can at least trick most people that he, Akechi Goro, can be lumped in with the norms and be heightened to excellence later on. People hid from droplets and because the path of normalcy is what he wanted, he decided that he’ll hide with them.

It took him a long time to narrow down why it bothered him. Why, for some reason, it had pissed him off that idiots would commit to such an insignificant action. It’s because when people run for cover, when they prioritize the act of hiding over everything else, they’re essentially allowing the rain—this overall harmless entity—to prevent them from reaching their destination. Fools let their decisions be dictated by the weather, wasting their time waiting it out, letting themselves be dictated beyond their control.

It’s a product of the collective unconscious; rather than pushing past the drizzle to reach their destination, or continue living their life as it were before the storm clouds rolled in, the masses decided that the better decision was to cease all movements because it would be easier. When it rains, society comes at a standstill.

“D’you always just stand in the middle of the promenade lookin’ pissed, or am I just lucky?”

Akechi blinks and turns his head to see a patch of bright, blond hair with an even brighter grin. His purple hood was pulled up, but it’s too short that it does little to block out the downpour.

Sakamoto Ryuji stands in front of him, completely drenched and unbothered.

“I’d hardly call it luck, so much as a coincidence.” Flicking his eyes downward, Ryuji adjusts the heavy looking plastic bags hanging off of his wrists. “And you?”

“Doing some grocery shopping for my ma. She’s been real busy at work, so…” he shrugs.

It really was a strange coincidence that he shows up like this, unprompted. The universe, if it ever was sentient, had never thrown him a bone. However, for Ryuji to show up, it almost seems like a waste to let it go.

If he’s been wanting to see Sakamoto up close, this is as good as it’s gonna get.

“How do you feel about joining me in some people-watching?” Akechi asks.

Ryuji’s eyes light up. “Sure! These bags are getting heavy anyway, could use a break.” He dodges a stream of water flowing cleanly from the gutter and joins Akechi underneath the overhang. Whether he can sense Akechi’s discomfort or perhaps it’s a feeling residing from the real reality, Ryuji had kept a gap of about a meter between the two.

“I hope I didn’t take you away from any pressing matters, Sakamoto.”

“Nah,” he gently sets down his bags before turning to give Akechi his full attention. “Don’t got much waiting for me back home with my ma at work, but can’t stay for too long,” he nods his head down to his bags. “She’d kick my ass if I let the milk go bad.”

Ryuji laughs, shoulders shaking. “But y’know, I see you hangin’ with ‘Kira sometimes, and any friend of that bastard is a friend of mine. And, uh, speaking of…” With an expression of guilt and reluctance so tremulous that Akechi can only compare it to a child getting caught with their hand in a cookie jar. “That’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Yes, technically he’s an unforgivable hypocrite for advising Sumire against speaking to Ryuji, but that won’t stop him from getting the information he needs. (It never has.)

After all, there must be something special about Sakamoto in order to have Kurusu Akira wrapped around his finger.

“Oh?” he responds.

“Yeah, it, uh, might be a bit awkward so I’ll do my best to be straight about it,” Ryuji looks embarrassed, but determined. “I know the feeling of not wanting to say something, to have it weigh you down and shit. Basically, what I’m tryna say is: you don’t just gotta rely on Akira!”

Akechi’s eyes widen. It should’ve been impossible. How did he figure out about Akira and the other reality when he hasn’t even been snapped out of it—

“You looked super stressed back in New Year’s and I get that you’d rather talk to Akira, but he’s a busy guy. And I know we aren’t close, but if you want to vent, or just, I dunno, get some ramen together?” he shrugs and throws a smile in Akechi’s direction. “I’m here for you.”

Akechi’s face is carefully blank. He’s wrong, because of course Sakamoto didn’t figure it out. (Has he ever figured anything out?)

He had done extensive research on the Thieves the second he got a whiff of who they might be, and that was especially the case for the initial members of the group. Sakamoto Ryuji, a second-year in the now infamous Shujin Academy. Formerly the star of the track team, his leg was snapped beyond repair by Kamoshida, the Thieves’ initial target. While he had always possessed a temper, it had grown exponentially when the teacher had faced no charges and he was shunned by the rest of the school. It’s like the Boy Who Cried Wolf—except there had undoubtedly been a wolf, and the boy ended up with a lifetime’s worth of permanent damage.

At first, he had chalked up Ryuji’s temper as yet another weakness—Akechi had learned firsthand just how fast the hand of authority strikes if one were to place a toe out of line. It’s how he decided to perfect the weapon of deceit. Akechi learned from his mistakes, to the point that his heart had split itself into two people he could become: Loki as his true self, and Robin Hood as who he needs to be.

Even Akira had understood the hubris of exposing himself, had felt the same punishment that Akechi was subjected to (ironically by the same person). In a world where a mask can be the difference between life and death, Akechi and Akira had decided to be its executioner rather than the one subjected to the sharp end of the guillotine.

By the nature of these rules, Ryuji should have been beheaded. And he was.

But instead of learning his lesson the way Akechi and Akira had, he had been rejuvenated. Instead of bending to the will of authority, he let that pressure mold him into something tougher, let the anger inside him fester and grow.

It had made sense, in hindsight, why Ryuji had treated him the way he did (it’s not like Akechi had the best intentions). So seeing him like this, where he never found out Akechi’s true personality, allowed him to see Ryuji in his natural state.

A feeling surges within Akechi, so foreign that it takes him slightly too long just to name it. All around him, deep in his gut, spread all the way to the tips of his fingers and his toes is wave after wave of...

“I’m done here,” Akechi says.

Discomfort.

“Huh?” Ryuji cocks his head. “Uh, was that weird of me to say? My bad, Ann’s always said I had a big, fat mouth. Sorry, yeah we aren’t close and stuff. Just thought it’d be nice—”

Akechi holds back a click of his tongue and, with a little effort, morphs his expression into one of false platitudes and plasticity. A slight quirk in his lips (not too high or it’ll scare them), tilt his head at a certain angle, and raise his voice an octave to indicate an apology. “Sorry to leave so suddenly. Thank you for your time.”

The rain had stopped sometime during their conversation and he hates that the universe seemed like it had taken pity on him.

Ryuji says something to him, but Akechi refuses to listen to another word—he doesn’t need to. He got what he wanted. All it took was one conversation for Akechi to know exactly what Akira sees in him.

That incessant authenticity and kindness shouldn’t exist in a world like this. It shouldn’t have existed in an angry boy like him.

Akechi tries (and fails) to look like he isn’t running away.

It was only when he was in bed later that night that he realized he didn’t find out what Ryuji’s wish was. Given the way he said Akira’s name though, Akechi didn’t have to think too hard.

—

AG: The biggest gray area in this has to be with Niijima Makoto
YS: wow. I didn’t think you’d be straight-forward with your relationship with her. thank you for your honesty.
YS: you both must have a difficult history with one another :(
AG: What are you talking about?
AG: I’m saying I don’t know where to find her.
YS: ah. i see.
YS: haha how about we just pretend that never happened?

They checked Shujin Academy (closed for winter break), Aoyama Itchome (for good measure), and finally the bookstore in Central Street (the smell of books is so lovely) before Akechi began to lose his temper.

“It wouldn’t be a huge surprise if we just found her in the middle of Tokyo University impersonating a research assistant as some sad excuse to feel some adrenaline for the first time in her life,” he says as they walk down the escalator, prepared to hop on the train and try somewhere else.

Sumire frowns. “Being studious doesn’t make someone boring.”

“Of course it doesn’t. Kurusu is at the top of his class and a huge public nuisance. No, Niijima’s absolutely underneath the sole of academics and government propaganda from her father since day one.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I don’t like anyone,” he replies. “Especially not someone so tied with practicing law like she plans to.”

They round the corner. “You can talk to her about that yourself.”

Standing by the overpriced-looking smoothie bar is Niijima Makoto, accompanied by a beautiful older woman who looks like she can melt down a rusted car with a single glare.

“I would think that Sae-san would quite actually murder me if I were to bring that up.”

“You know the other woman?”

“It would be rude not to know my co-workers after all,” says Akechi. “That’s prosecutor Niijima Sae—Makoto’s sister as well as one of the Thieves’ targets from the past.”

Sumire ponders over the odds for a second. “Did she happen to have a casino as a Palace?”

He pauses. “Yes. As a matter of fact, she did.”

“Amazing! What luck!” she beams. “May I try and guess what their wish may be?”

“Is this nothing but a game to you?” he says immediately, before stopping himself. “...One guess.”

Brows scrunching together, she leans towards him, shoulders sagged as if she was carrying a secret so heavy that it physically weighed her down. Poker chips, alcohol bottles, and slot machines... “Did Makoto-senpai wish for Sae-san’s gambling addiction to go away?”

Akechi stares at her. “Who was it again that taught you how Palaces work?”

“Morgana-senpai.”

“If that’s the case, I’m simply over the moon that he didn’t join us on our mission.” They walk towards the Niijimas, who were still chatting amicably with one another. “Their father passed when they were young; it left their family jaded, it was traumatizing, et cetera, I’m sure you get the gist.”

“Wait, I really don’t—”

“Akechi? What a coincidence!”

The sisters greeted them with kind eyes and soft smiles, and Sumire has to accept that she’s out of her league for this one—the student council president may have been a common name around school, but it hardly ever came with more information other than how good her grades were, as well as the potential ‘narc’ comment. But despite what Akechi thinks, no Phantom Thief could possibly be on the side of the police; they’ve all had enough firsthand experience with that particular institution to see just how often the system has failed them.

Akechi nods. “It truly is,” he says, as if they hadn’t spent half the day walking around Tokyo scrounging for them. “This is Yoshizawa Sumire, Sae-san.”

“Pleasure to meet you!”

“Likewise,” Sae says.

“I have to admit, I’m quite surprised to see you here,” Akechi says. “Did we interrupt you both?”

“Not at all. We were just doing some grocery shopping for dinner tonight. Our father’s been having a craving for teriyaki,” she answers. “Why so surprised, Akechi?”

“Nothing in particular,” he says, and Sumire can feel his smugness radiating from where she’s standing. Well, he is a detective, so she’s not too shocked. “It’s simply refreshing to see you spending time with your family, despite being as busy as you are.” With a tilt of his head, he turns to Makoto. “I haven’t heard about your father for a long time.”

Makoto recoils a little, and winces. “My...father? No, wait, dad’s been gone for…It doesn’t make any sense…"

Sumire nearly startles when Makoto suddenly straightens up, gaze clouded. Akechi clicks his tongue.

“Sorry,” she says, a bit dizzily, already taking a step back. “Sae and I need to make it to the grocery store before it closes.”

Sumire waves half-heartedly and sighs when they’re gone. “Niijima-senpai perhaps had the most graceful escape so far,” she comments.

Pulling back his sleeve, Akechi peers at his watch. “It’s two pm. She could’ve done better,” he scoffs. “It’s a shame. I had high hopes for her to be the first one. She’s the only one in that circus who had more than one brain cell and isn’t named Kurusu.”

“...May I ask you something?”

“You’re already asking a question, just ask it.”

Sumire rocks back and forth on her heels. “Why do you call him that?”

“Because that’s his name?”

“Last name,” she corrects. “Why not call him by his first name?”

“What kind of question is that? Is this a test? A trial to prove that I’m willing to be honest?” Sumire stays silent. “Alright then, if it’ll help you sleep at night. I can’t possibly fathom how you still haven’t figured out that he and I aren’t as buddy-buddy as you think.”

“Well, yes, I know that but—”

“And you?”

Her heart rate skyrockets. “What about me?”

“You call him by his surname as well, even topped off with a ‘senpai’ at the end,” Akechi raises a brow. “Why not on a first name basis?”

“W-we aren’t that close!” she exclaims. “That’s reserved for people who’s close to him, like a good friend, or a girlf—boyfr—partner. We just… aren’t that.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Akechi says. “We aren’t even on a first name basis with him, yet here we are; fresh from New Year’s, running around Tokyo for his friends who should be doing this instead.”

(Sumire very nearly says it, what’s been on her mind since Maruki’s Palace. But as it stands, she doesn’t want to ruin the foundation—very unstable, can most definitely blow away with a strong gust of wind, but a foundation nonetheless—that she and Akechi reluctantly built.)

“Yes, it really is strange.”

—

AG: Are you particularly close with Okumura?
YS: unfortunately not, no. i’ve heard about what happened to her father, though. Perhaps her wish is related to his passing.
AG: ...Yes, I believe it is. I would think that the two of them would look at ways of expanding the Big Bang business. So basically, Tokyo Hotspots.
YS: kichijoji? that place is always bustling
YS: not to mention, i’d love for them to open up there. their milkshakes are incredible
( ◜‿◝ )♡
AG: Good call. We’ll try there first then.
AG: At any rate, it will be a very quick confrontation with her.

“So I’ve been thinking—”

“A dangerous pastime, but go on.”

Sumire huffs without heat as they traverse Kichijoji—busy even in this time of year, though in no small part because of the shrine nearby. “We’ve been doing this…” What are they doing? “Saving our known reality business for nearly a week now. It hasn’t been going the best.”

Neither of them need a reminder that their victory ratio is currently at a strong zero to six. “So maybe we need to change it up a bit! I thought up a strategy last night that I think we should implement today,” she beams up at him.

Akechi’s gaze can wither flowers. “Do you need me to explain how idiotic that sounds?”

“Oh, come on Akechi! We need all the help we can get, especially since we only have two left. Plus, you haven’t even heard the strategy. Would you like to hear it?”

She doesn’t wait for his response before eagerly pushing through. “I understand and accept that you’re a bit ruthless, which is great! Well, great if that’s who you are. And since you called me a goody two shoes that one time, I figured we can go with that.” Sumire steps in front of Akechi and raises her hands to the sky, chin tilted upwards. “We can do the ‘good guy, bad guy’ strategy! That’s what we’ve been doing anyway. It can be like Zootopia.”

A silence stretches out—Sumire’s grin unfaltering and Akechi’s perfectly blank.

Then, “What the fuck is a Zootopia?"

“Did you not watch that movie? It was pretty big.”

“Do I look like someone who’d watch a documentary on the animal kingdom?” His eyes zero in on something. “Lucky us, we found them.”

Okumura Haru stands with whom Sumire can only assume is her father. The speak amicably with each other, adoration radiating off of them as they point and gesture at the various businesses around the promenade.

“Don’t forget the strategy,” she whispers.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds sarcastically.

A feeling of optimism blossoms in Sumire’s chest as they approach the Okumuras. Maybe it’s the nice weather, or it’s another opportunity to finally achieve their goal of gaining one of Akira’s allies. Mostly though, she chalks it up as relief that even though it’s far from perfect, Akechi’s finally starting to let down the drawbridge, bit by bit.

And that’s when Haru decides to look in their direction.

Instead of the initial small talk, the breadcrumbs that hint towards their other reality, instead of gently edging them to the truth, Haru had completely bypassed all of that. A feeling of deja vu tugs strangely at Sumire as she takes in her expression—the usual confusion and pained tightening of the brows, but this time, a raw, unquestionable fury morphs onto her features.

It’s a near-perfect replica of Futaba’s expression.

After a few seconds, Haru says something to her father, and they leave, leaving Akechi and Sumire mid-stride in the middle of the promenade.

Another silence reigns over them, heavy and suffocating despite the bustle of Kichijoji.

“We didn’t even need to talk to her,” Akechi says. “An efficient failure.” The silence stretches on. “You have something to say.”

Sumire shoots him a dark look. “Alley,” she says, voice uncharacteristically low. “It might upset the families if we speak rudely in front of them.”

She leads them to the backstreets, where most stores are closed until the nightlife crowd rolls in. It was empty, and only the metal shutters and stray plastic bags strewn about the pavement were present to hear them.

“Of course I have something to say,” Sumire says, fists clenched tightly at her sides. “You promised back at Leblanc. You said that you won’t withhold information from me anymore, for the sake of the mission.”

She points behind her in the direction of where the Okumura's left. “Despite what you may like to believe, I’m not an idiot who won’t notice something as obvious as Okumura-senpai running away the second she sees you. She didn’t even speak to us before she ran, which is considerably worse than Sakura-chan.” Sumire’s eyes narrow. “What are you still hiding from me?”

Throughout her speech, Akechi didn’t even blink. “Has it occurred to you that I simply lied when I made that pesky promise to you, or are you still the same person who fell right into Maruki’s waiting hands last spring?”

Sumire recoils as if she’d been hit. “Don’t bring that up, it has nothing to do with this—”

“Doesn’t it?” his voice is cold. “Isn’t the reason why you’re so desperate for me to be open with you is that you have some sort of trust issues?”

“That’s not it.”

“Finally we’re getting somewhere,” Akechi’s red eyes seem to be glowing despite the darkness in the shadowed alley. With a sickening feeling, she realizes he’s enjoying this. “Let me take a guess. You're doing this out of the goodness of your heart, an overflowing kindness that you have to act on and spread across the globe. And, if you’re simply good and lucky enough, maybe, just maybe, your beloved ‘Kurusu-senpai’ will look away from his little group long enough to see how sweet and kind you are—”

“Shut up,” she cuts him off. Her voice is slow and deliberate. “You want to know what I’m doing this for? It’s because I’m sick and tired of these hellish lies.”

Akechi stays quiet as she continues, struggling to speak while her eyes blazed with fury. “I basically just found out that I’m not who I thought I was for the past ten months. Do you know what that feels like? It’s like if someone kidnapped me, shoved me in the back of a van, blindfolded. Maruki, bless his soul, forced me to believe whatever garbage he thought was best for me. It makes me sick to think that I fell for that reality, never once did I question it.”

She clenches her jaw. “You know what I want, Akechi? It’s not the philanthropy you’re so obsessed with, or senpai’s affection. What I want is my kidnapper to fail. I want him to regret what he did to me, to stop what he’s doing to everyone else. Even if his intentions were good, I am not going to let him get away with this,” Sumire looks directly into Akechi's eyes. “And you are not going to be the one to slow me down.”

Chest heaving, she realizes she’s breathless. After a brief pause, Akechi speaks.

“Our motivations aren’t too far off from one another,” his voice is strangely cool, as if his fury and long since dissipated from the surface and had manifested into something sharp and dangerous. “You said you’re tired of the lies? Of being used like some kind of puppet, a test subject? Of having the rug pulled from you just because someone fucking felt like it? Good. But our similarities stop there.”

He leans back against the metal gate of a closed bar. “At the root of it, you want to stop Maruki so that he doesn’t push his beliefs to anyone else. Whether you like it or not, your motivation is accidental philanthropy. I could not give less of a shit about Maruki, or Tokyo, or even the rest of this damned world. I just want to be able to live in a reality where I get to choose what I want to do.”

“So let me help you!” she exclaims, frustrated. “Some detective, you are—keeping secrets isn’t going to help this situation.”

“You still don’t get it, do you? I tried to make this as easy to understand as possible, but I guess I just have to make it obvious.” Akechi straightens up and from the smirk resting on his mouth and the way his brow is lifted, condescension is simply dripping from him. Sumire refuses to recoil. “I don’t care if you want to help me. I am a selfish person who does what he wants. I’m willing to tear down anyone in my path, use anyone in my way, if it means that I get what I want.”

“Maybe you are!” Sumire says. “A selfish person, I mean.”

Akechi blinks, and throws his head back, loud laughter echoing through the alley. “‘Maybe I am?’” He laughs again, nearly doubling over. When he sobers up a bit, she has to force herself not to flinch. It’s as if something had unhinged in Akechi and she’s seeing the result of that—his eyes are twinkling as his smirk stretches even further over his face; an edged grin. “Do you need an example, Yoshizawa? Proof? Citation for what I’ve done just so you can understand? Look forward to it, since you’ll learn at long last why Sakura and Okumura took one look at me and fled.”

Bending over slightly so that he’s eye-level with Sumire, he announces: “I killed Sakura Futaba’s mother and Okumura Haru’s father. I am a murderer.”

“So am I.”

Akechi stops breathing, blinking as he processes what Sumire just said. She only looks back through narrowed eyes, daring him to say something.

When he doesn’t, she relaxes a bit. “Are you in the mood for darts? Since we finished with Okumura-senpai much earlier than expected, we have some time. And besides,” Sumire brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “There’s more to discuss, and I’m not really feeling this alley anymore.”

—

“It’s different. You must know that it’s different.”

Sumire waits until she gets their darts from behind the counter. “I know.”

Darts & Billiards was never particularly full, but it was never empty either. There were a few groups, pairs, and serious soloists that filled the entire room with indecipherable chatter and the loud clack of eight-balls colliding with one another. Anything that Akechi and Sumire might talk about thankfully gets shrouded by the white noise.

“Any preferences?” she says, waving around the dart in her hands.

“701,” he says immediately. “Anything lower is child’s play.”

Sumire nods as she inputs the settings. “Kurusu-senpai said something before he went with Dr. Maruki,” she began. “He said that he was doing this for his friends—the Thieves, myself,” she glances back. “And in his words, ‘especially you.’”

“And what of it?” Akechi asks.

“I believe that Kurusu-senpai knows of your past, knows your struggles and whatever you’ve gone through. I can only guess what you’ve had to endure, and how it led you to what you did to their parents.” Sumire offers him his set of darts. “May I go first?”

Akechi nods and she takes her stance—despite everything, she’s a little nervous playing darts with someone who actually plays to win.

Sumire throws it as best she can when Akechi speaks. “Does it justify it, then? If my life was difficult enough, would you give me a pass for killing innocent people?”

“No,” she casts another dart. “It doesn’t. Nothing really justifies that.” Pinching her last dart between her fingers, she fiddles as she thinks. “But I accidentally killed my sister over my incompetence in gymnastics.”

“But that’s the difference,” Akechi waves his hand. “It wasn’t an accident that they died by my hands. I had planned it, plotted it, and accomplished it. What you did wasn’t deliberate; it was a spur of the moment decision to run into traffic.”

Sumire hurls her final dart a little harder than usual. “I didn’t say that you should be forgiven, Akechi! I mean, I still don’t forgive myself. But even if it is different, I can at least understand your sentiments a fraction better than anyone else can. Do I think that it’s fine that two people who’re the same age as us lost their parents? Of course not. It makes me ill just thinking about it.”

She walks to the board and gingerly plucks off her darts. “But if I tried to pretend that I don’t understand what you’ve done—that isn’t right, either.”

He has a thoughtful expression on his face, his darts rolling between his fingers similar to how people fidget with loose change; Sumire hadn’t even known it was possible to do that. “Interesting.”

Stepping up to the mat, Akechi tilts his body sideways, obviously practiced in the game. His expression doesn’t change when it lands on a triple twenty.

“Do you regret it?”

His hand is steady as he throws—another triple twenty. “The murders? It depends.”

“On?”

“Do I regret being caught, used, and humiliated by losers who I thought were beneath me? Yes. Do I regret ending the lives of many?” Casting his third dart, it lands so close to the others that they wobble in unison. “No. Not really.”

Sumire’s next round was a silent one, Akechi’s confession playing on repeat in her mind. He had simply said it with no hesitation; his tenor hadn’t changed, posture didn’t shift. The words that flowed out of him had no emotion whatsoever—they were clinical, like a doctor stating the facts to a terminal patient.

The ongoing background noise paid no mind to their silence, stuck in its blissful ignorance despite the pair’s topics. If there’s one guarantee in this world, it’s that it’s extremely likely that no one will listen just as the conversation is getting important.

Akechi’s on his second turn when he says, “You took well to the fact that I’ve killed in cold blood.”

“I knew that you were hiding something,” she says. “It’s because of how you act. You were a little cruel back in the Palace, and while it’s no excuse, people who have…” she scratches her head. “A hardened heart usually have a nasty past, and what Kurusu-senpai said only confirmed it.”

No matter how many times he does it, Sumire still gets impressed by his casual triple twenty.

Swapping places with him, she closes one eye as she ponders over her strategy. “But despite the fact that you’re a ruthless sort of person—” her dart sails forward and sticks to the board. “I’m willing to look past it if it means we can change reality.” Sumire cocks her head at him. “Can you?”

Akechi stays silent as Sumire launches another dart—one more and they can win it. “Selfish is what we call ourselves, right?” she says. “That we’re only in it for yourselves, regardless of what happens to everyone else. If we work together and it raises the odds of getting what we want, doesn’t that still play into the fact that we’re acting for our own benefit?”

She lines herself up for the last point, and takes a deep breath. “What did you call it? Accidental philanthropy?” she throws her dart and watches as it curves beautifully—only for it to miss her mark by quarter-inch. “Oh no!”

“Accidental philanthropy…” he muses, indifferent to their loss. “That doesn’t sound half-bad.”

Sumire raises her eyebrows, skeptical. “Really?”

“I know that my past actions may have dictated our failure to some extent. That was my fault,” Akechi crosses his arms. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Maybe she was too forgiving, or too trusting, or maybe it’s the closest she’ll get as an apology out of Akechi, but she finds herself nodding. “That’s all I wanted.”

He moves to put on his coat. “Was it to your satisfaction?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve wanted to talk even before we discovered Maruki’s schemes,” he shoves his arms through his coat sleeves. “Are you satisfied?”

“Pretty much,” Sumire nods. “I understand you much better than before, at least.”

Collecting his darts, he heads to the register. “Why do you want to understand?”

“...Because I’m curious. You changed so abruptly, I didn’t even know who you were anymore—not that I did to begin with. Not to mention, the people Kurusu-senpai knows are always interesting, and you’re definitely not an exception.”

Akechi turns, and from the doubt on his features, he doesn’t take the bait.

“Fine. That wasn’t a lie, though. I just…” she hesitates, and decides to throw caution to the wind. “I want to get to know my teammate better.”

Anything could’ve happened in that beat of silence, much to the ignorance of the loitering patrons.

“See,” he replies. “Now that I can believe. And here I thought I was the only one who needed to practice honesty more.”

He walks back to register. “I’ll handle the bill. Call it a repaying of debts, in a way.”

“For what?”

“That’s what teammates do, don’t they?”

Sumire feels herself smile widely. It had only taken about six days, their entire reality shifting, and a busted game of darts, but it finally feels like she and Akechi are fighting the same battle.

—

AG: If it all goes to plan, we should’ve at least been able to convince one of them
AG: As much as it truly pains me to say it, putting our faith in them is our best chance at success.
AG: Worst comes to worst, there’s a reason why we’re making him the last one to convince. He’s our trump card.
YS: you mean sakamoto-senpai?
AG: Ugh, don’t make me say it.

According to Akechi’s knowledge of Ryuji's whereabouts (as unhappy as he was to recite it), there are two places that he frequents—the arcade in Shibuya or loitering around Shujin.

The arcade was full of random teens and pre-teens, all deeply invested in games that Sumire had never taken up but Akechi was apparently knowledgeable in (“Good practice,” he had replied when she asked, and she opted not to pry any further).

The two had hopped back on the train to Aoyama-Itchome, forced to stand as life resumes back to normalcy post-holidays. Despite the tight fit of the car, Akechi had placed a good amount of space between them—whether it’s for his sake or hers, she can appreciate the gesture.

The morning was a strange one. Ever since their darts game and impromptu heart-to-heart, the atmosphere between them had shifted. It’s still a few miles off from being friendly, but it’s easier now; there’s an unspoken understanding between them, a common goal that drives them forward.

Still, it would’ve been nice if they had gotten their act together prior to meeting with their last Phantom Thief.

“By the way,” Akechi says, and Sumire’s eyes flicker up at him in interest. They had been silent since they stepped on the train. “In the acknowledgement of...team spirit,” his lips curled, unable to keep the mocking out of his words at such a ridiculous concept. “I should let you know that I’ve spoken to Sakamoto.”

“Oh.” She can’t seem to muster up any shock. “When? Did you plan it?”

“A few days ago, and no, it was by chance,” his eyes narrowed. “Did you speak to Sakamoto?”

“Not on purpose!” Sumire defends, shifting her sweaty grip on the plastic handle. “He just happened to be there.”

“He seems to have a knack for that,” Akechi says, and Sumire doesn’t comment on the strange quality of his voice—bitterness? “Well? Anything worth repeating?”

“Uh…” she racks her brain. Somehow, she doesn’t think that Ryuji’s blow by blow of the new shounen manga was what Akechi’s looking for. “Nothing in particular. Oh! He spoke quite a bit about Kurusu-senpai, but that’s not too surprising, considering his wish and all.” ‘Quite a bit’ might be a bit of an understatement.

He squints at her. “Whose wish?”

“Kurusu-senpai’s? Obviously Sakamoto-senpai would still be affected since he’s directly tied Kurusu-senpai’s wish.”

His stare doesn’t relent. “Why on earth would Kurusu’s wish still be affecting Sakamoto? He already broke free of the fake reality, meaning that Sakamoto isn’t affected by Kurusu’s wish,” says Akechi. “The idiot has his own wish. Did you not know?”

Sumire would describe herself as a person with a decent amount of pride, but an obvious fact like that has heat rushing to her cheeks. She ignores him and instead asks, “Did you figure out his real wish?”

“On a technicality, no. Though I have a rather strong hunch on what it is, based on my interaction with him,” he cringes a bit when the train rocks someone into him. “It’s likely that his wish may be the exact as Kurusu’s.”

“As in…” she blinks. “He wished to be with senpai?”

“It’s possible. Disgusting, how desperate they are to bring something to fruition that could easily be done without the Metaverse.” And he adds, “Your conclusion wasn’t too far off.”

“Wow,” as articulate as it was, it was really all she could say about his observation. It sounds like an impossibility; having two people wish for each other, like some cheesy rom-com but with way more monsters and magic. Yet it makes sense—the way Ryuji spoke of Akira like he put up the moon, with a feeling of undeniable admiration and respect sandwiched between friendly jabs at him. It sounds like an impossibility, she realizes, because it probably is one. It would take something as insane as the Metaverse to create something as equally improbable as their level of requited love.

The speaker overhead announces their station and they both exit with no small amount of polite shoving.

It’s a short walk from Aoyama to the school, a route familiar enough to Sumire that she can probably traverse it with her eyes closed.

“Do you know where in Shujin he might be?” Akechi asks, and belatedly she realizes she hasn’t given him any indication for where to go. Not that it was a problem—for someone who doesn’t go here, he seems to know the path just as well as she does. “Is the school even open?”

“It should be fine,” Sumire says. “The grounds, maybe? Actually, the track is probably our best shot, since he goes for a run pretty often.”

A beat passes.

“How often?” he asks slowly.

“Um—” she spots a familiar patch of bleached hair. “Look, there he is! It looks like he’s talking to...is that the track team?”

Akechi hums. “Is it, now?”

“Pipe down, dumbass!” Even half a block down, Ryuji’s voice rings loud and clear. “I’m only tryin’ my best so you guys don’t laugh me—oh, no effin’ way. Yoshizawa! Akechi! Sorry, gimme a sec,” he calls back to the others as he half-jogs towards them.

“I knew it,” Akechi mutters.

“Huh?” she asks.

“His leg. He isn’t limping.”

Sumire’s brow creases. She’s about to ask Akechi to clarify when it dawns on her:

Kamoshida had explained to her (in full, descriptive, unhesitating detail) about the delinquent students that roamed the walls of Shujin, there was one in particular he had a special hatred for—Sakamoto Ryuji. Rumors had done little to reveal the truth of his declaration, but a single conversation with Ryuji had cleared away any possibility that he was the type for unnecessary violence.

However, there is one truth that came from every lie that was spread about him; his leg has been damaged to the point where professional running is no longer a possibility.

Ryuji approaches them, smiling and limp-free.

Which means—

“What’s up?” he asks. Just like when Sumire saw him before, Ryuji is donned in the standard school P.E track pants (red and white and cuffed at the bottom). It didn’t mean much to her then. “Whatcha doin’ here, Akechi? You transferring schools, or something?”

In all of ten seconds, Ryuji had proved them wrong without even knowing it.

“I was here to pick up a few books from the library when I bumped into him,” she lies for the both of them. “And you, senpai?”

Ryuji takes a step back, shocked. “Damn! You’re makin’ the rest of us look bad. Nah, the track guys just forced me to hangout with them to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“Yeah, uh,” sneakers scuffing the concrete, Ryuji turns a light shade of pink when he admits, “The school might’ve let slip that there’s some colleges that might be scouting after me after my last meet.”

Even Akechi looked a little impressed. “That’s no small feat.”

“That’s incredible, senpai!” Sumire cries, unable to hold herself back. “That’s—that’s huge! Bigger than huge, it’s being scouted! Do you know how cool that is? Of course you do, you’re the one who got scouted!”

She throws both her hands up to the sky and Ryuji slaps them, the pleasant echo resounds through the alley and leaves them both shaking out their palms.

“Thanks,” Ryuji grins. “But don’t get too excited. It ain’t confirmed or anything,” he tries to keep the elation out of his voice and fails miserably. “I’m just so dang happy cause that means things’ll be easier for my mom down the line, y’know?”

It’s like a slap to the face, a jolt that sends her crash landing back to reality. Because she isn’t here to congratulate Ryuji for his success—she’s here to take that away from him. Not for the first time, she wonders if they should be doing this.

Then she recalls the painful but relieving feeling of getting her own memories back. Yoshizawa Sumire back. She recalls the boy beside her who’d do quite literally anything to get rid of this reality. She recalls a busy street, blood pooling on the concrete.

Sumire focuses. If not for herself, or for Akechi, then she’d focus for Kasumi.

“I’m happy for you,” she says, meaning every word. “How did Kurusu-senpai react?”

“Oh, that guy? I haven’t told him yet, so let’s keep it between us, y’know what I’m sayin’?” Ryuji goes for a wink, though it’s definitely closer to a blink.

Akechi coughs. “Is there a reason you haven’t told him yet? You both are quite...close, after all.”

“He’s been tough to contact the past week,” Ryuji shrugs, and neither of them mention that working with a Palace ruler probably consumes a good chunk of one’s leisure time. “I really wanna surprise him, though! Considering that he supported me more than anyone when it comes to track.”

“That’s kind of him,” says Akechi.

“Well, yeah. Both of us had to deal with Kamoshida toge...ther…” he seemed to listen to what he was saying, and stops abruptly. Any excitement that was on his face is wiped clean. Finally.

“How did you deal with Kamoshida together?” Akechi asks slowly. They had to be careful—this is their last shot.

“It, uh,” he purses his lips. “It was an accident at first, I think. Didn’t mean to.” Eyes sliding shut, he mutters, mostly to himself. “It was raining, I remember that. So why can’t I…?”

The two of them lean forward unconsciously as they gauge Ryuji’s reaction.

“You’ve got this, Sakamoto-senpai,” Sumire prompts gently.

It isn’t too different from watching someone do a math problem and seeing them do one, tiny thing wrong; seeing that tiny mistake being overlooked, even though it’s so obvious to the observer. He is so close, one breath away from—

“Sakamoto!”

Ryuji jerks, eyes flinging open and her heart sinks, irritation blossoming towards this random athlete who unknowingly jeopardized their known reality.

“Uh, yeah!” he calls back, shaking his head as if ridding himself of a bad dream. “Be there in a sec!”

“If that pesky runner is in Mementos, I swear he’ll be dead by tomorrow,” Akechi mummers darkly, because he always takes things too far.

“Sorry, gotta bail,” Ryuji apologizes. He still looks slightly unsettled, a little unnerved. “It was good to see you. We should grab some food sometime!”

“Wait!” Sumire blurts out before he can leave. She scrambles for something to say, finding the thought of their failure unbearable. “If—if you change your mind (or start to remember), we’ll both be in Odaiba tomorrow! At the stadium, to be exact,” she tries for a reassuring smile. “You were there in the summer, remember?”

“If I change my mind…?” he repeats, blinking. “Nah, you guys are wild. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but thanks for the invite. Later!”

He throws double peace signs up before joining his track mates once more, laughing and shoving each other in a way only teenage boys can pull off.

“An outstanding zero to seven loss,” Akechi dictates with a dead voice. “What a team we make. I’m floored.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice!” Sumire exclaims, slapping her hand to her forehead. “I literally saw him running, and I didn’t put the pieces together.”

He shakes his head. “How are you focusing on his wish?” Akechi asks, leaning against the stone pillar near him. “It doesn’t matter what his wish is. The point is, we lost. We wasted this week, and we don’t have a choice other than to confront Kurusu alone.”

“You forgot about the whole point of our plan, Akechi. Just because his friends didn’t realize the truth right away, doesn’t mean they won’t.”

“They probably won’t.”

“We’ll just have to see, then. If Kurusu-senpai has one talent, it’s his natural...thing, with people. You get what I mean, right?”

“No.”

“Liar. And hey!” Sumire gives him a pointed look. “You aren’t doing this alone! We’re working together—like two peas in a pod.”

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten our oath of team spirit. But still, that doesn’t change the fact that with the combined powers of Maruki and Kurusu, we’re as good as dead,” he says, and pauses. “Unless Maruki isn’t there.”

Sumire frowns, “Even if we could, I don’t think we should kidnap a doctor.”

“I meant that he might willingly not be there. He’s quite democratic and trusting—I can see that he might leave this in Kurusu’s hands. Don’t be fooled, though. If Kurusu wanted us gone, we probably would be.”

“I can’t imagine that he would ever do something like that.” The idea of Akira using his powers in that way... she doesn’t even want to indulge in the thought.

“He won’t,” Akechi agrees. “He never shoots to kill when it comes to real people,” he sighs. “A weakness on his part.”

“But you’re still saying that we should fight senpai. Fight Kurusu Akira.”

“I’m saying we should beat some sense into him. Convince him like we tried to convince all of his little gremlins, except we succeed this time around,” his face pinches together, as if he had something sour. “It’s not as if we have a choice.”

She hesitates, despite knowing that Akechi’s right. He scoffs at her. “Worried about scratching up the pretty boy? Trust me—we couldn’t finish him off even if we tried.”

It’s a little worrying to see how sure he is that Akira is apparently very difficult to murder. “Fine,” Sumire relents. “But I’m still going to hope for the best with his friends.”

“Then I’ll prepare for the worst, as per usual.”

A water droplet hits Sumire’s cheek, startling her. She looks up to be greeted by dark clouds.

“It’s raining.”

“I suppose we should rest for today, considering what we’re up against.”

“Hold on,” Sumire says, feeling bold. “The Metaverse—I’m still a little unsure about all that but bear with me—is about the strength of the heart and cognition, right?”

“Yes?” he nods at her in a go on manner.

“So, hypothetically, if we got some...cognition strengthening breakfast food together—”

“No.”

“I think it would be beneficial to us!” she says. It really did seem like a good idea when she first thought it up, but she really should’ve expected the resistance that comes with it; Akechi seems to hate the notion of fun. “The way you looked at my plate from back then is still stuck in my brain on loop—”

“That look is called disgust—”

“It would be really fun! Or um, not fun, but advantageous to the strength of our—our Personas?”

She’s grasping at straws, but optimism is one of her better traits. Still, Akechi’s withering glare is proving to be a tough foe. Sumire’s not going to back down, though. Whether she wanted it to happen or not, she finds herself liking his company more and more despite his thorns (many, many thorns).

Sumire couldn’t help but break out into a grin when Akechi speaks, voice void of any emotion:

“I’m picking this time. IHOP is an abomination.”

—

She didn’t think that hole-in-the-wall breakfast cafes existed, and if she did, she most definitely never would’ve guessed that Akechi would be leading her to one.

Laughing out loud at the situation would grant her a death wish through Loki, but it’s impossible not to. The light pastel shades of the cafe are comically paradoxical to Akechi’s eternal conniving expression and tone, yet the employees seem to light up when he enters and even greet him by name.

He orders without even looking at the menu and she decides to get two of whatever he’s getting; partly because she has no idea what to get, mostly out of curiosity.

They seat themselves in one of the frilly booths and once the food arrives, she has to physically stop herself from drooling.The three tall stacks of pancakes were steaming, thick, fluffy, and perfectly golden brown. The neapolitan ice cream was placed precariously on top, slowly melting and all completely drizzled in chocolate and strawberry syrup. Akechi almost looks like he wants to tell her that it physically isn’t possible to fit both stacks inside of her, but she’s already halfway through her first stack by the time he eats a forkful.

Unable to hold back, Sumire brings up his comment from back when they all went to the Kichijoji cafe with Akira.

“Oh, that?” Akechi reaches over to grab the syrup bottle. “I said I didn’t like sweet bread. Sweets are, in and of itself,” he pours an alarming amount of strawberry syrup on his plate. “Not bad.”

The conversation is light—none of the darker topics that were present during their darts game. Sumire hesitatingly asks him what it's like to work with the police as a detective. She wasn’t expecting a detailed point-by-point explanation about the cops being the most ‘incompetent people who have ever wielded any amount of power, and yes I’m counting Mona in his normal cat form.’

In turn, Akechi seems genuinely interested in Sumire’s athletic career, wondering if her skills help her fight in the Metaverse.

Eventually, they even start talking about more mundane topics; clubs that they might have been participating in (“Gymnastics, obviously” and “Detective work if that counts, but not so much anymore”), what Akechi’s high school is like (“Boring, but I get excused often enough that it makes it bearable”), if they’re on social media much (“Yes! But my smartphone can barely open up any apps” and “I have a phone number and an email—that should be enough”).

Despite Akechi’s ever-present clipped comments, Sumire has to admit that this was all a nice change of pace. She’s having fun, sitting here, eating pancakes and talking. And if his replies were getting less snippy and more talky, maybe he’s feeling the same way.

Even if it’s only for an afternoon, even if they have to fight their counselor who now apparently controls reality, even if they have to fight Kurusu Akira—

It’s nice to just act like two teenagers with a sweet tooth for a day.

—

It’s just as cold as it was a week ago.

They’ve already been transformed into their Metaverse costumes, and it’s blessedly warmer near the elevator than it is on the outskirts. None of that matters though; not with them standing in front of Maruki’s Palace once again.

“It has a certain beauty,” Sumire comments. “The Palace.”

“It’s a safety hazard, is what it is. Realistically, these would all crumble like tissue paper without Maruki holding it all up.”

“Still,” the abnormal swirls and teetering light fixtures possess a charm that she finds lovely in it’s own way. “I can admire it for what it is.”

Akechi nods at the elevator, “Let’s get this over with.”

“Wait.”

He stops. “What?”

“Kurusu-senpai gave sort of a battle plan before we went in,” Sumire reminded him. “Do you have one?”

“Hit him harder than he hits you,” Akechi pulls out his serrated steel, reflecting the light of the entrance hall. “Other than that, don’t die, and don’t fall behind.”

All things considered, it isn’t the worst pep talk she’s ever heard.

They start off to the depths of the Palace. The journey to see Akira is different without him present, but it’s as if the shadows are purposefully less aggressive with them—whether it’s because Maruki wants them to get there safely or what, it lets them traverse through the lab with a fair amount of ease.

An announcement rings through the grand halls. “VIP patients identified. We will now begin the grand tour—please head to the auditorium through the door on your left.”

Definitely Maruki, then.

“How kind of them to politely inform us of their location,” Akechi remarks, and they head further inward.

They pass by what looks like research centres—powerpoints plastered by pie charts and numbers, shadows giving lectures on cognition (which is a strange sight to see), brain scan posters and lab coats strewn about. Sumire imagines that this might be what a university would look like in amidst of organized chaos.

Turning the corner, a double-door awaits them.

“Alright,” Sumire steels herself, hand finding her rapier’s hilt. “I hope senpai’s ready for us.”

“Trust me,” he reaches out to grab the handle. “He will be.”

A hallway meets them when they pass through. A long, white staircase elegantly leads them down and into what looks like a small version of a football stadium—seats filled up with faceless shadows and unlit theatre lights are hung from the beams above. Maybe it’s because this area has an uncanny resemblance to her competition venues, but she feels a tingle run down her spine: the feeling of anticipation.

They walk to the centre of it with caution, footsteps slow yet resounding out all the same. She glances forward, squinting slightly against the darkness; a set of stairs that lead atop a stage are laid out in front of them, carpeted and plush. Ready for a performance.

Suddenly, all the lights flash on, white fluorescence blaring down on them mercilessly. Sumire and Akechi cringe against the unrelenting assault on their corneas.

“Welcome back.”

On top of the steps stood Akira, cloaked in his black Phantom Thief garb and drenched in blinding lights.

“I’m glad you two seem to be doing good. Honestly, I was a little nervous at first,” he descends the staircase, unhurried, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Looks like I was worried for nothing.”

“Worried? About us?” Akechi levels him with an incredulous look. “We aren’t the ones who are actively advocating the side of brainwashing.”

“I’m advocating the side of my friends being happy again,” he corrects firmly, turning to make eye contact with Sumire. “I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me that they weren’t happy, that they weren’t over the moon with euphoria. If you can tell me that, then I’ll join you in the fight against Maruki.”

Gazing into Akira’s eyes, Sumire opens her mouth, before looking away.

“That’s what I expected,” he shrugs, “It’s nice seeing them happy, right? But I’m not stupid—that won’t stop you two. You’re nearly as stubborn as I am.”

“Senpai,” she pleads. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Neither do I. But you need to get Maruki to revert reality back to what it was,” Akira adjusts his gloves, and they both tense. “And to get to him, you have to get through me.”

“He’s really not backing down, isn’t he?” she mutters, her heart rate picking up rapidly.

Akechi snarls. “The tide sooner stop washing up before he quits being a fucking idiot.”

“You guys ready?” Akira calls. His tone is light, but there’s an undeniable glint to his eyes, similar to how the edge of a knife reflects light, and spreads his arms out. “Give it all you’ve got.”

Sumire meets Akechi’s eyes, and they nod.

They had a strategy, as loose as it was; there’s strength in numbers, and for once they have the advantage—pin him down, corner him, whatever they can manage, and incapacitate him until he listens to what they have to say. While this plan would certainly be more effective with more people, two should be enough to get the job done.

The air whistles around them as they dart forward, masks burning blue.

“Give him hell, Loki!”

The monochrome trickster bursts from the cinders with its eyes dead set on Akira. He raises a heavy hand and brings down his blade, slamming into the flooring as if it was warm butter, but Akira was already gone—he had hopped away just in time, giving them a cocky little smile.

Akechi snarled and swung again, only for Akira to bend backwards as if he’s in the most crucial game of limbo in recorded history, Laevatein missing him by an inch.

Before he can straighten himself again, Sumire shouts, “Dance, Cendrillon!”

As if the bells of midnight were calling her, a woman of glass and elegance manifests, white cloak blowing back from an unknown wind. A burst of light shoots from her crystal form but Akira had expected it, turning his bend into a backwards roll, not even trying to hide his grin. She’s starting to think that he was lying to her when he said he had no history with gymnastics. Maybe once this is all done, she could introduce him to her coach.

This back and forth continues, black and white and red all clashing together without anyone finding a target at all—that is, if Akira even had a target to begin with.

It’s as maddening as it is impressive to see him dodge and parry every attack; a hop here, a tilt there. It’s almost as if he knows what they were going to do before they even did it. It’s glaringly obvious why, yet it was another simple fact they overlooked—he was their leader, the person who made sure they had two, three, four possible strategies in their back pocket going into every fight. If not to ensure victory, then he does it to make sure that each and every one of them were capable enough to keep themselves safe.

But that just makes it all the more impossible to gain the upper hand.

By the time Akira had traversed nearly half the stadium in his evasion, not a hair out of place and unperturbed, Akechi and Sumire were breathing hard.

“He has,” Sumire gasps between breaths. “No intention of hitting us.”

“Dammit,” he hisses. “He’s turning this into a stamina battle.”

“Did you guys think I’d attack?” Akira frowns. Squinting at Sumire, he rummages through his pockets and tosses something to her. She catches it on instinct and peers down at the bottle of Arginade in her hand.

“It isn’t much, but I don’t want you hurting yourselves over this. I’d, uh, give one to Akechi too, but I think he’d throw it at my head or something.”

“Thank you,” Sumire sets the bottle down gingerly. “But I don’t think I should.”

“Suit yourself.”

“He’s wasting our time,” says Akechi. He points his steel at the corridor behind Akira. “Let’s just move past and find Maruki ourselves.”

She nods and they take a step forward before—

“Come, Black Frost.”

A flash of blue and a split second is all it took for the hallway’s entrance to be completely concealed in thick ice. “If you do that though, we’re gonna have a problem.”

“That wall won’t be enough to stop Cendrillon, senpai.”

“Probably not,” Akira agrees, gloved hand touching an invisible mask. “But a week was a lot of time to mix up some Personas.”

The implication makes Sumire swallow—Akechi wasn’t exaggerating.

“We have to stop him here,” she says quietly. “Even if we got lucky and ran, there’s no way we can reach Dr. Maruki with senpai trying to catch us."

Akechi clicks his tongue. “Unfortunately. We can’t win against him in a battle of stamina, but if we move fast and hit hard enough, we can catch him off guard.” His eyes flicker at Akira watching them speak, posture relaxed. “I’ve never had to reserve energy in a fight much, so this is the best plan with what we have.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t hold back,” Akechi huffs the same time Sumire says, “Don’t kill him.”

And then they sprint forward, rapidly closing in the distance to Akira.

Akechi meets her look before they split off wordlessly, approaching their target from either side.

“Hit him hard, Loki!”

“Aid me, Cendrillon!”

Curse and bless, dark and light come at Akira like a hand of judgement, narrowly escaping by flipping backwards with one hand and throwing out the other. “Let’s go, Yoshitsune.”

And like a scene from a classic Japanese period tale, a swordsman emerges from the embers, dual-wielding katanas in either hand. WIth an air of divinity, he slices sideways, forcing the two to jerk away.

Perhaps it’s the effect of the Metaverse, its link to cognition, but the use of words became futile beyond the calling of their Personas—she can judge what Akechi had in mind without language just as he can support her in her strikes, where to stand so they don’t get caught in each other’s crossfire.

Sumire pulls out her rapier and swipes at Akira’s torso but it’s too slow; he shifts out of the way and again to dodge Akechi’s bullets like a true Phantom Thief—as elusive and hard to catch as mist.

“You’re pulling your punches, Yoshizawa!” Akechi shouts.

“I’m not trying to kill him!” Cendrillon moves her own weapon impossibly quick, glowing lines appearing midair like a child drawing on paper, and it all bursts in unison—slicing through everything indiscriminately, yet Akira remains untouched.

“Give me some credit,” he calls, coattail swishing stylishly. “I don’t think I’m doing too bad.” Yoshitsune dashes forward, armor glinting and steel sparking as lightning shoots from his katanas, several inches to Sumire’s right. It leaves her hair filled to the brim with static.

Exhausting as their back and forth was, Akira hadn’t once attacked them directly. Even when they roll or sidestep, every movement is accounted for and he adjusts his blows in turn—close enough for them to stagger back from him, but never enough for them to be touched. The message was clear: I'd never hurt you, but there’s no chance in hell I’m letting you win, either.

Still, Sumire wipes her glistening temple as Loki brings down his blade where Akira was and into the ground, the collision forceful enough to make the stage lights above rattle. It’s beginning to be clear that it would be near impossible to maintain Akira’s pin-point accuracy, given his lack of compromise on it. His rolls are getting lethargic, backflips half-assed; whether he knew it or not, he’s beginning to slow down.

And Akechi is starting to get desperate.

Precise swings from before are losing control, wild ones taking place instead.

Akira reaches up once more. “Lend me a hand, Metatron.”

What looks like an archangel crafted during the industrial revolution bursts forth where Yoshitsune once stood, eyes filled with divinity and judgement as he launches a small army of rainbow, psychokinetic spheres around Akechi’s vicinity, but fatigue causes a slight miscalculation—one of the pink orbs barely grazes his brown hair, causing him to flinch back from shock.

It didn’t hurt, it couldn’t have hurt, but it’s the first hit the Akira had landed all day, accidental or otherwise.

A beat passes as they both freeze, and Sumire slows when she sees the expression on Akira’s face, unobstructed by his mask; all the bravado, the cockiness and boldness is gone like it was never there. In its place, a gaunt, horrified look.

“I…” he breathes, unnaturally pale. “Shit, I’m sorry. Here, just…” he starts rummaging through his pockets, hands shaking. “I know I have a bead in here somewhere, just let me—” Akira’s voice cracks. “Dammit, of course I can’t find it when I actually—why can’t I—”

Akechi takes an uneasy step backwards, overexertion threatening to take over. As if it weighs a hundred pounds, he raises an arm, red eyes disturbingly bright and dead-set on Akira.

Sumire feels her breath catch in her throat; she’s in a clear position to see it happen. Akira is still frantically looking through his stuff, an overwhelming guilt seeming to cloud his senses. Akechi, in his state of mind and body, is refusing to see the facts in favor of following his instincts—because even now, he still truly believes that Akira will remain untouched, no matter what.

Because, to Akechi, he is Kurusu Akira.

“Come, Loki!”

“Goro, wait!” Sumire cries.

Time slows down as Loki raises his blade, serrated steel exuding a curse potent enough to bring down any archangel to its knees several times over. And Akira looks up, eyes wide and dilated, but it’s too late to do anything other than take a deep breath and tense himself for the devastating blow—

Footsteps resound behind them, light and fast, and before Sumire can even turn around, a familiar voice yells out:

“I don’t fucking think so.”

Sakamoto Ryuji sprints past her and as Loki brings down his sword, stands directly in front of Akira, arms wide and acting like a barricade between him and the rest of the world.

Chapter Text

No matter how long fate will allow him to live, Akira would never forget Ryuji’s awakening.

Blood splattering on the carpet as he rips the mask carved into his face, the explosion that erupts from his very core like an airstrike, the scream so raw and guttural and unleashed, as if a part of Ryuji that’s always been strapped down and chained has been freed after years of confinement.

But it was the look on his face, the manic grin that emerged from the pitfalls of anguish is the part that’s burned into his memory. Any hesitation that was there was wiped clean—all that’s left was triumph and sheer rage, an insurmountable amount of it laid bare on his face and in his eyes so prevalent that Akira had barely noticed Captain Kidd behind him.

“What the hell—” Akira stammers, unable to process that Ryuji’s here, in Maruki’s Palace. There’s a sag in his shoulders, the effect of the curse attack probably causing him to feel heavy and drained. That’s why they should always be wary of curse skills; they’re a direct attack on their physical and mental state. (Once, it had hit Ann particularly hard in Futaba’s Palace. If Akira’s hits became harder after that as a precaution, nobody mentioned anything.) “Why are you—”

Ryuji turns and anything that Akira might’ve said dies in his throat. He barely looks like someone who took Eigaon head-on, but it doesn’t stop Akira from feeling waves of nausea anyway.

“Are you hurt?” Ryuji asks tersely.

“No, but—”

“Good,” the look on his face was one of pure, irrepressible fury, one to rival his awakening. “Then I can get pissed off without having to feel bad.”

Akira nods and touches his mask. “We will, I know you’re probably confused but you got hit pretty bad—”

“I didn’t—”

Personas burst in and out, flickering like shadows from TV static. “Sorry, just give me—”

“Stop looking for—”

“You got hurt, at least let me—”

“God dammit, Kurusu!” he snaps, and grabs his wrist, grip lax. “Why aren’t you listening? I said I was fine, wasn’t I? I’m not hurt, I don’t want your effin’ diaharan. I just want you to talk to me about why you’re here and I wasn’t.”

“Ryuji, it’s a long story,” Akira starts, forcing his voice to be steady.

“Long story, my ass!” Letting Akira’s hand fall, his glare hard as steel. “I was in some messed up world where Kamoshida didn’t slap my leg like a toothpick and everyone was in it with me. I have zero clue if you were in it from the start or if you got out if it later on, but I know one thing:” he jerks his thumb behind him. “I had to rely on Yoshizawa and Akechi Goro of all the damn people in the world.”

“They told you?” Akira hisses quietly.

“Jesus Christ, this isn’t about them!” Ryuji shouts, and his hands are clenched into tight fists. “Why does it matter that they told me? The point is that you didn’t, and it really fucking sucks that my leader, my best fucking friend would let me live like that!”

“It’s because I’m your leader!” he snaps, and he realizes his voice is raised. “It’s because I’m your best friend that I did that!”

“What are you even saying?” His fists are shaking, his frustration threatening to break out.

“I’m saying that the crap you guys went through was hell. God, just look around! Yusuke lost what was supposed to be his father figure, Haru actually lost her dad and had to put up with some predatory douchebag, and Futaba…” Akira clenches his teeth. “She’s fifteen, Ryuji. She’s a year younger than us, and she’s gone through so much—”

“And they still moved on, didn’t they? They still get out of bed everyday, still go out and live life, they still have a purpose. They want to live in the reality they fought for and you just want to, what, take that away from them?” his jaw locks tight. “Did you forget that it’s always, with no damn exception, supposed to be a unanimous decision?”

A long, heavy beat fills every crevice of their bones.

And then: “Your mother.”

“What?”

“You love your mom more than anything,” Akira says. Early memories of Ryuji roll in his mind, and even those are filled with him raving about his ma, about how she was the only one on his side when it felt like the entirety of Japan was against him. And how she just smiled when she found out Ryuji lost his scholarship. “You want to be in track for her again, to help her. That’s what you wanted—”

“Are you seriously bringing in the mom card? She’s moved on, Akira! She’s swallowed what happened, and we’re fine. Yeah, it’d be a hell of a lot easier to have that scholarship, but she’s over it. We all are.”

“But don’t you wish it never happened?” Akira insists, urgent. “You don’t have to put up with it, Ryuji. You have that choice.”

“And my choice is to live in a reality that we all decided to live for! It’s our choice and you almost took that away from us! I just don’t get why you would do that, Akira. You’re so damn smart, but why couldn’t you see that we learned to be happy?” Ryuji takes Akira’s face in both of his hands. “What were you thinking, Kurusu?”

He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but he finds himself looking into brown eyes instead—still furious, but beneath it all is confusion, and above all, hurt. It was the one thing Akira wanted to prevent above everything else.

He realizes, a bit belatedly, that’s he’s so, so stupid.

“I just want every single one of you to be happy,” Akira whispers.

“I know.”

“I thought this is what you wanted.”

“I know,” Ryuji begins to deflate a little, the tension seeping out of him.

“I’m—” Akira swallows past the lump in his throat, and averts his gaze. Shame burns hot as fire inside of him. “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For not talking to the group first. You’re right—I forgot about the unanimous decision part.”

“Damn right you did.” Ryuji lets go of his face, sighing. Scrubs his hair. “I’m still mad at you. Like, crazy mad.”

Before Akira can say anything, Ryuji pulls him by the shoulder and incases him in a tight hug. “But I forgive you.”

Slowly, he hugs him back. “I won’t do it again.”

Ryuji squeezes him tighter. “I know you won’t.”

They stay like that for awhile—in between realities and in each other’s arms.

—

Footsteps. Lots of them. Not as fast as Ryuji’s, but louder, overlapping one another. Approaching fast.

“You’re screwed, dude,” was all the warning Akira got before he was released and promptly tackled onto the ground by two separate entities screaming into his ear.

“Akira!”

“I’m gonna punch you so hard—”

“Kurusu, I am so crazy pissed at you—”

“What did you expect?” Makoto sighs as Ann grabs him by the collar and shakes him vigorously. “It’s only natural we react like this since you abandoned us.”

“I—did—not—abandon—” Akira tries, but Mona clambers onto his shoulders and is attempting to restrain him in a headlock. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he can barely even feel it.

“You didn’t tell us anything!” Ann yells. “We had to rely on pancakes over there—”

“I had believed that the relationship we had forged was an admirable one, but I would have thought you’d talk to us about it first—” Yusuke says, but stops short when his eyes land on Futaba.

The group quiets down, and even Ann and Morgana cease their harassment.

Hands gentle and heart thudding, he coerces the two off of him and sits cross-legged on the cold tile, awaiting his execution by the hands of a fifteen year-old girl.

Her Metaverse footwear adds about two inches to her stature, barely breaking into the realm of five feet, but as she slowly walks to where Akira is, he can’t help but feel her towering presence.

She stops an arm’s length away, her goggles perched on top to reveal her expression; blank except for the slight twist in her mouth.

Unconsciously, everyone else had forced a semi-circle around the two like a mediocre street fight, waiting on bated breath for the verdict. It takes some effort, but Akira manages not to look away from her gaze.

For a moment, only the buzz of the lights can be heard.

“I have some guesses about what’s going on,” she says eventually. “But you know everything, I think. And you didn’t tell us.”

Akira swallows and Futaba pushes on. “I get the feeling of wanting to be alone. I’ll help you have that if that’s what you want. But,” her blank expression cracks and her voice begins to wobble. “Don’t try and leave like that. You helped me, back in the summer. And you won’t even—” her breath hitches, and Akira’s chest clenches. “You won’t even let us do that for you.”

“...Futaba—”

She reaches forward towards him and he tenses for the hit, only for her to pat his head firmly. “I know,” she says softly. “Ryuji chewed you out pretty good, and there’s no hecking way I’m letting you pull something like this again. I just wanted to tell you what I was feeling.”

Akira nods and tries for a smile. It probably doesn’t come out right. “As if I could ever leave behind my annoying, genius key item again.”

“You’re such a loser,” she snorts before throwing herself on Akira, arms opened wide and crushing every ounce of air out of him.

Somewhere behind him, Ryuji yells out: “Group hug for the dumbass leader!”

“I am not a—” Akira gets out before his breath is snatched out of him four, five, six more times.

“Ouch, Yusuke that’s my back—”

“Don’t be mean. You know he’s got a lot of sharp angles cause he eats six times a week, max—”

“Mona-chan, your fur is so soft. Do you use a conditioner?”

“Well, sometimes when Akira is in the bathhouse and I’m feeling a little brave—”

Voice muffled, Akira groans dramatically. “I can’t breathe…dying…”

“Oh, puh-lease, you can’t die from too much love!”

“Besides,” Makoto pops her head out from somewhere in their impromptu football pile. “I doubt Ryuji would let you die after he took the hit from—”

“Oh, hell,” Akira blinks. Patting random limbs around him, “Let me up. I need to check-in with Akechi.”

“It’s okay, senpai.”

A pause, and they all gradually turn their heads to the sound of the newcomer’s voice.

With a little struggling and some light shoving, Akira stands. “I missed,” he says quietly. “I got sloppy.”

“Did you really believe that that messy attack would cause lasting damage?”

Akechi comes up from behind Sumire, face gaunt and trudging, but his contemptuous expression immovable. “It’s insulting that you believed I’d be anything less than fine.”

The group tenses, all sense of levity evaporated—in its place is wariness, layered with a thick coating of distrust. Akira opens his mouth, but Haru beats him to it.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Akechi-kun.”

A few gasps were let out, and Sumire’s mouth hangs open. Akechi’s shoulders tense ever so slightly.

“...Thank you.”

Haru shakes her head, smiling. Whether or not it’s forced or legitimate is anyone’s best guess. Next to Akira and Akechi, she has the toughest mask to crack. “I should be the one thanking you. You assisted us greatly in supporting Akira-kun. Ah, and Yoshizawa, too!”

Haru, Akira had learned very early on, can wield an axe better than a lifetime-trained lumberjack can. Yet her ultimate weapon is being able to kill people with kindness despite—no, because of what happened to her. The strength to pursue compassion in the face of vile circumstances is what compelled Akechi to silence now.

Sumire spoke for the both of them. “It’s no problem!”

“Well, I don’t know about you guys,” Ann says. “But I’m beat.”

“As am I, but I can’t find it in me to return to dorms after all this,” says Yusuke.

“Me neither,” Makoto pipes in.

“I think we all want to keep hanging out, right?” Futaba asks. “So I’ve got two words, bolded, italicized, underlined, and highlighted: Leblanc party!”

Ryuji squints. “That’s three words, dummy.”

“Ooo, that’s a great idea, Futaba!” Ann exclaims, clapping her hands together, “I can get the cupcakes and some sweets!”

“I can get chips and snacks!” Haru beams.

“Drinks are on me, y’all!” Futaba says.

“Fear not,” Yusuke says, self-satisfied. “I will let Boss know.”

“I want sushi!” Morgana yowls.

“Not too sure I gave the okay to this, given that I live there,” Akira says, only to be booed from all sides.

“No one likes a tsundere, man!” Ryuji yells.

“Akira isn’t violent,” says Makoto, frowning.

“That’s ‘yandere,’ Mako-chan.”

“I’m expecting everyone in Akira’s room in two hours!” Futaba announces, and hesitates, before looking at Akechi. “Everyone! And I mean it! At least...just for today.”

Akira blinks before Haru cuts in. “Yes, I completely agree. A celebration for being together again, and to everyone who helped us get here.”

They all nod in agreement. It’s incredible; it’s the people around him that elected him to be the leader of their little group, but he will only ever be half as strong as they are. For them to be able to set aside their feelings, their hate, for one day just because they’re grateful that Akira was saved from his own delusions—Akira really doesn’t deserve them. (But there’s no way he’s saying it out loud. They’ll all eat him alive if they even suspect that he’s thinking that.)

“I’ll politely have to decline—” Akechi attempts, before Ryuji scoffs.

“Dude, come on. One party ain’t gonna kill you and there’s no way you’re beating Haru in a manners competition.”

“Or Futaba in a battle of obstinacy,” Yusuke finishes.

When Akechi looks like he’s about to argue once again, Sumire clears her throat and levels him with a loaded look. Looking away, Akechi accidentally meets Akira’s eyes with a carbon copy of the same expression.

You’re not getting out of this one, detective.

Eventually, he relents: “One evening.”

—

After a quick group discussion about who’s getting what, Akira offers to get sushi and all but drags Akechi with him, saying that if the restaurant recognizes the Detective Prince they might get a discount; though judging that Akira had tipped a generous thirty percent and the way he had pulled Ryuji aside to make sure he wasn’t hiding any wounds or pain (“the only pain I have is you. You’re a pain in my ass, ‘Kira”), Akechi assumes that Akira had an ulterior motive.

They stand outside the restaurant somewhere in Ginza, the empty alley more bearable than the crowded inside. For once, the weather is approachable—gray clouds in the early evening sky, though the chill is as present as it always is. Few are out and about on leisurely walks and mundane errands, finding no need to celebrate on an arbitrary Wednesday, but every once in a while there are those with laughter and frivolity trailing them; a reminder that their work is far from over.

Someone in the distance buys a drink from a vending machine when Akechi’s eye twitches.

“Do you mind?”

Immediately, Akira averts his eyes from Akechi. Embarrassment isn’t present in his expression, but the disgustingly thick layer of concern couldn’t be clearer. “Just checking.”

“For what? If I was bleeding out over a scratch?”

“Because I know you could've avoided that scratch,” Akira says, voice hard. “Yeah, my aim was shot, but that shouldn’t have hit you. You’re good in short, all-out fights like that. It’s your element. Yet I still hit you.”

“We all have our off days.”

“I guess,” he says, and the corner of his mouth tilts up, just a bit. “You looked pretty tired by the end of it.”

Akechi throws a glare at him. “I suppose I’m not used to someone who acts like he’s in the middle of a dance contest while he’s in battle.”

“Okay, okay,” Akira chuckles and the last dregs of uneasiness seems to wash away, the hard line of the corner of his eyes fading. His fingers gravitate to his pockets. “You’re too feisty right now to be injured.”

He feels himself about to retort against ‘feisty’ (Akechi’s never been called feisty in his life and he isn’t about to start today) when Akira looks up, staring at the sky. “Mind if I say something?”

Akechi gestures a gloved hand and Akira turns to give him an unreadable look. “How’d you convince them?”

An odd question. “After seeing you be triggered by mentioning or seeing memories from the real reality, it wasn’t too difficult to create a plan surrounding that.”

Akira was shaking his head before he even finished. “No,” he says. “I mean how did you know what to say to them?”

Squinting, Akechi thinks on his next words, wondering if it’s some sort of trap, not unlike a traveller poking at the ground in case of quick sand. He comes empty-handed. “Have you forgotten that I, however unwilling, worked with your thieves for a good chunk of time?”

“Huh,” Akira muses. “That’s nice.”

He feels his teeth clench. “What?”

“I always wondered how much of it was, you know, an act. Like which one was the fake detective spiel and which was the real Goro,” his mouth twists into a sour expression, but Akira doesn’t notice. “But you got to know them. At least, enough to know what to say.”

“Don’t speak like I had any intention of using that in any condonable way. Information and trust was what I needed to get the upper hand, fruitless as it was,” he replies. “Or had you conveniently forgotten my past actions?”

Akira smiles, though it could just as easily be a tight grimace. “Unless Maruki decides on a do-over, I’d have to say no on that one.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But wow,” he scuffs at the pavement—whether it’s flipping a pen through his fingers or tugging on his forelocks, he never seems to stop moving. Akechi hates it. “I know you think we’re naive and stuff, but Haru and Futaba sure are something else by inviting you, even if this,” Akira gestures between them, “Is temporary.”

“Temporary, hmm?” Akechi ruminates. “I was fairly baffled as well. I don’t believe I’d have it in me to be able to recreate what she did if it were Shido.” Looking back to the restaurant, he wonders if their order will ever be ready. “Truth be told, Sakamoto not taking the green light to summon Taisai the moment he saw me is almost as surprising, given his temper.”

“He’s working on it,” Akira shrugs. He side eyes Akechi. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Trying.”

Him and his stupid games. “Trying to what?”

“You know,” Akira waves a hand. “To be a good person. Or a half-decent one.”

Silence stretches on. The clattering of plates and cutlery fill up the empty space.

And then: “Do you think I did this for you?”

“No, jeez!” he rolls his eyes. “I get that you hate me, despise me, loathe me, whatever. You don’t like me. I just thought that—”

“That somehow empathy bloomed within me?” Akechi scoffs. “Hilarious. What would be the point of that? Are you honestly telling me that if I got down on my knees, tears positively streaming down my face and apologized with my whole being, you’d forgive me?”

“Maybe?” Akira answers, and Akechi freezes, not expecting a genuine response. “Only if everyone else does.”

He tries not to make his relief obvious—he wouldn’t know what to say if Akira had said something as ridiculous as actually forgiving him, especially when in Akechi’s mind, he’s already accepted what is and isn’t possible. “Given the possibility of that, a simple ‘no’ would be more efficient.”

He raises a shoulder half-heartedly. “Who knows? With enough time, anything could happen.”

Akechi stays silent.

“Oh,” Akira blinks. “Speaking of time—”

“This sushi place is scamming us?”

“—you and Sumire are pretty friendly with each other.”

“Hardly,” he crosses his arms. “She’s always insisting on teamwork, and communication,” he spits it out like a curse. “Too much time was wasted on useless endeavors. I had to watch her eat half the table at one point. However, in fairness, she provided valuable insight about the other...what?”

Akira’s looking at him with a strange expression—the lovechild of awe and disbelief. “Nothing, it’s just…” he trails off for a second, before his eyes crinkle in mirth. “I’m happy for you, Akechi.”

Before he can reply, make a comeback, quell the sudden cold in his fingertips, Akira lights up.

“Looks like the food’s finally ready. Let’s head to Leblanc—Mona’s probably gnawing on the stools by now.”

He moves past him, and Akechi swallows back the bile in his throat.

—

“You think Boss’d mind if I grab a couple of glasses?” Ryuji’s muffled voice leaks through the thin walls of the cafe. To a nosey passerby, they’d be able to hear conversations with a concerning amount of clarity. It’s a miracle no one’s called the police on them before.

“Nah, he’s too big of a softie to mind. Since I’m the heiress to his grand, lackluster estate, I want you all to feast and be merry without worry! Am I right, Haru?”

“Absolutely, Futaba-chan!”

“Is it me, or is Mona acting kinda...rabid?”

“I’m sorry to act so garish, Lady Ann, but I’m starving and Akira’s probably already stuffing his face with—”

The bell chimes and Akira’s eyes lock with a wild, salivating cat. “—Sushi!”

Like an untamed beast, a ball of fur sprints at Akira. “Yeah, it’s all here, just—ow, Morgana, let me—okay you know what?” Akira tosses the bag to Ryuji, who catches it by the handle with ease.

“Ann, grab lover boy over there before he claws into the furniture.” Ryuji takes out the paper boxes as Ann picks up Morgana, and his face looks stuck in a euphoric state; awaiting sushi and cradled by Ann, Morgana looks like he could die happy.

Akira takes a moment to examine the small, overflowing cafe—Yusuke and Makoto are behind the bar setting up drinks (orange soda and water, no alcohol lest they want to taste nukes by the hands of Johanna), with Yusuke making sure that each glass has the same amount of liquid and ice cubes (more than once has the ice slipped out of his hand and onto the floor). Sumire smiles at him, and waves when Akechi saunters to her, rolling his eyes. Futaba is still trying to explain to Haru how they’re basically the same person given their ‘societal circumstances’ and he can see that Haru is genuinely agreeing with her. Ann is chiding Morgana when he starts purring so intensely he’s nearly vibrating out of her grasp.

“Whatcha smilin’ about over there?”

Prying his eyes away from the sight, Ryuji paused his rummaging to look up at him.

“I wasn’t smiling.”

“You weren’t,” he agrees. “But your eyes kinda—” he gestures vaguely at his face. “So it’s pretty much the same thing.”

Of course. Let Ryuji figure him out in four seconds or less. They can make a gameshow out of it. “Maybe it’s because I’m excited for sushi.”

“Well, tough luck buddy,” Ryuji crumples up the now-empty plastic bag. “Cause you forgot the soy sauce.”

“You what?” Morgana crane his head backwards to glower at him. “Akira, please—”

“Doesn’t Boss have soy sauce in here?” Ann asks.

“This is a coffee shop, so I wouldn’t think so,” Makoto says.

Akechi mutters under his breath, “That sushi place is truly vile.”

Sumire whispers back, “Is it because they didn’t have a dessert menu, or…?”

“Shut it.”

“No biggie,” Akira says, feeling his pockets to make sure his wallet is still there. “There’s a 777 down the street, it’ll be quick.”

“I’ll come with,” Ryuji hops the bar, inciting a ‘Ryuji!’ from Makoto. “Forgetting can be such a pain, yeah?”

He nods, and the two of them set off, Mona yowling behind them.

—

Yongen-Jaya never gets old.

The back alley is jam-packed with small businesses, motorcycles, vending machines, stray cats and much more—it’s the equivalent of shoving all the clutter to the back of an already cramped closet. But it’s not the organized chaos that tugs at Akira’s heartstrings; it’s the memories that come with the mess, with the atmosphere of Yongen that makes him ache. It’s how Morgana whispered what he should get in the grocery store, or watching a movie 20 minutes late with Ann, or Yusuke tripping over a bike.

Right now, walking side by side with Ryuji, he thinks about how he had insisted on walking Akira home after he awakened Arsene, making sure he got home safe even though his apartment was on the other side of the city.

Even then, Ryuji was always looking out for him.

They’re silent as they walk, footsteps falling in time with one another. There’s no rush between them, despite Morgana’s insistence. It could just as easily have been a nightly stroll between two people who find comfort in the crisp, nighttime air.

But Akira knows better than that. Ryuji isn’t as slick as he thinks he is, and his jumping at the chance on soy sauce is as subtle as a neon sign. So he waits—as long as he needs to for Ryuji to speak, which never takes long. (He’s so honest and forthcoming, it’s insane. As someone who insists on having two meters of caution and deliberation up at all times, it’s a trait Akira’s always been a little jealous of.)

It took some time, but Ryuji finally starts. “Yoshizawa explained what happened while you were out getting food.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, I forgot to catch everyone up to speed.”

Shaking his head, “S’fine, we get it. She let us in on the whole Maruki thing, how it worked and stuff. The whole...what did she call it? Reality? Yeah, how our reality kinda molded around our desires. It fits the bill with everyone—Yusuke with Madarame, Futaba with her mom. Me with the track team.”

He must’ve seen something in Akira's eyes, because he puffs out his chest. “No, this ain’t me second-guessing my decision.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Damn right,” he huffs. “Well, after Yoshizawa explained all that, Makoto—y’know, she’s got a big brain and all—asked her something that’s still on my mind. Then Yoshizawa kinda got a little nervous, didn’t give a decent answer.”

“She knows as much as I do, but I can try my best to answer.”

“Good,” Ryuji shoves his hands in his pockets. “Cause Makoto was wondering what your wish was.”

Akira’s footsteps stall for a split second. Ryuji keeps walking.

“I got these memories, ‘Kira,” he says, slowing down, and Akira directs his eyes to the ground. “Don’t really understand it—like flashes of pictures, of people, of places, but it’s real annoying. Keeps slipping away like those crappy prizes in claw machines. Wanna know something though?” he stays quiet. “I asked around, and no one else was getting them.”

“That’s odd,” Akira manages, despite the frantic rhythm of his heart.

“See, the memories are crap, they’re no good. Can’t remember them. But the feeling that’s there—” he lets out a long, shaky breath. “I dunno if I can ever shake them, man.”

Silence.

Ryuji stops and turns. “Akira.”

Slowly, Akira looks up. Ryuji’s frowning, brows wrinkled together like unfolded laundry (he wants nothing more than to reach up and smooth it away), and his fingers are flexing as if he wants to squeeze something to get rid of his confusion. That’s the thing about Ryuji; he always feels so much more than anyone Akira’s met, and it translates to physicality. More than once during a Thieves meeting did Ryuji have to take a break and go for a run to process.

“You’ve got to tell me because—” he scrubs at his hair, sighing. Clenches his jaw. “Because if those—those memories, that feeling isn’t what I think it is, I’m gonna go fucking nuts.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you need to know?” Akira asks. “What if knowing would make everything worse?”

“That’s impossible.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because this feeling is the best thing I’ve felt in a really long time.”

Speechless, Akira doesn’t know how to respond. He stares at Ryuji, his palms facing up like he doesn’t have anything left to give, his eyes open and sincere. There isn’t a hint of malice in them and it makes Akira feel like he can tell him anything and receive nothing but support in return. Like he had a hundred times before.

And then, in a single moment of clarity, Akira realizes that Ryuji’s seen him, has been with him since the very beginning of everything, and still calls him his best friend without a drop of hesitation.

If Akira can’t tell him this now, can’t respect what Ryuji’s been giving him, then what would be the point of any of this? He won’t (can’t) lie to Ryuji, and he’s not about to change that now.

A small gust of wind comes and Akira’s hair gets blown back, just a bit.

“My wish was for us to be together. For you to love me in the way that I love you.”

At that moment, a meteor could have struck. An airplane could have crashed. The ground could have swallowed him in his entirety. The world could have destroyed him, but nothing could’ve possibly taken the feeling of sheer relief that thrums through his veins. Like a concrete block that was pressed against his shoulder blades, relentlessly weighing him down everyday, suddenly gone.

Ryuji’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open (he wills himself not to look at his mouth). It doesn’t matter what disaster could possibly arrive; Ryuji’s next words would crumble Akira more than anything else could.

The Metaverse had never once terrified him like this.

“Seriously?” he asks, voice hoarse. “You can’t mess around right now, Kurusu.”

“I’m dead serious, Sakamoto.”

Ryuji blinks. And again. And then takes a step forward, and all but sprints towards him.

“Wha—”

“You are—” he bends, arms extended. “So annoying!”

“Ryuji!” Akira yells as his feet are suddenly swept off the ground.

“I wanted to say it first!” Ryuji screams back, and then he starts to spin and Akira has to hold on to him for dear life. (Did he hear that right? Probably not. He must’ve said something else.) “But nooo, Joker over here has to steal the kill!”

“Wait, wait—” it’s hard to think when the world is blurring together mercilessly, but Akira knows that Ryuji will never drop him.

“I guess ain’t no time like the present.” The spinning slows, and Akira gradually feels the concrete beneath him once more. Hands find their way to his shoulders and despite his coat, Akira can feel their warmth.

“Kurusu Akira,” his eyes are bright and his grin could’ve led ships back to the coastline. “You are, without a doubt, the best that’s happened in my existence—you’re my best friend, super cool, and obnoxiously good-looking. I am so fucking in love with you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Ringing. Akira’s ears are ringing as he processes what came out of the other boy’s mouth. It was impossible—so impossible that Akira had thought it needed another impossibility to make it possible. It was a fantasy so buried that he never let himself think it, and only let himself indulge in the idea in moments of weakness. It was a hidden shame, a chain that binds him, a broken record that mocked him for ever believing it could happen.

Yet here they were; Ryuji’s still grinning and Akira gradually, ever so slowly, starts to smile. That smile morphs into a grin, and eventually—

“You love me,” Akira laughs, unable to hold back his joy. “You love me, Sakamoto Ryuji.”

Ryuji joins in, doubling over, shoulders shaking, his hands still glued on him. “This is crazy!”

“So crazy!”

They both laugh even harder. They must’ve looked like a couple of idiots, standing around some random alley and practically crying of laughter for no reason. Neither of them give a damn.

After a bit, they sober up, mirth still clinging in their eyes and cheeks sore.

“So…’ Akira says, unable to stop smiling. “That feeling you were mentioning before…”

“Yeah, dude?” Ryuji has these tiny little dimples at the very top of his cheekbones if he’s grinning hard enough. It drives Akira crazy.

“Was it this? Was it love?”

He tilts his head. “Hell no. What I’m feeling right now, y’know...love,” Ryuji fumbles over the word, despite his brazen confidence from earlier. “I’ve been feeling that since Kamoshida’s castle.”

Akira’s mouth twitches. “Same here.” Shoving his hands in his pocket, he gives Ryuji an inquisitive look. “So if it wasn’t love, then what was it?”

Ryuji hums. “It took me awhile to realize what was going on with me, and it took even longer than that to let myself feel it. And, y’know, I was scared shitless that you wouldn’t feel the same way, so when we were—” he gestures between them. “Even if it was Maruki that made it happen, I guess I felt… accepted,” his expression turns sheepish. “And let me tell you, that feeling? It sticks with you.”

“I get that,” Akira says, voice hushed like confessing a sin.

They stare at each other, at a loss for words but finding no need to find them right away.

“Oh,” Akira blinks. “I haven’t even properly said it yet.”

Ryuji gives him a questioning look, and he responds by lifting one hand and places his fingertips to Ryuji’s cheek (where his dimples would be), touch featherlight. “Sakamoto Ryuji, I love you in every reality.”

To his delight, blood rushes to Ryuji’s face. “Quit it, ‘Kira,” he mutters. “You’re not fooling anyone with that cool bullshit, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Oh yeah?” letting his hand drop, Akira takes a step back. “Is that a challenge? Because I’ve been wanting to do this since the festival.”

He squints. “Don’t you dare.”

Akira takes a deep breath and cups his hands over his mouth.

“Akira, I swear—”

“I love Ryuji!”

“Oh my God—” Ryuji slaps a hand over his mouth, face beet-red. “Someone’s gonna call the cops on us now, thanks to your dumbass!”

Voice muffled, “So what?”

“So your ass goes to jail, for real this time.”

Akira says something incomprehensible.

“What?” he drops his hand.

“I said that you’ll probably just bust me out, won’t you?”

Ryuji snorts. “Duh. Give me a week, and you’ll be out on the streets making a mess again.”

“You know it.” If he doesn’t stop being so ridiculously earnest, Akira would have no choice but to squeeze him until he pops. He readjusts his glasses instead. “We should probably grab that soy sauce before Mona—”

He stops when Ryuji showcases a handful of soy sauce packets from his pocket, expression smug.

“First rule of thievery: a slick hand is a slick man.”

“That is definitely not the first rule of anything decent.”

“Thievery is a crime, Akira.”

The two of them banter as they head back, side by side. Despite everything, there’s still a bit of a shyness between them, but that’s okay—they’ll take things at their own pace, the way they want to do it.

Their shoulders bump, and if Maruki had asked him for a second wish, Akira would decline without hesitation.

—

“Give it up, Futaba. You’re playing to lose.”

“Ha! I haven’t lost a game since I misclicked in Solitaire when I was eight.”

“Ladies, neither of you know the art of the hustle in the way I’ve perfected it.”

“You going around random parks and picking up cans for three hundred yen isn’t a hustle, Yusuke.”

“And who taught him that word?”

“Ryuji.”

“Definitely Ryuji."

“You bet I did.”

“Um, no one’s played anything for two minutes now.”

“Trash talk is gameplay, Haru.”

“This is less trash talk and more senior citizen bingo chitchat.”

“Shut up Akira, winners can’t join the banter.”

“‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown.’”

“Wow. That’s deep, man.”

“Don’t fall for it, it’s from Spider-Man.”

“It’s Shakespeare, Ann.”

“See, this is why Makoto’s college bound and you’re not.”

“I don’t want to go to college. It’s a scam.”

“You wanna know what else is a scam?” Futaba slams her cards down hard enough to rattle their drinks. “A revolution!”

Groans fill the air, and Akechi looks over Ann’s shoulder from the next booth. “Mind if I mention that you’re done for?”

“I’m blonde, not stupid,” Ann whispers back fiercely. “And besides, it’s not like you could’ve predicted a revolution.”

He leans over and points to one of her cards, careful not to touch her. “Judging by the way Sakura and Kitagawa are holding their cards, they’re chock-full on pairs. If you use this,” he flicks one of her cards. “They’ll have no choice but to—”

“Time! Red flag! 911!” Futaba stands, pointing an accusatory finger at the pair. “No outside help allowed, it’s cheating! Akira, make them stop.”

“Oh, so now you want me to talk?”

“Yes, I command you.”

Akira turns to give Akechi a stern stare. “Stop cheating, it’s making Futaba upset.”

“Then why hasn’t she said anything about Sakamoto giving you strategies?”

“Pfft,” Futaba snorts. “That’s more of a disadvantage than anything.”

“Hey!” Ryuji tips his chair towards Futaba, balance precarious. “‘Kira, she’s bullying me!”

“You think I can stop her?”

“Good point,” he scans the room. “Yoshizawa, stop her abuse!”

“Huh?” Sumire tears her eyes away from Yusuke, who started rearranging his cards by pattern instead of… anything that can help him win. “Why me?”

“You guys are the same age, so,” he waves his hand in a need I say more? gesture.

“Can you just get on with the game?” Makoto sighs. “I’ve been wanting to play, but all you do is argue.”

“Don’t worry Makoto,” Futaba’s glasses glint like an anime villain. “This won’t take long.”

Three minutes later, Ann shoves her head into her hands, brutally defeated. “Akechi, you suck. Yusuke beat me.”

“You did the exact opposite of what I told you to do, how is that possibly my fault?”

“I thought it was reverse psychology!"

Sumire can see Akechi physically restrain himself from commenting any further.

Their impromptu party has been nothing short of a success—surrounding them and littering the bar are empty sushi boxes with Morgana snoring one of them. After everyone ate the (ridiculous amount) of food, Haru suggested a casual game of Tycoon, but there had been a glint in her eyes that told Sumire it would be anything but. It was an array of cutthroat games topped with poor trash talk and a complete lack of camaraderie with one another; the opposite of what had happened in Maruki’s Palace.

When Ryuji had sprinted past her, swift as a lightning strike, Sumire was ready to join him until a hand gripped her forearm. Ann shook her head. The rest of the Phantom Thieves were geared up and ready to go, yet none of them made a move towards Akira. It was as if there’s a silent agreement from all of them. She explained to Sumire why, all while keeping an eye on the two boys fighting with each other.

“Akira… he takes his role in the group seriously,” Ann said. “Sometimes a little too seriously, but that’s because he has to. Nothing bugs him more than someone on the team getting hurt, so he ends up trying to do everything himself. And Ryuji,” she nodded at him. “He hates it. Tells him off every time. Akira doesn’t usually lose his focus like this, but whenever he does, it’s just better to let them sort it out. It may not seem like it, but Ryuji’s been doing this as long as Akira has. They’ll make it work.”

Her voice had been so certain, so confident and sure of that fact that Sumire could only nod and wait for them to finish.

Now though, everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. They had accepted Sumire with open arms, had made her feel comfortable and welcomed in what’s clearly a tight-knit group.

“Okay, who’s next?” Akira calls, gathering the cards with deft hands and begins to shuffle the deck. “Makoto called dibs already.”

“I’d like to give it a try,” Haru says. “Many older fellows from the company seem to judge power through the hierarchy of cards, so I’d love to get more practice in.”

“Sounds problematic,” Ryuji comments.

“It is, but I’ll never back down from the chance to see defeat flood into their eyes.”

A beat.

“...Okay, so Makoto and Haru are in, anyone else? Winner gets to poke Morgana while he’s in a coma.”

“Speaking of—elephant in the room,” Ann leans forward and drops her voice. “Was it just me, or was Mona—”

“Super, really, mega, ultra weird as a human?” Ryuji finishes eagerly.

Sumire gasps, “Oh my God, you too?”

“Duh!”

“I’ll admit it: it truly made my stomach hurt to witness such a sight,” Yusuke shudders.

Haru frowns. “Don’t be rude to Mona-chan.”

“I ain’t saying he’s ugly! I’m just saying it’s effin’ weird to see our not-cat actually not a cat.”

“He looks like he’d hold a skateboard but not know how to skate,” Futaba says.

“He looks like he’d be carded for a PG-13 film,” says Ann.

“He looks like he’s a throw-in for an up-and-coming J-pop band.”

Everyone turns to Akechi, who raises an eyebrow. “What?”

All at once, everyone bursts out laughing, the sound filling up every crevice of the room.

“You’re all mean people,” Akira crosses his arms but is unable to keep the humour out of his eyes.

“Don’t act all high-and-mighty, leader,” Ann snorts. “There’s no way you didn’t think that human Morgana wasn’t insane.”

“I absolutely did not see anything insane.”

“Probs cause you can’t see, period.” Ryuji moves forward and pushes Akira’s bangs up. “Christ, how can you see with this mop in front of you?”

With his hair no longer obscuring his view, nothing is hiding Akira’s smug lilt of his chin, his eyes seeming to glow blue when he says, “Third Eye.”

Ryuji rolls his eyes. “Impossible in the real world, dude.” Without seeming to realize it, his hand was combing back Akira’s thick locks. “You’re just too nice to that damn cat.”

The act seemed so gentle, so tender, so natural and unhesitating that it’s almost as if she shouldn’t be seeing it. Maybe it’s because Akira seemed to almost lean into his touch, or the way Ryuji reached out like he was drawn to him. Or maybe it’s because no one even comments on it, like this was so common that it wasn’t even worth mentioning. Whatever it was, it’s enough to make her look away.

Only to see Akechi bring up his phone.

“I have to take this,” he stands, grabbing his coat.

Sumire frowns. “Who’s calling?”

“Business,” AKechi pushes past the door, bell ringing as it swings back.

Yeah, right.

“That reminds me,” she says, pulling up her own phone (dead, but no one needs to know that). “I have to call my father.”

“You can head up to Akira’s room,” Futaba suggests.

“No, it’s alright,” she notes that she didn’t suggest that to Akechi, but Sumire can’t exactly blame her. “I need to speak to Goro anyway.” She stands and bows to everyone deeply. “Thank you very much for inviting me.”

Grabbing her coat, Sumire follows Akechi out, leaving the warm glow of Leblanc behind her.

—

Somehow, she isn’t surprised to find him at the rundown laundromat once more, back pressed against the unmoving dryer.

They regard each other for a long moment.

“It’s a little chilly, compared to the last time we were here,” Sumire says.

“No one’s using the bathhouse right now.”

“That’s a shame,” she walks over to the washer on the far right, and with a little hop, makes herself comfortable on the off-white steel. “I quite miss the scent that was here. Kind of like a gust of wind wearing perfume. Now it smells like… well, nothing really.”

“I never liked the scent. It made me prone to headaches.” Akechi crosses his arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Your phone didn’t ring,” she says simply. “And you never put your phone on silent. Really, it was like a light in the sky that says ‘Goro is in trouble, send help!’” She leans forward, propping her chin in her palm. “I’m just responding.”

Akechi stays silent as a brick wall.

“Why did you leave? I don’t know about you, but I thought it was going pretty well, all things considered. You hate them, I know, but you seemed to be… well, not repulsed by them at least. And they seemed to get along with you alright.”

“That’s why I left,” he says, expression impassive. “They just had their perfect reality ripped away, everything they could want, and they’re all in there pretending that they’re fine. Lying to each other. It makes my skin crawl. They fight for the truth, yet cower behind a mask, an act—”

Sumire’s gaze turns icy. “Don’t try and make them out to be like bad people. It’s not an act. You know it’s not.”

They study each other, and then Akechi’s shoulder drops slightly. “I know. It would be considerably easier if it was. That group…” his eyes slide sideways. “Is perplexing, to say the least. I don’t understand how they function, I don’t understand how their dynamic doesn’t turn vicious over time, and I especially don’t group how they can forgive Kurusu despite his—his meddling of their lives.”

It’s the most candid she’s seen Akechi without him bordering on a breakdown. Sumire chooses her next question carefully, one that’s been bugging her.

“Why did you ask Akira for help back then?”

“Here, you mean?” At her nod, “I told you—when he’s feeling cooperative, he can prove to be of value.”

“Why did you come back to Leblanc with them today?”

“Allies are advantageous,” he answers a hairsbreadth too quickly.

“Why are you still here, Goro?”

Akechi hesitates. That’s a first. “I don’t know.”

“You seem to always have an excuse, don’t you?”

“What are you getting at?”

A silence falls over the two of them, heavy like a weighted blanket. The vending machine whirrs loudly behind her.

“How long have you been in love with Kurusu-senpai?”

Akechi stares at her, long and hard, as if he was considering his handful of moves in a game of chess. And then he walks towards the other washer, leaving the middle one empty between them and jumps on.

“Not as long as you, I don’t think.”

Immediately, blood rushes to her cheeks relentlessly. (Of course he figured it out.) For all her insistence of teamwork, she forgets that this isn’t a one-way mirror. “That’s probably true,” she admits.

Rotating on the smooth steel, Sumire faces him. “It happened pretty much the day I met him. Damsel in distress, knight in shining armor—the works. He was nice, I was flustered. Ripped straight out of a textbook shoujo manga,” she chuckles. “Considerably less cherry blossoms and way more weapons, though.”

“I’ve never found the appeal of those,” Akechi muses. “Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever picked one up for myself.”

“They’re really sweet if that’s what you’re into. I have a collection at home, I can—” she stops. Clearing her throat, she instead asks, “And you?”

“Are you asking me to gossip with you?”

“Less gossip, and more a conversation.”

He hums. “Perhaps I should’ve corrected you before,” he shifts his torso to her direction. “Kurusu Akira is something of an anomaly. He’s on probation, an outcast, hated by his peers and authority in his life. Barely a penny to his name, he was a nobody living in an attic at the top of some cafe. And yet, he ended up leading the phenomenon, the internationally acknowledged and polarized group of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts.”

His tone is flat, inscrutable when he says: “And I have never met anyone I hated more.”

The smile that was nestled in Sumire’s face drained as she watched Akechi’s expression: eyes glazed over and posture completely relaxed—like he was informing her of the weather next week. “By rule of the formula, he shouldn’t have had the success that he did. He doesn’t deserve the victory the Thieves did, the friends he made. Because if someone like him can possibly be more than the scum he is…” he trails off, shaking his head. “I don’t know if what I’m feeling towards him is love. It’s possible. But just as possible as that is a simple, unencumbered infatuation towards him, an unhindered obsession.”

Akechi crosses his legs, and the action makes him look younger. “Take that information as you will.”

“That’s how I figured it out. The way you spoke about him was very…” she struggles to find a suitable way to describe how Akechi speaks about Akira—it was loaded with backhanded compliments (heavy on the backhand). Every time he spoke about him, for or against, it was like a battle of semantics; he was almost arguing with himself half the time. “Telling,” she finishes lamely.

Sumire shifts from where she’s sitting, almost wishing that someone would go into the bathhouse if not to create enough steam to warm her up. Though she considers herself lucky to finally be having this conversation, the venue is much to be desired.

“Diction aside, you have strong feelings for senpai. Be it love or hate or some sort of amalgamation of the two. So why didn’t you wish for him? It would’ve been easy. You wouldn’t even notice the change.”

He considers this for a moment, fingernails tapping away at the hollow of the washer. “Do you know much of existential topics?”

Blinking, “Like those tarot card tables in Shinjuku?”

“Not quite. Moreso on topics such as karmic retribution, fate, ‘destiny,’” he air quotes, mouth twisting in mockery. “Basically, the idea that certain things are out of your control.”

“Sure, I know of them. I can’t say I’m anything more than a casual believer, if I can even say that.”

“When I was young, I was as well. But I learned early on that the concept of the universe providing aid is nothing more than a fever dream,” he fiddles with his glove absentmindedly. “So everything I have, I fought tooth and nail for: my reputation, my studies, who I am. I made it happen, not anyone else,” Akechi shrugs. “So why on earth would I start now relying on someone else to get what I want when I know that it won’t work? Clearly, the universe—if such a thing exists—doesn’t give a shit.”

“Wow,” is all she could say.

“Wow indeed.” He runs his hand over top the panel and comes up with dust. “I have a question for you, now.”

“Go for it.” Admittedly, she’s curious about his question. Akechi simply exudes the aura that he just knows everything there is to know. She wonders if he calculated that into himself, along with everything else.

“Since what Maruki did was essentially getting your call answered by the universe, how did you get over your wish so easily?”

“I didn't.” Raising an eyebrow, “Did you think I did?”

Her question is answered by a lack of retort. She tries not to feel satisfaction from it.

“I’m not over it,” she admits. “Of course I’m not. I still struggle with it, when I’m alone. The guilt gets crazy at night, so it helps to keep busy. Busy is… busy is good, usually,” Sumire looks down and swears she sees blood on her hands—flashing in and out like bad reception. “It helps to treat it like a regimen. A muscle to train.” Looking up, the corner of her mouth quirks up at him. “Kasumi was always the one to remind me to stretch when I overdid it.”

“I never figured out how altruism like that works,” says Akechi. “How do you live, serving others even at the expense of yourself? What’s the point in all of this if it isn’t for personal gain?”

The way he says it so matter-of-fact stops Sumire from dismissing him right away. There isn’t an ounce of malice in his words or any intent on meanness—only pragmatism.

“I get it,” Sumire says. “But in a way, selflessness is easier. It’s straightforward, helping others. For many cases, people don’t even know themselves well enough to be selfish.”

“Can’t say that I can relate. Not knowing the end goal is practically a death sentence.”

Sumire hums. “Figures. It’s almost scary how sure you are of what you want,” her eyes meet his, red on brown. “Are you so sure that you’d die for it?”

Akechi’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “What are you really asking?”

“If we defeat Maruki and return everything back to before,” she swallows. “What happens to you?”

Surprise morphs its way into Akechi’s face like watching moss grow on timelapse. And then he suddenly snorts, startling Sumire more than anything they’ve faced in the past week.

Akechi clears his throat, but there’s still traces of humor. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

Despite how morbid the conversation has shifted, Sumire still feels her lips stretch wide. “Not like you gave me much choice.”

“Point taken,” he says. “How’d you figure that I’d die as soon as all of this is over?”

“Maruki mentioned something back then, about people losing their wishes if this was all reversed. And that, partnered with what Kurusu-senpai said back then,” she shrugs. “It’s hard not to assume.”

“You’d make a fun verbal sparring partner, Sumire.”

“Oh, no way,” she waves her hand, hastily trying to hide delight. It’s not everyday you can pull a compliment out of Akechi Goro. “I’m all about the practice—put me on the spot without prep and I’ll fold like a bad poker player.”

“Like Takamaki?”

“Worse.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Impossible.” Akechi rests his elbows on his bent knee, propping his chin up on his hand. “Are you going to ramble on with some mindless monologue to try and talk me out of it?”

“I don’t know. Probably not,” she admits. “You’re too stubborn to fall for something like an intervention.”

Sumire understands, though, the extremities of the situation aside. If she gained the ability of hindsight and saw herself still pretending to be Kasumi, she’d probably be revolted enough to choose death, too. “There’s a good chance that Kurusu-senpai would try to stop you though.”

“He can try,” Akechi sniffs. “It’ll be a waste of time on his part.”

She makes a noise of agreement, and they lapse into a comfortable silence once again (they’re starting to make a habit of it, but she doesn’t mind), with only the buzzing of fluorescence serving as white noise.

Whether he’s doing this for himself or not, his sacrifice would ensure that reality would return to normal for everyone, granted that they can stop Maruki. His intentions are self-serving, completely indifferent to how this would affect everyone else, yet his forfeited life would mean that everyone would get their reality back. Even if it’s a means to an end, an egocentric reason, Akechi is willing to act as a martyr to achieve normalcy.

She lets her eyes drift towards him, lost in thought yet posture still perfect; no doubt another addition to his handcrafted state of being, and wonders if his accidental philanthropy is enough to atone for what he’s done.

Sumire almost cracks a smile—she’s stressing more about this than he is, but she can’t help it; she sees herself in him. Not completely, but in chunks. Specifically how they see Akira—his pride would never let him admit it to himself, but Sumire has no such reservations. There’s a substantial way they both revere him, place him on a shiny pedestal complete with those red velvet stanchions wrapped around.

Everyone must see him like this, she thought. Like fog on a mountain, something impossible to grasp. But then she saw how Akira was with his group for all but one evening and realized just how wrong she is.

Stretching her legs over the center washer, her knee bumps against his ankle. He doesn’t jerk away.

“Have you really not tried reading manga?” she asks.

“No. But once, I picked it up and pretended to read it for a publicity stunt,” says Akechi. “Why do you ask?”

“Because everyone reads manga.”

“Clearly not.” A pause. “I’ve caught a few episodes of Featherman, however.”

Sumire claps her hands together. “Really? That’s amazing! My sister and I used to cosplay them when we were young.”

“Oh, I only started watching recently. In Leblanc, actually.”

“You have to watch it from the beginning,” she frowns. “How else do you understand the plot?”

“Are you implying that Featherman has a plot?”

Akechi is not a good person, in the grand scheme of things.

“Of course! How else do you feel the pain of episode eighteen?”

Because of that, any place that he may have had with the Thieves had been scrubbed clean.

“Death of a Condor? Did you actually feel anything when you watched that? I thought it was a filler episode.”

And for Sumire, she didn’t have a place there to begin with.

“Interesting. I thought you were a casual fan?”

(But maybe—)

“I know a trap when I see one.”

They can form a place for each other, instead.

Sumire’s about to retort when Akechi cocks his head. “Why are you here, Sumire?” he asks again.

“For good company.”

“You were with them.”

“I was,” she confirms. “And then you left.”

A palpable beat passes.

“You’re wasting your time, befriending a dead man.”

Sumire’s mouth curves into a bittersweet smile. “Maybe we’re both wrong about that. There’s always a chance that we’ll see each other down the line, you know.”

“In a cemetery, maybe. When has optimism ever worked for me?”

“It could start working now.”

“I doubt it,” he scoffs, and then his expression softens ever so slightly. “If that did happen, us meeting again down the line… I don’t think I’d be against that idea.”

Akechi gives her a warning look and rushes, “But odds are—”

“Let me worry about the odds,” Sumire says. “I think I’m allowed to spend my time doing what I want. I mean,” she shrugs. “That’s what we fought for, right?”

He smiles, just a little. “I suppose it is.”

Chattering and laughter can be heard from the inside of Leblanc, but they don’t bother to listen.