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"What would you do," Mother had asked a day before she died, "on the last day of your life?"
Goro had tilted his head, doe-eyed and full of innocence, deaf to the quivering of the world about to collapse around him.
What he had answered, Akechi doesn't remember.
Akechi wakes to the rambling of trains passing by.
"05:34, February 2nd, 20XX," the time reads.
As a creation confined to a reality with an expiration date set on the 3rd of February, this is likely his last day on Earth. Surely, even if he slacks off and stays in bed the entire day, no one would remember past tomorrow.
Nonetheless, Akechi wills himself out of bed, more out of habit than necessity.
Although the winter solstice has long passed back in a world controlled by another God the night doesn't seem to be shortening. It's still dark out, with hints of a pale sunrise brewing beyond the Tokyo skyline.
In the foreground, the lights of the Shibuya high-rises are unusually dim. Maybe Maruki has finally run out of problems to solve and decided to stick his nose in environmental protection.
Flicking the bathroom light on, Akechi finds himself in close proximity to his own image in the broken mirror.
In the past month spent playing house in this delusional utopia, he has made a habit of observing his own body. Not out of curiosity or appreciation, of course, but the need to remember the past Maruki has been desperately trying to erase.
He looks fine in the reflection, just a regular guy who's sleep-deprived and a little disheveled from a restless night. Which is ridiculous, because the last thing a corpse should look is fine.
Slowly, Akechi traces a finger through his chest down to the stomach. He can still recall the gunshots. One had pierced through the intestines and the other the heart, or perhaps it had shattered his sternum and sent the fragments slicing through his aorta. Regardless, they would've been killing blows, Metaverse or not.
Those bullet holes had been the only proof of his first good deed, and Maruki just had to take them away.
Shaking his head, Akechi makes a beeline for the kitchen. He can't afford to break his wrists again from throwing punches at a shadow too whole to be himself. Although injuries do have a tendency to magically disappear in this reality, the effect isn't spontaneous, and Akechi doubts Maruki has much benevolence to spare the firmest opposer of his Elysium a day before their final confrontation.
The apartment kitchen is barren. Akechi has no use for cooking supplies, after all. A pair of chopsticks and a few bowls and plates suffice for preparing instant meals.
On the counter is a little coffee brewer he doesn't remember buying. Perhaps Maruki has placed it there, still clinging to the delusion that such pitiful breads and circuses can outweigh the things he has taken away and sway Akechi to his side. The man has the ability to resurrect the dead, after all, it wouldn't surprise Akechi if he also has the power to manifest commodities out of thin air.
By the time Akechi walks back into the living room with a steaming cup of coffee, the sun is already out.
How enthusiastic people are about sunrises has always baffled him. Sure, they splay pretty colors across the sky, but what else is there? In the end, it's simply a romanticized concept. Idiotic—the sun hasn't even moved an inch. All along, it's the Earth that's been rotating.
Nevertheless, he stops to watch, letting the new dawn wash over his body as the sun climbs over the tip of the Tokyo Tower. Just this once, it does feel warm.
In his mouth, the instant coffee tastes atrocious. Just one more way Kurusu Akira has utterly ruined him.
Akechi doesn't go to school. It's pointless anyway.
Beyond this false paradise, all anyone would remember is that the Detective Prince had disappeared back in December, sudden but not missed. Who was the Detective Prince, anyway? A topic for mealtime gossips. A pretty face on faded newspapers. A shadow so superficial that it couldn't even take root in Mementos.
Akechi doesn't stay in his apartment, either. There's nothing there.
Most of his personal belongings never made it through his long streak of moving. The last memento of his mother he'd burnt before turning to his father, a silent vow to avenge a ghost that would never see again. Not long after regaining a life away from Shido's surveillance, he'd confirmed his very real non-existence, and any purpose behind procuring new assets was, thus, lost.
Eventually, Akechi ends up on the Oedo Line. Not because he has anywhere particular to be, but because it's a ring and he would eventually return to where he had started.
Despite the time, the train is half empty, which makes finding a seat unbelievably easy. Again, thanks to Maruki superfluous empathy.
The compartment rocks as the train pulls away from the station. This is usually the time for him to produce a book and start reading, but Akechi isn't in the mood for literature, or for anything, really. So he stares out the window, watching the cityscape wash past his eyes like images from a scroll of sepia film.
Shiodome.
Tsukishima.
Daimon.
The station names sound foreign in Akechi's ears. He has spent his entire life in Tokyo, searching for dropped coins in the dirtiest gutters, gathering intel in the fanciest terraces, and anything in between. Yet, there are still so many places he hasn't even gotten to know.
Akechi doesn't necessarily lament his lack of travel. He never had the money or time, after all, and Tokyo is a city he generally finds more detestable than amiable.
And, in his defense, there are places he does know, too.
Shinjuku.
Kokuritsu Kyougijyou.
Aoyama Itchome.
Through the doors beside him, a group of Shujin students hops off the train, chirping about what dessert to purchase for lunch. On the platform, clusters of others are immersed in conversations that don't reach his ears, illusory smiles scribbled on their blurred faces.
It's impossible to see Shujin Academy from the station. Which is probably for the best, because the first time he'd locked eyes with Kurusu Akira, the world had started, and the last time God had died.
Speaking of which, given that today is a Thursday, the aforementioned leader of the Phantom Thieves must be at school, bored to death with a cat hidden under his desk.
Funny that the Messiah would bother with the most mundane tasks, a day before the world ends.
What's funnier is that Akechi is spending his last day on Earth doing absolutely nothing.
His entire life had been a struggle for more time, because there was never enough.
When Mother was still here, he'd squeezed house chores in between school and homework, always anticipating a trip to the bathhouse knocking every plan off course.
In the orphanages, he'd snuck out after lights out and read under the street lamp, just to get one more page in and push himself closer to that scholarship he'd thought would solve all his problems.
Under Shido's thumb, he'd compartmentalized himself into three: the Detective Prince, who excelled at school and at work; the Black Mask, who carried out every mission with ruthless precision; and Akechi Goro, who bore the weight of the other alter-egos and slowly withered at the dead of night.
Every waking second he had spent pursuing a goal, knowing that the finish line was waving just beyond his reach.
More time. He'd silently wished. Just a little more.
The journey itself was trivial. He'd quietly told himself. What mattered was the fact that he was going to reach the destination, no matter the cost.
Until the rug was pulled from underneath and he was left in a living hell of his own making, unable to comprehend what he did along the way, because… why did he?
And then, bang, he'd died.
See? There was never enough time.
Yet, with the route to the Treasure secured now, there is nothing else a walking dead man can do other than wait. So here he is, wandering the streets of Tokyo with no clear destination in mind, just to waste away the final day of this pathetic non-life.
The moment he sets foot on the highest level of Tokyo Skytree, Akechi instantly regrets it.
Maruki's meddling has quadrupled the number of idiotic couples making out in public spaces, especially locations that are considered "romantic dating spots," such as here. These people seem to exist solely in their pink bubbles, blissfully ignorant of the daggers Akechi is passionately glaring at them.
Fine, he can pretend not to see or hear them. Their incoherent moaning isn't half as bad as the drunk babbling of Shido's associates, and he had dealt with those perfectly fine.
Outside the window, the entirety of Tokyo City is splayed out under his eyes. From this height, the imposing skyscrapers are no larger than miniature matchboxes. Through the vein-like streets, dark dots he assumes to be human beings crawl like ants.
Whereas someone else would find the height nauseating, it only makes him feel powerful. From above the clouds, the world seems tiny, insignificant, as if, with the point of a finger, Akechi Goro can make it submit to his whims.
After he had awoken to the trickster god and cleaved his life from the roots to appease Mother's memory, he'd felt this way. Omnipotent, unstoppable. As if, with the sheer power of will, he could smear the society's ugly guts all over its face and parade it around for everyone to see.
Of course, all of that had turned out to be an illusion. In the end, he had only been a marionette dancing to the strings of some imposter in a god's skin—a role fitting for a throwaway child whose mere existence was born out of a fluke.
The church in Kanda is deserted. In this new reality, people have abandoned their faiths and turned to embrace the magnanimous Maruki Takuto, the guarantor and arbitrator of all wishes.
Although no one is operating the organ, and neither is a choir present, a serene and distant melody still lingers in the empty sanctuary.
Akechi had visited with Akira once, before everything soured and they both became dead men walking. Back then, the church had been bustling with hurried but pious crowds. A girl their age had nestled herself next to the altar, playing chess against herself.
Mumbling something about improving the tenacity of heart for the sake of becoming a better Phantom Thief, Akira had ushered him into the confessional. The Detective Prince couldn't have declined, so he had gone in and confessed to some trivial misdeeds—either stepping on someone's foot and forgetting to apologize, or borrowing a classmate's notebook and losing it on the way home. The priest had listened to his penitents and pardoned his sins.
Asinine. As if any amount of repentance could've wiped clean the blood staining his hands.
Despite the church's current emptiness, the confession chamber is still open. Briefly, Akechi entertains the idea of spilling everything to the poor priest, of saying "I've murdered dozens of men and I don't regret it" and watching horror dawn on the other's face.
Then, again, perhaps the priest wouldn't react at all, thanks to the influence of Maruki's uncompromising utopia, and that would be very, very disappointing.
So he just sits on the wooden bench and listens to the vacant chorus.
Peaceful, and in utter solitude.
There are jokes about how some would squander all their wealth a day before the alleged end of the world, only to wake up the next day with the realization that their lives would continue, without any money left.
As he stares down to his untouched plate of sushi, Akechi wonders if he's currently living through one of those scenarios.
Except he can't be, can't he?
Because he doesn't harbor any affection toward Shido's filthy money.
Because this reality is doomed from the start.
And because he is very much already dead.
No one is at Miura Beach, which is to be expected given how chilly it is. Wind had picked up during the midday hours, driving the morning haze away and inviting in the frigid air of Siberia.
Akechi used to like the beach. With everyone in bathing suits, people tend to focus more on others' bodies than their faces, which offers a strange sense of anonymity. Miura is particularly good, because it's virtually untainted by Shido's sycophants. To those pretentious clowns, being seen on a public beach is a disgrace worse than manslaughter.
That said, today's Miura Beach isn't vaguely enjoyable.
The beachside is in a sorry state, sand half frozen with water from the morning tide. A few seagulls hop by, lamenting the dwindling of easy prey and junk snacks at this time of the year. Discarded wrappers and plastic bottles lay half buried under the sand, blinking innocently under the cold sunlight.
Wind flaps a few strands of stray hair into his face, turning them into razors against his cheeks. In an attempt to conserve the last hints of heat keeping his month-old dead body moving, Akechi shrinks a little lower into his scarf. His overcoat isn't made for subzero temperatures, and he only has his summer uniform inside.
A stupid mistake. Perhaps every part of this day is.
The beach is bare, a desolation of nothingness that offers neither consolation nor rejection. Clouds roll overhead, casting cool shadows over the sea. The ocean is a magical thing, capable of looking so calm yet so angry.
Alone, Akechi staggers along the shoreline, a single path of footprints trailing behind a fading mind.
The wind sings, an elegy to a world that will soon be erased from existence.
The returning train rattles along its tracks.
Leaning against the icy window glass, Akechi sleeps.
In a world hazy with dreams, he sees a specter wearing his face seated in LeBlanc's attic, across from a grinning shell of Kurusu Akira. A game of chess is set between them, the white three steps from checkmate. Backlit with the springtime sun, the ghosts exchange smiles, fragments of eternal bliss frozen on their porcelain faces.
Everything is ideal.
Yet, it isn't real.
The Ikebukuro Planetarium is a manifestation of human hypocrisy.
Akechi has gotten used to seeing Tokyonites carry themselves with their heads buried and shoulders hunched, eyes focused on anywhere but the sky. In fact, in another lifetime, he had become one of them.
That's what humans naturally do when faced with the unknown. They build concrete giants and shield the firmament away with dazzling neon lights. They construct society and delude themselves into thinking that putting on dog collars would save them from the wrath of nature. It works, mostly, and with a price.
Ironic that they would also curate a museum specifically for recreating the night they have single-handedly destroyed.
Regardless, Akechi has taken time to memorize the names of every displayed constellation. Not because he is a particularly fervent stargazer, but because the Detective Prince had the need to impress, and the leader of the Phantom Thieves always seemed to have an abundance of time inviting people to bizarre locations.
They never had a chance to go to this particular place, too tangled up in a conspiracy to find breathing rooms. Perhaps, by the time he'd finished polishing his knowledge about stars, he no longer wanted to see the Phantom Thief, knowing that the boy would become another body count by the end of the year.
Some nights, he'd dream about the trip they never took. As the showroom lights dimmed and the artificial darkness drowned out Akira's form, only those mirror-like eyes remained visible. Occasionally, Akira would look at him, two pools of ink glimmering with hundreds of constellations. More often, the Thief would just stand still without voicing a word, a silent statue in an endless night.
Then Akechi would wake up, thinking what a competent assassin he was, having wet dreams about a soon-to-be victim.
The interior of the planetarium hasn't change much from the time he had last scouted it out back in October. Only the constellations in the dome have shifted with the change of seasons.
The Orion is easily recognizable with its prominent belt. People seem to consider those three stars "siblings" despite the astronomical distances separating them. Ridiculous. What's more ridiculous is how the guide's tone softens when likening them to a family, as if that's something always worth celebrating.
Then, there is the Gemini. Mother had once said that it was a constellation that belonged to him, or, at least, his birthday. Being the morbidly curious boy he was, he'd snuck into a bookstore and read about the personality traits of a Gemini: playful, quick-witted, intellectually curious, and generally thrives in social interactions. Looking back, perhaps the Detective Prince had been the truer Gemini.
Directly above, along the zenith, the Polaris holds its ground stubbornly, the only constant fixture in an ever-evolving sky. Now, the legendary star that once guided lost ships on boundless oceans is degraded to a dim white dot in a carpet of night no longer dark, unremarkable to a fault. With time, both fairy tales and their heroes fade.
And there are so many other things he can say: the Taurus, the symbol of Zeus's authority; the Canis Major and Minor, the hounds of a hunter who's forever trapped in the sky; and the Andromeda, the Milky Way's closest neighbor…
Irritating, to have words accumulate at the tip of his tongue but with no audience to spill.
The Shibuya movie theater is, again, filled to the brim with lovestruck couples.
Akechi has never really understood the appeal of movies. They are costly and generally a waste of time. Yet, sentimental fools like Akira and the Phantom Thieves fall into the theaters in droves, giggling and weeping to the scenes lifted straight from a script.
The movie of the week is another clichéd lovesick story: a girl suffering from a terminal illness, a cameraman who falls hopelessly in love at first sight, a confession on the death bed, a final trip through the city and into the woods, a farewell, and a series of photos that will be remembered for a lifetime.
The plot is excruciatingly bland. Most of the dialogue are so forgettable that they barely linger once they are voiced.
Yet, one specific scene manages to sear itself into Akechi's retina. In front of a handheld camera, the dying girl turns before a sunrise, smiling bright despite the tears still staining her pale cheek. Along the distant horizon made uneven by pine trees, the dawn is starting to break, backdropping her angelic face like a halo.
The last day of life. Ephemeral and ethereal.
Exiting the theater, Akechi passes a few couples crying for the fate of the star-crossed lovers.
What strange occurrences, considering Maruki has worked his ass off to ensure every single soul lived in perpetual happiness.
What was stranger is that Akechi doesn't see the tragedy.
The girl looks happy. They both are, until the very end.
Yes, there is death, but there is also peace and the promise that the dead will forever be remembered. She is going to live on, not as a flawed human being but as an immortalized memory that can never be tainted.
Isn't that the biggest happy ending a mortal bound by death can ask for?
Most don't get that.
They live.
They die.
They fade in time, washed away like footprints in the sand.
Akechi Goro isn't particularly afraid of dying. At least, not in the traditional way.
His entire life had been a one-way sprint toward a cliff. As the election pulled closer, he could feel the metaphorical noose tightening around his neck, leaving a bruise that was the shape of his own claws. Yet, he was so close to the goal-line that he couldn't afford to stop, so he amped the gas up to maximum and sped, even if his vessel of hatred was to fall off the edge right after crossing the threshold.
The karmic end came in Shido's Palace, right before the finish line, in the form of an executioner wearing his own face. He had murdered countless in the same skin, with the same impassive face. This time, the gun was finally turned on him.
Justified.
Deserved.
Then, he had woken up in this sorry excuse of a reality, knowing that he had died and how he'd died but missing the proof of what he'd chosen. Armed with self-righteous benevolence, Maruki had stolen the final moments of his life, labelling it a pain too great for a person to bear.
He had loathed—still loathes—the counselor for it. Yet, he can't stop the pathetic child in him from whispering: it's for the best that you can't recall the last moments of your life, because there you were again, cold,
alone,
abandoned.
As such, he isn't scared of dying again.
This death is going to be quick and painless, and for a good cause—a luxury even the luckiest rarely experiences.
A bouquet of forget-me-nots, adorned with white poppies and carnations.
Akechi doesn't know why he had bought it in the first place. It's not as if he has anyone to offer them. His mother has no grave, and neither will he. Their souls had been bound to an ark meant only for scavengers, and with the ordination of a new age sunk the ship that carried the champions of the past.
Luckily, he is in Kichijoji, and Muhen always loves random gifts from customers.
Night is falling. The lights are starting to flicker on, painting the people coming and going in warm glows.
The alluring aroma of Chinese Buns permeates the streets, though it doesn't exactly make Akechi's mouth water. In fact, he hasn't felt hunger once in this new reality. Another perk that comes with being dead for a while, he supposes, along with the little need for sleep and the general numbness toward a city he used to detest.
Jazz Jin's neon signboard is as inviting as usual. The singer is there, her voice soft but easily recognizable even from the outside.
No More What Ifs. His favorite song.
The warmth is a temptation, reminiscent of the slower nights when Shido hadn't been breathing down his neck, and the happier ones where Akira had been with him. It's too easy to lean into the atmosphere and let himself sink.
Akechi doesn't dare enter, not on a day like this, where the memories of the past and the knowledge of the future are his only companies.
Before leaving for the final time, he leaves the bouquet on the steps leading into the bar.
No note. No signature.
Secretly, he finds the sight of the forget-me-nots forgotten to wither in the winter wind strangely poetic.
By the time Akechi reaches Inokashira Park, it starts snowing.
Odd. It's almost always sunny in Maruki's dreamland, especially on the days when the Phantom Thieves decide to hang out. The new custodians of this reality have the world dancing around their fingertips. They only need to say, Let There Be Light, and the clouds would part and the sun shine.
Leaning against a pole of lamp, Akechi watches the last ray of sunlight fade from the horizon.
Without sunlight, the curtain of snow almost appears transparent, silently blending into the air and making it viscous.
Snowflakes are strange little things—he extends a hand to catch a few pieces and watches them melt into the leather of his glove—fragile, impersonal, so easy to trample, and effectively traceless as they meet their ends. When attempting to sell himself to Shido Masayoshi, he had once compared shadows to snow, citing those exact traits as proof of his usefulness. In a way, he had been right, since it turned out that shadow did explode into dusts when they dissolved, leaving nothing but brooding ruins in his dreams.
What's even stranger was that this was likely the last snowfall he would ever see. He doesn't even particularly like snow, finding it too disruptive to be beautiful. Yet, here he is, caressing a puddle of melted crystals, light like feathers in his hands.
Perhaps, the prospect of imminent demise unavoidably makes humans a little sentimental.
The neighborhood of Yongen-Jaya is immersed in a sleepy atmosphere.
Flickering rhythmically, the lights of the residences and street lamps melt into the hazy night. The snow falls silently and slowly, sometimes almost suspended in the damp air like glitters in a snow globe.
Yes. That's what this world is: a crystal ball in the hands of a delirious high school counselor, made to satiate his never-ending hollow of grief.
In the frigid wind, the windowpanes of LeBlanc are smokey with steam. Voices of people whispering gently filter through the cracks on the walls and the seams of the curtains. Through the thin veil of water vapor, Akechi can see two fluffy heads floating above the booth.
Kurusu Akira, the hero and the protagonist; and Maruki Takuto, the martyr and the antagonist.
Wordlessly, Akechi waits, letting snowflakes accumulate on his crown and get caught in the weaves of his scarf.
This is the curtain call to their story, carefully scripted to ensure the victory of some clownish villain until the actors collectively tore it apart with the sheer force of will. It still amazes him how a desperate little stunt of self-sacrifice managed to flip the God of Control's chessboard upside-down, and how he is minutes away from performing another feat that will be just as dramatic.
Call it revenge, a last ditch effort to grate against a world that never appreciated him.
Then Maruki calls out, anticipating Akechi's move through his temporary omniscience.
"The relationship you two share is very unusual," the counselor says with that calmly deceptive voice of his, like narrating a tragic story to a sleepy child. "Despite being enemies, your relationship isn't based on hatred or ill will."
Then, Maruki lets his gaze slide to Akira, sad smile dripping with benevolent manipulation.
Akira doesn't object, doesn't even react, fogged lenses turning into perfect little mirrors obstructing his eyes.
"You two came to a deep understanding of one another, yet you had no choice but to leave Akechi-kun to his fate." The man's voice is steady, each beat hammering a nail on a coffin already sealed.
In response, Akechi only rolls his eyes. As if dangling a dead man's non-life can make a difference. This world always has a tendency to underestimate him and his own rival.
"You see?" Maruki finishes, pace slower than before to let the words fully sink in. "That's why I created a reality where you two could have a fresh start together."
Neither Akechi nor Akira responds.
After saying his piece, the counselor leaves, holding the scarlet Calling Card diligently like it's a piece of holy relic. He has spent the past month projecting his loss onto every tragedy his mortal eyes witnesses. Presumably, tonight is no different.
As Akira watches Morgana off and shuts the door behind the cat, he manages to look devastated, like a kid who has just gotten his favorite toy taken away.
The Loki in Akechi gurgles, finding the uncharacteristic look entertaining. He has always wanted to see Joker's idiotic messiah complex circle back and bite the Thief in the ass, to see that impassive composure crumble to dust and leave the vulnerable core bare for exploit.
Kurusu Akira has the world wound around his fingers, and Akechi Goro is the only thing he wants but can't have. Maybe that makes him a little special.
One little victory, petty but satisfying.
Yet, at the same time, a small, unnecessary part of him also aches at the sight. It says that he isn't afraid of death but is of losing a tomorrow, that he understands Akira's affection and wants to reciprocate, and that it isn't fair for his memory to become a noose. It's the Robin in him that desperately clings to the past like a little boy chasing a drifting kite, crying about a hypothetical that will never become.
If only we'd met earlier.
If.
"I want to hear you say it aloud," Akechi grits out, squashing the glimmer of contradiction with as much conviction as he can muster. "What do you intend to do?"
Akira has his head lowered, wild fringe falling into his face and shielding his eyes.
Then, it strikes Akechi, or the analytical side of Akechi that always refuses to rest, that this is a demeanor he has never seen from Akira. Despite the deliberate slouching and the practiced meekness, the Thief always holds his chin high, examining the world with alert, hawkish eyes.
Even when addled with drug and made turbid with injuries and exhaustion, those eyes never faltered or drifted away from contact. Although Akechi would never admit to it, he has always thought them beautiful, shining like cold flames blazing under the midnight moon.
More importantly, Akechi has always able to find himself in them, laid bare with no disguise and no deception. As they marched further into Maruki's Palace and closer to his own demise, he had secretly sought affirmation in the steadiness of those eyes, a lost sail looking to the Polaris for guidance.
Which is why he hates how insignificant they look now, downcast and dulled.
Brainless don't.
Sentimentality cry.
But Akechi doesn't say anything, because there's no need to say anything.
If this is a decision he can make, there's no reason Kurusu Akira can't.
After what seems an eternity, Akira finally says, slowly but firmly, "We're stopping Maruki."
Words shouldn't have such powers. Yet Akira's promise somehow manages to ground him, like a parachute catching a person trapped in eternal free fall.
Wordlessly, Akechi heaves out a breath he doesn't know he's been holding and lets his eyes drop to his own gloved hands.
Mind lapsing, Akechi doesn't even realize that Akira has moved until he's hugged. Even in the real world, Joker moves with a catlike grace unparalleled by any other Phantom Thief, melting into the surroundings like a natural-born shadow.
In an instant, Akira's arms are draping over his tight shoulders and circling around the back of his neck, the glowing furnace of another body pressing against his chest and closing in on his throat. It's an intimacy that would usually trigger his fight or flight instincts, but, in this dimly lit cafe that smells of coffee and curry and home, he allows himself to melt into it and indulge.
"Don't be mistaken," Akira murmurs into the collar of his coat, the end syllables trembling ever so slightly, "I didn't make this decision because your life is trivial."
But it is, Akechi wants to say. What's a sinner's life against the free will of the entire world?
"It's not," Akira reiterates, as if reading Akechi's mind.
In Akira's grip, Akechi can only huff. He wants to be angry. Wants to haul Akira away by the collar and shake him awake. Wants to jab his finger at Akira's nose and holler at him: I am your killer and you shouldn't miss me.
You should just let me go, he wants to say.
But he also wants to say, Don't forget. You promised you won't.
In the end, he only returns the embrace with the same ferocity Akira is applying, pulling the warm weight closer until there is virtually no space even for simple breathing. It's an objectively awful hug. Their arms are tangled together too tightly, and their winter accessories are trapped awkwardly in between.
Yet, it feels warm. Comfortable.
"Your life matters. So does your wish," Akira breathes out, voice muffled by fabric. "That's why we fight tomorrow."
This is a path I chose myself. Akechi says, or hopes he would've said, not trusting his short-circuiting brain to handle further talking. I'm not a burden you should shoulder or a liability you have to account for. My life is my own responsibility, and so is my death.
But Akira has always been a fool.
Maybe they both are.
After all, the Phantom Thieves' idiosyncrasies have always had the tendency to infect those who dare get close, and Akechi Goro has long fallen one of their unfortunate victims.
And, he says to himself, perhaps it's okay.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, both Loki's cackling and Robin's yearning grind to a halt. For the first time in years, he hears nothing but the steady drumming of his own heart, a sound of life he has been neglecting since the moment he had awoken to the power of god.
"All right, I've heard your resolve," Akechi informs Akira, word by word, syllable by syllable. He's heard it, and it's only fair to reciprocate. An equal to an equal.
Wordlessly, Akira nods into the crook of his neck.
Neither of them speak again until they finally disentangle themselves from each other.
"I'll see you tomorrow" is what Akechi eventually says.
The last tomorrow remains unvoiced.
To which, Akira replies, "I'll hold you to your promise."
And Akechi thinks, this is what he has ever wanted.
When he steps out of LeBlanc's threshold, Akira doesn't follow, doesn't even call after him. He simply stands his ground, eyes shining in the way Akechi has always loved.
Behind him, the door closes. The bell jitters. LeBlanc is still there, a safe world tucked away behind a screen of light.
In front of him, the snowfall has turned into a blizzard. Tonight, it won't stop.
Silently, the leaden sky weeps with diamonds of ice. A burial for the lies and sins of the old world, just in time for the spring of a newer and freer one.
During the time Akechi is out, neither the Tokyo skyline nor his apartment changes, for which he is grateful. If there is one thing he fears more than the subjugation of the entire world, it's the revival of the woman plaguing his dreams, humming a lullaby that slowly morphs into a curse condemning him to insomnia.
"23:51, February 2nd, 20XX," the time reads.
It's his last day on Earth. Tomorrow, they will fight, for a reason more personal than noble and a reality no better but at least worth living and dying for.
Another cup of coffee in hand, Akechi presses himself against the icy windowpane, feeling the chill seep through the fabric of his shirt and cool down his core. His own breath materializes on the glass, condensing into splotches of mists. There was once a time he'd make art on such canvases, with the entirety of Tokyo as the background.
The coffee is even worse than the cup he had in the morning, as acrid and astringent as medicine.
Setting the cup down, Akechi reaches for his bed. He doesn't bother changing, only kicking off his slippers before crawling under the blanket. There is no point in keeping up the appearances when the Metaverse takes care of his costume, and leaving a pile of laundry in the last proof of his existence is disgraceful to say the least. If someone were to break into his apartment in search for a piece of the past, the last thing he needs them to find is a pair of dirty socks.
…Sounds like something a certain sentimental fool specializing in lock-picking would do.
Silently, Akechi chuckles to himself. Incredible how mere thoughts of Kurusu Akira is able to brighten the profound loneliness he has sought solace in for so long.
At the corner of the bedroom, the robot vacuum cleaner Akira had gifted him back in November, out of who-knew-what-reason, perches obediently. On the book shelf, a half-empty jar of All-Purpose Vitamins stands amidst random case files that have accumulated layers of dust. Even without opening his eyes, he can visualize the image of an aroma set aligned neatly with an electric toothbrush and bottles of unopened facial products. A silver bangle always stays on him, safely tucked away in the hidden pocket of his uniform, next to the holster where he used to keep his pistol in.
Traces of life are scattered all around this impersonal space. If he quiets his mind, he can almost hear them murmuring:
"At least I care."
And it somehow makes him happy.
In his periphery, the screen of his phone lights up, displaying a message from the leader of the Phantom Thieves addressing his team for the final time.
"23:59, February 2nd, 20XX," the time reads.
So, this is how he's going to spend the last night of this non-existence, lying in a pitch black room with his uniform on, a lukewarm cup of instant coffee left on the nightstand.
Honestly, it doesn't feel so bad.
Plucking at an errant strand of hair, Akechi reaches for his phone and scrolls to the chat titled "Kurusu Akira." It starts with the superficial compliments from June and July; flows into the intimate conversations of August and September; meanders through the lies and truths told in October and November; and terminates with Akira's last invitation to Jazz Jin, dated February 1st.
Idly, Akechi attempts a few messages and deletes them one by one, before finally settling on a proper farewell:
"Tomorrow, you should—"
"Get some rest. We can't afford to—"
"I just want to tell you—"
"Good night, Aki—"
"Thank you for—"
"See you tomorrow."
As he sends that final message, the date advances, one last time.
The world is a revolving lantern. Beside the horse stands a little boy, the wreckage of the good old days scattered around his feet like dead leaves from the fall.
"So, what did you do?" Goro asks, looking up with wide eyes. "What did you do on the last day of your life?"
Akechi looks down and picks a piece of broken glass up, bookmarking time with a stamp to the chest.
"Nothing," he replies. "I did nothing."
In response, Goro smiles, faint dimples adorning his peachy cheeks.
The sky shines.
It feels oddly like freedom.