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Summary
Akira has spent so long trying to rationalise Akechi’s plans - analysing his comments in combat, studying his profile at the Jazz Jin, watching him placidly sip coffee in Leblanc - that he’s almost forgotten what it’s like to be afraid of him. He’d felt a flicker of horror when Futaba played him the recording of Akechi arranging his murder, sure. But there was always a sense that they were missing a piece of the puzzle… That Akechi couldn’t be doing this of his own free will.
Akira had forgotten how it felt to fear him. He remembers now. Staring up at the blank, deadened expression on Akechi’s face, he feels terror slice through him like a knife, flaying him down to the bone. “Akechi.” He whispers, voice scratchy and faint.
Akechi raises his gun, dragging it across Akira’s cheek in a sick parody of a caress. “Akira.” He murmurs, eyes glinting with undisguised anticipation.
On November 20th, the cops inject Akira with a stronger sedative. Things spiral from there.