Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, painting Futaba Sakura’s room in hues of pale gold and the faintest pink, like cherry blossoms unfolding at the edge of winter’s breath. The alarm on her phone buzzed—twice—before she slapped it silent with a groggy groan.

Her hand fell across something stiff and alien: neatly folded fabric.

The uniform.

Staring at it felt like confronting a dungeon door without knowing the code. She sat up slowly, her long orange hair a disheveled veil across her face. Beneath her blanket, the familiar comfort of her old oversized shirts and pajama shorts beckoned her to retreat.

“Ughhh… I’m really doing this,” she muttered, voice dry, uncertain.

A school uniform. A real, actual school uniform. Not some cosplay experiment, not a hacker disguise. Just… a plain, honest, polished Shujin Academy blazer and skirt, now tailored to fit the awkward genius girl who once couldn’t leave her room.

Futaba blinked, glancing toward the corner of her room where her custom-built PC hummed faintly, lights off, like a sleeping guardian. Her gaze lingered on the photos taped around her monitor: a blurry one of her and Sojiro at a ramen stall, a much newer shot of her and Sumire at Leblanc’s counter, both laughing mid-spill of cocoa.

That one made her pause.

She sighed.

“Okay. One dungeon at a time.”

---

The fabric scratched just a little at her collar. The tie was crooked—again—and her socks were slightly mismatched. Futaba stared at herself in the hallway mirror, adjusting her black-rimmed glasses with both hands. Her reflection didn’t look like the hermit genius of the Phantom Thieves.

She looked like… a schoolgirl. Sort of.

Sojiro cleared his throat behind her.

"You’re gonna miss the train if you keep checking yourself out like that," he said, barely holding back a smirk. “You look fine, Futaba.”

“I look like a bug in a suit,” she countered, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “Are you sure this isn’t cursed?”

"Only if you make it so," Sojiro replied, reaching to gently fix her tie. “You’ve come a long way. Don’t let a blazer scare you.”

That, oddly, helped.

Futaba took a breath, squared her shoulders, and grabbed her satchel—decorated in all the wrong places with Mementos-themed pins, of course—and stepped into the soft, new morning.

Shujin Academy loomed with its usual imposing brick-and-ivy presence, but the springtime air gave it a softness. New first-years shuffled uncertainly in clusters, guided by overly enthusiastic third-years and fluttering orientation pamphlets. Teachers gathered like sentinels near the gate, calling names and offering greetings with half-lidded smiles.

And then there was her.

Waiting by the gate, posture straight, expression warm and unmistakable in the sunlight.

Sumire Yoshizawa.

Hair down—long and crimson as late autumn maple leaves, drifting in the breeze. She wore the same uniform as Futaba, but somehow made it look like stagewear. A natural kind of grace clung to her, even as she stood gently fiddling with the edge of her schoolbag strap.

When she saw Futaba approaching, Sumire’s face lit up.

Futaba’s thoughts short-circuited.

“G-Good morning!” Sumire called, walking up with a small wave. Her cheeks pinked slightly as her eyes took in the sight of Futaba in uniform. “You… you look wonderful. Really.”

Futaba opened her mouth to reply but only managed a squeaky “Hrk—!”

Sumire laughed softly, and the tension broke. They stood there for a moment, just outside the threshold of the school gate, as though neither wanted to cross it just yet.

“You waited?” Futaba finally asked, after swallowing the frog in her throat.

“I said I would,” Sumire said with a smile. “We’re in the same class now, remember?”

“Right. Right.” Futaba tugged on a loose lock of her hair. “Seat buddies or bust.”

The phrase made Sumire giggle in a way that struck somewhere below Futaba’s ribs.

---

The walk through the hallways was quieter than Futaba remembered from her first proper visit to Shujin. She still felt every eye flick toward her—some in curiosity, others in passing familiarity. No one said anything rude. But the whispers followed.

“Was that Futaba Sakura?”

“The genius shut-in? She’s… in uniform?”

“Didn’t she drop out last year?”

“I heard she’s some kind of hacker.”

Sumire brushed gently against her arm with her fingers as they turned into Class 2-B. Not a word spoken, but the touch grounded her.

And then they were at their desks.

Side by side.

Futaba stared at the wood grain for a second, then leaned over and whispered, “Do you think anyone suspects we used to fight shadows in people’s brains?”

Sumire covered her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Only if they’re psychic.”

---

The homeroom teacher droned on about schedules, extracurriculars, upcoming assemblies, and the school trip vote. But none of it quite landed. Futaba watched the way Sumire tucked her hair behind her ear when she concentrated, or how she doodled small spirals in the corner of her notebook.

Futaba’s heart made a strange, slow loop-de-loop in her chest.

Was this… normal? Was this what “first days” were supposed to feel like?

When lunchtime finally arrived, she nearly bolted.

“Roof?” she asked.

“Always,” Sumire said.

They ascended together in relative silence, the rooftop door creaking open to reveal the now-familiar stretch of chain-link fencing and concrete space that had once served as the Phantom Thieves’ hideout for secret meetings, snacks, and life-or-death mission planning.

Today, it was just two bento boxes and the promise of cherry blossoms in the distance.

---

Sumire laid out a simple cloth and opened her lunch with delicate care: onigiri, tamagoyaki, and neatly sliced strawberries.

Futaba’s box, in comparison, looked like a food explosion curated by a goblin. Which it kind of was.

“I might’ve gone overboard,” she said sheepishly, poking a fried shrimp with her chopsticks. “Sojiro made half of this. I made the other half. You can probably tell which.”

Sumire smiled and offered a slice of her tamagoyaki in trade.

It was quiet for a while. Then, just as Futaba reached for her drink, a wind gust tugged Sumire’s napkin and sent it flying off the edge of the roof.

“Oh—!”

Futaba reacted without thinking, scrambling to catch it—her body tripping slightly as she lunged—and—

Sumire caught her wrist.

They both froze. Hands linked. Inches apart.

Futaba looked up into red eyes softened by worry.

“You’re okay?” Sumire whispered.

Futaba nodded, the back of her neck hot.

Sumire didn’t let go right away.

---

Later, they ate quietly, seated side by side, legs brushing occasionally in ways neither of them commented on.

“Thanks for meeting me this morning,” Futaba said at last. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Sumire replied simply.

A pause.

“…Is it weird, being in class together now?” Futaba asked, staring up at the sky.

“No,” Sumire said. “It’s nice.”

Another pause.

Futaba’s fingers brushed against Sumire’s again. This time, neither pulled away.

---

The school day ended with little fanfare. Futaba survived. That was a win.

Back at the school gate, as the crowds thinned and the golden hour set in, she and Sumire lingered again.

“I can walk you to the station,” Sumire offered.

“I’d like that,” Futaba said.

They walked slowly, shoulder to shoulder. Futaba felt a strange calm wash over her. Not unlike clearing a Palace. But warmer. Quieter. More real.

As they reached the corner where they’d have to part ways, Sumire stopped.

She hesitated.

Then reached out and gently tugged at the edge of Futaba’s blazer.

“You really do look good in it,” she said softly. “The uniform.”

Futaba’s mouth opened. Closed. Then curved into a small, almost disbelieving smile.

“Coming from you, that’s like… triple S-rank praise,” she said. “Thanks.”

Sumire stepped back, fingers briefly brushing Futaba’s sleeve again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

She waited until Sumire disappeared around the bend before exhaling all the words she didn’t say out loud.

And she smiled.

---

That night, she opened a new folder on her PC. She titled it:
[Our Light Beneath the Stars]

Inside, she dragged in one photo—taken secretly from the rooftop. Sumire’s profile, wind in her hair, mid-laugh.

She stared at it for a long moment.

Then typed in a note:

> First Day Log:
Survived the school dungeon.
Sat beside her.
Almost died of hand-holding.
10/10 would do again.

Futaba leaned back, headphones around her neck, heart calm for the first time in days.

The sky outside was deep violet now. The stars hadn't quite emerged. But they were coming.

She could feel it.

And maybe… maybe this time, she wasn’t facing them alone.

Chapter Text

The second morning came quieter. Less chaos, more rhythm.

Futaba had set her own alarm—on three separate devices, just in case—and even though her hair remained a tangled mess of orange defiance, and her socks still refused to match on principle, she felt something unfamiliar when she looked in the mirror.

Stability.

She adjusted her glasses and muttered, "This isn't so bad."

Downstairs, Sojiro slid a container into her bag without comment. The smell of soy sauce and fried tofu drifted faintly from the bento box, familiar and comforting. He offered no lecture, no snark today. Just a mug of miso soup and a nod.

"Second day," he said.

"Same dungeon, different floor," she replied with a salute, and they shared a small grin before she slipped on her shoes.

Outside, the sky hung over Yongen-Jaya in a cotton-soft gray. Rain was whispering at the edge of the air—you could smell it before it ever touched the pavement. Futaba, with a tech-patterned umbrella strapped to her bag, took one cautious step forward.

A message blinked on her phone just as she reached the station.

[Sumire]: Good morning! I’m already at the gate. Want me to wait again?

Futaba hesitated for a heartbeat.

[Futaba]: Only if you're cool being my designated angelic escort again. :P

The reply came in seconds.

[Sumire]: I don't mind. Escorting you is a highlight of my morning. :)

Futaba covered her face with one hand. "Okay, heart, chill out."

She found Sumire exactly where she'd promised—beside the school gate, blazer crisp, eyes soft.

"Good morning again," Sumire said, stepping into pace beside her.

Futaba bumped her shoulder lightly. "You know, most people would get tired of doing the same thing two days in a row."

Sumire smiled without missing a beat. "Not when it involves you."

Cue sputtering. Cue immediate need for a system reboot.

They entered Class 2-B together, slipping into their shared seats just before the bell. The second day was easier—not because the classes were less boring (they weren't), or the stares were gone (they weren't), but because the rhythm was slowly building.

Futaba doodled tiny aliens in her notebook margins. Sumire passed her a scribbled pun in return. No one else noticed. No one needed to.

When the lunch bell rang, Futaba stood fast.

"Rooftop?"

"Already packed for it," Sumire said, holding up her lunch.

The air had thickened slightly by the time they reached the rooftop. Rain hadn’t started, but it teased just behind the clouds. The sky felt heavy, like a breath held too long.

Sumire spread a blanket over their usual spot—now theirs, by quiet agreement. Futaba sat cross-legged, plopping her bag down with theatrical exhaustion.

"It's only the second day and I already want to submit a leave request."

"Denied," Sumire replied, grinning. "You still owe me another rooftop lunch."

"True," Futaba said, cracking open her bento. Then blinked.

The bento inside was... unique.

There were rice balls shaped like Tetrises. Fried tofu cut to resemble Mementos corridors. A boiled egg with a marker face of Mona scribbled on it. Sojiro had tried, but Futaba had apparently... modified.

Sumire peered over and promptly clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Is that... an edible boss fight?"

Futaba puffed her chest. "Final boss tofu. Weak to cuteness."

Sumire giggled. Not a quiet laugh, not a polite one—a real one. Sudden and bright.

Futaba blinked, stunned for a beat.

"That was a laugh. That was a *laugh*, Miss Gold Medal."

Sumire covered her cheeks. "Sorry—I just didn’t expect—it was really cute."

"I was aiming for legendary hacker artist, not *cute*."

"Well," Sumire said, her eyes crinkling at the corners, "you might be both."

Futaba ducked her head over her rice ball. Her heart was not listening to her brain.

They swapped bites. Sumire’s tamagoyaki was delicate. Futaba’s alien-sushi was... spicy. The clouds above them crept closer.

Then, it began.

A light pattering. Gentle at first. Rain that didn’t ask permission, just arrived.

Sumire reached for her umbrella, but Futaba had already popped hers open—projected holo-lights on the inside flashing in subtle patterns.

"C'mere," Futaba said, scooting closer.

Sumire hesitated. Then moved beside her.

They sat, shoulder to shoulder, under the umbrella.

Rain pinged against the rooftop fencing.

Futaba glanced sideways.

Sumire’s bangs were slightly damp. Her eyes were wide, but calm. The ribbon at her collar had come loose.

"So," Futaba said, quietly, "this is what normies do at lunch? Get rained on and share bentos?"

"I think this might be slightly better than average," Sumire replied.

A beat passed.

"You laughed today," Futaba said.

"You made me."

Futaba nudged her knee. "You should do that more."

Sumire looked down at her hands. "Sometimes I forget how."

Futaba tilted her head. "Want me to remind you? Daily?"

Sumire turned, and the look in her eyes made something in Futaba go still.

"I’d like that."

They didn’t talk much after that.

The rain stayed light. The sky stayed gray. But between them, under the shelter of tech-patterned plastic and unspoken things, there was a warmth neither could name yet.

But it was there.

A new rhythm.

A second day.

A small beginning.

Chapter Text

Leblanc smelled like cinnamon and clove that afternoon. The rain had let up by the time Futaba and Sumire rounded the corner from the school station, a mutual umbrella swaying gently between them, drips falling in staccato rhythm onto their joined shadows. The puddles shimmered with the soft retreat of the sun. It was just after three.

Futaba’s hand trembled faintly on the handle.

"You sure he's okay with this?" Sumire asked, smoothing her skirt and glancing toward the café’s front door. "I mean… I don’t want to impose."

Futaba waved a dismissive hand but her voice came out an octave higher than intended. "Pfft. He’s totally cool. Like, full-on curry zen monk levels of chill. Probably.

Maybe."

Sumire laughed. Her gentle fingers pressed at Futaba’s jacket hem, brushing off a few stray raindrops. "Then I’ll be on my best behavior."

The café bell jingled as Futaba pushed the door open. The scent inside hit immediately—rich coffee, cooked onions, roasted spices. There was a comfort in it that made Sumire pause a beat, breathing in.

Sojiro was behind the counter, polishing a chipped porcelain mug with the focus of a man who had already completed all his big worries for the day.

He looked up.

"Yo. Back early."

Futaba kicked off her shoes. "Told you we'd drop by. Sumire's with me."

Sumire bowed politely. "Good afternoon, sir. I—thank you for letting me—"

"You want cocoa or tea?" Sojiro interrupted. Not unkindly. Just Sojiro-like.

She blinked. "Oh, um—cocoa, please? If it's not too much trouble."

"Never is." He turned away, already moving into practiced motions.

Futaba slouched into the booth seat nearest the window, peeling off her jacket with dramatic flair. "He likes you, you know," she whispered as Sumire slid in across from her.

"You say that, but I still feel like I’m under a spotlight," Sumire murmured back.

Their giggles collided softly, then subsided as Sojiro approached with two mugs—one warm cocoa, one piping-hot green tea. He placed them on the table with a familiar clink, then glanced at Sumire again.

"You staying for dinner?"

Sumire blinked. "I—if that’s alright?"

Sojiro snorted. "Wouldn’t ask otherwise."

He wandered back behind the counter. Futaba sipped her tea, watching her guardian with something tender flickering behind her glasses.

"He’s not great with words. But like… he tries. You know?"

Sumire nodded. "I do."

---

Outside, a figure leaned against the narrow alley wall adjacent to Leblanc, partially hidden by a rusted drainpipe and a low-hanging laundry line. His coat was slightly damp at the shoulders, though he didn’t seem to mind.

He held a grocery bag in one hand—he had been on his way back from a bookstore run—and yet now, he lingered.

The curtain by Leblanc's side window fluttered faintly. A brief silhouette passed within. A laugh.

A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. Brief. Fleeting.

He adjusted his grip on the bag and turned to leave.

---

Back inside, Futaba had gotten bold.

She’d brought out the infamous photo album—the one filled with pictures of the Phantom Thieves, awkward festival snapshots, blurry ramen dates, and the one time Ryuji tried to dye his hair red and ended up looking like a tomato.

Sumire leaned close, shoulder brushing Futaba’s. "Is this… when you all visited that island resort?"

Futaba grinned. "Yup. And this is where Yusuke got sunburned in the shape of the Eiffel Tower because he fell asleep holding a souvenir bag."

"That’s amazing." Sumire’s laugh was soft but real.

She paused on one photo. Ren, holding up a peace sign. Makoto mid-eyeroll. Futaba herself barely visible in the corner, flashing a V with a scowl.

"You all look so close."

"We were. We are." Futaba traced the edge of the photo. "Even now. Group chat’s been quieter lately but… y’know. We’re still us."

Sumire glanced toward the door.

Futaba followed her gaze. "You thinking about him?"

"...A little. I just feel like someone was watching us earlier."

Futaba didn’t answer right away. She looked down at the photo, then toward the window.

---

He sat alone that night on a park bench two blocks away. The city was quiet. Not silent—but soft.

He took out a small notebook from his coat pocket. Flipped to a blank page.

Then, in elegant strokes:

*Day 17.*

*She smiled. Not for me. But… still.*

He clicked the pen closed. Then stayed until the breeze cooled enough to make his knuckles sting.

---

Dinner was curry, naturally. Sumire offered to help, and Sojiro handed her a knife without ceremony.

"Dice the potatoes. Half-inch cubes. Don’t bruise ‘em."

She nodded quickly, concentrating. Futaba, behind her, whispered conspiratorially, "If he grunts twice, it means you’re doing good."

"Futaba," Sojiro muttered without looking up.

Sumire giggled. "Got it."

By the time the three of them sat down to eat, the sun had dipped low enough to stain the counter edges gold.

It was a quiet meal, but not an awkward one.

Sumire set her spoon down carefully. "Thank you, again. For everything."

Sojiro didn’t answer at first. Then:

"She’s smiling more lately. That’s on you."

Sumire’s eyes widened.

"Took me forever to get her to stop hiding in that room. You? Just walked right in."

Futaba blushed so hard she nearly choked.

"Sojiro! Seriously?!"

"Just saying what I see." He stood, collecting their dishes.

Sumire smiled quietly into her cocoa.

---

Later, as they stood at the door, Sumire hesitated. "I should get going. The trains—"

"I’ll walk you," Futaba said quickly.

Outside, the wind was cooler, the sidewalks freshly washed from earlier rain. They didn’t talk much as they walked—just enough. Just quietly.

When they reached the station, Sumire turned, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Today was… nice."

Futaba shrugged, hands deep in her pockets. "Yeah. Wasn’t awful."

Sumire’s smile deepened. She stepped forward—and without thinking, touched the edge of Futaba’s sleeve.

"See you tomorrow."

"Totally."

She stepped onto the train platform, glancing back only once. Futaba was still standing there, hand pressed to her sleeve where Sumire had touched it.

---

That night, Futaba added a new folder on her desktop:

**Sumire\_Smiles/**

Inside, she uploaded a scan of the photo they’d looked at together.

And beneath it, in tiny pixelated font:

*It’s starting, huh?*

She didn’t know who she was asking.

But maybe, just maybe… she didn’t need the answer right away.

---

Elsewhere, he passed by again.

He paused just long enough to see the lights flicker off.

He kept walking.

Chapter Text

Rain misted over Yongen-Jaya in the early morning, pooling in the shallow gutters and painting the sidewalks with silvery gleam. Inside Leblanc, a gentle warmth buzzed from the low hum of the kitchen's coffee machine. The scent of curry and roasted beans mixed gently in the air, grounding the little café in its own comfortable gravity.

Futaba sat hunched over her laptop at the counter, a spoonful of curry balanced in one hand and a code window sprawling across three monitors. Her orange hair was tied up in a bun, her black-rimmed glasses slipping halfway down her nose. Her fingers tapped at the keys in a rhythmic dance until a ping echoed from her phone.

She glanced at the message and blinked. Her eyes narrowed.

Ryuji Sakamoto \[10:47AM]: Yo yo yooooo! We revivin’ the Group Chat! Time to get the band back together!!! ✨🔥

Another ping.

Ann Takamaki \[10:48AM]: Did you really use three exclamation marks? 🙄

Yusuke Kitagawa \[10:48AM]: Truly, an unnecessary flourish. But the sentiment is appreciated.

Makoto Niijima \[10:49AM]: I think it’s a great idea. We should’ve done it sooner.

Futaba raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a tiny smile. The group chat. It had fallen silent since Ren left Tokyo, scattered further when everyone drifted into new schools and schedules. But now…

Futaba Sakura \[10:50AM]: Is this really happening? Is everyone in? 🤔

Ann \[10:50AM]: Almost! One missing...

Yusuke \[10:50AM]: Predictably so.

Makoto \[10:51AM]: Should we try asking him directly?

A full minute passed with no reply. Then:

Goro Akechi \[10:52AM]: No.

Futaba snorted so hard she nearly choked on her curry.

Ryuji \[10:53AM*: LMAOOO he’s lurking!! Called it!!!

Ann \[10:53AM]: Akechi, you literally *responded*. You’re already in.

Akechi \[10:54AM]: I assure you, I am not. And won’t be. Have fun.

Yusuke \[10:54AM]: You are as subtle as a snow leopard in a greenhouse.

Makoto \[10:55AM]: So… can we consider that a tentative yes?

Futaba \[10:55AM]: Just mute the chat like the rest of us do when Ryuji starts a meme spam.

Ryuji \[10:56AM]: HEY!!!

Ann \[10:56AM]: She’s not wrong tho 😜

Akechi \[10:57AM]: ...fine.

And just like that, the group chat was reborn.

---

"You’re grinning like a cryptid,” came Sumire’s voice from behind, light and warm. She slipped into the café in her school uniform, hair tied back in a simple ponytail. Futaba’s eyes lit up.

“Cryptid? Pfft. That’s high praise.”

“Still,” Sumire sat beside her at the counter, “must be something good.”

Futaba turned the laptop so Sumire could see the group chat still going off. Ryuji had just posted an aggressively pixelated sticker of Morgana with sparkles. It was titled ‘Best Boy Lives On.’

Sumire giggled. “I didn’t know you guys used this much… chaos.”

“Used to. Long ago, in the ancient days of Phantom Thievery.” Futaba’s voice took on a faux-dramatic flair. “But now the sacred group chat rises once more.”

Sumire peeked at the screen again, reading the latest messages:

Makoto \[11:02AM]: Let’s meet this weekend! Curry at Leblanc?

Yusuke \[11:03AM]: I will bring dessert. Perhaps a seasonal wagashi set.

Ryuji \[11:03AM]: Can’t wait to devour it all.

Akechi \[11:04AM]: You will be paying for it all, then.

Futaba beamed. “He’s still pretending he’s not one of us, but he’s *so* in.”

Sumire smiled faintly, her eyes soft. “It’s nice. Everyone still feels… close. Even with how much has changed.”

Futaba’s expression turned thoughtful. “Yeah. It’s weird, right? We’re all older. Got our own stuff. But it’s like… some threads never break.”

Sumire rested her chin on her palm. “Maybe the important ones don’t.”

A silence fell between them, warm and familiar. Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle. Inside, the café buzzed gently with Sojiro clinking plates and humming faintly under his breath.

Futaba stared at the screen, then at Sumire. “Hey…”

Sumire looked up.

“You wanna help me set up a private server? One just for us. No parents. No adults. Just Phantom hearts.”

Sumire’s eyes sparkled. “You mean like… a digital Leblanc?”

Futaba’s grin widened. “Exactly.”

---

That night, while the rain returned in earnest, Futaba’s room lit up with flickering LED strips and the soft whirring of cooling fans. On one screen, lines of code flowed like poetry. On another, Sumire scrolled through backgrounds and assets Futaba had asked her to choose. Virtual cushions. Light filters. A little animated cat.

They had named the server *Café Leblanc Eternal*. Each member had a booth. Yusuke’s came with animated sakura blossoms. Ann’s had a fashion runway aesthetic. Ryuji’s had a retro arcade background.

Sumire and Futaba shared a booth space.

When Sumire pointed it out, Futaba’s cheeks turned the shade of her hair.

“I-it just made sense!” she squeaked. “You’re always here anyway! And like… our projects and stuff…”

Sumire didn’t say anything. Just smiled, and reached over to gently bump her head against Futaba’s shoulder.

Futaba froze.

Then leaned back.

The group chat’s new notifications rolled in.

Ann \[8:14PM]: WHOA THIS SERVER IS CUTE AF!!

Makoto \[8:14PM]: Futaba this is *incredible.*

Yusuke \[8:15PM]: My booth has sakura petals. I am moved.

Ryuji \[8:15PM]: MORGANA ANIMATED STICKERS

Goro \[8:17PM]: Stop pinging me.

Futaba \[8:17PM]: No :P

Sumire \[8:18PM]: Welcome back, everyone.

And so the Phantom Thieves returned—digitally, emotionally, wholeheartedly.

---

Somewhere in a quiet apartment, Goro Akechi sat at his kitchen table. A cup of tea steamed quietly beside him. His phone buzzed again.

He stared at the screen.

The server’s welcome page blinked with soft golden light. A little animated version of Morgana waved, wearing a chef’s hat and holding a curry plate.

He sighed. “Ridiculous.”

He tapped the notification.

Inside the virtual café, his booth appeared. Simple, clean. Bookshelves and a framed photo of Shujin in the background.

A message popped up.

Futaba \[8:23PM]: I left you a reading list. No excuses. 📚

He stared.

Then slowly typed:

Goro \[8:24PM]: …Fine. But I’m not calling it my booth.

Ann \[8:25PM]: Too late!!! Welcome back, Crowwwww~!

Ryuji \[8:25PM]: BOOTH CROW IS REAL!!

Yusuke \[8:25PM]: May I request booth-themed art commissions?

Goro \[8:26PM]: I’m leaving.

Makoto \[8:26PM]: No you’re not.

He didn’t.

He scrolled. He read. And he smiled. Just a little.

---

Back in Futaba’s room, the girls curled up together under a shared blanket. The server chat pinged quietly beside them. Sumire rested her head on Futaba’s shoulder, and Futaba leaned into her with a soft sigh.

“Hey, Sumi?”

“Yeah?”

“This feels like the start of something big, doesn’t it?”

Sumire smiled, her voice a whisper. “It really does.”

Outside, the rain finally stopped.

And inside Café Leblanc Eternal, laughter echoed in light and text, carrying old bonds into new tomorrows.

Chapter Text

The sun filtered through the windows of Shujin Academy's second-year classroom, catching the edges of Sumire Yoshizawa’s red hair as she glanced over to her left. Futaba Sakura had her head buried in a sketchpad—not the usual doodle-heavy mess she often showed in the group chat, but something tighter, with frames, panels, dialogue snippets. A storyboard?

Sumire smiled. Another game concept, maybe. Probably Phantom Thieves-related, knowing her.

The bell rang, echoing through the hallways. Students around them began packing up their bags, murmuring about cram school, part-time jobs, or that weekend’s movie release. Futaba was still hunched over her sketchpad, brow furrowed, biting her pencil.

“Taba,” Sumire said gently, touching her elbow. “Hey. It’s after class.”

Futaba blinked up at her, brown eyes wide behind thick-rimmed glasses. “…Oh. Right. Sorry. Was in the zone.”

Sumire stood, brushing invisible dust from her uniform skirt. “You’re always in the zone these days. That game’s really important to you, isn’t it?”

Futaba rolled the pencil between her fingers. “Mmhmm. But I can pause it. You still good for today?”

Sumire’s smile deepened, just enough to crinkle the edges of her eyes. “Of course. The studio’s open. I made sure of it.”

They left the classroom together, the late-afternoon sun casting their shadows long across the hallway floor. A few students whispered behind them—nothing cruel, nothing obvious. Just curiosity. No one was used to seeing Futaba Sakura walking beside someone, talking, laughing, relaxed.

But here they were.

---

The rehearsal studio was tucked behind the old auditorium, where dance club practices used to take place. Sumire had secured the space with a quiet favor from the track coach, and now it was theirs for the afternoon: a wide, open room with mirrors across one wall and a polished wooden floor.

Futaba stood frozen in the middle of the room, backpack still slung over one shoulder. “…This is where you train?”

Sumire nodded, setting her duffel bag down by the mirrored wall. “Used to. I come here when I need to focus. Or when I want to… remember.”

Futaba looked up at her. “Kasumi?”

Sumire’s hands paused on the zipper of her bag. She nodded once. “Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence—not awkward, but reverent. A shared understanding. Then, Sumire stepped into the center of the room, rolled her shoulders, and began stretching. Her movements were precise but natural, a quiet rhythm in the stillness.

Futaba set her bag down and sat cross-legged near the mirrored wall, watching.

“You know,” Sumire said, voice soft as she extended her leg into a high split, “I invited you here to dance with me, not just to stare.”

Futaba flushed. “I—I wasn’t staring! I mean I was, but not in a weird way!”

Sumire laughed, the sound echoing gently. “It’s okay. I’m flattered.”

“I don’t know how to dance.” Futaba’s voice dropped. “I don’t even know if I can.”

Sumire turned, offering her hand. “Then let me show you.”

Futaba hesitated. Then stood. Her hand slipped into Sumire’s.

They stood in the center of the studio, only inches apart. Sumire placed Futaba’s hands gently on her shoulders, then rested her own hands lightly on Futaba’s waist.

“Think of it like code,” Sumire murmured. “Patterns. Rhythm. Response. You already do this, all the time. Just listen.”

“I’m… listening.”

They swayed, barely moving. A soft shuffle across the wood floor. No music—just the hush of their breath and the muted sounds of the school far beyond the walls.

Sumire guided her slowly, step by step, moving them in a lazy circle. Futaba’s hands tightened, then loosened. Her eyes darted down to their feet, then back up.

“This is weird,” she whispered.

“Is it bad?”

“No,” Futaba said. “It’s nice. It’s… kinda scary how nice.”

Sumire smiled. “Good.”

A few more steps. A soft turn. And then—

Sumire stumbled.

Her foot caught on the edge of a mat left by the door. She tilted forward, instinctively pulling Futaba with her.

They fell.

Not hard. Just enough for Futaba to land with a startled “mmph” on the mats, Sumire sprawled half over her.

Silence.

Sumire’s hair tickled Futaba’s cheek. Their noses were almost touching.

“Uh,” Futaba croaked.

Sumire froze. “Sorry! Sorry, I—”

“No no no,” Futaba said quickly, holding very still. “You’re okay. I’m okay. Everything’s okay.”

Their eyes met. And for a second, the room stopped spinning.

Then, laughter. Sudden, breathless, bubbling from both of them as they sat up, red-faced and giggling.

“That was your idea of rehearsal?” Futaba managed.

“I was trying to impress you,” Sumire said, mock-sulking.

“You did! I’m definitely impressed.”

Their laughter softened into smiles.

Futaba reached over, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sumire’s face. “Hey, Sumi?”

Sumire blinked. “Yeah?”

“I’d hold your hand again. Even if we fell. Just saying.”

Sumire blushed. “That’s… really unfair, you know.”

Futaba tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because now I can’t stop smiling.”

Futaba grinned. “Good. Let’s fall more often.”

---

They stayed in the studio until twilight, running through silly dances, half-sincere moves, and spontaneous twirls. By the end of it, they collapsed side-by-side on the mats, gazing up at the studio ceiling like it was the night sky.

Their fingers found each other’s, interlacing slowly.

Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

The rain had settled into a gentle rhythm against the windows of LeBlanc. Outside, Yongen-Jaya buzzed with its usual subdued energy, the sound of tires whispering across wet pavement blending with the distant chime of wind chimes from a nearby flower shop. Inside the café, Futaba sat in her usual booth, legs tucked beneath her, laptop open and glowing with cryptic lines of code.

Sumire sat across from her, chin resting on her folded hands as she watched Futaba work, eyes wide with curiosity and warmth. Her red hair fell softly over her shoulders—still slightly damp from the drizzle earlier—and her school bag rested beside her, half-zipped, gym clothes barely tucked in.

“I still can’t believe you’re making a game about us,” Sumire said softly, her voice half awe, half laughter.

Futaba didn’t look up, but a blush bloomed on her cheeks. “Not about *us* us. More like... the team. The missions. Y’know, all of it. The cool Phantom Thief stuff.”

Sumire leaned forward. “But there’s a character who wears glasses and has long orange hair, and she’s called... ‘The Oracle’?”

Futaba’s fingers froze mid-keystroke.

“Coincidence,” she muttered.

Sumire giggled, eyes twinkling. “And her special skill is hacking into people’s hearts through virtual networks?”

Futaba turned the laptop slightly away from Sumire and grumbled, “Okay, okay, maybe it’s a *little* bit about me. But it’s still in beta. And the other characters aren’t ready yet.”

Sumire tilted her head. “Then how come there’s a red-haired acrobat in the team roster screen with a skill called ‘Radiant Reversal’?”

“Snitches get glitches.”

They both broke into laughter. The warmth between them felt real and grounded, wrapped in the safety of familiarity and budding affection. Outside, the clouds thinned, allowing the faintest beam of light to dapple through the café windows.

Sojiro stepped out from behind the counter, drying a mug. “You two better not be breaking any café rules with your high-tech shenanigans.”

Futaba gave a peace sign without turning. “We’re building culture. Sumire’s my QA tester now.”

“More like character inspiration,” Sumire said, sticking out her tongue.

Sojiro snorted but said nothing, heading back to the kitchen with the faintest smile.

Futaba turned the laptop back around and tapped a few keys. “Wanna try playing the first scene?”

Sumire nodded eagerly and leaned in. The game screen flashed: a stylized version of Tokyo skyline at night, pixelated stars blinking slowly overhead. A shadowy figure sprinted across the rooftops—a red-haired silhouette in a leotard.

“Whoa,” Sumire whispered.

“Still early,” Futaba said quickly. “The animations are scuffed. But the intro cutscene’s kind of finished.”

They watched together as the scene played out: a quiet monologue from ‘The Oracle,’ narrated in Futaba’s own voice. “We were never heroes. Just people who chose to step forward when no one else did. This is our story.”

The pixelated Sumire character appeared next, flipping gracefully across rooftops before landing beside Oracle. The two exchanged a silent nod. Then the screen faded into the game menu.

“It’s beautiful,” Sumire said. “I love it.”

“You barely saw anything yet.”

“Still.” Her voice was quiet. “You captured the feeling. The way everything changed... when we met each other.”

Futaba looked up, finally meeting her gaze. The quiet moment stretched.

Then a loud crash echoed from the kitchen.

Sojiro swore under his breath.

Futaba jumped. “Crap. Sojiro broke something.” She stood, closed the laptop, and stretched. “I should go help.”

Sumire stood too, brushing off her skirt. “Want me to join you?”

“Nah, it’s probably just a busted cup.” Futaba hesitated. “But hey. Can you meet me again tomorrow? I... kinda want to show you the next level.”

Sumire nodded. “Same time?”

“Yeah. And maybe...” She hesitated, tugging on her sleeve. “Maybe bring one of your poems? I want to code one into a cutscene.”

Sumire blinked. Then smiled so wide it made Futaba's chest warm. “Deal.”

They walked toward the door together, umbrella tucked under Sumire’s arm. The rain had finally stopped.

Just before she left, Sumire turned at the threshold and asked, “Futaba... what do you want the ending of the game to be?”

Futaba blinked. “You mean, story-wise?”

“No,” Sumire said. Her voice was soft, but steady. “I mean... if this is a story about us. What do you want the ending to be?”

Futaba stared at her. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire.

Then, quietly:

“I want us to win. Together.”

Sumire’s cheeks colored. She nodded. “Me too.”

She stepped out into the clearing dusk, her silhouette framed by fading sunlight. Futaba stood there watching long after she’d gone.

Back at her booth, she sat down again, opened her laptop, and added a new line of code:

`event_skyline_kiss=true`

Then she saved the file.

And smiled.

Chapter Text

It started with an unexpected group chat ping.

> Makoto: "Hey, I’m visiting Tokyo this weekend. You girls free for coffee? ☕"

> Futaba: "Yooo the café misses you. So do I. So does the code in my spine. 💀"

> Sumire: "I’d love to see you! Let’s meet at Leblanc?"

> Makoto: "Perfect. Saturday, 3 p.m."

The entire café smelled like warmth that day — like nostalgia steeped in coffee and curry. Futaba was curled into her usual corner of the booth, her feet tucked under her, oversized hoodie sleeves stretched around her knuckles. Beside her, Sumire sat neatly, posture elegant, hands folded on her lap, but eyes darting now and then toward the doorway.

“She’s late,” Futaba mumbled. “Did she forget how Tokyo traffic works?”

“She said she’d be a bit late,” Sumire replied, her voice soft. “I’m sure she’s on her way.”

And just as Futaba opened her mouth to grumble again, the bell above the café door jingled.

Makoto Niijima stepped in like she’d never left.

Still wearing her neat, structured coat over a simple blouse and slacks, hair slightly longer, falling just above her shoulders in a soft bob. She looked a little older. A little wiser. Still entirely Makoto.

“Hey,” she greeted with a warm smile. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

Futaba jumped up first, tackling her into a hug before Makoto could even take off her coat. “Law Queen returns! Bless us with your mature insights and perfect GPA!”

Makoto laughed, hugging her back. “I missed this. Missed *you* all.”

Sumire stood as well, offering a polite bow that turned into a smile. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Come here,” Makoto said, pulling her in too. “I’ve heard all about your recital. You’ve come a long way.”

They settled into the booth, Sojiro passing by just long enough to wordlessly serve them cocoa and a pot of curry. He offered Makoto a soft smile, the kind reserved for his extended family.

The three girls chatted first about the usual things — classes, university life, Ryuji’s latest idiotic stunt involving a soda machine, Yusuke’s gallery dreams, Ann’s rise in fashion.

And then the conversation narrowed.

“So,” Makoto said gently, looking between the two. “You both seem… really close these days.”

Futaba blinked. Sumire flushed a little.

“I mean, not to pry,” Makoto continued, sipping her cocoa. “But Ren told me you’ve been spending a lot of time together. Leblanc sleepovers. Rooftop lunches. Joint projects. That kind of thing.”

“We are,” Futaba said simply, leaning against Sumire with no hesitation.

Sumire hesitated for just a second. Then she smiled, shy but certain. “We’re figuring it out. But… yes. We’re close.”

Makoto's gaze softened.

“I’m proud of you both,” she said. “And I’m here if you ever need to talk. Relationships aren’t easy — especially ones that mean everything.”

There was a pause. Then Futaba grinned. “See? Law Queen strikes again with wisdom +5.”

Sumire giggled.

Makoto leaned forward slightly, more serious now. “How’s it been, really? Balancing school, emotions, and everything that came before?”

Futaba hesitated, then rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s hard sometimes. Like… I wanna do everything right. For her. For us. But I’m still figuring out me, y’know?”

Sumire nodded. “Me too. I still get overwhelmed. By my memories, by expectations. But Futaba’s… she keeps me steady.”

Makoto nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like you’re each other’s anchor.”

Futaba blinked at that. Then looked at Sumire.

“Yeah,” she said, voice quieter. “We are.”

The three of them sat in companionable silence for a while. Just the soft hum of the café, the clink of spoons, the scent of curry and cocoa wrapping around them like a blanket.

When Makoto stood to leave, Futaba and Sumire both followed her to the door.

Makoto hugged them again, tight.

“You’re doing great,” she told them. “And whatever comes next — exams, growing pains, the future — don’t forget this moment. These people. This place. It’s your home base.”

Futaba nodded, her throat tight.

Sumire wiped at her eyes.

And when the door closed behind Makoto, they stood together for a long while. No words.

Just the gentle weight of her words lingering in the air —

“You’re each other’s anchor.”

Later that night, Sumire would write it in her journal.

And Futaba, for once, would not overthink what came next.

She would simply fall asleep beside Sumire.

Wrapped in the warmth of found family — and a love that felt more real every day.

Chapter Text

The weekend sun filtered gently through the sheer curtains of the rehearsal studio as Sumire pressed her hands against the glass, watching Futaba pace nervously outside. Despite the modest signage, the hall itself was polished and pristine, tucked beside an old bookstore in Yongen-Jaya. The building, used for performance arts, belonged to a retired Shujin alumni who still rented it to promising students.

Sumire had reserved it days in advance.

Futaba’s fingers hovered above her phone. She'd reread Sumire’s message six times:

> “Come to this place at 11. Bring your laptop.”

Cryptic. Sumire always left cryptic notes when she was excited. Futaba's bag hung from her shoulder, filled with portable drives, cables, and a half-built custom projector that she'd named "Starboard."

The door opened with a soft creak. “Taba?”

Futaba startled slightly, adjusting her glasses. “Yo.”

Sumire smiled and stepped aside. “Come in. I… wanted to show you something.”

Inside, the space glowed with afternoon light. The wooden floor gleamed from recent polish, and the mirrored wall reflected their movements like a soft echo. At the center, a folding table held speakers, a tangled bundle of cables, and Sumire’s carefully bound choreography notebook.

“Wait. You’re not about to make me dance, are you?” Futaba joked, eyeing the empty space.

Sumire giggled, pulling the projector gently from Futaba’s shoulder. “Not unless you want to. But I was hoping we could make something together.”

Futaba blinked. “Like...?”

Sumire lifted the cover of her notebook. Inside were sketches—rough, vivid diagrams of movements and musical bars annotated with lines like "light cue here" or "fade to sunrise."

“I’ve been dreaming about a performance piece. But I want it to be something more—something visual. Something…” She hesitated. “Us.”

Futaba’s brows rose. Her fingers hovered near her laptop zipper.

“You want to sync light and motion?” she asked slowly. “You want a reactive system?”

Sumire nodded. “Like a stage that dances back.”

Futaba grinned. “You’re a genius.”

“No, *you* are.”

They sat side by side, knees touching. As Futaba booted her system, Sumire walked her through her vision: movements that evoked breath, the rising of a heartbeat, the trembling moments before a leap.

“You know,” Sumire said, flipping to the next page, “I used to think I had to keep everything clean, graceful, perfect. Like I was still her.”

Futaba’s fingers paused on the keyboard. “Kasumi?”

Sumire nodded.

“But dancing with you—even talking with you—makes me feel like it’s okay to fall. To laugh. To be seen.”

Futaba’s voice came quietly. “I see you.”

The words hung in the air.

Sumire turned slightly, red eyes wide. “You do?”

Futaba didn’t flinch. “Yeah. All of you. And I like what I see.”

Sumire’s breath hitched, but she smiled through it. “Then help me show it. Help me make a dance the world’s never seen.”

Over the next hours, the studio filled with quiet keystrokes, whispered instructions, and playful experimentation.

Futaba mapped Sumire’s gestures using infrared tracking. She coded bursts of color, trailing ribbons of simulated light that followed every spin. When Sumire moved, the room responded: lilac pulses for stillness, golden arcs for leaps, ocean blues for turns.

They laughed when the system glitched—once making Sumire’s shadow erupt with digital roses. Another time, Futaba programmed a single wink to trigger a cascade of stars.

“You’re making magic,” Sumire whispered.

“So are you,” Futaba whispered back.

Sumire danced without music, guided by the rhythm of her breath and the lights that surrounded her. And Futaba watched, not just as a programmer—but as someone enchanted.

For the finale, Futaba unveiled a surprise: a particle trail that spelled words mid-air, syncing with Sumire’s final movement.

She didn’t tell Sumire what it would say. She wanted it to be a moment.

Sumire stood at the center, exhaling deeply, then began.

Graceful. Precise. But free—like she’d finally taken off a weight she hadn’t noticed she'd been carrying. When she reached her last motion—a wide arc and a grounded landing—gold particles shimmered in her wake, forming glowing text:

> "You move me."

Sumire stared. She blinked. And then turned to Futaba, eyes glassy.

“That was…”

“Corny?” Futaba offered, cheeks pink.

“Perfect,” Sumire said.

Futaba scratched her neck. “I, uh… I meant it. You know.”

“I know,” Sumire said softly, stepping close. “And I’ll remember it. Always.”

For a moment, they stood in the center of light and code, the only sound their breathing and the faint hum of the projector.

Then, Sumire reached out—and took Futaba’s hand.

No glitch. No accident. Just choice.

Futaba looked down at their hands, then up at Sumire.

And smiled.

They stayed like that until the sun dipped low, casting golden bars across the floor. Two girls. One vision. A moment that would shape every dance and every dream to come.

By the time they left the studio, the sky had already turned violet.

“Same time next week?” Sumire asked.

Futaba nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got a million new ideas.”

“So do I.”

Their hands brushed again. Neither of them pulled away.

And above them, the first evening star began to shine.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Futaba, if I eat one more burger I’m going to turn into one.”

Ryuji’s voice echoed across the plaza, punctuated by the rustle of burger wrappers and the clang of a dropped soda can. He slumped back against the bench, one hand dramatically clutching his stomach, the other still holding half of a triple-stack monstrosity. “I think my soul just left my body.”

Ann, seated beside him and delicately dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin, shot him a flat look. “That’s because you tried to race yourself while holding three burgers. No one told you to do that, genius.”

Futaba snorted from her spot across the table. “Correction: I explicitly told you *not* to.” She leaned forward, peering at her tablet. “But I *am* uploading the footage. This is too good not to share.”

Ryuji groaned. “Not the group chat again…”

Sumire, sitting quietly beside Futaba with a strawberry milkshake in hand, chuckled softly. “You two really are like siblings.”

It was a bright Sunday afternoon in central Shibuya, and the four of them had descended upon a quirky retro burger diner Ryuji had been begging to try since forever. Now, sprawled out with full bellies and sticky fingers, they resembled the aftermath of a food-themed heist.

“I didn’t know burgers could be *this* chaotic,” Sumire said, eyeing the leaning tower of leftover fries in the center of the table.

“Welcome to the Ryuji experience,” Ann said dryly, leaning her chin on her hand. “Volume One: Grease and Glory.”

Futaba tapped a few buttons, her tablet letting out a triumphant *ping!* “Uploading complete. Also… check it.” She turned the screen toward the group. A pixel-art GIF played of Ryuji, rendered in a 16-bit sprite, dramatically collapsing while holding burgers in each hand.

“Oh come on! That’s slander!” Ryuji protested.

Sumire laughed fully now, covering her mouth. “I think it’s adorable.”

Futaba glanced sideways, lips curving up. “Right? I made her a sprite too. Sumi, hit the play button.”

Sumire complied, and her eyes widened. Onscreen, a tiny pixel version of herself twirled with precise grace before handing a bento box to Futaba’s sprite, which promptly glitched with heart-shaped data particles. “You… coded this?”

“I do *many* things in the name of love.”

Sumire’s face flushed pink, but her eyes sparkled. She reached out and gently poked Futaba’s forehead. “You’re too much.”

Ryuji and Ann exchanged a glance.

“Okay, we *need* to talk about it now,” Ryuji said.

Ann nodded. “Yeah. You two. What’s the deal?”

Sumire blinked. “W-We’re just friends!”

Futaba choked on her soda. “Dude!”

Ann leaned forward with a knowing grin. “Friends who code love confessions in 16-bit?”

Futaba narrowed her eyes. “Are *you* coding our emotional intimacy into this timeline, Ann?”

Sumire hid behind her milkshake.

Ryuji laughed. “Okay okay, no pressure. We’re just sayin’—we see you. And we think it’s awesome.”

Ann added gently, “Take your time. We’ve got your backs.”

For a moment, the table quieted. Then Sumire reached out, her hand finding Futaba’s under the table. They didn’t say anything. Just smiled.

—

Later, they wandered through Shibuya’s side streets, Ryuji leading them to a hidden game café that promised “nostalgic digital delights.”

Futaba nearly screamed when she saw the retro cabinets lining the walls. “This is heaven. No, this is *new game plus* heaven!”

Sumire beamed beside her. “Want to challenge me?”

“Oh it’s on, gymnast girl.”

Ann and Ryuji spectated with popcorn while Futaba and Sumire battled in an old-school rhythm game, pixel hearts, beats, and foot taps filling the air. Sumire’s natural athletic grace was no match for Futaba’s button-mashing ferocity.

When the final score revealed a tie, the girls turned to each other in mock horror.

“Rematch?” Futaba grinned.

“Always,” Sumire replied.

—

That evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the city in amber light, the four of them sat at the edge of a pedestrian bridge. Sumire leaned her head against Futaba’s shoulder, sighing softly.

“I haven’t laughed like that in a while,” she murmured.

“Same,” Futaba said, eyes half-lidded behind her glasses. “Kinda feels like the world’s okay, just for today.”

“More days like this,” Sumire whispered.

“Yeah,” Futaba said. “More days like this.”

Beneath them, the city shimmered—and for once, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt like home.

Chapter Text

The rain in Akihabara was as erratic as the city’s neon lights—always flickering, never fully predictable. A sudden drizzle had descended just after lunch, sending shoppers scrambling under awnings and convenience store umbrellas. Futaba Sakura, however, remained perched on the edge of a low metal rail outside a retro game shop, her hoodie up, but her legs soaked from the knees down.

She didn’t mind. She’d just snagged a limited-edition collector's pin set for her favorite classic dungeon crawler, and her bag was bursting with snack spoils. The only thing missing was Sumire, who had gone to a nearby dancewear shop with Ann. Futaba had waved her off with a grin and a, “I’ll be here—guarding the kingdom.”

Now, half an hour later, her phone buzzed in her pocket for the twelfth time. She assumed it was Sumire or the group chat. Probably Ryuji sending memes again.

She didn’t check it.

Instead, she stared down the alleyway across the street, where an unfamiliar man had been standing for a while—far too still, far too focused.

Her fingers tightened around her bag strap.

She’d noticed him the moment she left the game shop. First, it had been the slight glance he gave her. Then, when she relocated down the street, he had followed—far enough to not seem suspicious, but close enough that Futaba’s stomach had started to twist.

He wasn’t part of the usual crowd. Didn’t have a camera like the tourists. Didn’t have the frazzled energy of a hobbyist looking for parts. He looked…

Intentional.

She stood up.

Her fingers hovered over her phone screen, thinking of who to text. Sumire? Too far. Ryuji? Ann? Too slow. She hesitated… and that’s when the man stepped out of the alley.

And headed straight for her.

—

Goro Akechi didn’t know why he had come to Akihabara. Not really.

It wasn’t his usual haunt, and the crowd wasn’t his scene. Too loud, too chaotic, too full of people who reminded him of lives he couldn’t live.

He had been walking aimlessly all morning, headphones in, trying to tune out the world. Then his feet brought him here. Of course.

Somewhere deep down, he’d known she would be here. It was a weekend, after all. And Futaba Sakura had routines as regular as the train schedule.

When he spotted her—alone, hoodie soaked, hair wild against the damp wind—he should have turned around. Gone home. Pretended he didn’t care.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

When he saw the man in the alleyway, he paused. Not because of suspicion—but because he recognized the stance. The lean. The eyes.

A predator.

The man didn’t act at first. Just watched.

So Akechi waited.

Then, in an instant, he moved.

Futaba’s hand had barely touched her phone before the man was within arm’s reach, his tone syrupy, falsely kind: “Hey, you dropped something earlier. I think I picked it up for you.”

A dull chill crawled up her spine.

Futaba clutched her bag tighter and picked up her pace.

She didn’t run. Not yet.

“Hey,” came the voice. Greasy. Too close. “You’re Futaba-chan, right?”

Her blood froze.

No mask. No hesitation. Just straight up using her name.

She spun on her heel and shouted: “Back off!”

But the man stepped in, smiling with something rotten behind his eyes. “Relax. I just wanted to talk. You’re really famous online, you know? That Medjed stuff — so impressive. I’ve been a fan for years.”

That word hit like poison.

Fan.

“I said,” Futaba’s voice cracked, “get away from me.”

His hand twitched forward.

She flinched.

And then—

A blur.

Crack.

The man’s wrist twisted backward with a sharp, wet sound, and he screamed. In the same motion, a figure in black slammed him against the alley wall with brutal force, one gloved hand crushing his shoulder, the other cocked into a ready fist.

Futaba gasped.

“Akechi?!”

Goro Akechi didn’t look back.

He glared at the man, brown eyes narrowed to ice. “You so much as look at her again, and you’ll need a different kind of mask to breathe.”

The man coughed, choking out half a protest.

Akechi didn’t let go.

“Harassment. Stalking. Verbal intimidation. You’re lucky she didn’t bring a knife. Because I would’ve let her use it.”

Futaba stood frozen, heart pounding.

The man writhed, shouted something slurred — and then Akechi threw him to the ground. The guy scrambled away, limping and shrieking down the alley like a kicked rat.

Only then did Akechi straighten up, his gloved hands lowering.

Only then did he finally look at her.

---

Futaba didn’t know what to say.

Akechi’s hair was a bit longer than before, shaggier. He looked older — not by years, but by something else. Like time had carved itself across his face. He wore a simple black jacket, zipped up to the throat, and his eyes were... different.

Not smug. Not mocking. Just tired.

And real.

“…You okay?” he asked, voice low.

Futaba opened her mouth — but nothing came out.

He approached slowly, stopping a few feet from her. “I wasn’t following you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was tailing him. I’ve been noticing him for days now.”

She blinked. “…You’ve been in Yongen-Jaya?”

“I have. Not for nostalgia.” His tone was dry, bitter. “I don’t expect warm welcomes. I was keeping distance. But I saw his pattern. And today he made his move.”

Futaba still didn’t answer. Her fingers were shaking. The plastic bag crinkled against her palm.

Akechi glanced down, then said something she didn’t expect.

“I know you hate me.”

That broke the silence.

“I…” Futaba’s voice wavered.

He raised a hand. “It’s alright. I’m not here for forgiveness. I wouldn’t ask for it.”

She looked up, still stunned. “Then why…?”

Akechi didn’t answer right away. His eyes shifted to the horizon.

“…Because I had the chance to stop something before it got worse. And this time, I didn’t ignore it.”

—

When Sumire and Ann returned, soaked and laughing from the sudden downpour, they found Futaba crouched beneath the awning of a vending machine kiosk, nursing a warm canned cocoa. Goro sat next to her, coat draped over her knees like a makeshift blanket.

Sumire’s expression shifted instantly. “Futaba?”

Futaba looked up. Her smile was soft. “Hey. I’m okay.”

Ann took one look at Goro and sighed. “Let me guess. Stalker?”

“He handled it,” Futaba said quietly. “He was already here.”

Sumire stepped forward. “Did he touch you?”

“No. Not even close.”

She knelt down and cupped Futaba’s face, checking her carefully. The tension in her jaw, her shoulders, all melted the second she confirmed it: no injuries. Just nerves.

Akechi stood, brushing his coat off. “She’s fine. She’s safe.”

Ann crossed her arms. “You okay, Akechi?”

He gave her a sidelong look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look like you were ready to kill the guy.”

“…Old habits.”

“Try new ones,” Futaba mumbled. She took another sip of cocoa, then offered the can toward him. “Warm?”

He blinked.

Then, wordlessly, he took it and drank.

Sumire squeezed Futaba’s hand. “Let’s go home.”

But as they walked off together—Futaba snug between the two girls—she turned once over her shoulder.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t answer.

But for the first time that day, he smiled.

—

That night, back at Leblanc, the rain still trickled against the windowpanes. Futaba sat curled on the couch, Sumire beside her, wrapped in a blanket.

Sojiro passed them each a mug of hot cocoa. “You good?”

“Better,” Futaba replied.

He nodded and left them to it.

On the coffee table lay Akechi's coat—folded, faintly damp.

Sumire traced its collar. “He really was watching.”

“Not in a bad way.”

“No. In a way I can't really describe.”

Sumire leaned against her. “It’s okay. You don’t have to name it yet.”

They watched the rain.

Outside, somewhere in the city, a former detective sat at a ramen stall, coatless, silent.

But he smiled into his broth.

Maybe, just maybe, he was becoming something more than what he feared.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be over.

The man was supposed to be gone.

Futaba had barely slept — cocooned in her blanket, the scent of lavender clinging to her skin like a shield. She told herself it was done. Akechi had scared the stalker off. The guy wouldn’t dare try again.

But the world didn’t always work like that.

And obsession… didn’t always listen to fear.

The morning air was heavy with humidity, grey clouds pressing low over Tokyo’s skyline. Futaba stepped out into the street with her hoodie pulled high, wired earbuds tucked in. She wasn’t heading far — just the electronics shop two blocks down — but her eyes scanned every window, every corner, every shadow.

She didn’t tell Sumire. Not this time.

Sumire had practice. Regionals were coming. Futaba didn’t want her to skip more training just because of her nerves. She could handle it.

Or so she thought.

---

It happened near the train underpass.

Futaba felt it first — the breath on the back of her neck.

She whipped around.

Not one.

Three.

The stalker from yesterday, nursing a bruised wrist, flanked by two other men. Older. Bigger. One of them wore a cheap leather jacket and cracked his knuckles like it was a habit.

Futaba’s throat clenched.

“See?” the stalker sneered. “Told you. She always walks alone. No friends. No protection. Total shut-in freak.”

She took a step back.

Leather Jacket laughed. “Didn’t think you’d be this cute in person. Your pics don’t do you justice, sweetheart.”

“Don’t—” Futaba’s voice cracked. “Don’t come near me.”

They didn’t listen.

They moved.

And Futaba ran.

---

She didn’t scream. Her voice locked up. Just turned and sprinted, heart hammering in her ribs. The men chased, their shoes slapping pavement, loud in the echoing tunnel.

Turn. Turn. Another corner. The back alley. Don’t fall. Don’t trip.

She could barely breathe.

A dead-end wall rose in front of her like a verdict.

No.

The footsteps grew louder.

One grabbed her hood.

And then—

A voice. Sharp. Clipped. Familiar.

“Step away from her. Now.”

---

The impact was sudden and brutal.

A blur of black slammed into the man holding her, knocking him backward with a sickening crunch. The second lunged forward, only to eat a vicious elbow to the jaw. Blood sprayed across the wall.

The third tried to run.

A trash can tripped him mid-sprint, and he fell flat.

Futaba stared.

Goro Akechi stood in the center of the chaos, eyes blazing, gloves dark with blood.

“I warned you,” he growled at the stalker. “I gave you one warning.”

The man whimpered, curling into himself.

“You’re not fans,” Akechi spat. “You’re parasites.”

He raised a fist.

Futaba flinched.

“Akechi—!”

He stopped.

Froze, breath heaving.

His eyes met hers.

And slowly, deliberately, he stepped back.

---

The police arrived minutes later.

Akechi didn’t stick around. He disappeared before the sirens could reach them. But not before looking back at her, voice calm.

“You don’t owe me anything. But stay safe. Please.”

Futaba stood alone, shaking as the flashing lights painted her skin in cold blue and red.

---

Later. Sojiro's house.

Sumire burst through the door, her face pale and terrified.

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t demand answers.

She simply pulled Futaba into her arms, held her tight, and didn’t let go.

---

The sun dipped behind the clouds. Rain tapped against the windows in a soft rhythm, like a heartbeat slowed to a lull.

Futaba sat on the futon, her knees drawn to her chest. Her phone lay silent beside her. She hadn’t touched it in hours. Her glasses were fogged. Her breath came in short, shallow pulls.

Sumire returned from the bathroom with a warm towel, crouched down beside her, and gently dried her hair.

Not a word.

Not yet.

The silence said enough.

---

Sumire stayed the night.

Sumire slid under the blanket beside her, curling close until their foreheads touched. Futaba’s body trembled under the weight of everything — the panic, the shame, the helplessness.

But Sumire held her.

Not as a savior.

Not as a shield.

Just as herself.

As someone who saw Futaba’s fear and didn’t run from it.

---

The only sound between them was breath — slow, syncing, grounding.

Futaba didn’t cry.

Not this time.

But she pressed her face into Sumire’s shoulder, and let herself feel everything: the echo of footsteps, the hot coil of rage in Akechi’s voice, the way Sumire’s hands cradled her like she was made of glass.

---

Hours passed.

Futaba whispered, barely audible: “He could’ve killed them.”

Sumire's hand slipped into hers beneath the blanket.

“But he didn’t.”

Futaba nodded against her chest.

“I don’t get it,” she mumbled. “Why now? Why me?”

Sumire didn’t have the answer.

And in the hush of midnight, as the storm faded outside, they drifted into sleep — tangled limbs and quiet hearts — two wired souls connected by something more enduring than fear.

---

Elsewhere, alone.

Goro Akechi stood under a dim streetlamp, staring at his gloved hands.

He hadn’t taken the gloves off since he came back.

Not once.

His knuckles throbbed.

The blood wasn’t his.

But the guilt was.

He remembered the way Futaba looked at him — not with hatred. Not even with anger.

Just… fear.

And it hurt more than anything.

Chapter Text

The living room was fuller than it had been in a long time.

Sunlight filtered through the open curtains, casting soft golden lines across the floor of Sojiro's house. Someone had brought strawberry mochi. Someone else brought cold barley tea. And someone — Ryuji — had absolutely brought a handheld fan shaped like a cartoon skull that buzzed obnoxiously every time he turned it on.

“…Can you not aim that at my face?” Ann said, sipping her tea.

“I’m doin’ you a favor!” Ryuji protested. “You looked like you were gonna melt.”

“I was melting peacefully, thank you.”

Laughter floated through the room. Soft, normal, grounding.

Futaba sat in the middle of it all — hoodie on, legs curled under her — quietly sipping from a glass of iced tea. Her eyes scanned the room like a radar dish, unconsciously checking exits. Her body was present.

Her mind was still catching up.

Sumire sat beside her, shoulder pressed gently to hers.

It was the only anchor she needed.

---

Makoto, Haru, Yusuke, Ryuji, and Ann had all come over the moment they heard. No drama. No overreactions. Just presence.

“We’re glad you’re okay,” Haru had said first, settling onto the tatami with her usual gentle grace. “You don’t have to talk about it. We’re just… here.”

Futaba hadn’t said much. Still hadn’t. She just kept sipping her drink, one hand curled near Sumire’s thigh, not even noticing the contact.

But the others did.

They all did.

And they said nothing.

---

The group moved around her like a constellation. Yusuke asked if she wanted to sketch. Ryuji offered to take her to an arcade later — “strictly bodyguard mode, no jokes.” Makoto offered a small pepper spray keychain she kept in her purse. Ann talked about the cats she’d seen on the way over.

They didn’t force her to smile.

They just gave her space to remember she could.

---

Eventually, Haru brought out a basket of small baked scones.

“I tried a new recipe,” she said with a smile. “Lavender honey glaze.”

Futaba blinked. “You made these… for me?”

Haru’s eyes twinkled. “Of course. Healing takes sugar.”

Futaba reached out with trembling fingers, took one, and bit.

It was warm.

And sweet.

And real.

Sumire rested her head lightly against her shoulder.

Futaba let herself lean into it.

Just a little.

---

Time passed. The group shifted into smaller chats. Makoto and Ann discussed exam schedules. Ryuji challenged Yusuke to a sketch-off on napkins. Haru sat on the edge of the kotatsu, sipping tea, humming softly.

Sumire never moved far from Futaba.

Never pushed.

Never pulled.

Just… stayed.

It was strange, Futaba thought, how quickly something could begin to bloom when it was never asked to perform.

---

Outside the house, Goro Akechi stood across the street.

He wasn’t wearing his black jacket today — just a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled, hands tucked into his pockets. He leaned casually against a light post, the afternoon sun drawing long shadows around him.

He watched the house in silence.

No binoculars. No mask. No camera.

Just his eyes.

His gaze lingered on the window where laughter spilled out. He could see them. The warmth. The peace.

He didn’t belong there.

But he didn’t envy it.

He was simply… glad.

A figure appeared at the window.

Futaba.

She was standing now, probably helping Ann pick up some spilled napkins, hair a bit messy from the fan Ryuji wouldn’t stop playing with.

Her eyes lifted.

Their gazes met.

No words.

No panic.

No judgment.

Just… acknowledgment.

Akechi gave her the faintest smile.

Futaba didn’t smile back.

But she didn’t look away, either.

He nodded once.

And left.

---

Later that evening.

The others had gone.

Makoto left a small note: “We’re just a call away.”

Ann and Ryuji waved from the street like dorks, Yusuke dramatically bowing, claiming “the muse of calmness has been restored.”

Haru gave Futaba another soft pat on the shoulder and one more scone “for later.”

And then it was just the two of them again.

Futaba and Sumire.

The house was quiet.

The fading orange of sunset painted their world in slow, golden light.

---

Sumire didn’t say a word as she helped Futaba clean the table.

She didn’t mention how tightly Futaba had clung to her sleeve when someone knocked earlier. She didn’t point out how Futaba checked the lock three times before sitting again.

She just moved with her — matching her steps, folding napkins, wiping counters, humming softly.

When Futaba dropped a cup and it didn’t break but still made her flinch, Sumire simply reached out, caught her wrist, and held it.

No scolding.

Just warmth.

Just grounding.

---

That night, they lay in Futaba’s room again.

Same futon.

Same position.

Futaba curled under the blanket, her head nestled in the crook of Sumire’s shoulder. The soft sound of the cicadas buzzed outside — no longer threatening, just background noise to a world still turning.

Their fingers tangled together beneath the covers.

Futaba could still hear the sounds of footsteps in her mind. The scuffle. The breathless sprint. The panic.

But beside her, Sumire breathed slow and steady.

Like a song.

Like a signal.

A tether back to earth.

---

At some point, Futaba spoke — barely above a whisper.

“…They all knew.”

Sumire blinked. “Hmm?”

“They all saw. Us. Me. You. And they didn’t say anything.”

Sumire’s voice was soft. “They didn’t need to.”

Futaba turned her head slightly, her lips near Sumire’s collarbone.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

The air stilled.

But Sumire only squeezed her hand gently.

“I already caught you.”

---

They didn’t say “I love you.”

Not yet.

But maybe it didn’t need to be said.

Maybe the way Sumire kissed the top of her head was enough.

Maybe the way Futaba buried her face against her chest was enough.

Maybe the silence, after everything, finally was enough.

---

Outside, the stars blinked above Yongen-Jaya.

And somewhere far across the city, beneath another set of stars, Goro Akechi walked alone.

He didn’t have peace.

Not yet.

But tonight, he’d helped someone keep theirs.

And for now…

That was enough.

Chapter Text

The world didn’t stop turning.

Even after fear. Even after trembling limbs and sleepless nights and shadows at every corner — the world moved forward. Slowly, gently, like the first steps after an injury. There was no dramatic declaration of healing. No single moment where things clicked into place.

It was smaller than that.

It was in the way Futaba breathed more deeply when stepping outside. In the way she could walk to the mailbox without checking over her shoulder. In how she kept the curtains half-open now, instead of fully drawn.

Healing, it turned out, was quiet.

And it always happened in company.

“Another cup?”

Futaba blinked and looked up.

Sojiro stood over her with the coffee pot tilted, raising one eyebrow. “You’ve been spacing out over that half-full mug for twenty minutes, kid.”

Futaba looked down. Sure enough, the cup had gone cold in her hands. “Oh. Uh… yeah. Hit me.”

He poured. Across the kotatsu, Sumire gently pushed a plate of sliced apples toward her.

“You didn’t eat much breakfast,” she said. “Try these. Haru said they’re from her family orchard.”

Futaba reached out, picked up a slice, and took a bite. It was crisp and sweet and maybe a little too fancy for her usual trash-tier gamer diet.

But she didn’t complain.

Sojiro folded his arms and leaned against the kitchen wall, watching them for a long moment. “You two’ve been like that a lot lately,” he said eventually.

Futaba blinked. “Like what?”

“Close.”

She flushed. Sumire’s face turned a gentle pink.

“Not a complaint,” Sojiro added quickly. “Just noticing. And... thinking.”

He scratched the back of his head, suddenly awkward. “Futaba, you’ve been doing better. Way better, actually. You’re grounded, your smile’s back… you’re eating things that aren't instant ramen.”

Futaba narrowed her eyes. “You take that back.”

He chuckled. “But I think a lot of that is thanks to her.” He nodded toward Sumire. “So I was thinking... maybe it's time we made things a little more official.”

The girls looked at him in confusion.

Sojiro gestured vaguely at the house. “If Sumire’s okay with it, I wouldn’t mind her staying over more. Permanently, even. Not just in emergencies.”

Silence.

Futaba’s jaw dropped.

Sumire’s eyes widened like saucers. “I—Wait—Do you mean like—actually staying? Like living—?”

“I’m not throwing you in the family registry or anything,” Sojiro deadpanned. “But the house has space. And frankly, it already feels like you’re part of it. Might as well make it easier for both of you.”

Sumire looked like she was about to cry.

Futaba stared at Sojiro like he’d just turned into a guardian angel with a coffee pot.

“…You’re serious?”

“I don’t joke about household logistics.”

Futaba launched herself across the room and hugged him.

He sputtered. “Okay, okay, geez, you’re not six anymore—”

Sumire stood up, bowing deeply. “Thank you, Boss. I—I promise I’ll help out with chores, and I won’t overstep, and—”

Sojiro waved her off. “You already help more than Futaba ever did.”

“Hey!!”

That evening, they began clearing the spare room — once a storage space, long untouched. Old books, empty boxes, and forgotten knick-knacks were sorted and labeled. Sumire tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, humming softly as she helped fold old towels and dusted the windowsills. Futaba worked beside her with half-hearted grumbling and a whole-hearted smile.

It was real.

It was happening.

Room for two.

They didn’t call it moving in. Not yet. But over the next few days, Sumire brought small things: her lucky pen case, her favorite pajamas, the lavender-scented pillow she never slept without.

Futaba noticed the way their toothbrushes sat side by side in the bathroom now.

Her heart skipped in the good way.

At night, they still shared the futon, even though the spare room now had a proper mattress. Sumire offered once to sleep separately, unsure if it was too much.

Futaba shut that idea down immediately.

“I don’t care how many rooms this house has,” she whispered into the crook of Sumire’s neck. “I’m not sleeping without you.”

The Phantom Thieves remained a steady presence. Yusuke dropped by with a framed print of one of his new pieces — an abstract swirl of crimson and coral — and insisted it be hung above Sumire’s sleeping area.

“It captures movement and rebirth,” he said cryptically.

Ryuji helped them assemble a new drawer and somehow stripped three screws. Ann brought indoor plants and kissed both girls on the cheek before leaving with a wink.

Makoto dropped by late one evening and left quietly after a long hug for each of them. No words. Just support.

Futaba kept noticing it.

How everyone seemed to know.

How no one asked.

How no one pushed.

It was enough that when Sumire brushed their pinkies together in public, Futaba didn’t flinch anymore. It was enough that she could fall asleep to the sound of Sumire’s soft breathing and feel, for once, that the darkness didn’t mean danger.

It just meant night.

And morning would come again.

And yet...

He was still there.

Sometimes at a distance.

A bench across the park. A seat on the far side of the train platform. A corner table at a ramen place where he ordered nothing and sat still.

Always watching.

Never intruding.

Goro Akechi.

One afternoon, as the summer heat began to dip into softer golden hues, Futaba stood on the small balcony of her room, watering a plant Ann had insisted she try raising. (It was barely surviving. Futaba insisted that meant it was strong.)

She glanced up instinctively.

And saw him.

Akechi leaned against a utility pole down the block. White shirt. Slacks. Hands in his pockets.

Their eyes met.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t smile.

Not at first.

But she didn’t look away.

And then — slowly — *she* smiled.

Soft.

Tiny.

Real.

And across the street, Goro Akechi smiled back.

Just once.

Then he turned and walked away.

Later that night, as she and Sumire brushed their teeth in tandem and prepared to curl under the blanket again, Futaba couldn’t stop thinking about that moment.

Sumire noticed. She always did.

“Was he there again?”

Futaba nodded, slowly.

Sumire didn't tense.

She just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Still watching?”

“Yeah. But... it doesn’t scare me anymore.”

Sumire’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Why not?”

Futaba thought for a long moment.

“Because... he’s not trying to haunt us.”

She looked toward the window, at the darkened street.

“He’s trying to come back to life.”

And so they curled up in bed again, under a blanket of soft breathing and unsaid words. The house no longer felt like a shell.

It was something growing.

Healing.

Something shared.

Room for two.

And a third — far away — trying to find his own.

Chapter Text

Futaba had always said she didn’t like birthdays.

Too much noise. Too many expectations. People asking her to smile when she didn’t feel like it. A date on the calendar that used to mean very little, before she had anyone to spend it with.

But this year was different.

This year, there was warmth before the morning sun.

---

“Happy birthday,” Sumire whispered, still half-asleep, arms draped around her waist.

Futaba squirmed, her voice muffled into the pillow. “Too early…”

“I made pancakes.”

That got her attention.

She sat up, hair a wild mess, blinking like an owl. “You woke up early? For me?”

Sumire smiled. “For you. Always.”

---

Sojiro brewed a special roast just for her — extra sweet, exactly the way she liked it — and even let her pick the café music. (She picked Persona Q battle themes just to annoy him.)

Ann sent a video message with balloons and glitter filters. Ryuji dropped off a huge basket of retro games (“they’re all boss-level hard, just like you!”). Yusuke gifted her an original art piece titled Rebirth Through Code — it was, surprisingly, beautiful. Makoto arrived with a small leather journal and Haru brought lemon tea scones shaped like hearts.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Makoto said softly, “but we invited someone else too.”

Futaba raised a brow.

“Someone Ren asked us to.”

---

The door opened.

Goro Akechi stepped in.

No fanfare.

No mask.

Just him — in a navy sweater, hair a little longer now, eyes less sharp but somehow more tired.

He held a sealed envelope in his hand.

Sojiro offered him tea without a word.

Futaba didn’t say anything.

She just nodded once.

And then sat down.

---

They gathered around the kotatsu like old times.

Except it wasn’t like old times.

There was a gap where Morgana used to sit, paws tapping on the table. No one said it aloud. But the silence carried his absence.

Then Sojiro cleared his throat. “This came in the mail. No return address. But the handwriting’s obvious.”

He placed a medium-sized package in the center of the table.

Everyone stared.

Sumire’s fingers trembled slightly as she cut the tape.

Inside: carefully wrapped gifts. And seven letters.

Each addressed by hand.

---

Futaba’s Letter:

> Happy birthday, Oracle.

I know you hate being called that now, but I can’t help it. You’re the coolest little sister anyone could ever ask for.

You’ve already survived more than most people could imagine. But more than that, you’ve learned how to live. And love. And that’s something I’ll always admire.

I miss you. Not just your jokes or your rants or your memes — I miss the way you saw through every mask I wore. Thank you for never letting me fall into silence.

Happy birthday. You deserve the world.

Love, Ren.

Futaba wiped her eyes before the tears had even fallen.

Sumire gently took the letter from her shaking hands, folded it, and placed it beside her untouched cake.

Futaba didn’t look up.

She was too busy breathing through a thousand emotions in her chest.

---

Sumire’s Letter:

> To Sumire,

You’ve grown stronger than anyone I know.

You still move like a dancer, but now it’s your heart that leads the steps. You carry your sister’s spirit, but you’ve made a life entirely your own.

Take care of her. You know who I mean.

And please — remember that you never have to carry the weight alone.

I believe in you. Always have.

- Ren

Sumire bit her lip and held back a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh.

Futaba reached over and held her hand.

---

Makoto’s Letter:

> Makoto,

You were always the one who kept us grounded. But I hope you’re letting yourself fly now too.

I read every update you send. I know you’re probably rolling your eyes right now — but I do. Your words matter to me.

Tell your sister I said hi.

And Makoto... keep watching over them. You’re still our Queen. My Queen.

Ren.

Makoto’s smile was quiet. Her hand gripped the letter a little too tightly.

“Idiot,” she murmured. “You always knew just what to say.”

---

Haru’s Letter:

> Dear Haru,

I hope the new crops are thriving. I bet your coffee’s better than Sojiro’s by now.

You were always the calm in our storm. Thank you for bringing kindness into every shadowed place.

I know I never said it enough, but... you were my light too.

Take care of them. And yourself.

With love, Ren.

Haru folded the letter delicately. Her expression didn’t change much, but her eyes were red-rimmed.

She didn’t speak — just reached out and placed her hand atop Futaba’s.

---

Ryuji’s Letter:

> Yo Skull,

Still loud? Still awesome? Yeah, I bet.

You made me laugh when I didn’t think I could. You gave me a reason to fight. Thanks for that.

Stop letting people call you an idiot. You’ve always been smarter than you know.

Let’s race again someday.

- Joker

Ryuji wiped his nose with the back of his hand, trying to pretend it was allergies.

No one called him out.

---

Yusuke’s Letter:

> Yusuke,

Your art saved more than just yourself.

Never stop creating. Even when it hurts. Especially then.

One day, when I return, I want to see the painting you’ve been too afraid to start.

You know which one.

Thank you, my friend.

- Ren

Yusuke closed his eyes and whispered something too quiet to hear.

But he placed the letter in his coat like it was sacred.

---

And then, finally—

Akechi’s Letter.

He stared at the envelope for a long moment.

Didn’t open it immediately.

Futaba watched.

Everyone did.

He cracked the seal.

Read.

And read again.

No expression.

Just breath.

Then, a tiny sound escaped him.

He laughed.

But it was broken. Fragile.

Like glass learning to sing again.

---

> Akechi.

I don’t know where you are, or how you are. But I hope you’re still trying.

I don’t hate you.

I never did.

I don’t expect forgiveness, or to give it. That’s not what this is.

But I believe that everyone who wants to walk forward deserves at least one chance.

So here’s yours.

When you’re ready — really ready — come find us.

We’ll be here.

- Ren

He folded the letter carefully.

Not like someone preserving a keepsake.

But like someone preserving a lifeline.

---

No one asked him what it said.

No one intruded.

He stood, bowed slightly, and left.

Futaba followed him to the door.

She didn’t stop him.

But before he disappeared down the street, she called out.

“…Akechi.”

He paused.

Turned his head slightly.

She met his gaze.

And smiled.

Faint.

But real.

And this time, his return smile didn’t feel haunted.

It felt… hopeful.

---

Later that night, Futaba and Sumire lay side by side, Ren’s letter beside them on the nightstand.

“He really knew us,” Futaba whispered.

Sumire nodded, her voice thick. “He still does.”

And so they fell asleep, surrounded by paper and ink and memories — and the undeniable truth that distance couldn’t silence what was real.

---

Ren was gone.

But he had never left.

Chapter Text

It began with a message in the group chat.

Ryuji: Yo, I was thinking. We all need to hang out again. Like for real.

Ann: YES. It's been too long. Let’s do something chill this time though.

Makoto: Something outdoors, maybe? Quiet? I think we all could use it.

Yusuke: If there are trees, I shall bring my sketchpad.

Futaba: I’m down. But only if there’s food. And a bathroom. And not too much dirt.

Sumire: I'll pack sandwiches~ <3

Haru: Picnic in Inokashira Park?

And then, at the very end:

Futaba: Hey @Akechi, you come along too.

After a minute of silence, her phone pinged;

Akechi: Alright.

---

The park welcomed them like an old friend.

A late summer breeze danced between trees, rustling branches above shaded paths. Sunlight scattered across the lake like glitter. The grass was a little damp but soft, and dragonflies skimmed low near the water.

The Phantom Thieves — minus their Phantom, and Thieves — gathered again.

This time, not to steal hearts.

But to share them.

---

They spread out blankets and unpacked food, baskets full of Haru’s garden sandwiches, Sumire’s neatly sliced fruit, and Ryuji’s very questionable convenience store snacks.

“I told you to bring something cooked,” Ann scolded.

“Chips are cooked!”

“No, they’re not!”

“Then how do they crunch!?”

The laughter returned before anyone realized it had been missing.

---

Futaba didn’t even flinch when Akechi arrived.

He wore light grey, blending in. A subtle choice. His hands were empty — no umbrella, no bag, no barrier. Just him.

Makoto was the first to greet him.

“Glad you came.”

He nodded, eyes scanning the group warily. “Wasn’t sure I should.”

“You should,” Haru said gently.

Yusuke offered a spot beside him without hesitation.

And slowly, like a cat testing unfamiliar furniture, Akechi sat.

He didn’t speak much.

But he didn’t leave.

That was enough.

---

They talked about school, exams, work, daily annoyances. Ryuji teased Yusuke about his obsession with lighting. Ann showed off new photoshoots. Makoto talked politics with Haru. Akechi listened.

When Sumire pulled out her violin and offered to play, no one stopped her.

The notes floated gently, weaving through the breeze. A soft melody. Tender. Like something remembered in a dream.

Futaba watched her.

And smiled.

Akechi watched Futaba.

And said nothing.

---

By sunset, the others began packing up.

Makoto had class early. Haru needed to check on deliveries. Ann and Ryuji wandered off to share ice cream. Yusuke stayed behind a little longer, sketching with wide, thoughtful strokes.

Futaba leaned in close to Sumire.

“…Hey. Wanna walk?”

Sumire blinked. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Just the two of us?”

Futaba nodded.

Sumire hesitated for half a breath — then smiled.

“Always.”

---

They left the others behind and wandered off the path, past the lake and into the quieter woods.

The stars had begun to blink through the thinning blue sky.

One. Then another. Then dozens.

---

Neither said much at first.

Just the sound of sandals on gravel. Rustling leaves. The occasional cicada chirp giving way to crickets.

Then:

“…Thank you.”

Sumire turned. “For what?”

“For staying. For showing up. For… surviving.”

Sumire reached out and linked their pinkies.

“I could say the same to you.”

They walked a bit farther.

The path narrowed, then opened again, revealing a small clearing.

Sumire looked up.

The sky was endless.

Starlight spilled across the canopy, stretching wide and quiet and eternal. Futaba took a deep breath, letting it fill her lungs.

“Used to think the sky was too big,” she said softly. “Scary, you know? All that emptiness.”

Sumire stood close, shoulders touching.

“And now?”

Futaba turned to her.

“Now it feels like room.”

---

They sat on the grass, knees brushing.

Futaba fidgeted with the hem of her hoodie.

“I used to think love was something loud. Obvious. Movie-level drama. But…”

She reached for Sumire’s hand.

“This feels better.”

Sumire’s eyes glistened in the starlight.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

---

After a while, Futaba leaned her head on Sumire’s shoulder.

“I keep thinking about Ren,” she said. “How he used to walk ahead, like he was always pulling us forward.”

“He still is,” Sumire whispered.

“Maybe now… we walk forward too.”

---

Behind them, from far along the hill, Akechi watched.

He had followed at a distance, careful not to intrude. He didn’t hear their words, didn’t try to. But he saw them.

Two girls.

One stargazing.

One glowing.

And for the first time in a long while, the pain in his chest didn’t sharpen when he saw happiness.

It softened.

---

Futaba’s eyes met his again.

No fear.

No anger.

Just understanding.

And this time, her hand stayed in Sumire’s as she smiled.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And this time, Akechi smiled back.

Not as a mask.

Not as a performance.

But as Goro Akechi.

Human. Broken. Trying.

---

The stars watched over them all.

No words.

Just presence.

Just possibility.

And in the soft rhythm of footsteps beneath the stars, a new story continued to unfold.

Chapter Text

There was something special about Shujin’s cultural festival—not because it was extravagant (it wasn’t), or flawlessly coordinated (absolutely not), but because in the messy chaos of student booths and paper lanterns, something always clicked.

This year, it felt different.

Maybe because everything felt new again.

Maybe because something long overdue was about to finally take the stage.

---

Futaba stood just outside the gymnasium entrance, bouncing slightly on her heels.

She wore her school uniform properly today — tie straight, blouse neatly tucked — but she had snuck on her favorite headphones anyway. A little piece of rebellion. A little piece of comfort.

“Dude, calm down,” Ryuji said beside her, holding a paper fan shaped like a shark. “You’re gonna vibrate into another plane.”

Futaba turned to glare at him. “I am not vibrating. I’m simply generating high-frequency emotional waves of excitement.”

“You’re squeaking.”

“It's called simmering with love, thank you very much.”

Ann giggled from the other side. “I think it’s cute. She’s nervous for her girl.”

Makoto, standing with arms crossed and her usual composed presence, added, “It’s a big performance. Last year’s showcase had over two hundred attendees.”

Yusuke, sketchpad in hand, spoke without looking up. “A stage is a battlefield in its own right. Sumire will emerge victorious.”

Futaba made a strangled sound.

Haru handed her a small paper bag of butter cookies and smiled gently. “Something to hold onto while you wait.”

Sojiro, who had come only because Futaba begged him in six different handwritten notes, stood a bit apart from the others, sipping canned coffee. He watched his ward with the smallest, proudest smile.

And somewhere, quietly leaning against the far wall near the shadows of the old trophy case — Akechi stood.

He didn’t move.

But he was here.

---

The lights dimmed inside.

The chatter grew hushed.

A student stepped to the mic and announced the next performance.

“Second-year performance segment: rhythmic dance and interpretation. Please welcome... Sumire Yoshizawa!”

Applause burst through the gym.

Futaba’s hands flew to her face.

Then, the curtains drew back.

---

She appeared like a vision.

Sumire, dressed in soft crimson silks with gold ribbon lining, hair flowing freely, eyes focused straight ahead. No music yet. Just her presence.

And then, the first note began.

A single violin string.

Then a piano. Soft. Subtle.

And she moved.

---

It wasn’t the dramatic, fierce gymnastics she had once trained for.

It wasn’t Kasumi’s routine. It wasn’t a mask.

It was something new.

Something entirely hers.

Sumire danced not as someone escaping grief — but as someone embracing life.

She twirled, stepped, spun with breathless grace. Her hands reached skyward, then down, as if cradling something invisible. A smile bloomed at the corners of her lips as the music rose.

Every note was a memory.

Every motion a heartbeat.

Futaba couldn’t breathe.

---

Halfway through the piece, the lights changed — pale blues and soft whites mimicking starlight.

And in that moment, Futaba knew.

The title of the piece.

The Dance We Never Did.

A tribute.

A farewell.

A beginning.

---

When it ended, Sumire stood with arms lifted, chest rising and falling with every breath.

The auditorium exploded.

Applause, cheers, whistles. Even Ryuji screamed loud enough to startle a faculty member.

Makoto clapped with rare abandon. Ann had literal tears in her eyes. Haru beamed like sunlight.

And Futaba — hands to her mouth — whispered:

“You did it…”

---

Later, backstage, they met.

Sumire had changed back into her school uniform but kept the crimson ribbon in her hair.

Her eyes lit up the moment she saw Futaba.

“You were there,” she said, almost breathless.

“I’m always there,” Futaba replied, then pulled her into a hug that was more real than any words.

They stood like that for a long time.

When they finally pulled back, Sumire’s cheeks were dusted pink. “Did… Did I do okay?”

“You melted the laws of physics, Sumire,” Futaba said. “You made the stars dance.”

Sumire giggled. “That’s not how physics works.”

“Shut up, it is now.”

---

The group caught up in the school courtyard later.

Ryuji was still raving about the “sick footwork” and how “no way anyone’s topping that.” Ann wouldn’t stop hugging Sumire. Yusuke had already started sketching her mid-spin from memory. Haru offered lavender tea, and Makoto shared photos she took during the performance.

“You know,” Makoto said, half-teasing, “you two didn’t look at anyone else the whole time.”

Futaba turned red. “Did not.”

“Uh, you totally did,” Ann said. “It was adorable.”

Sojiro chuckled from the bench. “You two really gonna keep dancing around it, or...?”

Futaba made a choked noise.

Sumire turned beet red.

Yusuke, helpfully, added, “I believe the tension of unspoken affection could be painted in oil.”

“You guys suck,” Futaba mumbled, but there was no bite to it. Just warmth.

Sumire looked down, then shyly reached for Futaba’s hand.

Fingers entwined.

No words.

Just real.

---

From the edge of the field, Akechi watched them.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone since arriving. Hadn’t approached the group. But he watched the performance, quietly.

And now, in the golden light of early evening, he watched them all laugh.

He saw how they changed.

He saw how they healed.

And for once, he didn’t feel like a ghost in their story.

He felt... like a possibility.

---

Sumire noticed him.

Just as he turned to leave.

And she bowed — a simple, respectful, quiet thank you.

He paused.

Then nodded back.

Not as the detective prince.

Not as the traitor.

Just as Goro Akechi.

A person still walking.

---

Later, as the sky faded into the first hint of twilight, Futaba and Sumire sat alone on a bench near the back garden of the school.

“Hey,” Futaba said suddenly, “I’ve been thinking…”

Sumire turned.

“If we did dance together… someday… what would that look like?”

Sumire tilted her head.

Then stood up.

And offered her hand.

“Let’s find out.”

---

There was no music.

No lights.

No audience.

Just one dance.

Two girls.

And the promise of a future unfolding step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat.

---

The dance they never did?

It began tonight.

Chapter Text

There was something sacred about the last day of exams.

Not just because the stress evaporated like fog in sunlight. Not just because Futaba could finally shove her textbooks deep into the void beneath her bed. But because in the quiet aftermath — the relief, the exhale — there was space for everything else she had been too afraid to feel.

And this year, she wasn’t walking that road alone.

---

The skies opened just after the final bell.

It wasn’t a violent storm — just steady rain, the kind that softened the edges of the world. Students poured out of Shujin in clumps, most ducking under shared umbrellas or sprinting toward the station with hands over their heads.

But Futaba didn’t run.

She stood at the gate, her headphones pulled down around her neck, staring into the rainfall like it was a window she’d been waiting to walk through.

Sumire joined her seconds later, gently tugging her own umbrella open.

Purple, with a tiny camellia charm hanging from one rib.

“Hey,” she said, soft and smiling.

Futaba looked at her.

Her eyes said everything her voice wouldn’t.

---

They walked in step down the sidewalk, Sumire holding the umbrella tilted more toward Futaba’s side than her own.

The sky was grey, but the puddles were full of light — streetlamps beginning to blink on, faint shop signs casting color on the wet concrete.

Neither said much.

Until:

“Think we passed?” Futaba asked, casually nudging her.

Sumire laughed. “With how much you complained? I think I passed twice just to cover you.”

“Hey! I studied this time!”

“You did.”

Futaba tilted her head. “I wanted to impress someone.”

Sumire blinked. “Really? Who?”

Futaba didn’t answer.

She just smiled.

---

They turned off the main road, down the narrow path near the park where the trees were just starting to bud again. The sound of rain on leaves was soothing, rhythmic.

Then, as if drawn by gravity, they stopped walking.

The umbrella hovered over them both.

Breath held.

World quiet.

Futaba looked down.

Then up.

And met Sumire’s eyes.

---

“I was scared,” she whispered. “Of this. Of us.”

Sumire nodded slowly. “I know.”

“I kept thinking I’d mess it up. That I’d be too much. That… you’d leave.”

“I never would.”

“I know.”

And then, all at once, it broke from her chest like sunlight cracking through years of shadow:

“I love you.”

---

Sumire froze.

Then —

She smiled.

Like the world had finally made sense.

Like the stars had finally spelled her name correctly.

She stepped in closer, so the umbrella was forgotten, slipping slightly to one side.

“I love you too.”

---

They kissed.

Rain misted against their cheeks.

The umbrella slipped to the ground.

And in that soft, wet silence, their lips found each other — tentative at first, like a breath shared between trembling hearts, then slowly deepening into something more real, more certain.

Not perfect.

Not practiced.

But theirs.

---

A cheer broke the moment like a lightning bolt.

“FINALLY!” came Ryuji’s unmistakable voice, followed by a very loud high-five with Ann.

Makoto clapped politely. “About time.”

Yusuke simply declared, “Ah. At last, symmetry.”

Ann had her phone out, taking what Futaba would later call illegal photographic evidence.

Haru wiped the corner of her eye. “I knew it would be beautiful.”

Futaba sputtered. “Wh-When did you—?!”

“You never go straight home after exams,” Makoto replied smoothly.

“You’re all stalkers!”

“Nope,” Ryuji grinned. “We’re witnesses. Big difference.

---

Behind them, leaning against a vending machine, Sojiro crossed his arms and chuckled quietly.

He made no fuss.

Just met Futaba’s wide-eyed stare with a subtle nod.

Proud.

Unspoken.

Home.

---

A bit farther down the street, half-shielded by the side of a building, Akechi stood.

Not intruding.

Just there.

His umbrella was black. His coat, simple.

But the smile on his face — small, tired, almost invisible — was real.

Not amused.

Not smug.

Just... glad.

He turned before anyone could spot him.

And walked into the rain.

---

Later that night, Futaba sat beside Sumire on the living room couch, blanket over both their shoulders, legs tangled without thinking.

“I’m still shaking,” Futaba whispered.

“I’m not.”

Futaba turned.

Sumire leaned in, kissed her nose, and said, “I’m so sure of you.”

And that was the final test.

And the first answer.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be just another morning.

After all, finals were over. The air tasted freer. The clouds had cleared, leaving sunlight streaking over Tokyo’s rooftops like ribbon.

Futaba walked beside Sumire, hoodie unzipped, bag lazily slung over one shoulder. They had no destination — just the aimless kind of day you earn after climbing every hill, academic or otherwise.

Their pinkies were linked.

Sumire hummed some indistinct melody. Futaba swung their joined hands between them like a metronome.

She felt light. Not just happy — lighter. Like some invisible burden had finally been peeled from her chest.

Love, once whispered in code and dodged with teasing, had finally taken its name aloud.

And it was being held in her hand right now.

---

They turned into the crosswalk near the shopping arcade. The light blinked green. Traffic halted. Pedestrians stepped forward.

Then — a sound.

SCREEEEEECH—

Time contracted.

There was no time to react.

Futaba only managed to look up and see a white sedan skidding far too fast — tires locked, the driver clearly struggling with the wheel — and Sumire, frozen, still mid-step.

No.

Then, a blur.

A coat.

A voice — firm, not panicked: “Get down!”

And the world slammed sideways.

---

When Futaba opened her eyes, the first thing she felt was cold pavement against her palms.

The second was Sumire’s fingers still wrapped tightly around hers.

The third — a hand gripping her shoulder, steadying her. Protective. Familiar.

She looked up.

“Y-You—?”

Goro Akechi, kneeling on one knee, was between them and the car.

The vehicle had spun out and stopped just beyond the curb. A fender crumpled against a pole. No one else was hurt.

Just a fluke. A faulty brake. A second’s difference.

But he had seen it.

And he had moved.

---

Later, after the police arrived, after the shaken driver offered endless apologies, and after a medic confirmed that no one was seriously hurt, the three of them sat on the curbside.

Futaba was unusually quiet.

Sumire sat close beside her, hand never once letting go.

Akechi stood a little apart, arms crossed. Rain threatened overhead again, but it hadn’t yet begun.

“You okay?” he finally asked without turning.

Futaba nodded.

Then shook her head.

Then nodded again.

“…Kinda,” she muttered.

A pause.

“…Thanks,” she added, voice low.

Akechi didn’t answer at first.

Then, “I just… moved. Didn’t think.”

Futaba stared at the cracks in the pavement.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you do something without calculating it.”

Akechi huffed softly. “Maybe I’m slipping.”

“No. Maybe you’re healing.”

He looked at her.

For once, she met his gaze directly.

---

The three of them walked slowly toward Leblanc after that. Sumire peeled off early to pick up lunch from a small deli across the street. Futaba stood beside Akechi on the corner, watching her go.

A long silence.

Then:

“…You know, you’re kinda like him.”

Akechi blinked. “Pardon?”

“Ren.”

He went stiff.

Futaba continued anyway.

“I mean… not like him. You’re not quiet in that comforting way, or polite in that ‘hey I make adults trust me instantly’ way. You’re you. You’re sharp. Kinda annoying sometimes. Still really extra when you speak.”

“…Charming.”

“But also,” she continued, “you watch. You notice people. And you jump in when it matters.”

Her voice softened.

“You didn’t have to today. But you did.”

Akechi turned his head away. “I don’t know what that makes me.”

Futaba’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“…My second big bro.”

His breath caught.

“I mean, you don’t get the cool first slot. That’s Ren, obviously. He earned it. But… I don’t know. You’ve been there. Quietly. From the shadows. Always looking. Always… helping, now.”

“I don’t need a title.”

“Tough. You got one.”

He let out a quiet exhale that might have been a laugh.

“Might not be a great role model.”

“You saved my life today. And Sumire’s.”

Futaba looked up at him.

“That makes you family.”

---

They walked the last block in silence.

This time, side by side.

---

Back at Leblanc, Sojiro was halfway through a cup of coffee when they arrived.

Sumire explained everything with a surprising calm, though her grip on Futaba’s sleeve never loosened.

Sojiro blinked once.

Then simply stood and pulled Futaba into a brief, quiet hug.

“You good?”

“…Getting there.”

His hand ruffled her hair.

Sumire looked at Akechi, then at Sojiro.

And said, with perfect clarity: “He saved us.”

Akechi looked immediately uncomfortable.

Sojiro raised an eyebrow. “Huh.”

A pause.

Then: “Guess I owe you a cup.”

“…Tea, please.”

“Huh. Not coffee?”

“I like to sleep without seeing god.”

---

That evening, after dinner, Sumire stayed to help clean up.

Futaba stood beside Akechi at the door.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

“…You don’t have to watch us from a distance anymore,” Futaba said suddenly.

Akechi blinked.

“You’re allowed to be part of the story now. I mean it.”

He met her gaze.

“You’re sure?”

Futaba nodded once. “You are... someone worth knowing.”

Then, with a sly smile: “Still annoying. But, like, our annoying.”

And in the dim porch light, Goro Akechi smiled for real.

“Guess I’ll take it.”

Chapter Text

Goro Akechi wasn’t used to silence without weight.

He was used to the kind of silence that filled interrogation rooms, that hung above heads like smoke before a gunshot, that curdled into suspicion. That kind of silence always demanded a response — calculated, poised, sharpened to draw no blood.

But this?

This was a different quiet.

He sat in a corner booth in Leblanc, tea cooling in his hand, across from Futaba Sakura, who had managed to fill the air with nothing but the sound of her typing, legs tucked under her, Sumire sleeping beside her with a blanket around her shoulders.

No eyes judged him.

No one whispered behind his back.

Sojiro just brought him another cup when the first went cold, muttering something about “not letting tea go to waste.” No further questions.

And somehow, that was what pierced him the most.

Acceptance.

Unspoken, unforced.

He didn’t know what to do with it.

---

The days after the car incident passed slowly. Futaba had grown… familiar.

She didn’t flinch when he entered a room anymore.

She didn’t tiptoe around him like a ticking bomb.

In fact, she greeted him now — not with warmth, exactly, but with comfort. Like he’d become part of the background furniture. Present. Reliable. Occasionally ridiculed.

He didn’t know what he’d done to earn it.

But he didn’t reject it either.

And then, one evening, she said:

“You should talk to her.”

He knew who she meant.

He had always known.

---

Haru Okumura.

There were wounds he had no right to touch, and hers had been among the deepest. Her father’s death had not just shattered a life — it had detonated an entire worldview. And Akechi, with a smirk, had pulled the trigger.

Shido’s command.

By choice.

Ren had forgiven him.

Futaba had begun to.

But Haru?

That would be different.

That had to be different.

---

He found her on a Sunday morning.

Ueno Park was quiet, overcast, the clouds hanging heavy with the promise of spring rain. She sat on a stone bench near the greenhouse café, a to-go coffee in her hands, her hair tucked neatly beneath a plum beret.

She wore no makeup.

Her gloves were off.

She looked like someone who had finished crying yesterday — not because of red eyes or puffed cheeks, but because she seemed… still.

Like she’d finally stopped pretending she hadn’t been carrying weight.

Akechi approached slowly.

She noticed him before he could speak.

“Hello, Akechi-kun.”

He faltered.

Her tone wasn’t cold.

It wasn’t even guarded.

It was... factual.

“I was wondering when you’d come.”

---

He sat beside her.

There was no fanfare. No accusations.

He waited.

So did she.

Eventually, he said, “Ren told me to come.”

She hummed into her coffee. “Of course he did.”

A pause.

“I wasn’t going to. But… Futaba—”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then, she said, “You killed my father.”

He didn’t look away.

“Yes.”

“You knew what it would do to me.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t hesitate.”

“…No.”

She took a long breath. Not shaking. Just slow.

“I want to hate you.”

“I’d deserve it.”

“I tried,” she said softly. “For a long time.”

Akechi turned toward her now.

Her eyes — those soft, gentle brown eyes — stared into him with a calm that unnerved him more than any rage ever could.

“But when you died… I cried.”

He swallowed.

“I didn’t know why,” she continued. “I thought it was guilt. Or maybe pity. But… now I think I cried because someone so lost died before they could ever figure out who they really were.”

“I didn’t deserve that grace.”

“You didn’t.”

Silence.

“But I’m offering it anyway.”

---

Akechi blinked.

She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a tiny white camellia pressed in wax paper.

“My father used to grow these.”

She looked at him, holding it out.

“I came here because it’s where he brought me for tea after every successful investor meeting. He told me once that even when people change, flowers keep blooming.”

He stared at the flower.

“I want to believe people can bloom again, too.”

His voice cracked. “I don’t know how.”

“You’re trying,” she said. “That’s a start.”

---

He didn’t take the flower.

But he didn’t run either.

---

They walked in the greenhouse after that, just once around.

They didn’t speak much.

There wasn’t much left to say.

When they parted, Haru said, “You’re not my friend. Not yet.”

“I know.”

“But you’re not my enemy anymore.”

That stayed with him.

Long after she turned and disappeared into the city fog.

---

That night, back in the comfort of the Sakura household, Futaba was curled up in her hoodie again, tapping away at her laptop while Sumire read beside her. Yusuke had dropped off sketches earlier. Ryuji had left voice messages. The group was… alive.

And Akechi sat in the corner, quietly nursing tea again, watching.

Futaba didn’t even look up.

Just said, “You did it?”

“I saw her.”

“Did she hit you?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

Then, after a beat:

“You’re getting closer.”

He didn’t ask what she meant.

He just nodded.

---

The next time he walked the city streets, the weight in his chest wasn’t gone — but it shifted. It no longer clung like chains. It hovered like memory.

He’d made peace with her.

Not forgiveness.

Not yet.

But peace.

And maybe that was enough for tonight.

Chapter Text

There were days when Futaba forgot what loneliness ever felt like.

This was one of those days.

---

The Kotatsu table was overflowing with snacks. Curry croquettes. Karaage from Ryuji’s favorite stall. Bento boxes from Haru’s rooftop-grown vegetables. Instant yakisoba someone — probably Yusuke — had gotten far too excited about.

And, somehow, enough sweets to fuel a sugar crash apocalypse.

The living room had become a patchwork of tangled limbs, thrown cushions, and laughter loud enough to shake the sliding doors. Futaba sat cross-legged on the floor, tucked neatly against Sumire, who had long since given up on pretending they weren’t glued together now.

It was Haru who raised a toast, albeit with her tea mug.

“To endings.”

Makoto smiled. “And to new beginnings.”

“To us,” Ryuji added. “To this weird, wild gang of ours.”

Ann’s eyes were shining, full of emotion. “And to every part of ourselves that helped us get here.”

Glasses clinked.

Futaba looked around — and saw the impossible:

Akechi was laughing.

Softly. Like he didn’t expect it to come out of him.

Yusuke had been the one who triggered it, probably with that bizarre comparison about life and brushstrokes.

But Akechi’s smile didn’t vanish. Not this time.

He was seated at the very end of the table, distant — but not excluded.

His coat had been exchanged for a plain sweater.

There was still something tired in his eyes. But it wasn’t hollow anymore.

It was… human.

---

Later, after the games and curry and chaos, the sun began to dip beyond the rooftops of Yongen-Jaya.

“Let’s take a photo,” Makoto suggested, pulling out her phone.

“No way,” Futaba smirked, already grabbing the camera Sojiro had let her borrow for the afternoon. “We do it the proper way.”

They all huddled together in the fading gold light.

Yusuke stood with perfect poise. Ryuji threw up a peace sign. Ann leaned on his shoulder with a teasing smile. Makoto and Haru stood just behind, arms lightly brushing. Akechi stood slightly apart, but still in frame.

Futaba set the timer, hurriedly scrambled back beside Sumire, who — without a word — took her hand.

Click.

In the captured moment, everyone was smiling.

Even Akechi.

Especially Futaba.

---

The photo was printed an hour later.

Sojiro taped it gently to the edge of the fridge, beside one of Ren’s old notes.

“It’s tradition,” he said simply. “We always leave space for what matters.”

---

Night fell slowly, with no rush.

The wind whispered through the alleyways outside, but inside the café, everything was warm — cinnamon-scented, lamp-lit, soft.

Futaba and Sumire retreated to their room early.

They sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders touching, legs swinging gently above the floor.

“You think this’ll last?” Futaba asked.

Sumire looked at her.

“It already is.”

---

Downstairs, Akechi lingered with Sojiro.

Neither said much.

At some point, Sojiro poured him another cup of tea. Not as a peace offering. Not as an obligation.

Just because.

“You’ve come far,” he said, finally.

Akechi stared into the cup.

“I still don’t know where I’m going.”

“You’ll figure it out. You’ve got time.”

A pause.

“...And people, now.”

That made Akechi freeze.

For a moment.

Then he nodded.

He didn’t say thank you.

But Sojiro knew it was there.

---

Meanwhile, Ryuji, Ann, Yusuke, Haru, and Makoto took the long walk back toward the station together.

“Was that the first time ever Akechi didn’t make a sarcastic quip?” Ann asked.

Makoto chuckled. “No, he made one. It was just... gentle.”

“Dude’s changing,” Ryuji added, stretching his arms behind his head. “Still can’t believe it.”

“We all changed,” Haru said softly. “He’s just... catching up.”

Yusuke murmured, “Redemption, like art, requires layers. And pain. And the patience to see something unfinished as something beautiful.”

“…Deep,” Ann said, nudging him. “But yeah. True.”

They walked beneath the glowing streetlamps, and though their lives had begun to scatter — university, third year, finals, new paths — something remained tethered between them.

A bond. Real and alive.

---

Back in their room, Futaba lay on her side now, Sumire curled behind her, hand resting just above her heart.

No words were spoken.

There didn’t need to be.

Their breathing matched.

Their hearts, steady.

And in the silence, Futaba thought of everything they’d survived.

Every shard of darkness.

Every flicker of light.

She opened her eyes.

And saw her phone buzz faintly on the desk.

A new message in the group

From a contact she hadn’t seen in weeks, months even.

[Ren Amamiya]

Her breath hitched.

Sumire stirred. “What is it?”

Futaba sat up slowly, staring.

The message was short.

But it pulsed with joy.

> Hope you’re all doing okay. There’s something I want to tell you. We'll meet again soon. Very soon.

---

The chapter ends with Futaba staring at the screen, lips parted in astonishment.

A soft, incredulous smile begins to form.

“Hey, Sumi?”

“Mmm?”

“We're meeting him again.”

Sumire sat up beside her.

Their fingers laced instinctively.

And together, beneath the gentle glow of the room's night light, they smiled into the future.