Archive of Our Own

Akechi is fifteen when he wakes up on the ground in front of what appears to be a movie theatre.

The building in front of him is large and imposing, with cheerful, muffled music making the ground beneath him shake with every rhythmic beat. When he looks up, he sees a colorful, glowing sign, its big, conspicuous  letters towering over him. Somehow, he can’t make out any of the words.

In front of him, there are two doors. Above the one to his right is a red mask, its mouth tilted downwards in a frown. Above the one to his left is a black one, sneering at him mockingly. Both seem to lead inside the theatre.

A few posters are stuck to the walls. Movies, musicals. Among them, he’s surprised to find most of his personal favorites. He recognizes Taxi Driver, La Haine, even In The Mood For Love. He examines them, amused.

Akechi thinks himself to be dreaming. That’s okay, he thinks. He's no stranger to weird dreams. He blinks a few times, pinching himself. When that leads to nowhere, he gets up without much of a fuss, dusting himself off. He looks around. There is no one else on the street but him. In fact, upon further observation, the buildings surrounding the movie theatre all seem to be…decaying, on some level. Completely abandoned. Soulless, concrete structures. Empty shells that used to be “homes”. 

Akechi squints, peering inside one of the apartments. He sees a dinner table never cleared, a glass never washed. A rag thrown haphazardly by the sink. Signs of life. Of forgotten domesticity.

He huffs, walking towards the movie theater. It’s a bit on the older side. He finds it slightly charming.

His eyes dart between the two doors. Neither is particularly inviting. He glances at the red one, lips pursed into a thin line. 

Whatever , he thinks. Worst case scenario, he has a nightmare. Big deal. He’s dealt with that before. And besides, the prospect of rewatching one of his favorite movies is…enticing, to say the least.

He silently walks in.

—

The theatre is completely empty. He walks around the lobby, peeking into each and every empty room. Nothing. No one. An old jazz song plays from the overhead speakers. Akechi’s footsteps are muffled by the dark red carpeting. He finds that comforting, somehow.

At this rate, he wonders if he’ll be able to see a movie at all.

Eventually, he finds a hallway. It’s long and deserted. Movie posters line the walls, but Akechi can never quite make out the faces of the actors, their features blurred and distorted. 

Eventually, he reaches another door. He pushes it open with a grunt.

Just as he’d expected, he’s met with a cinema. He walks along the countless rows of chairs and picks one at random. He sits down, hands folded neatly above his lap. He can’t recall the last time he’d gone to the movies. He rarely finds the time—too busy being passed around from foster home to foster home, studying and reading to keep himself interesting. Sure, there have been a few instances here and there—deceptively doting foster parents, a day off from school and some spare change in his pocket—but lately…

Akechi frowns at the thought of his father. His true father, who he’d only recently managed to get his hands on. He’s been busy. Too busy to go to the cinema.

(He’s close. So close. All he needs is one final push, one final reason to—)

The movie starts. He yelps. The calming jazz that he’d grown accustomed to is suddenly replaced by…loud static. He hears someone shush him. He looks around. 

The cinema begins to fill. Strange, large, creatures walk in, all clad in suits and ties, whispering excitedly to each other about the wonderful movie they’re about to watch, about the director and the actors and the production and whatnot. Akechi hears several exclamations of ‘did you hear? He’s in it again!’, and ‘ He truly is the best, what a promising young man!’. 

The creatures take up every seat—including the ones on either side of him—their big, black, hulking forms seeming almost transparent up close. 

Each of the creatures takes out a notepad and a pair of glasses. They have teeth, he notes, teeth that grin and jeer and mock. Teeth that clatter, sharp canines that might terrify him if they were facing his way. 

They’re probably film critics , he thinks, with the way they squint at the screen and rapidly note things down.

Then again, Akechi has never actually seen a film critic at work. His preconceived notion of what a film critic looks like is likely highly inaccurate.

The creatures don’t acknowledge him at all. Akechi finds comfort in that. He turns to look at the screen.

He’s surprised to find his own face staring back at him, his eyes glowing a bright shade of yellow. His lips curl up into a smile—it’s that smile he hates, the one that stretches over his face like he’s some Cheshire cat, toothy and gummy and so, so ugly.

(He looks like her , he realizes. He looks like his mother.)

The version of himself on the screen is younger. Maybe about ten years old, give or take.

Akechi grimaces, squirming in his seat. On second thought, he isn’t really sure if he wants to watch this. Around him, he hears the creatures murmur, delighted.

“Hello,” begins the Other Akechi. He never stops smiling. “Thank you for seeing me today.”

It’s that tone. The overly polite one. Just like he’d practiced.

“It’s a good thing you picked me and not someone else. I’ll make it worth it, I promise.”

The Other Akechi goes on a long rant about just how great he is, just how worthy he is. Of what, Akechi isn’t sure. The film critics seem pleased enough, laughing and smiling as they jot things down on their notepads. Their smiles widen when Akechi says something they like; a comment about a history assignment, a witty joke about some book he read. A classic, as always. Something the adults like.

It’s uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. 

But the film critics are delighted, so he continues.

“I’m the best,” he says, “I always get straight A’s, even when I don't study! I’m smart! I’m amazing! So please—”

Suddenly, a black screen. The critics begin to whisper, confused.

Akechi’s eyes widen.

It cuts to a video of a woman. His mother.

“Mama,” he mouths. Around him, the creatures grow restless.

His mother stares at the camera, frowning with something like disappointment. She doesn’t look quite right. Her eyes are a bit too big, her lips a bit too thin. Her hair is too short, or maybe too long—he can’t seem to remember. But all he knows is that that’s not her. Something is wrong.

(Despite her imperfections, this version of his mother still looks like him. It’s undeniable—it’s in the curve of her brow, in the way she stares. It’s there. It will always be there.)

“Goro,” she says, and her voice isn’t right either. “Why do you act like this?”

The critics go silent. He sucks in a breath and—

The world around him warps.

Akechi hears the distant boos of the film critics, but he no longer can see them. He’s in a dark room, all alone. 

And then, a deep, booming voice asks, “Why are you here?” 

He jumps. 

The person scoffs. “Don’t be a pussy, Goro,”

He hears footsteps. They echo in the silent room, growing louder and louder until they eventually stop. Akechi squints, attempting to make out the person’s features. The person who is right in front of him, if their footsteps were anything to go by.

He feels a heavy hand on his shoulder. “It isn’t in your blood.”

Akechi feels his mouth go dry. He steps back, cautious.

“Who are you?” he asks.

The person laughs. Their voice sounds like…

It doesn’t sound like a single voice at all, actually. Rather, it sounds like three separate voices, all speaking at the same time. Akechi isn’t sure what to make of that.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” it says, somewhat gently this time,  “we’re still under construction. Your palace isn't complete yet. You can still be sav—”

“Who are you?” he repeats, more forcefully this time.

“I’m your blood,” it answers, “your flesh.”

It sounds soft, almost familiar. It’s the tone his mother would use on him, impossibly fond and yet laced with something like pity, something inexplicably sad. Apologetic, almost.

He hates it. It makes him feel small.

Akechi rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to be poetic. It’s corny.” he spits. “Who are you, really? Give me a name.”

“I am you.”

“The ‘me’ in that movie?”

“Somewhat, I guess.” Akechi imagines it shrugging. The previous gentleness is gone, now replaced with calculated indifference. 

“What was that?” he asks. “That movie, what was it? And those critics—”

“You’ll understand eventually.” He imagines it waving a hand dismissively. “They don’t like you, you know. They don’t like this side of you. That’s why they boo’d, in the end.”

A beat. 

“Why are you here, Goro?” they ask. Their tone is soft again. Akechi scoffs.

“I don’t know. You brought me here, didn’t you?” he says, bitter. “I didn’t ask for this.”

It’s silent, for a second, and Akechi wonders if they’ve somehow disappeared. 

They haven’t.

“You never answered my question,” they remark.

He frowns, confused. “I just did, didn’t I?”

“Not that one,” it corrects, “Why do you act the way you do, Goro?”

But hadn’t it been his mother who’d asked that? His frown deepens. “What do you mean? I—”

“Are you lonely?” it asks. “Are you afraid that you will lose your identity if others leave you? Is that why you act the way you do? You want to be special, don't you?”

Akechi purses his lips into a thin line. He reaches forward. To do what, he isn’t sure. 

“What?” he manages to croak out. 

It ignores him. “Do you fear being alone? Do you seek your own value in the perception of others? No,” Goro feels a cold breath behind him. He darts around. “That can’t be it. That can’t be all of it.” it laughs—a harsh, unpleasant sound. “What do you want, Goro?”

The chair in the middle of the room creaks. Akechi looks at it for the first time since that person (it? They? The other him?) arrived.

He isn’t surprised to find yet another version of himself on the chair, even younger this time, sitting down and swinging its legs back and forth. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t wince.

“Mama? Are you there?”

It sniffles. Akechi feels sick.

“Mama? I’m lonely. Everyone is so mean to me. Why did you have to go? Why did—”

“Shut up.” he bites. The child does not acknowledge him at all.

“Where are you mama? I made you leave, didn’t I? It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault. I'm just a burden. It's my fault. I made you sad again, didn't I? It's all my fault.”

It looks up, its puffy yellow eyes widening.

“Mama?”

Akechi squeezes his eyes shut. He counts to 10. For the first time, he silently prays that when he opens them, he will be staring at that familiar (albeit unwelcoming) ceiling, alone and waiting, waiting for something to happen.

The person behind him laughs. “Look up, Goro.” It says, and Akechi can’t tell whether he’s speaking to him or to the child. “Can’t you see her? She’s right above you. Watching you, like always.”

Akechi takes deep, steady breaths. He does not open his eyes. He should wake up soon. He will wake up soon.

The child Akechi begins to cry. 

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. He will wake up soon.

“It’s all my fault!”

He will wake up soon.

“I killed her!”

He will wake up soon.

“I killed Mama! I—”

“That’s not true.” 

He hears footsteps once more. They’re heading towards the chair, he realizes. Towards the light, where he’ll be able to see them. He tentatively opens his eyes.

Akechi can’t see their face from this angle, but he feels as though the floor might collapse underneath him if he were to move his legs, so he settles for staring at the back of their head, careful not to let his eyes drift… elsewhere. 

To his mother.

Their hair is a familiar shade of brown, medium length and slightly messy. They walk with slight confidence, a minute puff to their chest, a cocky tilt to their head. When they stop in front of the child Akechi, they lean down, condescending.

“That’s not true,” they repeat. Akechi can practically hear their smirk. “You didn’t kill her.”

The words would have been comforting, had they been spoken in any other way. In a softer, pitying tone, perhaps. Instead, they sound sharp. Matter of fact. Smug, even.

“Look up, Goro.”

And so, Akechi looks up.

His mother’s feet, calloused and worn, dangling from the ceiling just like he remembers. 

It’s funny , he thinks, how his brain can produce such an accurate image of her death, from the cold inertia of her fingers to the slow sway of her lifeless body, yet can get details like the shape of her nose or the way she smiled or the shirt she liked to wear to sleep completely, utterly wrong .

It’s funny.

“That’s not all. Look further up,” it urges, “Go on.”

Akechi ignores the feeling of vomit rising to his throat.

He drags his gaze upwards. Why, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s that foolish hope that once he sees the worst of it, he will finally wake up.

The child Akechi’s sobs fill the room. They’re deafening. Akechi wants to strangle him for being so annoying.

He sees his father, standing tall on a platform. High, high above him, like always. 

The rope wrapped around his mama’s neck snakes around his father’s arm like an obedient pet. 

“I told you, didn’t I? You didn’t kill her.” The person’s arm raises, pointing an accusatory finger at his father. “He did.”

It slowly begins to turn around. Akechi is no longer looking. 

He stares at his father in disgust and hates the familiarity of his features. 

“But look,” and they’re pointing downwards, somewhere far underneath where his father stands, somewhere closer to Akechi himself, “What are those?”

Akechi turns his head. He spots the beginnings of what appears to be a staircase. A singular step, made out of paper. He walks towards it. 

Written on that paper is a string of numbers. 

He recognizes it immediately.

His father’s phone number, that his mother had given him just days before her death with a sad smile and feigned nonchalance. “You can talk to him anytime, you know.” she’d said wistfully, eyes looking elsewhere. “He’ll probably listen to you.”

Akechi hadn’t noticed the tenseness of her shoulders then, the furrow of her brow. He hadn’t noticed how she had been lying through her teeth, holding on to her last bit of hope— him .

He’d tucked the piece of paper in his notebook, nodding. After she died, he took it out, ready to rip it to shreds, when he was suddenly struck with an idea. 

“You can talk to him anytime.”

But Masayoshi Shido was not someone who would accept a mere “hello”. Akechi understood that the moment he clicked on that first article about him. You needed to be someone of interest.

(Or maybe he’d understood that when, with tear streaked cheeks and an aching throat, he’d desperately messaged him from mama’s phone, her lifeless body still dangling from the ceiling, that he was his son, that he needed help, only to be met with a cold, mocking, ‘read’ .)

He lifts his leg, ready to take the first step, when—

He’s abruptly pulled back and thrown to the ground. He grunts, ears ringing.

“Who do you think you are?” they hiss, foot poking at his side. “You don’t deserve that. Not yet.”

They kick him, hard . Just like their voice, it almost feels like three kicks at once. He feels a sharp stab of pain. 

“You can’t even fight back. Look at you,” another kick. Akechi yelps. “Pathetic.”

Do something , he hears, and Akechi wonders if he’s truly lost it. They’re right, you know. Don’t just take it, child.

They scoff. “Are you really going to let me treat you like dirt? And here you thought,” another kick, “That you would be able to handle your father.”

Suddenly, their voice sounds a lot less distorted. Suddenly, the three voices become one, and Akechi hates it, he hates it because he knows that voice. 

Slightly less deep, slightly less rough. Slightly less worn with age. Just as unwelcoming, just as cold. 

They lean down, and for the first time, Akechi manages to catch a glimpse of their face.

He sees himself, and he hates it, hates it because those are his father’s eyes, and that is his father’s cocky, infuriating smirk, and that is his father’s nose, and even though he has his mother’s lips and his mother’s smile and his mother’s pale skin and brown hair and whatnot , there is still something there. Something that undeniably screams Shido . 

You hate it, don’t you? His bastard child, his mirror. It drives you mad.

The voice is different, this time. Akechi doesn’t know how, but this one is slightly more resentful, its words laced with a hatred he isn’t yet ready to confront.

The person stomps their foot on his chest and he groans. 

Look at how they treat you. Poor child.

The first voice is back. It’s soothing, somehow, and Akechi hears a hint of understanding underneath all that pity.

And then, he feels it.

His head feels like splitting, and suddenly he feels pain like never before, and he sees red, he sees a bright, bright blue, he hears something ringing and someone laughing and he sees flashes of black and white and grey and he feels something, feels something burn, his face and his bones and his skin and he can’t help but scream, he can’t help but cry, because the pain —

Lest you do something, says the voice, the rich and powerful shall continue to live their lavish lives…

Akechi begins to wail. His face burns .

…While people like you, my boy, people who have been wronged by society time and time again—

He writhes. The person above him tilts their head in confusion.

—Shall inevitably perish. So do something, child. Pry justice from the greedy hands of the rich. Do not let them take any more from you, a short pause, or from your people.

He glances up at his father.

In tyranny lies only failure, says the voice, Don’t you agree?

Akechi nods. It’s a small, barely-there jerk of his head.

The pain comes to an abrupt halt. For a moment, his vision is obscured. Then, he feels something heavy on his face.

Let us proceed with our contract, then.

He brings his hands up, mind reeling.

I am thou, thou art I. Go seek for justice, though the path do lead thee through theft and murder's grim decree.

The mask on his face itches, aches, and—

“What’s this?” says the person. They dig their heel further into his chest.

Akechi grabs the mask. He rips it off his face slowly, hears the sound of something tearing, feels something within him break. It’s wonderful. 

He hears a name ringing through his mind, and knows that he has to call it if it’s the last thing he does.

“I understand,” he murmurs, heaving himself up from under the person’s foot with surprising strength. They stumble back, shocked.

“I understand,” he repeats, and something within him chuckles with satisfaction, “Robin Hood!”

Robin Hood is beautiful. He glows like the sun in the dark room they’re trapped in, and Akechi looks at the towering form above him with pride. 

The other him chuckles darkly. “Interesting.”

Its limbs begin to contort, morphing into some sort of black sludge. From the sludge emerges a monster, far larger than Akechi himself, staring down at him with a smirk.

“Let’s see what you can do, Goro.”

—

After the fight, Akechi wipes the sweat off of his forehead, panting. He hears the dull thrumming of his heart, and thinks he might grow addicted to this feeling. The adrenaline coursing through his veins, the sting of a new scar on his skin. The aching in his limbs.

He laughs.

The other him stares at him one last time. It gives him a knowing smile before dissolving. 

Somehow, Akechi knows that that won’t be the last of it.

(He looks to the side, eventually, to where the stairs had been. He finds 2 new steps. His father looks at him with interest.)

(Somewhere, a red eye blinks.)

—

A year later, Akechi lies in bed, staring at the ceiling of his new apartment. Something aches in his chest when he thinks about the way his father had looked at him, smirking with thinly veiled amusement. 

Akechi had signed the contract with a shaky hand, desperately hoping that the pleasant smile he’d rehearsed would be enough to hide whatever was brewing underneath it. Anger, joy, relief. Bitterness, as he met his father’s eyes. Pride, when he caught a flicker of recognition behind them. Something else entirely when that recognition was replaced with a vague distrust. With caution.

“It was a pleasure making business with you, Akechi,” he’d said anyway, “I sense immense potential within you.”

Robin scoffs. Akechi’s smile never falters. 

“I’m glad, Shido-san. I look forward to our future deals.”

Shido grins, and it’s painfully familiar. Akechi wonders if he can see it. 

(“You have his nose,” his mama said, combing her hands through his hair. Goro looked at her, head tilting in a silent question. Mama’s lips pressed into a thin line.)

He knows that tomorrow, he will commit his first murder. Mementos is less…unforgiving, now that he’s honed and sharpened Robin’s skills to near perfection. 

Tomorrow, he will be quick and concise. He knows that it will be his first murder. 

Far, far from his last.

—

Akechi knows death well by the time he first steps foot into Shido’s palace.

Death has been kind to him so far, he thinks, granting him favors time and time again by allowing him to be selfish, to take lives that aren’t his to take. 

Shido’s palace is heaven for sinners. It’s the very image of ignorance—a lavish cruise ship in a sea of ruin, blissfully unaware of its surroundings, blissfully unaware of the death that surrounds it. 

Death has been kind to Shido, too.

Akechi swallows the lump in his throat as he walks inside.

It reeks of dirty money. Akechi scrunches his nose in disgust.

Robin Hood’s prince attire blends right in with the rest of the guests, all decked out in their finest suits and ties. Akechi recognizes some of them—politicians, businessmen, sometimes even yakuza. Some he’s only seen on the news, others on the way out of Shido’s office. 

It makes him sick. Everything makes him sick.

They giggle and smile and avert their eyes when he approaches. Akechi presses his ear to a large door and hears Shido’s voice, loud and commanding, and it fills him with rage. 

In the back of his mind, Robin seethes. 

It isn’t enough. Robin’s anger is just. Robin whispers about justice and righteousness and Akechi’s heart aches because his anger is selfish. Akechi wants to strangle Shido with his own bare hands. He wants to make him feel what his mama felt. He wants to see him cower in fear and beg for forgiveness. 

Robin is serene. It isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, when all Akechi wants is to wreak havoc. 

You’re finally ready, boy.  

He feels something stir within him. 

—

Akechi awakens to Loki in a fit of rage. 

He’s fighting shadows—about 6 or 7 of them—when it happens. Robin can’t handle the rapid fire attacks being thrown at him from all sides. He defends, but he lacks the willpower—or maybe just the power —to kill so many enemies at once.

The shadows walk away from him, scoffing. They don’t see the point in killing such a weakling. 

“It’s not like he’ll ever make it to Shido anyway,” one of them says. 

The guests look at him like he’s some zoo animal. They whisper amongst themselves, hiding behind their luxurious fans and their gloved hands. Robin Hood is silent, his anger muted and dull. 

Akechi wants to kill them. He wants to kill every single one of them.

Before then, remarks a voice, and Akechi can practically hear the way it’s smiling, you must learn the art of deceit. 

Akechi thinks of the way his father looked at him—like he could see right through him. Like he was just some dumb child. 

Bring his guard down, then. After all—

His mind reels. He feels it again. 

—Betrayal comes from those who one trusts the most.

What he’d felt all those years ago in that cinema that he’d come to understand was his ‘Palace’ —the physical manifestation of his own ugly, distorted heart. The pain, the throbbing in his head and his life flashing before his eyes. He sees his father’s grin, taunting him, mocking him, and he feels anger coursing through his veins, scorching hot and painful and divine and he loves it, he lives for it, because he can finally—

Hold onto that anger. Let it be your strength. 

He laughs. The mask that appears covers his entire head. He grips it, grinning.

Wreak havoc, boy. Bring chaos to the world. Thus is the nature of the contract I present you with.

“Yes,” he breathes, “I understand.”

It chuckles. I’m glad. 

I am thou, thou art I. Thou who shall bring chaos to the world and drive all men to madness.

Laughter bubbles in his throat as he tears the mask off, and he ignores the way Robin hums with something like disapproval. He laughs, he cackles , and it’s the best he’s ever felt.

“Come to me,” he calls, “Loki!”

The name rolls off his tongue like it’s his own. The guests begin to shriek, scattering all over the place like mice. Akechi laughs when the shadows come back. He laughs when he tears them to shreds. He laughs even as they sing praises to Shido, whose booming voice plays from the overhead speakers like he’s some god . He harnesses his anger and turns it into pure bliss.

He plays with the shadows like they’re his toys. He drives them mad with a wave of his hand, and Loki’s ‘berserk’ feels like the most natural thing in the world. He blinks and suddenly the shadows are wild animals, big, beady, crazed eyes darting around restlessly, snarling and growling and snapping at the guests, transformed into his loyal (albeit feral) guard dogs. 

Akechi lives for this.

(Five new steps, made out of bodies. Shido strokes his chin, amused.)

—

Akechi watches the Phantom Thieves change corrupt, distorted hearts time and time again and foolishly thinks, could they change mine, or am I too far gone?

(Somewhere, in an abandoned, ruined city, a movie theater thrives. Crowds flock to watch the young new detective prince with his kind eyes and his bright smile.)

Akechi wants to be saved.

—

Akira is kind. Akira is charming. He has something about him that attracts people—the right people—like a magnet. He carries himself with nonchalance, but never with indifference. He’s carefree, but never care less . He's genuine, but never overly blunt. 

Akira surrounds himself with friends who care for him and respect him and seem to genuinely like him. Akira is far from perfect, but he transforms his flaws into virtues and encourages those around him to do the same. Akira’s smile can be kind and smug and taunting, but it can never transform into that ugly curve that Akechi sees in men like Shido. That Akechi sees in himself, sometimes.

Akira is good. Akira is great. 

Akira is special. 

Akechi despises him from the bottom of his heart .  

Akechi wants to peel Akira's beautiful layers away one by one to reveal the ugly core that he knows must lie underneath. He wants to see him angry—not with that righteous sort of anger that made him Joker, leader of the Phantom Thieves, stealer of hearts, but with something selfish. Something visceral. Something like Akechi's anger.

Akechi hates the fact that he doesn't understand him.

He really should. They're alike, in a sense; children wronged by society, forced to fend for themselves and made outcasts for the sake of ‘justice’. Children who have every right to be mad, who have every right to seek vengeance.

He doesn't understand how one can see a world so vile, so far gone, so cruel , and still have faith in its ability to change. He envies him, really. He envies that naïve belief he has in second chances. In one's ability to redeem themselves.

Akira will be made a martyr after his death. 

Akechi is far past redemption. 

Akira sways along to the soothing music of Jazz Jin. Akechi balls his hands up into fists and resists the urge to strangle him.

“You like jazz?” he asks, turning to face him. Akechi flashes him one of his most pleasant smiles.

“I do,” he says truthfully, “Well, I enjoy a variety of genres,” he adds, if only for the sake of maintaining that air of relatability that he'd so carefully practiced, “but I find jazz to be my favorite. What about you?”

Akira shrugs. “I don't really listen to music. But yeah, jazz seems great. I like this song.”

He chuckles. “I'm glad. It's one of my favorites as well” conversation comes easily with Akira, he finds, as he looks at him with a curious tilt of his head, “But surely, despite the fact that you, in your own words ‘don't really listen to music’, you have a favorite song, Kurusu-kun?”

He hums. “Well, on the topic of jazz…I guess I really like What A Wonderful World ? The lyrics are nice.”

Akechi laughs; a bright, airy thing. “That's so like you. I can't say I'm surprised.”

Of fucking course Akira's favorite song is about finding beauty in the world. Of course.

Akira looks at him, a flicker of something stupid in his eyes. “Thank you for bringing me here, Akechi.”

He tilts his head. “Are you leaving so soon?”

“No, that's not it,” he corrects, before taking a sip of his drink. “I just wanted to thank you. I like spending time with you.”

(Something gnaws at his chest.)

“I enjoy your company as well, Kurusu-kun,” he replies, and he hates how truthful it sounds.

Akira grins at him warmly. It's disgusting.

“Thanks.”

(Something tugs at his heart.)

"There's really no need to thank me. After all, you have your fair share of friends who I'm sure would share my opinion.”

A beat.

“None quite like you.”

He stares at him, a vague smile on his face. Akechi's eyes widen minutely. 

He thinks of the Phantom Thieves. He thinks of those miserable, hopeless creatures who somehow found home in one another and learned to love again. He thinks of their undying loyalty and of their unbreakable bonds and of their shared kindness and strange, familial love for each other and thinks no, none quite like me.

(Akira's grin never falters. He feels a wave of blood rush to his cheeks.)

He smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes.

(He calls the feeling hatred.)

—

These days, Akechi has been distracted.

It's bad enough that even Shido expressed concern. That, or irritation. Akechi is leaning towards the latter.

So naturally, he decides to clear his mind by doing the one thing that always seemed to calm him down no matter the circumstances.

Target practice.

He had long ago established what he found to be therapeutic. If he needed to ground himself, he'd go to a shooting range and just focus for an hour. He'd block out all the noise around him and focus on the feeling of his finger pressing the trigger slowly, slowly, slowly, and—

Akechi loves the sound of gunshots. He'd never been fazed by it, never been startled. Not even when he was 16 and the gun had still been a foreign object that never quite fit right in his clumsy, childish hands. 

Akechi squeezes his left eye shut. He's using a rifle today. He feels it pressing against his cheek and poking at his shoulder. His finger brushes lightly against the trigger. He breathes. 

The instructor is only here for formality. He watches Akechi silently, occasionally praising him for his flawless aim. He's always been a good shot.

He presses the trigger slowly, slowly, slowly, and squeezes.

He wonders how Akira would look, staring up at the barrel of his gun with those pretty eyes of his. Pupils dilated and completely out of it. His pale skin, painted in beautiful, purple bruises. 

He imagines him panting. The heavy rise and fall of his chest. His mouth, chapped and slightly ajar in a silent plea for help. Akechi would drag the gun across his jaw, trace his features lovingly and coo at him in his final moments. He'd push him to his knees, reducing Joker to a pathetic, whimpering mess. 

He wants to see him ruined.

He would deliver some high and mighty speech, maybe. Watch betrayal and fear color his features. Then, he would chuckle darkly and finally, finally, finally, he would—

“Um, Akechi-kun? You can unload now.”

He blinks. Oh. 

He laughs sheepishly. “My apologies, Nakamoto-san. I'm a bit distracted today.” 

The center of the target is completely hollow, as always.

He presses his finger to the side of the gun. The magazine falls into his hand.

—

Watching the Phantom Thieves in action is fascinating. They operate like a well oiled machine, obediently following Joker's orders with nods and quips and childish high-fives and encouraging words. Akechi silently scoffs.

Sae's palace is on the more elaborate side. They secure the route to the treasure in a day.

“It's all thanks to you,” says Joker, tugging at his glove with a smirk.

He huffs. “Don't exaggerate. I'm just a newcomer, after all.”

Behind them, Skull snorts. Akechi raises an eyebrow from under his mask.

Joker ignores him. “You're a natural.” he states dryly.

Battle is easy, with Akira by his side. It's easy, like everything else is with Akira. Akechi hates it.

“Am I? Well, I'm flattered.”

I hate you, he wants to say. I hate you and your stupid face and I want nothing more but to beat you to the ground and kill you.

Akira bumps shoulders with him teasingly. His smile is genuine. Too genuine.

No one smiles at their murderer. Not with that much fondness.  

—

The wind brushes against his gloveless hand in a cold reminder.

Akira will die, in a few days.

—

Akechi watches his own reflection in the pool of Akira's blood, his expression blank.

He feels a wave of relief. 

It's over. It's finally over.

—

But it's never over with Akira, is it?

It’s never over and Akechi is tired. He's furious and irritated and scared and tired. 

So he lets everything out. He yells out every single ugly truth and the Phantom Thieves stare at him pityingly and murmur sad apologies. Even Haru, even Futaba, even those he's wronged time and time again. He hates their kindness. He hates them.

His eyes remain trained on Akira the entire time, and Akira never looks away. Akira looks—

Akira has that infuriating look in his eyes. It's kind and understanding and sincere and there's something there like love as he watches Akechi blink at him through the shattered visor of his mask with a bitter frown.

He's childish. 

Akechi would die for him.

—

Cognitive Akechi looks just like his mother. Akechi sees his soulless eyes and hears his cold, heartless voice and accepts the fact that he will die with a sad, resigned smile. He spares Joker one last glance.

Akechi is far past redemption.

Sacrifice, perhaps, is the closest thing he'll ever get. 

Akira has to live. Akira belongs to the world. He is their Golden Boy, their savior, and he has to live. Akechi will die for him.

Two gunshots echo throughout the silent engine room. One bullet pierces through him. It does not hurt. 

Akira says something in that foolish, hopeful voice of his:

“I'll hold on to your glove.”

Akechi dies angry and alone and full of regrets and thinks, this is how it should be. 

—

Akechi shouldn't be alive. It doesn't make any sense. 

He doesn't feel alive, either. He feels like a zombie—stiff and lifeless, aimlessly wandering around the streets of Tokyo. His feet bring him to an alley in Yongen-Jaya, somehow. He walks into Leblanc with a frown.

Ever since he woke up on Christmas Eve, he's felt that something was amiss. No matter if Akira and friends had saved the world. Something was wrong again, and what remained of the detective in him was aching to find out what.

Because something must be terribly, terribly wrong if even Akechi managed to find beauty in the world. 

During his walk, he means. Everyone around him seemed…happy. They smiled and laughed and greeted each other on the street with waves and handshakes. Akechi finds it disgustingly pleasant. It makes him want to puke.

Something is wrong.

At the back of his mind, Loki is restless. Robin is cautious. He tells Akechi to ‘ Be careful, boy. Your intuition is right. Something is terribly wrong.’

When he walks into Leblanc and sees a corpse, Akechi understands.

Wakaba Isshiki smiles at him knowingly through thick-rimmed glasses. Akechi blinks at her, grabs Akira's hand, and leaves.

—

“I missed you.” says Akira, after everything.

Akechi huffs. 

Akira wraps his arms around him, pressing him against the cold metal of the washing machine behind him. The laundromat is silent and cozy. They're alone. It's perfect.

A bit too perfect.

“Akira…” he sighs. 

Akira pulls back, looking at him. Akechi sees him blinking back tears. He feels a hesitant hand stroke his cheek, brush his hair back. Akira looks at him, fond.

“You didn't let me talk to you on Christmas Eve,” he says, voice soft, “I had so much I wanted to say. I wanted to spend the entire day with you.”

Akechi scoffs, even as he feels heat rise to his face. “The most romantic day of the year? With me ? What an honour.”

Akira purses his lips, eyes flitting over his face with something hesitant. His hand moves down from his cheek to his jaw, and he caresses it like it's the most natural thing in the world. His eyes dart downwards. He frowns.

Akechi raises an eyebrow. “Akira? Are you alright?”

“I missed you,” he repeats, in lieu of a response.

And then slowly, hesitantly, he moves closer. Akechi momentarily feels a wave of panic wash over him. They can't. 

Everything is perfect in this world. Akechi is supposed to be dead. If he indulges Akira, he will want to stay in this reality and never leave. Akira is sentimental. Too sentimental. Akira falls in love too easily, too fast. Akechi can't, he can't because—

But he wants this. He needs this.

Akira has a big stupid smile on his face. He moves closer still. Akechi doesn't fight it. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. Akechi huffs. 

He should still fight it, no matter what he wants. 

“Akira, we can't.”

Akira is still smiling. He presses another kiss to the opposite corner. “But why not?”

Akechi presses a hand to his chest. Akira giggles, the bastard.

“We just can't. Who knows what—”

Another kiss. To his cheek, this time. 

“Please?”

Akechi looks at him. Akira stares at him with big, puppy eyes, blinking at him through his thick eyelashes. His cheeks are dusted a dark shade of pink, and Akechi can't tell whether it's from the cold or because of him. His lips are glossy and red and he paws at Akechi's coat like some dumb cat. One of his hands rises to cup his cheek, his thumb running over his cheekbone lovingly.

“Please,” he repeats, “Goro?” 

Goro.

Akechi frowns, exasperated. “But why?”

Akira presses a gentle kiss to his nose. “Because,” to his forehead, “I want this,” to his cheek, “I need this,” He scatters 10 feather-light kisses across his face, giggling like a schoolgirl. “And I know you do too.”

He pulls back, smiling at him. “So what'll it be?”

Akechi thinks of Akira. He thinks of the jazz club and of the games of billiards and of the café and of the aquarium and of the TV station and of the interrogation room and of the engine room and of his eyes and his laugh and his lips and his lips and his lips and —

Their mouths press against each other slowly, hesitantly. It's all he's ever wanted. 

Akechi closes his eyes. He deepens the kiss and Akira accepts it, their lips slotting together like it was always meant to be this way, like they were made for one another, somehow. Akechi is wanting. Akechi is hungry. 

Akira makes a desperate noise against his lips and a sick part of Akechi thinks of the interrogation room again. He hums, softly weaving his hands through his messy black hair. 

Eventually, he pulls back with a wet smack. They're both panting. Akira looks at him, eyes wide and mouth stretched into an infuriating grin. 

He moves in for round two.

Akechi stops him with a finger to his chest, lightly pushing him back.“Akira. You don't…you don't want me.”

Akira laughs, breathless. “Sure I do. We just made out.”

He groans. What an asshole. “No, I mean…you know me, Akira. I'm awful. You can't, you—you deserve better.”

Akira's voice drops, replaced with something low and intimate. “But I don't want better, Goro. I want you. ”

Akechi sighs and smashes their lips together without a care in the world.

—

When Maruki explains everything about actualization and his perfect world and whatnot, Akechi understands that he is dead. He's a product of grief. A mere cognition. The missing puzzle piece to make Akira's world perfect.

Akira does not realize this. He kisses him sweetly when no one's looking, blissfully unaware that he's in love with a ghost.

Akechi lets him. 

—

“This isn't ‘trivial’!”

“It is !”

For the first time in his life, Akira is being selfish. Stubborn, too, Akechi thinks with annoyance. He absolutely hates it. It's weird. It isn't like him at all.

But he knows Akira. Better than anyone else, maybe.

Akira, at his core, is not selfish. 

—

Akechi dies satisfied, this time. Akechi dies loved. Akechi—

Akechi just won't die.

—

He's eighteen when he wakes up alone in a dark room. 

He recognizes it. His mother still hangs from the ceiling, the wooden chair still rests obediently underneath her. The staircase, more complete than he remembers. Countless steps made out of countless bodies. Two made out of his personas—Robin Hood and Loki, but never Hereward—and one made out of…

One of the steps is a gun. The one he used to shoot Akira, he recognizes. Wrapped around it are beautiful red roses, their thorns prickly and uninviting. Akechi couldn't step on them even if he tried.

The steps stop short, after that. Akechi looks at the platform.

Shido no longer grins at him tauntingly. The rope around his mother's neck floats aimlessly in the air as if to say, he's gone. 

Instead, there on the platform, reaching out a hand, is Akira.

Akechi does not take it.

—

Akira types Goro Akechi's name in the MetaNav out of pure boredom.

(He does that, sometimes. Never Goro's name, before, but sometimes his mother's, sometimes his father's. Sometimes his elementary school teacher's, or the mean old lady across the street's. It's a weird confirmation that they still exist, even if they haven't talked to him in…a while. 

In fact, he wonders why he still has the MetaNav app. 

You have unfinished business, answered Arsène with a shrug.)

He's surprised to find a hit.

He darts up, gasping. Morgana blinks awake with a groan. 

“What's wrong, Joker? You—oh. Oh God.”

They both stare at his phonescreen, mouths agape. 

First of all, Goro Akechi is…well, to put it simply, M.I.A. Akira hasn't heard of him since February, and the short search they'd conducted when they got out of Maruki's palace had led to no avail.

Second of all—

“I thought the Metaverse was gone!” exclaims Morgana.  

I did too, he thinks, shoulders sagging in relief after months and months of uncertainty. The glove burns a hole in the back of his pocket.

He shrugs, a small smile on his face. “I guess the Phantom Thieves have one final mission, then.”

Morgana gawks at him. “How are you so casual about this?!”

They're lucky, really. If he'd found out about this any later, he'd probably already be in Inaba, and getting the thieves together would've been an absolute nightmare. He still has time. He can still save him.

He grips his phone and bites his lip. Wait for me, Goro. 

He opens his messaging app. No use sugarcoating things.

Joker: I typed Akechi's name in the MetaNav and it was a hit.

Violet: Oh my!

Queen: Oh?

Panther: WHAT???

Skull: fr??????? oh my god bruh

Queen: I assume that you're telling us this because you would like us to steal his heart, correct?

Joker: Yeah. If that's okay with you guys, of course.

Violet: Of course! Akechi-kun is a dear friend after all. I'll admit that I'm glad to hear news of him after all this time. I was beginning to get worried!

Fox: I myself hold no objections. I admittedly am curious to see the inner workings of Akechi-kun's heart.

Skull: you make it sound like we're gonna perform surgery on him or somethin

Skull: anyway, i'm down. i don't see why not

Panther: Yeah I'm good too! I know how important this probably is to you, Akira.

Akira huffs. Ann had always been on the more observant side when it came to these things, for some reason.

He feels Morgana's paw softly tap his shoulder. “It'll be good to have one last mission without the fate of the whole world in our hands,” he says, and Akira absently strokes his chin in thanks. “Quit that! Anyway, I was gonna agree with Lady Ann. I know how much he means to you, even if he isn't some big corrupt politician or god of control or whatever.”

Queen: I'll follow your orders, Akira.

Noir: Although I admit that I am not exactly best of friends with Akechi-kun, I do feel it is my responsibility as one of the Phantom Thieves to help someone in need!

Oracle: ^^^

Akira smiles at his phone. Some things never seem to change.

—

They gather in front of Akechi's apartment building the next afternoon. 

“We'll probably have to rush this mission,” declares Akira, briefly glancing at each and every one of his friends, “Is that alright with everyone?”

There's a collective murmur of agreement. Akira nods, pulling out his phone.

“So we have two keywords; Goro Akechi, and Goro Akechi's apartment. Any clues for the third one?”

Ryuji raises his hand. “Nah, but I've got a question. How do you know the address of Akechi's apartment? I don't remember him mentioning it or anythin’.”

Akira shuts him down with a pointed look. “That's irrelevant.”

Ryuji shrugs. Ann wiggles her eyebrows.

Sumire clears her throat hesitantly. “Um, if I recall correctly, we have to figure out the source of his distortion, correct? Or, more accurately, how he views the world?”

Makoto nods. “Yes. I thought about this overnight, actually, but seeing as Akechi-kun was a minor celebrity and somewhat of a public figure, I believe we should shoot our shots with entertainment-based establishments. My first guess was a TV station.”

Akira's phone vibrates in his hand. He shakes his head. 

Haru hums. “A circus, then? I wouldn't put it past him.”

Another fail.

Ryuji scratches his head. “Uh, it's probably a theater then, right? I mean, it would only make sense,” 

It's a hit. 

The world warps into a familiar mix of black and red. 

—

“Holy shit,” gasps Skull, eyes wide and glued to the building in front of him, “that thing is huge !”

Akira's never seen such a large movie theater before. It’s a stark contrast to the abandoned buildings beside it; it’s bright, colourful, happy, and most of all, crowded. Shadows gather at the entrance, lining up on the sidewalk. They push and shove each other, their excited whispers gathering into one big roar. 

Akira looks around. It's weird, seeing everyone in their thief getup after all this time. It's also strangely comforting.

He looks at his hands.

They're…ungloved.

Panther stares at him, grimacing. “You're not wearing your thief outfit,” she remarks with a vague gesture. Akira examines himself in slight shock, frowning.

Oracle tilts her head in interest. “Oooh. I see,” she sings-songs, tugging at his sleeve, “Doesn't that mean he doesn't see you as a threat, like, at all? That's cute.”

There's a strange, synchronized giggle. Akira flushes bright red. 

Queen clears her throat, ever-serious. “While that is… er…cute,” she starts, eyebrows scrunched up in thought, “Joker not being on the starting lineup poses a slight issue. I doubt that we'd be accustomed to battle without him, which wouldn't be too much of a concern if this were Mementos of a relatively low-level Palace, but…” she looks towards Oracle in a silent question, and Akira glances upward to where Necronomicon floats above them.

“Woah. Yeah, Queen's right. I'm detecting a whole bunch of high-level shadows from inside! Gee, Akechi-kun. How hostile.”

“But,” interjects Fox, “If Joker is not seen as a threat, then we can assume that he's, on the contrary, a source of…security, yes? Akechi-kun trusts him. We have previously seen that certain people can receive special treatment depending on how the palace ruler views them, gaining access to certain areas that would ordinarily be off limits,” he nods towards Haru, “perhaps we can assume that that will be the case with Joker. I suggest that we keep him with us regardless of our circumstances.”

They all turn to him expectantly. 

“It's your call, Joker!” says Mona.

A beat.

Then, Akira nods and walks towards the entrance, gesturing for them to follow him with a wave of his hand. He falls back into Joker's mannerisms with ease, missing only the standard glove-tug that came with his thief outfit. The Phantom Thieves trail behind him with hoots and hollers and ‘glad to be back's. 

At the entrance stands a ticket collector, hands behind his back. He glances at the guests’ tickets and gives them curt nods before ushering them inside. 

Akira takes a deep breath. He may not have a ticket, but maybe, just maybe, with enough confidence he might be able to—

“You're here to see the usual, I assume?” Before he can open his mouth to answer, he finds himself nodding. The shadow huffs. “Come right in. Anything for our most valued customer.”

Akira glances behind him, jerking his head towards the thieves.

“Are they with you?” he nods again. The shadow eyes them suspiciously.

“Fine,” it concedes. “It's not like anyone else wants to see those movies anyway.”

Akira hears someone snort. Beside him, Queen rolls her eyes.

The shadow unhooks a red velvet rope and lightly pushes them inside. From the corner of his eye, he sees another, far more crowded entrance, marked by a sign with a red mask. That doesn't seem to be “his usual”, though. 

The movie theater is practically empty. Shadows exit the cinemas but never seem to enter. They grumble unhappily, all seeming to be complaining about the fact that whatever they'd just watched had—surprisingly so—failed to live up to their expectations. ‘Disappointing,’ they murmur, ‘I expected better from him’ . They leave the cinemas in stampedes. The ground underneath them shakes from the force of their steps.

The thieves walk around the lobby area, occasionally stopping to gather some loot or to fight a weak shadow. 

Eventually, he feels Mona tap his leg with a rolled up piece of paper. “Joker! I found a map!”

Before he can do anything, Oracle snatches it from his hands. She examines it, squinting from underneath her mask. “The palace doesn't seem to be that big,” she remarks before turning it over, “But I don't think that this map covers the entire thing. I'm sensing something underneath us. Um…a room of some sort?” she grimaces, “Yeah, I think that it's just…a big, empty room. The treasure's probably somewhere down there.”

Mona presses his face to the ground, oblivious to Panther's outraged ‘ ew!’ . “Yeah, Oracle's right. There's definitely something down there. The only question is how we're meant to get to it.”

Violet hums. She walks towards one of the empty cinemas, pushing the door open and peering inside before turning towards the rest of the Thieves. “A movie's about to show. Maybe we could gather clues by watching,” she suggests.

Nobody seems to protest. Akira gives her a thumbs-up. He follows her into the cinema, hands resting in his pockets and back arched forward in a casual slouch. No reason to get all tense, he decides.

The Phantom Thieves end up filling up an entire row of seats. Oracle floats comfortably above them, Necronomicon casting a medium sized shadow overhead.  

The screen plays a countdown. At 4, the room begins to fill up with shadows. Beside him, Skull's eyes widen in a brief moment of panic, no doubt wondering whether they’ll have to fight. When he realizes that they don’t seem to be hostile, his shoulders sag in relief. At 3, the shadows take their seats, reading the assortment of numbers and letters on their tickets and squinting through the dark to find their corresponding seats. At 2, they take out notepads and pens, and Akira realizes what they’re here for. At 1, their excited murmurs come to an abrupt halt, replaced with expectant looks and tight grips on their pens.

At 0, the movie begins.

Akira looks at the child in front of him and something within him aches. 

Goro praises himself desperately, bright yellow eyes blinking at someone beyond the screen. He compliments himself in a breathless, trembling voice, his false, put-on confidence still flawed with childish inexperience. Akira sees flashes of Goro of today, the smiling detective prince, charming and witty. 

It saddens him. 

Akira doesn’t flinch when the screen cuts to black. Nor when he sees a woman with Goro’s most beautiful features, her eyes two sad crescents, staring at Goro questioningly. Nor when the shadows let out outraged yells, rising from their seats and booing as they walk out the entrance.

But when Goro, fifteen years old and trembling like a leaf, appears in a dark room and looks at the screen like a deer in headlights, Akira flinches. 

Unlike the rest of them, Goro awakens to his persona completely alone. Goro is young and afraid and he aches with anger and resentment and hatred and most of all, loneliness. 

The thieves shift uncomfortably in their seats. 

Akira thinks back to the engine room.

“If only we’d met a few years earlier.”

If we had , he wants to say, I would have been there for this. I would have been there for you.

I'm sorry, Goro.

There's a flicker of the Black Mask, for a split second. After the battle's ended. Goro pants, elated. He brings a hand up to his face, a fresh scar slicing through his skin, and grins. It's the most genuine thing he's ever shown. It strikes fear in the remaining of the shadows, who quickly scurry away.

The movie ends when Goro collapses.

Akira's gaze drifts to where his friends are sitting. He takes in their expressions—some angry, some shocked, some pitying, but none understanding. 

No one could ever truly understand Goro Akechi, after all. Not to their fullest. All of them were lucky enough to have been saved at the right time, by the right people. All of them had the luxury of being the heroes of their own stories. None of them had been forcibly thrust into the role of the villain at just sixteen. 

None of them ever truly understood him. 

But Akira will always, always try.

A title card appears on the dark screen. Written in big, cursive letters is the word “Wrath”.

The Phantom Thieves walk out of the cinema in complete silence. Akira can feel their eyes burning holes in the back of his head. He pays them no mind and casually strolls into the second cinema, taking a seat near one of the fire exits. Just in case. 

The second movie is Goro's awakening to Loki, just as he'd expected it would be. This time, the shadows all seem to leave within the first ten minutes.

It's titled “Deceit”. It ends with a shot of Goro's back, his shoulders shaking with manic laughter. 

The third movie is titled “Apathy”. Unlike the other two, it's rather simple. A montage of blurry faces, an old song playing in the background. What A Wonderful World, he recognizes, thinking back to that conversation they'd had at the jazz club. Akechi had given him a distant, far-off look back then, and Akira had ached with a want to know what hid underneath that placid expression, that vague smile. 

(He knows, now. He knows, and he loves him all the same.)

The montage quickens and the faces blur together. Akira recognizes some of them. From the news, mostly. Victims of the mental shutdown incidents from back when he'd first arrived in Tokyo. Shido's rival politicians. Haru's father, for a split second.

“Apathy”, It reads again, when the montage stops short after a while, replaced with a static screen. 

“Apathy” it reads, but Akira understands that behind it lies “Guilt”. 

(Had Goro stopped feeling guilty, or had there been too many victims to count?)

Akira stands up, ready to exit when suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he sees something move.

He looks at the screen. 

His own hair, messier than usual. His glassy eyes, a darker shade of grey than usual, no longer hiding behind a fake pair of glasses. Bruises paint his skin shades of dark purple and blue. 

Somehow, he looks gorgeous. Undeniably so. So that's how Goro saw him, huh.

A bright red target is painted on the center of his head in shaky, uncertain lines. 

“Apathy”, it reads again.

The music begins to fade.

Akira tears his gaze away from the screen, draws a ragged breath, and walks out of the cinema.

—

At the end of the 6th movie, the thieves gather at the lobby area while waiting for the 7th and final movie to begin.

The fourth movie was titled “Pride”. Similarly to the one before it, it was a simple montage with music playing in the background. Smiling faces holding up papers with five-star reviews or witty one liners about how amazing Goro is. TV station hosts. Teenage fangirls. All praised the detective prince with cheerful grins. Goro saw himself as a product to sell, not as a person. Eventually, though—because there's always some sort of twist with Goro, he realizes, there's always some weird catch—the faces seemed to morph into one. Eyes and mouths and noses aligned to create something familiar, and Akira hated how for a moment he wondered whether those blurry features were those of Goro or of Shido. “As expected,” read the review. Shido donned a satisfied smirk. Akira dug his fingernails into his palms.

The fifth movie, “Greed,” serves as a second part to “Pride”. It's one of the tamer ones. It doesn't make his stomach churn like the others.

“Grief” was Goro at his most vulnerable. 

At first, it showed a regular morning for him; he begrudgingly got up, washed his face, and applied some sun screen before preparing himself breakfast. Something simple. Bread and butter. He didn't have time for anything elaborate. He glanced at the remote, contemplating whether or not to watch the news that day. He decided not to. He ate in complete silence, with only his thoughts to keep him company. 

The scene would have been mundane enough, had it not been for that strange, uncomfortable feeling one got while watching it. It felt…lonely. Pitiful, almost.

Because alone in his soulless apartment, Goro looked painfully like a kid.

Suddenly, he froze. He looked at his bread accusingly, like it had just said something to him that he somehow found offensive. Like he had just been reminded of something he wanted to forget.

And then, Goro began to cry.

Akira mentally prepares himself for the 7th movie.

They haven't had to fight a single strong shadow so far, despite the readings Oracle had picked up on at the entrance. Akira breathes a small sigh of relief. It seems that his presence did carry some advantages after all. 

There's a weird lump in his throat that he can't seem to get rid of. And his lower lip may tremble and his vision might blur with unshed tears, but when he turns to look at the Phantom Thieves, he puffs his chest up and holds his chin high and allows himself to be Joker, if only for a minute. 

(More for himself than for them, if he's being honest.)

“So,” he begins, “The next movie is likely going to be the last one. If Violet's theory is anything to go by, then It's possible that we'll have to confront Akechi's shadow after this. That, or explore a whole new area of the palace. Is that okay with everyone, or should we call it a day?”

A general hum of approval, a low buzz of perseverance. Akira nods. When he walks inside of the cinema, the rest follow, their feet gently padding through the red velvet carpeting.

The seventh movie is titled “Envy”.

All his life, Goro Akechi had strived to be better . The best, even. If not as a person, then as a student, and if not as a student, then as a friend, and if not as a friend, then as a son, and so on, so forth. Goro Akechi had to be the very best if he wanted to be acknowledged. That's just how the world works.

He needed to be special. 

But Goro wasn't born special. He didn't have the privilege of having been born with that “je ne sais quoi”, that certain something that made people special . 

And then, one fateful day, he'd been chosen by some god and given some sort of power. With said power came fame, with fame came acknowledgment, and Goro had finally, finally , felt special.

But then Akira came along, and Goro hated him.

Akira watches Goro hate him. 

It's ugly. It's bitter. It's childish and petty and violent. 

And despite it all, Akira is sick and twisted or maybe just stubborn enough to still somehow love him.

At the end of the movie, Goro looks directly at the screen—directly at Akira ,—for the very first time and says, “despite all this, you stayed?”.

The world around him warps. He hears the distant, panicked calls of his friends.

Akira finds himself in a dark room.

When he sees a wooden chair being lit up by a spotlight, he darts up.

“Goro?” he calls. 

—

Akechi is not sane.

Akechi has been stuck in this dark room for who knows how long, and he's beginning to lose it. Or maybe he's already lost it, who knows. Who knows.

Akechi hates it, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He's dead. He no longer exists in the real world, he barely exists in his own palace. It's how things are meant to be. Goro Akechi is unimportant. He's a rotting corpse. No one cares for him. He is empty. He will die here.

Akechi always knew he would die alone.

So why, he wonders, why am I still breathing? 

Amidst the total darkness of the only world he now knows, one thing remains radiant. 

A blinding light in front of him, holding him in place, shackling him to the realm of the living and never letting him go. It embraces him in its loving arms and tells him to hold on. It whispers two words; “ one day… ”, it starts, and the sentence is never quite finished, never quite complete. One day. One day. One day.

The light is hope. The light is love. The light is beautiful and radiant and warm. Akechi wants to grab it and keep it for himself, to never let anyone see the light because he wants something that's his and his alone. 

One day…

But it isn't his. Just as the sun isn't his and the stars aren't his, it isn't his. It's a shared beauty, and that makes it all the more beautiful. It takes the love of the entire world and gives some to him, to Akechi, as if Akechi is not the very image of sin itself, as if Akechi isn't trapped in the ugliness of his own heart. “One day,” it says, and Akechi wants to understand it. 

The light takes the form of a seventeen year old boy, sometimes. 

Kurusu Akira. 

A mix of emotions brew within Akechi—hatred, resentment, longing, envy, love, understanding, want. “One day,” says Akira, hand stretched out, reaching towards him invitingly. Akechi does not take it.

He does not understand how someone so ordinary can change him so much. How the very thought of him keeps him alive. He doesn't understand it, but he wants to.

One day , it says. 

I will…

Akechi blinks. One day, I will. One day, I will. One day—

“Goro?”

—

“Leave him.”

Akira turns around. The voice sounds like Goro's, but it's laced with an uncharacteristic bitterness. A bite that had only ever been directed at someone who was never fully there to hear it. 

“Leave him, Akira. He doesn't deserve you.” 

He purses his lips. “Where is he?” 

“This is how it's meant to be. You'll forget about him soon enough. He's awful, Akira. He—”

“Where is he?”

“Didn't you see that movie? He hates you. You deserve better. Go, Akira. You'll be stuck here forever if you choose to stay with him. He'll trap you here and—”

“Shut up. Where is he?”

When the shadow doesn't respond, Akira begins to run. To where, he isn't sure. But he knows he has to. He has to run. He has to move. He has to find Goro. 

His footsteps echo. He hears a mirthless, dry laugh in the distance.

And then, a few steps ahead of him, he sees him.

Goro.

“Goro! I—”

Goro turns around. His eyes are empty and soulless. He's wearing his prince outfit, Robin Hood's familiar red mask obscuring a part of his face. 

This isn't Goro, he realizes, this isn't—

“Joker?” says the shadow, tilting its head playfully, “Are you alright?”

He opens his mouth—to say what, he isn't quite sure—when he feels a clawed hand grip his shoulder.

He darts around.

The Black Mask stares back at him, shoulders squared, tense, as if preparing for a fight.

“You should leave,” it says.

Akira shakes his head furiously. “No,” he rasps out. 

He feels the impact of a fist on his cheek. 

“I hate you,” says the shadow, “I despise you, Joker.” 

Another hit. He raises his hands to defend himself, reaches for his face in an attempt to tear off a mask that isn't there. The shadow scoffs. 

“Look at you,” it says, punctuating each word with another punch, “You look amazing. I've always wanted to,” a kick, this time. Akira groans. “do this.”

Robin Hood Akechi tsk 's disapprovingly. “That's not right. This is hardly fair, is it? His usual strength is admirable, after all. The odds are uneven.”

Robin Hood walks up to him, smiling pleasantly. “But you know, Joker, he's right. We are beyond salvation. You need to leave.”

“I won't,” he grits out, “I won't leave this place without Goro.”

The shadow shakes its head pityingly. “What a shame. You could never win this fight, you know. We lack the willpower to continue. That's why this place,” it makes a vague gesture, “exists, after all. Goro Akechi sees himself as an actor—which I'm sure you've figured out already—and while yes, that is the primary source of his distortion,” its smile widens “Goro Akechi, at his very core, feels empty.” 

Akira makes a face. “Why are you telling me this? Where is Goro?” he asks.

The shadow ignores him. “This place disappeared for a bit, you know. When he thought he'd finally found purpose. Meaning. At the peak of his fame, before you came along. But then you,” it presses a gloved finger to his chest, a painfully familiar motion, “came along, and you ruined everything. We were perfectly content with living an empty life until you came along. You made us think we deserved you.”

“You do,” he yells, “Goro, you're—”

“After you stole Maruki's heart, we found ourselves without a place to go. The detective prince had been forgotten. Shido had been defeated. The world was back to how it always should have been. Goro Akechi had no place anywhere. He's an awful person. So—”

“Where is Akechi?!”

The shadow scoffs. “Leave him alone, Akira. He's a lost cause. A shadow is a product of a person's cognition, yes? I am a part of him. I speak for us all when I say I don't want you here. Go back. You're so much better than him.”

“I'm not. We're rivals. He said so himself. And,” he raises his voice when he sees the shadow open its mouth again, “I don't care if a part of him will always hate me. I don't care if he thinks he isn't ‘special’ or something just because the whole world no longer knows his name. He's special to me. He's special to someone, and that's all that matters. And if he thinks that that doesn't matter, then I'll make him feel how much I love him, how much I value him every single day. But what I won't let him do,” his voice begins to shake. He ignores it. “is put me on a pedestal. We're equals,” he pulls something out of his pocket, its leather warm and familiar. Goro's glove, after all this time. 

“Isn't this proof of that?”

The shadow's eyes are wide, its mouth slightly ajar.

He feels something bump against his leg.

Another Goro. Around six, seven years old, looking at Akira with starry eyes. He grips a toy ray gun with one hand, the strap of his school bag with another. 

“Why are you crying?” he asks.

Akira kneels down to look at him. His lips curl up to form a wobbly smile.  

“I'm sorry, Goro.” 

—

And suddenly, Akechi hears him.

He reaches towards the light.

Akira.

—

Something drops out of the shadow's school bag. 

—

He reaches.

—

The shadow grabs it with its chubby hands. It's a small digital camera. He looks at it curiously.

—

He reaches and reaches and reaches.

—

“Take it,” it says, handing it to Akira with slight reluctance, “I don't need it anyway.”

Akira allows himself a small gasp.

He smiles, and it's real.

—

Finally, finally, Akechi takes—

—

Akira takes—

—

—his hand—

—

—his treasure—

—

—and suddenly—

—

—and suddenly—

—

Akira.

—

“Goro?”

—

Akechi wakes up in his apartment in a cold sweat. 

Akira.

Akira saved him, changed his heart, somehow, and Goro doesn't know how he knows but he just knows, he just knows because—

A frantic banging at his door. A muffled voice, calling his name. Akechi rushes to open it, stumbling over his own feet in the process. He feels blood rush through his limbs for the first time in months. Akechi isn't better, not yet, not exactly, but his heart swells with the hope that one day, one day, he will be. One day, he will see the world as Akira sees it; as something beautiful.

He twists the doorknob, smiling.