Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Kira was no stranger to having blood on his hands. His life was a series of definitive constants—he woke up at the same time, left at the same time, got on the train at the same time, and worked from dawn until dusk without fail. There were only so many surprises he would get that would interrupt his schedule, his nature. Blood was not one of them. It did not surprise him in the least. He had new patients daily, and their insides becoming outsides was one of the consequences of that. 

The blood on his hands now did not belong to a patient, though. There was no mask to cover the stench, either, so it would not go away, no matter how many times he tried to scrub off the droplets that were likely staining his cheeks. Med school had ingrained it into his head to keep his hands away from his face at all times, but Kira couldn’t stop himself. It was not a patient who stained his hands, this time. 

“This is far enough,” in the seat behind him, Masaki gripped the leather so tight they squeaked beneath his hands. Though he leaned forward and was up in Kira’s business, his head was tilted down, gazing intently on the feverish lump slumped into Kira’s side. “If we stop here–”

“We’ll be eaten alive,” Kira sighed.

“Then we can help him,” Masaki hissed. Kira did not need to glance up to know his face was likely twisting up the way it did when he was overly worried. It was easy to note the high-pitched panic in his voice, too. “He won’t make it all the way to the entrance. Not like this.” 

Motoha pushed herself up, too, just to lean over the seat and Masaki both. “Don’t say that. Don’t say anymore! He’ll be just fine.”

There was enough blood crusting the seats for those words to be nothing more than baseless hope. Kira still found himself wanting to believe in them, though. He pushed the accelerator pedal down further, ignoring Lufel’s squawk and the accompanying lurch of the car. 

“Just ahead,” with a tap to his shoulder, Miyu leaned forward, too, because none of the children in his car could even fathom what a seatbelt was. “Keep following the tracks on the left. There will be a safe room just a little further in!”

Just a little further was too far for them to bear. At his side, Nagisa let out a shuddering breath. 

Kira swerved to the side at Miyu’s instruction. He did not pay much attention to Lufel’s petty squawking regularly, but it combined with the gnawing urgency in his gut, and the blood sticking to his hands was beginning to irritate him. It must have shown from afar, too, because the Shadows ahead of them began to shiver and run. They made it easy for Kira to speed ahead with only a little need for theatrics. 

Nagisa’s head fell from the cushion behind them to Kira’s shoulder, popping Kira’s personal bubble entirely. His words were muffled when he finally managed to speak. “Y’re gonna get us ‘nto an accident.”

The way he spoke was simple enough for Kira to tighten his fists around the steering wheel. Improper pronunciation, slurring words, and trailing off sentences were three messy symptoms to pair together. A concussion, if the cut on his head was any indication, but it was more than likely due to blood loss. The blood sticking to their clothes and the leather seats was as much of an indication as any. 

“Cherish, check his pulse,” Kira said. It was unfortunate he couldn’t do so himself, but he was having enough trouble avoiding the Shadows that lurked along the tracks. 

Without even so much as a breath, Masaki moved to pull Nagisa back, gloves already discarded to cradle his head in his hands. One day, these kids would drop their dramatics. At least they’d bothered to pay attention to Kira’s lessons in first aid.

Hand-glued to Nagisa’s neck, Masaki started mumbling off a bunch of numbers Kira didn’t bother to follow along with. “130… he’s cold, too.” 

Shivering, as well, worse than a newborn deer. 

“Mm… no… it's hot,” he mumbled, pulling himself away to fall back against the seat. 

The patients in the trauma center arrived from emergency response vehicles often. It was a daily occurrence, really, for him to leave the clinic and be pulled into the ER. Blood loss was not easy to fix, even within the range of a fully staffed hospital. Transfusions could be arranged, and solids to aid in the body's production of blood cells. Nagisa did not have this luxury.

“Is that bad…?” Motoha asked, scooting closer, enough that it almost felt like the car was beginning to tip to one side. Kira bit back a scoff when it made him swerve again. 

“Sit down,” he said. In the front mirror, he watched as she did no such thing. 

Kira felt the blood spatter onto his coat the moment he heard the cough. Nagisa paired with it a sickening laugh. “Couldn’t’ve gotten a license b’fore drivin’ us into a wall…?”

If they hadn’t been in such a rush to escape Shimotsuna’s Palace, Kira wouldn’t be spending half his time on the road glancing down at something other than his side mirrors. That damn woman nearly buried them beneath a thousand tons of rubble, because striking Nagisa with a killing blow obviously hadn’t been enough. 

“Be quiet,” Kira said. He didn’t have a license, but that was hardly the point. If he had been driving like this in the real world, any license of his certainly wouldn’t have been his for much longer. “Distract me any further, and I might just kill us both.” 

Nagisa laughed at that, too, but it was not a sound anyone would be happy to hear. Amusement was interrupted by the sound of him choking on his own blood. It was as awful as it was horrific. In the distorted reflections of them against the windshield, Nagisa looked no different than a corpse. 

The station was just ahead of them. Kira had a hard time being thankful for it when it took so long to get there to begin with, but at least there were no longer any Shadows on their tail. He pulled over quickly and with much less care than he was willing to admit.

He barely got the chance to open the door and take a step out before Masaki was pushing him to the side to pull Nagisa into his arms. It would have made him scoff if Nagisa hadn’t been completely limp when he was pulled from the van. He was taller than most kids his age, but like this, it was hard to see at all. 

Miyu stumbled after them quickly enough to nearly fall face-first into the platform below. Neither he nor Motoha had been able to move to catch her, but she didn’t seem to care all that much, anyway, racing after Masaki with nothing but a shake of her head. 

It was difficult to see in Mementos, but there were blood trails along the tracks. Splashes of it that had fallen from Nagisa’s side, and the footsteps of Masaki that followed suit. Motoha’s eyes would not leave them as she walked, head down, shoulders raised, and Lufel was no better, even as he acted like he was. The owl’s eyes drifted to and from the tracks he followed, but his head was held high. Kira tried not to stare at the blood on his wings and the side of his face as he closed up the rear. 

By the time Kira made his way to the top of the platform, Nagisa had been set down on the floor, where he was now writhing underneath the hand pressed tight against his abdomen. Kira was surprised he still had the energy in him to move at all, but that did not mean seeing him scrape his nails against cement was comforting. The coughs Nagisa let out, and the scream that died in his throat was even worse to bear. Kira’s knees burned as they scraped against the floor in his haste to make sure Masaki was not causing any further damage. 

“Cattle, you have healing spells, don’t you?” Motoha asked, her voice so rushed it was a miracle any of them could understand her at all. “Can’t you just–”

Lufel shut her down with nothing but a shake of his head. “I have already tried. Regrettably, I’ve… already done all I can.”

It wasn’t what any of them had wanted to hear. Lufel was their medical support, and, in the rare moments they needed it, Nagisa was the one who performed miracles. So in the event neither of them was able to perform their duties, the rest of them turned to Kira. 

Three pairs of eyes looked towards him expectantly. It hit him, then, just how young they really were. Kira pursed his lips, turning his gaze back down. 

Nagisa was lying with his eyes squinted shut, face twisted in a way that was not unlike the patients Kira would find in the ICU. If it was not evident in his face the amount of pain he was experiencing, his body would have given it away. One hand was gripping Masaki’s wrist as if to pry him away, and the other was clawing at the ground so furiously that the fabric at the tips of his fingers was beginning to fray. A single movement from Masaki made him throw his head back and attempt to scramble away. 

The cut on his head had healed. Unmarred skin was coated in drying blood. The cuts that ran along his face had healed, and so had the ones along his arms. His wrist was no longer fractured, either, if the shape and form of his arm were any indication. All that remained was the gaping hole beneath Masaki’s hands. 

Kira ripped off his gloves, wasting no time as he pushed back the ruined remains of Nagisa’s coat to check his pulse. His hands must have been too cold—Nagisa whined at the touch, before leaning into Kira’s hand. 

His heartbeat might have been as rapid as Kira’s own. It was more routine than necessary to check at all, nor was it reassuring. Nagisa’s pulse had gone up since the ride over, and his skin was clammy and cold. His eyes fluttered when Kira moved away, but he otherwise didn’t make a sound. 

“What do we do?” Masaki whispered. He had been determined up until now. Resolute. Whatever he was using to hold himself together was beginning to fray.

They only had so many options. Kira pulled off his mask. “Everything we can. Keep pressure on his chest until I say so.” 

Masaki gave him the barest of nods. When Nagisa flinched and tried to move away, Masaki held firm. He started whispering reassurances into his ear, despite how little that would do to ease the pain.

Kira started pulling out what few supplies he had left before he could finish the thought. They were almost completely out of medicine—there was nothing left for pain relief, but they had a single revival bead, if it came down to it. Kira would be damned if he ended up needing the thing, but it was there, and that lessened the weight on his shoulders. 

Most of what was left in his pocket was bandages—one of the only things they couldn’t use directly in battle. It benefited them now, at least. Kira threw them down, ripping off his other glove and pushing up his sleeves to the best of his ability. Blood might have been a hazard, but there was nothing sanitary about a pair of thick gloves that were covered in sweat and grime. Kira would deal with the consequences as they came. 

With little instruction, Kira pried Masaki’s hands away with one hand, the other moving to Nagisa’s back to see if there was an exit wound. Blood stained his hands, but his fingers were met with solid flesh and an untorn suit. The breath he let out could only have been a sigh. Nothing about this was relieving in the slightest. 

Nagisa whined at the touch, regardless. “Stop– stop. Please. It hurts. I’ll–” a cough, bloodied and ending with gasps for air, “I’ll… I’ll be fine, just stop–”

“Hush,” Kira said. “Don’t bother speaking.” 

The wound was difficult to see in the low light of Mementos. He mourned his flashlight, but he would make do with what he had. 

When he peeled back the remains of the coat, Nagisa let out another gasp, squirming in Masaki’s hold. Kira barely spared him a glance, even as his stomach churned at the sound. He prided himself on his knowledge and expertise, but he had never operated on someone who hadn’t been sedated before. Every gasp and whine and cry for him to stop made Kira’s hands shake further, no matter how hard he pushed his teeth together or clenched his fists. 

The wound wasn’t the worst Kira had seen, at least. The size had diminished since Shimotsuna’s Palace—that must have been Lufel’s handiwork, despite it not healing entirely. Nothing could be said about any internal injuries, though. That was what terrified him; Kira had no equipment while outside of the hospital, and certainly nothing that would be of any use while in the Metaverse. If he was bleeding internally, he had no way of knowing. And that must have been the case, because Nagisa’s breathing was once again interrupted with a round of wet coughs. 

“You can do something, right…?” Miyu’s voice knocked him out of his thoughts, even though she had been so quiet he almost didn’t catch what she had said. She sniffled, loud and messy to match how watery her voice sounded. “Messa, you can help him, right? He’s in so much pain, I…” 

There was only so much they could do. They didn’t have any materials for stitching or sutures. The bandages he held might not even be enough to cover his chest. Kira pulled back Nagisa’s coat, anyway, using his blade to cut through the leather surrounding the wound. 

They didn’t have enough time to think or to consider their options. If he packed the wound, it would at least stop the bleeding somewhat. Nagisa had lost enough of it as it were; the knees of his pants were soaked through, and none of the others were doing much better. So he got to work, folding the bandages tightly and pressing them down on Nagisa’s injury.

“Stop! Stop, please,” Nagisa grabbed onto his wrist. It was hardly tight enough to even describe it as such, but Kira couldn’t find the strength to pull away. 

He met Nagisa’s eyes, as faded as they were. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. But if we’re going to get you out of here, you have to bear with it.” 

“Tell… tell me,” Nagisa said. His grip was already going slack, even as he attempted to dig his fingers into Kira’s skin. “If you… if you can do this… what are my chances?” 

Getting out of the Metaverse unscathed would be impossible. They were all wounded and exhausted, and that was without adding a critically injured teammate into the mix. There was no telling how long it would take to leave Mementos, let alone get him to the hospital. In all likelihood, if Nagisa’s health continued to deteriorate, he wouldn’t make it off the platform. 

Kira spoke before he could think about it further. “You’re going to be fine–”

“Kira,” Nagisa whispered. “What… are my chances?”

The wound was too big for a tourniquet. They might not even have enough bandages left to pack it properly, let alone covering it. Anything else they used would disappear the moment they stepped back into the real world. Cauterization would only do more damage, and the possibility of him dying from infection would increase by the second. 

“We’re getting you out of here,” Masaki said. His thumb caressed Nagisa’s cheek, wiping away his tears. “Messa. Tell him we’re getting him out of here. Please.” 

Motoha said something in agreement, but Kira did not hear her. His head was buzzing, blood rushing through his ears. The bandages he’d fished out sat abandoned in front of him. Ultimately, he knew they would be useless; there was only so much a few pieces of cloth could do to heal such a wound. But if he focused, if he did the one thing he had trained his whole life for, then maybe…

“It's… okay, Masaki,” Nagisa mumbled. “It's okay. ‘M okay.” 

Kira closed his eyes. Just for a moment. 

“Don’t speak like that,” Masaki said, though it sounded more like he was begging. “We aren’t going to give up on you. I will allow no such thing.”

Nagisa hummed. When Kira dared to look again, his eyes had fallen shut, and his mouth barely moved as he spoke. “Mm. I know.” 

Without their Persona’s, the distance would kill him. They needed thirty minutes, an hour. Nagisa did not have seconds. Even in Mementos, there was only so much first aid and field medicine could do. Cognitions could shift and change as much as they liked, but they could not save him here. 

There was nothing he could do. Kira swallowed back something bitter, letting his hands fall to his lap. 

“...You’ll be fine,” Kira said, though the words felt like ash in his mouth. 

It was not meant to be reassuring. Kira was not sure he was capable of such softness. 

Nagisa’s head fell to the side, eyes blinking open lazily. He laughed, the blood staining his teeth as his laughter turned into a cough. “Yeah?”

Kira had fought tooth and nail to get here. He had watched Nagisa get cut open and scream and fall to the ground without another sound. When Masaki had moved to defend, Kira had been the one to pull Nagisa up and drag him to safety. The Shadows that attempted to stop him had disappeared in an instant. The same could be said for their hasty retreat—not even Shimotsuna’s Shadow had stood a chance against Motoha’s judgement. Nagisa had been limp before they stepped foot out of the Palace. 

There were blisters on Kira’s palms from how tightly he had held his blades. The joints of his fingers ached from how he’d refused to put them down, from how long he had kept his back to Nagisa’s body, as a sword and shield both. When something had gotten too close, Kira was not ashamed to admit he had gnashed his teeth and snarled, no better than an animal. The blood staining his clothes was not just Nagisa’s, but his own. He’d driven halfway across Mementos with the sole hope he could do anything to save the person before him. Even as Shadows pestered them from both sides and his body began to ache from exertion—he had fought tooth and nail. 

It might have been for nothing. Nagisa blinked up at him, slow and unsteady. 

“You’re a bad liar, Kira,” he breathed. 

Kira shut his eyes. The emotion climbing up his throat was overwhelming. 

He did not find himself praying often. Since moving out of his parents' home, the thought rarely crossed his mind at all. But he could not help himself from settling back into the old habit, his head falling forward. 

As a child, his parents had never told him what he was meant to do, what he was meant to say. It often meant he was left uttering absolutely nothing, staring at the floor while he wondered what he could possibly want or say. Even the most basic desires escaped him. 

In front of Nagisa, waiting until he finally took his last breath, Kira felt the same here as he did then. He couldn’t get his tongue to move or for any words to leave his throat. Instead, he found himself repeating the same thought. Please. 

“No,” Masaki shook his head. The fingers pressed to Nagisa’s chest pushed down further, heedless to the pained gasp he let out in response. Similarly, the hand cradling his head brought him closer to Masaki’s chest. “He means it. You’ll be fine. I swear it. On my life, we will get you out of here! I will not accept any other answer!”

Motoha looked between Nagisa and the subway behind them. Where it stretched, and stretched, and stretched miles beyond them. Her voice sounded almost unrecognizable. “If we leave now–”

“He won’t make it,” Kira murmured. 

He studied Nagisa’s face, his half-lidded eyes. His skin was growing paler and paler by the minute. A perfect match to the shallow breaths he took, where there was no longer any visible rise and fall to his chest. The blood on Nagisa’s coat was hard to see through the leather, but the blood staining his lips and his teeth was more than clear enough. Kira looked away. 

Nagisa’s head fell into Masaki’s chest, his mouth opening to mumble something unintelligible. At their side, Miyu scooted closer, hesitantly reaching out an arm before she yanked it back. Kira could not tell what was going through her head—she might have been going into shock, maybe, if the tremble of her arms and her pale face were any indication. He could not blame her. They were too young to know what death looked like. 

In Mementos, there was no medicine and no sedatives. Harpyia was not made to aid others. His hands could only do so much healing, even with the right supplies. Kira could not have been any more useless. 

He curled his hand around the revival bead in his pocket. If it came down to it, if they were left with no other options–

Nagisa let out a sigh. A dim light from Miyu’s hands began to fade. She could do little when it came to healing, but Kira knew from experience her shields could take away the slightest bit of pain. As though it had been taken away from him entirely, Nagisa slumped back into Masaki’s arms, the lines on his face disappearing slightly. 

Kira set his hand back onto his lap. The revival bead sat heavy in his pocket. 

It would only prolong the inevitable. There would be no point. Kira swallowed back a gasp for air. 

“Please,” Masaki whispered, his voice breaking. He finally looked up, hesitant as though Nagisa would disappear the second he was out of sight. His gaze was too sincere. “You’re a doctor. Do something.” When Kira did not move, Masaki shook his head rapidly, tightening his hold on Nagisa. “Please. Must I beg?”

Kira was a doctor. He had spent years studying in an effort to save at least a single life. That desire stemmed from the very same grief he was putting Masaki through now. In the end, it seemed as though his effort amounted to nothing. His hands could save no one. 

“There’s nothing I can do,” he said, and it was the truth. 

“No, there has to be something,” Motoha said, her hands clenching into fists. She looked only a moment away from pacing the platform, as she kept shifting in place, taking one step forward only to take another back. “We can’t just give up. He can’t just die. If we could get him to a hospital–”

“And then what?” Lufel interrupted, eyes narrowed down to slits. “What will you tell them? What will you tell the police? In the event they locate and arrest the possible perpetrators for this crime—us—how will you respond? Who will take the fall?” 

Kira thought he would have done so if it meant Nagisa would live. There was little chance he would make it out of Mementos, at this rate, but if it meant that he would live, Kira would have taken the blame. They needn’t ask.

He must not have been the only one of them with this thought process. Miyu looked up, wide eyes still brimming with tears. “My parents–”

“This is not a simple robbery, Puppet,” Lufel said. He folded his wings, turning his head away in what might have been remorse. “This is not a street fight, or anything of the like. This would be seen as an attempted murder. It is possible your age and status might aid you, but…” 

It was simply not feasible. It would take more than they can give. Nagisa was capable of many miracles, but this was not one of them. 

Kira looked back down just in time for Nagisa to attempt to lift his hand. He was simply too weak to get far, the limb flopping around as he moved, but eventually, he was able to grab the hand Miyu had been too hesitant to give him. His arm collapsed the moment her fingers clasped his. 

“S’okay,” he breathed. “I’m… ‘m okay. Keep going, Miyu.” 

Miyu’s face twisted up again, mouth opening and closing like a breathless fish. The sound she let out was little more than a breath of air, wounded and wheezing, like she had been drowning for so long her lungs forgot how to breathe. As though she wanted to speak, but no words would come out. 

“Just– stay awake, okay?” Motoha said. “We’ll figure something out. We’ll put Messa and Cattle’s big smart brains to use, and we’ll get you out of here.” 

It was all pointless, really. Empty platitudes and reassurances would do little to save him now. It was unlikely the words were even registering to him, with how little he would do to respond to any of their pleas. Nagisa was fading, and he was fading fast. Kira wished it made him feel anything at all.

“Mm. No, s’okay,” Nagisa mumbled, barely mustering up the strength to shake his head. “I’ll… I’ll be back. I’ll be back. Promise.”

Those words were nothing but the irrational musings of a dying boy. Kira did not move to look, but he hoped none of them took Nagisa’s words to heart. There was no way to bring back the dead.

“Please,” Masaki pulled Nagisa closer. “Messa. Do something.”

“And what would you have me do?” Kira asked. “What do you think could save him? It isn’t me.” 

It was him they asked for aid, as though he could perform miracles. He was a doctor, yes, but he was more helpless here than they could understand. In a hospital, at least, he could stand back with the assurance that he had done all he could. 

Kira swallowed back the lump in his throat. The hand Nagisa had reached up to grip Masaki’s arm had fallen listlessly at his side. 

“And what have you done to try?” Masaki hissed. He twisted around quickly enough to make Kira dizzy. “Lufel. Please. Do something. Tell me you can help him.” Then, he continued, begging even as he could hardly get a sentence out. “I would do anything. Please!”

Lufel did not stay to look at Masaki for long. He turned his back to them, head shaking. “I have told you, I’ve done all I can. I’m… I am sorry. All we can do now for him is…”

His words trailed off, but Kira had heard them a dozen times before. 

From the looks of it, Nagisa was as comfortable as he could get, with his head pillowed in Masaki’s lap. Miyu swept her thumb back and forth against the back of his palm in a poor excuse for comfort. Even so, Nagisa looked like he was lightly dozing, like they were sitting in the sun in his garden rather than the middle of Mementos. He looked comfortable. Peaceful. Content, maybe, if the drop of his shoulders and the mindless hum he let out were any indication.

Masaki’s head swiveled to all of them, voice rising in a way not unlike a childish outburst. “Puppet. Closer. Please. I can’t– I can’t do anything. I can’t. So one of you– any of you–”

But there would be no answer. Kira wanted nothing more than to duck his head and close his eyes, but none of them deserved that. Nor did they need it. They might be too young to see someone die, but they were too old to be coddled. It was time to face reality as it was.

It must have hit him, then, because Masaki’s breath stuttered, and his shoulders fell. Kira could not discern the look in his eyes, but they were wide, his face slack. When he turned back to Nagisa, he did it knowing full well what would come next. 

As though he had seen it too—even though, doubtlessly, there was not enough of him left to do so—Nagisa hummed again, the sound something pitiful. It took a moment of obvious struggle, but he managed to mouth out something Kira could not decipher. 

Masaki must have understood, though, for as in-tune as the two of them always were. Kira looked away when he moved to lean down. Whatever Masaki would choose to say was not his business. 

Beside them, Motoha had braved a step closer, just enough to rest a hand on Miyu’s shoulder. 

“I don’t want him to go,” Miyu whispered. It was so naive and so childlike that Kira had to look away from that, too. 

Death was inevitable. They knew this the moment they set foot on the battlefield. It must not have dawned upon them until it was happening right before their eyes. But denial would get them nowhere.

It took a moment for Kira to find his voice, opening his mouth only to find himself at a loss for what to say. Nagisa blinked up at them lazily, forcing himself to stay awake and prolonging the inevitable. The shuddering intake of his breath was all they could hear.

“Stop hurting yourself further,” Kira finally said. His voice didn’t sound right in his ears, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. “Rest, Nagisa. You did good.” 

Nagisa’s eyes slowly drifted over to him. There was no light in them anymore. What had once been a bonfire of life was extinguished, leaving only the lingering, stubborn remains of someone not quite ready to die.

The last movement he made was to lean into Masaki’s touch as his bangs were swept back. It was a miracle he could move at all, but Nagisa was nothing if not stubborn. And that would be a fact that held true until his last breath, it seemed. 

It took a moment for him to let go, but Kira knew the very moment Nagisa’s heart had stopped. It was evident in his eyes and the slight dip of his head. But more than that, it was the last, trembling breath he let out that echoed in Kira’s ears. 

Until just then, Kira had never seen a person die outside of the hospital. Many patients did not get the luxury to die in a peaceful sleep, but many others did. Many of his end-of-life patients had said that it was a blessing—to die without feeling a thing, surrounded by the people you love. If only Nagisa had been given such a chance.

Kira heard Motoha’s gasp and how Miyu’s cries ricocheted into sobs. He watched Masaki shake when he moved to bury his face in Nagisa’s hair, and he saw Lufel move to pull his hood down further. But it was more cinematic than anything, and their voices were so distant they were quieter than an echo. 

He did not move to check Nagisa’s pulse. There was no need, really. The last breath he took had been proof enough, and it would be best if they moved on. The world would not end now, even if they wanted it to. His skin was waxy beneath Kira’s hands.

That was the end of it, then. The leader of the Phantom Thieves was dead. Kira leaned back and closed his eyes. The center of his chest burned and ached, his lungs struggling to keep up and keep his breaths even. The injuries he had gained from the fight before must finally be catching up to him. 

It hurt to breathe. It hurt not to. The repeated stuttering of his lungs felt like he was pressing down on a bruise, and he very well might have been, for as damaged as his ribs may be. It was the last thing he needed while handling the corpse of a teenager.

“He’s gone?” Miyu asked. He could barely understand her through her cries. “He’s really gone? Messa. Check– check again. Please. Check again.”

Such a pointless, childish request. Nagisa’s neck was still cold to the touch. Kira shook his head just once. 

He did not move to see her reaction—Kira kept his eyes shut, trying to keep himself from biting a hole through his tongue. But he heard her choke on her own sobs, and that was enough to torture them both.

Death was something he saw every day; he had to remind himself. Every day. This one was no different. Nagisa deserved to be mourned like any other, but a death was a death, and it did not warrant any tears from him. Kira swallowed, digging his palms into his eyes. The pain did not do nearly enough to ground him.

Kira smoothed a hand down his face. The blood on his cheeks flaked off, rubbing against the leather uncomfortably. 

There was work to be done. Their lives would not end with Nagisa’s. After the patient was confirmed dead and the time of death was accounted for, the patient's family would be contacted. A death certificate would be made, and the body would be rearranged and cleaned once taken to the morgue. 

They did not have time for his hands to waver and stall. Kira could not get himself to move, though, and found himself rooted to the spot. His lungs still struggled for air, eyes burning. 

It was almost picturesque. The four of them had their heads lowered, and their shoulders slumped over. While Motoha wavered at the edge of the platform, frozen and with her eyes glued to Nagisa’s body, Miyu let her head fall into her hands. They played a near-perfect role while drowning in their grief. 

Slowly, Masaki moved, pushing back the bangs that had fallen over Nagisa’s face. Somehow, that made him look all the more dead. 

“For me to vow my life unto him, only to hold him as he fades away,” Masaki whispered, his thumb moving to wipe at the blood underneath Nagisa’s eyes. “We did nothing. You did nothing. What good is my life here if I outlive the only reason for my will to fight?”

Miyu pushed at Masaki’s shoulder, her hands weakly grasping at his cape. “He told us to keep going. We have to– we have to keep going.” She sniffled, pushing up her visor to rub uselessly at her eyes. “Are you really going to– to take that away? From him?” 

Masaki pressed his face into Nagisa’s hair. “No. That is what he left you with. And you may follow it as you wish. But I… what do I…” 

Almost immediately, Miyu deflated, shrinking away. If she had the words to comfort him, she did not say them. They were rendered speechless, surrounding Nagisa’s lifeless body in a makeshift circle.

Kira had been foolish to believe they would never end up here. In what world had he thought there would be no consequences to their trips through the Metaverse? They had been fighting with more than just mindless enemies. There were targets on their backs and blood—however inadvertently—on their hands. 

The risks they took to do their duty were piling higher and higher. This was the end result. Nagisa was simply the one who had taken the fall. 

He thought back to the weeks and months before, in the brief moments when Nagisa had confessed to the visions he had been forced to see. It was as though the people around him dropped like flies, pushing him towards a future without anyone at his side. 

They should have listened to him when they had the chance. No matter where their path took them, this was always going to be where it ended. If it hadn’t been Nagisa lying in front of them, it would have been Miyu, or Motoha, or Masaki. It would have been Kira. The world might have been better off that way. 

At his side, close enough to Kira that her shoulder almost touched his, Motoha finally knelt down. Her hesitance to be near Nagisa at all—that fear of running she had long since claimed she had conquered—melted away just a moment too late. A hand ran along his head, and the other settled on his neck to find a pulse that would not be there. 

Eventually, she realized she would not find it. Her hand fell back down. “We can’t leave him here.” 

It was true, but there was no telling to what extent. Kira’s mind had already been racing, albeit slowly, as though his thoughts were being pushed through a thick fog. They had no clue as to what the Shadows here would do with his body. Aside from their violent nature, none of them truly knew much at all about the enemies they faced. It was entirely likely that Nagisa’s body would be eaten, like the rotting corpse of a deer left for buzzards to pick at and devour. 

Kira didn’t need to say as much. The crestfallen look Miyu gave him had been enough. 

“We can’t,” Miyu said, her lips still wobbling. Her eyes were so red he was certain they must have burned. “Nagisa– he deserves so much more than this. We have to– we have to take him home.” 

There would be no one there, Kira thought. The Kamishiro household would be as desolate as the bloody expanse of Mementos ahead of them. It would not matter if Nagisa had died in one place or the other. Here, at least, the rest of them would not be pulled into a mess they were not prepared for. Nagisa knew as much. He was prepared for all eventualities, he once said, and the journal he had handed Kira once had been looked through with shaking hands. Kira swallowed back the acid suddenly climbing up his throat. 

He did not get to voice his musings. Before he could speak, Masaki let out a hollow laugh. The fists clutching Nagisa’s clothes curled up tighter.

“And what will we do then? Do we leave him there, too?” He asked. Masaki still had his head pressed to Nagisa’s hair, making his voice sound thick, and the force of his words made him jolt in place. “What would that do? What would any of that be for? To rot here or there—he is already dead. He is dead. He’s dead.” 

And that was true, too. Nagisa did not deserve to be left in another reality to rot, though, as Masaki had described it. He deserved far more than that. He didn't deserve to die at all. The body in front of him did not move an inch. 

“To leave him here would be cruel,” Lufel murmured, turning away. 

Nagisa’s eyes were still open. Half-lidded and cloudy, they stared at him, as though judging Kira for the decision he was beginning to make. Unfortunately for them both, Kira was not willing to let things lie as they were. Of all the people on Earth, Nagisa deserved to be mourned. 

“I’ll dispose of it,” Kira said. 

The ensuing silence was stifling, even for him. They had grown so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. That was until Miyu turned her head to push her face into Masaki’s shoulder, one hand covering her mouth to smother her own sobs. The mention of there being a body at all must have finally made it sink in.

“You’ll– what?” Motoha asked, staring at Kira as though he had grown two heads. 

“The body,” Kira said, because he had thought it had been obvious.

Motoha shook her head rapidly. “You can’t– you can’t just say– he’s not–”

“And why not?” Kira asked. He slowly looked back at the body. “Cattle is right. To leave him here would be cruel. Do you have an issue with this?”

It must not have been as obvious as he thought it was, because Motoha frowned, already ready to argue. He only half heard what she was saying, too focused on the thoughts in his head, how they moved so fast it was dizzying. 

“No, I want– I want to believe–” Miyu sniffled, shifting closer to Masaki’s side as she wiped at her eyes. “Messa will– will take care of him. I know he will.” 

Before he could respond to that, Masaki flinched back, his arms moving to hold Nagisa around his shoulders and head. It was difficult to watch—Nagisa’s body was too lifeless for him to move it properly, but Masaki did not care. Nor did he care to be gentle. The way he held Nagisa’s hair and the grip on his shoulders was almost violent.

“I don’t want you anywhere near him,” he hissed. There was malice in the way he glared at Kira, eyes burning with the same type of rage he had directed at Shimotsuna following Nagisa’s initial injury. “No one is going to take him away. I won’t let you.” 

Ridiculous. Kira said as much, too, blankly looking back at Masaki. “What will you do with it, then? Would you prefer to leave him to the Shadows?” 

“He’s not an it,” Masaki snarled. The way he held Nagisa looked possessive. “He is not– he was–”

Grief, Kira remembered, was a difficult emotion. In a way, Masaki’s reaction was reasonable. It was expected. For someone to lose everything in one unexpected moment he might have been holding himself together as much as he could. 

Kira suppressed the urge to press his hands into his eyes. He swallowed his instinct to bite back, too—Masaki might insist on being unreasonable, but he was still Kira’s responsibility. Just like Miyu was, just like Motoha was. Just like Nagisa had been, for all Kira had done to save him. 

“He can’t stay here,” Motoha said, her voice thick. “Don’t you want to take him home?” 

Masaki’s head whipped up. Even at her, his frown deepened, words dripping with venom. “In what world would I rather leave him here? Do you really think I—of all people–!”

“Calm down, Cherish,” Lufel said, though all it did was make Masaki somehow glare at them further, his face flushed. 

“Calm down,” he repeated. “Calm down. Nagisa is dead, and you want me to calm down? Calm down? Do you have any idea what this means? Can something like you even conceptualize it? He’s dead. He’s dead.” 

Kira scowled. “Masaki. That is enough.” 

“You do not get to speak,” Masaki hissed. “You have no right. Of all of us here, you should have been able to do something. You should have saved him!” 

The pain in his chest was worsening by the minute. Kira clenched his hands into fists in an effort not to rub at the spot where he ached, mostly in fear of aggravating any injuries. For that was what it must have been. Anger has never felt so physical, and there was no reason for it to start. 

Despite this, Kira could not help but grind his teeth together until it hurt, and he dug his nails into his palms until they stung. He could sit there and take as many insults as Masaki wanted to throw around, but he did not need to be told he was responsible for Nagisa’s death. There was nothing he knew more intimately.

“But none of us did anything,” Masaki said, continuing even as he failed to swallow back his sobs. “We let him die. And still– still you say you wish to– to dispose of him? Like some sort of animal? Like he was– is worth nothing?” 

Miyu shook her head, her arms circling around to hug herself. “Don’t say that! He didn’t mean it like that. He didn’t.” 

“No, I did. I said precisely what I wanted to.” Kira said. 

Masaki’s hand curled into a fist. He snarled, “You dare–”

“Nagisa is gone. This–” Kira gestured to the body Masaki clung to with all his strength, “Is not Nagisa. It is a body. Whatever opinions he may have had in the event of his death do not apply here, because he is dead, and the dead do not feel. Do you understand?” 

“You have no right,” Masaki said. His voice was so low, Kira was surprised he could hear him at all. “You have no right. Don’t you dare speak about him like that! I will not allow it!” 

“It is the truth. You are clinging to an empty body. There is nothing left for us to do but get over it and move on.” 

His chest burned. The pain has reached a point that left Kira reeling, lungs aching for air. He’d never been so breathless after a few too many words before. It was a miracle he was able to speak at all—his throat felt tight enough to cut off his air, like someone had wrapped both hands around his neck and was trying to squeeze the life out of him. 

He really was being too cruel, then, if he had yelled so much that it was causing him pain. It was not like he had said anything untrue, though. Kira meant every word. Little good came out of personifying the dead, and they were old enough to know that.

Whether they accepted that was not up to him. He watched Masaki reach for his mask, gnashing his teeth.

“Wait, really–” Motoha pushed herself off her knees, feet flat against the ground in the event she needed to jump up and bolt. “Cherish– Masaki, c’mon. We don’t need to get physical about this! Not now, after–”

“Quiet,” he said, practically spitting with how much vitriol he spoke with. “You have no part in this.”

“In what? What is there to even fight over?!”

Masaki’s fingers gripped the edge of his mask. “What else? My purpose for being is gone! And now you let him speak of him like he is an object!”

Though Masaki’s tireless babbling on justice continued—”I will allow it no further,” he said, like his words reached any ear that was not his own—Kira’s gaze was focused elsewhere. 

Slowly, as though she were afraid of startling either of them, Miyu inched back, her hands grasping tightly around her gauntlets. Her eyes were wide, and following each of Masaki’s movements. At every sudden movement, she flinched back, the hands around her gauntlets shaking. 

Kira had expected her to stumble back in fear. He would not have blamed her; Masaki was scary on the battlefield, even when he devoted himself to being a shield. His rage was not something even Kira wanted to be on the wrong side of. Any other day, he might have had it in him to have been afraid, too, but there was nothing left in him. All that remained was the quickly fading adrenaline from the drive over and the ache in his ribs that would not go away.

That meant it was a surprise when she curled her fists tighter around her gauntlets, flinching back when Masaki and Motoha’s voices raised further. He had expected her to run, as he’d seen her do before, in Kichijoji, in Shinjuku. But instead, she squinted her eyes shut and brought her arms down on the back of Masaki’s head, quivering worse than a newborn baby. 

Masaki’s voice cut off with a sharp intake of breath, and he fell to the floor. The way he was curled up around Nagisa’s head might have been poetic if it didn’t just make him look deeply vulnerable, and Nagisa even more like a corpse. 

Motoha whipped her head up, holding her hands out in a placating gesture. “Miyu–” 

“S-stop!” Miyu’s voice gave out as she tried to yell. With her face twisting up and her being unable to hold back her sobs, she looked to be in more pain than Masaki had been. “Please stop. Please stop.”

Anger, Kira remembered, was a secondary emotion. His sister might as well have beaten the knowledge into him, with how often she had told him. It was important he knew, she said, because anger is what came out when a heart was truly hurting. 

“I’m sorry,” Miyu whispered. Her arms were holding herself tightly, inching away from Masaki as she stared at him with wide eyes. “I’m– I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t– I didn’t know what to do, and he– he was so mad, and you–!” 

Kira did not fault Masaki for his outburst. He did not fault Motoha. It was not unusual to see a family arguing in the halls of the ICU when a lover was injured, or to see nurses break up physical fights when a parent had lost their child. In a lot of ways, the people before him now were no different. 

“I don’t want anyone to fight,” she whispered, rubbing at her eyes. “Nagisa is– my big bro is gone, and now we’re fighting, and I don’t know what to do.” 

Lufel finally stepped forward again, pointedly looking anywhere but at the body. “Moving on would be a good start. We cannot stay here.”

There were no distant sounds of encroaching Shadows, nor were any of them in a state dire enough to warrant a hasty retreat. But the exhaustion was certainly weighing down on them now, and it was clearer than day. Motoha could hardly keep herself upright, even though she shook her head with enough energy to make herself dizzy. 

“We can’t leave him–”

“I told you,” Kira said. His eyes drifted from her to the body at his feet. “I will take care of… I will take care of him.” 

It was silent for a moment. Then, just as he looked up, Motoha nodded, quick and clumsy. She only looked at him a second longer before she turned away and stumbled to her feet. Her shoulders were shaking as she left. 

The rest passed too quickly for Kira to fully follow. Lufel disappeared with a quick nod of his head, the sound of a car engine soon following. Motoha picked Masaki up gently, his dead weight falling into her shoulder when she wrapped her arm around his waist and hoisted him up. His eyes fluttered, but only long enough for him to mumble incoherently before he fell back unconscious. 

“Then…” Miyu said, her voice trailing off. She looked down at Nagisa, slowly. 

Nagisa’s eyes were still open, the red of his iris clouded over. There was rarely a moment when he was alight with the same emotion Motoha or Miyu often offered them, but the blank look on his face now was uncanny. 

With the same grace she saved for her puppets, Miyu closed Nagisa’s eyes. They fell with ease. 

“Goodnight, big bro,” she whispered. She didn’t give either of them another look before she raced back towards Motoha, blinking back tears.

Before they made it to the van, Masaki stirred in Motoha’s grasp. It took him a moment to really lift his head and realize what was going on, blinking as he mumbled something Kira could not hear. By the time they made it to the open doors, Masaki had gasped, trying to wrench himself away. 

“Motoha– wait, don’t–” Masaki struggled in her grip, pushing at her shoulders as she tried to force him into the van. His yells were frantic, and it sounded like his voice nearly gave out on him. “Don’t– please! Let me go! Please, don’t take him away!”

Kira did not move. There was no reason to. They had it handled just fine. Motoha was able to get them both inside and the door shut before Masaki broke out of her hold, his fist banging against the windows. He could not hear them speak, but he heard, distinctly, the loud, anguished cry Masaki let out when the door would not give. 

If it were possible, Kira felt even more faint, the sights before him moving in such a way that made him dizzy. The blood rushing through his ears was so loud he was surprised he could hear Masaki’s final cry; a faint, agonized call of, “Nagisa! Please, let me–”

The tires spun quickly enough that they squeaked against the platform and, soon, they were gone. Masaki’s voice faded away entirely.

Lufel drove so fast that Kira was unsure they had been there at all. Dust clouds were left in his wake, fading into the distance as the remaining Phantom Thieves drove further and further away. Kira watched, staring ahead long after they had disappeared from his vision. 

Mementos was silent. The friendly Shadow that hung around nearby was nowhere to be seen, and the tracks were empty of all enemies. In front of him, Nagisa was still. Kira was all that remained. 

Beneath him, his legs ached, as though he had been sitting there for hours. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to the body that lay ahead. 

He was thankful Miyu had summoned up the nerve to close Nagisa’s eyes. Kira had seen his fair share of death. It was not often that a patient died under his care, but there were some accidents that one simply could not fix. He did not need the ghost of Nagisa to watch him cover up his failures. 

Though he had only been inside the morgue once, he knew the steps. Clean up was first. The handkerchief he kept in his pockets felt heavier than he knew it should have been. The white fabric would soon be unrecognizable beneath the blood and grime it would surely pick up. Hopefully, his sister would not bother with questions if she noticed it was missing amongst his laundry. He would have to burn it at his earliest convenience. 

Kira began to wipe away the blood staining Nagisa’s forehead. The cut along his hairline was one of the few injuries he had received that had healed during battle. If it had still been present, the wound would have been jagged and messy. Sure signs of a harsh fall, or perhaps a struggle. It would do them no good if a coroner saw the blood and reported it to the police. He tried to be gentle when he scrubbed at the skin, even if there was no reason to. 

The fingerprints against his jaw and neck made Kira pause. There had been a pulse beneath them, once. The blood was crusted against Nagisa’s skin, but it wiped away with no issues. Kira moved on. 

For as quick as his thoughts were racing, his mind felt sluggish. He went through the motions without a second thought. Eventually, Nagisa’s skin was no longer covered in marks left behind by another's hands. 

If it weren’t for the blood around his mouth, he would have looked like he had been sleeping. It was unfortunate that it had to stay there. Kira might not be a police officer, and neither did he work in the morgue, but he at least had the foresight to know how to hold back. The death could not look staged, after all. 

The method would be an issue. A murder would pull too many eyes toward them; it would arouse too much suspicion. Self-defense would be an even bigger issue, for what excuse did a grown man have for a child to attack him in such a way? No, it would be best if no one else got involved at all. 

The wound in Nagisa’s chest had healed just enough to eventually make a knife wound plausible. That, at least, was somewhat of a blessing.

It was difficult trying to unhook Nagisa’s coat. After several minutes of passing failure, it finally came undone, revealing the suit beneath and the gloves that rested against his upper arms. They were soaked through and glued to his skin. Kira took a breath and continued on.

A suicide would be the easiest to forge. There was little room for any alternatives. The wounds themselves were unconventional and clumsy, but not unheard of, especially for someone of Nagisa’s age. With the people of Tokyo lacking any desire to live at all, there would be few who would question why a child had stabbed himself in a way that caused so much pain. It wouldn’t matter, in the end. 

Too much time was spent trying to peel Nagisa’s gloves off his arms. His fingers kept slipping, despite how the blood was too dry to warrant such a thing. Flakes of blood fell away the moment the leather was ripped away from Nagisa’s skin. It was not a pretty sight. 

At least, Kira thought, the history was there. The motive would not seem so fraudulent when brought up along with the past several years of Nagisa’s life. The many months dropped out of school, his low grades, the isolation he had habitually forced himself into… of all the patterns Nagisa had shown throughout his time in Kira’s life, this was the most predictable, sickening as it was. It was not unheard of for a spike in positivity in clinically depressed patients to lead to an attempt on their own life, after all.

Kira pressed his lips into a thin line. The Nagisa he had known would not have resorted to such a thing, as loved as he was. It was not Kira’s business what people did and did not believe. But Nagisa did not deserve this. 

He sighed. Beneath him, his knees clicked and ached when he moved to unclip his knife from his belt. And when he pressed it to Nagisa’s palm, he did so with ease. His hands did not shake as he did so, and, though a headache burned behind his eyes, his face was impassive. It felt no different than being in the emergency room.

In his hands, Nagisa was cold.

The weight of Nagisa’s corpse against his back meant little to him. Even as he dragged his feet through the winding streets of the Metaverse, he thought nothing of it. The city passed by in a blur. Nagisa’s hands were limp around his neck. 

It didn’t take long to find Zoshigaya. It took even less to pass by lingering Shadows and make his way to the open gate of the Kamishiro household. The spare key was easy to find. Nagisa had mentioned it once, in passing. It sat inside a planter to the left of the doorway. Kira rounded the corner of the house, anyway, and pushed open the screen door instead.

The world twisted and shifted as he stepped back into the real world. The house was dark, even still. And when he passed by the pictures Nagisa had recently tacked to the walls, Kira did not look. 

The walk to the bedroom upstairs was completely and utterly silent. In the dark, shadows shifted with every movement. The bedroom at the end of the hall loomed over him, the door unlocked. 

Lufel was waiting for him on the fence outside when Kira left. The owl’s eyes were piercing in the darkness of the late night. Kira had nothing to say to him. 

“And now?” The bird asked. His head tilted, gaze unmoving. 

Kira turned back to his phone. His throat felt like sandpaper. “You can handle it.” 

The distortion of the Metanav washed over him. Kira stepped off the porch and began his walk back towards the subway. 

Kira was standing in the alley behind his apartment building when he got the call. 

It hadn’t even been five minutes since he had arrived. He had taken the long way back once reappearing outside of the Metaverse, hands stuffed in his pockets to avoid commentary on the dried blood that ran up and down his hands and arms. In the lowlight of late-night Tokyo, the smears against his cheeks looked like dirt. Kira couldn’t find it in himself to be thankful. 

His phone buzzed in his hand as he absently stared at the screen. It was a number he recognized, but could not recall. There were only so many numbers he saved in his contacts list. Soon, there would be one less. 

Before the call could go to voicemail, Kira decided to answer it, lazily lifting the cell up to his ear. “Kitazato.”

“...Kitazato-san, um…” The voice on the other end of the line was timid. Low in pitch, yet distinctly feminine. The foggy image of a face came to mind, dressed in a matching lab coat and orange blouse. “It’s Aina Ito. From… the pediatric ward? At the Shibuya Medical Center? We’ve worked together before…” 

The picture in his mind was considerably less fuzzy with a name to put to a face. Aina Ito worked with several of Kira’s patients before. She was excellent when working within the pediatric ward, and somewhat of a fumbling wreck outside of it. Yet, she sounded so unsure for someone repeating something so factual. 

“Can I help you?” Kira asked. Beneath him, the pale reflection of his own scowling face looked back at him from a shallow puddle. 

For some reason, this only made Ito stutter her words further, voice squeaking as she spoke. “Um… yes. I’m really, really sorry, um… it’s just… I’m working a late shift tonight,” she paused. Though he could not fathom why she was bothering to state the obvious, she continued on after a deep breath. “I was in the ER with one of my patients. Um… I overheard… there was…” 

Kira had half a mind to check his watch to urge her on, but he did not need to. It was late. That was the only excuse he needed. “Yes?”

“One of the paramedics brought in, um… there's a boy here.” Oh. Kira shut his eyes. “I think… you would recognize him.” 

Suddenly, her voice was grating on his ears. The headache behind his eyes was back, too, burning something vicious. 

It was too bad she called him before he could use his shower as an excuse not to pick up. There was little gained from this conversation, save for the fact that someone had found the body. 

That was likely Lufel’s doing. There was no one else who would notice him gone. 

“Um… Kitazato-san?” Ito called out. “Are you still–”

He hung up without another thought. His hand fell back to his side, his phone held loosely in its grasp. The puddle beneath him was starting to soak through his shoes, but Kira could not find it in himself to care. Dead, red eyes looked up at him. 

The lamp above flickered. Kira stood and stared at an empty wall until the soles of his feet began to burn, but that couldn’t have taken long. And when he finally decided to open the back door, he slipped inside with ease.

It was the quiet click of the front door that snapped him out of his haze. 

He wasn’t sure how he had heard it over the roar of the shower and the slam of the water against the tiles. Kira sat on the floor with his back to the wall, legs splayed out ahead of him.  The color of his clothes had darkened dramatically since the last time he’d looked in the mirror. They must have soaked through, somehow. How odd.

Footsteps echoed from the hall to his left. It was late, he thought. The cadence of their steps sounded too gentle to be an intruder and too light to be his landlord. There were only so many people who would bother with him at this time of night. And now, there was one less. 

He sat underneath the fluorescent lights for a little longer. The edges of his eyes burned, but he did not bother to turn his head. Little colorful dots were scattered around the bulbs. They might need changing soon, if the glass was beginning to grow so discolored.

The floorboards outside the bathroom squeaked. A familiar voice called out, light and unsure, “Kira?” 

There was only so much effort he could put into humming out a reply. He did not bother with that, either. Even if he had, the sound would have been drowned out by the running water. Someone would have to turn that off, soon. Kira couldn’t remember how long it had been running to begin with. 

A door opened and shut. Leave it to his sister to sneak through his apartment without a care in the world. 

“Are you still in there? The shower is running,” she said, still somewhere down the hall if her voice was any indication. 

Maybe, if he stayed quiet, she would go away. Kira was not sure she was there at all. It was not uncommon for her to burst through his front door unannounced, but it was late. The moon was still high. He had only just returned from Mementos an hour before. There was no clock in his desolate, four-walled bathroom, but why would that have mattered? Even in this state, a minute was a minute, and an hour an hour. He could only have been in there for so long. 

Greeting one's guest was still the polite thing to do. Or so his sister says. That was, of course, if she was there to begin with. 

The idea of moving made his body feel heavier than it really was. Kira’s limbs felt like lead. The half-hearted attempt at pushing himself up resulted in nothing. It was only then that he realized his shoes were still on his feet. The leather shone under the overhead lights. It almost looked like they had soaked through somehow.

There was a knock against the bathroom door, and it pushed slightly forward from the force. Strange. He didn’t remember leaving it open. 

“Kira?” There was that voice again. He was almost sure he had imagined it, but the shadow lingering in the doorway told him otherwise. 

Kira shut his eyes. The door hinges squeaked as it pushed open, light filtering in through the crack and burning his eyelids. The doorknob screeched as it was twisted and yanked back. There was a quick intake of breath, but it could barely be heard beneath the rushing shower. She was as real as real got, then, because the last time Kira checked, ghosts and drafts of wind did not have heels that clicked as they walked.

“Kira,” she said again. He must have turned his head—and, really, who wouldn’t, from someone being so invasive—because he felt his body shift away from the wall. “Kira. If I check your pulse and you aren’t dead and this is some sort of sick game–”

The hands that grabbed his wrist were so uncomfortably warm that Kira immediately wrestled to pull his arm from her grip. He didn’t get very far. Her grip was solid, and her touch burned, as though she’d stuck her hand in a fire and wanted to share. 

It took effort to open his eyes again. Kira did not know how long he was listening to his sister mumble under her breath, but the words never reached him. Eventually, he gave up, head falling to the side with a sigh. 

The hand holding his wrist finally pulled away. His arm fell beside him uselessly. It was foolish of him to think she would simply give up, but Kira hoped that would be the case if it allowed him even another five seconds of alone time. He didn’t have it in him to humor her tonight. 

The only warning he got when she’d lost her patience was his sister's irritated mumbling before his eyelids were yanked back. He was left trying to push her away with arms that would not cooperate with him. Kira weakly grabbed at her coat, but he couldn’t do much of anything against her. He must count himself lucky that she didn’t harass him for long, then, moving to push at his head back with a deep frown. 

Kira blinked slowly. It only occurred to him then that she was looking blurrier than she normally did. Her frown was evident enough, though. It might have been possible to see it from miles away with how she scowled at him. 

“What are you doing?” She asked. After a moment of no answer, she nodded her head towards him and the shower. It was only then that he realized the sound of the water had stopped. 

Again, Kira blinked. “Showering.” 

His sister's frown grew deeper at his words, but he could not blame her. The sound of his voice surprised him, too. Rougher than it usually was, he sounded like he had spent several hours eating gravel, where the flesh of his throat was beginning to tear up from such improper use. 

It was not often she was speechless. She rarely ever hesitated around him, either, but he watched as she struggled to lift her hands back up, eyes slowly trailing back down to his own. When she picked up his hand again, the pinprick burning sensation was back, but Kira was too busy staring at his own skin to really notice. 

“Kira,” she said slowly, hunching her shoulders to look him eye to eye. “You’re freezing. Your front door was unlocked. You never showed up for work today, and you’re bleeding. I’m going to ask you again. What are you doing?” 

His eyes were still glued to his hands. Though Kira always looked pale, it was different now. He looked almost ghostly. It would have been unsettling enough on its own, but dried blood was flaking across his skin. It stained the edges of his sleeves, it was dug deep beneath his nails. 

“Kira. Are you listening? Can you hear me?” 

He stared. His sister had said he had been bleeding, but Kira knew the truth. That blood was not his. 

The washcloth he had brought with him still sat beside him, on the stool outside the shower. Kira did not need to push his sister aside to reach for it, even though his whole body ached at the movement. He must have left the shower door open, too. The towel was soaked through. 

Blood came off easily enough if you knew what you were doing. Kira did not stop to think about it, though, and pressed the towel into his hands until the skin was red and raw. The blood would come off eventually. If he scrubbed hard enough and did it again and again, it would be like it was never there at all. His hands would be clean of this mess, as they were meant to be hours before. 

When he was done with one hand, he moved to the next, even though flexing his fingers burned. The skin stretching over his bones could not have hurt any more. But he was clean. His hands were clean. And if he did it again, the evidence would be gone. If he did it again—

The towel was pulled from his hands. There was another hand on his wrist, pulling him towards the shower door. 

“Stop that. I can’t even get you to use lotion. Don’t scrub your hands until your skin bleeds,” his sister said. She leaned back, still staring at him with that frown on her face. When she moved to stand, she pulled on his wrists again. “Come on.” 

The hand on his wrist was still too warm to bear. The pinpricks in his hand were likely from lack of blood flow, surely, and the light pressure digging into his muscles was causing his blood to flow properly again. Strangely enough, though, Kira couldn’t quite say the same thing about his legs, even as his knees buckled beneath him and slammed against the floor. 

He got up again. On his own, this time, once he finally figured out the feet clad in dress shoes were his and not someone else’s. There were probably mud tracks from his front door to his bathroom. It had rained while they were in the Metaverse earlier. The sight of Nagisa’s dead eyes from the puddles he had stepped through to get inside his house stayed with him. 

His sister didn’t say much as she dragged him to the shower chair she had set up in front of the counter. The weight of his clothes was so heavy upon his back, it only just occurred to him they were soaking wet and clinging to his skin. Kira stared at his sleeves and the blood that still clung to the edges. 

It was not the first time the Metaverse had left them stained. Hopefully, it would be the last. Masaki often took the brunt of their battles, but his shields rarely ever left them wounded. Normally, it was not their blood on his clothes, if there was any at all. 

The sight before him now was new. He had done nothing but burn in the sun since he was a child, but even Kira could realize the hue of his skin looked sickly. That might have been why his sister was gripping onto his coat like it was her lifeline. She was a firm weight behind him, even though he had no problem keeping himself upright on his own.

“Spend eight years in med school, and all you get out of it is that stupid coat,” his sister muttered, and it was the only warning he got before she tugged at his arms, his coat practically yanked off of him. “Did you even think before sitting under cold water for an hour?”

Kira did not remember. He doubted it had been that long, either, but he couldn’t tell. The cold water explained the way his hands were shaking, at least. He had been certain it was the lack of blood flow, but it looked like he didn’t know anything at all. 

His sister tossed his coat to the side, and it fell with a heavy thump. “There’s no saving that thing. You’re going to have to buy a new one with that fancy paycheck of yours.” 

The coat sat in the corner farthest from the shower stall, its white fabric a deep grey and stained beyond recognition.

His sister was right, of course. Blood was hard enough to wash out of dark colors the moment the fabric had been stained. Nagisa’s blood had been there for hours, though, soaked in cold water and left to spoil. If it hadn’t been for Lufel’s quick thinking, he might have been able to say the same about Nagisa, left to rot on the floor of his bedroom alone. 

Beneath his nails, blood had dried up and crusted. Kira could still feel the blood drying on his skin and the way his pants stuck to his legs when he was kneeling at the station. In a way, he might have still been there, the same way his coat was still stained, and the platform still bloody, and Nagisa still lay dead on the floor of his own bedroom with a knife that was not his. 

Something tapped the bottom of his chin and then pulled at his cheek. His sister didn’t give him the chance to pull away, her touch burning. “Eyes up.”

Kira did as he was told. He was met almost immediately with a wet towel rubbing at his skin too gently to get much of anything done. If she were going for the blood on his face, she would have to try harder.

“You’re a mess,” she mumbled, frowning at the towel in her hands. “Did you even bother to wash off your makeup?”

He could not remember if he did. The waste basket beside the counter was suspiciously empty of any makeup wipes, though, so he didn’t bother to say as much. She could figure it out for herself. 

There was no steam covering the glass. It lacked any handprints or condensation. The bathroom door was still open, and now that he knew the water had been cold, he could feel the chill. His shoulders trembled so hard he could feel it in his chest. 

He wished it had been, though. Kira did not like the look of his own face. He was pale normally, but if he shut his eyes now, he might have been able to see his veins tracing the back of his eyelids. The makeup smeared down his cheeks was mixed with the bloodied fingerprints Nagisa had left behind, and his eyes were bloodshot, for all the staring he had done at the lights. 

After another minute of sitting there as his sister pushed the blood on his face around, Kira scowled, reaching over and taking the towel away. He half-heartedly pushed her away when she tried to take it back, gripping it tightly in his hands. Not only was she too close to him, but she was blocking the mirror, too, and looked not at all guilty for it. But she stepped aside when he glanced her way, so it didn’t matter, in the end. 

Kira couldn’t pry his gaze away from the fingerprints. The blood had been smeared across his face during their escape from Shimotsuna’s Palace, when Nagisa had tried and failed to push Kira away. He’d been overbearing, Nagisa had said. But Kira had thought his worry had been warranted, even before Nagisa failed to muster up the strength to do anything but lightly tap at Kira’s face.

The towel wouldn’t stay steady long enough for him to properly scrub at his skin. No matter how tight he held it, and no matter how roughly he dug it into his skin, the blood would still be there when he moved back. 

“Kira,” his sister said. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not,” he said.

“How long have you been in here?” 

It wouldn’t wash away. It wouldn’t wash away. Kira scrubbed again, and he kept going until his skin was red and until it burned and it wouldn’t wash away. His face might as well have been dunked into a bucket of blood, for how much of it was staining his skin. And it wouldn’t wash away. 

It would stay there forever, he thought. To remind him of his failures, and of the dreams he had no right holding. A doctor who couldn’t save the people who needed saving was no doctor at all. And the reminder was there, glued to his skin no matter how hard he tried to wipe it away. 

His hand was yanked back when he went to start scrubbing again, his sister taking the towel from his hands gently. In the mirror, his face was clear. 

“Kira,” she said, voice shaking. “What happened?” 

Too much. Kira could not find the words to comfort her. Every other worry that lay on the tip of his tongue caught in his throat before he could say it. And when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing would come out. 

He knew how to word these tragedies. A simple ‘he’s dead’ would suffice more than any attempt at comfort would. It was the same outside the hospital as it was inside. Maybe these matters deserved a delicate touch, but Kira was sure he had lost any ability to be delicate many hours before. It was still there on the platform deep inside Mementos, and that was where it would remain.

He wanted to say it. He wanted her to know. But he was selfish, and he was weak. Kira glanced away. 

“Did you forget to call out of work?” She asked. Kira didn’t have time to think about the question before she was pulling at his hair. It was sticking to his neck, like it had gotten wet in the move out of the shower stall. “Your boss called me. No one could get a hold of you.” 

The hospital opened at 6 AM. There was a deadline to call in sick, though Kira had never bothered, so he couldn’t recite it off the top of his head. Thirty minutes to an hour before, maybe. Enough time to ensure someone could take his place, so that the hospital was not left wanting. 

He did not remember the time they left the Metaverse. It had been late, though. Late enough that the streets outside of his apartment had cleared, and the bars he had passed on his way back had gone silent. The one-sided call his coworker had made had a timestamp of 2:46. He remembered staring at the number until his eyes could no longer read the words. 

They hadn’t meant to spend so much time there, but there was only so much you could do when carrying someone near death's door. Or at it, rather. 

His sister tugged at his hair again. Kira pulled himself away. “Sure.”

She frowned, letting out a frustrated sigh. In the mirror, he watched her face go through a dozen expressions a second, before she pulled her lips into a thin line. “You’ll freeze to death like this,” she said, stepping towards the door. “I’ll get you spare clothes. If you leave this room, you’re the one who gets to mop up the mess.”

A bit redundant, he thought, because Kira would be cleaning up the mess regardless. He almost felt the need to say as much, but the idea of arguing with the woman who had stuffed his closet full of cleaning supplies to begin with was a lost cause. 

He listened to her footsteps fade as she walked down the hall, the bedroom door creaking open only a moment later. And when he realized he couldn’t hear her digging through his closet, he chose to listen to the faucet instead, and the remaining water that dripped from the showerhead to the puddles on the floor. And he counted. One, two, three, four…

The apartment Kira rented was nothing special. He did not have many guests to bring over, and the only thing he felt he needed to survive was a roof over his head and somewhere dry to sleep. The walls were painted poorly; Kira traced the bumps and cracks with his eyes again and again, until the faucet went silent and there was nothing left for him to count. 

Something in the corner of his eyes shifted. When he glanced up, his sister was standing in the doorway, clothes folded in her arms, neater than they had been when he had put them away. There wasn’t quite a frown on her face, but she might as well have been glaring at him, for how much her eyes were squinted shut. 

He didn’t have it in him to move. If it were up to him, Kira would have sat there until the sun rose and then set. There was nothing else for him to do. 

His sister could always read his mind, though. He didn’t have to say anything because she just sighed, walking over to hand over the clothes she’d taken from his room. 

“I’ll be outside,” she said, quieter than he thought was possible, because she was always the loudest of the two of them. She kicked at his shoes again. “Don’t even think about wearing these outside this room.” 

With that, she left, and the door clicked shut. 

He didn’t understand her. He would do just fine if he were left to his own devices. It wasn’t like he was twelve—Kira was entirely capable of getting himself out of the shower on his own. Despite just how much he wanted to, he would not have wasted away in there until hypothermia set in. 

It wouldn’t have mattered if he had. There was something stubbornly keeping him alive, no matter how many people in his life died. If Kira had chosen to sit there until his water was cut off and his hands had turned to ice, he would still have lived, because he was never granted any mercy. 

It was pitiful, but that was life. People died every hour of every day. Kira was not special for having lost someone. The world continued on. Kira looked down at the clothes his sister had shoved into his arms. 

The shirt she had unfolded and refolded and pushed into his arms was one of the few dress shirts he owned. He was particular about the fabrics he wore—after falling asleep in his lab coat too many times to count, he had grown tired of waking up feeling like he’d been encased in plastic—but when he ran his hand along the front, he couldn’t feel a thing. 

A dress shirt was an odd choice considering the hour, but he could not blame her. Kira still had a job to do. The hospital would be as busy as it ever was. The world did not stop turning after the death of a single boy. 

There was a knock on the door. “Kira?” 

“I’m fine, Nee-san,” Kira said. If she responded, he did not hear her, but he heard her footsteps as she slowly made her way back down the hall. 

The buttons on his shirt were too small for him to properly grasp. It took longer than he wanted for him to get them unclasped, and even longer for him to shrug off the shirt that was wet and clinging to his skin. Kira still couldn’t feel the fabric when he slipped his arms through the sleeves.

There were no bruises along his chest, and there were no cuts. Under his hands, his ribs felt in place, even though his lungs still hurt when he remembered to breathe. 

It didn’t matter. Kira finally stood, his hand gripping the counter tightly when his legs felt weak enough to buckle. There was a towel on the floor, at least, so he no longer had to stand in puddles of cold water. 

Kira stared at the sweatpants his sister had picked out for him. He was going to look ridiculous in the five minutes he wore them. It wasn’t like he could wear those to work, after all, no matter how much leeway they were given with their uniforms. He changed into them anyway, catching himself on the wall when he stumbled, and then tossing his wet clothes over with his lab coat. 

He kept his hand against the wall as he walked. The hallway was no colder than the bathroom had been, and it was likely the same for the rest of his apartment, even as the rumbling sound of the heater filled the silence. His sister must have done that. Kira usually kept it off, for how often he was home to begin with. 

Ahead of him, he saw his sister sitting at the kitchen table, furiously tapping at her phone. The mop had already been taken up, and the floor swept clean. It was only then that he realized the muddy footprints that must have been there from last night were gone. All he did was sigh, pushing himself away from the wall as he made his way towards her. 

He was blinded the moment he stepped into the living room. Kira squinted, turning away from the windows with a flinch. 

“Kira?” 

The curtains had been pulled back, and the blinds opened. A cloudy sky greeted him, but one that was undeniably blue, with the sun so high in the sky that Kira could no longer see it. That was odd enough, really. His sister had told him countless times how lovely it was that she could see the sunrise from the windows in his apartment. 

He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Kira swallowed. “It’s daylight.”

“...Yes, it is,” his sister frowned. “Kira, do you know what time it is?” 

The dots in his vision swam, obscuring most of his apartment. Kira could try to look, but it wouldn’t have mattered; the clock above the stove had broken several days ago. He remembered the way he had stopped on his way out, barely giving it a second thought before he left. The hands had stopped at 11:59 exactly, just seconds away from marking the passing hour. 

It had been two in the morning when he had finally gotten back to his apartment. Maybe three. It was late, at least. That he knew. Late enough that his coworker had sent him an apology text for calling, and late enough that his phone had died before he had even stepped into his doorway. 

What happened after that was gone. A large dark spot in his memory sat where his night should have gone. At some point, he had made it inside. At some point, he had turned on the shower, and at some point, he had gotten in, sliding to the floor fully clothed. But he couldn’t remember any of it. 

His sister stared at him with an odd expression. 

“It’s early,” he said. 

“I guess so…” his sister sighed. She backed up, nodding towards the kitchenette. “Come on. You should eat something, and then we can talk, okay?” 

Kira hadn’t noticed before, but the air faintly smelled of fresh rice and eggs. His stomach rolled, twisting into what he could identify only as nausea. 

He nodded anyway, just once. 

Mechanically, he ate, his limbs stiff and unwilling to follow even the simplest of orders. His fingers felt too weak to hold his chopsticks properly, slipping from his fingers if he stopped focusing for even a second. 

Each bite he took dropped to his stomach heavier than lead, like rocks sinking to the bottom of the sea. His stomach churned, nausea coming to a crescendo after every bite and settling after several deep breaths. 

The only thing stopping him from throwing the bowl away was the pair of eyes drilling a hole into his skull. His sister’s hands were folded into her lap, leg bouncing incessantly. 

More than half the bowl was left. Kira took another bite, his teeth grinding into each other as though that would make it easier to swallow. It tasted like ash. 

The moment she had stepped out to answer a work call, Kira had excused himself and walked back to the bathroom at the back of his apartment. Despite the distance, he made sure to run the water in the sink before he knelt down and purged the very meager lunch he had been forced to eat. 

Kira rested his head against the sink cabinet, pushing his fingers into his eyes. The breaths he took hurt almost as much as the twisting in his gut. 

He couldn’t remember a time when he had felt so weak, unable to do tasks so mundane that a child could get through them without instruction. Humans needed food to survive. They needed energy, they needed sustenance. Kira swallowed back the acid still clinging to his throat. He couldn’t even manage that. 

The look his sister gave him when he finally peeled himself off the floor and left made him feel exposed. Kira couldn’t stop himself from averting his eyes.

Sometime after his sister had left that night, the darkness was momentarily interrupted by the light of his phone screen. Kira’s head fell to the side, and he watched it turn on, and then off, and then on again. 

Whatever it was would stop bothering him if he waited long enough. Just as he moved to roll over, his phone lit up again, and then again, and Kira couldn’t help but grit his teeth in annoyance when he moved to unplug it from the wall. 

Several unread messages were piled in his inbox, all from the same person. 

Sahara: Kira-san, are you okay..?

Sahara: I’m so sorry. 

Sahara: I really am. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to do that

Sahara: Are you okay? No one’s heard from you

Something in his gut twisted and burned. It might have been guilt. It didn’t really matter; Kira turned his phone off completely and set it down with enough force it almost fell off his dresser. And when he rolled over, he did so without remorse.

Work started at 6 AM on the dot. Kira was typically awake and out of the house by 5. Today, Kira was out by 4.

The amount of sleep he had gotten the night prior might have been in the negatives. It must have shown on his face, too, because the moment he stepped out of his apartment, he was getting looks of disgust and pity. 

He had met one of his neighbors on the elevator down. Before he could turn his back on her and leave, she grabbed his hand and said something he doesn’t quite remember hearing. The woman’s gaze seared into his back as he left, and his hand where she had touched him burned. 

The trip to the hospital would likely have been much the same if he had bothered to take the subway. The moment he’d thought about it, though, the metallic stench of blood filled his nose. Kira turned away from that, too, and walked. 

It had been for nothing, though, of course. Kira had barely gotten through the door before his supervisor was pushing at his shoulders to leave. 

“You have the next two days off,” he said, and there was no further room to argue. Kira opened his mouth to do so anyway, but was immediately stopped by another half-hearted shove. “I don’t want to hear it. Go home, Kitazato. At least try to sleep.” 

Any other day, he might have argued. As it was, Kira could at least recognize that the lack of sleep had made him sluggish, and his presence would be detrimental to any procedures he could possibly be signed up for. But that hadn’t been the only reason he had shown up, and his eyes slowly trailed to the westward hallway, dimly lit and empty and cold. 

They wouldn’t let Kira see the body. 

It was in the paper the next morning. A very brief description of barely anything at all, stuck in the middle of the third page between two articles about politics and advertisements for local grocery markets. There was no picture, and it couldn’t have been longer than three paragraphs. Kira didn’t know. He didn’t stay around to count. 

The headline amounted to nothing more than hysterical nonsense, and the words that followed were repetitive and dull. Kira had read the same article dozens of times before, over the past several years; in the wake of humanity losing their desire to live, more and more people were being reported to have taken their own lives. It was nothing new. That was the world they now lived in. 

Kamishiro was not even mentioned at all. It might have been for the best. The paper crumpled too easily in his hands. 

The food in his fridge had begun to expire. 

His sister stood in front of the fridge, muttering something about due dates as she picked up package after package. The dim light of the fridge cast shadows across the walls, the white blinding compared to the warm glow of his desk lamp. 

It shouldn’t have irritated him as much as it did. Kira bit his cheek, the headache behind his eyes worsening every moment, his frown deepening. He tapped the end of his pen against the table, squinting at the papers in front of him like that would magically have them disappear.

He didn’t remember what he was writing. Every time he looked, the words on the page would twist and change, his eyes burning. It must have been something important if he had been staring at the damn thing all afternoon, but whatever it had been initially slipped his mind. 

Underneath the tip of his pen was a large glob of ink. He clicked the pen once, and then twice, and then a third time, the sound doing nothing but make him want to toss it into the bin beside his desk. 

All the while, his sister's mumbling did not cease. 

“Why do you own decaf…?” His sister asked, pushing at what was likely the coffee cans Kira kept at the bottom of his fridge. “You don’t even drink coffee.” 

It wasn’t for him, but his sister hardly cared to know about Kamishiro’s caffeine sensitivity, so he didn’t say anything. They might as well be thrown out now, too, for all the worth they had to him. 

With a sigh, she shut the fridge door with enough force to rattle the boxes on top. “Do you even eat at all? It’s like you don’t even live here.” 

“I eat plenty,” he said. 

“Your fridge is empty.”

“I haven’t been to the store yet this week.” 

“I’m not falling for that,” his sister said. He could hear her going through the cabinets a second time, as though opening and closing the doors would make something magically appear. “You speak like a child whose hand was just found in the cookie jar.”

“I didn’t realize I owned a cookie jar,” Kira said, flipping one of his pages over and ignoring the very obvious attempts at learning his eating habits. 

One of his cabinets slammed shut. “Honestly, Kira. What’s got you acting like such a child, recently?”

He thought that was a rather silly question, as he hadn’t been the one rifling through another person’s home with no intention of adhering to personal space. Kira clicked his pen instead of giving her an answer.

One of the chairs squeaked as it was pushed across the floor, followed by the sound of something tapping against glass. “You’re a doctor, you know. Your lame older sister shouldn’t have to teach you all about the importance of eating a balanced meal three times a day.” 

“I told you,” Kira said. “I eat plenty.” 

“You’re so stubborn. Doesn’t that ever get old?” 

About as old as her own behavior. There were surely better things for a woman in her thirties to do on a Thursday evening than babysit her younger brother and criticize his eating habits. He didn’t bother answering her; he was sure she knew it from years of experience.

Just as he considered rereading the last several pages he’d flipped through, the pen in his hand was yanked away, trails of ink smearing across the papers. 

Kira spun around, unashamed to admit he might have snarled at the sight of his sister holding his pen above him like he was still ten. “Do you mind?”

“Not really,” she said, leisurely leaning back. “Do you? You look like shit.” 

That was only natural, he thought, because surely faking someone else’s suicide wouldn’t have made him feel better. Kira bit his tongue, exhaling slowly as he turned back around. As irritating as she was, he had better uses for his time. He picked up a second pen and fell back into the same rhythm he’d been in before his sister had decided to be a nuisance. 

She took that one away from him, too. 

Deep breaths. Kira didn’t turn around that time, instead pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing as loud as he could manage.

“Can I help you?” He asked.

“Don’t you know it’s impolite not to look at someone when talking to them?”

Kira turned around. “Can I help you.”

The look on his sister's face was not one he liked to see. Sometimes, when he was being particularly stubborn, she looked at him like one would an injured animal. With pity, with remorse, with a sadness he did not want nor need. It was humiliating.

“I know your job is usually taxing, but this–” she gestured at him vaguely, “Feels like overkill. You look like death has warmed over. The morgue would be livelier than you.” 

How quaint. Kira bit back the urge to correct her—he had seen enough of that, lately, to form a proper argument against her, but he was sure if he tried, the words would not leave his throat. The mere thought was already beginning to make his head spin.

“I told you, you have nothing to worry about,” Kira said.

His sister sighed. “I bet. Just…” she licked her lips, glancing away. “You know you can talk to me. I don’t worry like this over just anyone.” 

This was the last conversation he wanted to have with her—or with anyone, for that matter. A billion years could pass, and the Earth could freeze over before he wanted to have this sort of conversation with her. 

But even so, there was no need to. Kira had picked out and sorted through his emotions well enough to manage. It wouldn’t be the first time a friend has died on him. Even if he hadn’t been halfway to full recovery, she had absolutely nothing to worry about.

Just then, something must have heard his prayers, because his phone vibrated with an incoming message. He snatched it away quicker than he was proud to admit, turning away when his sister tried to lean in and read over his shoulder. His eyes swept across the screen.

With a sigh, his sister put a hand against his desk. “Kira–”

“Work emergency,” he said. He all but ran across the apartment, digging his coat out from beneath a stack of books and searching the coffee table for wherever he had last thrown his wallet. “I’m sure you’ll manage without me.” 

That was if he could find his wallet. Papers and books littered too much of the surface area of his apartment—something so small was doubtlessly lost amongst the unsorted mess that was his living room. 

He was half-convinced he should leave without it until his sister cleared her throat. When he turned, she was sitting near his desk, head in one hand, and the other holding up a familiar bundle of worn leather. 

“...Thank you,” Kira said. 

She watched him pocket it, frowning. “Just pick something up on the way. You’re not going to do anyone any good sickly and half dead.” 

Kira paused. Somewhere along the line, it must have slipped his mind; between drowning himself in work and feigning sleep, he had forgotten to take his medicine that morning. Kira was the last person to encourage such behavior—daily meant daily, regardless of schedule or mood, and he had learned the hard way—but he struggled to find reason to change that so late in the day. Even if he suddenly collapsed within the next several seconds from illness, he found little reason to switch up his behavior. 

Regardless, his sister was sitting between him and the kitchen counter. His medicine cabinet was behind her left shoulder, and his meds lay carefully tucked away inside. 

It was creepy how she monitored his every move and action. Trying to bypass her now would do nothing but cause a scene.

“I’ll be fine,” Kira said, moving towards the door. “You know where the spare key is. Stay, if you want. Just lock the door when you leave.” 

Kira did not wait for a response. He opened the door swiftly and left even quicker. As it shut behind him, he might have heard the tail end of a loud sigh. 

She had it coming, really. What else would she expect, forcing herself over uninvited and rummaging through his things? His sister was lucky he had tried so hard to be somewhat polite. 

As he hurried down the hall, he thanked the unnamed number in his inbox, trying to steal his insurance information. He had no clue as to where he would be going, but anywhere would be better than here. 

Arai: thank you

Kira stared at his phone blankly. He had no intention of responding, but the text was so sudden and so odd he almost felt the urge to. Almost. It didn’t matter—she texted again, and again, and again before he had the chance to do anything at all.

Arai: srry that probably sounds crazy haha

Arai: um

Arai: i just mean the. Nagisa thing

Arai: i wouldnt have been able to do it. but

Arai: i really

Arai: didnt. want to leave him there. 

Arai: thanks. im really sorry. 

Just a waste of his time, then. He didn’t deserve to be thanked for something so grotesque. If he had been able to do his job, they wouldn’t have been in that situation at all. 

Arai: i hope youre okay

Arai: we’ve all got to stick together now

Arai: so TTYL, ok?

Kira shut his phone off. If they wanted to contact him, they could contact him, as long as they knew there would be no one who would contact them back.

There were flowers at his desk when he finally returned to work. The card was not signed, but he imagined from the large ‘Best Wishes’ card attached to the tissue paper that it had been a group effort. 

Compared to the rest of his desk—empty, mainly, save for the pictures his sister had sloppily taped up one day, and the few trinkets he had been given from his younger patients—they looked out of place. Kira tried to remember the things Ashiya and Kamishiro had taught him about what each flower was meant to represent, but his mind came up blank. The only one he recognized was the lilies staring back at him mockingly. 

The work day was slow. More often than not, Kira sat at his desk and stared at the bouquet until his eyes burned from the act. A patient would come, and he would be called in, and when he would return, he would sit, and he would stare. He would stare until it was time to move on, and then he would come back, and it would start again. 

It was a nice bouquet. The flowers were bright and blooming, even after he tossed them into the garbage bin beside his desk when it was time for him to leave. 

Kira did not text often. He was not much for taking calls, either. He spoke to others solely when it was obligatory, if not outright necessary. His sister often said he was a bit of a nuisance for that, but he never saw any need to adhere to her whims. If someone called him, he would answer. That was that. 

Kamishiro had been an outlier. In a matter of days, the roles had swapped, and suddenly Kira had been the one to reach out, often enough that he would still sit and stare at their messages as though he still had anything to say. Or that there was anyone to say things to. 

The last message had been from over a week ago. Kira distinctly remembered looking at the last text Kamishiro had sent—a very quick and simple, ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ followed by an immediate silence—and feeling amused. It wasn’t often he was the conversationalist, but Kamishiro didn’t say much at all to anyone. 

That was days ago, though. Kira tapped the side of his phone case, staring at the screen long enough that his eyes began to burn. 

Deleting the conversation thread was easy. Kamishiro’s contact soon followed suit, too. 

The hospital was quieter than it usually was. Kira didn’t spend many of his days sitting in his office and just waiting, but he found himself unable to do much else. 

His coworkers were walking on eggshells around him again. The pattern was near incomprehensible, but Kira had a working theory related to the part-time intern they had working at the front desk. The young one, with the long hair and the gaggle of children that pestered her for entertainment before appointments. 

That morning when he had shown up for work, the intern had met his eyes. Her reaction was almost immediate, though Kira could hardly fathom what he had done for her to fight back tears as she rushed into one of the back offices. 

He didn’t have time to think about it for too long. Kira was in charge of a simple surgery scheduled in ten minutes. Whatever he had done to set off his coworkers' ire was, quite simply, none of his business. 

The woman leaning against the counter was one Kira knew, but only in passing. He had seen her once or twice in Zoshigaya, where she would shove bags of warm food into Kamishiro’s arms and talk their heads off long enough it’d get cold. She was one of the few people who didn’t find it odd that Kamishiro hung out with someone so old; if Kira remembered properly, the exact thing she had said was, “He has a talent for finding the kindest people. You’ll take care of him.”

Tomiyama looked older, now, than she had just a few weeks ago. More than even his sister, he knew she kept up appearances—clothes ironed out, jewelry shining, makeup on. But now, the lines under her eyes were more prevalent than they had been before. The clothes she wore might have been stylish, but they were dark, and the ends of her sleeves were wrinkled, like she kept moving to twist at them. 

He knew exactly why she was here, and he wanted no part in it. Kira turned on his heel, aiming to go back the very direction he came. If he needed to, he would wait at his desk until she finally gave up on him, no matter how long that took. 

“Oh, Kitazato-san!” Tomiyama called out. Her heels clicked against the tiles. 

Kira breathed slowly, and he breathed deeply. He turned back around, giving her as impassive of a glare as he could manage. “Tomiyama. Can I help you?” 

What had begun to make his coworkers shrink away and leave him alone had no effect on her. If anything, Tomiyama smiled warmly, her eyes red-rimmed. Kira was always told he had never been good at reading people, but even he could tell she was not deterred by his bluntness.

“How have you been?” Tomiyama asked. She must have known it was a ridiculous question—or maybe she noticed his jaw shift when he grit his teeth—because she let out an awkward laugh. “I’m sorry, that’s such a silly question, isn’t it? I don’t know how to start these sorts of things. No matter how many times I do it, it doesn’t get any easier.” 

It was day four. Kira had not talked to the remaining Phantom Thieves in the time since, but he imagined this, too, was Lufel’s doing. Someone had to have found the body, after all. 

“Nagisa-chan…” Tomiyama said, looking away just as her words trailed off. “He was really loved, you know?”

The pain in his chest was back again. Kira swallowed back the urge to dig his knuckles into the skin, settling for crossing his arms and clutching the fabric of his sleeves. It did little to ease the pain, but not much would. 

The ice pack he had used the night before lay on the counter, forgotten in his haste to get to work on time. Unfortunate. The ice tray would have to suffice if he wanted the bruising to go away, and for that breathless pain to finally stop.

Tomiyama continued. “It’s been hard finding everyone he knew. I’ve walked all over the city, you know. He was quite the gentleman… the number of girls I’ve met, and what they’ve had to say—you would think he could steal hearts, with all the stories I’ve been told!”

“Tomiyama,” Kira interrupted. She stopped laughing. “If there is nothing else–”

“I’m sorry, Kitazato-san. You must be very busy here, hm?” Tomiyama sighed. She rubbed at her forehead, nervously tucking her hair back. “Nagisa-chan’s parents arrived late last night. There’s been so little time, but… they’ve started to get funeral arrangements together. I came to give you this.” 

In her hands was a card. It was just small enough to fit in her hand. Hesitantly, he took it from her, flipping the card over in his hands. 

It was bland. A simple one-sided white card with a black border and text. It was small and simple enough to pass off as a business card. Kira had never personally seen many invitations before, but anyone with eyes could see how rushed the Kamishiro’s must have been. 

A single address was on the front, as well as a time and date. Kira shifted the card in his hand, his thumb moving to cover up the name at the bottom right. 

Tomiyama sighed again. “It took a lot of convincing for there to be a public reception at all. I find myself thinking about how lucky I am that they asked for my help, otherwise…” 

It did not matter to him if he got to see Kamishiro again. The dead were dead, and they stayed dead, and there would be no changing that. Seeing someone off in that way did little but comfort the people who were still lucky enough to be alive. Kira wanted no part in it. 

He wanted to say as much, too, but Tomiyama would not cease her rambling. “His parents go abroad often, you know… and Nagisa-chan… well, you probably knew this, with how close you two were, but he… kept to himself for a very long time. I guess… they came home thinking there would be no one to mourn him.”

The card in Kira’s hands crumpled where it was held. He grit his teeth, biting out, “If we’re done here, Tomiyama, I have work to get back to.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry Kitazato-san, I’ve really dragged this on, huh?” Tomiyama sighed. She held one hand up to her cheek, dropping her gaze. “I hope… well. Nagisa-chan would be overjoyed to see you there. I hope you decide to come.”

Blood spilled from the end of his tongue, where he had bit so hard the pain cancelled out the rage. 

It did not matter if Kira showed up or if he did not. Kamishiro would not feel anything. He was dead—he would feel no joy, no sorrow, and no anger, ever again. The dead did not have the capacity to feel, because there was nothing left to feel anything. There was no afterlife, and there was no such thing as lingering spirits, so her sentiment was nothing but baseless conjecture. No matter how many well-wishes she imparted to him, she would do nothing but waste his time, because Kamishiro was dead.

Kira did not remember saying his goodbyes, but he must have, because she was there one moment and gone the next. And if he got his way, he would never have to see her again.

For the first time that week, Kira took the subway. 

It was crowded and stuffy, the floor damp from the rain and the mud tracked inside. No matter where he looked, he saw nothing but dark red walls, and the water at his feet shifted into puddles of a deep red. 

In the window, Kira stared at his reflection and the body that was slumped against the wall behind him. The train car smelled like blood. 

When the doors finally opened, Kira pushed his way through the crowd and onto the platform, his hand absently rubbing at his chest. He got odd looks from the people passing by, but their comfort and curiosity meant less to him than the loud buzzing in his ears. He might as well have sprinted out of the station, for how quickly he came and went. 

But that meant he was where he was supposed to be. Even late at night, the underground mall was filled with people mingling at stores that were preparing to close up for the day. Kira ducked through the groups of noisy teenagers, his hands shoved into his pockets. 

In the corner of the farthest hallway was a flower shop the size of a large closet. The aroma coming from inside was enough to make Kira wrinkle his nose, even as he stood across the hall. On such a dreary day, the bright colors from inside did nothing but make his stomach roll. 

There was no one inside. The lights had all been turned off, save for the emergency light at the back wall. The gate had been pulled down, and what were likely stands meant for the front of the store were piled high inside. 

Kira had never bothered coming down here himself. Despite how often Ashiya and Kamishiro worked here, and how close it was to the arcade, he had never seen any point. He still didn’t, really. There was no one there. 

In his pocket, he curled his hands around the card Tomiyama had given him. 

Someone should tell them. Kira had no way of knowing if Tomiyama had found Ashiya herself—nor did he want to, really, he was perfectly content with never speaking to any of them again—but someone should let the Phantom Thieves know. As long as it wasn’t traced back to him, Kira did not care if it was he who did the deed.

Kira stuck the card in one of the planters that rested against the gate. The white paper stood out against the packed dirt and the dark leaves, so hopefully no one would miss it. Leave it to Ashiya to nitpick the presentation of his plants. The message would be received one way or the other.

Kira didn’t stick around to think of anything else. As soon as his hands were back in his pockets, he spun around and walked back through the mall. Leaving the station felt like thick, heavy weights had fallen off his shoulders, and it was suddenly easier to breathe.