Chapter Text
20 March
The morning breeze brings with it an unexpected sense of resolve. Today Goro Akechi dies for good.
It has been a long time coming. Months, in fact. Months spent wondering why his life didn’t end when it was supposed to; why the metaverse spat him out on a backstreet of Shibuya, bruised and bleeding, sure, but alive. Months of letting everyone else assume the worst. Of letting Ren assume the worst.
He checks himself over in the train window. He generally avoids his reflection these days, but the foggy glass obscures enough of his features to make it bearable. A thick lock of hair has sprung free from his woollen hat, so he tidies it away before adjusting his dark sunglasses. It’s not exactly an original disguise, but it works.
A glance around the carriage confirms that nobody noticed the momentary slip. He’s just one of a cluster of weary commuters, each with their own exhaustive list of problems and preoccupations. He used to hate how ignorant people were to the world around them, but lately it’s become quite useful. Such meagre camouflage would be insufficient against a more discerning public.
“We are now approaching Yongen-Jaya. The exit will be on the left side.”
The cheerful prerecorded message brings Akechi out in goosebumps. He elbows his way through the crowd and waits for the doors to open.
One last look. That is all he needs.
Some part of him realises the illogic of this. After all, what if Ren isn’t home? Will he postpone his last look another day – postpone his death another day?
Maybe. Maybe not. Either way he’s already almost there, his body moving independently of his brain, a gravitational pull he cannot resist.
The neighbourhood feels unfamiliar somehow. Unwelcoming. Grimy, skeletal buildings loom overhead. Broken glass winks underfoot. Probably it has always looked this way, but the anticipation of meeting with Ren used to paint the streets in a blinding lustre. Time has peeled back the illusion, leaving Akechi with a terrible clarity. The world is ugly. It always has been.
One thing, however, has not changed. He still smells Leblanc before he sees it, and the smell is still incredible. A friendly dual between simmering spices and earthy coffee beans swells in the air and smothers him. His stomach thunders in response, a crack for every hour since his last meal. It takes herculean strength to resist going inside and ordering a plate. Instead, he crouches amongst the potted plants and strains to get a good look in the window.
Hunger pangs immediately melt into nausea. Ren is home, but he’s not alone. They’re all here. Ren Amamiya and his band of merry misfits. Joker and his Phantom Thieves. Akechi seems to have crashed a party of some kind, judging by the abundance of food laid on the tables and the banner strung from the rafters; a rainbow of crudely cut-out letters spelling G O O D L U C K.
That’s just great. Not only is he now avoiding nine pairs of eyes instead of one, but he can hardly even see Ren over the cluster of interloping heads. Typical. Trust them to ruin his last look. Trust them to intrude upon-
“Come on, kids. We better get going.”
Shit. Sojiro’s here too, and he’s making for the door. Akechi ducks into the laundromat just in time. The smack of curry paste mingles with the perfume of cheap fabric softener. He hears the Thieves emerge one by one and is tempted to plug his ears against the assault of chatter.
Futaba’s voice rings out above the rest. “Shotgun,” she calls.
Morgana yowls in response. “How can you call shotgun at a time like this? We’re leaving! Sitting up front is an important bonding moment for Ren and the chief!”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Mona,” says Ryuji. Akechi notices that his voice lacks its usual brazen quality. He sounds hoarse and wobbly, like he’s been crying.
“That’s rich coming from you, Mister What-If-I-Never-See-You-Again.”
“If Futaba is coming that leaves only two free seats in my car,” says Sojiro, interrupting Ryuji before he can lob an insult back. “The rest of you are going to have to say your goodbyes here, I’m afraid.”
Leaving? Goodbyes? Akechi restrains a shaky breath. He remembers the ‘Good Luck’ banner. He hadn’t thought much of it at first. It could be exam season for all he knows; things like that aren’t relevant to a dead man. Now, though, those letters are recontextualised. Good luck, Ren, with the rest of your life. Fuck.
Ryuji starts pleading his case, but Makoto interrupts him. “We already discussed it,” she says. “You and Ann should go. We’ll stay here and clean up.”
“Thanks, Mako,” says Ann, fondly. Her words are punctuated with strained sniffles which then break into a cacophony of sobs. Soon enough, Ryuji is burbling too. They’re like twin toddlers. Every time one experiences a big emotion it has to echo in the other. Two bodies, one heart. It makes Akechi want to retch.
With that decided, the other thieves bid farewell to Ren. They take turns, each having their own special moment with him. Akechi can’t help but feel robbed of something. Saying goodbye to Ren was his entire purpose in coming here, and it wasn’t a ritual he intended to share.
“I cannot express what an honour it has been to call you my friend,” says Yusuke. The rest of the group manages to laugh through their tears.
“You make it sound like he’s going to war,” jibes Ryuji.
“Close enough,” says Ren, speaking audibly for the first time. The sound hits Akechi square in the chest, agonisingly pleasurable. It’s a stimulant and a sedative all at once, lulling him into a peaceful stupor just to smack him awake again. He wants to hear that sound for the rest of his life. He wants to rip Ren’s tongue out and silence him permanently. His hands form fists at his sides.
Haru is next. There is a pronounced smack that Akechi can only assume to be the sound of lips on cheek. Haru is like that. Affectionate. She even squeezed his own shoulder once or twice, a gesture he neither asked for nor deserved. “Promise me you’ll take good care of yourself,” she says, soft and saccharine as ever.
Ren says nothing. Akechi knows without having to look that he has instead answered with a brisk nod, a non-committal gesture that roughly translates to I’ll try.
Haru turns her attentions to Morgana who purrs in her embrace. Makoto mumbles inaudibly for a moment before finally gritting out, “Don’t forget about us.”
Another silence. Probably another nod.
“Not good enough,” says Makoto. “I know you’re being quiet because you’re trying not to cry, but we’re all crying, so it’s only fair.”
Ren laughs feebly. “How could I forget you? Any of you,” he says. The tremble in his voice is almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Could he really be crying? Akechi has never seen him cry. He can hardly even imagine it. He’s tempted to peer around the corner to check, but Sojiro’s voice makes him spring back into his hiding place.
“I hate to be that guy, but you’re going to miss your train if we don’t get a move on.”
There is a chorus of shuffling feet, a few more goodbyes, and the sound of Makoto, Yusuke and Haru retreating into the cafe. Everyone else follows Sojiro out onto the main street where his car is parked. The sound of Ren’s suitcase being dragged over gravel gets quieter and quieter until it disappears entirely.
27 March
Leblanc is eerie at night. Ren’s absence is obvious. Even after closing time, he used to keep a lamp on downstairs to guide himself to and from the bathroom, but now it is unrecognisably dark. Akechi squints down at the lockpick in his left hand and fumbles in search of the keyhole with his right. It’s an old, uncomplicated lock, and he only has to risk a few moments of wriggling before the door springs open. He steps inside and closes it behind him.
He is not dead yet. The shock of Ren’s sudden departure has complicated matters. He still intends to die, of course, but he has a few things to investigate first. He might have given up the image of the detective prince long ago, but he still cannot cope with an unanswered question.
He scales the staircase that leads to Ren’s room – what used to be Ren’s room. He’s been here before, both with and without Ren’s permission, and he’s surprised to find it mostly unchanged. Ren’s clothes are all gone, the drawers left open and empty as though he packed in a hurry, but a lot of other things have been left behind. Star stickers still glint on the ceiling beams, an idol poster still sticks crookedly to the wall, various sentimental nicknacks are still set out on the shelves.
Akechi gets a strange sense of satisfaction from this. These artifacts of friendship, abandoned to gather dust. ‘How could I forget you?’ Ren had said, but had he meant it? Evidently not. Akechi picks up the miniature swan boat, scoffs, then puts it down again. So much for teammates sticking together.
There is one item on the shelf that doesn’t quite seem to fit, lying crooked rather than thoughtfully placed. A small notebook with a dark cover. Akechi recognises it instantly. He has seen Ren scribbling away inside it, often at the most inopportune times. When Akechi had inquired about it, the answer had been blunt and unsatisfactory. “It’s a diary,” he’d said.
Akechi flips through the pages. The handwriting is hurried and, in places, incomprehensible. He snaps it shut and tucks it in his pocket. Probably best to save that for when he’s not in the middle of breaking and entering.
Next, he wanders over to Ren’s bed. The whole room smells like him, but this area is particularly potent. There’s the coffee and curry, of course, but there’s also an undercurrent of something more specific, something as clean and wholesome as it is dark and dangerous. Sojiro clearly hasn’t bothered to change out the linens yet; the white pillowcase is speckled with little dark hairs. The smaller, straighter ones probably belong to Morgana, but the long curls have to be Ren’s. Akechi picks one up and absently winds it around his finger until the tip turns blue.
“Where have you gone?” he mutters, to Ren, to himself, to no one.
9 April
Akechi flings open the tattered curtain of his dingy hotel room and sits cross-legged on the creaky bed. Ren’s diary is there waiting for him. Until now he’s kept it in a box in the closet, never quite feeling ready to read it.
It is not lost on Akechi that the diary begins exactly one year ago today. It’s unlike him to place importance on things as trivial as dates, but he cannot help regarding this day with fearful reverence. It was the beginning of the end, after all.
The first page is identical to any diary; a series of dotted lines on which Ren has written his name, his phone number, the address of Leblanc. There’s a shaky uncertainty to his handwriting and little dark spots on the paper that might be tears. This Ren is different from the one Akechi would meet later. He turns the page, curious to know more.
09/02: I have arrived in my new home. (?)
I met Sojiro, my appointed guardian.
On Monday I will start school at Shujin Academy.
That’s it? Akechi frowns, leaning over the diary for a closer look. He thinks of diaries as a confessional outlet where one reveals their deepest and most private thoughts, but this one seems only to contain sterile lists of events. He searches for any idiosyncrasy that betrays a glimpse of Ren’s interior world. He finally finds one in the form of a question mark. Said question mark is adrift without a question, penned conspicuously next to the word home.
Akechi rolls his stiff neck and looks around. This hotel room has been his squalid and spartan companion for several months now, but he could never bring himself to call it home. He imagines that Ren felt much the same then as he does now, alienated from the entire concept of belonging. The question mark is a protest of sorts, albeit a quiet one.
Akechi turns page after page. The diary continues in much the same manner; bland sentences occasionally coupled with incongruous doodles.
19/02: Today I went to school.
I read a book about aquariums on the train.
After school, I hung out with Ann and Ryuji. *
The code is quite easy to decipher. The star symbols appear frequently, always coupled with the name of one or more of the Phantom Thieves, and always appearing on dates when they infiltrated a palace. Akechi is almost disappointed by the simplicity of it. He thought Ren was cleverer than that.
09/06: I just met Goro Akechi.
This entry is the briefest by far. There is no mention of the school trip that brought them together, nor any symbols to suggest a hidden meaning. There is only the plain fact that they met, as though that’s the only thing that happened that day. As though it’s the only thing that mattered.
Akechi swallows hard and flicks to the end of the diary.
19/03: This will be my final entry.
Tomorrow I am going home. (?)
Akechi runs his finger over the sharp hook of this second question mark. It seems belonging evades Ren still.
2 May
Not killing yourself is really expensive. This Akechi learns at the front desk of the hotel, counting and recounting what little money he has left and coming up short every time. He had not expected to live this long, and therefore he has not budgeted for it.
“I have been staying here for a long time, and never before now have I missed a payment,” he says. He remains steady. His voice is amiable and pleasant. He still has too much pride to beg. “If you would just allow me a few days, I’m sure-”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t allow for exceptions of any kind,” says the receptionist. She taps her nails musically on the counter. “I wish I could help, but my manager would fry me. Are you sure you don’t have a credit card or something I could try?”
Akechi sighs. Cutting up his bank cards and throwing them into a lake was perhaps not the most well thought out part of his plan. Some poor trout is probably choking on an EMV chip as they speak. “No.”
The receptionist frowns at him. Akechi knows that look. Pity: the favoured emotion of well-meaning adults who lack the fortitude to follow through on their good intentions. They swear they would help you if they could, but they can’t. They never can. “If you were only a little short, I could probably work something out, but...”
Akechi forces a winning smile. He hopes it’s a winning smile, anyway, but it’s been a long time since he’s posed for a magazine cover, and he no longer knows the difference between winning smile and manic grimace. “I understand,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Hope to see you again,” says the receptionist.
“Likewise.”
He returns to his room to collect what few belongings he has. It’s a supervised activity, a housekeeper positioned by the open door to ensure that he does not take vengeance upon the linens. Said housekeeper tries to make casual conversation with Akechi to dissolve the awkwardness of the situation, but Akechi doesn’t bite. He marches over to the wardrobe and starts shoving garments haphazardly into a floppy overnight bag.
He used to be so careful with his things. He used to have things worth being careful with; cashmere sweaters, silk shirts, designer shoes. Now his clothing is oversized and generic, chosen specifically for how little it resembles what he used to wear. Becoming remarkable had taken a lifetime of effort, but it had been so quickly undone, a snagged thread that, once pulled, had left him naked.
From the back of the wardrobe, he takes a small wooden box. He opens it carefully and checks over the contents. The newest addition – Ren's diary – sits neatly on top, but the rest is a shrine to his mother. A blurry polaroid, a fragile charm bracelet, a scrap of paper decorated with her lovely, languid handwriting.
Shopping list: rice, eggs, baking soda, laundry detergent, socks for Goro
He does not know how this note came into his possession, only that it has always been with him. He loves the way his mother wrote his name, an elegant, looping G descending into smaller script. He wonders how she would feel if she knew that the name she chose has been discarded, sloughed off in favour of a series of bland aliases.
“Are you quite finished, Mr Satō?” asks the housekeeper. “This room needs to be cleaned for the next guests.”
Satō. It is the most common family name in the country. It is not his mother’s name.
“Yes,” says Akechi, closing the box and tucking it in amongst his clothes. “I’m finished.”
3 May
Akechi wanders the city until the sun goes down. He takes the train back and forth, his obnoxiously bulky bag nearly knocking over half the passengers on his way in and out. He loiters in public parks and overstays his welcome at every 24-hour diner he comes across. He tries his luck at several cheap hotels, but none of them are cheap enough.
He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know what he plans to do. He doesn’t know why he stayed in Tokyo instead of disappearing into the countryside or – better still – disappearing altogether.
Spending what small change he can shake out of his pockets, he puts together a convenience store supper: a chicken cutlet sandwich, a red bean Kitkat, and a bottle of water. A random porch step provides both dining chair and table. He cautiously unwraps his sandwiches, careful not to tear the packaging, and takes a small bite of one corner. The thinly pounded chicken breast melts on his tongue and the mayonnaise sticks to the roof of his mouth. He chases it with a large gulp of water before wrapping the sandwich back up again. The weight of exhaustion is heavy on his shoulders. He closes his eyes for a moment.
The door behind him jolts open so violently that he spills water in his lap. “Get off my porch, kid,” says the man that emerges. “This is trespassing.”
Akechi keeps walking. What else can he do? It’s a mild night, but that doesn't make the prospect of sleeping on the street any more appealing. He might have gotten used to life without luxuries, but forgoing something as basic as shelter seems foreign and yet impossibly close.
The endless chafing of his bag strap on his shoulder eventually forces him to stop. He throws it to the ground, huffing in frustration. The voice in his head rails at him ceaselessly. Come on. Don’t be so pathetic. Aren’t you supposed to be resourceful? Have you truly been defeated by something as trivial as money? There must be an answer. There must be somewhere in this god forsaken city where you can lay low until you figure your shit out.
He catches his breath. A second voice emerges. A kinder voice. Ren’s voice. I think you already know where you should go.