Chapter Text
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If we all end up the same way, what really makes good people different from terrible ones?
Like a delicate whisper, the thought drifted through the cloud and stayed in the barely lit room. The thick, cozy fog that clung to everything, and a slow exhale of smoke into the air. The man with the brown hair sat back in the tub with his eyes half-lidded and watched as his breath eventually vanished into thin air.
What did it really matter in the big picture? In the end, everything that people had worked so hard to achieve—love, vengeance, atonement, or success— will be buried with them. All of them are reduced to the same cold dirt and forgotten. Legacy dissolved into dust. We all wind up in the same place, entangled in the ashes of unresolved business and regrets that we were either too obstinate or too scared to resolve when the opportunity was in the reach.
He took another cautious inhale of the toxin, his sharp yet gentle features briefly glowing as the coals at the tip of his cigarette flared up. Maybe that was the terrible joke of it all. A final, uncaring judge who did not distinguish between saints and sinners.
The spiral of thoughts would continue, oh it would if it wasn’t interrupted. Akechi glanced as he heard the specific sound of the ringtone. Right, he did set a different one for this sentimental fool – hypocritic move as he isn’t better for doing so. Kind of jazzy but lazy music filled the room and surprisingly a bittersweet smile appeared.
After listening to it for a while as it made the calming memories come back, he reached for the phone – not to take it but tap the answer button.
“Aren’t you a funny one to call me when I’m taking a bath?”
A confusing but not awkward nor uncomfortable silence greeted him as an answer instead so he continued:
“But I guess that’s fine. After all I did tell you to call me whenever, Akira.”
“I’m glad you did” a bit raspy voice came from the other side; he could almost hear that stupid grin of his.
Something was wrong though. Kurusu’s voice was as smooth as a butter in the evenings. He knew something was up. But why bother. He put out the cigarette and fully focused on him now though.
“As you finally decided to speak up after calling me first – what could possibly be the matter that can’t wait a bit over an hour?”
Silence again. And Akechi wasn’t going to push, as he hears Akira pouring some kind of liquid down probably coffee. Maybe or maybe not he did know that the people he’s working with would be very likely to call him even in those circumstances just to make his life even more miserable. But as they are speaking right now - they simply can’t - and won't even bother much thinking he’s having another “business” call. But that’s only theoretically. Even though at this stupid little idea Akechi let’s a snort leave not only his body but also his soul.
He's whipped. And in denial . It would make only things harder.
“Ah, you really are something” - a pause - “as I can tell it might be something that won’t come easy why don’t you tell me-”
“Is there something you wish to tell me?”
Excuse me?
“Hm...?”
“You were staring at me weirdly in Mementos. Any comments on my methods?”
Oh, okay. That makes sense.
There wasn’t even a shred of doubt—no possibility, no fleeting thought—that Akira had figured it out. The very idea was absurd. No one could have. Not truly. And yet, if anyone had come close, it would be him. Akira was again silent, just a call yet he could feel that quiet, knowing gaze piercing through the phone like the thin veil of deception, a blade poised just above the skin. He always had a way of doing that—reading between the lines, peeling back the layers of a person’s carefully crafted facade with an effortless ease that was both infuriating and impressive. He didn’t pry, not in the way others would, with prodding questions or accusations. No, Akira simply watched things unravel, patient and unreadable, waiting for the truth to show itself. It was an unsettling thing, to be so close to someone who might actually understand—not just the performance, not just the calculated words, but the mind behind them. Because Akira wasn’t just close to him in proximity, in circumstance. He was the closest thing to an equal. The only one who could walk the same treacherous path of intellect and deduction without losing his footing. And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous thing of all.
Akechi sighed and said calmly - “You’ve got it all wrong, I was simply analysing so, I can match your pace more. We do have something very important to do after all and I can’t risk making a mistake.” And definitely not in front of you.
A chuckle – bingo. Not exactly a lie about the staring, he does care for him and can show it sometimes as long as it flutters him and drags back to the other.
“About the question I interrupted previously “- funny you did guess what I was about to ask - “I’m making Colombia Nariño coffee. “
Pleased hum was heard before he decided to speak - “Oh I know this one, Sojiro told me about it once as a recommendation for the next time I come around. Unique coffee with a creamy consistency. Kind of a surprise as it can have a nutty flavour and some can even spot a hint of red fruits.”
“Hmm... I wonder though who would come here faster if I added some cream and extra sugar in it, huh?”
No lying. He giggled at that genuinely.
“Got me there. I’ll be there as soon as possible”
Is this a joke he thinks as he's greeted with silence once more. He hung up on him. The audacity.
“Pfft. Motherfucker.”
As the revelation came slowly and relentlessly, his hands dragged over his face, fingers pressed against his temples. Perhaps there was no more doubting it. No space for last-minute defenses or excuses to distort the facts to make them more - real. And the aftermath of it all? Diabolical. A creeping inevitability slithering toward him, ready to wrap around his throat like a noose. A low, frustrated groan rumbled in his chest as he finally pushed himself up, water sloshing over the edge of the bathtub. He lingered for a second, head tilted back, as if the steam curling in the air could somehow soften the weight pressing down on him. Then, with a sharp exhale, he forced himself to move. Could he really make it in less than an hour?
No. Absolutely not.
His phone screen flared to life again, casting a harsh glow against the dimly lit bathroom. He barely needed to check the notification to know what it was.
Never mind. He could make it.
“This is fucking ridiculous .”
Nothing was cooperating—his tie refused to sit properly, the collar choked him like an iron clasp, his hair was a mess no matter how many times he ran his fingers through it, and now, as if to mock him, the bottle of cologne slipped from his grasp and crashed onto his foot. A sharp sting shot up his leg, but it was nothing compared to the frustration clawing at his mind. It was almost laughable. As if the universe itself had conspired to keep him as far away from this meeting as possible, throwing every petty inconvenience his way like some divine warning. Don’t go. Turn back. Forget it.
But he wouldn’t. His appearance was his second greatest concern—second only to the precarious balance he walked every day, where a single misstep meant ruin. One mistake, and everything would just go down the drain. His work, his effort, revenge. Akechi took a deep breath and forced himself to look into the mirror. Dark reddish eyes stared back, unblinking. He could not waver. He wouldn't . There was no turning back. Considering how far he has come. Considering what he had given up.
Society’s expectations weighed on his shoulders, crushing and unrelenting, but he had long since learned to bear them without breaking. If Shido expected him to pull the fucking trigger, then he would— not out of loyalty, but because it would serve his goal. Because it was necessary.
So why was he going to meet him?
That question dug into his mind, an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. His fingers curled into fists at his sides as irritation flared hot in his chest. None of this made sense. His actions and his thoughts were out of sync, contradicting each other at every turn. And yet, even knowing that—even with every part of him screaming that this was wrong—he had never once considered canceling.
Because it felt right.
Because he wanted this.
And so, he went.
Of course, as the perfect cherry on top, it was raining.
Not that he minded—Akechi actually liked the rain, when he was inside, warm and dry, with a window between him and the downpour. He had come prepared, of course. He wasn’t careless enough to leave without an umbrella. But what he had miscalculated were his pants. A bit longer than usual, a trend he had noticed among some teens lately. He figured he’d try it out, see how he felt in them. Bad idea. The fabric was already damp at the ends, clinging uncomfortably to his ankles. Just another minor inconvenience in a string of them, as if the universe itself was toying with him again. Not that he actually believed in fate. That would be absurd. But really—what else could explain the sheer number of unfortunate, perfectly-timed events in his life?
Certainly not his own actions. No, something was out to get him.
His steps slowed as he reached the entrance of Leblanc. He stood there for a moment, staring at the door, rain pattering softly against his umbrella. Strangely his thoughts, which had been a loud, chaotic mess just moments ago, had dulled into something quiet. Less sharp. Less unbearable. With a short breath, he stepped inside. The ding of the bell overhead was familiar, as was the low hum of jazz spilling from the speaker he bought with Akira some time ago. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the faint musk of rain-soaked fabric. It was after closing - just as always. Their little tradition. Akechi’s lips curled into a small, cocky smile.
“Our little barista finally decided on some good music, huh?”
“Hah, I hate you, I wanted to do something nice, and you react like this, hurting my heart here, detective” he says as gently as ever in a joking voice.
Oh, he’ll miss it. Or not.
“Trust me I would rather listen to Ryuji’s punk shit bands than yours and Futaba’s game soundtracks”
He finally sits in his seat. When he was taking his coffee, he never changed the place. Sitting here since day one as he could say. His look finally tears down from Akira to the cup he's being given.
“No worries it’s not poisoned.” At this point he wish it was “And honestly, I'm glad u didn’t make it that fast. First attempt was a disaster. Didn’t think I can mess up something by giving only A BIT too much cream.”
He decided to analyse the cup more because of that. Honestly? It looked perfectly fine. “Should I be concerned about this one too?”
“Why? Don’t trust me or you are just scared?” this stupid grin again entered his expression.
None. Never.
While taking the cup of coffee to his mouth he looks at Akira again before closing the eyes of his, amused at how he prepared it. A challenge yet It’s honestly very surprising how the man in front of him can satisfy, with just a drink. Delicious as ever. And sweet, the way he likes it.
“It’s alright”
Akira looks at him stupidly then he puts a hand on his hip and smiles smugly. “C’mon it got to be better than alright.”
“Mmnnnn, no”
A chuckle of both fills the room. It mixes perfectly with the slow music the other decided to put on with a lot of thought. A few years earlier and Goro could have it all. Selfishly, the way he wanted it. He looked at Akira as he still was laughing lightly, cleaning the machine he used. The fact the other wouldn’t mind the idea either was crushing. He hated it.
“Sooo... As I recall well you wanted to talk about something else too.”
Again, the boy with a complete mess on his head looked at him like he had no clue what he was talking about.
“Are you alright?”
“Quite, yeah just” a pause. Akechi decided to study him more now. A slump posture-which is nothing new-, hands in pockets, his glasses all the way up on his nose bridge and most importantly – looking everywhere but him. “-tired, I think? The group and I had a little misunderstanding so that’s all.”
Hm. Not it. He knew it wasn’t just a misunderstanding if Akira was actually reacting to it physically.
“I don’t want to come off as rude but do you think it will affect our performance tomorrow?” He takes another sip of his drink, something to shut him up before he asks the boy to tell him more. Concern. Concern will be the end of his.
No answer at first, just like if he was thinking it through. But he wasn’t.
“No, I don’t think so by that I mean it wasn’t intense or something but” his gaze finally meets the other, just like before “-with the fact in mind. That sometimes I wish to be selfish and later on I do it – was I - no, am I the leader they first had in mind while choosing me.”
Unexpected and he meant it. Akira was doubting it?
“Akira, you’re the most selfless person I know—hell, maybe in all of Tokyo. And trust me when I say this: you deserve to do something for yourself. Just for you.” Akechi hesitated. Fuck it. “And honestly... if they don’t think the same, then they’re the selfish ones.”
He never quite understood Akira’s little sentimental circle of friends—or, more precisely, why he kept them so damn close. That boy, with his ridiculous mess of hair and infuriatingly soft heart, was practically offering himself up on a silver platter. If they asked, he would give anything. Everything they wanted, without hesitation, without expecting a single thing in return.
Not because that was his nature. But because that was what he wanted. Because it made him happy. The silence that followed was unbearable, stretching between them like a chasm. But Akechi knew why. Akira would never speak ill of his friends. Not him. Never. Even if he wanted to. The real problem was that he didn’t.
That’s your only flaw. You’re too perfect for this world. Too... forgiving.
A sigh. “Listen, I might have overstepped. Why don’t we play something, hm?”
Still, Akira didn’t look at him, already moving with quiet purpose. Akechi caught the subtle shift in his posture, the effortless way his fingers curled around the edge of the counter as he bent down. He knew exactly what he was reaching for before he even saw it.
The familiar wooden chessboard emerged, its edges slightly worn from use. It had been tucked neatly away, waiting.
Akechi huffed a quiet hum. “Ah, prepared as always.”
Akira’s lips quirked as he set the board between them. The moment lingered—so ordinary, yet strangely comforting. “Shall we?”
. . .
Akechi placed his fingertips lightly on the edges of the board to straighten it up, almost absently. It was a ritual now, the quiet exchange of strategy and unspoken words between them.
But something felt—off.
Hm?
His gaze flickered up.
“Akira.”
Chuckle as a response was given at first, his amusement quiet and knowing. “Pfft, knew you’d notice.” His hands moved smoothly over the board, arranging the pieces with practiced ease. “I want to try something new. Do you mind if I play white today?”
Akechi arched a brow. “Not at all. I just assumed you were distracted and made a mistake.”
Warm laugh from the raven filled the space between them, as fleeting as it was genuine. It rippled through the air, carrying with it something unspoken, something the other didn’t dare to name. The discomfort from earlier slipped away once more.
Had he only now realized that the melody was still on—too many distractions—but here, in this quiet little corner of the world, he didn’t mind it. He didn’t mind much of anything.
The other's grin shifted, sharpening at the edges, amusement giving way to something far more familiar. A challenge. “I must let you know that even if I were distracted, I wouldn’t miscalculate anything around you.”
Ah. There it was.
Akechi’s lips curled into a smirk as he finally got his hands on the black king to welcome it on his side of the board. 8D.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Joker.”
And just like that, the game began.
“I’m going to win next time too. Don’t underestimate me, ever” as soft spoken.
No next time shall come for you.
Not only the one on the board.
Have your regrets begun?
□
He jolted awake, a sharp inhale catching in his throat as he clamped a hand over his mouth. That was unpleasant.
For a moment, he thought he could fight it. Swallow it down. Push past the nausea clawing its way up his chest, tightening its grip around his ribs. He couldn’t. His body had already decided for him.
The second the tremor hit his stomach, he stumbled out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before his knees slammed against cold tiles. His stomach twisted and emptied itself in violent, heaving spasms. As if purging could make it all go away. His actions mostly.
The sour taste burned his throat. His body trembled, sweat clinging to his skin. Puking—of all things—was what his body had chosen to punish him with today. But well, that was new. Akechi had always been in control. He had seen blood. He had seen bodies. He had never recoiled. Never hesitated. But now—
His left hand.
It felt absent. Heavy. Wrong.
Like it wasn’t even his anymore. Like something he should sever and leave behind.
He refused to look at it.
He shoved his hair back, tying it up with clumsy, unsteady hands. Another wave hit—not just nausea but also the memory from just a few hours ago.
His breath hitched. His stomach twisted violently, though he knew this time, it had nothing to do with sickness. So why? Why was this different?
He had killed before. Countless times. The weight of it never sat heavy in his chest. It never made him sick. Not much was different from the other cases.
Resentment swelled under his skin, crawling like static in his veins. Was it the familiarity? The stupid grin of his or maybe the feeling of final equality?
He always remembered them. Every single one. But none had ever made him feel this. Or simply react like this.
This wasn’t disgust. That emotion had always belonged to Shido.
And yet—he wanted to cut off his own hand for doing so.
The thought made bile rise in his throat again.
Was it regret? No, never. He had a plan. He never asked the other to stand in his way. Now even the name won’t come.
Then was it guilt?
His mind went quiet.
Adrenaline hit him like a sudden wave, drowning out everything else. His mind was eerily quiet, save for the high-pitched static buzzing in both of his ears.
His hands remained by his sides, calm as if nothing was wrong, even though his heart raced. He thought he had spoken to someone. Did he? He couldn’t remember what about.
He entered. One down.
The fog in his memory began to clear, but the feeling in his chest didn’t.
A voice of his own echoed in his mind.
“Hello there, I came to rescue you.”
The smile on his face faltered as his eyes dropped to the familiar hair—the same barista he knew so well. His gaze drifted away. "That’s what you were hoping to hear, wasn’t it?”
He closed the distance between them, his feet almost moving on their own.
Something was said. A broken promise? No. Or maybe? What.
A shot.
Silent. A strange kind of quiet followed. His arm stiffened, a sudden jolt of tension shooting through him like if he was the one receiving the bullet.
“Hah...”
The sound left his lips with no expression, just an empty breath that didn’t feel like his own. It was as if his body had taken over, moving without his consent. His fingers, numb and mechanical, pressed the cold metal of the gun against the raven-haired head, the weight of it so foreign, so unnatural, that it sent a shiver crawling up his spine. He could feel the sharp edge of it against his palm, but it didn’t matter. The stillness in front of him was suffocating.
No motion.
He couldn’t bring himself to react. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his face. It was like his body had frozen in time, suspended in some awful, unfeeling state. His mind was far away, unable—or unwilling—to process what had just happened. His heart pounded, but it was muffled by the quiet. His breath was shallow, and even that felt disconnected, like it belonged to someone else.
His eyes stayed locked on the stillness before him, unable to tear away, yet unable to see at the same time. He couldn’t feel anything. It wasn’t numbness, not quite, but something worse. It was a hollow space where everything had emptied out, leaving nothing but the weight of the gun in his hand. He couldn’t decide if he was waiting for something—anything—or if he was just too exhausted to move, too broken to make a choice.
The air around him felt thick, like it was closing in, suffocating him with the weight of what had just occurred. But even then, Akechi stayed motionless. His body was a shell. His mind? A distant echo, a buzzing static, too far away to grasp.
"Hah..."
Again, that same sound left him as he clenched his fists, suddenly dizzy. His daze far away, his memory gnawing at him for some reason. He wanted it all to be fake some distorted reality that didn't have anything to do with his doing.
But it wasn't. The very thing was real.
Sleep didn't dare to find him again that night.
□
Nothing really stuck to him as he walked through the familiar yet now unrecognizable streets leading to Jazz Jin. His mind, in some futile attempt at self-preservation, whispered that this might help him unwind. That a drink, the low hum of jazz, and the dim, amber glow of the bar might settle the restless weight pressing down on his chest.
It didn’t.
The door creaked softly as he stepped inside, the scent of aged wood, faint smoke, and rich flavours wrapping around him. The atmosphere was the same—soft conversations, the quiet clatter of glasses, the low, steady notes of the saxophone playing in the background. But something about it felt off.
He found himself in his usual seat at the club, barely remembering when he sat down. The bartender greeted him with an easy smile.
"Good to see you again. The usual?"
Akechi hesitated. His usual. That should mean something, shouldn't it?
"...Yes."
The bartender nodded and turned away. The distant sound of ice hitting the glass barely registered in Akechi’s mind, drowned out by the restless hum beneath his skin. His fingers tapped idly against the counter, an unconscious rhythm. It took him a moment to realize where it came from— a melody. A half-forgotten tune, soft and familiar. His breath hitched. It was the song he was so fond of to the point he had to share it once. Of course it was.
A jazz standard, nothing particularly unique or obscure, and yet—it had mattered. A song once hummed absentmindedly, played in fleeting moments of peace, whistled under someone’s breath with infuriating ease. A song that had once been a pleasant memory, a silent challenge, a test of how well he could keep up.
The melody swelled, and Akechi clenched his jaw. Ignore it. It’s just a song.
A quiet clink in front of him. Two drinks.
His stomach dropped.
The bartender chuckled, oblivious. “Figured he’d be joining you soon. You two, recently, started to only come together, after all.”
And Akechi stared.
The second glass sat there, untouched, condensation trailing down its sides.
He wasn’t coming.
The thought wedged itself into his mind, slow and suffocating, like a knife pushed between his ribs. But he didn't correct the bartender. He didn’t move at all. Instead, he just looked at the glass. The ice was melting. He could just push it aside. Say something. Smirk, joke, anything. But the words never came. Because some part of him—some pathetic, desperate part that wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that the door would open in the next few minutes, that familiar footsteps would sound against the wooden floor, that a quiet, teasing voice would say something insufferable.
That he hadn’t—
He swallowed, reached into his coat, and set down the payment.
“Keep the change,” he muttered, standing so fast the chair scraped against the floor.
The bartender didn’t question it.
Akechi turned and walked out, leaving both glasses behind.
The following days were worse.
One good thing—Shido left him alone, at least for now. The bad thing—he had no information about the incident. He had done everything as instructed. Everything went as planned. So humour him—why hadn’t the "suicide" of the Phantom Thief been announced? Not today. Not yesterday. Not even the day before. It wasn’t like he expected a dramatic report. But the lack of any mention at all. Not a single whisper of a body found, a tragic accident, an investigation. Oh, that set his nerves on fire.
At first, he told himself he was just being paranoid. That maybe, for once, the higher-ups were handling things quietly. But the longer the silence stretched, the more unbearable it became.
And the lack of a call from Shido?
That was worse. Had something gone wrong? Was that why no one had contacted him?
No. No, impossible.
He had been there. He had seen the blood. Felt the gun recoil in his grip. Watched the that head hit the surface in front of him —lifeless. He knew what a fresh corpse looked like. His hands curled into fists as he stared blankly ahead. But if everything had gone according to plan. Why did it feel like something was missing.
At top of that sleep had abandoned him entirely. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten more than two uninterrupted hours—if you could even call it sleep. Every time he shut his eyes, something pulled him back. A sound, a flicker of movement in his mind, the phantom sensation of static crawling up his spine. Or worse. A memory he didn’t want.
A voice he wouldn’t let himself recall.
The exhaustion settled deep in his bones, dragging his limbs down like lead. His apartment was too quiet, save for the occasional hum of the fridge or the distant murmur of life beyond his walls.
His eyes traced absently over his surroundings. Another stupid decision of his.
A vine-like plant stretched from the top of his fridge, its tendrils nearly reaching the floor now. It was given to him. Trivial, passing gesture, something meant to fill the empty space in his apartment.
"You should have something alive in here."
His fingers curled slightly when even his mind decided to betray him. He never even cared for the damn thing. Half the time, he forgot to water it. Yet somehow, it was still here. Still growing. Still alive.
His jaw tightened at certain words. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers to his temples. His gaze shifted next to the bookcase. The books he never touched. Lined up neatly, in the same place for years, waiting for the day he might pick them up. Which won't happen. Except for a small stack, separate from the others. Books he had actually read.
His throat tightened.
One in particular caught his eye. A book on freshwater fish. No comment.
By now, he should have torn this place apart. Thrown at least half of those things out. Anything that could remind him of—
…but he hadn’t.
He couldn't.
A deep, bluish light from the outside bled into his apartment, stretching faintly across the coffee table.
Something in him snapped.
What the hell am I doing?
With a sharp exhale, he dragged his hands down his face, then grabbed his laptop, placing it on his knees. His fingers moved before he could think—mechanical, almost foreign, typing that name once more. He had access. Why not use it?
Besides, if anyone checked, there would be nothing suspicious about his document search history. It was his job. Shido could go to hell.
And then his breath hitched. His eyebrows furrowed sharply. Oh, he unlocked a new expression.
"What do you mean… TRANSFERRED?"
His grip tightened on the edges of the laptop as he stood up.
No, that wasn’t possible. He saw that man’s brains splatter against the floor. He pulled the trigger himself. The bullet went straight through his skull. By his own goddamn hands.
And yet.
Transferred.
Would they put it in the system like that to delay the news? But why? Why would they bother hiding it within the police itself? None of this was adding up.
A ringing noise started in his ears again. He stared stupidly for a second then quickly grabbed his phone, tapping open the Metaverse app.
"Masayoshi Shido."
"Candidate found."
The static roared louder. Of fucking course. But what the HELL ?
Akechi slammed the device onto the coffee table, shoving the laptop aside before pacing toward his bedroom.
How the hell did Sae work with those damn thieves against HIM?
Her sister was in fact working with them but the thieves clearly and openly avoided her getting into that stuff. At least to that point. But how he missed such important thing, why didn't he think they could be lying about it in some way.
Sure, they did force his way into the Metaverse but it didn’t change the fact that Akechi had shot him.
His steps faltered.
A breath—relieved, almost. Barely audible. Not that he would ever admit to it.
With a sharp inhale, he dropped onto his knees beside his bed, pulling out another laptop from underneath. No hesitation. No second-guessing. He sat right there on the floor, fingers flying across the keyboard as he scanned through every local hospital record, he had access to.
Funny. Five hours.
That’s how long he spent combing through every possible lead, following every thread, tearing apart every document—only to watch his access lock out before his very eyes.
Not by his job. Not by any government restriction. No. By someone else.
His stomach twisted as the screen flickered. And there, staring right back at him—
Alibaba’s logo.
Deep frustration settled in his chest, but he wasn’t even given the space to process it before something else popped up. And a calling card. His eye twitched.
Fucking hideous.
He doesn't even have a palace to start with so what kind of fun activity they chose to do while their leader is most probably dead. Or something around that definition of state.
Even more hideous was the fact that its online version had a phone number.
As if he didn’t already know it was a trick in some sort.
He exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temples, his vision blurring from exhaustion. And concern. There wasn’t a single thought that made sense. Call Shido? Call the number? Just vanish and let everything rot? None of it felt real. None of it felt right.
“Arrghhh... this is hopeless!” Goro growled, yanking his phone out of his pocket and punching in the number with shaking fingers. But then—hesitation.
"What the fuck am I thinking?" His hand recoiled like it had touched fire, and the phone went flying across the room. It slammed against the wall with a sharp crack and dropped to the floor. The silence that followed was deafening. No neighbors shouting, no city hum bleeding through the window—hell, even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The only thing filling the air was the sound of his heartbeat, hammering against his ribs like it wanted to escape his chest. His palms dug into his face, trying to block everything out. The weight of everything he’d done. Everything he might do. The choices. The lack of them.
Nothing again. Sleep didn’t dare to find him—not even hover near his lashes, not even mock him with the promise of rest. It lingered just beyond reach, cruel and distant. At this point, he wasn’t sure if it would ever embrace him again. Just like that scent never would. The one that used to cling to a certain old coat, woven into secondhand books and warm coffee steam. The one that curled in the corners of shared silence.
The realization hits hard. It’s not just that he’s going to miss it—it’s that he already does. Violently. Desperately.
The ache blooms in his chest with a kind of sour gentleness, like pressing a bruise over and over. He wants to scream, but nothing comes out. Just another breath. Just another damn night. He misses it like hell. The boy’s eyes—no, his eyes—haunt. That quiet upward glance, those stupid wide pupils filled not with suspicion, not with judgment, but with... care. Genuine, infuriating, gut-wrenching care. And worse—excitement. At his presence. At simply spending time together, as if Goro Akechi wasn’t something broken, something sharp to avoid.
It all irritates him even more now.
Because he can’t have that again. Not even a fraction of it. Not even in his sleep. Even dreams had abandoned him, like everything else that ever dared to get close. And so he lays there, eyes open in the dark, surrounded by shadows and silence, knowing that even memory has started to lose its warmth.
The universe hates him.
“Okay man, you ain’t gonna do it, so I am.”
His eyes snapped open. 2 A.M. and a familiar voice. Slightly filtered through his laptop speakers but unmistakably sharp.
"Before you dare to speak, you better listen." Futaba. She didn’t wait for a reply. “First of all—fuck you?? Seriously, who the fuck do you think you are?” He blinked, stunned silent. “And second of all—fuck you. Your aim is ass.”
"...Wait, what?”
The screen on his laptop flickered. The Alibaba logo vanished, replaced by a black terminal window that blinked at him.
“Your aim is ass,” she repeated, more evenly now. “And because of that, you didn’t just fuck up your plan. You fucked up ours , too.”
Akechi let out a low growl, dragging the laptop back into his lap, its heat seeping through the fabric of his pants like it was mocking him.
“What do you want, ginger gnome?” Futaba made a satisfied little hum, ignoring the jab entirely.
“And there it is. The real you. Finally. I know what you want, and I want a deal.” She paused, and for once, her voice dropped the usual playfulness. “Well— we want a deal. But you get what I mean.”
Silence stretched between them. Thick. Charged. And why wouldn't it be? She had every right to hate him. He'd killed her mother. There was no dancing around that. No justifying it. Not really. And yet...
“Just get on with it,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “I already unlocked what you need. But don’t get ahead of yourself. This is a trial ,” she said, voice clipped. “I’m not stupid, Akechi. I saw what happened. I saw what was happening. I gave you access—go, find him. But if you touch him, you're dead. I already bugged the place.”
His brows drew together.
“What?”
“What?” she echoed, mimicking his tone with sarcastic disbelief. A beat. Then a dramatic sigh from her end, followed by the distinct sound of a facepalm.
“Are you dense? We both know you care about him,” she said quietly. Too quietly. It caught him off guard. “Like—stupidly. And... as messed up as that is, it works for me. Because I need to take advantage of it. We need your help.”
Akechi swallowed hard, his hands going cold on the keyboard. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Futaba Sakura. The girl whose world he'd helped destroy, asking him for help and also giving him “access” to the person he almost killed. What kind of twisted reality had he landed in? And worse—why did a small, broken part of him feel...relieved?
“Are you Phantom Thieves stupid ?” Goro snapped, his voice tight, too sharp. “I killed —okay, almost killed—because from what you're telling me, I didn’t actually kill him?—your leader , and you want my help... in exchange for letting me see him?”
His fingers curled slightly on the keyboard, knuckles white. The words burned in his mouth, each syllable bitter with guilt he refused to acknowledge out loud. He could barely get the sentence out without his jaw locking. His chest ached from the weight of it—like saying it confirmed he was still tethered to everything he tried to bury.
“Uhhhhh…”
Futaba's voice came out a bit too hesitant, laced with an awkward chuckle that didn’t quite reach her usual bravado. “Yeah, you make it sound kinda crazy—it is —but no. You didn’t kill him. I mean... technically.”
There was a pause, one that stretched like static in a dead room. A heavy silence filled the space. Akechi stared at the screen, but his gaze wasn’t focused. His eyes were somewhere else—back then, blood on his hands, a phantom heartbeat under trembling fingers. Futaba broke the silence gently, almost cautiously. She never liked when things got too real, but even she couldn’t avoid it now.
“You hesitated ,” she said. “Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. That... kinda saved him.”
He shut his eyes for a second. His breath hitched in his throat. That moment—it had played in his mind a thousand times. He never told anyone how the gun shook in his hands. How he looked into his eyes and nearly broke. How part of him had wanted to.
“Wait, what’s wrong with—” He swallowed, heart skipping like it wanted to dodge the next word. He forced himself to keep going, to say it. But something in him cracked, so he said instead,
“Kurusu.” It felt wrong. Distant. Too formal. A name he’d used in front of others, never when they were alone. Never when it mattered.
The silence from her side was telling. She knew. She heard that shift. Futaba sighed, a slow, worn-out breath.
“He’s in some kind of coma,” she finally said. “I don’t know the exact details—no one really does—but he also…” She trailed off for a second. He imagined her adjusting her glasses, fiddling with her wires, trying not to feel the sting in her chest. “You’ll see the damage for yourself.”
Goro’s throat constricted. His pulse rang in his ears, and suddenly the room felt too small. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, motionless. This was real. He didn’t reply. Couldn’t. The words just didn’t exist. The silence that followed was heavier than before. Regret hung between them, unspoken but screaming. Futaba exhaled again, trying to steady herself.
“Get to work. I'm not gonna make it easier for you. I’ll send the full deal and conditions soon. You want the info? Get it yourself.”
...
“Sakura?” He didn’t mean to say it so softly. But it came out barely louder than a whisper, trembling at the edges.
“What.” Short. Blunt. But not cold. He hesitated again, tongue like lead. His pride screamed at him to shut up, but something else—something tired and human—pushed past it.
“Ugh... Thank you.”
A beat passed. Then a dry, breathy sound—a laugh, maybe. Or something bitter-tinged that almost sounded like forgiveness.
“Don’t get caught.” The screen flickered once before switching tabs automatically. His browser now displayed a full-screen YouTube video titled "How To Fix Your Aim: For Beginners." The thumbnail was a cartoon character holding a gun backward. The brunet let out a slow, tired exhale, closing his eyes. Of course she’d end it like that. But somehow, it didn’t hurt the way it used to.
□
The next day, he didn’t touch it. Not the file, not the plan, not anything related to that . He had to meet with Sae. Go to school. Buy something to eat. Pretend to exist. The day passed with strange normalcy—a routine so painfully dull it felt surreal. Yet he felt completely out of control. Detached. Like someone else had borrowed his skin for a day and was just going through the motions. It was slow. Agonizingly so. The only thing anchoring this day to the others like it was how it ended, like always, with a visit.
He almost missed his stop. Almost texted someone, out of habit, that he’d be dropping by soon.
He’s weak.
He slides into his apartment and closes the doors behind him with a hiss.
He hadn’t even realized how mentally exhausted he was until his feet hit the wooden floor.
“Ugh... what the hell...” he mutters, pushing himself up with a sigh.
He needs to do something . Anything. Now. So, he decides to cook. Something simple. Something neutral.
Oatmeal with apples and cinnamon. It’s light. Kind to the stomach. Sweet, but not overwhelming. As he finally fully walks into his living space, then the kitchen he starts pulling things from the cabinets, muttering ingredients to himself.
“Hah, what do you mean you don’t know how to make oatmeal?” A laugh. Light. Not mocking just surprised.
“Come closer, I’ll show you. You like apples, right?”
...
“Perfect. We can work with that. Now listen closely, because this is the first and la—” Thump.
His palm slams against the counter, sharp and loud in the silence. His jaw clenches. He’s not even fucking dead, so why does it feel like he is?
He shakes his head hard enough to make his thoughts scatter. No. Not now. He goes back to the stove. Focus. Stir. Breathe. He sets the medium pot on the burner, pours in the no-lactose milk—automatic, mechanical.
“Since you like things sweet, you might as well use no-lactose milk. It’s naturally a little more sugary.”
He stirs slower now. He doesn’t break. But the silence after that voice fades feels like a punishment.
Oh, shut the fuck up, freak.
As he finishes, the sun has already begun its slow descent behind the skyline, casting golden streaks across the room. The oatmeal is only half-eaten, lukewarm at best, but he doesn't care. He sits on the couch, cradling his coffee like it’s the only thing grounding him.
Work will help. That’s the lie he feeds himself again and again. He reaches for the laptop, fingers brushing over the keys more hesitantly than he’d like to admit. And then—there it is. A new file sitting on the desktop like it owns the place. Of course. Futaba did say she'd send details. He opens it with a tired sigh. The familiar Alibaba logo flares across the screen, followed by her voice echoing through his living room speakers.
“Sooooo” she chirps, way too loud and way too smug.
“Oh lord,” he groans, not even bothering to hide the exhaustion in his voice. “Are you serious?”
“Mmnn. Decided it’ll be easier if I explain it myself while you see what I’m talking about.”
A shiver crawls down his spine. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. But it’s the same kind of “mmm” he and Kurusu used to throw at each other in passing, casually, sarcastically. A private joke that somehow meant more than it should have. Now it just feels like someone lit a match in his chest. But he doesn't recoil. He can’t. Not now.
“Okay,” her voice cuts through again, clearer this time. “We’ve got three things here, as you might’ve noticed.” He hears her groaning in the background, like even she’s tired of her own voice. How the hell can she be so collected? “Number one: the first time you visit Akira... I’m going with you.” That makes him sit up straighter.
“...Mind you?”
“I don’t exactly trust you aaand ... I want to see him too.” Her voice wavers—not by much, but enough. The chill cracks. She’s not as composed as she pretends to be. He lets the silence hang, calculating. Thinking.
“Why not go with the other Thieves, then?”
A pause. One that stretches longer than it should. “You won’t believe me if I tell you they’re busy right now. Plus...” She exhales, sharp through the mic. “All of them would go if I even said anything about him being confirmed alive. I feel extremely bad for not telling them. But I—I have no idea how to handle that chaos that would escalate from it. Akira knew. He always knew how to handle them...” Her voice trails off, almost like she’s remembering something too fragile to say out loud. He doesn’t interrupt. Not this time. She clears her throat. “Anyway. Next: you help us with Shido.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “No.” A beat. Then: “No,” again. Firmer. “And how the fuck do you even know about him?” None of this makes sense. How much does she know? His thoughts are running in circles, tripping over each other—until she speaks again.
“Akira mentioned a politician once. Someone with power. I decided to go through old footage carefully.” A pause. Then, like she’s smirking through the screen: “Sorry, not sorry, but... I also decided to dig up a little more about you.”
He blinked at the screen, lips parting in disbelief. The file still played, the audio echoing slightly through the quiet apartment, digging into the fragile calm he had built like a needle through skin.
“Go die. How the fuck do I end the call? I take everything back. Shall not work with you disgusting thieves.”
Harsh, but true spat out like venom that had been festering in the back of his throat for too long. He didn’t even realize he was leaning forward, shoulders tensed, one hand half-raised to just slam the laptop shut. Anything to make it stop.
But instead of the backlash he expected, the line filled with light, unfiltered laughter.
“Ohhh, Akira was so right. You’re full of shit. I don’t get it why he said it’s a compliment though.”
That stopped him cold. His breath caught.
A chill ran up his spine, confusion and something dangerously close to shame knotting in his gut. His brows furrowed. What did she just say? Akira said that ?
This isn’t happening. None of this feels like it’s happening.
It all blurred—her voice, the file, the surreal weightlessness in his chest that kept swinging between panic and disbelief. He kept waiting to wake up somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“And of course the third: you generally stay in contact with us until he wakes up.”
The words dropped like a stone. Final. Inescapable.
He groaned, dragging his palm down his face as he leaned back into the couch, eyes shut, trying to will himself away from the weight pressing down on him.
“Can’t promise.” he muttered, voice low and bitter like the untouched coffee now cold on the table.
“Don’t piss me off now. Pack it up,” she snapped, but not without a note of fatigue. The rustle of her standing, maybe stretching, could be heard faintly through the call. “I’m going for something to drink. Wait a second.”
He was left with the buzzing silence, the open file, and that one line replaying again and again in his mind.
When the spiral of thoughts threatened to devour him entirely, he snapped out of it the only way he knew how—by working. He pulled up his calendar, scanning it for a possible opening. The sooner, the better, especially if Futaba wanted to see Kurusu. He refused to admit—even to himself—that he couldn’t hold out much longer either.
His eyes flicked back to the screen just in time to notice subtle movement on the file.
“You’re back?” he asked, voice low, cautious.
“Shit, the detective you are, damn,” she snorted, the sound smug but somehow comforting in its familiarity. “Wrtin’ down what you need to know about our team combat. Besides what you already know—I noticed you’re pretty much into strategy sooo...”
Silence stretched between them—not awkward, not entirely comfortable either, but tolerable. Peaceful, in a weird way. Maybe that was enough for now.
“I already looked through your calendar, by the way. Day after tomorrow. Dare I say, detective?”
“I suppose that’s alright—but can you at least respect my damn calendar privacy?!”
Her laughter burst through the call—sharp, quick, and unmistakably amused—followed by the soft click of the connection cutting off.
“YOU TOO?” he snapped, to no one in particular, clutching his temples. God. Shivers ran up his spine again.
They definitely spent too much time together. The way she and Kurusu moved, joked, poked—it was uncanny. It unsettled him deeply. Like walking into a room that hadn’t changed, but the person inside had.
The day of the visit couldn’t have gone worse if he tried.
It was as if the world itself was conspiring against him. His tie refused to sit properly. His usually tame hair had revolted, forming errant tufts in defiance. Dark circles carved under his eyes made even the best concealer crumble in defeat.
“Oh, you look like shit,” Futaba commented as she walked beside him, voice filled with her usual brutal honesty.
“Thanks. Didn’t notice,” he muttered without missing a beat.
She laughed and pulled out her phone, scrolling with idle purpose. He caught the corner of a mischievous grin tugging at her lips.
“Okay, at first I thought we’d have to break in or use some idiotic excuse, but…” she glanced sideways, her expression suddenly unsure. Piercing, but vulnerable. “Turns out as the daughter of his guardian, we’ll have no problem getting in.”
He raised a brow. “What do you mean by stupid excuse?”
She smiled, wicked. A finger raised to her lips. “Shhhhh.”
“Oh, don’t you dare shu—”
Before he could finish, she kicked him lightly in the shin and marched ahead. He sighed, taking that as a very clear signal. No more questions.
The hospital doors slid open with a mechanical hum. That sterile smell—too-clean air laced with chemicals and faint decay—hit him like a punch to the gut. His stomach twisted. He hated hospitals.
By the time he registered his surroundings, Futaba was already talking—or attempting to. Words stumbled from her mouth before she gave up entirely, resorting to showing the receptionist something on her phone screen.
Goro stood still, like his limbs no longer belonged to him. This place already had him in a trance. A haze of fluorescent lights, white walls, and quiet dread.
“’Kechi?”
His head snapped toward the voice like a magnet. Sakura. Ah.
“You okay?” Her voice was soft, but the pity in her eyes stung. He hated that look.
“Mhm. Sorry. Just a little bit lost in thought. Shall we go?”
Futaba blinked, brows creased. “Dude, we’re already there.”
Oh.
His gaze wandered around. How didn’t he notice? The white room around them felt more like a stage than a space. Curtains now opened wide let filtered sunlight spill across medical monitors, IV poles, and sterile tile. The machinery loomed, but none of it was currently connected.
And then—his eyes landed on the bed.
Pale skin. Closed eyes. Dark lashes brushing unmoving cheeks. That familiar mess of black hair. But—
“Sakura, what is the meaning of this?” he asked, panic hiding behind the rigidity in his voice. He moved toward the bed, crouching, staring.
White. Strands of white, snow-pure and sharp against the black.
She said nothing, only followed his motion, her gaze fixed on Kurusu like she hadn’t looked away once.
“Futaba…” His voice barely carried.
“Have you ever heard of Canities Subita?”
His stare stayed locked on Kurusu’s hair—on what wasn’t supposed to be there—until finally, reluctantly, he looked at her.
She didn’t flinch.
“It’s considered a myth, how?”
“You say that like we haven’t fought shadows in a cognitive world.” Her voice was quiet now, edged with weariness. “There are a lot of theories. For the real world—some kind of psychic trauma. For the Metaverse?” A pause. “No idea. But it might be connected to how long it took you to shoot him.”
The words hit like glass—sharp, thin, impossible to hold without cutting yourself.
He said nothing. What could he say?
Not only had he failed at the job he was so sure he’d done—he did this. And even with this, the boy looked mystical.
“No other injuries?” he asked, barely breathing.
She sighed. “Well, it’s a coma. Besides the psychological damage and probably mobility issues when he wakes up—no. Even his brain is working fine. They say memory loss is unlikely.” She sounded tired. Not annoyed but genuinely tired. Worried. Afraid.
Is that what it’s like to have someone who cares about you?
He glanced at her again, but not for long. The envy burned too much.
Akira is right before him, yet he feels so dead looking at him.
He didn’t know how much time had passed.
Didn’t care, either.
He had a meeting scheduled for later, he remembered that faintly but it felt like a lifetime away. School tomorrow? Meaningless. None of it mattered now.
His eyes remained glued to the boy in the bed, black hair now threaded with quiet, cruel reminders of what had happened. Each time he looked at them, guilt coiled tighter around his ribs. It was his fault. His decision. His hesitation.
And yet— a flicker of pride slithered through that guilt. Something of him… left a mark on him. It repulsed him. It satisfied him. It was shameful.
He hated himself for feeling even a flicker of satisfaction.
But it didn’t last. Anxiety washed it all away like a tide. What if this—what if he never came back? What if that silence stayed?
Sleep found him that night anyway. Strangely, easily.
No one came to check on Kurusu.
Futaba was gone—had she gone home? Had she said goodbye? He didn’t remember. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to say anything. Maybe she’d known he wouldn’t hear her.
With a blink he was there again.
He was back in his dear seat. The one he always took, far enough to seem detached, close enough to watch. The air smelled like bitter coffee and the warmth of roasted beans and it wrapped around him like a worn-out coat, comforting in ways it shouldn’t have been. It smelled like memories. Like lies.
Music played, soft and indistinct, just enough to be there. Just enough to break him.
By the counter, behind the hum of a machine, a familiar silhouette moved with ease. Carefully. Gracefully. Akechi’s heart clenched.
Kurusu stood by the coffee maker, just as he always had, hands deftly preparing something new, some experimental blend like he hadn’t just been gone. Like he hadn’t been comatose, fragile and still.
Akechi didn’t dare speak. He didn’t need to. The knot inside him was slowly, steadily uncoiling. A strange calm settled over him.
He smiled.
A genuine, fleeting smile.
A low, raspy hum, familiar but changed. “You should call me sometime,” Kurusu said softly, back still turned to him. His voice was slower, like it had to claw its way out of his throat. “I won’t answer, but… at least I’ll know you care.”
The warmth vanished.
Akechi’s spine stiffened, the smile cracking and falling away. “How would you know it was me?” he asked, his voice fragile.
Kurusu turned and Akechi’s world fractured.
His hair—still black, suddenly streaked with white was marred now by threads of red. Blood traced lazy paths from his forehead down his cheek, like paint running down a canvas. A cup of coffee sat in front of Akechi now, full to the brim.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Kurusu smiled, something knowing and infinite in his tired eyes.
“You think I got caller ID?”
He met his eyes now. Dead, no reflection of light. No spark. Just hollow glass, too close yet impossibly far. Too close, too far, d on’t look at me.
That was enough.
His breath caught.
He bolted upright with a gasp from the chair he must’ve fallen asleep on, heart clawing its way up his throat, lungs refusing to work properly. For a moment, panic was the only thing he could register. The room spun, cruelly quiet, and all he could do was stare—stare at him.
Kurusu hadn’t moved. But something had.
He stumbled forward like a puppet cut from its strings, collapsing to his knees beside the bed. His hand found Kurusu’s warm for some reason but limp and he held it tightly.
Too tightly. His chest ached. Not from fear. He didn’t cry. Not really.
But it was the closest he’d been in years.
His voice trembled, but he kept it steady enough to make the words land.
“I expect you to wake up,” he said, leaning closer, forehead almost brushing the edge of the bed. “Challenge me again, Joker. Don’t you dare disappoint me.”
The silence answered him. A sound. Low, fleeting. A hum, maybe gentle and brief like a heartbeat skipping. Or was it static? A trick of tired ears? He didn’t know. Didn’t care.
He held the hand tighter.
Just in case.
□
“Mmmmnn, mornin’.” His voice cut through the sterile quiet as he stepped into the hospital room, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat like he was arriving at some halfway point between duty and something much softer.
It almost felt like a routine now. Like ritual. Only two weeks had passed since he started coming in, but already the shape of his days bent around these visits. Two weeks—and he already felt… lighter. Not whole, but more bearable. Like some part of him could breathe again, even if only in these whitewashed walls.
As expected, silence greeted him.
He didn’t mind. He dropped into the same chair by the bedside with practiced ease, pulling out his laptop. As much as he wanted to spend every minute with his full attention on him, he still had an image to maintain. Detective Prince, polished mask and all. For now.
“Would you believe me if I told you that Ryuji isn’t that bad?” he mused, typing in his password with the corners of his mouth twitching faintly. “Sometimes I even dare to say that his brain… functions.”
He paused. No reply, of course. There never was.
Still, talking aloud didn’t feel so strange anymore. At first it had been awkward—too vulnerable, too raw. But now… even the silence felt alive, like maybe, just maybe , Kurusu could hear him. Stranger things had happened. They both knew that.
“Lord, listen to me,” Akechi chuckled dryly under his breath. “I didn’t think I’d ever say this out loud, but turns out we’re changing someone’s heart again. And yes, you heard that right.” He tilted his head toward the motionless figure beside him. “With me involved. Can you imagine?”
He leaned back slightly in the chair, eyes shifting from the screen to the boy on the bed.
“We fought over it, naturally,” he added, voice quieter now. “Morality, justice, whatever the hell it means to any of us now. But… maybe death is too shallow a punishment for this bastard. Maybe living with what they’ve done is worse.”
A sigh. Heavy. Like the words cost something.
He didn't always understand himself. Not fully. Not anymore.
He hated him. He missed him. He envied him. He kept coming back to him.
And somehow, this strange contradiction that once threatened to rip him apart now anchored him. Or maybe it was just habit. Maybe he just didn’t know how to let go.
He closed the laptop after a moment, folding his hands loosely on top.
“I’m not good at this,” he said softly. “The waiting. The not knowing. But I’ll keep coming. Just so you know.”
A beat.
Still no answer.
But the silence no longer felt empty.