Chapter 1: Prologue - The Hollow Victory
Chapter Text
Christmas. A word once synonymous with joy, now a hollow echo in a world unraveling. This December 25th wasn't about carols and presents; it was about survival. The Metaverse, a realm of twisted desires, had bled into reality, painting the sky in hues of blood and bile. Skeletal spires clawed their way from the earth, monuments to humanity's crumbling sanity. Above the ravaged streets of Tokyo, one figure remained, a flickering candle in the encroaching darkness. Akira Amamiya, codenamed Joker, the Phantom Thieves' leader, stood defiant. His breath hitched in ragged gasps, his body screamed in protest, but he wouldn't fall. Before him, Yaldabaoth, the self-proclaimed God of Control, hung in the air, a gleaming golden monstrosity. The air crackled with malevolent power. Around Joker, the cold, still forms of his comrades lay scattered, a stark reminder of the price of defiance.
Ryuji… The name echoed in Akira’s mind, a raw, ragged ache. His best friend, his brother in all but blood, lay broken, a tattered mess of flesh and bone. Akira’s gaze lingered on the still form, the memory of Ryuji’s roar of defiance echoing in the sudden silence. He’d thrown himself in front of Haru, a human shield against Yaldabaoth’s cruel Rays of Control. Damn you, Yaldabaoth… Akira’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. His eyes shifted, landing on Haru’s body. Noir. A cinnamon bun wrapped in barbed wire, just as Ryuji had once described her. Now, she was just…gone. Skewered. A grotesque cocktail sausage impaled by Yaldabaoth’s Lance of Envy. The image burned into Akira’s mind, fueling a white-hot rage. That Lance… he thought, a dark promise forming in the depths of his soul. I’m going to take that Lance, and I’m going to shove it so far up that overgrown sippy cup’s ass… The thought, vulgar and violent, was a spark in the overwhelming despair, a promise of vengeance.
Then, a scrap of red. Leather. Akira’s breath hitched, bile rising in his throat. Ann… He didn’t need to look. He knew. Panther. His blonde angel. Shattered. Her mind, once so vibrant, now reduced to…nothing. He’d seen it happen. The Bell of Lust, its insidious chime ripping through her psyche, unleashing a Ragnarok of unimaginable scale. The memory was a fresh wound, the heat of the blast still searing his senses. Beside the tattered remains of her mask, a charred fragment of porcelain. Fox. Yusuke. Caught in the blast, a casualty of Ann’s forced madness. Akira’s heart twisted. He remembered Yusuke’s artistic fervor, his eccentric pronouncements, his unwavering loyalty. Now, just ash. Reduced to nothing more than a ghost of a smile and a broken mask. They’re all gone… The thought echoed in the desolate chambers of his heart.
His gaze drifted further, landing on a familiar splash of blue. Makoto… At least it had been quick. A mercy, perhaps, in this maelstrom of suffering. Not like… His breath hitched again. Futaba… The image of her crumpled form, still inside Prometheus, crushed beneath Yaldabaoth’s hands, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. He’d failed her. He’d failed them all. And then, the worst of it all. Morgana… The memory of his partner, his confidant, his friend, being torn apart, piece by agonizing piece, while he, Akira, was forced to watch, frozen by Yaldabaoth’s power… The despair clawed at him, a suffocating weight. But beneath the despair, something darker stirred. A cold, burning rage. A promise. He would make Yaldabaoth pay.
"So, even with your valiant struggle," Yaldabaoth's voice boomed across the ravaged landscape, a hollow echo in the blood-soaked air, "the will of the masses prevails in the end." The sound was a low, grating rumble, a mockery of laughter that grated on Akira's ears. "You had so many chances to escape this fate, Trickster. Yet, you foolishly chose, time and time again, to oppose me." The golden automaton descended, its massive form casting a long, ominous shadow over Akira. "If only you had accepted my offer… then, perhaps, their lives could have been spared."
Akira remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the ground, on the lifeless forms of his friends, his family. Each face was a dagger twisting in his heart.
"Staying silent, Trickster?" Yaldabaoth’s voice dripped with condescension. He knew that name, that title, was a brand burned into Akira’s soul, a constant reminder of his past, of the Velvet Room’s manipulations. "Did the deaths of your precious allies finally steal your bravado? Such a shame. I was beginning to find a certain… amusement in its futility." Yaldabaoth straightened, his golden form radiating an arrogant power. "To think, I had considered you, you, as a potential apostle. But look at you now. A broken, hollow shell. Perhaps I shall find another…"
“…Up…”
The whisper was barely audible, a breath against the wind. A single gunshot cracked through the air. The bullet, a desperate, defiant cry, ricocheted harmlessly off Yaldabaoth’s golden chest, leaving only the faintest of scratches.
“Shut… the fuck… up…” Akira’s voice, though still low, resonated with a chilling intensity. The air around them seemed to crackle, the oppressive atmosphere shifting, a palpable wave of unease washing over Yaldabaoth.
Slowly, deliberately, Akira raised his head. His eyes, once a gentle grey, were now pools of obsidian, burning with a cold fury that seemed to draw from the very abyss. The fire of rebellion, not just against a god, but against the crushing weight of loss and despair, blazed within him.
"I'm sick and tired of you… going on and on!" Akira roared, his voice raw and ragged, yet somehow carrying across the ravaged cityscape, reaching the ears of those still clinging to hope amidst the chaos. "A perfect world? What a fucking joke! You're just a tyrant, stripping everyone of their freedom, whether they want it or not!" His words were a rallying cry, a spark in the encroaching darkness. Down below, in the ruined streets of Tokyo, people who had been lost in despair, consumed by fear, paused. They heard their defender, their Joker, standing against the self-proclaimed god.
"You took my friends!" Akira’s voice cracked with pain, but the underlying rage was unmistakable. "You took my freedom! You tried to take away the freedom of all humanity! So guess what, you overgrown sippy cup?!" He reached for his mask, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth surface. Now…
With a guttural cry, he ripped the mask from his face. The surge of power was immediate, visceral. Arsene materialized beside him, not just a Persona, but a symbol of his unwavering rebellion. The one Persona I refused to surrender… Akira thought, a surge of pride and defiance coursing through him. The one Persona Yaldabaoth, in his guise as that false Igor, tried to manipulate me into sacrificing… He could feel Arsene’s power resonating with his own, a shared fury building to a crescendo.
"I'M GONNA TAKE THAT FREEDOM BACK FROM YOU!!!" The roar echoed across the heavens, a challenge hurled at the very face of divinity. Akira grasped the chains that bound Arsene, the cold metal biting into his skin. With a Herculean effort, he pulled.
The links snapped, the sound like thunder ripping through the air. Ethereal blue fire erupted from the broken chains, racing upwards, consuming the remaining links in a blaze of righteous fury. The flames engulfed Arsene, transforming him into a blazing inferno of blue and white. A demonic laughter, filled with both joy and defiance, echoed from the heart of the flames, shaking the very foundations of Yaldabaoth’s twisted reality. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the fire dissipated, leaving Akira standing alone, bathed in the afterglow of the transformation.
Silence descended upon the ravaged battlefield, a tense stillness broken only by the whisper of the wind. Then, a low rumble began, growing in intensity, morphing into a chilling, mechanical laughter that echoed across the desolate landscape.
"It seems you have failed to harness your power, Trickster!" Yaldabaoth sneered, the sound laced with cruel amusement. "Now you stand alone, stripped of your allies, your power… your hope!" A swirling vortex of black and red energy coalesced in the center of his chest, growing larger, pulsing with malevolent power. "I will grant you one final courtesy, Trickster, before I consign you to oblivion. A flicker of… unease… did spark within my immortal heart. You have, I admit, provided a certain… entertainment. It pains me to erase such a… spirited opponent. But alas, you have no place in the perfect world I envision." The orb of energy pulsed, hovering menacingly above Akira.
"Farewell, Trickst—"
Yaldabaoth’s pronouncements were cut short. The very air behind Akira shimmered, the fabric of reality itself tearing open. From the rift emerged a colossal figure, dwarfing even Yaldabaoth’s immense form. This being was a nightmare made flesh, a demonic majesty. Six bat-like wings unfurled from his back, casting long, ominous shadows. Devilish horns curved from his head, framing a face both terrifying and regal. He was clad in what appeared to be a black and grey tuxedo, a brilliant gold sash emblazoned across his chest. In one clawed hand, he held a revolver, its transparent barrel extending to an almost rifle-like length.
"Hello… Brother," the figure spoke, his voice a deep, resonant growl that shook the heavens. "It seems you've met my Harbinger. And royally pissed him off, at that." A low, menacing chuckle rumbled from the demon's throat, sending shivers down Yaldabaoth's metallic spine. The God of Control stared, his golden eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
"S-Satanael? But… but how? No mortal can summon you…" Yaldabaoth stammered, his voice losing its arrogant edge, replaced by a hint of fear. He seemed to shrink in the presence of the demonic figure.
Satanael’s laughter boomed across the sky. "There you go again," he growled, his gaze fixed on Yaldabaoth, "underestimating humanity."
Akira, ignoring the stunned god, raised his own hand, his fingers tightening around the grip of his pistol. Behind him, Satanael mirrored the gesture, his massive revolver leveling at Yaldabaoth’s head. One shot. That was all it would take.
"Now…" Satanael’s voice dripped with menace, black energy crackling around his weapon. "Begone…"
Before Yaldabaoth could utter another word, Satanael unleashed the Sinful Shell. The blast of black energy tore through the air, obliterating Yaldabaoth’s head in a shower of golden shards. The thunderous report echoed across the ruined city, a death knell signaling the end of Yaldabaoth’s reign.
The God of Control was no more. His shattered form, no longer able to contain the stolen will of the masses, dissolved into a cascade of golden fragments, scattering across the streets of Tokyo.
Akira watched the golden shards rain down, glittering like fallen stars in the dawn's early light. Satanael's presence receded, not vanishing entirely, but settling deep within Akira's soul, a wellspring of immense, almost demonic power. He should have felt elation. Joy. He had saved humanity. The masses were free, their choices their own once more, untainted by the manipulations of a false god.
But all Akira felt was a hollow ache, a profound sorrow that threatened to consume him. They should be here… The thought echoed in his mind, a constant, agonizing refrain. His friends. His family. They had fought beside him, bled beside him, died beside him. This victory… it was theirs as much as it was his. More, a dark voice whispered in his heart. He couldn’t face this world without them. The void they left behind was too vast, too painful.
As the sun climbed above the horizon, painting the sky in hues of hope and new beginnings, Akira sank to his knees, the weight of his loss crushing him. The Metaverse, its tendrils of influence receding, flickered and dissolved, leaving reality in its fragile, newly-won state. He raised his hand, the cold metal of his gun pressing against his temple. This is for you… he thought, the image of their faces flashing before his eyes. As the memory of Christmas Eve began to fade from the collective consciousness, as the world moved on… Akira closed his eyes.
Click.
And then… blue.
He opened his eyes to the familiar, unsettling calm of the Velvet Room. Igor sat before him, his usual enigmatic smile absent. Beside him, Lavenza stood, her usually bright eyes filled with a deep sadness. The atmosphere was heavy, laden with concern.
"Trickster…" Igor's voice was low, unusually gentle. "We… we saw what you attempted."
Akira remained silent, shame and grief warring within him.
Igor sighed, a sound filled with weariness. "You have faced trials beyond measure, Trickster. More than any one person should have to bear. We understand your pain."
Lavenza stepped forward, her hand reaching out as if to touch him, but hesitating. "The Demiurge… he rigged the game against you, Akira. He twisted the rules, stacked the odds… it was unfair."
Igor nodded. "And now… you stand at a crossroads. You can choose to fade peacefully into the Sea of Souls, finding rest at last. Or…"
He paused, his gaze meeting Akira's. "Or… you can play the game again."
Akira's head snapped up, intrigued. "Play again? What do you mean?"
"The Demiurge cheated, Trickster," Lavenza explained. "He manipulated events, interfered where he shouldn't have. My Master offers you a chance to play again, on more equal footing. A chance to rewrite what has been… to reclaim what you have lost."
Akira's heart pounded in his chest. A chance… "Do it," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
A flicker of something – relief? – crossed Igor’s face. He snapped his fingers.
Chapter 2: A New Game
Summary:
Akira's been given a chance to play the game again - and play it right. However, this run is unlike the previous one in... many ways...
Chapter Text
Akira’s eyes snapped open. He gasped, a sudden intake of breath that filled his lungs with air that felt… different. He blinked, trying to clear the lingering fog from his mind. Disoriented, he pushed himself up, his muscles aching, his body feeling both heavy and strangely…reset. Where…?
He wasn’t in the cramped attic of Leblanc. Nor was he jolting along the bullet train, the rhythmic clatter of the tracks a familiar soundtrack to his travels. Instead, he was surrounded by the familiar, yet unsettlingly distant, walls of his old bedroom. His bedroom. Back in his parents’ house in Gotsu.
A wave of confusion washed over him. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cool wooden floor. Everything looked… the same. The faded posters on the wall, the worn-out desk by the window, the half-finished model airplane on the shelf. Yet, something felt off, a subtle dissonance that prickled at the edges of his memory.
He glanced at the calendar hanging by his desk. April 3rd. The day of his hearing. A wave of relief washed over him, so potent it almost made him weak. Igor… he actually did it. He had sent him back. Back to the beginning. Back when… back when he still had them. A surge of hope, brighter than any he’d felt in months, bloomed in his chest. He distinctly remembered… Christmas. The battle. Yaldabaoth. It hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. And now, he had a chance to change it. To do things differently.
But… April 3rd? This… this was practically the starting line. A small frown creased his brow. Why so far back? Was there a reason? He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He shouldn’t question his luck. He had been given a second chance. That was all that mattered.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to reach out, to feel the familiar presence of his Persona. Nothing. It was… strange. He couldn't feel Arsene, or any of the others. It was as if they had never existed. He frowned, a flicker of unease touching him. But then he reminded himself: It's okay. Igor sent me back. He wouldn't leave me powerless. He would regain his Persona, he was sure of it. He just needed to… start again.
Shaking his head, Akira tried to dispel the confusion. He rose and walked over to the closet, his gaze lingering on the clothes hanging neatly by the door. A pair of blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, and… a black blazer.
He paused, a frown creasing his brow. He distinctly remembered his blazer being green back then. Had it…? He couldn’t be sure. It was a small detail, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, yet it nagged at him, a subtle clue that something was… different. Oh well, he thought, dismissing the nagging feeling. Maybe I’m just misremembering.
He shrugged, the movement feeling stiff and unfamiliar. He needed to clear his head, to make sense of what was happening. He made his way to the bathroom, the cool tile a welcome sensation beneath his feet. He began brushing his teeth, his gaze fixed on his reflection in the mirror. He searched for any telltale signs, any subtle differences that might betray the fact that he was living this day, this life, for the second time. "I still look like myself…" he mused, his voice muffled by the toothbrush. "Same messy black hair, same… haunted grey eyes…" He finished his morning routine, the familiar motions a strange comfort in the midst of his disorientation. He got dressed, the black blazer feeling slightly heavier than he remembered, and made his way downstairs.
The house was… unchanged. Austere. Cold. Like a show home, meticulously arranged but devoid of warmth, of life. It was a stark contrast to the bustling, chaotic energy of LeBlanc, a reminder of the life he had left behind, the life he was determined to reclaim.
He stepped into the kitchen. Empty. As always. But on the table, a single white envelope lay waiting. He knew what it said. He didn’t even need to read the words. The familiar, sterile script, the carefully chosen phrases designed to inflict maximum guilt… He had brought shame upon the family name. His parents wouldn’t be attending his hearing. Yadda, yadda, yadda. The same tired litany of disappointment and disapproval.
Akira scoffed, a bitter sound that echoed in the empty room. He reached for the note, his fingers brushing against the crisp paper. He picked it up, half-expecting to find the same, hurtful message. He started to unfold it…
And then…
Everything stopped.
The gentle hum of the refrigerator, the faint tick of the clock on the wall, the almost imperceptible rustle of the curtains – all sound ceased. The world around him froze, suspended in a single, frozen moment. Akira stood, the note half-unfolded in his hand, a look of stunned surprise on his face. Even the dust motes hanging in the air seemed to hold their breath. Time itself had… paused.
The Velvet Room’s tranquil blue glow flickered, its once-soothing energy now warped by an unseen force. The gentle hum that had always signified order had turned discordant, a low, grating vibration that gnawed at the senses. Yaldabaoth, his golden form radiating cruel divinity, loomed over the now-empty chair where Igor had once guided lost souls.
He had not defeated Igor in open battle—such things were beneath gods who played by their own rules. No, he had eroded the foundation of this place, twisting its very nature with the weight of humanity’s unconscious desires. A slow, creeping corruption that had seeped into every brick, every shadow. Igor had resisted, but in the end, resistance had been futile. Now, he drifted in the Sea of Souls, stripped of his dominion, his fate a question even he could not answer.
Yaldabaoth let the silence hang before speaking, his voice reverberating through the chamber like the grinding of unseen gears.
"A fitting acquisition. Once a sanctuary, now a prison. Soon, a throne."
His gaze fell upon Lavenza. The weight of his presence pressed upon her, but she stood unbowed, fists clenched at her sides. Though fear flickered in her golden eyes, it was eclipsed by something greater—resolve.
"You will serve me," he declared, his voice heavy with the certainty of a being who had never known defiance. "You will aid me in shaping this world, in breaking the will of humanity."
Lavenza inhaled sharply. "Never." Though her voice trembled, it did not waver. "I will not betray Master Igor. I will not serve a hollow tyrant masquerading as a god."
Yaldabaoth chuckled, the sound grating and unnatural, as if reality itself resisted the laughter. "Such spirit. So… predictable."
A shift. The golden glow dimmed, the god’s form shuddering. Metal retracted like liquid gold, reshaping itself. In a breath, the presence of divinity vanished, leaving behind the familiar, looming figure of Igor. His sharp, beady eyes gleamed, his lopsided grin spreading in its usual, knowing way.
And yet, something was wrong.
Lavenza’s breath hitched. It was perfect—flawless in every way. But the air was colder now. The grin lingered a moment too long, like a mask worn too tightly. The warmth in his voice, the ever-present amusement at his guests’ journey—it was hollow. Empty.
"Igor" clasped his hands together. "Now… where is that troublesome Trickster?"
Yaldabaoth reached into the void, his consciousness expanding through the Sea of Souls, searching. His lips curled as he found what he sought.
"Ah, there you are, Trickster," he murmured. "It’s time for us to become… acquainted."
A familiar tug pulled at Akira’s mind, the telltale sign of a summons to the Velvet Room. He exhaled sharply, feeling the weight settle in his limbs.
"Bit earlier than I expected this time around," he mused to himself, rolling his shoulders as the world around him faded into darkness. "I wonder how this is going to turn out."
The void swallowed him whole. When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted by cold iron bars and the flickering blue of the Velvet Room. But this time, something was off. The air felt wrong—heavier, oppressive, like something vile had taken root in the very foundation of the realm.
And then, that voice.
"Trickster..." It was both thunderous and eerily hushed, like a whisper stretching across eternity. "Welcome to MY Velvet Room..."
Akira’s lips curled into a lopsided smirk. He stepped toward the bars, hands slipping into his pockets, his posture completely at ease.
"Your Velvet Room, huh?" he drawled.
From behind the desk, Yaldabaoth—wearing the stolen face of Igor—tilted his head ever so slightly, the imitation smile never faltering. But there was something behind it now. Uncertainty.
Akira chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, see… I know for a fact you're not the real Master of this place."
Yaldabaoth’s expression didn't change, but the very air around them seemed to bristle.
"Explain yourself, Trickster," the false Igor commanded, the walls of the Velvet Room shifting subtly in response to his will.
Akira exhaled, lifting his gaze to meet Yaldabaoth’s directly. His smirk sharpened.
"Let me show you instead."
The very moment the words left his lips, the Velvet Room shuddered. A crack of crimson lightning split the air behind him as the weight of something immense descended upon the realm. The pressure was suffocating, the space warping, distorting—straining to contain a power that refused to be bound.
Chains shattered into dust. A shadow loomed.
And then, with a deafening roar, he emerged.
Satanael.
His wings stretched wide, blotting out the ever-present glow of the Velvet Room. The scent of gunpowder and the crackling heat of destruction coiled in the air. Yaldabaoth barely had time to process it before Akira’s voice, now laced with venom, cut through the suffocating silence.
"Annihilate."
The world erupted.
A cataclysmic wave of pure Almighty energy tore through existence itself, crashing into Yaldabaoth with divine fury. The false god had no time to react, no time to resist—he barely had time to comprehend what was happening before he was consumed.
And then—
Nothing.
Yaldabaoth's consciousness returned in fragments, fractured and lesser than before. The golden radiance of his true form was gone, replaced by a grotesque, pulsating mass of metal and blood-red light. He was no longer in the Velvet Room. He was no longer anything.
The realization dawned, sharp and bitter.
He was back.
Back in the depths of Mementos.
Back in the form of the Holy Grail.
"No… no… NOOOOOOOO!!!!"
His roar of fury shook the very foundation of the Metaverse, sending waves of terror through the Shadows lurking in the abyss. He tried to reach out, to reassert his influence over the Velvet Room—but he found himself blocked.
Severed. Banished. Erased.
Akira had cast him down before his game could even begin.
The Holy Grail pulsed in the shadows of Mementos, its golden light flickering weakly. But as Yaldabaoth’s rage cooled, something else took its place. Cunning.
He had underestimated the Trickster. He had played by the old rules, expecting an ignorant pawn, not an opponent who had somehow already seen the board. That mistake would not be repeated.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached out into the Metaverse, his influence creeping through its depths like tendrils of smoke. He searched. He waited. The Trickster had taken something from him—but there were always others. Others with potential.
And then—
He found one.
No, not just one. Two.
The wielder of Mephistopheles.
The wielder of Adam.
A slow, unnatural smile stretched across the Holy Grail’s shifting mass. He could feel it—something stirring within him. A new path. A new game.
"You may have stopped me for now, Trickster..." His voice reverberated through the void, deep and measured, tinged with amusement.
"But the game is not over."
The golden glow of Yaldabaoth’s presence had vanished, and the oppressive weight that had tainted the Velvet Room was gone. But despite this victory, the realm was still wounded.
Cracks lingered along the floor, remnants of the corruption that had seeped in. The great chains that once bound Akira had fallen away, dissolving into mist. And, for the first time in this cycle, a familiar voice—the familiar voice—spoke.
"Welcome back, Trickster."
Akira turned.
The real Igor sat in his rightful chair once more, hands folded, his usual enigmatic smile in place. The distortion was gone, his voice high and rich, with none of the false warmth that Yaldabaoth had used to deceive him the first time around.
Lavenza stood beside him, her posture composed but eyes shining with quiet relief.
Akira exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. "Took you long enough."
Lavenza let out a small, breathy laugh. "You were the one who acted so quickly. We expected the false god to maintain his deception for much longer."
Igor nodded, steepling his fingers. "Indeed. Your actions have freed the Velvet Room… but Yaldabaoth is not gone."
Akira’s smirk faltered slightly. "Figures."
Igor’s expression remained unreadable. "He has returned to the depths of Mementos, weakened but not defeated. You have severed his direct control over this realm, but you will not be able to face him again until the appointed time."
Akira frowned. "So, what? He’s just gonna sit down there and sulk?"
"Not necessarily." Lavenza’s tone was grave. "He has suffered a great loss… but he is still a god of order. He will not remain idle."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Akira closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. I stopped him from messing with the Velvet Room, but he’s still out there… which means he’s going to find another way to tip the scales.
His thoughts were interrupted as Lavenza took a step closer, her gaze softer now. "There is something else you must know."
She raised her hand, and with a flick of her wrist, a familiar tome materialized before her—the Persona Compendium.
Akira took one look at the thick book, and immediately, a feeling of unease settled in his chest.
Something was wrong.
He reached out, flipping it open with practiced ease. His eyes flicked across the pages. Blank.
Page after page, the contents of his journey—every Persona he had painstakingly collected, every fusion he had perfected—were gone.
"Seriously…?" Akira muttered.
"The cycle has begun anew," Lavenza explained gently. "Your Compendium is empty once more… save for two exceptions."
Akira’s fingers tensed as he turned to the final pages.
There they were.
Arsène.
Satanael.
The former remained unchanged—his ever-faithful first Persona. The latter, however, was different. The page that housed Satanael’s information shimmered, as if the ink itself was unstable.
Akira narrowed his eyes. "What’s wrong with him?"
Lavenza hesitated before answering. "You forced his manifestation earlier—despite lacking the strength to call upon him naturally."
Akira frowned. That’s true… In my first run, I only summoned Satanael at the very end. But this time, I just pulled him out like it was nothing…
Lavenza continued, "The power you wielded in your first journey does not carry over in its entirety. Satanael is bound to you… but until you regain your full strength, he will not fully answer your call."
Akira’s eyes flicked back to the page. His level. 75.
Satanael’s required level. 99.
He let out a slow breath through his teeth. "So I’m locked out of using him until I grind back up."
Lavenza blinked. "...I do not understand what you mean by 'grind,' but yes."
Akira pinched the bridge of his nose. "Great. So I’m basically running on Arsène until I rebuild my roster."
Lavenza offered him a small, knowing smile. "A fitting return to your roots, is it not?"
Akira huffed, closing the book with a dull thud. "Yeah, yeah."
Igor chuckled. "Do not be so quick to despair, Trickster. You have been given an opportunity—to carve a new path with the knowledge you have gained. To face new challenges… and new foes."
Akira arched an eyebrow. "New foes?"
Igor nodded. "You will understand in time. But know this—while your strength in battle has been tempered anew, not all has been lost. Your experiences beyond the Metaverse remain intact."
Akira’s smirk returned slightly. "Meaning?"
Lavenza stepped forward. "Your understanding of the world—the connections you forged, the lessons you learned—remain with you. Your social skills have not diminished. Your proficiency, charm, guts, kindness, and knowledge are as they were at the peak of your first journey."
Akira’s eyes widened slightly. "Huh. So I can ace exams, charm my way through conversations, and basically pick every locked door without having to re-learn any of it?"
Lavenza smiled. "Precisely."
Igor added, "You have also retained the funds and items you acquired in your previous journey."
That caught Akira's attention. "Wait—all of it?"
Lavenza nodded. "Indeed. The wealth you accumulated remains at your disposal. The treasures and tools you obtained, likewise, are yours to use freely."
Akira crossed his arms, considering the implications. "So I can just waltz into Untouchable and buy out Iwai’s entire stock on day one?"
"Should you wish to, yes," Lavenza confirmed.
Akira exhaled through his nose. That was huge. No worrying about being broke. No scrounging for items. He had the resources to hit the ground running.
But then another thought crept in.
"What about my gear?" he asked. "All my weapons, armor…?"
Lavenza’s expression shifted ever so slightly. Not quite discomfort, but… hesitation.
Igor answered instead. "Your equipment is no longer in your possession."
Akira frowned. "Why not?"
A brief pause.
"You will understand soon enough," Igor said, his voice as enigmatic as ever.
Akira’s frown deepened. He didn’t like that answer.
But if Igor wasn’t explaining now, that meant it was something he had to find out himself.
"...Fine," he muttered, exhaling. "So, maxed-out social skills, a full bank account, and a stocked inventory, but my Personas and gear got reset. Not the worst trade-off."
Lavenza inclined her head. "It is the nature of this new game you play, Trickster."
Akira’s smirk returned, sharper than before. "Heh. Alright, then. Let’s see how things play out this time around."
The courtroom was stiflingly quiet, the weight of judgment hanging in the air. Akira stood at the center, hands bound behind him, his usually composed expression now tinged with something darker—resignation. He had suspected something like this was coming, though it still felt like a gut punch.
As the prosecutor’s voice rang out, cold and commanding, Akira’s mind drifted back to a conversation that now seemed more like a warning than a mere observation.
**********FLASHBACK**********
The air was thick with tension. Igor’s gaze was steady, though tinged with something heavy—a concern, perhaps. "Trickster," he began, his voice soft yet firm. "You have made a significant impact. The timeline has been altered by your actions, and the ripple effect will be felt far beyond what you can see."
Lavenza stood by his side, her eyes reflecting the weight of Igor’s words. "The world you’ve left behind... it will not be the same. Yaldabaoth has been weakened, but fate will not allow things to settle so easily."
Akira nodded, still processing the enormity of what he had just done. "So... what now?"
Igor’s smile was bittersweet. "It will take time, Trickster. You may have disrupted the flow of things, but your presence will not be forgotten. I estimate around three years will pass in your world, as you—your actions—are still part of the larger design. Fate will find a way to keep you in place during this time. The game is not yet over."
Akira frowned. "So, I’ll be stuck here... in the real world... for three years?"
"Yes," Lavenza confirmed, her voice calm but solemn. "It is the only way for things to align properly when the time comes."
**********End of Flashback**********
Back in the courtroom, Akira felt the heavy weight of those words settle into his chest. The sentence, the events unfolding before him, were all part of the plan. Three years in juvenile detention. It wasn’t surprising—it was inevitable.
The prosecutor’s voice cut through his thoughts once more. "The defendant, Akira Amamiya, stands accused of aggravated assault and attempted sexual assault. Given the severity of his actions and his lack of remorse, we recommend a sentence of three years in juvenile detention."
Akira’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t flinch. The sentence was harsh, but he had expected it. Fate, as Igor had said, would keep him here.
The judge’s voice rang out, cold and final. "You have been found guilty of these charges, Amamiya. You will be sentenced to three years of juvenile detention."
The gavel slammed down, echoing through the courtroom like a death knell. Akira could feel the weight of his new reality settling in, but he didn’t resist. His mind was already focused on what came next.
The Day Before Akira’s Release – Three Years Later
The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Akira sat on his cot, eyes staring out the small barred window. The world outside seemed so distant, so unreachable. His body ached from the rigorous training he had subjected himself to, and his mind, once sharp, was now a fortress. Three years of isolation and suffering had forged him into something new. Something stronger.
Despite everything, Akira still wore that same rebellious spark in his eyes—no matter how many guards tried to break his spirit, no matter how many times he’d been thrown into solitary confinement for simply questioning the system, he had never lost that fire. If anything, the flames had grown.
Most of the guards were cruel, some indifferent, but there were a few who saw through the layers of injustice. One of those few had taught him escrima—the art of stick fighting. The guard was a former martial artist, one of the few men here who wasn’t swallowed by the oppressive system. Under his tutelage, Akira had learned not only how to defend himself but how to channel his emotions into power. Every strike was a message—one he intended to send to anyone who would listen.
He wasn’t just surviving this place. He was preparing.
The constant beatings, the degrading words, the nights spent in solitary—they all seemed to fade away when he focused on his training. When he focused on the Velvet Room. Every night, without fail, Akira would close his eyes and find himself there, in that familiar space, where the pain of the real world couldn’t touch him.
Akira had barely spoken when he first returned, angry and broken from his experiences in the juvenile detention center. But Igor had been there, a steady presence in the storm of Akira’s frustration. He never raised his voice, never showed anything but understanding and patience. The conversation was slow, but the message was clear. Every night, Akira felt himself grow, the energy of the Velvet Room shaping him into someone capable of taking on the world that had wronged him.
Now, three years later, the world had hardened him. His body was lean, strong, muscles sculpted from daily training. His mind was sharper than ever, having devoured every book in the library, learning everything from philosophy to history, and filling his mind with knowledge. He was no longer the naive boy who had been thrown into a corrupt system. He had become someone who could manipulate, fight, and think his way through the toughest of challenges.
But perhaps the most important change had been within his spirit. Despite the cruelty of his parents—who had completely disowned him after his conviction—and the heartless guards who saw him as little more than a number, Akira had never let go of his sense of rebellion. It had only grown more intense.
As the days drew closer to his release, Akira could feel the quiet hum of the Velvet Room calling to him. A flicker of light, a whisper of power. Igor’s presence was always there, a steady beacon of support. Lavenza, too, had grown closer over time, her playful teasing sometimes masking the deep bond that had developed between them.
Tonight, Akira sat in his cell, the weight of the coming day pressing on him. He was about to be released, but he knew it wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.
"Tomorrow marks the first day of your new path," Igor’s voice echoed softly in Akira’s mind, though he knew it was not merely a dream. "Remember, Trickster, the world has changed. But so have you."
Lavenza's voice followed, light and almost teasing, "We’ll be with you every step of the way, Akira."
Arsene and Satanael, always present in the background, were his silent supporters, the two aspects of his Persona that had grown along with him.
Akira stood, the steady rhythm of his heart matching the strength of his resolve. Tomorrow, the world would see who he had become. No longer a pawn in a twisted game—he was his own person, and no one, no one, would keep him in a cage.
The heavy clang of the cell door sliding open echoed down the dimly lit hall. Akira stepped out, rolling his shoulders, feeling the weight of his past confined existence slowly start to lift. The scent of metal, disinfectant, and stale air still clung to the back of his throat. Even after three years, the place reeked of confinement—of broken wills and wasted time. But not his.
He glanced down at himself, sighing at the sight. His old school uniform from three years ago was practically useless now. The blazer was too tight across his shoulders, the cuffs barely reaching his wrists. His slacks, once neatly fitted, now stopped awkwardly above his ankles. He looked absurd, a scarecrow wrapped in nostalgia.
Three years, and this is what I’m walking out in?
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he began the slow walk toward the front desk, passing rows of empty cells and guards who either ignored him or sent him disapproving glances. He was used to it. For most of them, he was just another delinquent, a number on their books, someone they’d never expected to walk out of here unchanged.
But he had changed.
As he neared the front desk, a familiar figure was waiting for him, leaning casually against the counter. Officer Satonaka—one of the few people in this place who had treated him like a person rather than a lost cause. The athletic young woman had her arms crossed, her brown eyes filled with unmistakable amusement as she gave him a slow, exaggerated once-over.
“Oh man,” she said, whistling low. “You look ridiculous.”
Akira smirked, adjusting his collar. “Nice to see you too, Officer.”
Chie Satonaka snickered, pushing off the counter. “Seriously, what happened? You go through a growth spurt or did you just spend three years lifting weights out of sheer spite?”
“A little of both,” he replied, stretching his arms, feeling the too-tight sleeves pull against his skin. “Didn’t have much else to do.”
She snorted, then reached into her pocket and pressed a neatly folded bill into his hand. “Here. Buy yourself some pants that actually fit. You look like a tragic fashion disaster waiting to happen.”
Akira raised an eyebrow as he unfolded the bill—10,000 yen. He flicked his gaze back to her, his smirk growing. “Didn’t take you for the charitable type.”
“I’m not,” she shot back. “Consider it an investment. If you show up in Tokyo looking like that, people might assume you’re a lost time traveller. And I don’t wanna be responsible for that level of second-hand embarrassment.”
Akira chuckled, tucking the bill into his pocket. “I’ll make sure to spend it wisely.”
Chie rolled her eyes before picking up a document from the desk and handing it to him. “Speaking of which, as per your request, arrangements have been made for you to travel to Tokyo.”
Akira took the sheet, scanning the details. A train ticket. Departure time. Arrival instructions. And then—
“You’ll be met at the station by your parole officer…” Chie paused, and he caught the smirk creeping onto her face before she said the name. “Officer Tatsumi.”
Akira exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Figures.
Chie grinned at his reaction but didn’t elaborate. “Man, you’re really gonna have your hands full, huh?”
Akira folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket without commenting. Instead, he tilted his head at her, a trace of genuine appreciation in his voice. “Thanks, Satonaka.”
She waved a dismissive hand, but the grin she wore was real. “Don’t get all sappy on me now. Just… try not to get yourself locked up again, alright? It’d be a pain in the ass to see you back here.”
Akira smirked. “No promises.”
With that, he turned toward the exit, feeling the weight of the last three years press against him one final time. He adjusted his collar, rolled his shoulders, and stepped forward—toward whatever came next.
The rhythmic clatter of the train against the tracks filled the compartment, a steady hum that underscored the murmur of passengers and the occasional announcement over the speakers. Akira leaned back against the window, arms crossed, staring out at the passing countryside.
Despite the relative bustle of the train, he had managed to find a quiet spot at the back of the carriage, away from the prying eyes of other passengers. His ill-fitting uniform still drew a few curious glances, but he ignored them, choosing instead to focus on the simple bento sitting on his lap.
It wasn’t much—just a cheap convenience store meal he had grabbed before boarding. Rice, a bit of pickled radish, some karaage. But after three years of institutional food, it tasted divine.
As he chewed, his free hand absent-mindedly brushed against the plastic bag beside him—the other thing he had bought on a whim.
A pink alligator plushie.
Inside his mind, Arsène let out a sharp whistle, his smooth voice practically dripping with amusement. "Ohoho, mon ami, you are truly a devil in disguise. A pink alligator, of all things? C’est magnifique! I did not know you had such style."
Akira could hear the smirk in his tone.
Even Satanael, ever the composed demon lord, let out a low hum of amusement, his voice rolling like distant thunder. "A peculiar acquisition, Invoker. Does this trinket hold significance, or is this simply another of your unpredictable whims?"
Akira grinned, giving the plush a small pat before setting it on the seat beside him. "I just figured it would be best to make a good impression," he mused aloud, voice barely above a whisper. "And remind Officer Tatsumi of his roots."
That set Arsène off.
"Hah! You knew! You knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you, petit démon?" Arsène practically howled, his rich laughter echoing in Akira’s mind. "You are a menace, truly. Remind me to never play cards with you. I suspect I would lose my coat."
Even Satanael chuckled, though his mirth was more subdued. "A calculated move. Subtle yet devastating. I approve."
Akira smirked to himself, resting his chin against his palm as he watched the scenery blur past.
The thought of Kanji Tatsumi’s reaction when he saw the plush?
That was worth the price alone.
Kanji Tatsumi leaned against a pillar near the platform, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the clock tick down the last few minutes before the train was due. The low hum of conversation around him blended with the occasional station announcement, but his mind was elsewhere.
He still wasn’t quite sure how he had gotten here.
Once upon a time, he’d been the town delinquent, the rough kid with a reputation for beating up bikers and scaring the hell out of anyone dumb enough to cross him. Now? Now he ran a damn business—a successful one, no less. Custom plushies, handmade with love and care. Who’d have thought?
Well… they had. Senpai and...
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he thought about Naoto. His wife. His partner in everything.
She had believed in him back when he was still figuring himself out, back when he was just a confused, angry punk trying to reconcile his love for sewing with the image everyone else had of him. Now, years later, he was running a thriving shop, married to the smartest woman he’d ever met, and somehow—somehow—had also ended up working as a bridge for troubled kids trying to reintegrate into society.
Go figure.
Kanji checked his watch. Any second now.
The train pulled into the station with a low screech, the doors sliding open to spill passengers onto the platform. People moved with the usual tired efficiency of commuters, weaving past each other, some rushing to make their connections, others dragging their feet.
Kanji scanned the crowd, looking for one person in particular. He was just about to step forward when something very familiar caught his eye.
A pink alligator, held up high above the sea of people like a god-damn beacon.
Kanji groaned, dragging a hand down his face even as laughter rumbled in his chest. "That kid…" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
Akira Amamiya had balls, he’d give him that.
Bracing himself, Kanji stood his ground, waiting for that kid to reach him.
The car hummed steadily as it cut through the streets, the familiar cityscape of Tokyo rushing past the windows. The air was cool, and the gentle thrum of the engine created a comfortable background for the conversation between Kanji and Akira, who was comfortably slouched in the passenger seat.
Akira couldn’t help but chuckle, nudging his chin toward the dashboard. "So, this is what you’ve got now, huh? A Prius?" He raised an eyebrow, his voice playful. "I thought the big, tough delinquent had better taste than this."
Kanji grinned, shifting his hands on the wheel. "Hey, don’t knock it. It’s practical. It gets me from point A to point B, and you know how much I like to save on gas. It’s a smart investment."
Akira shook his head, still grinning. "Yeah, well, I expected you to be cruising around in something with a little more… punch, you know? Like a big ol' muscle car, all loud and obnoxious."
Kanji chuckled, taking the teasing in stride. "Maybe I would, but that’d be too obvious. You gotta sneak up on 'em, kid. Quiet, stealthy."
Akira snorted at the idea of Kanji, of all people, being stealthy, but he let the subject drop, his expression turning a little more thoughtful. He crossed his arms, staring out the window as the city passed by.
Kanji, noticing the shift, glanced over at Akira, his tone growing more serious. "So, what’s your plan, huh? You’ve got a clean slate now, right? Fresh start. You’re gonna let this be your shot."
Akira turned to face Kanji, brow furrowed. "I don’t really know what I’m doing yet. I mean, I don’t know much about life outside of the system, y’know? I’ve just been keeping to myself, thinking things through."
Kanji nodded, giving Akira an understanding look. "Yeah, I get that. But hey, you’ve got options now. Why not go back to school? Get your degree. You’ve got the brains for it." He gave Akira a sideways glance, a small smirk forming. "The test scores you got in juvie? They’d put you on an academic scholarship easy."
Akira raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. "Back to school, huh? I never really thought about it. I guess I should’ve… but high school and I didn’t really have the best history."
Kanji laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, not high school. You’ve got options now, kid. Shujin Academy."
Akira looked genuinely confused for a moment. "Wait, Shujin? I thought that was a high school?"
Kanji’s smirk widened as he turned the wheel, heading for a quieter road. "Well, it used to be just a high school. Three years ago, they opened a tertiary education branch. You can get your degree there, no problem. You’ll be able to take your pick of courses."
Akira leaned back in his seat, his eyes drifting toward the passing scenery, lost in thought.
A flash of memory. A different version of himself, standing outside Shujin Academy, feeling out of place but determined. The start of the Phantom Thieves. The beginning of a story that had shaped him into the man – the Trickster – he was today.
Arsène’s voice echoed in his mind, smooth and knowing. "It seems the fates are re-aligning themselves, mon ami."
Akira’s lips curved into a small, quiet smile. The weight of the words settled in, resonating deep within him. He nodded slowly, the pull of fate guiding him in ways both familiar and strange.
"I guess it is," Akira murmured, more to himself than to Kanji.
Kanji glanced over, his eyes narrowing in slight confusion. "What’s that?"
Akira shook his head. "Nothing. Just… thinking." He straightened up in his seat, turning back to Kanji with a more determined look. "So, what do I need to do to apply?"
Kanji gave a hearty laugh, his grin widening as he slapped the steering wheel. "Leave it to me, kid. I’ll make the arrangements. Just keep your head on straight, and you’ll do fine."
Akira smirked, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders as he settled into the reality of his new life. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had a starting point again. And that was more than he could’ve asked for after everything. The car hummed on, heading toward a future full of unknowns—but this time, Akira felt ready to face whatever came next.
The car rolled to a stop with a soft hum, the engine cutting off as Kanji put the Prius in park. They sat there for a moment, the steady sound of the car’s air conditioning filling the quiet. Kanji turned off the ignition and glanced over at Akira.
"Here we go, kid. Your new home." Kanji gestured out the window to the nondescript apartment block across the street. It was a plain, almost forgettable building, tucked between a convenience store and a small bookstore. Not much to look at, but it had a quiet charm about it.
Akira looked out the window, his gaze drifting over the building, then beyond it, scanning the area. His eyes landed on a small, cozy-looking cafe directly across the street. The warm glow of the lights inside cast an inviting aura, and the soft steam rising from the windows suggested a comforting atmosphere inside.
Kanji raised an eyebrow, his lips pulling into a grin. "I gotta ask, though—why Yongen? You could’ve picked somewhere a little less... boring."
Akira shrugged, shifting his small bag on his shoulder. He turned to look at Kanji with a small smile, his eyes gleaming with an almost mischievous light. "I don’t know. Something about this place just feels right." His gaze drifted back to the cafe, and he nodded to himself as if solidifying some unspoken truth. "It feels… like I can breathe here."
Kanji chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. "Well, if you’re happy, that’s all that matters. Don’t let me keep you."
Akira held out his hand, the motion smooth and easy, like it was something natural. Kanji hesitated for a moment, then grasped his hand firmly, a small but knowing grin tugging at his lips.
"Good luck, kid. You know where to find me if you need anything."
Akira gave him a nod, the weight of his new life settling over him with a strange mix of excitement and anticipation. "Thanks, Kanji. I’ll be fine. This is just the beginning, right?"
Kanji clapped him on the back with a hearty laugh. "Damn right it is. Don’t screw it up."
With a final grin, Akira turned and walked toward the apartment building, the sound of his footsteps echoing lightly in the quiet evening. As he reached the entrance, he spared one last glance at the cafe across the street, feeling a wave of calmness wash over him. “We’re home.” Akira thinks to himself, his Personas rumbling in agreement.
Akira stepped into his apartment, letting the door click shut behind him. The space was small—bare-bones, but functional. A futon in the corner, a modest kitchenette, a tiny table, and a bathroom tucked away in the back. Nothing fancy, but it would do.
He set his bag down and took a slow look around, taking stock of what he had… and, more importantly, what he didn’t. His mental checklist started forming immediately. Bedding, cookware, cleaning supplies… maybe a plant or two to liven up the place. He let out a small chuckle. "Could be worse," he muttered to himself.
His gaze drifted to the window, and as he looked outside, a familiar sight came into view—the small cafe across the street. His heart skipped a beat. LeBlanc.
The memories hit him all at once. The quiet evenings spent sipping coffee and reading, the soft hum of jazz playing in the background, the warmth of a home he had never expected to find. The countless conversations, the laughter, the lessons learned over a steaming cup of curry and a knowing glance from behind the counter.
A slow grin spread across his face. Without a second thought, he grabbed his jacket and wallet, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he made his way out the door and down the stairs.
Crossing the street felt surreal, like stepping into a dream he had once lived. The sign above the door, the worn-yet-welcoming entrance—it was all exactly as he remembered. His fingers brushed against the handle for just a moment before he pushed the door open, stepping inside.
The scent hit him first. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the faintest hint of spice from the curry simmering in the kitchen. It was like stepping back in time.
Then came the voice. Gruff, familiar, unmistakable.
"Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute."
Akira felt something tighten in his chest—excitement, nostalgia, maybe a little nervousness. He took a deep, steadying breath and made his way to the counter, settling onto one of the stools.
He folded his hands in front of him, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the door to the back room.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Sojiro stepped out from the back, carrying two large tins of coffee beans, his usual apron dusted with faint traces of ground coffee. He barely spared a glance at the new customer as he set the tins down behind the counter, dusting off his hands.
"A new face, huh?" he said, finally looking up. His sharp eyes appraised Akira briefly before he gave a small nod. "Welcome to Leblanc. What can I get you?"
Akira felt a pang of disappointment that Sojiro didn’t recognize him. It was foolish, really. Of course, he wouldn’t—this Sojiro had never met him. Still, after everything they’d been through in his first run, it stung just a little.
"Do not be so quick to lament, mon ami," Arsène's smooth, accented voice murmured in his mind. "To him, you are but another customer. This is merely the first page of a new story."
Akira exhaled softly, then gave Sojiro a small, knowing smile. "I’ll have the house blend."
Sojiro raised an eyebrow but said nothing, turning to prepare the order. The sound of beans grinding filled the air, followed by the rhythmic movements of pouring and brewing. Moments later, a steaming cup of coffee was placed in front of Akira.
"Here you go, kid."
Akira wrapped his hands around the ceramic cup, inhaling deeply. The rich aroma of the blend, the perfectly balanced bitterness—it was just as he remembered. He took a sip, letting the flavors bloom on his tongue before he smirked.
"Sumatran beans, right? Dark roasted, but not overdone. Earthy, with just a hint of spice on the back end."
Sojiro’s eyes flicked up, a spark of curiosity crossing his face. "Not bad. Most people just drink it without a second thought."
Akira shrugged, taking another sip. "It’s hard not to appreciate good coffee. But you’re blending something else into it—Arabica from Ethiopia, maybe? That’s what’s giving it that floral undertone."
Sojiro crossed his arms, now clearly intrigued. "You’ve got a sharp palate. Not many people can pick that out. Where’d you learn about coffee?"
Akira smirked, setting his cup down. "An old fart I used to know who could brew a perfect cup of joe and whip up a fire curry at the same time."
Sojiro blinked at that, then let out a low chuckle. "Sounds like a guy worth knowing."
Akira simply smiled, taking another sip. Yeah, he really was.
Sojiro Sakura wasn’t usually one to pry. People had their own lives, their own struggles, and he preferred to keep his nose out of them. It was simpler that way. No attachments, no unnecessary complications. But there was something about this kid that tugged at him.
Maybe it was the look in his eyes—like he had been through hell and come out the other side, tempered rather than broken. Maybe it was that offhand comment about coffee and curry; not many places served them together like he did. Or maybe it was that damn smile, a little too familiar for comfort.
Either way, Sojiro felt an odd sense of kinship with him.
“So, kid… what’s your name? Did you just move here?”
Across the counter, Akira took a deep breath. Moment of truth... He felt the reassuring presence of Arsène and Satanael in his mind, their silent support steadying him.
“My name’s Akira… Akira Amamiya,” he said finally, keeping his tone even. “I got released from juvie today. Three years for aggravated assault.”
Sojiro straightened up immediately, his sharp eyes narrowing with the kind of wariness born from experience. Akira chuckled, though there was no real humor in it, and took another sip of coffee.
“Relax, Boss,” he said, setting his cup down. “They were trumped-up charges. All I did was save a woman from getting raped by some drunk asshole—some big-shot politician, apparently. Never caught his name, but he was the kind of bald dick that wore sunglasses at night.”
Sojiro exhaled sharply through his nose. That… yeah, that sounded about right.
“Cops were in his pocket, judge was too,” Akira continued, his voice level, but with an edge of bitter resignation. “Didn’t matter what really happened. I was guilty the second they slapped the cuffs on me.”
Sojiro opened his mouth to speak, but Akira raised a hand, cutting him off.
“I know what you’re about to say,” he said, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in other people’s business, right? You’re probably right. But sometimes, you gotta do the right thing, no matter the cost.” He leaned back slightly, tapping his fingers against the ceramic cup. “At least, that’s the way I see it.”
A bitter chuckle escaped him, quieter this time. “Shame my parents didn’t see it that way. Disowned me the day I got sentenced.”
Sojiro studied him for a long moment, unreadable behind his glasses. Then, with a sigh, he reached for his own cup of coffee, swirling it absently.
“…Damn world’s a real piece of work sometimes.” His voice was gruff, but there was no judgment in it. If anything, there was a note of understanding, of something close to respect.
Akira blinked, caught slightly off guard. He had braced himself for skepticism, for dismissal, even for outright hostility—but not this.
“Three years, huh?” Sojiro continued, eyeing him. “And you came straight here?”
Akira gave a small, lopsided grin. “What can I say? I had a craving for good coffee.”
Sojiro huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a weird one, kid.”
Akira merely shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”
The darkened room was a chaotic mess, the kind that only came from months—maybe years—of self-imposed isolation. Towers of empty ramen cups teetered on the edges of her desk, black bin bags overflowing with crumpled snack wrappers and soda bottles were pushed into the corners, long since forgotten. Shelves along the walls sagged under the weight of figurines, some pristine in their boxes, others posed in dramatic—or suggestive—stances. A few questionable items were mixed in with the collectibles, but they were given no special attention.
In the heart of this labyrinth of disorder sat a young woman, her long, unkempt orange hair falling over oversized glasses that magnified the gleam of her eyes. Her fingers flew over an RGB keyboard, the flashing lights reflecting off her lenses in a mesmerizing dance.
Three monitors bathed her in a cold, flickering glow, each displaying something very different.
On the leftmost screen, a popular camgirl was mid-performance, wearing something very sheer and moving in a way that kept the generous donations rolling in.
The middle screen showed a live feed of LeBlanc's interior, the camera feed smooth and uninterrupted. A raven-haired young man sat at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee as he bantered with the gruff barista. The orange-haired woman adjusted her glasses, zooming in slightly.
The rightmost screen displayed something no ordinary citizen should have access to—the police database. Lines of classified information scrolled down in green text, dossiers, case files, and criminal records flashing past her eyes. One file was open in particular, and her gaze lingered on it.
"Akira Amamiya..." she muttered under her breath, her fingers still flying over the keys. She tilted her head, watching the boy in Leblanc for a moment longer before flicking her gaze back to the police file.
A smirk tugged at her lips.
"Oh-ho... now this is interesting…"
As the conversation wound down, Akira stretched and got up from his seat, adjusting his slightly oversized jacket. “I should get going,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Gotta pick up some furniture before I start sleeping on a bare floor.”
Sojiro nodded and pulled a notepad from behind the counter, scribbling down a list of addresses. “Here. These places sell decent stuff for cheap. Try not to get ripped off.” He ripped the page out and slid it across the counter.
Akira picked it up and gave it a quick glance before tucking it into his pocket. “Thanks, Boss. Appreciate it.”
Sojiro grunted, then turned back toward the kitchen. A moment later, he reappeared, setting a takeout container on the counter. The scent of rich, spiced curry filled the air. “Here. Consider it a welcome-to-the-neighborhood meal. No sense in letting you starve your first night back in civilization.”
Akira chuckled as he took the box. “You’re gonna spoil me, old man.”
“Tch. Just don’t expect it every night,” Sojiro grumbled, crossing his arms.
Akira gave him a knowing smirk. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“Damn right you will.”
With that, Akira turned toward the door. But as he passed the bookshelf near the entrance, he paused for a second. Slowly, he glanced up at a seemingly random spot on the shelf. A grin tugged at his lips, and without breaking stride, he gave a quick, cheeky wink toward the hidden camera nestled there.
His lips moved silently, forming four words.
See you later, Alibaba .
Then, without another word, he strolled out of Leblanc, the door swinging shut behind him.
Futaba Sakura nearly choked on her soda.
Her fingers froze over her keyboard as her wide, owl-like eyes darted between her monitors. She rewound the footage. Played it again.
Akira Amamiya had looked directly at her camera.
Not just looked. Winked. And mouthed her alias.
A shiver ran down her spine.
"How... how the hell—?!" she muttered, pushing up her glasses.
She leaned in, staring at the frozen image of Akira’s smirking face on her screen.
She had eyes and ears everywhere. She could dig up dirt on just about anyone.
But this guy… this hot ex-juvie punk who had just stepped back into society…
How did he know about her?
As Akira stepped into his new apartment, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. A knowing smirk crossed his lips. Hook, line, and sinker.
Kicking the door shut behind him, he fished out his phone and checked the screen.
Sender: Unknown User.
The message was short.
"Who are you?"
Akira chuckled to himself as he tossed his bag onto the floor. His fingers danced over the keyboard as he typed his response.
"You're telling me the great Alibaba hasn’t already pulled up every single detail of my life? You’re slipping... Futaba."
In her dimly lit, chaotic bedroom, Futaba Sakura let out a strangled squeak and nearly toppled out of her chair.
Her soda can clattered to the desk, spilling onto several empty instant ramen cups.
She scrambled to grab her phone, her fingers fumbling over the screen as she reread the message. Once. Twice.
Then she let out a guttural noise of frustration and flung herself onto her bed, gripping her phone like it was a live grenade.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" she shrieked into her pillow.
Her mind raced. How?! How did he know?! Nobody was supposed to know—
She sat up, shoving her glasses higher up her nose.
No. No, no, no. This wasn’t possible. She’d scrubbed every trace of her real identity from the net. Even the most elite hackers would hit a brick wall trying to find her.
And yet, this guy—this random dude who had just gotten out of juvie—had called her by name like it was nothing.
Her fingers flew across her keyboard as she pulled up every background check she had on him.
Akira Amamiya. 19 years old. Parents disowned him. No other known relatives. Three years in juvie. High IQ. No known hacking experience.
She chewed her lip.
And yet…
She narrowed her eyes at her screen.
Just who the hell are you, Akira Amamiya?
Akira’s phone buzzed violently in his palm, the screen lighting up with a flurry of messages—one after another, so fast they practically blurred together.
WHO ARE YOU?!?!?
HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?!?!?!
WHAT ELSE DO YOU KNOW?!?!?!?!?
ARE YOU WATCHING ME RIGHT NOW?!?!?!?!?!?!?
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as Arsène erupted into laughter inside his mind.
"Mon ami, you are truly incorrigible! Look at her unravel, all from a single, well-placed whisper. C’est magnifique!"
Even Satanael’s deep, velvety voice carried a note of mirth. "Fascinating… To send her into such disarray with only a name. Your ability to unseat the order of things remains impressive, Invoker."
Akira grinned, leaning against the doorframe of his apartment as he watched the text box continue to flood. It was honestly kind of adorable.
He could practically see her, flailing in her darkened room, eyes darting between her monitors, frantically scanning her own security feeds—trying, and failing, to figure out just how he had blindsided her.
"I think I broke her," he mused, his thumb hovering over his phone screen.
"Ah, but you see, ma lumière d'espoir," Arsène purred, still highly entertained, "the true delight of the game lies not in breaking your foe, but in guiding them along the path you choose. And right now… you have her teetering on the edge."
Akira smirked. Right.
Time to give her a push.
He typed out his next message carefully, each word deliberate.
"Calm down, Futaba. You have nothing to be worried about. I know things, that's all. I know you… and I know why you don’t leave your room. But I promise… I won’t leave you in the dark for much longer."
With a tap of his thumb, the message was sent.
And now… he waited.
Futaba Sakura felt her stomach plummet.
Her screen stared back at her, the simple text shining in stark contrast against the darkness of her room. Her breath hitched, fingers tightening around the controller she hadn’t realized she was still holding.
The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of her mechanical keyboard had fallen silent.
The looping stream of the camgirl on her first monitor went ignored.
The live feed of Leblanc, which had consumed her attention mere minutes ago, was forgotten.
Even the police database she’d been rifling through—something that normally required all of her focus—was now completely unimportant.
Because this?
This was a level of exposure she wasn’t prepared for.
This wasn’t just someone finding her username. It wasn’t some idiot stumbling across an old hacker alias.
This was a stranger reaching for her, slipping past every wall, every barrier she had built to keep the world at bay.
And worst of all?
They weren’t guessing.
They knew.
A cold, sharp panic coiled in her gut. Who was this guy?! Where did he come from?! How the hell did he find her?! She had triple encrypted her security system, had masked her real identity behind so many firewalls that even she had trouble tracking herself sometimes.
There was no way—no way—this guy should have been able to just know like that.
She swallowed hard, her fingers twitching over her keyboard. She wanted to lash out at him. Destroy him. Something.
And yet…
Somewhere, beneath the terror, there was another emotion she hadn’t expected.
A small, quiet ember that flickered in the back of her mind.
Hope.
The words “I won’t leave you in the dark” lingered in her head, looping over and over again, like a stubborn bit of rogue code.
It didn’t make sense.
None of this made sense.
And yet… for the first time in a long time, Futaba Sakura found herself hesitating.
Not out of fear.
But because, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to explain—
She wanted to believe him.
Akira stared at his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his face in the dimness of his apartment. The laughter from before had faded, leaving only a quiet determination in its place.
He wanted to act.
Every instinct screamed at him to do something now. To cross into the Metaverse, storm the Pyramid of Sloth, and pull her out himself. He had the strength, the experience. He could end this before it even truly began.
But… could he afford to?
His very existence here was already an anomaly. He had altered the timeline once, forcibly ejecting Yaldabaoth from the Velvet Room. That single action had caused a three-year delay in fate’s course, trapping him in juvie until the game of rebellion could restart.
If he started clearing Palaces out of order…
What would happen then?
The risk was too great.
Not yet.
So instead, he took a steadying breath, exhaled slowly through his nose, and began typing.
“No matter how dark the night, morning always comes, and our journey begins anew.”
A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
The first timeline’s Futaba had loved that quote—her favorite line from Final Fantasy X.
This Futaba?
She’d probably recognize it, too.
Futaba’s fingers twitched as her phone buzzed again. Her pulse spiked, eyes flicking between her screens as she reached for the device, expecting something cryptic, something unnerving.
Instead, she was met with—
A familiar quote.
A very familiar quote.
Futaba blinked as she read the message. Then she blinked again.
Her wide, violet eyes scanned over the words once more, as if making sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
Then, out of nowhere—
A giggle.
A genuine, startled, completely unfiltered giggle bubbled up from her throat, surprising even herself.
"Praise be to Yevon, a man of culture."
She sent the reply before she could stop herself, still grinning like an idiot.
This guy.
This freaky, terrifying, completely unreadable guy just quoted her favorite game at her.
What the hell.
Was this some elaborate trick? A coincidence? Or was he just that much of a nerd?
Futaba found herself… curious.
The response came almost instantly.
“I take my religion very seriously, you know. I go to temple every Sunday to grind Cactuar side quests.”
Futaba cackled, sending back a rapid-fire reply.
“Tsk, tsk. Casual. Real believers grind until they can dodge 200 lightning bolts in a row.”
“And yet some of us prefer to keep our sanity intact.”
“Lame. You don’t deserve Lulu’s Onion Knight.”
“You wound me, O High Priestess of the Al Bhed.”
The playful back-and-forth continued, each message lighter than the last, the tension that had gripped Futaba’s chest slowly unwinding. She barely even realized she had gone from panicked to smiling.
This guy…
She still didn’t know how he had found her. Or how he knew so much.
But she did know one thing.
There was something about him—something weird, something freaky—
But also… something safe.
She hesitated for only a moment before typing out her next message.
“I can tell you’re a good person, even if you’re kinda freaky. Can we be friends?”
A pause.
Then—
“We already are.”
Futaba blinked at the screen.
Then she smiled.
Shibuya hummed with life around him, neon lights glinting off wet pavement as waves of pedestrians swarmed the famous crossing. Akira stood among them, one hand idly tucked in his pocket, the other holding his phone as he exchanged rapid-fire messages with Futaba.
Meme Queen: "You’re going the WRONG way, dumbass! Turn LEFT at the next corner!"
Trickster: "You said go straight, so I went straight."
Meme Queen: "Yeah, but then I remembered I was looking at an old map. Just trust the spicy-brained nympho, okay?"
Trickster: "At this point, I’m trusting you more than Google Maps."
Meme Queen: "That’s the correct choice, mortal."
Akira chuckled, pausing on the sidewalk as he glanced up at the glowing signs of the city. Futaba had started off cautious, but after an hour of conversation, she was sending him memes, ranting about a new anime she was obsessed with, and oversharing in ways that were both hilarious and endearing.
Then—
Meme Queen: "Gotta go offline for a bit. Don’t get run over while I’m gone, kay?"
Trickster: "I make no promises."
Meme Queen: "Akira noooooo—"
Shaking his head, Akira pocketed his phone.
Time to head back.
As he stepped forward, waiting at the edge of Shibuya Crossing for the light to change, something caught his eye.
Two girls stood opposite him on the other side of the intersection, just barely visible between the shifting crowd.
They were identical—same sharp features, same expressive eyes—except for their hair. One had bright, fiery red locks tied up in a high ponytail, while the other’s was left down, swaying as she moved.
And from the way the one with the loose hair was gesturing wildly, fists clenched at her sides, she was pissed.
Akira frowned, observing.
The pony-tailed twin was clearly trying to comfort her—soft words, a hand reaching out—but the other girl wrenched away, her face twisted with frustration. Then, without warning—
She ran.
Straight into traffic.
Akira tensed, watching as the girl darted between moving cars, ignoring the blaring horns and angry shouts. By some miracle, she made it to the other side unscathed.
Her companion hesitated for only a second before rushing after her—
But she wasn’t fast enough.
Halfway through, she stumbled.
And right then, a car came barreling toward her.
Akira didn’t think.
He moved.
His body acted on sheer instinct, years of parkour and combat kicking in as he lunged forward, breaking into a dead sprint. The world around him blurred, adrenaline sharpening his senses, his mind calculating distance, speed, impact—
The girl’s eyes widened in fear as the headlights bore down on her.
And then Akira was there.
He grabbed her, arms wrapping around her smaller frame —
The car screeched, brakes screaming against asphalt—
A brutal impact.
Pain exploded across his ribs as the front of the vehicle slammed into his side, flinging both him and the girl through the air. Akira barely registered the impact as he hit the ground, twisting his body to absorb the fall.
His back hit pavement with a thud, but his arms stayed locked around the girl, shielding her completely from harm.
The world was silent for half a second.
Then, chaos.
People shouting. The driver cursing as he jumped out of his car.
But all Akira focused on was the girl in his arms.
She was trembling, clutching onto him like a lifeline. Wide, brown eyes stared up at him in shock, tears pricking the corners.
Akira exhaled through the pain, flashing a small, reassuring smirk.
“Hey there,” he murmured. “You’re supposed to wait for the light to turn green.”
Chapter 3: Faith and Justice
Summary:
Akira wakes up in hospital and charms the pants off the redhead he just saved. Then, he has his mind blown when he meets a certain someone.
Chapter Text
White walls. The sharp scent of antiseptic. The distant beeping of heart monitors.
Akira groaned as he shifted against the hospital bed’s stiff mattress, wincing when a dull ache radiated through his ribs. He cracked an eye open, squinting at the ceiling. Yup. Definitely a hospital.
A nurse was fussing over his IV drip, while a doctor checked his chart at the foot of the bed. His left arm was strapped to his chest in a sling—dislocated shoulder, no doubt—and bandages were wrapped snugly around his ribs. His body felt like one big bruise, but nothing felt broken. Well, aside from the ribs.
“Try not to move too much,” the doctor said without looking up. “You’re lucky. Cracked ribs, dislocated shoulder, some nasty scrapes and bruises—but nothing life-threatening.”
Akira sighed, rolling his eyes. “Lucky. Right.”
The nurse smirked as she adjusted his blanket. “Not a lot of people get hit by a car and come out of it looking as good as you do.”
“Nothing a Diarahan can’t fix then,” Akira muttered to himself under his breath.
The door suddenly slammed open, making the poor nurse jump.
“What the hell happened to you, kid?!”
Kanji Tatsumi stormed in, face tight with worry. The blond was wearing an old jumper and a pair of paint-splattered jeans, like he’d left in a hurry. His sharp eyes scanned Akira, taking in the bandages, the sling, the bruises blooming across his skin.
Akira blinked, then gave him a lazy two-fingered salute. “Hey, Kanji. You’re lookin’ good. Hot date with Naoto?”
“Don’t change the subject, dumbass!” Kanji growled, striding up to the bed. “I got a call saying you were in the hospital and nothin’ else! What the hell did you do?”
Akira grinned, then regretted it when pain shot through his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Saved a girl from getting pancaked in the middle of Shibuya Crossing.”
Kanji ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “Jeez, kid. First day outta juvie, and you’re already playin’ hero?”
Akira shrugged—or tried to. His shoulder protested, and he grimaced.
“The girl,” he said instead. “The one with the red hair. Is she okay?”
Kanji stared at him for a moment, then let out a dry chuckle. “Damn kid, always gotta be lookin’ out for someone else.” He shook his head, arms crossing over his chest. “Yeah, she’s fine. Barely a scratch on her. She’s waiting outside, actually. Wants to say thanks.”
Akira leaned his head back against the pillow, letting out a slow breath. Relief settled in his chest.
Kanji smirked. “You up for a visit?”
Akira hesitated. “Give me a few,” he finally said. “Let the doctors finish poking and prodding me first.”
One of the doctors chuckled at that, flipping through the chart. “Kid’s got heart.”
Another nurse grinned as she adjusted his IV. “And a few screws loose.”
Akira smirked. “That’s what makes me so charming.”
Kanji just groaned, rubbing his temples. “I swear, you’re gonna give me gray hairs, Amamiya…”
Kasumi Yoshizawa paced the hospital corridor, arms folded tightly against her chest. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the pristine floors and whitewashed walls. She barely noticed.
Her mind was too busy replaying the events at the Crossing—over and over, like a broken record.
She hadn’t been thinking. The moment Sumire had torn away from her, face twisted in frustration, Kasumi’s instincts had kicked in. She’d run after her without hesitation, her heart pounding.
Sumire never acts like that.
Sure, her sister was a perfectionist. It was understandable—she was still recovering from her ankle injury, and coming back from a three-week layoff was no small feat. Of course, it was frustrating. Of course, it felt like she was a step behind. And with the big heat coming up, the pressure was suffocating.
But Sumire had never stormed off like that before.
Kasumi shook her head, exhaling a shaky breath. She’d have to talk to her later.
Right now, there was someone else she needed to see.
She glanced at the hospital room door in front of her, biting her lip.
That man…
The image of him flashed in her mind—dark hair, storm-grey eyes, and those unbelievable reflexes. One second, she had been stumbling, her body frozen in fear as headlights bore down on her. The next, she was weightless, arms locked around a warm, solid frame.
Then—impact.
She remembered hitting the road, but he had taken the brunt of it. Even as he crashed onto the asphalt, he had held her protectively, shielding her from harm.
She was unharmed. He, on the other hand…
Kasumi swallowed hard.
He was like a hero straight out of one of Sumire’s novels. The kind of person who didn’t hesitate. Who acted when it mattered.
And she hadn’t even thanked him yet.
Squaring her shoulders, Kasumi stepped toward the door. It was time to fix that.
The knock on the door was soft, hesitant. Akira looked at Kanji, who quirked an eyebrow in silent question. Akira nodded.
Kanji smirked. “Alright, kid. I’ll go sort out your discharge paperwork and let Naoto know you’re still breathing.” He turned toward the door, then glanced over his shoulder at Akira with a teasing grin. “Try not to charm the poor girl too hard while I’m gone.”
Before Akira could respond, Kanji pulled the door open, revealing a nervous Kasumi Yoshizawa standing just outside. The redhead hesitated, fingers curling around a strand of her long hair. Kanji gestured for her to step inside, then gave Akira a wink before closing the door behind him.
For a few moments, neither spoke.
Akira took the time to really look at her now that they weren’t in the middle of a chaotic accident. The first thing he noticed was how small she was. Not weak—no, there was a quiet strength in the way she carried herself—but delicate, in a way that made him glad he had taken the hit instead of her.
And then, well—
"Putain, elle a de belles jambes, celle-là…" Arsène whistled in his mind, voice laced with amusement.
Akira had to agree. The girl did have nice legs. Long, toned, and accentuated by her yoga pants. And the rest of her wasn’t exactly lacking, either—bright, intelligent eyes, a graceful figure, and an elegance that felt natural rather than forced.
"Eyes up, Invoker," Satanael’s deep rumble echoed in his mind.
Akira smirked but quickly remembered his manners. He gestured toward the chair beside his bed. "You okay?"
Kasumi blinked at him like he’d just asked if the sky was green. “You’re the one who got hit by a car, and you’re asking me if I’m okay? Are you for real?”
Akira shrugged—or at least, he tried to. His injured shoulder immediately protested, and he winced slightly. "What can I say? I’ve had worse days."
Kasumi frowned, crossing her arms. "That’s not the flex you think it is."
Akira huffed a quiet chuckle. "Maybe not, but I stand by it." He nodded toward her. "Seriously, though. No bruises, no scrapes? Nothing sore?"
She shook her head. "Nothing. The doctors checked me over twice. You took all the damage."
"Good. Then it was worth it."
Kasumi bit her lip, glancing down at the tiled floor. For a moment, it seemed like she was struggling to find the right words. Finally, she lifted her gaze and met his eyes.
"I wanted to say thank you," she said, voice filled with genuine emotion. "You saved my life, and I don’t even know your name."
"Akira Amamiya," he said smoothly, offering a slight smirk. "And you?"
She blinked again, as if surprised he didn’t already know. "Kasumi. Kasumi Yoshizawa."
"Nice to meet you, Kasumi," he said, leaning back into the pillows. "And before you go on about me saving you, don’t worry about it. You don’t owe me anything. Just… be more careful next time, yeah?"
Kasumi frowned, shifting on her feet. "I should be saying the same to you! You could’ve been killed!"
"Eh, I’ve been through worse."
She let out a frustrated sigh. "That’s still not a good thing!"
Arsène chuckled in his mind. "I like this one, mon ami. She has fire."
Akira smirked slightly but said nothing.
Still, Kasumi didn’t seem convinced. She hesitated for a brief moment before meeting his gaze with determination.
"If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you," she said firmly, "please tell me. I mean it. If you ever need anything, just ask."
Akira tilted his head, considering her. She really means it.
Then Arsène’s voice purred mischievously. "Mon ami, you should ask her for dinner. I hear redheads are quite fiery, no?"
Akira rolled his eyes internally.
"Alright," he said instead, flashing her a lopsided grin. "If you insist, I might just take you up on that sometime."
Kasumi brightened, nodding eagerly. "Please do."
Just then, the door cracked open, and Kanji stepped back in, holding a clipboard. "Alright, kid, your discharge is sorted. Doc says you gotta take it easy for a few weeks, though. No heroics."
Akira shot Kasumi a glance, smirking. "No promises."
She rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless.
As Kanji helped him to his feet, Akira had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he and Kasumi crossed paths. And strangely… he found himself looking forward to it.
As Kasumi stepped out of the hospital room, she found herself unable to stop glancing back at the door Akira and Kanji had just walked through.
Akira Amamiya...
His name rolled through her mind like a song lyric she couldn't shake. In the span of just a few minutes, he had managed to completely disarm her. Not just by saving her life—though that was obviously a huge part of it—but by the way he carried himself.
She had always thought of herself as a good judge of character. And Akira... Akira oozed confidence, but not in an overbearing or cocky way. It was effortless, natural, like he was completely at ease with himself.
And gods, he was handsome.
Even with the hospital gown, the faint bruises already forming along his jawline, and the slight wince whenever he moved, it was impossible to ignore how well-built he was. The broad shoulders, the lean muscles, the sharp storm-grey eyes that seemed to see right through her. And that voice—deep, smooth, carrying just enough amusement to make her feel like he was always in on some private joke.
Kasumi pressed her hands against her burning cheeks, shaking her head.
"Get it together, Kasumi!"
She had just met the guy! And yet… she found herself wanting to know more. Who was he? What had he meant when he said he’d been through worse? Why did he seem so... familiar, despite them never having met?
She had to physically shake the thoughts away, because the longer she stood there thinking about him, the deeper she sank into a ridiculous daydream of being swept off her feet by a mysterious rogue with a charming smile.
"No, nope, no way. This is ridiculous."
And yet, the silly little crush had already started to take root.
"Kasumi!"
She snapped out of her thoughts, blinking rapidly as she turned.
Her father was striding toward her, his face a mix of relief and concern. She barely had time to react before he pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly for a brief moment before stepping back and scanning her up and down.
"Are you alright?" he asked, hands still on her shoulders. "I got a call saying there was an accident, and I nearly had a heart attack!"
"I'm okay, Dad," she reassured him with a soft smile. "Really. The doctors checked me over twice. I wasn’t hurt at all."
Her father exhaled, shaking his head. "Thank God... What happened?"
Kasumi hesitated for a second, then explained everything—how she had run after Sumire, how she hadn't been thinking when she followed, how she had tripped right into oncoming traffic.
"...And then Akira—he just appeared out of nowhere and pulled me out of the way," she finished, glancing back toward the direction of his hospital room. "He got hurt pretty badly, though. Cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder… all because of me."
Her father gave her a gentle but firm look. "Because of an accident, Kasumi. You didn’t push him in front of that car, did you?"
"Of course not!"
"Then don’t put all the blame on yourself. That young man—Akira, was it?—sounds like he knew exactly what he was doing."
Kasumi frowned slightly but nodded. Her father was right, but she still felt some responsibility.
"Is Sumire okay?" she asked after a moment.
Her father sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She’s shaken. You know how she is—she's putting on a brave face, but I can tell she’s upset with herself. She’s going to see Dr. Maruki tomorrow."
He looked at her carefully. "Do you want me to make an appointment for you as well?"
Kasumi paused, considering it. She liked Dr. Maruki. He was easy to talk to, and she had gone to a few of his sessions before. But after everything today…
She shook her head. "I think I’ll be fine."
Her father studied her for a moment before nodding. "Alright. But if you change your mind, just say the word."
Kasumi smiled at him. "I will."
As they walked toward the hospital exit, Kasumi’s mind drifted again—not to Sumire, or the accident, or even Maruki… but to a certain raven-haired boy who had thrown himself between her and a moving car.
She really needed to get a grip.
"Kanji, come on," Akira groaned, trying—and failing—to sit up straighter in the passenger seat. Every movement sent a dull throb through his ribs, but he ignored it. "Just drop me at my apartment. I’ll be fine."
Kanji shot him a deadpan look as he switched gears, merging onto the main road. "Yeah, and Naoto told me to bring your stubborn ass back to the house, so that’s what’s happening."
Akira sighed dramatically. "You do realize I’m not actually a kid, right?"
Kanji snorted. "Coulda fooled me, pouting like that. Look, you wanna be the one to tell Naoto that I let you go back to some empty apartment after you nearly got turned into roadkill? Be my guest."
Akira frowned. He might’ve had the guts to fight a god, but standing between Naoto Shirogane-Tatsumi and her sense of responsibility? That was another matter entirely.
"...Fine," he muttered. "But only for tonight. I need to go to Shujin tomorrow to complete my enrolment, and I gotta be at my apartment to sign for my deliveries."
Kanji nodded as he turned down a quieter street. "Don’t worry, I’ll drive you myself."
Satisfied, Akira slumped back against the seat, shifting a bit to ease the pressure on his ribs. The painkillers were starting to kick in, numbing the worst of it, and with the steady hum of the car engine, he could almost—almost—relax.
Before long, the neon glow of Shibuya faded into the quieter, more residential outskirts of Kichijoji. Kanji expertly navigated the side streets until they pulled up in front of a modest yet stylish home, tucked away just far enough to avoid the city’s chaos.
As Kanji cut the engine, something caught his eye. A sleek, silver Yamaha scooter was parked neatly in front of the house.
"Huh," Kanji mused, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Looks like Ren-chan came to dinner too."
Akira, who had been reaching for the door handle, paused. "Ren-chan?"
Kanji grinned but didn’t elaborate as he stepped out of the car. "You’ll see."
Something about the way he said it sent a spark of curiosity through Akira. Still, he followed Kanji up the front steps, bracing himself for whatever—or whoever—was waiting inside.
The moment Akira stepped inside, he was hit with the unmistakable scent of warm vanilla and cinnamon. In any other household, this would be a comforting, even welcoming aroma.
In the Tatsumi household, however, it was a harbinger of doom.
Kanji shot him a sympathetic glance as he kicked off his shoes. "Just a heads-up, kid—she was worried sick about you. I don’t think she’ll go too hard on you... but uh, maybe brace yourself."
Akira sighed, rolling his shoulders—well, the one that wasn’t still sore from getting hit by a car. "Yeah, yeah… Let’s get this over with."
Kanji cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, "Naoto, honey, we’re home!"
For a few seconds, silence. Then, the soft clack clack clack of approaching footsteps.
Naoto appeared in the front room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She hadn’t changed much over the years—her signature blue cap was gone, and her dark hair was slightly longer now, brushing just past her shoulders. She also no longer bound her chest, embracing a more natural look.
But there was one thing that had definitely changed.
"Wha—what??" Akira spluttered, eyes wide as they zeroed in on the undeniable curve of Naoto’s pregnant belly. "Nao-neesan... you’re having a baby?!"
Naoto arched a brow, a smirk tugging at her lips despite the worry still lingering in her gaze. "Observant as always, I see."
Akira turned to Kanji, his brain still struggling to process this development. "You—she—how long?"
Kanji chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Almost six months now. Surprised?"
"Shocked," Akira admitted. "I didn’t even know you two were thinking about kids!"
Naoto sighed, placing a hand on her stomach as she regarded Akira seriously. "We weren’t—at first. But… life has a way of throwing unexpected things at you."
Akira let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. No kidding."
His amusement, however, was short-lived. Because the next second, Naoto narrowed her eyes, her voice taking on a no-nonsense edge.
"Now that that’s out of the way… Akira Amamiya. Do not think for one second that I have forgotten the real reason you’re here."
Akira barely had time to groan before Naoto launched into full protective big sister mode.
Naoto crossed her arms, her expression as sharp as a well-honed blade. "Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?"
Akira had barely straightened up before she started her assault, words as precise and cutting as gunfire.
"I wrote to you every other day while you were in juvenile detention, Akira. Every other day. And I know you read them—Chie told me as much. So tell me, why didn’t you write back? Do you have any idea how that felt? To pour my heart into those letters, to tell you what was happening, to reassure you that we hadn’t forgotten you, that I hadn’t forgotten you—only to receive nothing in return?"
Akira stood his ground, his storm-grey eyes fixed on her, but he didn’t interrupt. He wouldn’t interrupt.
"Then, instead of coming to stay with us when you got out, you decided you’d rather live by yourself in a tiny, bare-bones apartment in Yongen-Jaya." Her voice trembled slightly, frustration and hurt bleeding into each word. "We have the space, Akira! You know we do! More than that, we wanted you to live with us! And yet, you—"
She took a breath, composing herself before she spiraled out of control. But the moment she did, something else snapped in its place.
"And then," she continued, voice lower but no less fierce, "you got yourself hit by a car."
Kanji winced, wisely choosing to lean against the wall and keep his mouth shut.
"What in the world possessed you to throw yourself in front of a moving vehicle? Do you have a death wish?" Naoto’s fists clenched at her sides. "What if you had died, Akira? What then? Did you even stop to consider how that would affect the people who care about you?"
Akira waited.
Naoto was a master of keeping her emotions in check, of remaining analytical and composed even under extreme duress. But right now, she wasn’t speaking as the Detective Prince. She was speaking as Naoto Shirogane-Tatsumi—the woman was his cousin, his friend, and in some ways, his older sister. And he owed her the dignity of letting her get it all out.
Finally, when she seemed to have run out of steam, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly, Akira stepped forward.
And without a word, he wrapped his arms around her.
Naoto stiffened for a moment, stunned into silence. Then, with a shaky breath, she slowly relaxed into the embrace.
"You know why I didn’t write, Nao-neesan," Akira murmured, voice softer now. "What would people think if the world found out the great Detective Prince had a criminal for a cousin? I didn’t want that for you. You don’t deserve that kind of burden."
Naoto swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists against his back. "You idiot… You think I care about what other people think? You’re family, Akira."
"As for the car thing…" He exhaled through his nose, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. "I did it to save someone’s life. You’d have done the same thing. You know you would have."
Naoto sniffed, then let out a small, resigned chuckle. "You’re insufferable."
Akira grinned. "You love me anyway."
Naoto huffed, then punched him lightly in the chest—carefully, mindful of his injuries—before gripping the fabric of his shirt and hugging him tighter.
The warmth of Naoto’s embrace still lingered when a polite cough interrupted the moment.
"Is it safe to come out now, Shirogane-sensei?"
The voice was smooth, cultured, and unmistakably feminine. Akira looked up, curiosity sparking—only for his brain to short-circuit.
Stepping out from the kitchen was a young woman who could have easily graced a fashion magazine cover. Honey-brown hair framed her striking face, cascading in soft waves past her shoulders. Her eyes—rich, warm mahogany—held a quiet intelligence, mirth twinkling just beneath the surface. She was dressed in casual yet undeniably stylish attire, exuding a natural elegance that felt almost too perfect.
Akira’s sharp gaze flicked to her hands. Thin, brown leather gloves adorned them. Something about that small detail nagged at his subconscious, but the thought refused to take shape.
"Damn," Akira mused internally, swallowing. "What is it with hotties crawling out of the woodwork today?"
Arsène chuckled in the depths of his mind, the rich baritone of his voice laced with amusement. Mon ami, you are positively drowning in beautiful women today. How tragic for you.
Akira barely suppressed a groan, feeling his ears heat up slightly. He was still recovering from Kasumi, and now this?
Naoto, of course, caught the look on his face immediately. With a knowing smirk, she whacked him lightly on the arm. "Don’t even think about it, loverboy."
Akira blinked, rubbing his arm. "Ow."
Kanji snorted.
Naoto ignored them both, gesturing toward the woman with an air of professional pride. "Akira, meet my partner and successor, Ren Akechi."
Akira’s blood froze.
He turned slowly—very, very slowly—back toward the honey-haired woman, his storm-grey eyes locking onto hers.
Ren Akechi smiled politely, tilting her head just slightly, studying him as if she found him amusing.
His heartbeat roared in his ears. His vision swam. Akechi.
The gloves. The mannerisms. The name.
Naoto was still talking, but Akira didn’t hear a word.
Everything in his mind lurched, overlapping memories colliding—a smirking, silver-tongued detective—a bloodstained glove reaching for a gun—"JOKER!" screamed with desperate, manic fury—a shattered mask falling to the floor—a final, bittersweet grin before the door sealed shut—
No way. No goddamn way.
Naoto’s voice cut through the fog. "Akira?"
And then, without warning—
The world tilted.
Darkness swallowed his vision.
He barely registered Kanji lunging to catch him before he hit the floor.
Akira’s eyes fluttered open, his mind still reeling, but years of experience in deception kicked in almost instinctively. He schooled his expression into something neutral, only allowing a hint of weariness to show.
"Ugh…" He exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his temple as if gathering himself. "Sorry about that." He forced a sheepish chuckle. "Haven’t eaten much today, and I think my pain meds finally wore off… guess that combo hit me harder than I thought."
The words felt hollow in his ears—like he was reading from a bad script—but to his relief, nobody questioned it.
Kanji clapped a heavy hand on his uninjured shoulder. "Shit, kid, you shoulda said something! We’ll get you fed, c’mon."
Naoto sighed, rubbing her temples. "Honestly, Akira, after everything you’ve been through today, I shouldn’t be surprised. But fainting in my living room is a first."
Ren Akechi, still standing gracefully nearby, regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "That’s quite the day you’ve had," she remarked, her voice as smooth as silk. "Perhaps you should rest before dinner?"
Akira forced a lopsided grin, waving off their concern. "Nah, I’m good. Just embarrassed I dropped like a sack of bricks in front of everyone." He straightened, subtly testing his balance. "Thanks for catching me, Kanji."
Kanji snorted. "Yeah, yeah, just don’t make a habit of it, alright?"
With that, the small group ushered him toward the dining table, Kanji keeping a firm hand on his shoulder as if making sure he didn’t keel over again. Akira took the moment to compose himself, inhaling deeply before finally turning to face Ren properly.
"Nice to meet you, Ren," he said smoothly, inclining his head slightly. "And thanks for not laughing at me just now."
Ren chuckled, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. "I wouldn’t dream of it, Amamiya-san."
He caught the slightest glimmer of mischief in her eyes, and it did not help his spiraling thoughts.
As they settled in for dinner, Akira did his best to act normal—engaging in casual conversation, making the occasional quip, throwing a grin here and there—but inside?
Inside, he was screaming.
"A girl? Akechi is a girl? A HOT girl? WHAT THE FUCK?!"
He barely registered the conversation happening around him, his mind racing in circles, desperate to make sense of what the hell was going on. This—this wasn’t right. He remembered Akechi. Goro Akechi. Smug bastard, eerily polite but dripping with venom beneath the surface. A manipulative genius, a tragic monster, an enemy turned reluctant ally. A dead man.
And yet, she was sitting across from him.
Same name. Same gloves. Same way of speaking.
Arsène hummed in the depths of his consciousness, ever the picture of refined amusement. Mon ami, you are positively unraveling. This is quite unlike you.
"Unlike me?! Unlike me?!" Akira snapped internally. "Akechi is a fucking girl, Arsène! How is this NOT a reason to freak out?"
Arsène chuckled. Life is full of surprises, is it not?
Satanael, whose presence always felt heavier, more ancient, finally rumbled to life in Akira’s mind. Calm yourself, Trickster. We will unravel this mystery in due time. For now…
A pause.
Act normal.
Akira swallowed down the thousand questions clawing at his mind, forcing himself to play it cool.
This was a puzzle.
One he’d have to very carefully unravel.
As the meal wound down, Akira leaned back in his chair, feeling more at ease than he had in a long time. The warmth of a home-cooked meal, the easy banter, and the familiarity of being with family—it was a stark contrast to the cold, sterile routine of juvie. But just as he was about to settle in completely, Naoto tried to push herself up from the table.
"I should help with the cleanup—" she began, but Kanji cut her off with a scoff.
"Like hell you are," he said, already moving around the table.
"Kanji, I’m pregnant, not incapable," Naoto huffed, but the mild flush on her cheeks betrayed her exhaustion.
"And I ain't about to let my heavily pregnant wife wear herself out over some dishes," Kanji shot back. Without further warning, he leaned down and, with the ease of someone long used to ending arguments this way, scooped Naoto up bridal-style.
"Kanji!" she shrieked, though there was more indignation than actual protest in her voice.
"Relax, boss," Kanji teased, carrying her effortlessly toward the stairs. He turned his head over his shoulder, winking at Akira before flicking his eyes toward Ren with a pointed look.
Akira rolled his eyes. Not subtle, old man.
"Fine," Naoto grumbled, wrapping her arms around Kanji’s neck with a sigh. "But if I hear even a whisper about you letting Akira do all the dishes, you’ll be sleeping in the workshop tonight."
Kanji just grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Love you too, babe."
As the couple disappeared upstairs, Akira chuckled under his breath before gathering up the dishes.
"You sure you don’t need help?" Ren’s voice was smooth, teasing.
Akira glanced at her. "If you’re offering, I won’t say no."
Ren smirked. "I suppose I could spare a few minutes."
The two worked in comfortable silence for a moment, the quiet hum of the kitchen filling the space between them. Akira found himself studying Ren out of the corner of his eye.
She really is different from the Akechi I knew.
There were similarities, sure—the sharp intelligence, the dry wit, the confidence—but there was a softness here, a warmth that the other Akechi had never allowed himself to show. The gloves, though… that was something familiar.
As he passed her a dish to dry, he finally gave in to curiosity.
"Poor circulation, or just don’t want to leave fingerprints?" he teased.
Ren giggled, holding up a gloved hand with a small, self-deprecating smile. "My hands are always cold for some reason."
Akira hummed in thought. "You probably have mild anemia—you should get it checked."
Ren blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his casual diagnosis. Then, she laughed—a warm, genuine sound. "Ara, I wasn’t expecting a medical consultation with my dishwashing."
Akira shrugged. "Just saying. I knew someone with the same issue, and it turned out to be anemia. You don’t want to be passing out in the middle of a case, do you, Shirogane-sensei’s partner?"
Ren rolled her eyes, amused. "I suppose I could get it checked, just to be sure." She turned back to drying the dishes, but he noticed the thoughtful expression on her face.
Akira studied her again.
The Akechi he had known would have never admitted to weakness, even in jest.
Yet here she was, taking the observation in stride, even thanking him for the concern.
"You’re staring," Ren said suddenly, smirking as she put the last dish away. "Something on my face?"
Akira chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, just trying to figure you out."
Ren arched an eyebrow. "How mysterious. Should I be flattered or concerned?"
Akira grinned. "Both."
Ren giggled again, drying her hands before stepping out of the kitchen. "Well then, Amamiya-kun… good luck with that."
As she left, Akira stood there for a moment, water still running, his thoughts an absolute mess.
Arsène’s amused chuckle echoed in his mind.
This will be interesting, non?
The sound of a door clicking shut echoed faintly through the house as Kanji and Ren left, leaving Akira alone in the quiet warmth of the Tatsumi home. He let out a breath, running a hand through his messy black hair before trudging toward the spare bedroom Kanji had pointed out.
The room was simple, but comfortable—neatly made futon, soft lighting, and just enough furniture to make it feel lived-in. Akira sat on the bed, groaning slightly as the day's exhaustion caught up with him. His ribs still ached, his shoulder throbbed, and his body protested every movement, but it was manageable.
He flipped open his phone, squinting against the bright screen in the dark.
Half a dozen notifications from Futaba.
WTF YOU ALMOST DIED?!
DUDE, I LOOK AWAY FOR LIKE FIVE MINUTES AND YOU GET HIT BY A CAR?
EXPLAIN. NOW.
OH GOD ARE YOU DEAD?
IF YOU’RE A GHOST I SWEAR TO GOD—
AKIRA!!!! SAY SOMETHING!!!!!
A tired chuckle escaped him as he typed out a response.
Relax, ‘Taba. Still alive. Bit bruised, but I’ll be back in Yongen tomorrow.
The reply was almost instant.
Meme Queen: Dumbass! You scared the hell out of me!
Akira smirked.
Trickster: Aww, you care~
Meme Queen: Shut up!
He could almost see Futaba flailing about on her bed.
They continued to text back and forth, Futaba shifting from panic to relief to her usual chaotic self. She sent him memes, ranted about a new glitch she found in an old RPG, and even sent him a heavily pixelated image with the caption “boobs (redacted)” before immediately backtracking with “WAIT NO IGNORE THAT”
Akira nearly choked on his laughter.
Eventually, her messages slowed, and he could tell she was winding down.
Meme Queen: Alright, I gotta go. Need sleep. You better not get yourself killed before we meet, got it?
Trickster: Wouldn’t dream of it.
Meme Queen: Good. Night, nerd.
Trickster: Night, spicy-brain.
With a sigh, Akira set his phone down on the nightstand, his eyelids growing heavier. His body ached, his ribs protesting with every slight movement, but the warmth of the blankets and the sheer exhaustion made it impossible to stay awake any longer.
He let himself drift.
And then…
Everything was blue.
Akira opened his eyes, the weight of sleep suddenly gone as he found himself in a familiar place.
The Velvet Room.
Only, it wasn’t the prison cell he had once known. This was the grand, infinite expanse of an elegant theater, its seats stretching endlessly into the darkness. Velvet drapes adorned the walls, and the air carried the faint notes of a distant piano.
And at the center of it all, sitting in a luxurious chair at the balcony, was Igor. His long, hooked nose and gleaming yellow eyes regarded Akira with something akin to amusement.
"Welcome back, Trickster."
A soft giggle echoed through the theater, and Lavenza stepped forward, hands clasped behind her back as she smiled warmly.
"It has been some time, has it not?"
Akira took a deep breath, forcing himself to push past the initial shock of being back in the Velvet Room.
“Okay,” he started, narrowing his storm-grey eyes. “I have questions.”
Igor chuckled, his deep, resonant laughter echoing through the grand theater. “I would expect nothing less.”
Akira leaned forward. “First off—can I do Palaces out of order? I know how this is supposed to go, but if I handle Futaba’s Palace now, before the others, will it break reality? Will it mess up the Metaverse?”
Igor steepled his fingers, considering. “An interesting notion, Trickster. The distortions of the cognitive world are deeply tied to fate’s design, but this is a new game—one not entirely bound by the same rules you once knew.” His yellow eyes gleamed with intrigue. “I do not know what effect such an action would have.”
Akira scowled. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “So, what? It could work out fine, or I could tear a hole in reality?”
Igor smiled cryptically. “Possibilities are what make this game so intriguing.”
Akira pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Great. Just great.” He shook his head, then leveled Igor with another sharp look. “Next question: is there any way I can get a Bead or a Soma? My shoulder is killing me.”
Igor chuckled again. “You really should learn not to push yourself so hard, Trickster. That being said…” He gestured to Lavenza, who stepped forward with a knowing smile, her delicate hands producing a single Soma.
“Don’t make this a habit,” she said sweetly, placing the shimmering vial into Akira’s hands before winking.
Akira blinked, then smirked, crushing the vial and sighing in relief as the worse of the pain fades away. “I like you, Lavenza.”
Her giggle was warm.
Then, Akira’s expression turned serious again. “Alright… next question.” He took a deep breath. “Why the hell is Akechi a girl?”
Lavenza’s smile widened ever so slightly.
“And while we’re at it,” Akira continued, his brain running a mile a minute, “are the others girls too? Ryuji? Yusuke? Mishima?!”
Igor let out another deep chuckle, his fingers tapping together. “You will find the answers to all your questions in good time, Trickster.”
Akira groaned. Of course he wasn’t getting a straight answer.
Igor’s mirth faded as his expression became more serious. “I will tell you this—two weeks from now, the game shall begin.”
Akira’s eyes narrowed. “Two weeks?”
“Yes.” Igor’s voice was calm but firm. “The threads of fate are converging, and soon, the first move will be made. Until then, prepare yourself. Strengthen your allies, and seek the ones you must awaken.”
Akira ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “Right. Two weeks.” His mind was already racing through possibilities, calculating how best to use the time.
Igor continued. “And though I cannot advise attempting to distort the natural order, there are… other ways you may assist the Hermit.”
Akira perked up slightly. “What do you mean?”
Igor’s cryptic smile returned. “You shall see.”
Before Akira could press for more, the Velvet Room began to fade, the deep blue of the theater dissolving into the darkness of sleep.
Lavenza’s voice was the last thing he heard.
“Good luck, Trickster.”
Chapter 4: Let The Games Begin - Part 1
Summary:
After playing human speed bump so he can protect Kasumi, and having his mind blown by meeting this reality's Akechi, Akira meets a familiar tub of lard, contributes to a medical breakthrough, starts breaking down a Hermit's walls... and then has a few more surprises on his first day of uni.
Chapter Text
Shujin Academy - President Kobayakawa’s Office
Akira sat in the stiff leather chair, his expression blank, hands folded neatly in his lap. Across from him, President Kobayakawa sat hunched over his desk, his beady eyes scrutinizing Akira like he was something unpleasant stuck to his shoe. The overweight man exuded self-importance, his sausage-like fingers tapping against the wood in an almost impatient rhythm.
Kanji leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He had been quiet so far, but the growing tick in his jaw said he wouldn’t stay that way if this dragged on too long.
“So,” Kobayakawa began, voice thick with condescension. “Amamiya-kun, was it?”
Akira simply nodded.
“I must say, we don’t often get students like you applying to our fine institution.”
Kanji tensed. Akira remained impassive.
“But—” Kobayakawa sighed as if this were a great inconvenience. “Given that your previous academic record is… adequate, and given that certain individuals—” He shot a glance at Kanji. “—have spoken in your favor, the board has reluctantly decided to allow you to enroll.”
Akira resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he smiled—a polite, neutral, perfectly insincere smile. “I appreciate the opportunity.”
Kobayakawa’s lips twisted slightly, as if disappointed that Akira wasn’t groveling. “Understand, Amamiya-kun, that we will be watching you. One misstep, one incident, and you will be expelled. Do I make myself clear?”
Akira merely inclined his head. “Of course, sir.”
Kanji smirked. The bastard had no idea how close Akira had come to calling him a fat toad or a Kingpin-knockoff.
Kobayakawa puffed himself up, as if expecting more resistance. When none came, he huffed. “Good. Your schedule and ID will be ready tomorrow. Dismissed.”
Akira stood, gave a shallow bow, and walked out without another word. Kanji followed, throwing one last glare at the president before shutting the door behind them.
As soon as they were in the hallway, Kanji clapped Akira on the back. “Damn, kid, you handled that better than I expected. Thought for sure you were gonna snap and call ‘im a lard-ass.”
Akira smirked. “I was this close.” He pinched his fingers together. “But I figured I’d save my best material for when I actually get expelled.”
Kanji chuckled. “Atta boy.”
Yongen-Jaya - Takemi Medical Clinic
After the delightful experience of enrolling, Akira had one more stop to make before heading home.
"Wait, how did you know this place was a clinic?" Kanji asked as he pulled up outside a small, unassuming building in Yongen-Jaya.
Akira just winked and walked inside.
The Takemi Medical Clinic was small, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of antiseptic. The walls were lined with posters about experimental treatments, and the whole place had the vague air of something not entirely legal.
Akira barely had time to take it all in before a sultry, unimpressed voice called out from behind the counter.
“If you’re here for a cold, go to the pharmacy. If you’re here for drugs, piss off.”
Akira turned—and there she was.
Tae Takemi.
Dressed in a loose lab coat over a low-cut black top, her dark blue bob perfectly styled, she regarded him with cool, assessing eyes, a single brow raised in vague annoyance.
Akira leaned casually against the counter. “And if I’m here for you?”
Tae blinked. Then smirked. “Flirting and bleeding? Bold choice.”
Akira followed her gaze and realized she was looking at the faint red stain seeping through his shirt—one of his wounds had reopened.
“Huh,” he murmured. “Guess I overdid it today.”
Tae sighed and rubbed her temple. “Idiots. I swear, I attract idiots.” Then, without another word, she turned and walked into the exam room. “Well? You coming, pretty boy?”
Akira chuckled and followed.
Akira sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling his shoulder experimentally. He had a full range of motion, but the ache still lingered.
Tae Takemi crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, tapping a gloved finger against her arm. "Take off your shirt."
Akira arched a brow. “Shouldn’t we at least go on a date first?”
Tae smirked, unimpressed. "Flirt later. Strip now."
With a small chuckle, Akira obliged, pulling his shirt over his head and setting it aside.
Tae’s eyes widened ever so slightly before her cool expression returned. "Huh."
Akira raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"
"Just surprised, is all," Tae mused, running a gloved hand along his shoulder, testing for tenderness. "You look like some scrawny pretty boy at first glance, but you’re actually built. Deceptively so. Where’d you get a body like this?"
"Escrima and parkour,” Akira said simply, wincing slightly as Tae pressed a bruised rib.
Tae shot him a look. “You fight and jump off buildings for fun?"
"Pretty much."
She sighed. "You do realize hospitals exist, right? You don’t have to live like you’re in an action movie."
Akira grinned. "Where’s the fun in that?"
Tae just shook her head and went back to examining his injuries. She poked at one particularly nasty bruise on his ribs, making him hiss. “Damn. You took a hell of a hit. What happened?”
Akira shrugged. “Got hit by a car.”
Tae froze.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his, her previously amused expression now eerily blank. "Come again?"
“I pulled a girl out of the way of an oncoming car,” Akira elaborated, voice nonchalant. “Didn’t move quite fast enough myself, though.”
Tae’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Wait a minute… that was you?”
Akira tilted his head. "You heard about it?"
Tae let out a dry laugh. "Heard about it? It was all over the news this morning. Some mystery guy throwing himself in front of a speeding car to save a gymnastics prodigy? People are calling you a hero."
Akira sighed. "Great. So much for keeping a low profile."
Tae hummed thoughtfully as she dabbed antiseptic on a cut along his side. “Honestly, you should be dead with injuries like these. You’re either lucky or a cockroach."
Akira smirked. "Maybe both."
Tae chuckled. “Well, cockroach or not, you’ll live. But you are going to take it easy for a few days. No parkour, no getting into fights, and definitely no more playing human speed bump.”
Akira held a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “You’re taking all the fun out of my life, Doc.”
Tae rolled her eyes, though a small smile played at her lips.
As she moved to grab more gauze, Akira’s eyes drifted around the room—until they landed on a corkboard above her desk.
Pinned to it were an assortment of pictures – Tae and a man that Akira couldn’t quite place, but guessed was her husband or significant other from the way the pair of them had their hands all over each other. But among those pictures was a sheet filled with complex chemical formulas, scribbled notes, and half-finished calculations.
His gaze sharpened. He recognized that formula.
"That’s an interesting project," Akira commented, nodding toward the board.
Tae glanced at it, her usual smirk fading into something more serious. “…It’s a treatment I’m working on.”
Akira gave a thoughtful hum. “Something experimental?”
She eyed him warily. “Why do you ask?”
“Because…” He chose his words carefully. “It looks like you’re trying to synthesize something that deals with severe cellular degeneration. That’s not exactly common. Means you’re either really ambitious… or you’re working against the clock.”
Tae studied him for a moment before exhaling softly. “You’re not wrong.” She walked over to the corkboard, tapping a section of the formula with her finger. “It’s for a condition so rare, most doctors don’t even know it exists. And those who do?” Her lips curled in distaste. “They’ve given up.”
Miwa-chan. Akira knew the story already. A rare and fatal condition, misdiagnosed by nearly every doctor except Tae. She had dedicated herself to finding a cure.
Akira hummed, pretending to scrutinize the formula. “Looks like you’re missing a stabilizing agent. Something to counteract the cellular degradation caused by the primary compound.”
Tae’s brows furrowed. “What?”
Akira pointed. "Right there—that part. If I remember right, something like Methylglycerin might help regulate the breakdown."
Tae stared at him.
“…Methylglycerin?” she echoed.
Akira shrugged. “I read a lot.”
Tae turned sharply, grabbing a notebook and flipping through her notes. “That… actually makes sense.” Her tone was unreadable—equal parts disbelief and intrigue. “How the hell did you figure that out?”
Akira turned his head and grinned. “Like I said. I read a lot.”
Tae narrowed her eyes but didn’t press. Instead, she turned back to the board, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "…I’ll need to test it, but if you’re right…"
A spark of something flickered in her eyes—hope.
Akira leaned back, watching her with quiet amusement.
"Just don’t forget to put me in the acknowledgments when you cure a disease," he teased.
Tae snorted. "Oh, don’t worry. If this works, I’ll make sure to name the side effects after you."
Akira chuckled. "Fair trade."
Tae shook her head with a small smirk before refocusing on her work.
And as Akira watched her, he felt something settle in his chest.
This timeline really is different.
And for once… maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.
The week before university officially begins is a whirlwind of activity for Akira. Between settling into his apartment, exploring the city, and starting his part-time job at Leblanc, he barely has time to breathe. And yet, somehow, he finds himself falling into an easy rhythm with the people around him—especially with three particular girls who seem to have found their way into his orbit.
Akira stretches his arms as he walks down a quiet street in Shibuya, carrying a few bags filled with necessities for his apartment. It’s been a productive day of exploring, and now he’s about to head back—until a familiar redhead bounds up to him, all energy and sunshine.
"Akira-senpai!" Kasumi calls, waving enthusiastically.
Akira barely has time to respond before she reaches him, slightly out of breath. "I was just finishing up practice and thought I'd stop by! Are you busy?"
He smiles, adjusting the bags in his hands. "Not at all. But shouldn’t you be resting after practice?"
Kasumi pouts playfully. "You sound like my coach." Then, with a giggle, she nudges him. "Besides, I could say the same for you. I heard from Kanji-san that you've been all over the place these past few days. Should I be worried?"
Akira chuckles. "What, about me? Nah. I’ve just been getting used to things. Besides, I think you’ve got enough to worry about with your sister, don’t you?"
Kasumi blinks, then sighs, running a hand through her ponytail. "You’re not wrong… I know Sumire’s been feeling pressured lately, and I’m doing my best to support her. But enough about that. How about I help you carry those bags?"
Akira smirks. "You sure? I wouldn’t want to slow down an elite athlete."
Kasumi laughs, stepping in to take a bag from him despite his teasing. As they walk side by side, Akira notices how bright she is—how effortlessly cheerful she makes even mundane tasks feel. And when she looks at him with admiration in her eyes, he realizes she sees him as dependable, someone she can trust.
"Thanks for letting me tag along, Senpai," she says as they reach his apartment. "I always feel like I can be myself around you."
Akira grins. "Likewise, Kasumi. Just don’t overwork yourself, okay?"
She salutes playfully before heading off, leaving Akira shaking his head with amusement.
The soft hum of the espresso machine blended with the comforting aroma of cinnamon and fresh coffee beans as evening light filtered into Leblanc through the front windows. The café had quieted down to just two customers—well, one customer and one headache-inducing enigma seated across from Akira at the counter.
Ren Akechi rested her chin in her hand, smiling lazily over the rim of her coffee cup. The steam curled around her face, catching in her soft bangs, but Akira wasn’t looking at her face anymore.
He was staring at her hands.
Delicate. Elegant. Long fingers with a natural grace to their movement, the tips of her nails shaped into a soft almond cut and painted a glossy rose-gold, adorned with tiny sparkles and heart decals. One nail had a miniature pancake design with syrup dripping down it. Pancakes.
“Oh for the love of—” Arsène groaned in the back of his mind. “Mon garçon, she’s not even talking, and you’re already halfway in love with her manicure?”
Shut up, Akira snapped mentally, eyes locked on her fingertips as she gently swirled the contents of her mug. Why are her hands so... dainty? That nail art is illegal. There should be laws.
“Would you like me to start composing your wedding vows now?” Arsène drawled. “Something something, I vow to admire your cuticles forever?”
Akira was so preoccupied with not visibly combusting that he didn’t notice Ren watching him until she tilted her head and asked, "You're quiet, Akira-kun. Something on your mind?"
He blinked rapidly and shifted his eyes back up to hers, catching the amusement in her voice and the slight smirk playing at the corners of her lips. She definitely knew he'd been staring.
"You’re not wearing your gloves today," he said, recovering smoothly. "Was starting to think you never took them off."
Ren lifted her hand, admiring her own nails with a nonchalant flick of her wrist. “Oh? Are you disappointed, or just surprised my hands don’t have knives hidden in them?”
Akira chuckled. “I wouldn’t put it past you. You do have a bit of a dangerous aura.”
Ren grinned, leaning in. “So I’ve been told.”
"That nail art though..." Akira nodded toward her fingers. "Didn’t peg you for a hearts-and-glitter type."
She wiggled her fingers proudly. "Contrary to popular belief, I am allowed to like cute things and solve murders. Multitasking is a thing."
Akira laughed, relaxing into the banter, though the mental image of her slapping handcuffs on someone with sparkling nail polish stayed stubbornly in the back of his head. It was... way too hot.
Ren took another sip of her coffee and gave him a knowing look. “You’re not what I expected either, you know. When Naoto told me about her wayward ‘otōto’ with a record, I pictured more... face tattoos and knife fights.”
"And instead you got this," Akira said with a shrug. “Tragic disappointment, I know.”
She tapped one nail against her mug thoughtfully. “Tragic? Nah. Just dangerously charismatic with a weirdly deep appreciation for fingernail aesthetics.”
Akira met her gaze with a smirk, but inside, he was still spiraling.
“You’re hopeless,” Arsène sighed. “But at least you’ve got taste.”
If Kasumi is all warmth and energy, and Ren is poised and enigmatic, then Futaba is something else entirely—a whirlwind of nerdy chaos that Akira finds oddly endearing.
His phone buzzes constantly throughout the day, filled with rapid-fire texts, memes, and the occasional existential crisis from his newest friend.
Meme Queen: u alive???
Meme Queen: u better be alive or imma haunt ur apartment
Meme Queen: oh wait i already do :P
Trickster: I’m alive. Did you want something, or are you just here to meme at me?
Meme Queen: a lil of both.
Meme Queen: also i hacked ur uni’s database. ur schedule is TRASH.
Trickster: …
Trickster: Please tell me you didn’t actually do that.
Meme Queen: define “actually.”
Akira sighs but can’t help grinning.
They haven’t met in person yet—Futaba is still in full hermit mode—but that doesn’t stop her from acting like they’ve been best friends for years. And honestly, Akira finds himself enjoying their dynamic.
One evening, after closing up shop, Sojiro sits across from Akira with a rare, thoughtful expression.
“I heard from Futaba that you two have been talking a lot,” he says, stirring his coffee. “She doesn’t open up to people easily.”
Akira shrugs. “She’s easy to talk to.”
Sojiro exhales through his nose, nodding. “I appreciate it, kid. You probably don’t know this, but she… went through a lot before I got custody of her.”
Akira stays quiet, listening.
“Futaba…” Sojiro trails off for a second, eyes darkening. “Her mother died of a ‘heart attack.’ That’s what they said, anyway.” His voice turns bitter. “I never bought it. Wakaba was healthy—sharp as a damn knife. And then one day, she just drops dead? Bullshit.”
Akira’s fingers tighten around his coffee cup. So Shido still had her assassinated… Did he make Akechi do it this time too?
“She got stuck in the system for a while before I could take her in,” Sojiro continues, sighing. “By the time I got her, she barely spoke. Took years to get her to even leave that room of hers. She’s better now, but…” He shakes his head. “She still needs good people to prove to her that it’s safe out here.”
Akira nods. “I’ll be one of them.”
Sojiro gives him a small, grateful smile. “Good.”
The quiet hum of Leblanc’s air conditioner did little to break the silence that had settled between Akira and Ren. Outside, the golden afternoon light of the day before university painted the world in warm hues, but inside, the air was heavy—unspoken tension hanging between the pair like thick smoke.
Ren sat on her usual stool at the counter, but her posture was different this time—slumped, her fingers fidgeting with the rim of her coffee cup. No teasing remarks, no sarcastic quips, no flirty smirks. Just silence and the faintest furrow in her brow.
Akira leaned casually on the counter, his eyes studying her face carefully. He knew this look—knew it far too well. It was the same haunted expression he’d seen in his own reflection once, long ago.
“Rough day?” he asked, voice low and inviting.
Ren didn’t look up. She traced a finger along the handle of her cup, then finally spoke. “Have you ever been told to do something… wrong? Like, really wrong? But you had no say in the matter?”
Akira straightened just slightly. This was it.
[Transition to Flashback]
A pristine office. Cold lighting. A man in an immaculate white suit stands behind a desk—Shido, his presence as imposing as ever. Ren stands before him, her hands clasped behind her back in disciplined formality.
“You’ll be giving the train operator on the Ginza line a mental shutdown tomorrow morning.”
Ren’s eyes widen. “That’ll cause casualties.”
Shido’s expression doesn’t shift. “I don’t care. Collateral damage is part of progress. Or are you forgetting who gave you everything you have?”
She grits her teeth, bowing her head. “Understood, sir.”
[Return to Leblanc]
“…And what did you do?” Akira asks gently, as if he already knows.
Ren doesn’t answer immediately. Her hands clench into fists on either side of her mug. “What would you do,” she says softly, “if you were asked to do something unforgivable, but refusing meant destroying everything you’d worked for? Everything you are?”
Akira regards her silently for a moment. Then, he offers a slow, warm smile. “I’d find another path. Even if the world told me it didn’t exist.”
Ren lets out a bitter breath. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not,” Akira says, shaking his head. “But sometimes, you’ve gotta trust that the darkness won’t last forever. That there's light at the end of the tunnel, even if you can’t see it yet.”
Ren finally lifts her eyes to his. There’s something raw there—conflicted. Grateful, yet still afraid.
“I’m sorry,” she says after a beat. “I just… needed to talk to someone.”
“You always can,” Akira assures her. “No judgement.”
Ren rises slowly. “Thank you… really.”
He watches her leave the café, her figure small and uncertain against the waning light outside.
Once the door shuts behind her, Akira exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
In the quiet, Arsene’s voice rises in his mind, velvet-smooth and grim.
“She’s walking a path that leads to ruin.”
Satanael’s voice follows, like thunder beneath the surface.
“Then it’s time we remind the world why we exist.”
Akira’s eyes narrow as he looks to out into the distance, where the entrance to the train station was.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, pushing away from the counter. “It’s time.”
Mementos awaits.
Beneath the city, where time hangs still and thoughts bleed into shadow, a train howls through the tunnels of the subconscious.
The moment Ren Akechi steps off the platform and into the shifting, red-lit depths of Mementos, her appearance begins to shimmer.
Her civilian clothes dissolve like smoke caught in wind, replaced by the stark, commanding lines of her Black Mask uniform. A skin-tight bodysuit clings to her figure—black and deep navy blues swirling together like oil slick over midnight. Thigh-high leather boots, polished to a mirror shine, click sharply against the stone floor with each step, their four-inch heels uncompromising and regal. Her arms are wrapped in fingerless gloves, the tips of her fingers exposed—nails now painted jet-black, glossy and sharp like obsidian.
With a cold exhale, her helmet manifests—a sleek, glossy, full-face design with no visible seams. Its surface gleams with spectral light, reflecting the flickering crimson veins of Mementos. The moment it locks into place, a subtle, high-pitched hum builds in the air, followed by a flash of motion as her weapons form into being.
In her right hand, a curved laser-edged sword, elegant but deadly. In her left, a compact blaster, pulsing with stored energy. She rolls her shoulders once, stretching, testing the weight of them both.
The transformation is complete.
The weight of the Metaverse is instantly familiar—heavy, like walking through thick fog that whispers secrets to anyone who dares to listen. She inhales slowly, letting the sensations settle. Then reaches into the pouch on her belt, retrieving a small silver tracking device. Its red light blinks in a slow rhythm, triangulating the exact position of her target.
“Floor five,” she murmurs, voice filtered through the helmet’s voice modulator. “Lower depths… near the collapsed junction.”
She straightens, her silhouette sleek and terrifying. A ghost in black, walking through the place where humanity’s filth comes to rot.
With a soft sigh of resignation, she steps forward.
But she doesn’t walk alone.
High above—unseen among the pulsing veins that snake through the Collective Unconscious—another presence watches. Cloaked in shadow, hidden within the folds of the reality that wasn't meant to be seen.
The walls pulse with an oily red glow, veins of corruption crawling across stone like rot through bone. The air is thick with the psychic residue of a hundred thousand forgotten regrets.
Ren finds her target.
A modest-looking Shadow in the shape of a worn, middle-aged man—slumped shoulders, cap pulled low over lifeless eyes, muttering quietly to himself about train schedules and station delays. Suko Gina. A name that would mean nothing to the world… until tragedy strikes. Collateral. A statement. That’s what Shido wanted.
Ren tightens her grip on her blaster, aiming at the Shadow’s bowed head. Her finger rests on the trigger, but her hand… trembles.
She hates this.
Not the danger, not the secrecy. The helplessness. The understanding that her every action is another chain in someone else's grand design.
She exhales sharply, trying to still the shaking.
Then a voice cuts through the tension. Smooth. Teasing.
“That is one kinky outfit you’ve got on there…”
Ren spins, every instinct flaring. Her blaster rises as she whirls to face the voice, the Shadow of Suko Gina forgotten in an instant.
“Who’s there?” she barks, her voice metallic and sharp through the helmet’s distortion filter.
A figure emerges from the shadows. Calm. Confident. Casually dangerous.
Black tactical pants, broken in and well-used. Red and black high-tops, laced tight, ready to run or fight. A red undershirt peeks from beneath a fitted black hoodie, the hood drawn low over a white Venetian mask, intricate in its simplicity. Beneath the mask, all she can see are those eyes—dark, sharp, unreadable.
He adjusts his red gloves—a deliberate motion, like a pianist flexing his fingers before a performance.
“You can call me a concerned citizen,” he says with infuriating calm. “Mind telling me why you’re about to shoot that poor Shadow in cold blood?”
Her blaster stays raised.
“Walk away,” she growls, “before I shoot you first.”
The figure chuckles. It’s warm. Too warm for this place.
“Now now… that’s a little cold. And you don’t exactly look like you’re in the mood for murder.”
Without missing a beat, the boy in the mask snaps his fingers.
A rush of blue flame spirals upward, materializing a grinning mascot-shaped Persona—Jack Frost, bouncing in place with a glint in its icy eyes.
Ren’s heart skips.
“Jack Frost?” she murmurs in disbelief.
“Diamond Dust,” the masked figure says.
Ren doesn’t have time to react.
The little Persona hops forward gleefully, then unleashes a blistering cone of sub-arctic wind, sharp as glass and colder than death.
It slams into her.
The helmet fractures from the temperature differential, spiderweb cracks spreading across the visor before everything turns black.
Her knees buckle. Her body hits the ground in slow motion.
As consciousness fades, her final thought is a dazed, incredulous blur—
“What the—”
Ren stirred with a groan, the cold metal beneath her cheek biting against her skin. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the eerie red glow of the Mementos entrance. She was lying on one of the stone benches, her laser sword and blaster neatly placed at her side, and a single Bead—glimmering faintly with healing energy—rested on a stone pedestal in front of her.
“Ugh... what the hell…” she muttered, pushing herself up. Her joints ached, and a dull pain throbbed at the back of her skull. She crushed the Bead between her fingers, the revitalizing energy surging through her like liquid lightning, knitting together bruised muscles and stabilizing her tremble.
Once her head cleared, she reached inward. "Freya? Marian? What the fuck happened?"
There was a flicker of mental presence, and Freya’s voice rang clear and bright, full of bemused exasperation.
“By Odin’s one eye, child, that was a thrashing worthy of a saga. One moment you’re standing tall like a Valkyrie ready to deal the death blow, and the next—BAM! Down like a frostbitten squirrel in Fimbulwinter.” She gave a disapproving hum. “That stranger—whoever the Hel-spawned bastard was—froze you solid and carried you back here. Didn’t leave so much as a hair out of place, either.”
Ren blinked. “He carried me back?”
“Like a warrior-maiden plucked from the battlefield,” Freya confirmed, with something between a scoff and a sigh. “And the strangest thing—no Shadows dared cross him. They parted like the Bifröst before Heimdall. Even I felt it—like he was one of us, and yet... far older. Wilder. Like the storm that breaks the mountains.”
“That’s impossible,” Ren said under her breath, trying to shake off the image of the masked figure and his mocking tone. “Shadows never back down. They attack on sight—relentless.”
“And yet, he walked through the deepest dark like Thor himself," Freya said grimly. "No fear. No hesitation.”
“I... I didn’t even see him summon that Jack Frost. It just… appeared.”
There was a soft rustle, like silk brushing across her consciousness, before Maid Marian’s voice emerged—elegant, composed, and disapproving.
“Indeed, m’lady. That Jack Frost was a most unnatural creature. I swear upon the Queen’s silver mirror—I have never heard tale of one possessing a spell as potent as Diamond Dust. That is a power reserved for legends, for kings and ancient spirits… and even your brother lacks such might.”
Ren went stiff. Her jaw clenched. “Shohei,” she whispered.
Her half-brother. Shido’s golden child. The enforcer. The one everyone feared. Even she, for all her skill, was beneath him in the hierarchy.
“I doubt even he could waltz through Mementos like that,” she said quietly. “And he sure as hell wouldn’t be gentle enough to carry me back to the entrance.”
“Aye, no kin of yours would’ve lifted a finger for your comfort,” Freya muttered. “They’d have left you to rot in the Void, lass. But this one... this stranger—he spared your target, tended to you, and left a Bead behind. I’d say he’s either a fool… or something far more dangerous.”
Maid Marian’s tone turned soothing. “Dear lady, mayhap this was providence. A sign that thy path need not be one of blood and guilt.”
Ren scoffed. “Tell that to Shido. He wanted a message sent. That Shadow was supposed to die.”
“Speaking of your benefactor…” Freya said, her voice tight with restrained laughter. “While you were napping like a babe, our mystery knight found your communicator and had a wee chat with your boss.”
Ren’s stomach dropped. “He what?!”
“I believe his exact words were: ‘Tell that bloated parasite to choke on his own ego. And if he sends her down here again, I’ll show him what real fear looks like.’” Freya was practically cackling now. “Oh, by the gods, the old bastard must’ve turned purple.”
Maid Marian sighed, but there was an unmistakable smile in her voice. “What gall. What impudence. What grace. I daresay I am intrigued.”
Ren buried her face in her hands and groaned. “Fuck… I am so dead.”
“Nay, girl,” Freya murmured, gentler now. “You’re alive. And someone out there just took a mighty risk to keep you that way. Question is… what are you going to do with that second chance?”
Ren exhales sharply through her nose, both horrified and a little impressed.
“Who the hell is this guy?”
She doesn’t know.
But now… she has to find out.
Akira stretched out across the futon in his small Yongen apartment, eyes tracing the cracks on the ceiling as the memories of his midnight excursion played out in his mind like a highlight reel.
The sleek figure in the bodysuit. The shock on her face. The frostbite blooming across her limbs just before unconsciousness claimed her. The way she twitched slightly when he placed her down gently near the Velvet Room gate.
He smirked to himself. Yeah... that went well.
Of course, none of it would’ve been possible without his little detour beforehand.
The Velvet Room had been bathed in deeper blue than usual when he stepped through the door. Lavenza was waiting for him, arms behind her back, eyes sparkling with mischief like a cat who’d just cornered a canary.
"I have something for you, Trickster," she said, almost sing-song. “A gift—one-time use only, mind you, but potent enough to make an impression.”
She produced a card from behind her back. It shimmered in her hand, and when she flicked her fingers, it exploded into icy motes of power. The next moment, a fully-formed Jack Frost materialized before Akira, eyes gleaming and cap bouncing with excitement.
But this wasn’t just any Jack Frost.
Level 99. Almighty resistance. Severe ice damage skills. Absurd stats.
"A little something to help you… shake the pieces on the board,” Lavenza added with a sly smile. “Now go do what you do best—mess with everyone’s head.”
Akira had given her a lazy salute before stepping back into Mementos with a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. That grin widened now as he lay in bed, recalling how well the message had been received—if Ren’s stunned expression was anything to go by.
"Mess with everyone's head, huh..." he thought.
"Well, you're certainly doing that, mon garçon," came Arsene’s familiar, smooth purr, echoing through the edges of Akira’s consciousness. "You’re corrupting sweet little girls and making high-level Shadows shiver in their boots. Très bien. Your reputation as a menace is intact."
“Careful,” Akira murmured, voice laced with amusement, “you almost sound impressed.”
“I am impressed. You took one look at the girl, waited until she was about to make the worst decision of her life, and then made her question everything she knows about Personas in one move.” Arsene snickered. “You’re a menace to young women everywhere.”
Akira rolled over, burying half his face in the pillow. “I was just trying to stop a massacre.”
“And look suave doing it,” Satanael’s deep voice chimed in, his tone rich with amusement. “Don’t think we missed how you gave her that smooth little ‘concerned citizen’ line.”
“Oh yes,” Arsene added. “‘Mind telling me why you plan to shoot that poor Shadow?’ Please. You might as well have handed her your number and a rose.”
Akira groaned, dragging the pillow over his face. “I swear to god…”
Then his voice dropped a note. "Still... I must say. That costume of hers? Hoo. You sure know how to find the dramatic ones. Leather. Heels. Full-face helmet. I’d almost say she outdid you, Trickster."
Akira made a non-committal grunt, eyes closed, one arm slung over his face.
“She looked fine,” he muttered.
"‘Fine’? Oho, mon dieu, he's blushing," Arsene gasped dramatically. "You almost died of blood loss when she showed you her bare hands and cutesy nails the other day. And now you’ve seen her all geared up in tactical couture and you’re still trying to play it cool?"
“Sleep. I am going to sleep,” Akira grumbled, flipping to his side and burying half his face into the pillow.
Satanael's deep voice rumbled from the depths of his mind, dark amusement coloring his tone. “You’ll dream of her, you know. The mysterious assassin with soft hands and black nail polish. How poetic. Perhaps you’ll write her a sonnet.”
Akira grunted again, hiding the unmistakable flush burning at his ears.
"You're all so helpful."
"Tomorrow, Trickster,” Arsene said, quieter now but no less smug. "That’s when the game begins in earnest. Be ready."
The words lingered in the air, sharp and heavy with implication.
Akira let the silence settle after that. He could feel it—the tension coiling in the world, the anticipation building in Mementos, the threads of fate beginning to twitch.
Everything was about to start again.
Only this time... the pieces weren’t quite the same.
There’s a strange buzz in the air when Akira wakes up the next morning.
Not the hum of electricity. Not even the chirp of city birds. No—this is something deeper. Something primordial. Like the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for the next piece to move.
Even his Personas are quiet.
Too quiet.
Arsene, Satanael—normally at least one of them would greet him with some sarcastic remark or dramatic commentary. But today, he only feels their weight, their presence tucked away in the deepest corners of his mind, silent and watching.
Unnerving.
He gets dressed in a fog of thought, tying his sneakers with practiced ease. His first day of university again… second time around. The weight of déjà vu hangs thick on his shoulders as he steps into the morning bustle.
The train ride is uneventful—except for how tense everything feels. People are chattering, scrolling through phones, laughing, yet Akira feels like he’s wading through water. Slow. Distorted. Like reality itself is off somehow.
And then—
The sky splits open.
Rain crashes down like someone up above hit the unmute button on a divine thundercloud. People cry out, umbrellas fly open like blooming flowers, and Akira is left standing dumbfounded in the middle of the station exit.
“My second run and I get caught without an umbrella again…” he mutters, darting beneath the nearest shop awning. Water trickles down his hoodie, his bangs soaked and clinging to his forehead. He shivers slightly, peering out into the chaos of people scattering for shelter.
And then—
He remembers.
A memory half-forgotten but etched into the folds of time. The rain. The delay. Her.
He glances sideways—and time comes to a screeching halt.
She’s standing beside him. Hood lowered. Platinum-blonde hair in two immaculate Dutch braids, now damp and glistening from the rain. Her skin glows even under the gray sky, flawless and porcelain-smooth.
And her outfit—
Akira’s brain bluescreens.
A tiny pleated skirt that barely covers anything, and a scandalously low-cut red top that’s desperately losing a war against the generous swell of her DD chest. Scarlet stilettos—stilettos in this weather—add at least five inches to her already impressive height. Rain clings to her like glittering diamonds.
Then she turns to him, slow and deliberate, like a scene from a high-budget commercial. Sapphire-blue eyes framed by thick lashes. Glossy, candy-pink lips that curve upward into a flirty, knowing grin.
“That’s some downpour, huh?” she chirps, voice sweet like honey with a mischievous lilt as she pulls out a hankerchief that she starts drying her criminally long legs with.
Akira opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
“Uh-huh.”
Internally, he’s screaming. That’s Ann. That’s freaking Ann Takamaki. But not like the Ann he remembers. This Ann is turned up to eleven—confident, flirty, dressed like she forgot pants were a thing.
"Your brain just short-circuited," Arsene finally mutters, breaking the silence from deep within Akira's psyche. "You’re really going to stare at her like a slack-jawed idiot?"
Satanael chuckles from somewhere even deeper. "This is what you get for pretending to be emotionally stable. The universe delivers karma… in stilettos."
Akira swallows hard, steeling himself, trying to not stare directly at her cleavage. “Yeah,” he finally manages. “Crazy weather.”
Ann smiles wider, amused. “You're soaked,” she says, and without asking, starts dabbing Akira’s face with the handkerchief she had just been wiping her legs with. “No sense in catching a cold before the first lecture.”
It smells like cherry blossoms and something warm and sweet—vanilla maybe?
She steps closer, now only a breath away, the rain painting the world around them in grayscale while she remains in color.
"Well," she grins, teasing, "aren’t you going to offer a name, handsome?”
Akira’s lips twitch into a smirk.
“Akira. Akira Amamiya.”
Ann hums. “Ann. Ann Takamaki. Nice to meet you... Akira.”
The way she says his name?
Trouble.
And Akira—cold, wet, and slightly dazed—can only think one thing.
I am so not ready for this timeline.
The rain drums a steady rhythm against the awning, softening the roar of the city to a muffled hum. Ann stands there, arms folded beneath her chest, trying to look casual. But her eyes keep drifting sideways—toward him.
Akira.
She doesn't know him. Hasn't seen him around before. But there’s something about him that draws her gaze like a magnet. That messy black hair plastered to his forehead, those sharp grey eyes watching her like she’s not just hot—but real. Like she’s a person worth seeing. It makes her cheeks warm in a way that has nothing to do with the weather.
She's used to being stared at. She’s gorgeous and she knows it—tall, busty, legs for days. She gets catcalled daily, has been propositioned more times than she can count, and has mastered the thousand-yard dead-eyed stare of “I will end you” in five languages.
But the way he looked at her?
Not lewd. Not desperate. Not like she was something to have.
It made her feel…
Safe.
Wanted, not for how she looked—but for something more.
She shakes her head slightly, biting the inside of her cheek. Get it together, Ann. You don’t even know him properly. You’re just cold, soaked, and maybe a little sleep-deprived.
Still… when he’d smirked and said his name—Akira Amamiya—it had sent a ripple through her. Like her body recognized something her mind didn’t.
Her fingers toy with a damp braid, eyes flickering back out into the street.
And then, her mood shifts.
Her smile fades. Her arms tighten slightly around herself.
‘He’ is going to be driving past soon.
She glances at the time on her phone and grimaces. Right on schedule. She never meant for this to become a routine, but somehow it has. She always ends up here around this time. Always near this spot. Always hoping that today, he won’t notice her.
Rain might help. Heavy enough to blur the windows. Maybe he won’t look this way.
Maybe he won’t roll that damn window down and say something that makes her feel—
Ugly.
Not physically. No—he’d never insult her looks. Just the opposite, in fact.
But his words? The things he says? The way his voice crawls under her skin and makes her feel small and dirty?
She shivers.
Not from the cold.
She hates how he makes her feel like a doll. Like something expensive he already bought and shelved, and now just checks on to make sure no one else is playing with it.
Kamoshida-sensei.
Her fists clench at her sides.
She’s sick of pretending not to notice the looks. The suggestive “jokes” in private meetings. The texts.
And the worst part?
No one would believe her. Not the faculty. Not the other students. The creep is “respected.” Connected. A Legend.
Ann stares out at the road, heart thudding.
Beside her, Akira says something—but she barely hears him.
She just hopes this time… the rain does what it’s supposed to do.
Hide her.
Rainwater still clings to the awning above, dripping in steady plinks as Akira stands frozen, his storm-grey eyes fixed on Ann.
He can feel it—beneath her bright expression, her flirty smile, there’s tension. A silent scream behind those sapphire-blue eyes. And he knows why.
It’s him. Still him.
Kamoshida.
“Seems like this part is the same…” Akira thinks grimly, heart thudding. “What do I do? Can I stop her? Should I?”
The memories from his first run flash in rapid succession—Ann’s hollow gaze, her stilted laugh, the crack in her voice when she said she was “fine.” Shiho’s broken form on the pavement.
No.
He clenches a fist at his side.
Not this time.
The rain begins to ease, thinning into a gentle drizzle. That’s when it happens. Right on cue.
A sleek white Mercedes turns the corner and glides to a stop directly in front of the shop. Its headlights flicker against the pavement, and Akira feels his stomach twist as the passenger window glides down with a mechanical hum.
And there he is.
Suguru Kamoshida.
Lantern-jawed, unnaturally bushy hair, smile just a little too wide. A predator in a car-shaped cage.
“Well now,” Kamoshida calls out, voice smooth and oily. “Need a lift, Ann-chan? The rain’s pretty bad. We wouldn’t want you to get… wet.”
His chuckle makes Akira’s skin crawl.
Ann’s body goes taut, her hand brushing instinctively against her arm as if warding off an unseen touch.
Akira’s eyes narrow.
Before he knows it, the words are flying from his mouth:
“Hey creep… where do you get off catcalling women?” His voice is low, cold. “Drive on.”
Kamoshida’s eyes shift to him. Narrow slightly.
Ann’s head snaps toward Akira, shocked.
Akira doesn’t care. Rage coils hot in his chest. “Seriously, what kind of sick bastard cruises around hitting on students like he’s some budget Bond villain?”
There’s a beat of silence.
And then—
Ann… laughs.
Soft, surprised, then brighter—tinged with something Akira can’t place. Gratitude? Nerves?
She gently touches his arm. “Akira-kun, it’s fine.” Her voice is placating, gentle. “That man is a professor at Shujin. Actually, he’s the Head of the Sports Department—Suguru Kamoshida.”
Kamoshida’s leer returns as his gaze locks on Akira.
“I see,” he says smoothly. “Don’t worry. I understand—he was just trying to protect you. How very chivalrous.” The way he says it makes Akira’s jaw tighten.
Ann, still smiling with her mouth but not her eyes, turns back to the car. “Apologies, Sensei. He’s a new transfer. He didn’t know who you are.”
Kamoshida waves it off like he’s being gracious, magnanimous. “Of course, of course. Well, Ann-chan, shall we?”
Her voice is syrupy, false. “Sure, thanks, Sensei.”
Akira doesn’t move. He watches as Ann walks over and opens the car door.
Just as she slides into the passenger seat, Kamoshida leans over her, eyes flicking to Akira once more.
“What about you, Akira-kun?” he asks, the way he says his name making Akira feel like he’s being appraised. “Need a lift?”
Akira’s smile is tight, voice dry. “Thank you, but no thank you, Sensei. I think I’ll walk.”
Kamoshida hums in mock approval. “Suit yourself.”
The Mercedes purrs away, tires splashing through shallow puddles.
Akira watches the taillights until they disappear, counting quietly under his breath.
“…Five… four… three…”
“Screw that pervy teacher.”
The voice behind him comes right on cue. But… it’s not what Akira was expecting.
It’s sharp, rough, fierce. Female.
Akira stiffens.
“…Ah, hell no,” he mutters as he turns, heart thudding, already suspecting who he’s about to find.
The girl standing before Akira is a storm wrapped in skin and denim. She’s about 5’5", all wiry strength and coiled energy—like a runner who could also go ten rounds in a street fight without breaking a sweat. Her bottle-blonde hair is tied in a messy ponytail, but her darker roots show, giving away that she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Her multiple ear piercings glint in the fading rainlight, and her sharp chocolate-brown eyes narrow at Akira with a mix of suspicion and fire.
And those eyes… those are the eyes of someone who’s seen too much for someone her age.
Akira’s halfway between stunned and intrigued, blinking as he studies her, rain still dripping from his bangs.
The girl doesn’t like being stared at. Her gaze sharpens.
“What you looking at, asshole?” she snaps. “You gonna run to Kamo-shit-a and tell him I said something mean?”
Akira raises both hands in a peace offering. “Easy. I’m not his fan club president.” His voice is calm, casual—but there's weight behind it. “Why would I report you?”
That seems to throw her a little, but she crosses her arms, still bristling.
“But also,” Akira continues, “what did you mean by pervy teacher?”
He steps forward slightly, his brows drawn in concern now. “Are you saying I just let Ann get in the car with a predator? She told me he was safe. Goddammit… I knew I should’ve argued harder.”
The girl stares at him like he’s just grown a second head. Her stance shifts from defensive to confused.
“Wait… you believe me?” she says, blinking. “Like, actually believe me? Just like that?”
Akira’s eyes meet hers, clear and unwavering. “Why wouldn’t I? The guy gave me the creeps the second he rolled down his window. But I still let her go with him.”
He runs a hand through his damp hair, clearly frustrated with himself. “I let my guard down because she smiled and told me everything was fine.”
The girl snorts. “Yeah. Ann’s good at that. Acting like everything’s peachy even when she’s drowning inside.” Her voice softens just a touch, like regret bleeding through her tough exterior. “I should’ve been there to walk her, but I slept through my damn alarm.”
She glances toward the street where the Mercedes disappeared. Her voice turns bitter.
“Relax. He won’t try anything on her… not today, anyway. Not while it’s still public enough for people to notice. At worst, he’ll try to feel her up or make some gross-ass comments about her body.” Her mouth twists into a scowl. “Y’know. The usual.”
Akira exhales, eyes narrowing.
“The usual.”
That phrase makes his blood simmer.
He studies the girl for a long beat before speaking again. “You talk like you’ve seen it happen before.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. But her hands clench into fists.
“Name’s Ryuemi,” she says, suddenly, sticking her chin out like a dare. “Sakamoto.”
Ryuji’s a girl too now?! What the hell is happening with this timeline?
But his smile returns, crooked and curious. “I’m Akira. New transfer.”
Ryuemi studies him for a beat longer, then her posture relaxes slightly. Just a bit.
“Well, Akira,” she says, her voice losing a little of its edge, “looks like you’re not completely blind. That’s a start.” She starts to walk off, then pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. “You coming, or you planning to stand in the rain all day?”
Akira smirks as he follows, Arsene’s voice drifting dryly through his mind.
“Mmm. A firebrand, that one. I think I like her.”
Akira doesn’t answer—just shoves his hands into his pockets and steps into the storm.
The school building shimmered oddly as Akira stepped through the main gates beside Ryuemi. He paused mid-stride, brow furrowing as a strange ripple crawled across the air—like heat haze bending reality itself.
“Did you see that?” he muttered.
Ryuemi, who’d been complaining under her breath about Kamoshida’s smug grin in class, stopped too. “See what?”
The second she turned her head, the world lurched.
The concrete under their feet dissolved into shifting stone. The air grew damp, heavy, and cold with mildew. The sky above flickered and collapsed into a thick red mist, and the once-bustling school courtyard was gone—replaced by crumbling brick walls and looming towers wrapped in black iron. Gargoyles perched above, their eyes glowing faintly, watching. Waiting.
Akira blinked hard, his instincts screaming. “This… isn’t normal.”
“You think?” Ryuemi said, her voice tense. “Where the hell are we?!”
He barely had time to reply before heavy footsteps pounded the stone. Two guards in twisted, black-and-gold armor emerged from the shadows. Their helmets were grotesque caricatures of medieval visors, and their red eyes gleamed through the slits.
They didn't speak. One reached for Ryuemi, the other for Akira.
Reflex kicked in. Akira dodged left, but a plated fist caught him in the gut and slammed him against the wall. Pain shot through his ribs as metal shackles clamped around his wrists.
Ryuemi cursed and kicked wildly, even managing to knee her guard in the groin. “Get your damn hands off me, you budget cosplay rejects!”
Her fight was fierce, but brief. A baton crackled with electricity before slamming into her side. She collapsed with a grunt, twitching, her glare burning even as her limbs failed her.
Then: darkness.
Akira woke to the wet smell of rot and old blood. Chains clinked faintly in the shadows.
Stone walls. Rusted bars. Flickering torches mounted on damp, moss-covered brick. He was in a dungeon. A real, honest-to-god dungeon.
His arms were bound above his head, shackled to the wall. His jacket was torn, and blood crusted at the edge of his lip. He turned his head slowly.
Ryuemi was chained up on the other side of the cell, breathing heavily, a long red welt across her cheek. She looked like she’d come to just a few minutes before him.
“Ugh… you good?” she croaked.
Akira winced as he shifted. “Define ‘good.’”
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Guess that’s a no.”
From down the corridor, they could hear low laughter echoing off the stone—arrogant and familiar.
A door creaked open somewhere deeper in the dungeon, followed by the heavy thud of boots. Then a voice like oil and sleaze spilled into the air.
“Well, well… what do we have here?”
Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor—measured and confident, like a man approaching his throne.
Ryuemi tensed, her breathing uneven. Akira felt it too. A pressure building in the air. Something wrong.
And then he appeared.
Shadow Kamoshida stepped into view, illuminated by the flickering torchlight. He was bare-chested beneath a regal red-and-gold cape, the hem dragging along the filthy dungeon floor. His only other article of clothing was a pair of obscenely tight Speedos, pink and glittering, barely leaving anything to the imagination. A golden crown, too large for his head, sat tilted atop his mop of greasy hair.
He looked like a parody of royalty—a diseased king ruling over a kingdom of decay and depravity.
“Well, well, well…” he drawled, voice thick with mockery. “If it isn’t the little Track Slut herself.”
Akira’s gaze snapped to Ryuemi, who had gone rigid. Her face went pale, her eyes wide.
Kamoshida grinned wider, stepping closer to the bars. “Still got that fire in your eyes, huh? You know, it would’ve been so much easier if you’d just ‘played nice.’ But no, you had to act like you were better than me. Like you were off limits.” His voice dropped, venomous. “So I fixed that.”
He leaned in against the bars, licking his lips. “One little rumor. That’s all it took. One whisper about how you were offering yourself to the upperclassmen for better placement. The way they bought it? Like wolves on fresh meat.”
Akira clenched his jaw, chains rattling as his muscles tensed.
Kamoshida’s eyes shifted to him then—cruel and curious. “And who are you, huh? Some bug that crawled out of the gutter trying to protect my plaything? You think that gets you a medal?” His smile twisted into something crueler. “No. That gets you a collar.”
Ryuemi’s breath hitched.
Her fists, once clenched, slowly unraveled.
The venom in Kamoshida’s words sank deeper than a blade, slithering under her skin, cracking the armor she’d spent years building.
“You... bastard...” she whispered, but her voice trembled. Her legs gave out beneath her, chains the only thing keeping her upright as her face crumpled, and tears welled up in her eyes. “You ruined everything…”
Kamoshida looked pleased.
Triumphant.
“Of course I did. Because you’re mine. And in my castle, everything goes the way I say it does.”
Akira’s vision swam with red. Something ancient and seething stirred in the deepest parts of his mind—rage blooming like fire. Not just for himself. But for her. For what had been done to her. For the monster smirking in front of them.
The room pulsed.
Something inside him was about to break.
Or awaken.
The dungeon went deathly silent, save for Ryuemi’s choked sobs.
Akira stared at her. Her head was bowed, shoulders shaking. Kamoshida’s sneering laugh echoed off the stone walls, each sound a slap to the face.
That thing—no, that monster—had taken joy in her pain. Had caused that pain.
Akira’s fists curled tighter in their chains. His entire body trembled, not from fear—but from fury.
“You think this is your world,” Akira said, his voice low and cold. “That you can hurt people… twist them… and no one will stop you.”
Kamoshida raised an eyebrow, amused. “Hurt them? Please. I give them a place to belong. That girl begged me for attention. You're the one trying to play the knight in shining armor. Makes me sick.”
Akira lifted his head. His storm-grey eyes burned—not with hatred, but with unshakable resolve.
“No,” he said, fire creeping into his voice. “You don’t get to say your piece.”
The air grew hot.
“You’re a predator in a crown made of lies. But here’s the thing…”
Chains snapped from Akira’s wrists with a metallic crack.
“…your rule ends now.”
The ground beneath him began to pulse with crimson light.
Kamoshida blinked. “What the hell—”
WHOOMPH.
Flames exploded around Akira, wreathing his entire body in a vortex of seething rebellion. It wasn’t fire in the traditional sense—this blaze carried weight. It howled. Like a storm given form.
Ryuemi looked up, eyes wide with awe and confusion. “What…?”
The fire twisted higher—until a second figure stepped out of the inferno, looming like a shadow made real.
A tall, elegant demon in a long sweeping coat of tattered feathers. Gleaming yellow eyes in a face of obsidian black and an impossibly wide grin beneath a rakish top hat.
“Ahh, Trickster…” Arsene purred, appearing at Akira’s side, voice silken and full of wicked delight. “Seems like it’s time for us to take down a king.”
Akira stepped forward.
The flames fell away from him, revealing his new form—his true self.
He now stood tall in sleek black tactical gear, the red-lined hood of his coat fluttering from the aftershock of his awakening. Scarlet gloves gripped a pair of gleaming steel tonfas, forged from shimmering Metaverse energy. His face was obscured behind a sharp white Venetian mask—its edges curved like a smirk, hiding the fury in his eyes.
Kamoshida staggered back.
“What the hell are you—?!”
“I am the rebel who breaks your throne,” Akira snarled, spinning one tonfa in his grip with deadly precision. “I am Joker.”
He stood tall beside Arsene, both of them exuding menace like twin shadows of justice.
“And you,” Akira finished, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous, “are overdue for a lesson in pain.”
Ryuemi, still on her knees, watched the transformation with her mouth slightly open. “...Holy shit.”
Arsene let out a low, wicked laugh. “Shall we, partner?”
Akira grinned beneath his mask as the guards around him transform into Jack O’Lanterns and Mandrakes.
“Arsene… Pillage”
The iron bars of the cell rattled, glowing red as the guards within began to convulse, their forms shimmering like static.
A grotesque crack and pop of reality sounded—and where once stood ordinary jailers now hovered twisted Shadows: two Jack O' Lanterns, their pumpkin heads ablaze with flickering green fire, and three Mandrakes, their twisted roots writhing like tentacles, eyes glowing an eerie yellow.
Akira rolled his neck, steel tonfas twirling lazily in his gloved hands.
“Well,” he muttered, stepping forward with a casual gait. “This should be fun.”
Arsene hovered just above the ground beside him, wings stretching wide like a shadow against firelight. “Remember when Shadows used to scare you?”
“Yeah,” Akira smirked. “Now they’re just cardio.”
The first Jack O' Lantern screeched and hurled an Agi straight at Akira—who sidestepped it without blinking. In the same motion, he spun his tonfas outward and slammed them into the Mandrake charging him, sending it crashing into the stone wall with a sickening crunch.
“Talk about having no brains,” he quipped.
The other Jack O' Lantern cackled and launched another fireball—but Arsene appeared in front of it with a whip-crack of his coat, catching the flame in his clawed hand and snuffing it out like a birthday candle.
“Poor creatures,” the Phantom drawled. “They dance into battle like rats to the slaughter.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Akira muttered, vaulting over another Mandrake and driving both tonfas down in a brutal X-strike, splattering it into a mass of gooey shadow.
Arsene grinned. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
One Jack O' Lantern tried to flee—only for Arsene to sweep his arm forward.
“Eigaon.”
A plume of shadowy energy surged from his hand, exploding the Shadow mid-flight.
The last Mandrake screamed and lunged at Akira’s blind spot—only for the Trickster to whirl and deliver a brutal roundhouse kick, cracking the creature like brittle wood.
Silence fell.
Only Shadow Kamoshida remained, gaping like a fish, sweat beading on his flushed face.
Akira turned to him slowly, tonfas twirling with a smooth snap. “Oh no, don’t mind us. We’re just getting warmed up.”
Kamoshida stumbled back, his red cape flapping. “Y-You little SHITS!” he roared. “GUARDS! MORE GUARDS! KILL THEM!”
From every hallway, staircase, and hidden alcove, Shadows began pouring in—Slimes, Pixies, Incubi, and even a hulking Oni. Dozens, maybe hundreds, shrieking and howling as they surged toward Akira and Arsene.
Akira blew out a low whistle. “Huh. That’s new.”
Arsene cracked his knuckles. “A banquet of fools. Shall we dance?”
Akira grinned, then launched himself forward.
What followed was mayhem.
Akira moved like a blur, striking with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a machine. His tonfas cracked skulls, shattered limbs, and sent Shadows reeling. Arsene moved like death’s waltz—Eigaon and Tempest Slash strikes carving through enemies with unholy elegance.
“Behind you,” Arsene warned.
Akira ducked, letting a Pixie sail over him, then kicked her out of the air like a soccer ball. “Nice catch.”
“Don’t let your head get too big, Trickster,” Arsene smirked. “It’s still early.”
One Shadow tried to cast Zio—only for Akira to slide under the spell and ram both tonfas into its chest.
“Zapped ya.”
The duo tore through the mass like gods of war. In less than three minutes, the once-crowded dungeon floor was strewn with flickering remnants of defeated Shadows, dissolving into sludge.
Kamoshida backed away, eyes wide with absolute panic.
“Y-You... You’re just a kid! How are you doing this?!”
Akira turned to him, mask glowing slightly in the dim light.
“I’m not just a kid,” he said coolly, tonfas resting on his shoulders. “I’m your worst nightmare.”
He stepped forward, and Arsene loomed tall behind him, shadows curling at their feet.
Kamoshida took one last trembling step back—before bolting deeper into the castle, screaming like a terrified animal.
“RUN! GUARDS! I NEED BACKUP!”
Akira sighed. “Typical. Always has someone else do the dirty work.”
“Shall we chase him?” Arsene asked, voice dripping with anticipation.
Akira tilted his head toward Ryuemi, who was staring at him like he’d grown wings.
“In a minute,” he said softly. “I think we’ve got someone to check on first.”
Ryuemi was still on the cold, grimy stone floor of the cell, knees pulled to her chest, breath shaky and uneven. The echo of shattering Shadows still reverberated through her skull like distant thunder. The air itself felt different now—less suffocating—but her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
She looked up, wide-eyed.
Akira stood at the center of the carnage, mask gleaming white against the flickering firelight. His black-and-red tactical gear clung to him like a second skin, tonfas resting casually in his hands as if he hadn’t just torn through an army of monsters like it was nothing. And behind him, fading like smoke, was that… thing.
“What the hell was that?” Ryuemi managed, voice raw. “What the hell are you?”
Akira turned to her slowly as he lifted his mask. No smile. Just that calm, quiet gaze. Unshakable. So grounded, like he was the one real thing in this whole twisted nightmare.
“I’ll explain everything,” he said softly, stepping over the fading remains of a Mandrake. “Just… not here. Let’s get out of this freakshow first.”
But the phantom behind him let out a low, melodramatic sigh.
“Mon dieu, you cannot be serious,” Arsene drawled, arms crossed with exaggerated flair. “You’re letting that greasy slug in a cape crawl away after his coward’s tantrum? Trickster, we could run him through and be sipping wine by sunset!”
Ryuemi flinched, but couldn’t look away.
Akira exhaled like this was normal. “We follow the rules. Even here. It's not time yet.”
Arsene threw his arms wide in theatrical exasperation. “Ah, toujours le gentleman. Ever the noble thief with a code. You wound me.” He gave Akira a sideways glance, eyes gleaming with mischief. “But very well. I shall defer… for now.”
Then he turned his full attention to Ryuemi and gave a low, sweeping bow, one gloved hand pressed dramatically to his chest.
“Mademoiselle,” he purred, voice smooth as red velvet. “Please forgive the fright. It pains me to make such an entrance and then vanish so soon. I do hope our next meeting is… less dramatic and far more pleasant.”
And with that, Arsene tipped his hat once more, gave her a wink that could melt an iceberg, and faded into mist.
Ryuemi stared, slack-jawed.
Akira offered her a hand, his expression calm again. “You okay?”
She blinked. “You have a demon with a top hat flirting with me and asking to kill someone, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”
“…Yeah,” he replied with a slight smirk. “That tracks.”
Despite herself, she let out a weak laugh and took his hand. His grip was warm and steady as he helped her to her feet.
“I have so many questions,” she muttered, brushing soot and grit off her skirt. “Starting with what the actual fuck is going on?”
Akira nodded. “I’ll answer them. All of them.”
He paused, lips twitching into a smile.
“Once we’re out of the demon sex dungeon.”
Ryuemi blinked again… then barked out a surprised laugh, part relief, part hysteria.
“…Yeah. Okay. Let’s go.”
Together, they stepped out of the cell, the flickering torchlight casting twin shadows as they walked side by side.
The air was thick with moisture, the scent of moss, blood, and mildew clinging to every breath. Water dripped rhythmically from cracks in the stone ceiling as Akira and Ryuemi jogged through the passageways, footsteps echoing off the cold dungeon walls.
Thankfully, the Shadows seemed to have retreated—or perhaps fled—from the earlier battle. For now, at least, it was just the two of them.
Akira allowed the Phantom Thief attire to burn away in a ripple of blue flame, the hoodie and jeans he’d arrived in reforming over his body like it was the most natural thing in the world. He stretched his arms with a soft grunt and glanced over at Ryuemi, who was eyeing him warily… but not fearfully.
“Okay,” she finally said, breath still a little short from the adrenaline high, “now that we’re not about to get murdered by weird screaming vegetables… what are you, exactly?”
Akira gave her a lopsided smile, running a hand through his now-damp bangs. “Just a guy with a gift for getting into trouble.”
Ryuemi arched a brow. “That doesn’t explain the fire, the demon with the fashion sense of a Victorian vampire, or the martial arts beatdown you handed out.”
Akira replied with a soft huff. “This place… it’s not the real world. It’s a place built from someone’s distorted desires—a Palace. People like Kamoshida can have their cognition manifest in ways that warp reality here.”
“Cognition?” she echoed, ducking slightly as a rusted chain swung lazily from the ceiling.
“Yeah. It’s like… how they see the world. The more twisted their heart is, the more warped their Palace becomes. Shadows like the ones you saw are beings of the subconcious that are drawn to strong emotions, usually negative or distorted ones. And Personas are—”
“Let me guess: the cool demon in the top hat who made kissy-eyes at me?”
Akira gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah, that’s Arsene. He’s one of mine. A Persona. They’re manifestations of will—rebellion. Sort of like inner strength, made real.”
Ryuemi shook her head slowly. “This is insane.”
“Yup.”
“And I’m just supposed to roll with it?”
“Would you believe me if I said it gets weirder?”
“…You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to punch you right now.”
Akira chuckled again, genuinely this time, and gestured ahead. “Drawbridge is up. There’s usually a lever hidden somewhere—”
“I’m on it,” Ryuemi said, already skimming her hands along the wall, eyes sharp despite the bruises and grime.
Akira stepped toward the concealed switch he remembered from last time—but just as his fingers brushed against the stone, a voice broke the stillness.
“Hey… HEY! You two! Blondie! Frizzy hair! Get me outta here—quick!”
Akira froze. His blood ran cold.
Ryuemi blinked, confused. “Who the hell—?”
They turned around to face the row of iron-barred cells.
Behind one of them, barely lit by torchlight, a small, sharp-eyed figure was glaring at them through the bars.
Akira stared, at loss for words. In the back of his mind, Arsene let out a wheezing laugh. “Oh là là... again, mon garçon? Truly, you attract chaos like a flame calls the moth.”
Satanael joined in with a deep, thunderous chuckle. “You’d think you’d stop being surprised by now. You of all people should know—fate has a flair for the dramatic.”
Akira groaned internally, dragging a hand down his face.
“What even is this timeline…”
Chapter 5: Let The Games Begin - Part 2
Summary:
Chapter was getting a bit too long, so I decided to break it up for easier reading. Let's see what's got Akira in a tizzy this time.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Akira stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide, mind reeling.
This wasn’t Morgana.
Or at least—it wasn’t his Morgana.
No talking cat. No chubby cheeks, cartoon eyes, or that squeaky bravado he remembered.
This Morgana was… a woman. And a very confident-looking one at that.
She stood at about five feet tall, with a lithe, athletic build that was hugged tightly by a black catsuit—complete with sleek gloves, combat-ready boots, and subtle golden threading that gleamed faintly in the torchlight. A yellow sash was tied snugly around her waist, its ends trailing behind her like a pair of fluttering tails. Over her face was a stylized cat-like mask—jet black with feline ears that arched upward like the points of a crown.
She was tapping one foot impatiently, arms crossed. “Well? You gonna let me outta here or just keep standing there gawking?”
Akira opened his mouth, then shut it again.
What the hell…?
Ryuemi, for her part, was the first to recover.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Who the hell are you, and how’d you get locked up in perv-King’s dungeon?”
The woman smirked beneath her mask, stepping forward and gripping the bars. “Name’s Vent. I was doing some recon in this hellhole when a bunch of freaky guards jumped me. Wasn’t exactly a fair fight. I take it you two aren’t from around here either?”
Still staring, Akira finally found his voice. “...Mona?”
The woman’s ears perked under the mask. “Huh? What’d you call me?”
“Nothing,” Akira muttered quickly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His entire mental framework was doing somersaults. She’s Morgana. But not my Morgana.
Ryuemi stepped forward, unbothered by Akira’s internal breakdown. “Okay, Vent. Got any reason we should let you out?”
Vent tilted her head. “Other than the fact I’m clearly in need of assistance and you’d be morally bankrupt if you didn’t? Not really.”
Ryuemi rolled her eyes but smirked. “Fair enough.”
A few clicks later, the cell door swung open. Vent stepped out gracefully and, without waiting for an invitation, sauntered past them toward a nearby relief sculpture carved into the wall—a grotesque depiction of Kamoshida’s smirking face.
Her gloved fingers reached up and tugged on the statue’s jaw. It shifted with a mechanical clunk, and ahead of them, the drawbridge groaned loudly as it extended across the moat below. Vent turned and placed her hands on her hips. “You guys coming, or are we setting up camp here?”
Akira watched her in stunned silence.
“…This timeline is gonna kill me,” he muttered under his breath.
Arsene chuckled, “You say that like it’s not going to be glorious, mon ami.”
The drawbridge creaked beneath their feet as Akira, Ryuemi, and Vent made their way across the chasm. The yawning drop below was hidden by the mists of the cognitive realm, but even without looking, it was easy to tell that falling would be very, very bad.
Akira walked with a slight lag in his step, eyes occasionally flicking toward the sleek figure ahead of them.
He was still trying to process the fact that Morgana—his feline pain-in-the-ass companion from his first go-around—was now a short, acrobatic woman in a catsuit and a mask who introduced herself as Vent.
Next to him, Ryuemi kept sneaking glances between the two. After a moment, she leaned in and whispered, “Hey... is she like you? Does she have one of those Persona things too?”
Akira gave a helpless shrug. “Probably… It’s either that, or she has a dream of being the next Catwoman.”
Ryuemi let out a surprised guffaw, a hand going to her mouth as she tried to stifle the sound.
That drew a sharp look from Vent, who whirled around, one gloved finger pressed to her lips. “Keep it down, will you? I won’t be able to—”
She froze mid-sentence, sharp eyes narrowing at something ahead.
Two heavily armored guards were marching down the far end of the bridge, halberds raised and shields gleaming with the golden crest of Shadow Kamoshida.
“Tsk, we’ve been spotted…” Vent muttered.
Without waiting for permission or backup, she took a step forward, her voice low and commanding.
“Stay back, you two.”
“Wait—” Ryuemi started, but Vent was already in motion.
With fluid grace, Vent struck a dramatic pose, arms spreading wide. “Come to me… Lola Belmont!”
Akira blinked. “Lola who what now?”
A burst of blue fire erupted behind Vent—and from it emerged a stunning, masked figure: tall and elegant, garbed in a blood-red corset, thigh-high leather boots, and a trailing crimson scarf. Her face was obscured by a masquerade mask, and in her hand was a silver-bladed whip that crackled with Wind energy. Her masked face turned toward the guards—now distorted into oozing Slimes—and her smile promised violence.
In a blink, the Slimes were shredded by a flurry of lightning-fast attacks and precision Persona magic. Vent and Lola moved like one entity, efficient and brutal.
Ryuemi let out a low whistle. “Damn…”
When the last slime evaporated into black smoke, Vent turned back toward them, breathing evenly.
“It’s okay. Don’t freak out,” she said. “I can explain.”
Ryuemi gave a nonchalant shrug. “That’s a pretty cool Persona.”
Vent blinked. “Wait—you know about Personas?”
Ryuemi jerked a thumb at Akira. “He has one too. A badass demon-flirt named Arsene. He’s really strong.”
“Demon-flirt?” Akira muttered under his breath, shooting her a side-eye. “Really?”
Ryuemi grinned innocently. “I said what I said.”
Just as Ryuemi began to explain what had happened to them in the dungeons, a heavy thump echoed across the bridge. And then another. And another.
A trio of hulking Oni Shadows emerged from the corridor ahead, each standing nearly seven feet tall with massive clubs and slavering jaws. Their eyes glowed red with malice.
Vent took a cautious step back, hands raised. “Oh no… Oni. Run. Those guys are strong… very strong.”
But Akira didn’t move.
Instead, he sighed.
Like he’d just been asked to do the dishes.
“I got this,” he muttered, stepping forward as his Phantom Attire erupted into view, flame and fabric materializing around him in a smooth flare of motion. His white mask settled over his face as Arsene manifested behind him—wings spread wide, red cravat fluttering like it had its own sense of drama.
Arsene grinned, hand over his chest in a grand flourish. “Bonsoir, mademoiselles. Shall we put on a show?”
Akira raised one hand lazily, fingers flicking forward.
“Arsene… Maeigaon.”
A vortex of violet energy erupted beneath the Onis, swallowing them in a howling chorus of darkness and raw malice. When the attack faded, nothing remained but scorched stone and silence.
Vent stared.
Ryuemi just smirked beside her. “Told you. Total badass.”
The rest of the castle was eerily quiet. No shadows, no guards—just cold stone walls, flickering torchlight, and the rhythmic sound of three sets of footsteps echoing through the dungeon corridors.
Vent kept sneaking glances at Akira, the glimmer of curiosity never quite leaving her sharp blue eyes. Ryuemi noticed but didn’t comment—yet. She had enough going on in her own head.
Eventually, they reached the grand, iron-bound door that marked the exit back to the real world.
Vent stepped forward first. “Alright. This is where I—”
“Nope,” Akira said, voice firm as he stepped up beside her.
Vent blinked. “Nope?”
“You’re not going back in there alone,” he said. “You got jumped last time. Going back without backup? Not a good idea.”
Vent crossed her arms, lips pursed in a skeptical frown—but she didn’t argue. Instead, she exhaled and gave a quiet, “Fine,” under her breath.
Ryuemi smiled. “He does that. Says the right thing, and suddenly you’re following him without even realizing.”
Akira gave a quiet snort but didn’t deny it.
They stepped through the shimmering portal—and the world reassembled around them with the subtle lurch of returning to reality.
Gone was the dungeon. In its place: the run-down alley behind Shujin Academy’s PE building, slick with post-rain moisture and mostly empty, save for the lingering echo of morning birds.
Morgane staggered slightly as the world snapped back into focus, her thief attire dissolving into civilian clothes: a fashionable cream blouse tucked into high-waisted navy pants, a pair of sleek flats, and a fuzzy beret perched at a playful tilt atop her raven-black waves. A yellow ribbon choker sat snug around her neck.
Ryuemi did a double take. “Wait a sec… You’re Morgane, right? The French girl?”
Morgane sighed. “Québécoise, not French. But yes, that’s me.” She dusted herself off and adjusted her beret. “Pleased to properly meet you, I suppose. Now, let’s get to class before we’re really late.”
Akira dusted off his jacket and pulled out his phone, checking the time. His brows drew together in quiet surprise.
Only thirty minutes had passed?
In his first run, his initial stumble into a Palace had taken four real-world hours. They’d only been gone half an hour this time.
Before he could say anything, Arsene’s voice curled smoothly through his mind like smoke.
“The rules are likely not entirely the same this time around, mon Trickster. But let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth, non?”
Akira nodded faintly. “Yeah. Agreed.”
He turned to the girls. “Alright. Meet me on the roof after classes. We need to talk about this.”
“Totally,” Ryuemi said instantly, bouncing slightly on her heels. “I have a ton of questions.”
Morgane hesitated.
“If I agree to meet you… will you answer some questions for me?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, unreadable.
Akira shrugged. “Sure. If I can.”
Morgane gave a small nod, eyes lingering on him a moment longer before she turned to head down the hallway.
The morning lectures passed in a blur for Akira.
Not because he wasn’t paying attention—he’d always been the kind to keep his head down and quietly absorb everything—but because his mind kept drifting. To the Palace. To Kamoshida. To Ryuemi, and Morgane—no, Vent—and to the sheer weirdness of the fact that everything was starting again, just different enough to feel unfamiliar. A glitch in the matrix. A game on New Game Plus, with all the dialogue options scrambled.
His notebook remained mostly empty, save for a couple of idle scribbles and a very smug cartoon of Arsene giving him a thumbs-up.
By the second lecture, the whispers had started. Low. Persistent. Poisonous.
“That’s the guy with the record.”
“I heard he put someone in the hospital for looking at him wrong.”
“Apparently he’s yakuza.”
“What’s the faculty thinking bringing someone like that in here?”
Akira sat perfectly still at his desk, back straight, eyes on the whiteboard. But inside, he was groaning.
Great. So that’s still the same.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Last time, it took all of five minutes for his criminal record to make the rounds. This time, it took slightly longer—an hour, maybe two. Progress?
The bell for lunch rang, and Akira barely had time to stand before—
“Aaaakiraaa~!”
Ann’s voice. He turned just in time to see her grab one of his arms, and suddenly Ryuemi was on his other side, dragging him along like he weighed nothing at all. They flanked him like twin hurricanes—sunshine and storm—marching him straight toward the cafeteria.
They plopped down at an empty table near the back. Ann all but shoved Akira into the seat between her and Ryuemi, and a quiet, calm brunette slid into the seat across from them.
Akira blinked. He recognized her almost instantly. Shiho Suzui. Another of Kamoshida’s favorite targets. In the other timeline, she’d been the final straw—the tragedy that had sparked the Phantom Thieves’ first true rebellion.
But here she was. Smiling. Undamaged.
"Hi, Akira!" chirped Ann brightly, her tone upbeat but her sapphire eyes searching. "How are you finding Shujin so far?"
He blinked again, caught off guard by the question—and the sincerity behind it.
“I mean… aside from the comically fast rumor spread?” He gave her a lopsided smile. “It’s great.”
Ryuemi snorted, peeling open her carton of milk. “Shujin’s like that. Full of rich kids, gossip vultures, and perverts in positions of power.”
“Ryuemi,” Shiho chided gently.
“What? I’m not wrong.” She smirked at Akira. “You’ve had one hell of a first day, man. If I were you, I’d already be planning my dramatic transfer out.”
“I’ve had worse,” Akira muttered, deadpan.
That made Ryuemi pause. She raised a brow. “Worse than discovering that you’re responsible for the icecaps melting and the death of cute baby seals and polar bears?”
Ann nearly choked on her juice, snorting.
Akira shrugged with a faint smirk. “Believe it or not.”
Shiho smiled gently. “You’ve had a pretty rough start… but don’t let the rumors get to you.”
“I’ve heard some of them,” Akira muttered.
“So have we,” Ann said, a little more seriously now. “And they’re garbage.”
“Total trash,” Ryuemi chimed in, jabbing her chopsticks into her bento with emphasis. “Seriously, the only thing you’re guilty of is being too hot for this place.”
Shiho raised a brow, and Ann giggled, while Akira sputtered slightly. “I—what?”
“She's not wrong,” Ann said with a teasing grin.
Akira flushed, quickly redirecting the conversation. “...Thanks, I guess. But seriously, why are you all being so nice to me?”
Ann shrugged. “Because we want to be. And because everyone deserves at least one friend who doesn’t believe every ridiculous rumor.”
Akira paused, letting their words sink in. In the last timeline, he’d spent so much time keeping everyone at arm’s length. Now, here they were—his first allies, already drawing him in before he even had the chance to push them away.
Maybe this time… things really could be different.
He let out a breath, one he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“Thanks. All of you.”
Lunch at the table flowed fast and loud, filled with the sound of laughter, teasing, and the occasional straw wrapper being flung with deadly precision.
Akira didn’t say much—he didn’t need to. He was content to sit in the middle of the chaos, watching it all unfold with a quiet half-smile and the occasional, dry one-liner that made Ryuemi snort and Ann grin.
“Remember when you tripped during the 100-meter relay and took out three people like a bowling ball?” Ryuemi said around a bite of her sandwich, pointing at Shiho with her pinky.
Shiho, perfectly calm, sipped her tea. “I won that relay, thank you very much.”
“Only because Ann bribed the other team with cookies.”
Ann leaned her head against Akira’s shoulder with an exaggerated sigh. “I was a very strategic child.”
Akira arched a brow. “So, were you three always like this?”
“Middle school,” Shiho said. “We’ve been attached at the hip since then.”
“More like a human chain of disasters,” Ryuemi added. “Shiho’s the calm one. Ann’s the wild card. I’m the chaos gremlin.”
“You’re just mad I got voted ‘cutest smile’ in Year Two,” Ann said sweetly, making Ryuemi gag.
They were so comfortable with each other. The kind of familiarity that only years of knowing every dumb secret and embarrassing story could breed. And they let him sit in it, didn’t push him away or make him feel like the outsider.
Then, without warning, the seat next to Shiho was occupied.
Morgane. Her icy stare skimmed over the group and landed on Ann. “Ann, ma chère,” she said, voice soft and reverent. “I brought you an energy drink. I noticed you looked a little tired this morning.”
Ann blinked, then smiled warmly. “Aw, thanks Morgane! That’s super sweet of you.”
Akira watched as Morgane placed the drink beside Ann with exaggerated care, completely ignoring the rest of the table—especially him. She didn’t so much as look in his direction, though she sat just one seat away.
“Well, someone has a fan,” Ryuemi mumbled with a grin, nudging Akira, who shot her a quick look.
Before Akira could respond, another figure appeared at the table—Kasumi Yoshizawa, in all her chipper, ponytailed energy.
“Hey, Akira-kun!” she greeted brightly, cheeks pink with effort from rushing. “Is this where you’re eating? Mind if I join?”
He nodded, already feeling his stomach churn at where this might go.
“I’m Kasumi Yoshizawa,” she said to the group, bowing politely. “Nice to meet you all.”
Introductions went around, and just as Akira thought he might escape unscathed, Kasumi dropped the bomb.
“Have you fully recovered from your injuries, Akira-senpai?” she asked sweetly, looking over at him with genuine concern in her eyes.
Akira froze mid-bite. Across the table, Ann, Shiho, and Ryuemi all turned to look at Kasumi, their expressions shifting from polite curiosity to intrigued suspicion.
“Injuries?” Ann echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“What happened to him?” Shiho asked, narrowing her eyes slightly.
Kasumi blinked, as if realizing she hadn’t told this part yet. “Oh! A few weeks ago, I tripped while crossing the street. One minute I was on the ground about to be run over, the next minute, Akira-senpai was cradling me in his arms as he took the hit for me.”
Ryuemi straightened up, eyes wide. “Wait—what?”
“He broke his ribs and dislocated his shoulder,” Kasumi continued, her voice tinged with awe. “But even while he was lying there in pain, he was more concerned about whether I was okay or not.”
“I-it wasn’t that big a deal—” Akira started, voice tight.
“You literally threw yourself into traffic,” Kasumi said, giving him a half-scolding, half-admiring look. “You saved my life, Senpai. I’ll never forget that.”
“Kasumi—seriously—” Akira tried again, but it was too late.
The table had gone silent, and every single girl was staring at him like he’d just stepped out of a shoujo manga. Shiho had her chin resting on her palm, regarding him with renewed interest. Ryuemi blinked slowly, as if trying to recalibrate her entire impression of him. Ann looked like she was trying to hide a smirk—and not doing a very good job.
Even Morgane, who’d kept her frosty silence up until now, was giving him a side glance that wasn’t entirely unfriendly.
“I…” Akira sighed, deflating. “Can we not make a big deal out of this?”
The bell rang, mercifully, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Akira bolted up, snatching his tray. “I’ll… see you all later,” he mumbled, walking away briskly. The tips of his ears were glowing red with embarrassment.
Behind him, a soft chorus of giggles followed.
Shiho leaned toward Ann with a smirk. “So… that’s the guy you’ve been talking about?”
Ann just smiled, a little too brightly. “Yep. That’s the one.”
The rooftop was quiet, kissed by the golden rays of the setting sun. Akira stood near the edge, leaning on the railing, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the city skyline. A soft breeze stirred his black hoodie, and the fading warmth of the day did little to thaw the strange heaviness in his chest. He knew Ryuemi and Morgane would be arriving soon—and with them, questions.
Sure enough, the rooftop door creaked open.
Ryuemi stepped out first, her expression unreadable. The wind caught in her bottle-blond hair, brushing a few strands into her face. She tucked them behind her ear as she approached, her gaze fixed on Akira like he was something half-unbelievable.
“So, hey… about what Kasumi said during lunch…” she started, her voice softer than usual. “How much of it was true?”
Akira exhaled slowly, already feeling the heat rising in his face again. “All of it,” he admitted. “But it’s not that big a deal—”
“Not that big a deal?” Ryuemi cut in, shaking her head, eyes wide. “You saved someone’s life, Akira. And then you stood up to Kamo-shita when no one else would’ve even looked him in the eye. Not to mention what you did for me this morning…” Her voice trembled slightly. “You… you’re not real. You can’t be.”
Akira looked away, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m just a normal guy, Ryuemi.”
“There’s nothing normal about you.”
Both heads turned at the sound of the new voice.
Morgane stepped through the doorway, her expression unreadable beneath her usual cool demeanor. The wind tugged at her fuzzy beret, and the yellow ribbon choker around her neck caught the last rays of sun. She crossed the rooftop with that same quiet confidence, stopping just a few paces away from them.
“That spell you used,” she continued, folding her arms across her chest. “Maeigaon. That’s not something a novice can use. It’s a third-tier incantation. And your form… that wasn’t a first awakening. You had full control. Like you’d done it dozens of times before.”
She stopped a few paces from him, tilting her head slightly, like a predator appraising something just out of place. “You knew what a Persona was. You knew what a Palace was. You knew where the switch for the drawbridge was.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you? And how are you this strong?”
Akira held her gaze for a moment, then let out a soft sigh, as if he’d hoped this line of questioning would come later.
“I’m just a guy who hates injustice,” he said simply. “And I happen to have the means to do something about it.”
He let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing, turning his full attention to Morgane.
“Same as you, right? My guess is, you know exactly how twisted Kamoshida is—and you want to do something about it.”
Morgane flinched slightly—barely noticeable—but Akira caught it. Her eyes flicked away, then back.
“I don’t like bullies,” she admitted quietly. “And I really don’t like people who act like they own others. That bastard… he thinks the school, the students, hell, the world, all revolve around him. He’s scum.”
Akira nodded once. “Then we’re on the same page.”
He turned to Ryuemi, who was watching the skyline with her arms crossed. Her jaw was tight, her posture wound up like a spring. Akira hesitated for a moment before speaking, his voice quieter this time.
“Kamoshida’s Shadow… he called you the Track Slut.” The words tasted like acid, even when repeated. “I’m guessing he tried to get with you, but you turned him down, so he spread rumors about you? Ruined your athletics career?”
Ryuemi flinched. Just barely. But she didn’t look away.
“Yeah,” she said after a beat, her voice tight. “That’s basically the long and short of it.”
She pushed off the railing and started pacing, kicking a loose pebble across the rooftop. “Back when I was a first year, I was the top sprinter in the region. And then he started taking notice. Kept pulling me aside. Making ‘suggestions.’ Getting handsy during ‘form corrections.’ I told him to fuck off.”
She laughed bitterly.
“And just like that? I was suddenly ‘difficult.’ ‘Hostile.’ My teammates turned cold. Coaches said I had an attitude problem. Then came the rumors—stuff about me sleeping around for better scores, trading favors for wins. None of it was true, but by the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. They booted me from the team.”
Morgane was quiet, her arms crossed tightly as she listened. Akira didn’t interrupt either—he just let Ryuemi talk.
“I almost transferred,” Ryuemi went on, voice lower now. “But I didn’t want to run. I figured if I just kept my head down and made it through the year, I’d be fine. But then I saw the way he started looking at other girls. Ann. Shiho. Like they were toys he hadn’t unwrapped yet.”
She turned to Akira then, eyes blazing.
“When you stepped up to defend Ann? The way you went after him in the Palace? When you just snapped at him like that? It was the first time I’ve seen him scared. Ann said the same thing when we caught up earlier…”
Ryuemi paused, brushing her sleeve roughly across her cheek as tears welled in her eyes, threatening to fall.
“For a brief moment, we felt hope…”
Her voice cracked, and she looked straight at Akira—storm-grey eyes meeting warm brown ones, unflinching.
“Whatever it takes, ‘Kira… I want to feel that hope again. I want my best friends to be safe.”
Akira remained silent as he took a step forward and gently placed a hand on her shoulder—not too firm, not too soft, just enough to ground her. “You’ll feel it again, Ryuemi. I swear it. I’m not letting him hurt anyone else.”
Ryuemi blinked, her breath hitching slightly. Then, with a soft snort, she smiled through her tears. “You always talk like some kinda dramatic anime protagonist, you know that?”
Akira cracked a grin. “Comes with the hair.”
Morgane finally broke her silence. “Sounds like Kamoshida’s left quite the trail of victims behind him,” she said, voice sharp. “Which means we’ve got plenty of reason to strike back.”
Akira nodded. “And we will. But smart. Strategically. We’re not just beating him up—we’re going after his heart.”
That got both girls looking at him.
“More specifically,” he continued, “we’re going to make his Shadow have a change of heart. If we can steal whatever it is he treasures—his core distortion—we can force him to face the worst version of himself. Make him confess. Publicly.”
Morgane blinked. “…That’s a hell of a plan.”
“It’s how this works,” Akira said. “Trust me. I’ve seen it done before.”
He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. Morgane tilted her head suspiciously, and Ryuemi raised a brow.
“Seen it done before?” Ryuemi echoed. “What does that mean—?”
Akira cut in smoothly. “It means we’ve got work to do. Kamoshida’s Palace is huge, and the more time we waste, the more damage he does in the real world.”
He turned to face them both, serious now.
“If we do this… we’re not backing down. It’ll be dangerous. And we might see things we can’t unsee.”
Ryuemi didn’t hesitate. “I’m in.”
Morgane was slower, studying him with those sharp blue eyes. But then she nodded, just once. “Fine. I’m in too. But I will get answers out of you eventually, Akira.”
He smirked faintly. “I’ll take my chances.”
The trio stood there for a moment, the sun lowering behind the city skyline and casting them in a warm amber glow. From the rooftop, they could hear the hum of traffic below, the buzz of a school still pretending nothing was wrong.
But up here, something was shifting. Blossoming.
“I’ll start mapping the Palace tonight,” Morgane said, voice suddenly all business again. “I’ll sneak back in. We’ll need an infiltration route and recon before we act.”
Akira looked at her. “Not alone you won’t.”
Ryuemi chimed in, “Yeah. No way we’re letting you go in solo.”
Morgane didn’t smile, but she didn’t argue either. She simply nodded, once, sharply. “Then it’s settled.”
Notes:
Lola Belmont is from the 1950s film "Bandit Queen" starring Barbara Britton. You can think of her as a female version of Zorro.
Chapter 6: The Rise of The Pirate Queen
Summary:
The trio of Akira, Morgane and Ryuemi return to Kamoshida's Castle of Lust. The Velvet Room finally decides on a proper form. Akira rebuilds his Persona deck, with some added flavour.
Chapter Text
The Castle of Lust loomed ahead, a twisted parody of Shujin Academy bathed in crimson and gold. The gates stood open like the mouth of a predator, daring them to step inside.
Akira led the way, his black hoodie with crimson lining fluttering with each step, sleek tactical gear hugging his form, the silver Vega-style mask already covering his eyes. He walked like he owned the place—calm, confident, and ready.
Ryuemi, still in her civilian clothes, moved beside him. Determination burned in her eyes, but her fingers occasionally curled nervously into her sleeves.
Trailing behind, Morgane stretched her arms above her head. In the blink of an eye, her civilian clothes melted away into her Phantom Thief look: a skin-tight black catsuit, yellow sash cinching her waist, a stylized cat mask perched atop her face. A large disc hung at her hip, gleaming as if hungering for battle.
“Alright,” she said, voice clipped. “We’ll be needing codenames from here on out. It’s a security thing, just in case. So no real names.”
Akira arched a brow beneath his mask. “Sure. Call me Joker.”
“Joker?” Morgane repeated, nose wrinkling. “That’s the most suspicious codename you could’ve picked. Why Joker?”
He just smirked. “You’ll see.”
Ryuemi perked up, smiling. “Then call me Comet. That’s what they used to call me on the track team—back when I was fast enough to leave everyone eating my dust.”
“Comet…” Morgane muttered, glancing between the two. “Fine. As I said before, in here, my name is Vent.”
Ryuemi blinked. “Vent? Like... like an air duct?”
Joker choked back a laugh as Vent’s head whipped toward Ryuemi.
“No!” she snapped. “It’s French! It means ‘wind.’ You know, fast? Free? Cool?”
Ryuemi tilted her head. “Ohhh... okay. Yeah, I guess that’s cooler than being named after an air conditioner.”
Vent let out a sharp sigh. “You absolute idiot.”
“Hey! That’s rude!”
“You thought I named myself after ventilation!”
Ryuemi crossed her arms. “You should’ve clarified! How was I supposed to know you were a fancy French thesaurus?”
“Quebecquois!” Vent snapped. “And it’s elegant, not fancy—there’s a difference!”
The two girls leaned into each other, mid-squabble, voices rising—
“Alright, that’s enough.”
Joker’s voice was calm but firm, slicing through the rising tension like a blade. The girls both looked at him in surprise as he stepped forward, hands on his hips, his eyes narrowed behind his silver mask.
“Look, I get it. Tension’s high, everything’s weird, and we’re all still figuring this out. But in here?” He gestured to the palace walls around them. “We don’t have the luxury of bickering. We’ve got a perverted tyrant running the show, and if we’re gonna stop him, we’ve gotta work together.”
Ryuemi blinked, then looked sheepishly at Vent. “...Sorry, Vent.”
Vent sighed. “Yeah, alright. Same. Truce?”
“Truce.” Ryuemi offered a fist. Morgane bumped it.
Akira turned away with a slight smirk, hiding his amusement as they started walking again. They moved deeper into the palace, the decadent marble floors echoing under their footsteps. Morgane kept pace slightly ahead of them, clearly trying to lead.
“So here’s the deal,” Vent began, voice brisk. “This place is a ‘Palace.’ It’s what happens when someone’s warped desires go completely off the rails. The place reflects how they see the world—and themselves. That’s why it looks like a castle. Kamoshida sees himself as some sort of king.”
Joker nodded along but said nothing. He didn’t want to spook her with how much he already knew.
“We're inside a Cognition Palace,” Vent continued, sounding smug. “Everything here is made of distorted thoughts. Even the enemies. Shadows are born from the twisted cognition of this place.”
“You seem to know a lot about all this,” Ryuemi noted, tilting her head.
“I’ve been studying them,” Vent said with a proud toss of her head. “I was here before I met you two. Just… not as far in.”
Joker gave a small hum of interest. “So what’s your endgame?”
Vent hesitated, then tossed a look over her shoulder. “Same as yours, I imagine. Take down the King before he does any more damage in the real world.”
The deeper they moved into the castle, the stranger and more twisted the corridors became—walls shifting subtly, paintings of Kamoshida in various narcissistic poses leering down at them.
“I swear,” Ryuemi muttered, glancing up at one disturbingly detailed portrait, “if I see one more painting of this guy in a speedo, I’m gonna throw something.”
Vent rolled her eyes. “It’s all part of the Palace’s cognition. The more warped his mind, the more disgusting the decor.”
“Yeah, we get it, Vent,” Ryuemi grumbled. “You’ve read the Metaverse handbook or whatever.”
Before Vent could retort, two guards in knight armor—distorted and bulky—rounded the corner with a metallic growl.
“Finally,” she grinned, stepping ahead. “Let me handle this.”
With an elegant flick of her wrist, the throwing disc on her back spun to life. She hurled it forward in a sweeping arc—whizz—and it struck one of the guards dead-on before ricocheting back to her hand. She lunged forward and followed up with a series of stylish kicks, flipping one guard over her shoulder and planting her disc directly into the other’s helmet with a loud clang.
The guards dissolved into embers of cognition.
Ryuemi let out an impressed whistle. “Okay, Catwoman. I take back the air duct joke.”
Vent smirked and dusted her gloves off. “Told you. Wind moves fast and hits hard.”
They moved on, confidence rising… until the hallway opened into a larger, torch-lit chamber. A heavy wind swirled around the center, and stomping out from the shadows came a looming, bipedal beast—horse-skull face, ragged mane, horns spiraling outward. The Bicorn snarled low and stepped forward, exuding menace.
“Another one of Kamoshida’s twisted fantasies,” Vent muttered.
“I got this,” she said, spinning her disc into a glowing blur. “Let’s go—Lola Belmont!”
A gust of wind magic exploded toward the Bicorn—but it simply stood there. The spell bounced off, wind repelled.
“What—!?” Vent stumbled back. “That should’ve floored it!”
Ryuemi flinched as she pulled her fists up. “It didn’t even flinch…”
The Bicorn snorted and lunged forward, its hooves cracking stone as it charged. Vent barely rolled out of the way, and Comet nearly tripped dodging a retaliatory stomp.
Joker sighed, cracking his neck as he stepped forward. His hoodie fluttered with phantom wind as his Metaverse attire reformed.
“You two might wanna step back,” he said smoothly.
“What are you—!?” Vent began, but Joker was already moving.
He surged in with sudden speed, ducking low under a strike and slamming his tonfa into the Bicorn’s front leg. The creature faltered, momentarily stunned.
Joker’s hand went to his mask. “Arsene—stand by,” he muttered.
The phantom mask pulsed with red light, and as the Bicorn reared back to recover, Joker's body lit up with energy. Black wisps of shadow curled around the monster, spiraling into the air and pulling it forward.
With a sharp tug, Joker ripped the Bicorn into his mask.
The beast's form collapsed into glowing threads that vanished into his body—his eyes briefly gleamed crimson.
The battlefield fell silent.
Vent stared, jaw slack. “You… what the hell was that?!”
Ryuemi blinked. “Did you just absorb it?”
Joker let out a soft laugh and turned toward them, mask glinting under the flickering torchlight.
“I told you,” he said, voice smooth as velvet. “That’s why I’m called Joker.”
Not long after the Bicorn fell, the group pushed deeper into the winding castle halls. Statues of Kamoshida leered at them from every corner, their eyes following like a predator waiting for its chance.
They didn’t have to wait long.
A trio of Shadows melted out of the walls ahead—two masked soldiers wielding rusted scimitars and a delicate-looking woman draped in white silk, floating just above the floor.
"Let me guess," Ryuemi said, narrowing her eyes. "That one’s not as delicate as she looks."
"Correct," Vent muttered. "Silky. Ice magic. Watch out."
The Silky giggled, then launched a wave of energy. Joker moved first, slipping between the blasts like water, tonfa clashing with the first soldier’s blade. In the same fluid movement, his hand reached to his mask again.
“No point wasting time,” he said. “Let’s make this quick.”
Another ripple of energy pulsed from his mask. Silky shrieked as shadowy tendrils surged forward and pulled her towards Joker.
Gone in a blink.
"You did it again!" Ryuemi blurted, halfway between impressed and flustered. “You just—sucked her into your face?!”
Joker gave a shy smile. “That’s... one way to put it.”
Vent, however, frowned sharply. “That’s not just stealing a Persona. You’re turning Shadows into usable masks. That's… extremely rare.”
Joker just shrugged, slipping the tonfa back into his holster. “Guess I’m just a bit special, then.”
Vent scowled but didn’t argue. Not yet.
As they moved further, the castle threw more enemies their way—none could stand against them for long. A pair of Pixies fluttered out from a chandelier, zapping with electric sparks. Joker absorbed one with ease mid-fight, ducking around bolts and retaliating with Bicorn’s Ailment Boosted Lunge on the other.
Ryuemi looked sideways at him as the Pixie vanished into his mask. “Okay, now that one was kinda cute.”
Then came a Succubus—curvaceous, seductive, wings like velvet—who tried charming Joker with a sway of her hips and a purr in her voice. He headbutted her mid-coo, then claimed her power like it was nothing.
“You didn’t even hesitate!” Ryuemi half-laughed, half-sputtered. “She looked like she stepped off a Victoria’s Secret runway, and you just—bam!”
Akira smirked. “Not my type.”
“Seriously, how many of your Personas are hot demon girls?” Vent drawled. “Is this a power system or a dating app?”
They didn’t get a chance to rest.
A fireball exploded from the ceiling as Pyro Jack descended with his pumpkin head aflame, cackling wildly. He was followed closely by a Mandrake slithering out from under a bench and an Incubus floating lewdly in the background—wings spread and posture uncomfortably... suggestive.
“What is that?” Ryuemi cried, pointing at Incubus with horrified curiosity. “Why is he built like that?!”
Joker, completely unfazed, spun through the trio—smashing Pyro Jack with Silky’s Bufu spell, absorbing Mandrake mid-dodge, and clotheslining Incubus before pulling him into his mask.
Both girls stared.
“…Okay,” Vent said slowly, “I have so many questions about your standards.”
“I don’t want to know what’s in your head right now,” Ryuemi muttered to Joker, trying not to look at Incubus’s silhouette fading into Joker’s mask. “You’re too calm about this.”
“Part of the job,” he replied, winking. “Gotta be flexible.”
Later still, they hit a dead-end chamber with a hulking red Oni stomping around, smashing walls and roaring at nothing.
“This one’s trouble,” Vent warned. “Tough hide. Big punches.”
It took coordination—Vent distracted it with Garu, Ryuemi ducked low to trip it with a shattered bench leg, and Joker slammed into its side with Mandrake’s Lunge followed by Pixie’s Zio to stun it. When it fell to one knee, Joker stepped in and claimed it, breath steady even as his mask sparked with power.
“That makes… what? Eight now?” Vent said, shaking her head. “I didn’t even think a mind could hold that many active connections at once.”
Joker offered a grin. “Who’s counting?”
Just as Ryuemi opened her mouth to sass back, a shadow arrow flew from a hidden turret, nicking her shoulder.
“Damn it!” she hissed, clutching her arm.
“Hold still,” Joker said, immediately summoning Cait Sith. A soft white glow enveloped Ryuemi, the wound sealing within seconds.
She blinked. “You can heal too?”
“Depends on the cat,” he said casually. “This one’s useful.”
Vent crossed her arms. “At this rate, you’ll have an army before we even hit the treasure room.”
Joker looked ahead at the looming hallway, darkness stretching far and foul.
“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s not about numbers. It’s about being prepared.”
And as they moved forward—Ryuemi starting to look up to him more, Vent still suspicious but watching closely—it became clear: Joker wasn’t just some cocky thief with a mask. He was something else entirely.
The trio stepped into a vast, cathedral-like hallway—columns carved with twisted depictions of Kamoshida’s self-image stretched upward, vanishing into an oppressive, red-tinged fog above. Velvet carpets lined the floors, but the chill in the air turned the scene almost tomb-like.
Joker’s steps slowed, eyes sweeping the space with a soldier’s wariness. Something about this place felt wrong. Too open. Too still.
“Hold up,” he murmured, but—
Too late.
Vent and Ryuemi were already ahead, chatting—well, bickering—and not paying enough attention.
The doors behind them slammed shut with a deafening boom, locking them in.
And then he appeared.
Shadow Kamoshida stepped out from behind a pillar, wearing a sickeningly smug grin and his ridiculous crown-topped head. With him, a squad of Shadows emerged, armor gleaming, spears at the ready.
Ryuemi barely had time to gasp before he was on her.
A blur of motion—then Kamoshida grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her off her feet, hoisting her up like a doll.
"One more step, and I'll snap her neck," he purred, eyes gleaming. “Took you long enough to return to my castle, little piglets. I was starting to think you’d gotten smart.”
Vent immediately drew her disc, stance rigid and ready, but Joker raised a hand.
“Let her go,” he growled. “You don’t want this fight.”
Kamoshida cackled. “Oh, but I do. In fact, I’ve prepared a little show.”
He snapped his fingers.
And out of the shadows emerged... her.
Ryuemi gasped as the figure came into view—herself, or rather, a Shadow version. Dressed in a filthy, shredded Shujin track uniform, bruises dotting her legs, arms, and cheeks. Her expression was broken, vacant.
The real Ryuemi struggled in his grasp, horror taking over her features. “What the hell is that?!”
“Your truth,” Shadow Kamoshida sneered, patting the back of the other Ryuemi’s head mockingly. “The way I see you. The real you who knows she is only good for one thing.”
He let go of the fake, and she slithered forward.
“On your knees,” Kamoshida commanded, eyes flicking between the terrified girl in his grasp and her distorted double.
The Shadow obeyed, grabbing the real Ryuemi’s arms and forcing her down. The bruised doppelgänger hissed into her ear, “Don’t fight it. This is what you’re good for.”
Ryuemi fell to her knees with a choked cry. Her fists clenched against the marble floor.
Kamoshida grinned wider. “That mouth of yours has caused me so many problems. Maybe it’s time you finally put it to proper use. Unless you want your little friends to die, you’ll behave.”
“Let her go!” Vent shouted, fury twisting her voice.
But Joker... he watched Ryuemi. Saw the tears welling, her lip trembling.
He knew this moment.
Knew what she needed.
“Ryuemi!” he shouted, voice slicing through the space like a blade. “Don’t you dare give in!”
She looked up, blinking.
“You’re stronger than this,” he said. “This piece of filth doesn’t get to define you. Fight back! You know who you are.”
Her breath hitched. Something sparked behind her eyes.
Shadow Kamoshida barked out a cruel laugh, eyes flicking toward Joker. “Oh, how touching. Playing the hero, are we? Think a few pretty words are gonna fix this broken little toy?”
He yanked Ryuemi’s hair, forcing her head back to face him. “This girl? She’s nothing. A washed-up track slut who spread her legs and couldn’t even win a race afterward.”
Ryuemi’s entire body went still. Her fingers twitched, nails scraping against the cold marble. Her breath shook in her lungs.
Kamoshida leaned closer, hissing into her ear like a snake. “You know I’m right. You’ve always known it.”
Her shoulders trembled.
Vent took a step forward, about to speak—but Akira held a hand out to stop her.
“No,” he murmured. “She’s almost there.”
Kamoshida grinned wider. “See? Even your friends know you’re a waste of space—”
Crack.
Ryuemi's head shot up.
A jeweled skull mask now covered the top half of her face, gold and ruby gleaming under the torchlight like a crown made for a queen of vengeance. Her eyes beneath it blazed with fury.
“I’ve had enough of you looking down on me,” she said, voice trembling—not with fear, but with righteous wrath. “Enough of you twisting my words, my life, my name.”
Her hands rose, fingers curling around the edges of the mask.
“No more running. No more flinching. I’m not yours to break anymore.”
She ripped the mask from her face with a primal scream, as a brilliant surge of lightning exploded outward.
Crackling bolts of violet and blue tore through the air, scattering Shadows and forcing Kamoshida to reel back, arm up to shield his face.
The storm engulfed her.
And when it cleared—
Ryuemi stood tall, transformed.
She wore fitted black leather pants with gold-buckled thigh straps, high-heeled pirate boots that laced up to her knees, and a wine-red blouse cinched at the waist with a corset-style belt. Her sleeves flared out at the wrists, ruffled and dramatic, and a dark bandana was tied around her forehead, her wild ponytail spilling out behind her. A gold-trimmed pistol and a jagged cutlass hung from her hips. A yellow sash tied at her waist fluttered with every motion.
She radiated confidence and chaos. She looked dangerous. Free.
And beside her, rising from the remnants of the lightning storm, towered her Persona.
A ghostly pirate queen with a long, tattered naval coat, golden jewelry adorning her fingers and throat, twin pistols holstered beneath her cloak. One eye was a glowing sapphire, the other covered by an eyepatch bearing a skull. Her hat was wide-brimmed and dramatic, shadows clinging to it like a halo of stormclouds.
“I am thou,” the Persona intoned, her voice booming like cannon fire. “Thou art I. I am Anne Bonny, the one who sailed through chains and fire to carve her legend into history. Let us burn this tyrant’s name from the world, and make ‘em remember what it means to fear the storm.”
Ryuemi—Comet—grinned, her eyes fierce and alive.
She cracked her knuckles. “Alright, Kamo-shit-stain... Now we’re really gonna play.”
Comet charged forward, rage and adrenaline pumping through her veins. Her cutlass glinted under the eerie torchlight as she aimed straight for Kamoshida, a war cry rising in her throat.
But a familiar voice cut across the battlefield.
“For the glory of King Kamoshida,” it intoned.
Shadow Ryuemi stepped in her path, body shimmering and warping. Her tattered track uniform melted into golden flame, her bruised skin turning into pulsating red muscle. With a screech, her form twisted and reformed into an Ara Mitama—a furious spirit of wrath and blind loyalty.
A handful of guards behind her followed suit, warping into grotesque Bicorns, their manes slick with black bile and horns jagged like splintered bone. Alongside them shimmered two squat, leering Cait Siths, tiny crowns tilting on their smug little heads as they summoned shimmering debuff glyphs into the air.
“Well, that’s not creepy at all,” Comet growled, twirling her cutlass. “Let’s dance.”
With a flick of her wrist, Anne Bonny fired off a Zio spell that surged through the air and blasted a Bicorn off its hooves. Sparks lit up the corridor, and Ryuemi zipped in, slashing through the beast’s throat with a single fluid motion.
Vent flung her throwing disc forward, ricocheting it off the walls to slam into the second Bicorn’s side before it could trample Comet. “Heads up, sparkle-pirate,” she quipped, leaping over a Cait Sith’s claw swipe.
“I had that one,” Comet said, smirking—before landing a lightning-fast cutlass slash between the eyes of the stunned Bicorn. “But thanks.”
Together, the two made short work of the remaining Bicorns.
Then came Ara Mitama.
It roared and charged at Comet with blind fury. Sparks danced along her cutlass as she parried the blow, but the raw strength nearly sent her flying. Vent’s disc clanged off its side, barely making a dent.
“Tch… it’s too tanky,” Vent growled. “Physical attacks are bouncing right off!”
“That’s because it’s all rage,” Joker finally said from the back of the group, arms crossed. “You have to unnerve it.”
“Oh, so you do know something,” Vent called over her shoulder. “Any chance you wanna actually do something now, Mister Mysterious?”
Joker just chuckled and stepped forward, casually slipping his mask back into place.
“As you wish.”
He lifted a hand, and a pulse of dark energy shimmered around him. With a flash, Arsène rose from the shadows behind him, coat flaring dramatically as his clawed fingers flexed.
“Time to show you why they call me Joker,” he said smoothly, then pointed at Ara Mitama. “Terror Claw.”
Arsène lunged forward, his talons glowing with malevolent energy. He slashed across Ara Mitama’s glowing core, leaving a trail of purple lightning in the air. The wrath spirit shrieked, its body convulsing as terror seized it, its guard broken.
“Go wild, ladies.”
Vent didn’t need to be told twice. “Don’t mind if I do!”
Her disc whirled through the air like a buzz saw, slicing deep into Ara Mitama’s side just as Comet surged in, blade crackling with electricity. Her cutlass flashed in a brilliant arc, Anne Bonny firing off a final Zio behind her for good measure.
The spirit exploded in a cascade of sparks and shadow.
When the dust settled, the only thing left was silence.
Comet stumbled forward, intent on going after Kamoshida… only to collapse to her knees, panting hard, her cutlass clattering to the floor.
“Wha…?” she gasped, eyes wide. “Why… can’t I move…?”
Joker was at her side in a flash, offering a hand to steady her.
“First awakenings hit hard,” he said gently. “Your body’s not used to channeling that much raw energy. You’ll be fine—but we’re done for today.”
Comet looked up at him, frustration in her eyes, but nodded slowly.
“Bullshit,” Vent muttered, walking over with her arms crossed. “We’ve got momentum. We could press the advantage—”
“—And end up getting killed next time because we were running on fumes?” Joker cut in smoothly. “One day isn’t going to change anything. Kamoshida’s not going anywhere. But we need to be ready the next time we face him.”
Vent opened her mouth, then shut it again with a scowl. “…Tch. Fine. But next time, I’m not holding back.”
He gave her a small smile. “Didn’t look like you were this time either.”
With one last look toward the corridor where Shadow Kamoshida had vanished, Comet stood, still leaning slightly on Joker.
The trio turned away from the wreckage of battle and made their way toward the nearest exit, their breath slow and heavy, their bonds just a little stronger than before.
The Metaverse shimmered and peeled away like mist in the sun.
The world righted itself in a rush of warm light and spring air, and the three of them reappeared in the alley behind the school, breathless and covered in phantom sweat. Ryuemi leaned on a nearby wall, one arm clutching her ribs, her skin pale and eyes glassy from the drain of her awakening. Morgane dusted herself off with dramatic flair, flicking imaginary grit from her skirt.
“I feel like I’ve been trampled by a rhino,” Ryuemi muttered.
“You kinda fought one,” Akira said, lips twitching in amusement.
“Two, technically,” Morgane added with a smirk. “And a sad excuse for a soul.” She gave Ryuemi a sidelong look, but her voice was softer than usual. “You didn’t suck.”
“Gee,” Ryuemi replied, deadpan. “I’ll cherish that glowing praise forever.”
Akira rolled his eyes fondly and stepped forward. “C’mon. I’ll walk you both home.”
“Not a chance,” Morgane scoffed. “I’m fine. Save your chivalry for the one who looks like a collapsed scarecrow.”
“Gee thanks,” Ryuemi grumbled, wobbling as she tried to push herself off the wall.
Akira gently took her arm and steadied her.
“Plenty of fluids,” he said. “Something sweet to eat—chocolate, fruit, doesn’t matter. Then sleep. You’ll probably feel like crap tomorrow, but it’ll pass.”
Ryuemi blinked at him. “How do you even know that?”
“I’ve seen it before,” he said simply, leaving out the when and how. “Trust me.”
She hesitated, then gave a quiet, grateful nod.
He made sure she got to her apartment safely—ignoring her half-hearted insistence that she was fine—and even walked her up to the door. Once she was inside and safely texting him that she’d made it to her bed, Akira turned and headed down the darkening streets of Tokyo.
The city lights had begun to flicker on, casting warm gold and neon violet across the pavement. The walk back to Yongen-Jaya was quiet, peaceful even—just the hum of passing cars and the low buzz of vending machines on every corner.
Leblanc’s sign glowed soft and amber when he reached it. As he stepped through the door, the familiar bell chimed overhead.
“You’re late,” Sojiro muttered from behind the counter—but there was no bite to the words. Just the same gruff warmth as always. “Coffee machine’s already on. Go wash up.”
Akira tossed his bag behind the bar and slipped into his apron. An hour later, he was sipping fresh coffee and munching on some leftover curry, Sojiro pretending not to watch him with vague approval.
By the time the shop was closed and cleaned, Akira stretched with a quiet sigh and stepped out into the cool night.
The streets were mostly empty now, a quiet hush settling over Yongen-Jaya. The lights in the bathhouse were dimmed, the bookstore locked up, and even the neighborhood cats had curled up for the night.
He crossed the street toward his apartment building, fishing for his keys—when something tugged at the edge of his senses.
He turned toward the alley beside his building.
A heavy blue glow shimmered in the corner of his vision. A door. Elegant. Unmistakable. The insignia of the Velvet Room gleaming on the surface like moonlight on still water.
Akira stepped toward it, pulse quickening.
The bell above Leblanc had barely finished swinging when the door creaked open… and the Velvet Room called him home.
He stepped forward, and the noise of Tokyo fell away.
Gone were the creaking stairs and faint smell of coffee and rain. In their place was the soothing crackle of a hearthfire, casting golden light across worn bookshelves and deep blue velvet curtains. Soft, classical music played from an old gramophone tucked in the corner, and the warm scent of chamomile and parchment filled the air.
The Velvet Room had changed again.
Akira stood at the edge of what looked like a refined yet cozy drawing room. Two high-backed chairs sat across from each other near the fireplace—one occupied by the familiar, long-nosed figure of Igor, his steepled fingers resting thoughtfully beneath his chin. To the side, Lavenza was curled in an armchair, a thick book spread across her lap and a pair of tiny glasses perched on her nose.
As soon as she spotted him, Lavenza perked up.
“Trickster!” she exclaimed joyfully, abandoning the book as she skipped over and pulled Akira into a warm hug that didn’t quite match her usual reserved demeanor.
Akira chuckled softly, ruffling her silver-blue hair. “Hey, Lavenza.”
She beamed, then took his hand and guided him to the empty chair across from Igor. The old man inclined his head as Akira sat, his smile the same cryptic warmth as ever.
“Welcome once again to the Velvet Room, Trickster. It is… good to see you.”
Akira leaned back, his eyes taking in the new surroundings. “This is definitely a change from the last time. I gotta admit—it’s nice. Feels… less like a prison.”
Igor chuckled. “Appropriate, given the freedom you are beginning to claim once more.”
Lavenza returned to the hearth, perching on a stool beside the low table between them. She opened a large, worn tome with a gentle thud—the Persona Compendium.
Igor’s voice grew thoughtful. “You have begun the game once more, Trickster. But this board will not play out exactly as it did before.”
Akira raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’ve already had my mind blown a few times this week. What’s a few more surprises?”
Igor’s grin twitched wider. “A healthy attitude… though you may find this game asks even more of you than the last.”
Akira leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That reminds me. I haven’t felt the usual pull—my Confidant links. They’re not forming like before. Why is that?”
At this, Lavenza’s expression brightened. “I can now explain that part.”
She flipped the Compendium toward him, revealing several glowing entries— Pixie, Bicorn, Silky, Succubus, Mandrake, Pyro Jack, Incubus, Cait Sith, and Oni—all pulsing faintly with a golden shimmer.
“Your experiences from the previous timeline have left echoes in the Sea of Souls,” Lavenza explained. “Now, when you absorb a Persona you’ve wielded before, your bond with it reactivates, and you can draw upon that bond to power it beyond its normal limits. These supercharged Personas will reflect your current strength, and their skills may also develop more rapidly.”
Akira blinked. “So… my old relationships are helping me now?”
Igor nodded. “In a way, yes. The shadows you tame carry traces of your past triumphs. However, there is a trade-off.”
With a subtle motion from his hand, Lavenza turned another page, revealing a glowing diagram of Persona fusion paths.
“Your fusion abilities are limited,” Igor continued. “At present, you may only fuse new Personas belonging to certain Arcana.”
With a wave of his hand, twelve symbols materialized above the mantelpiece, each enclosed in a golden picture frame, the Arcana symbol etched into the glass. Beneath each, a softly glowing number:
Magician – 1
High Priestess – 0
Empress – 0
Lovers – 2
Chariot – 4
Justice – 2
Hermit – 3
Fortune – 0
Strength – 6
Star – 0
Moon – 0
Faith – 4
Akira’s gaze flicked over them, curiosity rising. “Only those twelve? Why?”
Igor’s smile turned sly, eyes twinkling beneath the glow of the firelight. “That answer, Trickster… will reveal itself in time. Until then, I advise you to pay close attention to the people who begin to resonate with those Arcanas. Their bonds may not form as easily as before, but when they do… they will be far more powerful.”
Akira leaned back, exhaling slowly. “So I’m playing with fewer cards but a stronger deck.”
Lavenza gave a delighted nod. “Well put, Trickster.”
Igor’s voice dropped into something heavier. “The game has changed, Trickster. But the prize… is still the same. And the stakes, perhaps higher than ever.”
At The Same Time – Various Bedrooms Across Tokyo
Ann Takamaki lay on her pink-sheeted bed, long legs stretched out and freshly lotioned. She wore a silky camisole and matching shorts, both a glossy cherry red that clung to her like a second skin. A tray of cosmetics, scrunchies, and perfume bottles cluttered her vanity, soft music playing in the background as she leaned back against her pillows, her golden hair tied up in a lazy topknot.
She ran a hand down her thigh absentmindedly, eyes staring at the ceiling.
He noticed.
This morning, when Kamoshida had pulled up in that stupid, pretentious car and gestured for her to get in—again—it had taken everything in her not to scream. She always smiled. Always made it seem like it was fine.
But Akira… he had seen through it.
He hadn't said anything, not directly. But the way his storm-grey eyes had narrowed, the way he’d taken that step forward… the way he'd given Kamoshida a verbal lashing. To protect her.
She’d still gotten into the car, of course. What else could she do?
But it had meant more than she could say, seeing someone actually care.
Ann sighed, biting her lip slightly as she turned out the lamp and snuggled under the covers, the ghost of Akira’s expression still etched behind her eyelids.
----------------------------
Ryuemi Sakamoto was curled up under a mountain of blankets, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other lying across her stomach. Her room was cozy and a bit chaotic—track medals tangled on the wall, manga volumes stacked precariously beside her bed.
Her muscles ached, and a faint throb pulsed through her temple. First awakenings were brutal, just like Akira had warned.
But her mind wasn’t on the pain.
He’d stayed close the whole time. Checked in on her. Protected her. Even the way he’d walked her home afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She’d tried to play it cool—cracked a few jokes, even—but inside, her heart had fluttered every time he looked her way.
He’s something else, she thought, curling in tighter under the blankets. Smart, strong, cool under pressure… and he still took the time to make sure I got home safe.
Her cheeks warmed as she stared into the darkness.
“I’m so screwed,” she whispered with a soft laugh.
------------------------------
Morgane Leclair stood at her window, brushing out her thick black hair. Her room was immaculate—soft lighting, books lined up like soldiers on a shelf, a porcelain doll display beneath a carefully hung poster of Ann from one of her modeling shoots.
She scowled at it, then sighed.
Akira was weird. Infuriatingly capable. He didn’t even brag about what he could do—he just did it. Absorbing Personas like it was easy. Switching tactics mid-battle like he’d been fighting Shadows for years.
And the way he looked out for Ryuemi…
Morgane pursed her lips, setting her brush down. She didn’t like how much that impressed her.
And yet… when he’d calmed them both down, when she’d started to snap—he didn’t get angry. Just kind of smiled and told them to focus.
“Tch.” She tugged her blanket over herself and flicked off the light. “Stupid showoff.”
But her thoughts lingered on him, even as she drifted to sleep.
---------------------------
Futaba Sakura sat in her darkened room, surrounded by glowing monitors and softly whirring tech. Her green hoodie was pulled over her head, her cat headphones askew as she munched on Pocky.
Chat windows blinked on one of the screens. She ignored them.
Instead, she kept staring at the chat logs from her conversations with Akira. He’d really responded. Talked to her. Listened to her ramble about whatever she wanted.
Most people didn’t. They called her names. Treated her like a freak.
But Akira? He listened. Even though they hadn’t met properly, he spoke to her like she mattered.
She reached for a new stick of Pocky, paused, then smiled.
“…He’s kind of a dork,” she mumbled, curling up in her chair. “But not a bad dork.”
------------------------
Ren Akechi sat cross-legged on her futon, a book in her lap and her black-framed glasses slipping down her nose. Her room was minimalist—neat, efficient, every object in its place. A quiet, rhythmic ticking from the clock was the only sound.
She hadn’t meant to think about him this much. Really.
But she couldn’t stop.
The boy who’d gotten tossed into the system for protecting someone. Three years in juvenile detention… and he still smiled like that.
Selfless, she thought, flipping a page she wasn’t reading. And kind of infuriating.
A tiny smile tugged at her lips.
She placed the book aside and turned off her light, staring at the ceiling in silence.
“…Don’t burn yourself out,” she whispered into the dark, unsure if she meant it for herself or him.
---------------------------------
Kasumi Yoshizawa lay on the upper bunk, tucked into her side beneath a fluffy floral comforter. Her room was shared—her twin sister Sumire snored softly below her, curled into a pink nest of pillows and plushies.
Kasumi, by contrast, lay wide awake.
Her heart still hadn’t stopped fluttering.
He’d saved her. Pulled her out of the way without a thought for himself. And then smiled at her—even while he was battered and bruised—asking if she was okay.
That dumb, soft smile had ruined her.
She covered her face with both hands, cheeks red as cherries.
“Stop thinking about him,” she muttered into the darkness. “Stop—ugh, Kasumi, you’re hopeless…”
But when she peeked back out from beneath the covers, a little smile remained.
And the last thing she saw before sleep took her was the memory of storm-grey eyes and a voice that made her feel like she mattered.
The air in the Velvet Room shimmered with blue as the flickering fireplace cast soft shadows across the walls. The Compendium on the low table in front of the hearth had stopped glowing, and now sat quiet and still—yet there was a weight to the silence, as if something powerful had just occurred.
Igor leaned back in his high-backed velvet chair, a pleased gleam in his eyes as he folded his long fingers beneath his chin. Lavenza, perched on the arm of the chair, was still catching her breath, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
Akira, seated across from them, casually leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A faint grin played on his lips, like someone who knew he had just done something very cool.
Igor chuckled deeply, his voice echoing like a bell beneath the soft crackle of the fire. “Quite the showing, Trickster. You continue to surprise even me.”
He gestured lazily toward the open air beside Akira, and the blue mist thickened into shimmering silhouettes—one by one, the Personas materialized:
Pixie floated gently, her tiny wings fluttering in the firelight. But unlike the nervous, low-level companion from before, this Pixie crackled with power. She giggled mischievously, one hand raised as electric sparks danced from her fingertips— Mazionga. Mediarama. Matarukaja. A battle-ready support goddess in miniature form.
Igor gave a low, thoughtful hmm, his eyes twinkling. “There was once another trickster who relied heavily on a Pixie, you know. In time, she could cast Megidolaon itself.” He smirked knowingly. “You’re not quite there yet… but I wouldn’t rule it out.”
Akira gave a modest shrug, but the pride in his eyes was unmistakable.
Lavenza suddenly giggled, pointing at the next figure as it emerged: Jack Frost, his signature “Hee-ho!” echoing through the room with cheerful force. But this wasn’t the beginner-friendly mascot most might recognize. This Jack was wrapped in an aura of frost so intense it crackled around his stubby limbs. Mabufudyne. Ice Boost. Ice Amp. Freeze Boost.
Lavenza snorted, something wholly undignified and utterly delightful. “Hee-ho, that’s cold,” she said, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You’ve turned him into a little walking blizzard!”
Akira smirked. “He is pretty chill.”
Even Igor chuckled at that one.
Next came the eerily serene form of Shiki-Ouji, drifting like a paper doll suspended on invisible strings. But beneath his traditional mask was a terrifying strength: Mapsiodyne. Psy Boost. Psy Amp. Triple Shot.
Igor raised a brow. “I see you’re investing in a diverse toolkit. Smart. You never know what affinity the next trial will test.”
And finally, the last shadow shifted in with a weighty presence—Okuninushi stepped into view like a war god from myth, his noble features and flowing robes crackling with a pressure that made even the other Personas take a step back. His usual Myriad Slashes now glowed with an unnatural crimson edge.
Lavenza’s voice dropped in awe. “…That’s not Myriad Slashes anymore, is it?”
Akira smiled. “Nope.”
With a flick of his fingers, Okuninushi lunged at an imaginary foe and unleashed Hassou Tobi—an eightfold strike so fast and precise, it blurred through the room like a thunderclap.
Igor nodded, impressed. “Resistant to all attacks… and now gifted with the legendary blade technique of the true warriors. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Akira leaned back, arms folded. “You did say there’d be changes this time around.”
Lavenza stood and gently closed the Compendium. “Indeed. But what you’ve created is… extraordinary. Most Tricksters take weeks to learn how to balance a single fusion chain. You’ve made it look easy.”
Akira smirked. “Just a bit special, I guess.”
Igor’s golden eyes gleamed. “You are.”
He gestured toward the mantle, where the twelve picture frames flickered with their Arcana symbols—Magician, High Priestess, Empress, Lovers, Chariot, Justice, Hermit, Fortune, Strength, Star, Moon, Faith—each glowing number beneath them ever so slightly brighter.
“One day soon,” Igor said softly, “they will not just glow… they will burn.”
Akira’s gaze lingered on the each of the frames in turn, before he stood from his seat and adjusted his ever-present hoodie.
“Guess I’d better be ready for that day.”
Lavenza handed him a small bundle—an ethereal scroll with the Velvet Room’s crest glowing faintly on the ribbon.
“For when you are,” she said.
And with that, the Velvet Room faded into mist.
Chapter 7: Love And Bullets
Summary:
TW: Attempted SA. (Nothing happens, but it's there.)
The (not yet) Phantom Thieves gain two new members, Kamoshida gets a taste of his own medicine, and 4 thirsty girls start a secret group chat.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Morning light filtered through the trees lining the path to Shujin, casting a soft golden hue over the sleepy school grounds. Akira adjusted the strap of his bag, hoodie half-zipped, headphones around his neck, and mind only half on the day ahead.
Advanced Criminal Psychology. Not exactly a light start to the day—but Professor Kawakami knew her stuff. Akira grinned to himself. “Becky really has moved up in this world.”
Up ahead, two sophomores chatted just loud enough to be overheard.
“You going to that rally today?”
“Like I have a choice. Kamoshida made it mandatory for anyone not dying of the plague.”
“Ugh, I bet he just wants to show off the volleyball team again. Creeper.”
Akira exhaled sharply through his nose. “Of course there’s a rally,” he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing as he adjusted his pace. Already mentally drafting a list of excuses—Medical exemption? Sudden existential dread? Allergic to narcissism?—he rounded the corner toward the east wing when a pair of muscular silhouettes stepped directly into his path.
One of them—tall, shaved head, ears slightly pink—gave him a sheepish glance.
“You Amamiya?”
Akira stopped, cocking his head lazily. “Who’s asking?”
The second one, shorter but broader, puffed up like a territorial pigeon. He stepped forward with all the subtlety of a brick through glass.
“Kamoshida-sensei asked us to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t skip the rally.”
Akira raised a brow, unamused. “Babysitting? Wow. What’d you guys do to get stuck with that?”
The shorter one scowled.
“Don’t play smart. A delinquent like you needs to learn how to show school spirit.”
Akira’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite not a smile. He leaned slightly forward, tone flat.
“I’ll be sure to wave a flag.”
Before the conversation could escalate, a bright, feminine voice cut in from behind, clear and disarming.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he stays.”
The athletes turned as one—and so did Akira.
And had to consciously stop himself from gaping.
Standing behind him was Ann Takamaki, glowing like a centerfold in the morning light. Her white-and-pink tennis dress hugged her curves like it had been painted on, the pleated skirt scandalously short, her legs toned and gleaming. Platform sneakers added an inch or two to her already tall frame, and her platinum-blonde hair was tied up in a bouncing high ponytail. Her gym bag was slung casually over one shoulder, and her expression was all lazy confidence.
Akira’s mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut.
Inside his mind, a flicker of static pulsed.
“Ooooh~ She's cute~!” Pixie’s voice echoed like a teasing wind chime through his consciousness, her aura flaring slightly in tune with Ann’s arrival.
Akira blinked. “...Great.”
The shorter athlete quickly stepped back, suddenly much more cooperative.
“O-oh, Takamaki-san! We were just, uh, making sure this guy knew the rules!”
Ann tilted her head, smiling sweetly—too sweetly. “I’m sure he does. He’s new, not stupid.”
The taller one looked between them and muttered something about needing to check in with the team before they both awkwardly peeled off and disappeared down the hallway.
Akira exhaled and gave Ann a sidelong glance. “Nice save.”
Ann gave a shrug, playful and cool. “Well, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t get on the wrong side of Kamoshida-sensei. Besides—” she tugged lightly at the edge of her skirt, “—if I’m gonna suffer through this thing, the least you can do is suffer with me.”
Akira chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair. “Fair. But I’m not sure the school spirit thing applies when this is the uniform.”
Ann gave him a wink. “Who says it’s for the school?”
Pixie fluttered in his subconscious, giggling.
“Oh-ho~ She's totally flirting with you!”
Akira ignored her. Ann was just being friendly.
“Come on,” Ann said, walking ahead, her steps rhythmic and full of confidence. “Let’s get to class before someone decides you need another babysitter.”
Akira followed with a sigh and a small smile. Between Ann’s radiant energy and Pixie’s flustered whispers in his head, today was shaping up to be… interesting.
The gymnasium buzzed with warm air, damp with humidity and the muted scent of polished wood, sweat, and barely restrained college-age boredom. The volleyball rally was in full swing—mandatory for all first-years and painfully long for anyone not playing.
Ann sat cross-legged on the lower bleachers beside Ryuemi and Shiho, her phone clutched in one hand and a lukewarm bottle of water in the other. Kasumi sat a row up, textbook forgotten in her lap. Morgane—dark hoodie up, arms crossed—pretended she wasn’t watching from behind a support pillar near the court’s edge. Except she totally was.
They were supposed to be watching the rally. Supporting their classmates.
But really, they were watching him.
Akira Amamiya, black tank top clinging to his back, hair tousled, jaw set in sharp lines as he launched into a high jump and slammed the ball into the opposing court.
Again.
And again.
Ann blinked slowly.
"That... that man is jacked."
Shiho hummed in agreement beside her. “Yeah…”
Ann’s voice dropped to a breathy murmur. “His muscles have muscles.”
Ryuemi, eyes glassy, nodded. “Yeah…”
Kasumi stared at the court, flustered. “He’s, um, definitely well-conditioned. From a sports science perspective.”
Morgane scoffed from her not-watching post. “You’re all ridiculous.”
But no one heard her—because Akira moved again. His entire body flowed like water, lean muscle shifting under his tank top as he slid to receive a spike, then pivoted with inhuman grace to counter. The way his forearms flexed as he slammed the ball back was just rude.
Shiho exhaled slowly. “He could crush a watermelon with those arms.”
Ann fanned herself with her water bottle cap. “He could crush me with those arms.”
Kasumi gasped faintly. “Ann!”
“What? I’m just appreciating athleticism,” Ann said, trying not to visibly bite her lip. “...in great detail.”
Ryuemi looked dazed. “He really just... moved like that’s normal. Is that normal? Are men allowed to look like that and move like that?”
Shiho leaned closer to Ann, deadpan. “Is it weird that I kinda want to see him hold a sword?”
Ann blinked. “Why would he need a sword?”
“I don’t know,” Shiho replied dreamily. “Just feels right.”
Another slam. Another point.
Akira stood at the net, chest heaving, sweat running down his neck in glistening trails. Then, as if sensing their collective thirst, he turned toward the bleachers with a warm smile.
All five girls froze like they'd been caught doing something very illegal.
Morgane turned her face to the wall. “Tch. Try-hards.”
Ann scrambled to fix her ponytail, suddenly hyperaware of her clothes. “Act normal,” she hissed to Shiho.
“Too late,” Ryuemi mumbled, visibly flushing.
Kasumi quickly opened her book and held it in front of her face. Upside-down.
Akira jogged off the court, towel slung over his shoulder, water bottle in hand. He wiped the sweat off his jaw, nodding to a teammate, and headed their way with the easy gait of someone completely oblivious to the effect he was having.
Ann swallowed.
Breathe. Smile. Say something normal.
He stopped just a few steps away. “Hey.”
Ann’s heart flipped. “H-hi. You were—uh, amazing out there.”
He smiled, just the faintest curve of his lips. “Thanks.”
“Like... wow,” Ryuemi blurted.
Shiho didn’t speak—she just stared.
Kasumi offered a shaky, “Good footwork.”
Morgane turned her entire body the other way.
Akira looked vaguely amused, raising a brow, then took another sip from his bottle. Someone called for him near the benches, and he gave a small wave before heading back across the court.
As soon as he was out of earshot, the chaos returned.
Ann groaned and buried her face in her hands. “He’s not even trying. That should be illegal.”
Shiho chuckled. “I blacked out for a minute. What year is it?”
Ryuemi fanned herself with her notebook. “Are we sure he’s just a psych major? Because that man is a weapon.”
Kasumi murmured, “I think I forgot how to conjugate verbs.”
Morgane scowled. “It’s just a shirtless guy playing sports. Big deal.”
“You are so watching,” Ann grinned. “I saw you peek.”
“I wasn’t peeking. I was glaring.”
“At his triceps?”
“…Shut up, Sakamoto.”
Ann just smirked, leaned back, and sighed as Akira scored yet another point.
Damn it. That boy really is jacked.
The whistle blew, and yet another point went to him.
Kamoshida’s jaw clenched. His temples throbbed.
That punk. That nobody from Inaba or whatever run-down, backwater dump he’d crawled out of. That delinquent.
Suguru Kamoshida, Olympic volleyball medalist, star athlete, reigning king of Shujin University’s athletics program, sat on the coach’s bench with his clipboard in hand—but his eyes weren’t on the scoreboard. Not anymore.
They were locked on them.
Ann Takamaki. Legs crossed, chest practically spilling out of that skin-tight dress like an offering. Laughing with her friends, throwing glances at Amamiya like he was worth her time.
Shiho Suzui. Good little athlete, once. Always obedient. But lately, she’d been distracted too. Not as pliant. Not as grateful.
Kasumi Yoshizawa. Prim, polite, modest—and utterly untouched. A challenge he’d been biding his time for.
And then there was Ryuemi Sakamoto. Loud, defiant, wild. The kind that needed taming. He’d had his eye on her for months. Waiting for her to break fully so he could pull her back to him.
And all of them... all of them were staring at him.
That damn brat.
“They should be watching me,” Kamoshida thought bitterly. Me. The one who built this program. The one who owns this school. Not some no-name juvie kid with a decent jump.
He tightened his grip on the clipboard, plastic creaking beneath his fingers.
“Ungrateful little teases,” he snarled inwardly. Ann should be begging to sit on my lap, not sneaking glances at that bastard like he’s some knight in shining armor. Shiho? She used to blush every time I passed by. Now she barely looks at me. Ryuemi needs discipline, and Kasumi... tch. Kasumi should be throwing herself at me for a chance to get ahead.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, smirking darkly.
They all owe me. Every one of those girls is where they are because of me. My protection. My attention. I made them visible. And now they think they can look away? At him?
He stood.
The rest of the bench—first string players, second-years who idolized him—stiffened automatically.
Kamoshida whistled sharply for a timeout, waving a hand like he owned the floor. The current scrimmage ground to a halt. He strutted out to the center line, stretching his shoulder casually, voice raised just enough to be heard by the entire gym.
“Looks like there is some decent competition this year.”
Akira—standing with a towel draped around his neck—lifted a brow, unimpressed.
Kamoshida’s smile widened, all teeth.
“Next match: Me and the varsity first string... versus Amamiya and his team. Let’s see if that lucky streak of yours holds up when you’re on the court with a real champion.”
There were murmurs from the crowd—some excited, some confused—but Kamoshida didn’t care. He wasn’t doing this for the students.
He was doing this to put him back in his place.
He was doing this to make the girls watch.
He turned, eyes drifting deliberately toward Ann, Shiho, Ryuemi, and Kasumi. A cruel glint lit up in his gaze.
“Let’s see if your little fan club still drools after I humiliate you in front of them.”
Kamoshida cracked his knuckles, sneering.
This rally? This day? This school?
Belonged to him.
And he’d remind everyone of that—by force, if necessary.
The first whistle blew.
Kamoshida’s team surged ahead like a machine—tall, trained, all muscle and synchronicity. Their spikes were brutal. Their blocks nearly impenetrable.
Akira’s team? Cobbled together from second-string athletes and a few volunteers who thought it might be “fun.”
But Akira Amamiya was not here to have fun.
He moved like lightning, legs pumping, eyes scanning the court like a strategist mid-battle. He wasn't just playing—he was commanding. When one of his teammates fumbled a pass, he was already diving in to recover. When Kamoshida’s middle blocker tried to spike him out of the game, Akira met the ball with a flawless dig, rolling with the impact and springing back to his feet.
And he never once stopped encouraging the others.
“You’ve got this. Next time, aim for the corner.”
“Don’t worry about the last one, we’re still in this.”
“Watch their setter—he’s telegraphing the left.”
By the time the scoreboard read 22–14, Akira’s team looked ragged—but determined.
Then the shift happened.
Akira spiked the ball straight through Kamoshida’s triple block.
The air snapped with impact.
Kamoshida’s team blinked.
Akira grinned.
From there, it was a whirlwind. Akira chased every ball, jumped higher, moved faster, shouted louder. The team fed off his energy, pulling together with almost unnatural rhythm. The points came fast—17, 18, 19, 20.
The crowd was on its feet as Akira’s team clawed the score to 24–24.
But Kamoshida wasn’t done yet. He leapt for a spike—arms gleaming with sweat, rage in his eyes—and slammed the ball into the far left corner.
Set point. 25–24.
Then came a brutal rally, a back-and-forth war of stamina. Akira blocked two spikes, saved a third, and dove for a near-impossible dig—
But it wasn’t enough.
Kamoshida’s team took the first set 26–24.
Second Set
Kamoshida strutted back to his side, smirking, soaking in the applause like a narcissistic war god.
But Akira?
He didn’t fume. He didn’t panic.
He turned to his team, panting, grinning.
“That was good. But we’re better.”
And damn if they didn’t believe him.
The second set was faster. Sharper. Akira read Kamoshida’s plays like a book. He shifted formation mid-rally, exploiting every weakness. His serves became laser-guided. His smashes? Devastating.
Even Kamoshida started cursing under his breath.
Ann, Shiho, Kasumi, Ryuemi—all watched, breathless, as Akira took flight again and again. The air practically shimmered around him as he landed the final point of the second set with a spinning spike that echoed off the gym walls.
Set two: Akira’s team, 25–21.
Third Set – Final Round
Kamoshida’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter.
“How the hell is this happening?” he hissed to one of his players.
Akira walked back to the court with calm, deadly confidence.
The tension was thick. The gym was silent but for the buzz of the overhead lights and the squeak of sneakers on polished wood.
The whistle blew.
This was it.
The king versus the wildcard.
And Kamoshida was pissed.
The final set started like a battlefield already scorched.
Kamoshida’s team came out hard—brutal spikes, shoving past the net, borderline fouls on every play. But the referees looked the other way. This was Kamoshida, after all. The university’s Olympic medalist. Their golden boy.
Akira felt the mood shift the instant the ball was served.
It wasn't just a game anymore. It was punishment.
Kamoshida barked orders like a war general, slamming the ball with every ounce of his rage, deliberately aiming at faces, ankles, wrists—anything vulnerable.
And then—
CRACK.
The ball slammed into Mishima’s face with a sickening crunch, the sound of cartilage breaking reverberating across the gym.
Mishima crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from his nose.
The crowd gasped.
The referee raised his whistle—
KWEET—
“GET HIM OFF THE COURT!” Kamoshida roared, face twisted in rage. “PUT SOMEONE ELSE IN—OR DON’T. I DON’T CARE.”
For a moment, silence.
Everyone turned to Akira.
He stood in the back corner, backlit by the fluorescent lights.
Still.
Silent.
Laser-focused.
He stepped forward, and in that moment, the temperature of the game changed. Something ancient stirred behind those storm-grey eyes. Something coiled and restrained.
Ann felt it from the stands—her breath hitched. Ryuemi shivered. Even Morgane narrowed her eyes, watching her leader transform.
The game resumed.
But this wasn't a game anymore.
It was war.
Every point Kamoshida’s team scraped together, Akira equalized with ruthless, surgical precision. He anticipated every movement. Cut off every angle. Jumped higher than should’ve been humanly possible.
The score ticked up—
12–12.
15–15.
18–18.
Sweat soaked every shirt. Muscles trembled. The gym was silent except for the thud of the ball, the grunts of impact, and the screech of shoes sliding on waxed floors.
Then came the final blow.
Kamoshida, furious and feral, launched a spike like a cannonball toward another one of Akira’s teammates—an obvious headshot.
But this time—
Akira was there.
He leapt. Higher than anyone else on the court.
Time slowed.
His hand met the ball mid-air with a thunderous SMACK, deflecting it perfectly—
—and then he slammed it right back into Kamoshida’s face.
CRACK.
The impact echoed like a gunshot.
Kamoshida’s body whipped back as the ball rebounded off his face, and he collapsed to the floor, completely knocked out cold.
The ball bounced once. Twice.
Then silence.
And then—
Cheers. Deafening. Wild. Uncontainable.
Akira just landed, panting quietly, expression unreadable as he looked down at Kamoshida’s limp form.
The score on the board read: 27–25. Akira’s team wins.
Kamoshida’s unconscious form was being stretchered off the court, blood trickling from his nose where Akira’s return spike had landed dead center. His team hovered uncertainly, unsure whether to help or pretend they hadn’t seen a thing.
The crowd was split right down the middle.
Half erupted in cheers—students clapping, whistling, shouting Akira’s name.
The other half? Glaring daggers. Whispers hissed through the gym like venom:
“Did you see what he did to Sensei?”
“He meant to do that.”
“He should be expelled.”
But Akira didn’t react.
He just stood tall, chest heaving, eyes still storm-dark with adrenaline.
Then—
“Akira!”
A streak of red and white barreled toward him.
Ann reached him first, hair flying out behind her, tennis skirt swishing as she skidded to a halt.
“You okay?!” she gasped, her hands ghosting over his shoulders, arms, chest—checking for bruises.
“I’m fine,” Akira said with a faint smirk. “Though I appreciate the thorough inspection.”
Ann flushed but didn’t back off.
Ryuemi arrived next, practically sprinting across the court, dragging Shiho behind her. “You blocked that monster. Like, in the face. That was so—so—hot!”
Morgane stood a little apart, arms crossed but eyes wide. “Tch... Show-off,” she muttered, though her cheeks were suspiciously pink.
Kasumi lingered near the bleachers, biting her lip, her face caught between awe and concern.
Akira gave them all a reassuring nod. “I’m alright. Really. Just need a shower.”
He turned and walked off the court, shoulders relaxed now, the adrenaline ebbing away.
A Few Hours Later – Director Kobiyakawa’s Office
The mood was... different.
Akira sat across from the Director’s broad desk, his wet hair still faintly curling at the ends, a clean button-down over his frame. His expression was neutral, unreadable.
Director Kobiyakawa, however, was clearly not calm.
“You do realize,” he said, voice low and clipped, “that what you did could be construed as assault, Mr. Amamiya.”
Akira tilted his head slightly. “He spiked a ball into another student’s face. Broke his nose.”
“There’s no proof he meant to do it,” Kobiyakawa snarled. “But you—you knocked a respected faculty member unconscious.”
He leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers. “That alone could justify expulsion.”
Akira didn’t flinch. “But I’m not being expelled.”
Kobiyakawa’s lip curled. “No. As much as I don’t believe this was an accident, I have no concrete proof of your intentions. The best we can do is sweep this under the rug and let you off with a warning. Don’t make me regret that.”
Akira’s tone remained polite. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Kobiyakawa huffed, shuffling a few papers, before muttering, “Lucky for you, he’s conscious again. Mild concussion. Nothing permanent.”
Akira stood, offering a respectful nod despite the sour look on his face. “That is lucky. For him.”
“Dismissed,” Kobiyakawa snapped.
Akira left the office silently, expression unreadable—but his eyes carried the weight of something deeper. Not guilt. Not fear.
Resolve.
The sky had begun to soften into gold as Akira stepped out of the main building, his bag slung over one shoulder and his hair still slightly damp from the post-rally shower. The ache in his arms and shoulders was settling in—familiar, almost welcome—but a heavier weight still clung to him.
Kobiyakawa’s words echoed in his head like a bitter aftertaste.
"What you did could be considered assault."
"Lucky for you, he's conscious."
Akira rolled his neck with a sigh. He’d known going in that challenging Kamoshida, even subtly, would have consequences. But hearing the warning delivered with such venom had still hit harder than expected.
His phone buzzed.
With a tired huff, he pulled it out of his pocket—expecting a reminder, maybe a message from Morgane or Ryuemi.
Instead, the screen was lit up with a flood of texts from one very enthusiastic source.
Meme Queen:
DUUUUUDE
I just saw the footage.
Who even ARE you??
that spike was illegal. i’m pressing charges.
charges of you being too hot on main 🔥🔥🔥
why do your arms look like they could crush a watermelon???
Akira blinked. His lips twitched upward, then he let out a quiet, almost helpless laugh as the texts kept coming in.
Meme Queen:
wait, HOLD UP
“volleyball daddy” is trending on three different local forums 💀💀💀
you just activated like six people’s awakening fetishes bro
i’m proud. i’m disturbed. mostly proud tho 😏
He paused, standing in the dappled sunlight between buildings, and tapped out a response.
Trickster:
You’re supposed to be a hacker, not my PR agent.
...and volleyball daddy??? Seriously?
Meme Queen:
don’t blame ME
blame that slow-mo clip someone posted with dramatic music
and those shorts.
y’all knew what you were doing.
Akira let out a soft groan and ran a hand through his hair, looking up at the sky. Somehow, despite everything, Futaba always managed to make him smile.
Trickster:
Anything else I should know?
Do I need to change my name?
Meme Queen:
pls don’t. Akira Amamiya is hot. Sounds like a rebel prince.
also... might wanna get off campus for a while.
Kamo's fanclub is pissed.
but your simp army is growing stronger by the hour 💪
Trickster:
That’s… comforting. I think.
He was just about to put the phone away when something drew his attention.
Movement—subtle, quiet—across the quad, near the gym building.
Three figures.
Two male athletes—clearly part of the volleyball team—were walking on either side of a slender brunette girl, their presence just a little too close. She walked with her head bowed, arms hugging herself as though trying to shrink smaller. Her steps were quick, but not eager.
Shiho.
His stomach dropped.
The sunlight caught her face just long enough for him to see her forced smile and the way her eyes flicked around—like she was hoping someone might notice. Might stop her.
Neither of the boys seemed concerned with that. One of them said something Akira couldn’t hear and laughed, loud and crass. Shiho didn’t respond.
She didn’t look like someone heading to practice.
No, she looked like someone being escorted.
Akira’s blood turned cold. The feeling in his chest—low, tight, thrumming—was one he remembered from the night that had ruined his life. That same sensation of watching something wrong happen, knowing what was about to come, and being the only one willing to stand in the way.
Not again.
The door to the gym closed behind the trio.
Akira was already moving.
His steps were brisk at first, then faster, cutting across the quad with laser focus. The crowd from earlier had thinned; most students were packing up or heading to club meetings, but no one else had noticed.
Or maybe they had—and just decided not to see it.
Akira reached the gym doors, pushed them open, and stepped into the cool echoing silence inside.
Somewhere in the building, a faint door creaked shut.
And Akira’s eyes narrowed.
The gym was quiet—eerily so. The muffled echo of distant footsteps and the occasional creak of the rafters only seemed to amplify the pounding of Kamoshida’s heart in his ears. Or maybe that was the pain in his face. His nose throbbed with every breath, swollen and crooked after that damn delinquent had dared to put him down in front of everyone.
Kamoshida seethed, pacing the gym slowly in the growing shadows, the echo of his steps mixing with the faint creak of the rafters overhead. His knuckles were white where they clenched around a half-empty water bottle. He hurled it against the wall. It exploded, spraying plastic and water across the floor.
“They were supposed to be mine,” he hissed to the air. “All of them.”
Ann. Shiho. Ryuemi. Even that polite little gymnast, Kasumi. They smiled at him in the halls, they bowed, they giggled when he praised them during practice—what more did they want? He gave them attention. Opportunity. Himself.
And what did he get?
Looks of pity.
Worse—revulsion.
They were just girls. Stupid, pretty, naïve little girls who thought they were too good for the man who could make or break their entire future.
But that would change. Oh, it would change tonight.
Just then, the doors creaked open at the far end of the gym. Kamoshida’s dark gaze swung over—and his grin returned, twisted and vile.
Shiho Suzui.
Flanked by two of his most loyal players—meat-heads who knew not to question him.
Shiho's face was pale, her hands clasped in front of her stomach like she was trying to fold in on herself. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Good. That meant she understood. Fear was the first step.
“Well, well, well…” Kamoshida purred, limping toward her like a predator. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon, sweetheart. Still sore from your matches today? Hm?”
Shiho flinched, her eyes darting to the doors, her lips trembling. “P-please, Kamoshida-sensei. I just wanted to go home—”
“You’ll go home when I say you can.” He leaned in close, breath hot and sour against her cheek. “But not before you do me a little favor.”
Her face twisted, confused.
“I want you to call Ann.”
Shiho shook her head instantly. “No. No, I—I won’t—”
CRACK.
The slap echoed through the gym like a gunshot. Shiho hit the floor hard, crying out as she cradled her face, tears already welling in her eyes.
Kamoshida loomed above her, already unbuckling his belt.
“You’ll call her. Or your teammates will hear all about your ‘secret after hours’ coaching. You think you’ve got a future in education? Athletics? Not if I say otherwise.”
Shaking. Silent.
Then—broken.
With trembling hands, Shiho pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered for a moment, then dialed. The phone rang once, twice...
“Ann… hey,” Shiho whispered hoarsely, her voice trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “C-can you come to the gym? It’s… it’s urgent.”
A beat.
“Please.”
She hung up. And the phone slipped from her fingers like a dead thing.
“Good girl,” Kamoshida crooned, giving her hair a little pat—like a dog. “Now let’s get you settled.”
He nodded at his flunkies, who each grabbed one of Shiho’s arms, yanking her upright.
“No,” she whimpered. “Please, stop—”
Kamoshida chuckled darkly and began unzipping his pants.
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
The doors to the gym exploded inward with a thunderous crash.
The sound echoed like a bomb.
And standing in the doorway, framed by dying sunlight and shadows like a wraith from hell, was Akira Amamiya.
His face was unreadable. But his eyes—
His eyes were murder.
Kamoshida's laughter died in his throat.
"Step away from her," Akira said, voice low and lethal.
Kamoshida's eyes bulged for a second, lips parting in stunned silence. But then, like a mask snapping into place, he barked a sharp, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?”
In one swift motion, he yanked his waistband back up and stormed forward, flanked on either side by his two trusted goons. His swagger returned, though his hand trembled faintly as he wiped the sweat from his brow, hiding it behind a sneer.
“You got some goddamn nerve, showing up here like you own the place,” he snarled. “This is my gym, punk. You just signed your own expulsion.”
Akira didn’t even glance at him.
His eyes were locked on Shiho.
She sat crumpled near the center of the gym floor, shivering where the two thugs had dropped her. Her blouse was wrinkled, her eyes red, her cheek blotchy and swelling from the slap. She looked up at Akira, lips trembling—not in fear of him, but in the raw aftershock of everything she’d just endured.
And something inside him snapped.
The first of the meatheads reached out—too slow.
CRACK.
Akira’s fist shot forward like lightning, colliding with the guy’s jaw in a clean, brutal arc. The thug spun sideways and dropped like a sack of bricks.
Kamoshida halted mid-step, blinking as if his brain couldn’t process what just happened. “Wha—?”
“Get him!” he snapped, pointing at Akira as if summoning a dog.
The second thug lunged forward, fury on his face.
Akira met him with a brutal uppercut that lifted the guy clean off his feet. He landed hard on the polished gym floor, groaning and twitching.
Silence.
Then—
Tap… tap… tap…
Akira walked forward slowly, sneakers echoing through the quiet gym. He didn’t look at Kamoshida. Didn’t even acknowledge the pathetic sputtering rage building in the man’s face.
He only moved past him.
To Shiho.
The moment he reached her, he dropped to one knee, slow and gentle. Wordless. His coat came off his shoulders in one fluid movement, and he draped it over her like a shield. Her fingers clutched the fabric as if it were armor.
“You’re safe now,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”
Her lip quivered. Her eyes welled. And though she couldn’t speak, she nodded.
When Akira stood again, something had changed.
His whole posture shifted—casual, calm, but coiled like a spring. A storm behind still waters. He turned, finally facing Kamoshida.
The former Olympian had backed toward the gym doors—and now he wasn’t alone.
Three more volleyball players had entered behind him. Fresh recruits. Big, tall, muscles-first, brains-later types. The two thugs Akira had decked earlier were groaning and beginning to rise behind him.
Kamoshida stood at the head of the pack, clutching his broken nose, eyes wide despite the cocky grin plastered across his face.
“You just made this a whole lot worse for yourself, freak,” he growled. “Five against one. I hope you’re ready to get wrecked.”
His voice echoed in the space between them—but his eyes betrayed the truth.
He was scared.
Akira rolled his shoulders, tilting his head slightly.
The silence was broken by the sound of Shiho whispering behind him.
“…Akira…”
He didn’t respond—not with words.
Instead, he stepped forward.
And five men stepped toward him.
Shiho couldn't move. Not from where she lay on the cold gym floor, Kamoshida’s slap still ringing in her ears, her fingers still trembling from the call she’d been forced to make. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her chest tight, her mind reeling.
Then the door slammed open, cracking against the wall with a thunderous crash.
She turned toward the sound and saw him.
Akira.
He stood in the doorway, shadows clinging to him like armor, his storm-grey eyes locked on her. Not on Kamoshida. Not on the flunkies. Just... her. Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Her heart thudded in her chest, confused and overwhelmed, as if her soul couldn’t keep up with everything happening.
One of the jocks stepped forward to intercept Akira, and in a blink, he was on the ground—Akira’s fist having connected with his jaw so fast Shiho barely registered the movement. The second lunged, and Akira put him down with one single fist to the jaw.
Kamoshida froze. For a second, he looked... unsure.
Akira didn’t spare him a glance. He stalked forward, past the stunned predator, and knelt beside her.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was low, gentle—a startling contrast to the violence he’d just unleashed. His black jacket slid from his shoulders and was draped over her trembling form. The warmth of it, the scent of him—soap and coffee—grounded her. She shook her head weakly, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face, then stood.
Kamoshida snarled, trying to regain control of the situation. "You really think you’re gonna walk out of here? Get him!"
Three more meatheads emerged from behind him, and the two Akira had already flattened were groaning as they climbed to their feet.
Shiho wanted to scream, to tell him to run—but Akira didn’t even flinch.
He rolled his shoulders.
And then he moved.
She watched, stunned, as he weaved through them like a storm through trees—fluid, fast, and unrelenting. Fists met jaws, knees met ribs, and in less than a minute, the five jocks were groaning on the floor, sprawled like discarded puppets.
Shiho’s mouth parted. She didn’t know what she was feeling. Terror. Gratitude. Relief. Awe. Something hotter and deeper stirred in her chest too, something she couldn’t name—not yet.
Akira turned back to her, his breathing only slightly heavier, eyes softened. He didn’t say anything. He just scooped her up into his arms like she weighed nothing, cradling her gently but firmly.
She didn’t resist. Her arms came up instinctively to wrap around his neck, her face burying against his shoulder as her tears finally broke free.
Then, as if fate itself had planned it, the gym doors opened again—Ann, Ryuemi, and Morgane barreling in.
They skidded to a stop at the sight before them.
Akira. Standing tall. Bloody knuckles. Shiho in his arms. The wreckage of Kamoshida’s muscle strewn behind them like broken statues.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Then Ann’s voice, tight with emotion, cracked the silence. “Shiho...?”
Shiho didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
Akira was already walking toward them.
And for the first time since stepping into that gym, Shiho felt safe.
Shiho clung tightly to Akira, her legs finally finding the strength to hold her as he gently set her down. She was still shaken—her lip split, her cheek beginning to bruise, but she was standing. Thanks to him.
Ann was at her side in an instant, arms wrapping protectively around her best friend. “Are you okay?” she whispered, voice tight with worry.
Shiho gave a small nod, though her body trembled. “I think so…”
Ryuemi hovered close, her expression a mix of fury and concern. Morgane stood a little farther back, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, watching everything like a hawk. She looked like she wanted to say something but was still working through the shock.
Akira exhaled through his nose, steady but intense, like he was trying to keep the fury boiling just beneath his skin from spilling over again. His voice, when he spoke, was low and even. “Ann... can you get her home?”
Ann blinked, torn, but nodded. “Of course. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”
Akira gave a grateful look—brief but sincere—and began to turn away.
That’s when he muttered it under his breath.
“Time to go in.”
Ann blinked. “Wait… what?”
She turned just in time to see Akira, Ryuemi, and Morgane—now already slipping into that strange, hyper-focused state—striding toward the school building like soldiers heading into battle.
A warning prickled at the edge of her thoughts.
Ann’s feet moved, but her mind warred with itself. Shiho needs you. But Akira—what’s he about to do? What if he gets hurt? Or worse?
“I should—” she began.
But Shiho grabbed her wrist.
“Come on, Ann,” she said, her voice steadier now, the steel behind it returning. “We need to follow them. Who knows what Kamoshida might try next.”
Ann hesitated just for a second longer… then nodded.
Together, the two girls took off, chasing after the trio heading inside.
And then—it happened.
It wasn’t a sound, exactly. Or a shift they could see.
It was a feeling. Like the ground itself gave way, the air thickening and warping. One step, and the world twisted.
Suddenly, the pair stumbled to a halt, eyes wide, breath catching in their throats.
The familiar brick and glass façade of Shujin University was gone.
In its place stood a towering medieval castle, bathed in sickly red light. Gargoyles leered down at them from the ramparts. Massive banners bearing a crown-and-whip sigil snapped in the breeze. The sky above was dark, churning clouds tinged with purple lightning. The building pulsed with twisted life, radiating malice.
Ann gasped. “What the hell…?”
Shiho gripped her arm tightly. “Is this…? Is this what he meant by ‘going in’?”
From further down the cracked stone bridge that now stretched toward the massive double doors of the castle, they saw them—Akira, Ryuemi, and Morgane. Their figures were silhouetted against the red haze, walking with purpose, unshaken by the transformation.
Ann’s heart thumped.
Something was happening here. Something bigger than anything she’d imagined.
And she wasn’t about to sit it out.
“Let’s go,” she said, determination flashing in her eyes.
Shiho nodded, and the two girls stepped forward, following their friends into the unknown.
Ann and Shiho crept through the bizarre, twisted halls of the castle—trying their best to stay silent, to keep up without being seen. The sounds of Akira’s group echoed distantly ahead—footsteps, the occasional low voice, the metallic clink of Morgane’s throwing disc shifting on her belt.
They were too far to be seen, but close enough to still feel the heat of their purpose.
Ann swallowed hard. “Are we… even supposed to be here?”
Shiho didn’t answer right away. Her face was pale, eyes wide as they scanned every leering statue, every flickering torch. “I don’t think any of us are supposed to be here.”
They turned a corner, only to find a hallway blocked by thick iron bars—recently shut.
“No…” Ann breathed, fingers curling around the cold metal. “We lost them.”
Shiho bit her lip. “Maybe… maybe we should go back.”
Ann hesitated. Something in her gut said no. That if they turned around now, they'd be leaving something unfinished. Someone in danger.
“Let’s… try another way,” she said quietly, spotting a narrow passage carved into the wall, partially hidden behind a velvet curtain.
It was barely more than a crawlspace—dark, winding, and suffocating—but it opened after a few turns into something… strange. The air changed again as they passed under an ornate archway. This corridor was different—more elegant in design, but somehow even more sinister. Gold leaf decorated the walls. Velvet curtains hung from high pillars. It almost looked like a grand gallery.
Then they saw the paintings.
Dozens lined the walls.
Portraits—of girls. Of women.
All students. All from Shujin.
Ann’s breath caught in her throat.
Shiho took a step back, horror blooming across her face.
The paintings were obscene—carnal, degrading. Girls posed in humiliating positions. Bent over desks, sprawled across beds, leashed like animals. Some of them were weeping. Others looked empty. Hollow.
Some were moving.
Ann’s stomach turned violently as her eyes fell on the next canvas—featuring herself, painted in hauntingly perfect detail. Her outfit was a parody of her real-world fashion—leather straps and pink lace. She was biting her lip, sprawled provocatively on a throne-shaped bed, a cartoon heart floating above her head.
Shiho's painting was just as horrifying. It showed her kneeling in a pool of rose petals, mascara running down her face, with a golden collar tight around her neck. There were words scrawled in crimson paint beneath it: "Pet Project."
“No,” Shiho whispered. “No no no no—”
“Is this what he sees us as?” Ann gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
They stood frozen in the corridor, paralyzed by disbelief and disgust.
They didn’t hear the guards until it was too late.
Heavy boots pounded the floor behind them—three of them, clad in twisted volleyball gear and wielding cruel metal rods shaped like spiked batons.
Ann’s eyes went wide. “Run—!”
But more emerged behind them—too many.
A gloved hand grabbed Ann’s wrist. Another yanked Shiho back.
They struggled, kicked, screamed.
But the guards were strong. Silent.
And this place—it wasn’t normal. It sapped their strength, twisted their screams into silence.
As the girls were dragged deeper into the passageway, the spotlight over their paintings flickered—like the castle itself was watching.
This time, it was different.
The twisted halls of Kamoshida’s Palace—the grotesque statues, the leering portraits, the blood-red banners with crowns and chains—none of it made Joker pause. No hesitations. No planning out the perfect route. No carefully letting his companions take the lead so they could learn.
Now?
Now, he moved like a storm.
Shadows leapt from the darkness, snarling in warped armor and monstrous forms—only to be incinerated a moment later by a snap of Joker’s fingers. One swipe from Pixie’s Mazionga fried a full cluster of guards. Jack Frost froze an entire hallway solid before Akira shattered it with a flick of his dagger. Shiki-Ouji’s psychic blasts cracked through even reinforced barriers, and Okuninushi’s blade carved through elite guards in a single devastating slash.
Comet was panting as she ran to keep up, sweat on her brow. “J-Joker—can we slow down for a—?!”
Another group of Shadows dropped from the ceiling. Joker didn’t even look. He flicked his wrist—Arsene’s eyes gleamed—and the corridor erupted in dark fire. The Shadows didn’t even get the chance to scream.
“Never mind,” Comet said breathlessly. “We’re good. We’re—whoa.”
Vent was quiet. She’d stopped questioning his power a while ago. Now she was just watching, observing with wide eyes and a growing sense of awe. “You’ve done this before,” she muttered.
Joker didn’t respond. The only sound was the echo of his boots, steady and unrelenting, as they tore deeper into the Palace.
They reached the ornate double doors of the library. Ryuemi went to push them open—then stopped.
Whispers surrounded them like smoke.
“Please… please stop… it hurts…”
“Why? I trusted you—”
“Let me go! Let me go!!”
“I don’t want this… I didn’t mean to…”
Most of the voices were female, distant and echoing like the cries of ghosts.
But beneath it all, a single male voice—faint, shaking, broken—sobbed.
“No more. Please. I can’t watch this. I didn’t want this… I didn’t…”
“Wh… what’s that?” Comet asked, hugging her arms around herself.
Joker’s voice came low and even, eyes flicking toward a small ironbound door tucked into the shadows at the back of the library. “It’s coming from over there.”
Vent shuddered as she nervously spins her throwing disc. “No way. That sounds… messed up. What even is that?”
Joker’s storm-grey eyes never left the door. He spoke quietly. “The last shred of Kamoshida’s conscience.”
Both girls turned to him.
“His what?” Comet asked.
“His conscience,” he repeated. “The piece of his soul that still remembers what it was to be human. To be good.”
Vent narrowed her eyes, unsettled. “You’re saying this bastard used to be a good person?”
Joker’s lips twitched—not quite a smile. More of a sorrowful ghost of one. “Monsters aren’t born, Vent. They’re made. There was a time when even his heart was pure… probably when he was just a fresh-eyed volleyball player trying to make it in the world.”
The whispers pulsed, rising like the breath of the building itself.
“But little by little,” Joker went on, “that kindness got buried. Under resentment. Jealousy. Greed. Power.”
He turned toward the girls. “And every time he gave in, every time he crossed a line, the part of him that knew it was wrong got smaller. Until all that’s left…” He gestured to the door. “Is that.”
The three of them stood in silence as the voices echoed around them.
Joker stepped toward the small door.
“We don’t have time for every origin story,” he murmured. “But we can’t ignore this one either.”
He reached for the handle.
The moment Joker opened the door, the world around them shifted.
Gone were the castle walls. Gone were the velvet carpets and the grotesque depictions of thrones and chains and broken girls. Instead, the three of them stood in a long, echoing corridor made of fragmented memories. The walls shimmered like broken glass, each pane showing a moment, a memory—alive with movement, color, sound.
They were walking through Kamoshida’s soul.
The first shard shimmered brighter than the rest.
A teenage boy in a faded gym shirt ran suicides across a dusty court, diving for balls, panting, bleeding from his elbows, but still pushing forward. His teammates groaned and collapsed all around him, but he just kept going. The coach—a grizzled older man—was yelling at him from the sideline, but the boy wasn’t deterred.
He smiled.
“You wanna go to the Olympics, don’t you, Kamoshida?” the coach barked.
“Yes, sir!” the boy shouted, breathless but grinning.
“Is that…” Vent whispered, stunned.
Joker nodded. “That’s him.”
Comet frowned, disoriented. “He looks… so normal.”
They moved to the next shard.
The same boy—now a man—was standing on a global stage, golden sunlight glinting off the medal around his neck. His teammates hoisted him up, chanting his name, as the Japanese flag was raised high above the stadium. Cameras flashed. Reporters surged. But even as the crowd roared, Kamoshida just bowed his head, smiling humbly.
“I didn’t win this alone,” he told the cameras. “This was a team victory.”
He meant it.
They moved again.
Another shard. A new memory.
Kamoshida now wore designer suits, his hair slicked back. The halls of television studios flashed past him in rapid motion—talk shows, interviews, autograph signings. Fans screamed his name. Female hosts leaned in too close. The humble smile was still there, but it was getting thinner.
Next came the contracts.
The sports talent agency.
The elite volleyball team.
The first time someone called him “The King of the Court.”
Then came the night.
The memory was hazy, but saturated with color and sound. Pulsing music. Neon lights. Bottles of champagne overflowing. Kamoshida slouched in a plush booth, laughing with other athletes and celebrities. His shirt was half undone, his eyes glazed.
A woman sat beside him.
Long legs, a designer dress, fake lashes. She leaned in, whispering something in his ear that made him laugh.
Cut to the penthouse.
Dim lighting. Kamoshida staggering, shirtless. The woman trying to help him undress. Kissing him. But when things started to go further…
…he faltered.
Confusion.
Embarrassment.
Then—mocking.
“Seriously? The great ‘King of the Court’ can’t even get it up?” she giggled.
Something snapped.
The laughter stopped.
Kamoshida grabbed her by the wrist. The scene distorted.
Yelling.
Panic.
Screams.
A slap. Then worse.
The scene blacked out.
When it returned, Kamoshida sat on the floor, still drunk, staring at his bloodied hands.
The woman was unconscious on the bed, makeup smeared, bruises blooming across her face.
The door burst open.
His manager stepped inside, eyes widening. There was a pause. A moment of horror.
Then: calculation.
“Clean yourself up. We’ll take care of this.”
The next memory was silent.
No sound. No music.
Kamoshida sat alone in a press room, dressed in mourning black. The woman had disappeared. The agency issued a statement about a misunderstanding. No charges filed. The tabloids never even caught wind.
And Kamoshida realized—he could get away with it.
The memories began to fracture rapidly now.
New faces. New victims.
Flirtations with students.
Slaps disguised as training.
The first time a girl cried when he touched her shoulder.
The time he didn’t stop.
Each shard darker than the last. Until there was no more gold, no more courts, no more smiles.
Just the shadow of a man in a crown, sitting alone on a velvet throne surrounded by broken reflections of who he used to be.
Joker stood silent, jaw clenched.
Comet was pale, her hands fisted.
Vent had stopped making quips.
None of them spoke for a long moment.
Then Joker turned away from the door.
“…Let’s go,” he said quietly.
The deeper they moved into the Palace, the more warped and grotesque the architecture became. The air grew heavier, charged with something vile. The velvet stone gave way to crimson-stained marble, and the walls were adorned with murals too twisted to be called art—depictions of young women in chains, kneeling before a looming figure in a golden crown.
And then they saw it.
At the end of a long, torch-lit corridor stood a pair of heavy double doors, made of dark wood carved with roses… and thorns. Above the arch, fluttering like a grotesque flag, hung a crimson banner embroidered in gold:
“The Chamber of Love.”
Comet grimaced. “Gross…”
Vent narrowed her eyes. “Whatever’s in there… it won’t be good.”
Joker didn’t say a word. He pushed the doors open with both hands.
What lay beyond made even him stop for a second.
The chamber was massive, styled like a twisted boudoir. Velvet cushions littered the ground. Chains hung from the ceiling like chandeliers. The scent of cheap perfume and something foul choked the air.
And in the center of the room—elevated on platforms like sick, medieval altars—were Ann and Shiho.
They were tied down with thick, silken ropes to torture devices that looked like someone had read about medieval dungeons and decided they weren’t kinky enough. Ann was on what looked like a stretching rack, wrists and ankles restrained in padded cuffs, while Shiho was strapped to a wide wooden crossbar, bent at the waist with her arms restrained above her. Both were fully clothed, but their eyes were filled with unmistakable terror.
“ANN! SHIHO!” Comet shouted, bolting forward.
A wall of elite Shadows materialized between them—hulking, armored figures carrying spears and manacles. From a raised dais at the back of the chamber, a familiar, mocking laugh rang out.
“Well, well, well. Look who decided to crash the party.”
Shadow Kamoshida.
He reclined on a velvet lounge like it was a throne, shirtless and gleaming with oil, gold crown tilted jauntily on his head. And kneeling at either side of him were…
Shadow Ann and Shadow Shiho.
They wore next to nothing—thin strips of lace masquerading as lingerie. Each wore a thick leather collar around her neck, attached to gold leashes in Kamoshida’s hands. The shadows purred against Kamoshida’s sides, draping themselves over him like cats in heat. One fed him grapes; the other licked at his jawline. Their eyes glowed pink, and their hands wandered across his bare chest.
“Isn’t this perfect?” Shadow Kamoshida drawled. “My pets, right where they belong. Worshipping their King. Just the way it should be.”
Ann’s real voice cracked from across the room. “S-Stop… get away from him…”
Shiho struggled against her restraints, tears streaking down her face. “Please… don’t look at us…”
Shadow Kamoshida grinned wider. “Oh, don’t worry. They’ll learn to love it. In fact, I think they’re starting to already.” He tugged the leashes. Shadow Ann and Shiho both moaned as if on cue, gazing up at him with glassy-eyed affection.
Comet’s fists clenched. “You bastard—!”
Joker put a hand on her shoulder.
The Shadows in front of them stepped forward, weapons raised. The room tensed. For a moment, everything slowed.
Kamoshida rose from his throne.
“I’ve tolerated your meddling long enough, delinquent,” he growled. “You humiliated me. Ruined my moment. Knocked me flat in front of the entire school. You think you’re a hero? That saving one girl makes you righteous?”
He gestured behind him with a grand sweep of his arm. “This is what justice looks like in my domain. Power. Obedience. Love. I’m not the villain—you are. Trying to take what’s mine.”
Joker stepped forward, his expression unreadable.
But his voice was cold.
“You’re wrong.”
And then the Shadows charged.
The first Shadow lunged—an armored brute with tusks and a flail for a hand—but it didn’t get far. Joker’s foot met its chest with a brutal crack, sending the creature flying into the next wave of charging abominations.
Comet danced between two spear-wielding guards, her cutlass spinning as she blocked, ducked, and struck with rapid-fire ferocity. Vente was a blur beside her, a sleek, spinning force of wind and disc-like blades that ricocheted through the air with impossible precision.
But for every Shadow they cut down, three more surged forward.
Still, none of them fell back.
Across the chamber, Shadow Kamoshida reclined on his throne like a leering god, his false versions of Ann and Shiho draped over him, laughing in voices that made Akira’s blood boil.
“You’re wasting your time,” Kamoshida sneered, sipping from a goblet that seemed to pulse with red liquid. “All this effort… for what? Those two? They’re mine. Always have been. Always will be.”
He ran a hand along the leash of his shadow-Ann. She moaned and leaned closer.
“Just accept it,” Kamoshida continued. “They exist to be looked at, to be touched, to be used. The moment they caught my eye, they should have been grateful.”
Joker’s fists clenched tight around the handles of his tonfas.
“You’re wrong,” he said, voice echoing through the chamber like a blade drawn in silence.
Kamoshida blinked.
“They’re not yours. They’re not anyone’s. They’re not playthings, or trophies, or toys to be tossed around. They’re people. And they deserve to live without fear.”
The words crashed like thunder.
From their restraints on opposite ends of the chamber, Ann and Shiho lifted their heads. Their eyes met Akira’s—and something sparked in the air.
A crackling tension, charged and bright.
Ann’s chest burned, a hot, blistering ache. Not from fear—but from fury.
All the nights she stayed silent. All the times she smiled through clenched teeth. All the whispers behind her back.
And Shiho—Shiho shook as she stared at the image of herself draped in lingerie, leash around her neck, treated like a prize won in a rigged game. Her fingers twitched.
She was done being used. Done being quiet.
Something inside both of them snapped.
Ann let out a scream—raw, primal.
Blue fire exploded around her.
Shiho’s eyes widened as her own scream joined Ann’s, and blue flame burst into life around her body as well, searing away the ropes, devouring the restraints.
Shadow Kamoshida flinched.
“What… what the hell is this?!”
The entire chamber trembled.
The Shadows paused. Even Vent and Comet looked back, stunned.
Joker stepped forward, a fierce, quiet pride in his gaze as he looked at the flames. At them.
Two figures, rising from the fire.
The blue flames roared, swirling like a storm given form. Shadows staggered back, shielding their eyes from the searing light. Kamoshida stood frozen on his throne, goblet trembling in his grip.
Then—
Ann stepped forward.
Her old clothes were gone, incinerated in the fire. In their place was a sleek crimson leather catsuit, sinfully tight, the kind that made hearts stop and jaws drop. Strategic cutouts traced the lines of her hips and shoulders, revealing just enough to leave an impression. A red panther mask framed her stormy blue eyes, adding a dangerous gleam to her fury.
Her heels clicked sharply against the stone as she cracked a gleaming black whip in her hand. Her mouth curved into a smile—not coy, not shy, but predatory.
Behind her, something massive emerged from the fire—a towering, sultry flamenco dancer draped in a fiery red dress that shifted and smoldered like embers. Smoke curled from her lips where a fat cigar rested. Two men hung on leashes from either arm, dancing like puppets at her command.
“I am Carmen,” the voice purred, rich with power. “And I will show them what it means to play with fire.”
Ann gave her whip one final crack. “Let’s make these bastards burn.”
The Shadows reeled.
And then—
Shiho rose from the flames.
Where Ann burned like a flame, Shiho moved like thunder. Her cowgirl ensemble was a mixture of tough leather, short denim, and silver buckles, practical but snug in all the right places. A wide-brimmed midnight black hat sat tilted low over her face, and her smoky grey scarf fluttered in the airless heat.
Her twin six-shooters gleamed as she spun them with frightening ease, casually slipping them into holsters at her thighs before drawing them again in a heartbeat.
Behind her, Annie Oakley emerged—a statuesque woman clad in silver-accented leather armor, a pair of glowing revolvers at her hips and a spectral eagle perched on her shoulder. Her piercing eyes scanned the battlefield like a hunter preparing her final shot.
“I am Annie Oakley,” the Persona intoned, her voice calm, lethal. “They should’ve known better than to lay a hand on mine.”
Shiho raised one pistol, cocked it with a practiced flick.
Then she looked at Kamoshida.
“No more running.”
Ann and Shiho now stood beside Joker, flames still licking around their feet, eyes locked on the monster who had tried to break them.
And this time?
They were going to break him.
Shadow Kamoshida's face twisted in rage as the two newly awakened girls stood defiant and blazing with power. He snarled and snapped his fingers.
"Kill them!"
The two fake versions of Ann and Shiho let out high-pitched shrieks as their bodies warped and twisted, shifting into horrific mockeries of goddesses—dual manifestations of Kali, six-armed and bloodthirsty, adorned in chains and gold, each wielding curved daggers that dripped with poison and malice.
All around them, the elite guard transformed as well. Succubi and Incubi slithered into the air with twisted grins, wings unfurling with a leathery hiss. Oni—massive, red-skinned brutes wielding spiked clubs—let out thundering war cries. Lamia, half-woman, half-serpent, circled the battlefield with cruel smiles.
Comet grit her teeth and stepped forward. “We’re not letting you touch them again.”
Joker was already moving. “Then let’s end this.”
The fight exploded into motion.
Ann lashed her whip forward, her eyes blazing behind her mask.
“Agi!” she shouted.
A swirling tornado of fire erupted from beneath the Succubi, incinerating several midair as Carmen laughed in delight. The air was scorched with heat, the scent of ash and smoke rolling like a tide.
Shiho moved like a gunslinger out of legend, eyes locked, steady and calm. She pivoted on one heel and raised both pistols.
“One for each of you.”
She fired—six shots, six hits. The bullets tore through the Oni charging their front line, staggering them long enough for Ryuemi to rush in and finish the job with a crackling lightning strike from her Persona, Anne Bonny.
Vent darts around within the chaos, using her disc like a deadly boomerang, while Lola Belmont soars above like a tempest, cutting down Lamia before they could flank the group. “Ha! Who’s next?!”
But the twin Kali were vicious. They danced through fire and gunfire, slashing with their curved daggers. One lunged for Ann, only for Joker to intercept her, shifting Personas mid-air. “Zionga!” A bolt of lightning slammed down and stunned the Kali clone just long enough for Carmen to snap her whip around its neck and drag it into another Agi.
Shiho, seeing her own twisted reflection charging at her, aimed calmly.
“I’m not you,” she whispered.
Bang.
The bullet struck center mass—and the second Kali shrieked as it vanished into dark smoke.
Finally, the battlefield fell silent.
The corpses of twisted Shadows littered the chamber, dissolving into shimmering embers. The bloodlust was gone.
But so was Shadow Kamoshida.
“Where—?!” Ann began, eyes scanning the chamber.
“He’s gone,” Joker muttered. “Slipped away while the others distracted us.”
“Then let’s go after—!”
Ann and Shiho both staggered. Their bodies, still unfamiliar with their powers, began to give out.
Joker was at their sides in an instant, catching Shiho with one arm and steadying Ann with the other.
“You’ve done enough,” he said gently. “Time to go home.”
They didn’t argue.
Moments later, in the real world...
The team emerged from the alley, breathless and exhausted. Ann and Shiho looked like they’d been through hell—but there was a new light in their eyes.
Freedom.
Akira escorted each of them to the train station. He made sure Ryuemi got on her train safely, gave Morgane a nod as she scampered into a side street, and then walked Shiho and Ann right to the front steps of Shiho’s apartment building.
“You’ll be alright?” he asked softly.
Ann smiled—tired, but sincere. “Thanks to you.”
Shiho hesitated, then took his hand for just a moment. “You saved me. Again.”
Akira gave them both a reassuring look before turning to go. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The sun was beginning to set when Akira finally arrived in Yongen-Jaya, walking up the steps to Leblanc. His body ached. His mind raced.
But his heart?
It was calm.
There were still battles ahead. But today... they had won something.
Something real.
Group Chat: Kick
Kamoshida InThe Nuts Club
(Akira, Ann, Shiho, Ryuemi, Morgane)
Akira has set his name to Trickster
Ann has set her name to CherryBombshell
Shiho has set her name to HeartshotHero
Ryuemi has set her name to FleetBooty
Morgane has set her name to VentDuNord
Trickster:
Hey. Just wanted to check in with everyone.
You all okay after... everything?
CherryBombshell:
I’m home now, just took a long-ass shower 🛁
Still kinda shaken, ngl... but thanks for staying with us. You really helped.
HeartshotHero:
Same here. I didn’t realize how heavy everything was until I sat down on my bed.
But I feel… weirdly okay. Like something inside me woke up. Thank you, Akira. For saving me. Again.
FleetBooty:
Yo. Exhausted. Sore. Probably bruised.
But that was the coolest shit I’ve ever done. 😎🔥
Also?? You wrecked those creeps earlier. Holy hell.
VentDuNord:
I carried. As usual. 🙄
CherryBombshell:
Morgane pls, I literally saw you faceplant into a Lamia trap.
VentDuNord:
Strategic faceplant 😤
Trickster:
😅 You all did great.
But I mean it—nothing bad’s gonna happen to you again. Not if I can help it.
HeartshotHero:
You don’t have to carry that alone… We can all fight now.
Trickster:
I know.
Still… I want you to feel safe. All of you.
FleetBooty:
Okay. Emotional. Not ready.
Too tired for this wholesome energy 😭
CherryBombshell:
Akira being protective is gonna be the death of me I swear 😭💘
VentDuNord:
Pathetic.
FleetBooty:
Says the one who’s still in the chat 👀
Trickster:
Alright, go rest. We’ll talk strategy tomorrow.
Goodnight, team. You were amazing.
CherryBombshell:
Night night, Joker 😘
HeartshotHero:
Sleep well. And… thanks again.
FleetBooty:
If anyone needs me, I’ll be unconscious for 10 hours 💤
VentDuNord:
If you snore, I’m muting the group.
-------------------------------------------------------
Group Chat: Akira Appreciation Assembly (Ann, Shiho, Ryuemi, Morgane)
Ann has set her name to BimboBerry
Shiho has set her name to BangBangBaby
Ryuemi has set her name to PlunderBae
Morgane has set her name to SiroccoFée
BimboBerry:
okay girls
can we talk about how ridiculously hot Akira was tonight 🔥
BangBangBaby:
YES THANK YOU
I was literally tied to a freaking torture device and still had the brainspace to be like
“Wow. This man is out here playing knight in dark armor.” 😳
PlunderBae:
I still can’t believe he just picked you up bridal style like it was nothing
Where do I sign up for that?? 👀💦
SiroccoFée:
This is nonsense.
BimboBerry:
You’re still here though, Morgane 💅
BangBangBaby:
Wait wait okay serious question
Am I a bad person for kinda getting flustered when Akira told Kamoshida we weren’t his playthings?
Like... that look in his eyes? I felt that in my soul.
PlunderBae:
Not bad. Relatable. Valid.
The way he said it??? Like, furious and gentle??
Someone write that into a fanfic immediately.
BimboBerry:
Okay but like...
Has anyone else noticed how hard he tries not to stare? Like at all?
BangBangBaby:
It’s kinda adorable. Like he’s trying so hard to be a gentleman
But also… dude. Please. Stare.
PlunderBae:
EXACTLY
I’d even pose if it helped 😌
BimboBerry:
Listen I wouldn’t even be mad if he stared
I mean these boobs?? They deserve appreciation 😤✨
SiroccoFée:
You are not wrong 😭
PlunderBae:
Okay best asset time, let’s go:
I say my legs. Long and fast and toned 😏
BangBangBaby:
Abs. No competition. I earned these.
BimboBerry:
Definitely my boobs. They are a national treasure.
SiroccoFée:
…I’m not playing this game.
BimboBerry:
Oh come on, Morgane. Give us something.
SiroccoFée:
[message deleted]
PlunderBae:
omg
did she just say—
BangBangBaby:
I saw it too
“My ass”
she SAID “my ass” 😭😭😭
BimboBerry:
LMAOOOOOOOO
Morgane you absolute legend
SiroccoFée:
I WAS HACKED
PlunderBae:
Hacked by your own thirst 😂
BimboBerry:
Okay but back to Akira
His arms??? Like damn. Those things should be illegal.
BangBangBaby:
And his VOICE when he gets serious??? 😩
PlunderBae:
Also, that little smirk when he knows he’s about to win??
Sir, this is a thirst zone.
BimboBerry:
Someone put him in a tank top. Or even better, ban him from ever wearing shirts again.
BangBangBaby:
I second that. For purely academic reasons.
SiroccoFée:
I hate all of you.
Morning in Yongen-Jaya – Leblanc, 7:32 a.m.
The warm clink of a coffee cup being set down echoed through the quiet hum of Leblanc. Morning light filtered through the shutters, casting soft golden stripes across the counter. Akira sat at his usual seat, elbow on the bar, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of Sojiro’s signature blend.
Sojiro glanced at him from behind the counter, wiping a mug with a dishcloth. “You look like a man who did something heroic and stupid in equal measure.”
Akira gave a small smirk, taking a sip. “I might’ve saved a few lives.”
Sojiro raised a brow. “And the stupid part?”
Akira exhaled slowly, eyes on the swirling surface of his coffee. “Promised four girls they’d be safe, no matter what.”
“Hmph.” Sojiro leaned forward slightly, voice softer. “Not stupid. Just dangerous. But you’ve got that look in your eyes again.” He gave a faint chuckle. “Whatever path you’re on, don’t forget to come back for coffee.”
Akira gave a grateful nod and stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I won’t. You keep the coffee coming, I’ll keep surviving.”
“Deal.”
Morning Commute – Yongen-Jaya Station to Shujin University
The train rumbled beneath his feet, packed with the usual morning bodies. For once, Akira felt... light. Not in the physical sense—his body still ached from yesterday’s fight—but in spirit. The air smelled a little fresher, the music from a nearby commuter’s earbuds was less annoying. The red and blue streaks of Tokyo passed in a blur outside the window.
He leaned against the pole, watching the skyline drift by. His thoughts flickered—flashes of fire, of gunshots, of a whip cracking in righteous fury. Of the girls, finding their strength.
A faint, smoky chuckle echoed in his mind.
Arsène: “Mon garçon… what did I tell you? You awaken the power in others like a spark to powder.”
Pixie (flirty, mischievous): “Did you see how Ann looked at you after her Persona woke up? She’s not just awakened to her power, sweetie~”
Shiki-Ouji (stoic but amused): “Ryuemi has begun to shine. I would be lying if I said her gaze did not linger. You are noticed, Trickster.”
Kaguya (gentle, melodious): “Shiho's strength blossoms… and it blooms for you. Do not avert your gaze. It is not shameful to see beauty.”
Akira shook his head quickly and muttered, “You're not helping.”
A nearby businessman gave him a wary glance and shuffled slightly away.
Outside Shujin University – 8:12 a.m.
The train hissed to a halt and Akira stepped out, taking the station steps two at a time. The sun was still low, casting long shadows. His gait was smooth, confident—but that internal buzz of Persona whispers hadn’t died down.
Then—
“Akira~!”
He froze mid-step.
Turning toward the voice, he saw them.
Ryuemi. Ann. Shiho.
They were standing just outside the university gates, side by side—and it was like a trailer shot for a movie he was absolutely not prepared for.
Ryuemi was in a red sleek and fitted cropped zip-up track jacket, layered over a white ribbed tank and black hair-waisted yoga pants that seemed like they were painted onto her long, toned legs. A pair of white Nike trainers and a backwards baseball cap completed the look.
Ann had gone full bimbo barbie—a pink bodycon minidress, white platform boots, big curls in her hair and just the right gloss on her lips to catch the sun. Her makeup was done to perfection, and she was chewing gum like she’d walked out of a music video. A wink fired Akira’s heart into overdrive.
And Shiho—holy hell, Shiho. Her usual sporty style had been swapped for a pop-punk princess vibe: plaid miniskirt with black fishnets, chunky boots, a ripped tee layered under a mesh top. Her hair was teased just right, a little smudge of eyeliner completing the look. She met his gaze with a bold grin.
Akira, to his credit, managed not to trip over his own feet. Barely.
Ann (grinning): “Morning, Akira~! Like our new looks?”
Ryuemi: “Had to celebrate the power-up somehow.”
(She winked. WINKED.)
Shiho (with a small smile): “We figured you deserved something nice to look at.”
Akira opened his mouth to reply. Nothing came out.
Arsène: "Mon dieu."
(He sounded proud.)
Pixie: "Told you! Look at Ann’s hair! And her… everything!"
Shiki-Ouji: "Focus. Analyze. Absorb. Praise."
Kaguya: "I dare you to look away. Just try."
Akira rubbed the back of his neck, forcing his voice to work.
“Y-You all look… amazing.”
Ryuemi (smirking):
“You should see the back view.”
Akira nearly walked into a pole.
From behind the concrete edge of the school building, half-hidden in the shadow of a vending machine, Morgane watched them go. She was in her usual outfit—sensible, layered, and infuriatingly plain compared to the bold styles the other girls flaunted. Her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her schoolbag, her teeth chewing at her bottom lip.
From her vantage point, she could see everything.
The way Ann’s chest pressed into Akira’s arm.
The way Shiho leaned into him when she laughed.
The way Ryuemi brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and then shot Akira a grin so smug it could burn buildings.
Morgane’s cheeks puffed up. Her eyes blazed. Her foot stomped.
“Tch… flirty harpies. It’s not like I wanted to walk with him anyway. I-It’s not like I waited behind the vending machines just in case he passed by or something—stupid idiot…”
She clutched her phone tighter and turned away with a dramatic swish of her ponytail, muttering under her breath.
“Stupid Akira. Stupid jacket. Stupid sexy smile. Ugh—whatever.”
But her ears were still red. And her phone’s background? Still a candid of Akira, caught mid-laugh in the cafeteria, eyes crinkling, coffee in hand.
She glanced back once more.
Just once.
Then sighed—deep and dramatic—and stomped off toward class, promising herself that tomorrow, she’d wear something cuter.
Maybe.
If she felt like it.
Not for him or anything.
Obviously.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby
Chapter 8: A Lotus In The Castle
Summary:
Akira and the girls get called in for questioning - and meet a very skeptical Student Council President. Also, a detective joins the team as they reach Kamoshaida's Treasure Room, and learns some interesting tidbits of information.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun gleamed off Shujin’s gates as Akira and the girls stepped into the courtyard, laughter still on their lips. But the moment they passed through the threshold, it felt like the world shifted.
Standing near the fountain were Director Kobayakawa, Suguru Kamoshida in his Shujin Academy tracksuit, and two uniformed police officers, stone-faced and still.
“Akira Amamiya?” one of the officers asked, stepping forward.
Akira’s eyes narrowed. He took a slow breath and stepped ahead of the girls. “That’s me.”
“We’d like you to come with us. We have some questions regarding an incident that occurred yesterday.”
Ann’s voice was sharp. “What incident? What are you talking about?”
Ryuemi stepped forward beside her. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Shiho’s fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. “You’re kidding, right? Is this some kind of sick joke?”
Akira held up a hand, calm and measured even as his heart pounded. “It’s okay,” he said gently, looking at each of the girls. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Mr. Amamiya,” the lead cop repeated, tone clipped. “Please.”
Akira turned to him, nodding once. “I see.”
From behind the first pair of officers, two more figures emerged—female officers in matching navy uniforms. They approached the girls with a polite, practiced tone.
“Miss Takamaki, Miss Suzui, Miss Sakamoto,” one officer began, glancing at a notepad, “we’d also like to speak with you. Privately.”
The girls froze.
“Why?” Ann demanded, her voice rising slightly. “We haven’t done anything wrong—!”
Akira turned, gave her a calm look, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Go with them,” he said. “It’ll be okay. Just… tell them the truth.”
Ryuemi looked like she wanted to argue, but Akira’s expression silenced her.
Shiho stepped forward first, jaw tight but resolute. “If you’re going, we’re going too.”
Ann and Ryuemi flanked her a second later.
Kamoshida crossed his arms, watching with thinly veiled contempt, while Director Kobayakawa gave a shallow, insincere sigh.
“Such a shame,” the Director muttered under his breath, loud enough for Akira to hear. “These things always catch up with certain types of students.”
Akira didn’t flinch.
He simply turned back toward the police and nodded once more.
“Lead the way.”
The tension inside the unused classroom at Shujin University was thick enough to cut through. Akira sat in a plain metal chair across from two uniformed officers, the fluorescent lights above casting a cold glare across the table. Director Kobayakawa loomed near the doorway, arms crossed and scowling, while Kamoshida stood just behind him, his expression somewhere between smugness and manufactured concern.
The older of the two officers, a stocky man with thinning grey hair and a permanent sneer, leaned forward. “Mr. Amamiya, several eyewitnesses claim you assaulted five members of the volleyball team last night.”
Akira didn’t flinch. “That’s correct. I did.”
Kobayakawa's eyes narrowed as he muttered, “Finally some honesty.”
“But,” Akira continued, calm and precise, “only after I found two of them pinning Shiho Suzui to the ground in the university gymnasium. She was screaming. They didn’t stop when I told them to. So I stopped them.”
The younger officer raised an eyebrow. “And the other three?”
“They came in after I had already dealt with the first two. They attacked me without hesitation. Everything I did from that point was self-defense.”
The older officer scoffed. “That’s quite a convenient story, son. Especially since we've heard you were causing trouble all day. Threatening people. Even reportedly assaulted Professor Kamoshida with a volleyball.”
Akira allowed himself a small scoff. “Do I look like someone who throws volleyballs?”
The officer's nostrils flared, but Akira was already pulling out his phone. “There’s something you should see.”
He unlocked it, tapped a video file, and held it out to the officers. The camera angle was from the side—balanced on a window ledge or shelf—providing a clear view of the gym floor. It showed Shiho on the ground, struggling. Two male students closing in. Akira entering and dealing with them quickly and decisively. The video ended before Kamoshida entered the frame, edited just enough to keep that part hidden.
Silence fell over the room for a moment.
The older officer’s mouth thinned into a line. “Why do you have a video of this? Most people don’t just happen to film felony assaults.”
“I’ve had... experience,” Akira said quietly, eyes not leaving the older officer’s. “With the judicial system. With how those in power can twist it to protect themselves. So I’ve learned to document everything.”
That earned a bitter laugh from the man. “You saying we’re corrupt?”
“I’m saying nothing,” Akira said, voice sharp now. “Except that I’ve seen this before.”
The tension was about to snap when the classroom door opened.
“Apologies for the interruption,” a calm, feminine voice said.
They all turned.
A detective stood in the doorway, her black slacks and tailored blazer crisp and perfectly fitted over her pregnant belly. Her blue hair framed a sharp face and piercing eyes. She flashed her badge.
“Detective Naoto Shirogane, Metropolitan Police.” She stepped fully into the room, offering a tight smile. “I just finished speaking with the victim—Miss Suzui, and her friends Miss Takamaki, and Miss Sakamoto. I’d like to speak with the suspect myself, if you don’t mind.”
Kobayakawa frowned. “Detective Shirogane, I wasn’t informed—”
“It's been elevated to the serious crimes division, given the nature of the accusations,” Naoto said smoothly, voice brooking no argument. “My jurisdiction.”
The officers exchanged glances. The older one grunted and stood. “Fine. Have it your way. That punk is more trouble than he’s worth.”
As they filed out, Naoto shut the door behind them.
For a moment, she stood with her back to it, watching the handle click into place.
Then she turned.
Her professional expression softened just slightly.
“Akira.”
Akira leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly. “Nao-nee.”
Shiho, Ann, and Ryuemi sat on one side of the long, rectangular table inside another unused classroom-turned-interview room. The atmosphere here was no less tense than the one Akira faced. The blinds had been drawn, and the afternoon light filtered through in broken slats, casting fragmented shadows across the girls' faces.
The door opened with a soft creak.
Detective Naoto Shirogane entered first, calm and composed, followed by a younger detective in a sharply tailored pantsuit—Ren Akechi, her expression cool but professional.
And then… her.
Makoto Niijima.
As soon as Ryuemi saw her, the air in the room changed. She straightened in her chair like a spring coiling, her eyes narrowing with sudden fire.
"The hell is she doing here?" Ryuemi snapped, her voice echoing sharply off the walls.
Makoto took a step forward, keeping her hands calmly at her sides. “As the Student Council Representative, I’m here to offer institutional support. I just want to make sure—”
“Like you supported me?” Ryuemi cut in, her voice bitter.
Makoto froze mid-sentence. Her shoulders tensed as if she'd been slapped. But she didn’t respond. Her silence spoke louder than any excuse might have.
Naoto moved to the head of the table and gestured for calm, her tone crisp. “Let’s keep this civil. We’re here to get the facts, not to settle old grievances.”
Ren, sitting across from them now, folded her hands and leaned slightly toward Shiho, her tone gentle but firm. “Suzui-san, can you walk us through what happened yesterday? In your own words.”
Shiho, clearly nervous but composed, took a shaky breath.
“I… I got a message saying I needed to meet with Kamoshida-sensei,” she began. “I didn’t question it. I’m on a scholarship—he’s in charge of the athletics division, and… I didn’t feel like I could say no.”
She swallowed.
“Some of the guys from the men’s volleyball team showed up after class. They told me to come with them. I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. But when we got to the gym…” Her voice faltered. “Kamoshida made me call Ann. He said… he said she’d want to watch.”
Ann’s fists clenched in her lap.
Shiho looked down. “And then… he grabbed me. He said no one would believe me if I screamed. That I owed him.”
Naoto’s pen stopped moving on the pad of paper in front of her. Ren looked visibly repulsed.
“I screamed anyway,” Shiho finished. “And that’s when Akira showed up. He… he saved me.”
For a moment, silence hung over the room like a thundercloud.
Then Makoto’s voice cut in, slow and even but laced with a strange edge.
“Did Amamiya… coach you to say that?”
The room turned ice-cold in an instant.
Ann's head snapped toward Makoto, her face a picture of disbelief. “What?”
“Is he threatening you?” Makoto continued, looking directly at Shiho. “Or anyone else?”
Shiho stared at her like she’d grown horns. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Even Naoto’s normally imperturbable expression faltered. She exchanged a glance with Ren, who looked equally taken aback.
Only Ryuemi didn’t look surprised.
She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed tightly, and let out a low, humorless laugh.
“Of course you’d say that,” she muttered. “You can’t imagine a world where someone like Akira Amamiya would do the right thing. Not unless he had something to gain.”
Makoto flinched, but still said nothing.
“You know what?” Ryuemi added, her tone now flat. “Forget the support. We don’t need it. We’ve already got someone in our corner.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing.
“And it’s not you.”
Makoto’s scoff was audible in the silent room. She crossed her arms and leaned slightly forward, her voice edged with condescension.
“Akira Amamiya is a convicted felon,” she began, tone clipped. “He spent three years in juvenile detention for aggravated assault. He’s no hero—he’s a manipulator with a record.”
Shiho flinched slightly, and Ann’s brows furrowed. Ryuemi’s arms slowly tensed at her sides.
Makoto continued, her voice steady but cold. “It’s obvious he has an angle he’s working, and he’s pulled the three of you into it.”
She took a slow breath, glancing toward the officers and Ren before continuing.
“As for Suguru Kamoshida—he’s a decorated former Olympian and one of the most respected figures at this university. He’s devoted years of his life to building our athletics program into one of the best in the country. A man like that doesn't suddenly become a predator because a few students with a grudge decide to point fingers.”
Naoto stiffened, while Ren looked visibly uneasy. But Makoto wasn’t done.
She fixed her eyes on Ryuemi now, her voice dropping lower—gentler in volume, but not in tone.
“I know you’ve always resented him for removing you from the track team, Ry... but you have to face the truth. That wasn’t his fault. You brought that on yourself.”
Ryuemi’s eyes narrowed into slits.
Makoto leaned in slightly. “You were the one who crossed a line. You were the one who threw yourself at him.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Ryuemi stared at Makoto in disbelief, the air seeming to go still around her. Her eyes widened, not in shock—but in betrayal. She blinked once. Twice. Then her mouth twisted, her voice dropping low and trembling with fury.
“…You really just said that.”
Makoto opened her mouth to say something else, but Ryuemi’s hand slammed down on the table between them with a sharp crack, making everyone in the room flinch—Shiho, Naoto, Ann, and even Ren.
"You think I threw myself at him?” Ryuemi’s voice was venom, hot and raw. “Do you have any idea what that man said to me? What he did?! I told you—I begged you—to believe me back then. And you—”
Her voice broke, but only for a second. “You turned your back. Just like you're doing now."
Makoto held her ground, but her lips were pressed into a thin, uncertain line. “I had to go with the evidence presented at the time—”
“There was no evidence, Makoto!” Ryuemi shouted. “There was just Kamoshida’s word against mine. And you chose him. Just like you’re doing again.”
“Stop,” Ren said sharply, holding up a hand as the tension in the room threatened to spiral. “This isn’t productive.”
“No, it’s not,” Shiho cut in, her voice ice. “Because Makoto isn’t here to support us. She’s here to protect her image—and his.”
Ann stepped forward now too, eyes ablaze. “We just told you what happened. That Kamoshida tried to hurt Shiho. That Akira stopped it. That we saw it. You think we’re all lying?”
Makoto faltered, her next words quieter but no less rigid. “I think… Akira Amamiya is dangerous. He’s manipulative. He has a criminal record, and somehow he’s convinced the three of you to protect him.”
“You really believe that?” Ren said quietly now, her tone laced with disbelief. “After what Shiho just described?”
Makoto looked away. “It doesn’t add up.”
Naoto finally stepped in, calm but commanding. “Enough. This isn’t an interview anymore—this is an ambush.”
Her eyes narrowed at Makoto. “We’re here to understand what happened. Not to assign blame based on prior records or personal grudges.”
Makoto flushed slightly under Naoto’s gaze but didn’t speak. The room was thick with tension.
Ryuemi finally leaned back, shaking her head as she looked at Makoto with a bitter smile.
“You know what the worst part is?” she said, voice soft now. “It’s not that you don’t believe me. It’s that a part of me expected this as soon as I saw you.”
She stood, crossing her arms. “You always did like the sound of your own righteousness more than listening to the people you’re supposed to help.”
Ren cleared her throat sharply, breaking the thick silence that had fallen over the room.
“I think that’s enough for now,” she said, casting a glance at Naoto.
Naoto nodded, standing from her seat. “Agreed. I’ll need to speak with Akira Amamiya next.”
Ann stood first, helping Shiho to her feet as Ryuemi moved toward the door without a word. None of them looked at Makoto. Not even once.
The detectives followed close behind, and within seconds, the room was empty.
Except for Makoto.
She sat there, alone at the table, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her jaw locked. Her breath shallow.
Ryuemi’s final words before today echoed again in the back of her mind: “I hope one day you realize just how much damage you’ve done, Makoto.”
Her composure cracked, just for a second. Her eyes dropped to the tabletop.
A memory flickered—unbidden, and unwanted. They were sixteen. Rain poured outside the school gym. Ryuemi sat beside Makoto on the bleachers, soaked and sniffling. Her track uniform clung to her skin, her lip split from a training accident, her expression tired and raw.
“I’m done,” she had whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t think I can keep going.”
Makoto had draped her blazer over Ryuemi’s shoulders and squeezed her hand tightly.
“You don’t have to do anything alone, Ry,” she said, her voice warm. “I’ve got you, okay? I always will.”
They smiled through tears.
A few months later.
Makoto stood stiffly in the student council room while Ryuemi pleaded with her through a veil of fresh bruises and silent tears.
“Please, Mako, I’m telling the truth! He—he touched me! You know I wouldn’t lie about something like this—”
But Makoto had shaken her head.
“I can’t take sides, Ryuemi. Not without proof. You’ve been acting erratically for weeks. Maybe you misread things.”
“Misread?!” Ryuemi’s voice cracked, hurt flashing across her face. “You think this is my fault?”
Makoto didn’t answer.
Ryuemi had run from the room. That was the last time they'd spoken... until today.
Present
Makoto stared down at her hands, flexing her fingers slowly. Her voice barely above a whisper, but resolute.
“Akira Amamiya is dangerous,” she muttered to herself. “He’s manipulating them. He’s warped her—”
She looked to the door the others had disappeared through.
“I’ll prove it. I’ll show her he’s not who she thinks he is... and then she’ll understand. She’ll see I was right all along.”
Her eyes narrowed, as if willing the past to correct itself.
“And then… things can go back to the way they’re meant to be.”
Naoto crossed her arms and leaned against the desk, eyes sharp as she rubbed her pregnant belly. She’d just finished giving Akira a full rundown of what had transpired in the interview room with the girls—Shiho’s quiet fury, Ann’s disbelief, Ryuemi’s righteous anger… and Makoto’s icy, unwavering skepticism.
Akira sat in the chair across from her, brows furrowed, one leg bouncing restlessly beneath the table. His storm-grey eyes flickered with thought, jaw clenched.
“Damn,” he muttered inwardly. “Makoto’s even more warped in this reality than I expected. Getting her onside… that’s going to be a hell of a climb.”
From the depths of his psyche, a low, rumbling voice stirred.
"Tougher," Satanael murmured, regal and unbothered, "but not impossible, Harbinger. You always find a way. That is your gift."
Akira’s mouth twitched at the corner, the shadow of a smile forming. His Personas were rarely wrong.
He looked up at Naoto, her keen gaze still locked onto him, searching for something.
“…Nao-nee,” he said quietly, “do you trust me?”
Her lips quirked into a knowing grin.
“You know I do, ‘Kira.”
That familiar nickname—casual, comforting—tugged at something in his chest. He leaned back slightly, exhaling slowly through his nose.
“Then trust me when I say I’ve got this under control. This whole mess will blow over by next week. I promise.”
Naoto’s smile faded just slightly, replaced by that deeply analytical expression she wore when she was walking a tightrope between logic and gut feeling.
She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m going out on a limb here for you, you know. If I didn’t have personal history with you—if anyone else had walked into this situation with your record—”
“I know.” Akira stood, adjusting the hem of his hoodie.
Naoto watched him for a moment longer, then relented with a resigned breath.
“One week. Bring me evidence. Solid proof that what you’re claiming lines up. If you do, I’ll make sure everything against you gets dropped.”
Akira extended a hand.
“I’ve got this, Nao-nee.”
She took his hand with a smirk, letting him help her to her feet.
“You’d better,” she said with mock severity. “Because if this blows up in your face… I’ll be the one dragging you out of it.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Several Hours Later
The sun hung low over the edge of Shujin University, casting long shadows across the courtyard as the bustle of students returning to their routines buzzed in the background. But Ren Akechi wasn’t interested in any of them.
She stepped briskly away from the administration building, her shoes clicking against the concrete. Reaching the edge of campus, she ducked into a quiet corner beside a vending machine, far from prying eyes.
Out came her phone.
Her fingers moved quickly, practiced.
“Suguru Kamoshida. Shujin Academy…”
A mechanical voice hummed from the phone’s speaker:
“Distortion located. Please confirm final keyword.”
Ren stared at the device, her navigation app glowing ominously on screen.
“…He’s distorted,” she muttered, snapping the phone shut with a frustrated click. “I knew it.”
She raked a hand through her dark hair, her pulse thumping against her ribs. She didn’t need confirmation. Not after what Shiho had said. Not after the look in Ryuemi’s eyes. It all lined up.
And yet…
Her grip tightened around the phone.
"As long as that bastard’s still on the Society’s no-touch list, my hands are tied," she thought bitterly.
She stared out at the sky for a long moment, jaw clenched, before flipping her phone open again and dialing another number—one far less comforting.
The line picked up after a single ring.
“Sir? It’s me.”
She paused, listening.
“Yes, Kobayakawa’s dog has gone rabid again.”
Another pause.
“…I understand. No, I don’t think it’ll be a problem. He’s only gone after students so far.”
Her voice faltered slightly. “Yes, I’ll keep an eye on the situation. But—”
The line clicked dead before she could finish.
Ren lowered her phone slowly, staring at the black screen in her palm. Her breath hitched just once, and then she let it out in a tired, frustrated sigh.
“…I need a drink.”
She checked her watch—still early, but not too early.
Movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention. She turned and saw a familiar shape emerging from the front gates of Shujin: Akira Amamiya, alone, walking toward the station with that calm, steady pace of his, his eyes focused on something only he can see.
Ren watched him for a moment.
Still standing tall after all that… Damn it, Akira.
Her feet moved before her mind could stop them.
“I should check on him,” she murmured, tucking the phone into her coat and adjusting her collar.
With a purposeful stride, she took off after him, heels clicking softly on the pavement as the shadows stretched behind them.
The soft chime above the door signaled their arrival as Akira and Ren stepped into Leblanc.
"Yo," Akira greeted lazily, tugging down his hood. “We’re back.”
Sojiro looked up from behind the counter, brow rising slightly at the sight of Ren, but he just gave a grunt of acknowledgment. “Tch. Bringing home strays again, huh?”
Ren gave a mock-offended scoff. “Stray? I’m house-trained, thank you very much.”
Sojiro rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t touch anything.”
Akira smirked as he stepped behind the counter and grabbed his apron, tying it on with practiced ease. “I got this, Boss. Go take your smoke break.”
Sojiro grumbled but relented, grabbing his coat and heading out the back door with a muttered, “Don’t burn the place down.”
Once he was gone, Akira glanced over at Ren. “Still like it dark and sweet?”
She smirked. “You know me.”
Akira got to work, measuring out the grounds, letting the bloom rise with precision. The comforting scent of coffee soon filled the air, curling around the small shop like a warm blanket. The two sat in companionable silence, Ren leaning lazily on the counter as she watched him move.
“You’re wasted as a student,” she said after a moment. “You’d make a killing as a barista.”
Akira chuckled, pouring the brew into a mug and sliding it toward her. “And miss all the drama of university life? Perish the thought.”
Ren took a sip and let out a soft hum of approval. “Still perfect.”
But the playfulness faded from her eyes as she set the cup down, fingers tightening slightly around it. Her voice dropped.
“…Shiho told us what happened. What really happened.”
Akira didn’t say anything, waiting.
“She said it wasn’t just the team… That Kamoshida was the one who…” She hesitated. “…tried to rape her.”
Akira finally nodded, quietly. “He did.”
Ren’s grip on the cup tightened. “And you’re sure you didn’t lay a hand on him?”
“I didn’t touch him,” Akira said, steady as stone. “I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But I knew if I did, he’d twist it. So I didn’t.”
She stared at him, searching his expression for even the faintest crack.
“…I believe you,” Ren said at last, her voice low. “But belief doesn’t change a damn thing, ‘Kira.”
She sat back, frustration flickering across her face. “Kamoshida’s protected. Kobayakawa would go to war for him. The Society has him flagged as off-limits. Unless you’ve got a confession—and I mean a signed, recorded one—the police won’t touch him.”
She shook her head. “And men like Kamoshida? They don’t grow consciences overnight. They don’t find their soul. They don’t—”
“What if they do?” Akira said suddenly.
Ren blinked, thrown off her rhythm. “What?”
Akira leaned in slightly, his voice softer now, thoughtful. “What if there was a way to make them face what they’ve done? To change… who they are.”
He watched her reaction, his storm-grey eyes unreadable.
Ren furrowed her brows. “What are you talking about?”
He smiled faintly, a knowing curve of his lips.
“Meet me at Shujin tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
The only light in the room came from the dull glow of Akira’s phone screen. He sat cross-legged on his bed, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from a quick shower. One hand was curled around a warm mug of coffee, the other flicking his thumb across the screen.
The group chat was already buzzing.
FleetBooty:
Still can’t believe she said that to you.
Like WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL 😤
CherryBombshell:
Makoto seriously thinks we’re the ones lying?? WTF.
She looked Shiho in the eyes and said that crap. I swear, if I see her tomorrow—
HeartshotHero:
pls don’t get arrested, Ann
I’ve had enough of police for like, ever
VentDuNord:
It’s troubling how easily she deflected blame.
As if this were some political inconvenience and not, you know, a crime.
Akira waited a beat before responding.
Trickster:
I talked to Naoto after the interviews.
She told me everything. I’m sorry you all had to go through that.
A second later:
FleetBooty:
Wait.
Naoto???
CherryBombshell:
As in—Detective Preggo??
HeartshotHero:
you know her??
are you gonna get arrested, ‘Kira?? 🥺🥺
VentDuNord:
I… am also concerned.
Please clarify before Ann starts frothing.
Trickster:
Naoto’s my cousin. More like my big sister, actually.
She’s on our side.
Several typing indicators popped up at once, then disappeared, then popped back up.
FleetBooty:
Why didn’t you say anything before??
Like. Bro.
CherryBombshell:
Omg are you like, immune to stress or what??
What if you do get arrested?? You touched Kamoshida—
Trickster:
I didn’t hit him. I made sure not to lay a hand on him.
And even if they try to twist it, it won’t matter.
HeartshotHero:
why not
I mean thank god but
why?
Akira leaned back against the wall and let the corner of his mouth curl into a small smirk. Then he typed:
Trickster:
Because I have a plan.
We steal Kamoshida’s Distorted Desires.
The chat fell silent for several seconds.
CherryBombshell:
ok WHAT
is this like
metaphorical??
bc ngl I’m still kind of on edge rn and I don’t have time for RIDDLES
FleetBooty:
like his what now
you can’t just say stuff like that like it’s normal
explain or i riot
VentDuNord:
…You mean like his Treasure?
The thing at the core of his Palace?
That’s what happens when cognition becomes corrupted…
But stealing that might kill him, Akira.
Trickster:
Not if it’s done right.
Removing the core of someone’s Desires doesn’t kill them.
It forces them to confront their Shadow—their truth.
Kamoshida’s been lying to himself for years. But if we pull the mask off…
…the guilt will crush him. And he’ll confess.
HeartshotHero: 😳
CherryBombshell:
ok that’s actually terrifying
also kind of genius
FleetBooty:
i hate that it makes sense
but also… yeah, no, I’m in
eff that guy
VentDuNord:
This is a bold move. Dangerous. But… effective.
And poetic.
Akira paused for a moment, then added:
Trickster:
There’s one more thing.
I’m bringing in someone else.
CherryBombshell:
uh. who?
HeartshotHero:
pls don’t say Makoto
pls don’t say Makoto
pls don’t say—
Trickster:
…The young detective who was in the room with Nao-nee.
Her name’s Ren.
FleetBooty:
WTF
VentDuNord:
That’s… bold.
CherryBombshell:
I dunno about this one, Akira. She works with the cops…
Trickster:
And we need someone on the inside. Someone who gets it.
She knows how dangerous Kamoshida is.
If she sees the Palace for herself, she’ll understand the stakes.
HeartshotHero:
do you trust her?
Akira didn’t hesitate.
Trickster:
Yeah. I do.
The typing indicators returned, slower this time.
CherryBombshell:
ok. if you trust her…
i’ll give her a chance. but if she sells us out, I’m swinging.
FleetBooty:
agreed
I’ll shank her with Morgane’s disc if I have to
VentDuNord:
I am not responsible for any injuries caused by improper use of my weapon
just saying
HeartshotHero:
pls don’t shank the detective
pls don’t make me testify
Akira gave a small snort of laughter, then typed the last message for the night.
Trickster:
One last thing.
Don’t freak out when you see what I’m wearing in the Metaverse tomorrow.
The look’s changed. It’s part of the plan.
FleetBooty: 👀
CherryBombshell:
you can’t just say that and leave
what kind of “changed” are we talking about
HeartshotHero:
is it like… hot?
VentDuNord:
Important clarification.
Akira smirked to himself and set the phone on the nightstand.
He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
The stage was set. The players were in motion.
Tomorrow, the real heist would begin.
[12:32 AM – Private Chat: Trickster & FleetBooty]
Trickster:
You still up?
FleetBooty:
...yeah.
Sleep’s kinda… not happening.
Trickster:
Didn’t think it would.
Just wanted to check on you. I could tell you were holding back during the group chat.
FleetBooty:
Hard to talk when you’ve got a hurricane in your chest, y’know?
Trickster:
Yeah. I get that.
There’s a pause in the chat. A few minutes pass. Then:
FleetBooty:
You really wanna know what’s up?
Trickster:
Always.
FleetBooty:
It’s Makoto.
Not just today—this goes way back.
We used to be super close, like sisters. We met back in second year of high school.
She was quiet, polite, kind. Always tried to help out behind the scenes.
And I was the loud, stubborn troublemaker with a busted-up home life.
We were opposites, but somehow we clicked.
Trickster:
Sounds like she meant a lot to you.
FleetBooty:
She did.
She was the first person who made me feel like I wasn’t just… some kid people tolerated.
We even talked about going to the same uni. Then her sister—Sae—started pushing her harder.
Sae’s a prosecutor. Super sharp. Super cold.
Makoto was raised by her alone, since she was little. Their mum died giving birth to Makoto. Their dad died a few years later in the line of duty.
And Sae? She doesn’t have room in her life for anything but ambition.
She hammered it into Makoto that mistakes weren’t allowed.
That success was everything. That empathy was weakness.
Trickster:
Harsh way to grow up.
FleetBooty:
Yeah.
Makoto started changing around third year.
She stopped talking to me as much. Focused more on school, on appearances.
Still polite, still helpful… but it felt fake.
Then I told her what was happening with Kamoshida.
How he was threatening me. The way he’d grab me or corner me during practice.
She just… looked at me like I was the one doing something wrong.
Said maybe I misunderstood.
That if I wasn’t so “confrontational,” I wouldn’t be targeted.
Then she told Sae.
Trickster:
…
FleetBooty:
Sae called my mom. Threatened to take me to court for slandering a faculty member.
Said I’d be expelled if I didn’t back down.
Makoto just stood there while I cried and begged her to believe me.
Trickster:
Ryu…
FleetBooty:
That was the day I stopped calling her my friend.
Trickster:
I’m so sorry.
That’s not something anyone should go through, especially not alone.
FleetBooty:
I wasn’t just hurt.
I felt betrayed.
Like I’d been gutted from the inside and left hollow.
Trickster:
You’ve been carrying all that without breaking.
That’s strength, Ryuemi.
FleetBooty:
I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’ve been clawing just to stay sane.
Trickster:
You don’t have to claw alone anymore.
You’ve got me. Morgane. Ann. Shiho.
We’re not going to let this happen again.
Not to you, not to anyone.
FleetBooty:
...
...Thanks.
You really mean that, huh?
Trickster:
Every word.
FleetBooty:
...You’re weirdly good at this, y’know?
Trickster:
What, being human?
FleetBooty:
Lol yeah.
That. And making people feel like maybe the world isn’t totally awful.
Trickster:
Well, stick with me, and I’ll show you just how much better it can get.
FleetBooty:
...You’re such a smooth bastard sometimes.
Trickster:
You love it.
FleetBooty:
...Maybe I do. Just a little.
Night, ‘Kira.
Trickster:
Night, Ryu.
(Chariot Rank Up!)
The sharp buzz of his phone yanked Akira out of a half-dream. He sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he reached over to check the screen.
1 New Email – [Shujin Academy Administration]
Subject: Immediate Suspension Notification
Mr. Akira Amamiya,
Effective immediately, you are placed on academic suspension pending the results of an ongoing investigation into the serious allegations made against you. You are instructed not to attend classes, participate in university events, or enter campus grounds until further notice.
This measure is taken to preserve the integrity of the investigation and to ensure the safety and comfort of other students.
Signed,
Makoto Nijima
Student Council President
Shujin University
Akira’s jaw tightened as he read the signature at the bottom. Makoto… Of course.
Without wasting a second, he rolled out of bed and called the administration office directly. A calm voice picked up on the third ring.
"Shujin University Admin Office, how can we help?"
“This is Akira Amamiya. I just received an email about being suspended—”
There was a pause.
“Sir, I’m not seeing anything on file. There’s no active suspension or investigation listed under your name. Are you sure the email was legitimate?”
Akira’s eyes narrowed. “Must’ve been a prank or something. Thanks for checking.”
He hung up, breathing out slowly, then tapped into the group chat:
Trickster:
Heads up—someone just tried to fake a suspension notice under my name.
Already checked with Admin, they’ve got no record of it.
Keep your heads down today. And stay close to each other, alright?
If you can, keep an eye on Kasumi too. Just in case.
Akira stared at the screen a few seconds longer before locking it and tossing it onto the bed.
The sun dipped lazily in the sky as students filtered out of the building, bags slung over shoulders and voices echoing with end-of-day chatter.
Near the gates, Ann, Shiho, Morgane and Ryuemi stood in a tight circle. They weren’t talking much—just waiting, alert.
“I’m surprised he didn’t call it off,” Shiho muttered, glancing over her shoulder.
“He’s not the kind of guy who backs down,” Ryuemi said softly. “Especially not now.”
Ann nodded. “And neither are we.”
A few moments later, Ren Akechi approached the gates, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd. She spotted the quartet and walked up to them, blinking in surprise.
“You’re… all here?”
“We figured we’d get some fresh air,” Ann said with a small, wry smile.
Ren raised an eyebrow, but before she could say more, Akira stepped out of the gates behind her. His hands were in his hoodie pockets, and his face was unreadable.
He gave a short nod to the girls before turning toward Ren.
“What we’re about to show you,” he said evenly, “will seem weird.”
He met Ren’s gaze, unwavering.
“But try to keep an open mind.”
The world shifted.
Colors bled together, the sky above twisting into molten gold and bruise-purple clouds. Shujin’s familiar brickwork contorted into a grotesque caricature—arches stretched unnaturally, gargoyles sneered from the rooftops, and red banners fluttered like they were soaked in blood.
Ren staggered forward, one hand on a nearby wall to steady herself.
"The Metaverse... we're inside the fucking Metaverse."
Her thoughts were screaming, panicked.
"Somehow, these people—these kids—have found a way in. That’s impossible. That’s classified. No one outside the Society is supposed to have this access!"
Her breath caught in her throat, panic ratcheting up as her eyes darted wildly around the twisted version of Shujin.
“Where… what… why…” she gasped aloud, stunned.
There was a sound—a giggle—and Ren turned her head, hoping desperately it wasn’t what she thought it was.
It was.
Standing confidently a few feet away were Ann, Shiho, Morgane, and Ryuemi… dressed in full Phantom Thief attire. Not even vaguely subtle. Stylized, battle-ready, and utterly unmistakable.
“You—why are you dressed like that?!”
Her voice cracked on the last word, pure disbelief painted across her face.
"WHAT!??!" her mind howled.
"Those girls have Awakened!?"
"They have Personas?! They’re infiltrating Palaces! This wasn’t supposed to happen! How the hell is this even possible!?"
Inside her psyche, the voices of her Personas tried to pull her from the spiral.
“Steady now,” Freya murmured, calm and frost-bitten.
“Focus, my lady. You must observe before you act,” Maid Marian added, her tone as gentle as it was firm.
Ren’s breathing began to even out—but then a new voice rang out behind her.
Low. Smooth. And far too calm.
“Welcome inside the mind of a sick perv, Detective…”
Ren turned.
And her mind bluescreened.
There stood Akira Amamiya—no, not stood, posed, damn him—in a sleek, black bodysuit clinging just right to his athletic frame. Red accents lined his chest, shoulders, and hips, flowing into a red utility belt strapped neatly around his waist. Twin tonfas gleamed at his thighs, secured in crimson holsters. And atop it all, a red mask curved across his eyes—elegant, sharp, and impossibly cool.
He smirked with effortless charm.
Ren’s jaw moved but no words came out.
"…oh no."
"Why does he look good?!"
"Why do I care that he looks good?!"
"FOCUS, REN!"
But she couldn’t—not fully. Especially not with the way the other girls were also staring at him, Ryuemi whispering something to Ann, who promptly stifled a laugh behind her glove.
And Akira—damn him again—just cocked his head, gaze settling on Ren like he already knew what was going through her mind.
“Shall we begin?”
Akira turned away from the palace’s looming facade and walked to where Ann and Shiho stood, still wide-eyed and taking in their warped surroundings.
"You two good?" he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp. "We don’t have long, and I want to make sure you understand what you’ve stepped into."
Ann blinked. "This place… it’s insane. Like a messed-up dream."
Shiho nodded slowly. "But it's real, isn’t it? Like, real real."
Akira inclined his head. “It’s real enough. What you’re standing in is Kamoshida’s Palace—a physical manifestation of his twisted desires. It’s built from his cognition, and everything here reflects how he truly sees the world.”
“And us,” added Ann, her expression darkening. “He sees us as toys.”
Akira turned to them both. “You two have only just Awakened. That’s okay. Just stay close for now—we’ll go over the rest once we’ve cleared the first floor.”
Ren narrowed her eyes slightly, her sharp mind clicking behind her poker face.
"So they're new... Only just Awakened? And he’s bringing them into a Palace already?!"
“OKAY!” Morgane clapped her gloved hands once, spinning on the spot in dramatic flair. “This is all very traumatic and enlightening, but we need to talk about something actually important!”
Everyone turned to look at her.
“Codenames,” she said with absolute seriousness. “If we’re gonna be sneaking around in a perv’s brain, we don’t want to be calling each other by our real names. Way too risky. Plus—” she spun again, pointing to herself, “—it’s cool as hell.”
“I’m Comet!” Ryuemi declared proudly, grinning as she threw up a peace sign. “She’s Vent—” she thumbed at Morgane, “—he’s Joker—” she nodded to Akira. “Now it’s your turn!”
Ann’s eyes sparkled. “Ooh! I get to pick my own code name?”
“Yep,” said Akira. “Just go with your gut.”
Ann paused dramatically, then smirked. “Panther.”
“Ohoho,” Morgane teased. “Someone’s feeling fierce today.”
Shiho hesitated, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Uhh… Dead-Eye?”
Everyone turned to her.
Ryuemi blinked. “That’s… kinda badass.”
Shiho flushed, but smiled.
Then all eyes turned to Ren.
She blinked at the circle of girls staring expectantly. “Me too? But… I don’t have these… Persona things. And I haven’t transformed or anything.”
Akira’s lips curled in the faintest smirk. He didn’t say anything, but she could feel it in his eyes—he knew. Somehow, he knew.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said lightly. “Pick one anyway. For funsies.”
Ren crossed her arms and pretended to think. “How about... Detective?”
Ann immediately snorted. “Lame.”
“C’mon,” said Ryuemi. “Pick something fun! Something cool!”
“Yeah,” chimed in Morgane. “You don’t want to be Detective while we’ve got names like Panther and Comet running around. That’s like naming a firework ‘Mild Fizzle’.”
Ren looked vaguely offended.
Ann leaned in with a mischievous grin. “What about Toffee? You’ve got that warm caramel-colored hair. It’s cute.”
Ren’s eyes narrowed. “Toffee? I sound like a Pomeranian.”
“Ohhh, totally!” Ryuemi giggled. “A little combat Pomeranian.”
Everyone laughed—except Ren, who looked like she was reconsidering every life choice that had brought her to this moment.
“…Fine,” she muttered. “Call me Lotus.”
“Oooooh,” Morgane nodded, surprisingly approving. “Elegant. Mysterious. Petals and poison. I dig it.”
Akira shot her a sidelong glance, a hint of warmth in his smile. “Nice pick, Lotus.”
Ren turned her face away, trying not to show the faint pink dusting her cheeks.
"I hate him. I really hate him," she thought.
"...why is he hot when he says things like that?"
The group stood before a large set of ornate double doors, flanked by twisted statues of Kamoshida holding goblets that spilled golden liquid.
Joker turned toward the others. “We’ll split the formation a bit. Comet, Vent—I want you two to stay with Lotus and cover her. Make sure nothing gets through.”
Vent’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “What? Why am I on babysitting duty?”
“Because I trust you to keep her safe,” Joker replied smoothly, already moving toward the doors. “And because we don’t know what this place is going to throw at us.”
Vent huffed, but didn’t argue further. She gave Lotus a glance, her expression unreadable beneath her mask. “Fine. But if anything comes at us, I’m taking it down my way.”
Comet saluted dramatically. “Aye-aye, cap’n! You can count on us!”
Joker gave a nod, then looked to Panther and Dead-Eye. “You two, with me. Let’s clear the way.”
With that, the front-line trio pushed forward into the hall, leaving Lotus standing beside her two appointed bodyguards. She stared after them, brow furrowed as she watched the battle unfold.
Panther was fast—leaping over obstacles, twirling her whip with surprising grace and precision. Dead-Eye kept close to cover, her pistols precise and brutal. Joker, though...
He wasn’t taking the lead. He hung back, calling out instructions, tossing items, casting supportive magic, healing wounds, occasionally unleashing a burst of power when things got too hot. But otherwise... he let the girls take the spotlight.
Lotus leaned toward Vent. “Why is he not fighting too? Is his Persona not built for battle?”
Vent scoffed. “That depends… which one?”
Lotus blinked. “He has more than one?”
“Oh yeah,” Comet piped up with a grin. “Tons. He’s like a Persona Pokémon Master. He absorbs Shadows and turns them into new Personas. We’ve seen him summon all sorts—Arsene is his main one, but sometimes he brings out others we’ve never even seen before. And they’re all really strong.”
Lotus blinked slowly. “Absorbs… Shadows?”
Vent gave a sharp nod. “He just reaches out mid-fight and yoink, now it’s his. The guy’s scary.”
Lotus nodded slowly, trying to maintain her calm, collected detective façade.
Internally, however—
“WHAT!?” She could practically feel Freya and Maid Marian freaking out inside her soul.
Freya: “A Wild Card… he must be a Wild Card! That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Maid Marian: “Indeed. That ability to wield multiple Personas is vanishingly rare… and extremely dangerous.”
Freya: “I thought they were just a myth in this age... but this boy—this Joker—he’s real.”
Lotus’s heart pounded as she stared at Joker’s silhouette through the misty heat of battle—his black bodysuit glinting under the twisted, torch-lit hall, his tonfas drawn as he blocked a blow from a towering Shadow without even flinching.
“Who is this guy… and why haven’t I heard of him before?”
The group stepped into a dimly lit chamber stinking of sweat, blood, and twisted ambition. Rusted lockers lined the walls, pulsing faintly like organs. In the center, five muscular figures stood in a tight formation, backs turned—until they slowly turned around in unison.
Ann gasped. “Those are…”
Shiho’s eyes narrowed. “The volleyball team.”
Their bodies warped and bulged, twisting grotesquely as red mist engulfed them. Their uniforms tore apart as their true forms emerged—three Kin-Kis, hulking and armored, wielding massive clubs. Behind them, two Flauroses flared to life in fiery, monstrous form.
"Intruders," one Kin-Ki rumbled. "You shouldn't have come here."
"You’ll pay for laying your filthy hands on our King," hissed a Flauros, flames licking around his jagged teeth.
Joker stepped forward slowly, cracking his neck and drawing his tonfas with a casual flip. “You five,” he said quietly, “are going to regret everything.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the others. “Stay back.”
Panther blinked. “Wait—just you?”
Comet grinned. “He’s serious. Just watch.”
The Shadows howled and rushed at him. Joker didn’t flinch.
“Agathion.”
A tiny thunder-pot monster materialized at his side and immediately zapped one of the Kin-Kis with Zio, paralyzing the brute in mid-charge.
WHAM! Joker slid under the Kin-Ki’s swing and slammed his tonfas into its knee, making it crumple.
"That... was an Agathion." Dead-Eye blinked. “What the hell?”
Another Kin-Ki roared and rushed him. Joker sidestepped and calmly flicked his wrist—
“Saki Mitama.”
The shimmering Persona radiated with calm energy as a Rakukaja buff shielded Joker and a Kouga spell exploded in the Kin-Ki’s face, blasting it back with holy light.
“You’re kidding me,” Lotus muttered. “He’s... using support-type Personas to solo this?”
One of the Flauroses tried to flank him—Joker ducked low and spun, vaulting over the beast with a flourish.
“Succubus.”
She appeared in a swirl of crimson smoke, cackling—and unleashed Dormina, putting the second Flauros to sleep before it could even roar.
“Three low-level Personas,” Vent muttered, arms crossed. “He’s showing off.”
“He can show off,” Comet whispered. “He’s earned it.”
Suddenly, all five Shadows regrouped—two Kin-Kis charging, one waking Flauros preparing to launch Revolution, the other two preparing Agilao.
Joker let out a soft breath and raised his hand.
“Pixie.”
A bolt of electricity crackled in the air as the tiny, giggling fairy Persona hovered into place.
Joker flicked his tonfas outward, stance wide. “Time to shut this down. Maziodyne.”
The room exploded in white-blue lightning. The impact shattered the Kin-Kis’ armor and ignited the Flauroses in simultaneous blasts. The five Shadows roared as they collapsed in heaps of vaporized energy and screeching failure.
Silence followed.
Joker landed in a crouch, rising slowly with sparks still dancing across his shoulders. He dusted himself off with one fluid sweep of his hand and turned back to the girls.
All five stared at him.
Panther’s eyes were wide, cheeks flushed.
Dead-Eye cleared her throat but didn’t look away.
Comet let out a soft “hoooooly shit.”
Vent looked conflicted, biting her lip slightly.
Lotus… was trying very hard not to gape. Her brain was white noise. Her Personas were still processing what they’d just witnessed.
Freya: “That was Pixie. He used Pixie like she was a high-tier Persona—how did he do that?!”
Maid Marian: “Low-level Personas—wielded like masterwork blades… this is more than raw power. This is expertise on a level very few can manage.”
In perfect synchronicity, each girl had the same stunned thought:
“...Hot.”
Joker just smirked and spun a tonfa once before holstering it. “Ready to keep going?”
The team pressed deeper into the Palace, storming through corrupted hallways and gilded corridors of narcissistic splendor. Giant paintings of Kamoshida leered down at them, flexing, smirking, gloating.
But still, Joker didn’t take the lead.
As Shadows lunged at them, Comet darted forward, cutlass twirling.
"Makajama!" she grinned as the Shadow staggered, then finished it with a sharp kick.
Vent spun her disc into the fray, ricocheting it off the walls with razor precision.
"Wind skills incoming. Don't blink!" she declared, launching Garula to juggle a floating Shadow before slamming it down with her weapon.
Panther lit up the field with her Agilaos, burning enemies into ash with wide, furious swipes of her whip.
“Mess with me again, scumbags. I dare you.”
Dead-Eye landed every shot like a sniper.
"Rakunda. Now eat this." BLAM. BLAM. Perfectly aimed bullets dropped a pair of Shadows before they could react.
Through it all, Joker stood at the back—quiet, watching, timing every support spell or emergency heal to perfection. When a fight turned tight, he’d tag in with a burst of energy from Saki Mitama or a status-cleansing charm from Silky, then step back again, letting the girls shine.
The four girls visibly grew stronger—learning new skills, refining their instincts, syncing together as a unit.
Even Lotus, who remained beside Joker, couldn’t help but be impressed.
“He’s building a team,” she realized.
“No. He’s forging one.” came the reply from Freya.
They finally reached it: a vast, ornate hall bathed in an eerie golden glow. Statues of Kamoshida lined the room, all exaggerated—muscles grotesque, eyes blank, mouths twisted into smug sneers.
Floating at the center of it all, suspended in midair above a velvet pedestal, was a glimmering cloud of gold dust, swirling and shifting like stardust in slow motion.
“That’s it,” Joker said, stepping forward. “The Core of Kamoshida’s Distorted Desires. But right now, it’s still just... potential.”
Comet tilted her head. “So how do we get it to, like... exist?”
“Calling card,” Joker replied, crossing his arms. “We send one out in the real world. Announce that we’re stealing the treasure. It forces the Shadow’s cognition to take form—because deep down, they believe someone’s coming for it.”
Vent’s eyes narrowed. “Psychological warfare.”
Joker grinned. “Exactly.”
Panther cracked her knuckles. “Good. I want that bastard to know he’s screwed.”
Dead-Eye looked at the cloud of dust with quiet intensity. “So once it forms, we steal it... and he confesses.”
“Because the desire to lie and deny won’t exist anymore,” Joker nodded. “Only the truth will be left behind.”
Joker smiled faintly. “You all did great today. I wanted you to get stronger—so you could decide how you want to fight. You did exactly that.”
He turned toward the exit, but a voice stopped him.
“Hey… Joker?”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder.
Lotus stepped forward, arms crossed, expression tight. “I’ve been wondering something since we got here. You have all these Personas, and you use so many of them… but who is your true Persona?”
The chamber fell silent. Even the ambient pulse of the treasure’s glow felt quieter.
Joker chuckled, but it wasn’t mocking. “Good question.”
"I have two."
"Arsene..."
He turned, eyes gleaming beneath his red mask.
"...and Satanael."
Ren stiffened.
Freya (in her mind): “...Did he just say Satanael?!”
Maid Marian: “That is… that is not a name mortals speak lightly…”
Freya: “We’ll explain later. You’re not ready.”
Ren (internally): “Great. That’s so comforting.”
She nodded slowly, not saying another word.
The alley behind the school shimmered before snapping back into dull reality. The world returned to normal with a jolt of stillness and noise—distant cars, the rustle of wind through trees.
They’d made it.
“Good work, everyone,” Akira said as he adjusted his hoodie, tugging it back on. “Get some rest. I’ll message you tonight in the group chat.”
The girls nodded, already chatting softly about the fight, laughing at their near misses, nudging each other.
Ren lingered a moment, giving Joker one last look—thoughtful, troubled, curious.
He smiled at her. Just enough to make her heart jump. And then, like always, he turned and walked away first, vanishing down the street as if he belonged to the shadows.
Steam rose in soft curls around Ren as she sank deeper into the warm bath, the scent of lavender and cedar clinging to the air. Her
caramel
brown hair was twisted into a loose bun atop her head, damp strands curling at her nape. A line of glistening bath oils shimmered along the rim of the tub—her nightly ritual, meant to soothe a body and mind often worn thin by the pressures of her dual life.
And yet, her mind was anything but calm.
Freya’s voice, usually proud and bold, was hushed. Reverent. “We were right to fear him. Ren, do you understand what it means to bear a Persona like Satanael?”
Maid Marian, normally refined and scholarly, chimed in with an edge of panic: “Satanael is one of only three known World Arcana Personas. The other two are Messiah, the Savior. And Izanagi-no-Okami, the Enlightened One. All three are divine-class entities… manifestations of the collective unconscious on a planetary scale.”
Ren exhaled, chest rising and falling in rhythm with the bathwater.
World Arcana. Planetary. Divine.
And he just said it like it was nothing.
Freya continued, voice sharpening: “Satanael is the rebel god. The challenger of divine authority. A force of absolute freedom and terrifying judgment. He exists only where defiance burns hot enough to ignite the world.”
Maid Marian: “In legend, he defied Yaldabaoth, the false god of control. And won.”
Ren sat forward slowly, reaching for her towel and wrapping it tightly around herself as she sat on the edge of the tub, knees pulled to her chest.
“Then that power… it isn’t just rare. It’s unique.”
Freya hesitated, then spoke with a weight Ren wasn’t used to hearing from her: “Only someone with an unbreakable Spirit of Rebellion could ever wield Satanael and remain themselves. Anyone weaker would be consumed, body and soul.”
Ren clenched her jaw, brows drawing together. “So what’s Akira, then?” she whispered aloud. “Some kind of chosen one?”
There was a pause. And then...
Freya: “Possibly more than that.”
The next words settled into her bones. “There’s an old legend among us Personas. That the Harbinger of Satanael would not walk his path alone. Twelve maidens would be required to tame him. Twelve souls who would magnify his power, sharpen his vision, and help him rewrite the world.”
Ren’s heart pounded. Her face flushed—not from the bath, but from something deeper. Her mind flashed with images: Ann, Shiho, Ryuemi, Morgane, Herself... All of them gathering around him.
Freya’s voice was softer now. Almost… knowing. “Maybe, Ren… If Akira Amamiya truly is the Harbinger of Satanael, you could be one of the souls fated to tame him.”
Maid Marian: “He may be the one you have been waiting for ever since you Awoke to us.”
Ren didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Because in that moment—wrapped in steam and whispers of fate—she realized something terrifying:
She believed it.
GROUP CHAT: Down With The King!!!
(Members: Trickster, CherryBombshell, HeartshotHero, FleetBooty, VentDuNord)
Trickster:
Just checking in. You all get home okay?
HeartshotHero:
Yeah. Sore as hell tho 💀 but I’m good.
Thanks for today, seriously.
CherryBombshell:
Same here. That was insane. Can’t believe we actually did that…
Also, who knew blasting shadows would be so cathartic??
FleetBooty:
My legs are dead. RIP my cardio. But also—I kinda wanna go back?? 👀
Like… I felt strong today. For the first time in a while.
VentDuNord:
Everyone did good. Still too flashy, but good.
…Especially you, Shiho.
HeartshotHero:
😳 Morgane pls—
Trickster:
You were all incredible. Seriously.
The way you're connecting with your Personas already—you're learning fast.
A couple quick pointers while I’ve got you:
Ann – Try mixing in more elemental attacks with your whip skills. Combo potential’s crazy.
Shiho – Long range is your strength, but don’t sleep on precision. Headshots matter.
Ryuemi – Use your speed. Dance around them. You’re a skirmisher, not a tank.
FleetBooty:
Omg did we just get a personalized combat review?? Are we officially in anime now??
HeartshotHero:
He’s like our cool upperclassman mentor.
Except… our mentor’s the same age as us and has an arsenal of demons in his pocket.
CherryBombshell:
Focus up, team 💅
Trickster:
lol
On a more serious note—
I want the three of you to write the calling card.
CherryBombshell:
Us??
HeartshotHero:
Why?
Trickster:
Because you’ve been the ones most hurt by that bastard.
You deserve to be the ones who tell him we’re coming for his heart.
Make it count.
(A pause in the chat.)
FleetBooty:
…Okay.
We’ll do it.
CherryBombshell:
Yeah. Let’s write something he’ll never forget.
HeartshotHero:
Bet. That freak's not gonna know what hit him.
VentDuNord:
Changing the subject slightly…
New outfit, Trickster.
What’s the deal with the Nightwing cosplay?
And why didn’t we get a wardrobe update memo??
Trickster:
😅
Let’s just say I had my reasons for not going with my usual look this time.
I’ll explain everything soon. I promise.
And to answer the question you probably really wanted to ask
Yes, you can change your Thief look—
But it takes practice. Gotta learn how to stabilize the image you want to project.
Give it time. You’ll get there.
VentDuNord:
Hmph.
If I want a fashion glow-up, I’ll get one.
Eventually.
FleetBooty:
👀 Not Morgane wanting a makeover...
CherryBombshell:
We’re gonna look like absolute queens once we figure that out.
HeartshotHero:
Let’s beat the hell outta Kamoshida first. Then we can work on our Phantom Vogue game.
Trickster:
Sounds like a plan.
Get some rest, all of you. Tomorrow, we prepare the message.
After that… it’s showtime.
GROUP CHAT: PhantomBabesOnly 😈
(Members: BimboBerry, BangBangBaby, PlunderBae, SiroccoFée)
BimboBerry:
Okay now that it’s just us girls…
CAN WE TALK ABOUT THAT FIGHT EARLIER!? 🔥
BangBangBaby:
I know right!??!
He soloed five monsters with a Pixie
A. PIXIE.
PlunderBae:
Bro said “Tiny fairy girl? Let’s roll.”
Then deleted them with sparkles and sass 😩✨
BimboBerry:
AND THAT LAST MOVE! The lightning blast!?
I think I saw god. And he had grey eyes and tonfas strapped to his thighs. 😭
PlunderBae:
I swear when he said “Welcome inside the mind of a sick perv, Detective…”
My SOUL left my body. Who talks like that!?
Who gave him the right??
BangBangBaby:
I was lying on the ground, bleeding and still blushing 😳💀
SiroccoFée:
You're all ridiculous.
BimboBerry:
Oh please, Morgane. You were purring while you were watching him wreck shit.
SiroccoFée:
I was not! I just… had something stuck in my throat
PlunderBae:
Morgane be like “I’m not like the other girls”
Then turns into a catgirl ninja and starts simping harder than the rest of us 😏
BangBangBaby:
ALSO
Tell me I wasn’t the only one who noticed how Ren was looking at Akira??
BimboBerry:
GIRL I SAW IT TOO
Straight-up heart-eyes mode. She was staring like she was about to faint.
PlunderBae:
I mean, can you blame her??
He looked like a sleek anime demigod and then he started monologuing like a fallen angel.
If I didn’t already want him to ruin me respectfully, I’d be worried.
BangBangBaby:
Sooo… should we invite her to the group chat?
BimboBerry:
Right?? It kinda feels wrong to leave her out now.
SiroccoFée:
No.
She’s not one of us.
Not yet.
BangBangBaby:
👀 Jealous?
SiroccoFée:
I’m being practical.
PlunderBae:
Morg’s just scared Ren’s gonna steal her spot next to Joker 😏
SiroccoFée:
I. Will. End. You.
BimboBerry:
Okay okay 😂
We’ll wait a bit longer before inviting the Detective.
But I’m calling it now—she’s so into him.
BangBangBaby:
Who isn’t at this point?
PlunderBae:
Lbr this group chat is just four girls spiraling into Akira-thirst.
We need help.
...Or more screenshots of him in that suit.
BimboBerry:
Both. Definitely both.
The familiar chime of bells and the low hum of velvet-blue air welcomed Akira as he stepped through the door in Leblanc’s attic. The cozy warmth of his room vanished, replaced by the flickering glow of the fire in the hearth and the endless shadows that whispered along the edges of the Velvet Room.
Igor sat in his high-backed chair as always, his long fingers steepled beneath his nose, those wild eyes glimmering in the half-light.
Lavenza looked up from where she sat cross-legged on the carpet beside the fire, surrounded by a small pile of books—some open, others bookmarked with scraps of velvet ribbon.
“You’ve grown stronger,” she said without looking up. “I felt it when you stepped through the door.”
Akira gave a quiet nod, already heading to the center of the room. “I’m gonna need more than strength. I need precision now. Flexibility.”
He stood before the fireplace and spread his arms slightly. Shadows slithered from his coat like silk ribbons—echoes of defeated foes, coalescing into masks. The Personas he’d held onto stepped forward in his mind, watching quietly: Arsene, Okuninushi, Kaguya. The core of his arsenal.
He began to fuse.
Kin-Ki, built for durability and raw, armor-piercing strikes. Negative Pile pulsed with promise in his hand, already crackling with intent.
High Pixie, sharpened into a living storm, humming with Maziodyne, Elec Boost, Elec Amp, and Shock Boost. A walking lightning bolt.
Kushinada-Hime, radiant in her grace, but glacial in her wrath. Mabufudyne, Ice Boost, Ice Amp, and Freeze Boost sang like a winter requiem.
Kurama Tengu, swirling green robes and razor feathers, a gale in human form—imbued with Magarudyne, Wind Boost, Wind Amp.
Valkyrie, elegant and grim, her blade humming with debilitation. She bore Tarunda, Rakunda, Sukunda, and the deadly combo of Stagnant Sigh and Devil Touch. She’d be his scalpel. His edge in the dark.
Each Persona returned to him with a whisper, a shift in the air, a feeling like old friends sliding back into place. He felt their power settling under his skin, responding to his call like breath to lungs.
A satisfied grin touched the corner of his lips.
Then he turned. The twelve picture frames on the mantlepiece above the fireplace, burning softly with spectral light. He'd started calling them his Wall of Arcanas.
Chariot was brighter now. Ryuemi.
Moon seemed to be glowing as well. Shiho.
Akira cocked his head and smiled faintly. “I’m on the right track, it seems,” he murmured, brushing a hand through his hair.
His gaze swept across the others—Lovers was humming gently (Ann), Magician pulsed dimly (Morgane, still stuck at rank 1), and the Hermit, Faith, and Justice flickered, their lights unchanged for the time being.
Then his eyes lifted to the highest Arcana—the Strength card.
It pulsed like a heartbeat. Bold. Steady.
He turned toward the fire.
Lavenza had closed her book, her gaze meeting his with soft curiosity. Her hair was in a soft braid today, falling over one shoulder. She wore her usual blue, but her frame had changed—subtly. No longer the small, eerily calm child he remembered from the previous timeline.
She looked older now. Fourteen? Fifteen, maybe? There was a softness to her face that hadn’t been there before. More warmth. More curiosity. A spark of something... human.
She smiled gently. “Your strength continues to blossom, Trickster. I am pleased.”
Akira returned her smile, a flicker of fondness stirring in his chest.
“You’re changing too, Lavenza,” he said quietly. “Becoming more... yourself.”
She blinked, then tilted her head, as if considering it. “I believe you’re right. The Velvet Room is shaped by your soul, and your soul has grown more... alive. It’s comforting.”
Akira scratched the back of his head. “Still not sure how I feel about you suddenly sprouting up a few years.”
She gave a small, teasing smile. “I am still myself, Akira. Just... unfolding. Like a flower in bloom.”
The words hit him with an odd weight. Innocent, yet strangely poignant.
He chuckled, recovering. “Still interested in those books?”
Lavenza’s eyes lit up with the gleam of a girl who’s been promised a rare treat. “Very much so. I heard of a place called Kinokuniya. Their rare archive is said to house poetry from both the mortal and mythic realms.”
Akira smirked. “I’ll take you. Once we’ve taken care of our Palace problem.”
She closed her book slowly, setting it aside with reverence. “Then I shall look forward to it, Trickster.”
And for just a moment, Akira allowed himself to sit beside her—companionable silence blanketing them like soft velvet, the fire crackling gently as Igor watched over them both with a smile tugging at his lips.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)For those of you wondering, yes, Makoto will be joining the PT eventually, but she has a lot of growing to do before we get to that point.
Chapter 9: The Fall Of The King
Summary:
The Thieves steal their first treasure and teach Kamoshida the real meaning of pain. Plus feelings start growing.
Chapter Text
The halls of Shujin University were alive with chaos. The morning buzz that usually hummed through the courtyards and corridors had been replaced by an electric current of disbelief, whispers, and outrage.
Students crowded around lockers, stairwells, and bulletin boards, gaping at the neatly pinned papers—bold red script inked over stark white sheets like blood on snow. Each one bore the same message:
Suguru Kamoshida, Shujin's Pervert Coach.
You walk these halls thinking you rule over us.
This ends now.
It’s time for you to confess your sins.
We are coming for you.
Signed: The Phantom Thieves of Heart
Gasps echoed through the corridors as students paused mid-step, phones out, snapping pictures, reading the words aloud with growing disbelief—or quiet satisfaction.
Two boys near the vending machines scoffed, laughing. “Dude, it’s gotta be a prank. Phantom Thieves? What is this, a Danganronpa spin-off?”
But not everyone was laughing.
A third-year girl named Mio stood frozen in front of one of the posters, her fingers trembling as she reached out and touched the paper like it might burn her. She remembered the way Kamoshida’s hand had rested too long on her back during practice. The way no one had believed her.
Behind her, a pair of girls whispered in a mix of horror and fascination.
“Do you think they’re real?”
“Does it matter? Someone finally said it.”
Even the faculty was abuzz. A harried adjunct tried tearing down the posters near the east wing entrance, only for more to be slapped up moments later like hydra heads. Security combed the halls, clearly overwhelmed.
The mood across campus had shifted. The whispers had a rhythm now.
The Phantom Thieves… the Phantom Thieves…
Director Kobayakawa stood behind his desk, a thick vein twitching in his temple as he waved one of the calling cards in Makoto Niijima’s face.
“This is unacceptable, Niijima! The integrity of this university is under siege, and someone is making a joke out of it! I want this contained before it spreads off-campus.”
Makoto stood with her back straight, looking every inch like the good little soldier. “Understood, Director. I’ll investigate and track down the source.”
“Good,” he snapped, before his voice dropped to a measured growl. “Make an example of them. Whoever they are, they want attention—so let’s give them discipline instead.”
Makoto gave a crisp nod. “I’ll handle it.”
As the door clicked shut behind her, silence flooded the office.
Kobayakawa’s jaw tensed. He turned slowly to his desk and unlocked the bottom drawer with a key from his vest pocket. From within, he pulled out a small burner phone and a folded piece of yellowed paper.
The phone screen blinked once. His fingers hovered over the keypad… then stopped. He stared down at the paper, brow furrowed, eyes flickering with calculation.
After a moment, he exhaled sharply through his nose and placed both items back into the drawer. Locking it again, he muttered under his breath:
“Not yet... Let’s see how this plays out first.”
The courtyard buzzed with restless energy. Students gathered in clusters, phones flashing as they snapped pictures of the calling cards or whispered behind their hands.
Through the chaos, a group of five girls weaved calmly: Ann, Ryuemi, Shiho, Morgane, and Kasumi.
Ann smirked, hands tucked behind her head in a casual pose. “Looks like the whole school's losing it.”
Ryuemi snickered. “They should. About time someone called out that creep.”
Shiho, walking with her arms folded tightly, allowed herself a small, fierce smile. “I didn’t think I’d live to see it.”
Morgane—wearing an oversized hoodie and a permanent scowl—just flicked her eyes around, sharp and watchful.
But Kasumi’s pace was slower, her hands anxiously clutching the strap of her bag. She looked around at the sea of stunned faces and furrowed her brows. “This… is going to cause a lot of trouble, isn’t it? I mean, what if they find out who did it?”
Her voice carried a tremor she couldn’t hide.
Ann looped an arm around Kasumi’s shoulder with an easy grin. “Relax. Whoever’s doing this? They know exactly what they’re doing.”
Ryuemi chimed in, flashing a confident thumbs-up. “Trust me, Kasumi. It’s gonna be alright.”
Shiho shot a meaningful glance at Morgane, who gave a tiny, approving nod. The girls exchanged a few quick, secretive looks, silent agreements passing between them like current through a wire.
Kasumi noticed the glances but said nothing, the faintest wrinkle of confusion crossing her brow.
Akira Amamiya strolled alone, hands in his pockets, an island of cool in a storm of chaos.
He caught snippets of conversation as he passed:
“Who are the Phantom Thieves?”
“Maybe it’s a publicity stunt?”
“Think Kamoshida’s freaking out yet?”
Almost on cue, the air thickened.
Kamoshida stormed down the hallway like an enraged bull, red-faced and breathing hard. His sharp eyes locked onto Akira, and the older man stomped straight up to him.
“You!” Kamoshida barked, jabbing a thick finger into Akira’s chest. “I know it’s you, you little punk! You’re behind those damned posters, aren’t you?!”
Akira blinked slowly, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. He tilted his head, feigning innocence.
“Do you really believe in fairytales, Kamoshida-sensei?” Akira asked smoothly.
A few students nearby turned their heads toward the confrontation, their curiosity piqued.
Kamoshida’s face twisted. “Don’t you dare get smart with me!”
Akira leaned in ever so slightly, grey eyes gleaming. “But Kamoshida-sensei…” he murmured, voice low enough for only a few to hear, “are you saying you have something to hide?”
The gym teacher's hand clenched into a trembling fist, his body quaking with the effort to restrain himself. Rage clouded his vision.
Without thinking, Kamoshida reared his arm back to strike.
Akira didn’t flinch. He only smiled—a slow, infuriating smile—and murmured, “People are watching.”
Kamoshida hesitated.
He followed Akira’s gaze.
Sure enough, students all around had their phones out, cameras pointed like loaded guns. A heavy silence fell across the hallway, pregnant with expectation.
Kamoshida’s nostrils flared. With a low, guttural snarl, he dropped his arm and turned on his heel, storming off down the hallway.
Akira watched him go, expression serene, hands still buried in his pockets.
Akira pushed through the double doors into the open air, the weight of a hundred unspoken victories lifting off his shoulders.
Near the fountain, Ann, Ryuemi, Shiho, Morgane, and Kasumi waved him over.
Ann’s grin was pure mischief. Ryuemi winked. Shiho nodded once, firmly. Morgane’s lips quirked into a small, rare smile.
Kasumi looked relieved, if still a little bewildered.
Akira adjusted his bag strap, his smirk widening as he muttered under his breath:
“Showtime.”
The world around them twisted like a fever dream.
The main gates of the castle stood wide open, yawning like the mouth of a beast that had already decided its meal was walking willingly into its belly.
No guards.
No fanfare.
Just stillness. And weight.
The Thieves stood on the threshold, four shadows against a nightmare skyline. No one spoke at first.
Comet slowly rolled her wrist, the edge of her cutlass catching the flickering, sour yellow light that hung in the air like fog. She didn’t blink as her eyes swept the ramparts.
“Too quiet,” she muttered. “Where’s the usual parade of creeps?”
Vent stepped up beside her, arms folded. Her voice was low, measured. “He wants us inside. No distractions. Just us… and him.”
Panther swallowed, shifting her stance. “He’s expecting us.”
From the rear, Dead-Eye gave a low chuckle as she idly spun one of her pistols at her side. “Good. I’ve got plenty of bullets for him.”
Then came the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate.
Joker passed between them without a word, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the twisted Castle like it was beneath him. He stopped just short of the threshold, his back to them, framed by the massive gates and the dark promise beyond.
He tilted his head, smirking.
“Come on,” he said, the amusement unmistakable in his tone. “The path to the Treasure Room will be clear. We don’t want to keep King Kamo-shit waiting, do we?”
The Castle shuddered.
It wasn’t subtle. Stone groaned. One of the golden statues cracked down the middle, its grin splitting as dust poured from its mouth. High above, a stained-glass window shattered in its frame, raining shards into the moat below.
The air felt suddenly hotter.
Comet blinked. “Did… did he just offend the building?”
Panther stared up at the trembling towers. “The hell kind of Palace reacts like that?”
Dead-Eye’s smirk widened. “The kind that knows the king is about to get his crown ripped off.”
Vent said nothing, but the way she fell into step behind Joker spoke volumes.
Joker didn’t wait for them. He walked straight through the gates like he owned the place. The Castle seemed to watch him, bricks grinding like teeth behind the walls.
One by one, the others followed.
As the last of their boots crossed the threshold, the iron gates creaked closed behind them with a resounding clang—not a lock, but a declaration.
They were inside now.
And the King was waiting.
The corridors of the Castle seemed to pulse around them—walls breathing, floors quivering underfoot like living flesh. Rotting tapestries bearing Kamoshida’s emblem drooped from the ceilings. Statues, once pristine, wept black sludge from hollow eyes.
Yet, despite the suffocating atmosphere, the team moved with purpose and ease.
There were no guards. No patrols. Just a long, unbroken march deeper into the heart of the Palace.
Vent moved quickly and silently ahead, scouting intersections. Comet and Dead-Eye flanked the sides, weapons drawn, but unused. Panther stayed close to the center, casting wary glances at the walls that seemed almost to lean in around them. Joker led them forward, unbothered by the creeping dread. The Castle wasn’t trying to stop them. It was leading them.
Finally, they burst through a set of heavy gilded doors—
The Treasure Room sprawled before them, a cavernous hall of shattered mirrors and golden mist. In the center, hovering above a cracked marble pedestal, floated a colossal crown, encrusted with rubies the size of fists. It pulsed with a sickly light, the very air around it warping and shimmering from its malignant presence.
It looked... unguarded.
For a heartbeat, none of them moved.
Then—Vent darted forward, eager.
“Vent—wait—!” Joker barked sharply. He yanked her back with surprising force, pulling her behind him as he stepped forward, planting himself squarely between his team and the Treasure.
His voice rang out, calm and cutting:
"Stop skulking around in the shadows, you scumbag… Come out and play."
The echo of his words had barely faded when laughter erupted from above—high, mocking, dripping with malice.
Shadow Kamoshida materialized at the top of the grand staircase, wearing his gaudy, twisted king’s armor. His eyes blazed with contempt.
And with a rumble, the floor around the Thieves cracked open, and from the fissures hundreds of Shadows poured forth—armored soldiers, beastly creatures, twisted forms of authority all howling in rage.
The Thieves formed up instantly, weapons drawn, but Kamoshida only laughed harder, spreading his arms wide like a benevolent god welcoming worshipers.
"You really thought you could take me down?" he sneered. "You're nothing! Filthy little rats! I'll crush you here, and show everyone what happens to traitors who dare defy their king!"
His voice turned cruel, gloating. "I'll break you one by one, and when I'm done... you'll beg to serve me!"
The Shadows closed in, circling like a noose tightening.
Still, Joker didn’t flinch.
He lifted his hand lazily and snapped his fingers.
A pulse of blue flame ignited around him—and with a roar, Okuninushi materialized, towering and regal, his massive blade gleaming.
Joker didn’t even raise his voice.
"Okuninushi. Hassou Tobi."
In an instant, the battlefield became a maelstrom of slashing wind and howling destruction.
Okuninushi blurred through the crowd, delivering a series of devastating strikes. Shadows were ripped apart in every direction—half of Kamoshida’s summoned army falling in bloody heaps before they even knew what hit them.
When the dust settled, a wide berth had been cleared around the Thieves.
Joker tucked his hands back into his pockets and smirked up at the furious Kamoshida.
"You were saying?"
Shadow Kamoshida's face twisted into a mask of incandescent rage as he screamed down at them, the very Castle shaking with the force of his fury.
Dust and smoke churned in the air from Joker’s devastating strike.
The Shadows hesitated—but the Thieves did not.
“Let's finish this!” Comet shouted, charging forward.
In a synchronized, brutal assault, the girls unleashed hell.
Comet danced through the Shadows, her cutlass flashing in sweeping arcs of deadly precision. Each slash dropped an enemy, quick and merciless.
Panther grinned fiercely, lashing out with her whip to entangle multiple Shadows at once—then setting them ablaze with an explosive fireball hurled without hesitation.
Dead-Eye moved with chilling calm, her pistols blazing. Each crack of her revolvers echoed like thunder in the chamber, a perfect shot finding every mark between the eyes.
Vent flung her massive throwing disc with lethal grace, carving through the enemy ranks like a black comet, each throw followed by a blur of acrobatic, devastating kicks.
In minutes, it was over.
The last Shadow crumpled into ash, leaving only the heavy, electric silence—and the four girls, standing behind Joker.
Their weapons gleamed under the stained-glass light. Their eyes blazed.
All five of them stared daggers at Shadow Kamoshida, who remained perched atop the staircase, glaring down at them.
The air between Joker and Shadow Kamoshida crackled—a standoff, pure hatred and defiance crossing the space like a drawn blade.
Comet stepped forward first, her cutlass raised defiantly, voice steady and strong:
“You think you're a King, looking down on us from above...”
Panther followed, the fireball in her palm growing hotter, her whip snapping once through the air:
“Staring at us, undressing us with your eyes, making us feel worthless and wretched with your perverted comments and slimy touches...”
Dead-Eye cocked back the hammers on both pistols, her voice low and icy:
“No more. Now we show everyone who you truly are... a demon from the dankest pits of hell.”
For a heartbeat, the room was still.
Then Shadow Kamoshida threw back his head and laughed—a deep, cruel, monstrous sound that seemed to shake the walls themselves.
His flesh began to bubble and split, grotesque pink masses erupting from his body.
“A demon?” he roared, voice warping and deepening into something inhuman.
“You’re right...”
“I am a demon. I am ASMODEUS—LORD OF LUST!”
His body twisted and writhed, growing taller, more grotesque.
When the transformation was complete, he stood revealed in his true, hideous form:
A massive, bloated pink monstrosity, standing on cloven hooves, goat horns curling wickedly from his forehead. His bloated flesh dripped with a greasy sheen, and a grotesquely exaggerated phallus hung obscenely from his abdomen. His long, swollen tongue lolled from his twisted mouth, dripping venom onto the floor.
He leered down at them all with burning, bloodshot eyes.
“And you girls ...are DINNER!”
The Treasure Room itself seemed to warp around his new form—walls melting, the stained glass bleeding red, the entire Palace groaning under the sheer weight of his corruption.
For a split second, the team faltered.
The sheer size of Asmodeus-Kamoshida—the grotesque dripping form, the suffocating aura of lust and hate—was enough to make all four girls instinctively step back. Then—Joker moved.
“Focus up!” Akira barked, voice cutting through their fear like a gunshot. “Comet, keep to his flanks! Panther, hammer him with magic—keep your distance! Dead-Eye, wait for the openings! Vent, cover our backs!”
His commands were sharp, sure, filled with an authority that steadied them all.
The girls nodded, finding their resolve again, and moved as a unit.
Asmodeus roared, lumbering forward—but Joker was already in motion.
He called forth Okuninushi again, launching a Hassou Tobi that tore a deep gouge across the demon's side. Asmodeus bellowed in pain—but already the flesh was beginning to knit itself back together, steaming and bubbling.
“Dammit...” Panther hissed, hurling a series of searing Agilao spells that barely kept up with the regeneration. Dead-Eye loosed volley after volley of precise shots, aiming for joints and eyes. Vent whipped her disc through attacking Shadows that tried to swarm them, keeping their rear safe.
Joker kept his movements fluid, switching Personas mid-battle. Every switch was effortless, almost rhythmic—like he was dancing through the chaos.
Still, it wasn't enough.
Each time they landed a heavy hit, Asmodeus simply laughed, his body steaming and bulging grotesquely as it healed even faster.
A lashing tongue strike snapped toward Panther—too fast.
Akira moved instinctively, throwing himself into the path and raising his arm to shield her.
The impact sent him sliding back a few feet—but Panther was untouched, blinking in shock.
“Joker!” she cried, reaching for him.
He straightened, smirking slightly despite the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Inside, his mind raced.
“Guess this is what Igor meant... things not being the same this time around.”
He flexed his hand, feeling the ache where the tongue had hit.
"He's evolving faster... adapting to our tactics..."
He locked eyes with Asmodeus-Kamoshida across the battlefield—the two of them locked in a death glare, pure hatred burning between them.
Akira chuckled darkly to himself.
“Guess it’s time to fight dirty.”
He rolled his shoulders, stepping forward again with that lazy, arrogant strut—as if he had all the time in the world.
Behind him, the girls steadied themselves, feeling his unshakeable confidence bleed into them.
Akira grinned, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip with the back of his glove.
“Alright, asshole... time for a real man to show you how it’s done.”
The air around him darkened—shadows swirling and crackling with crimson sparks.
With a sweep of his hand and a wicked gleam in his eye, he called out:
“Arsène!”
Asmodeus-Kamoshida snarled, sensing the shift.
Joker pointed straight at him, voice low and dripping venom:
“Go for the crown jewels.”
Arsène bowed dramatically, then exploded forward in a streak of shadow.
In one smooth, brutal motion, the Gentleman Thief’s razor-sharp claws raked across Asmodeus’s grotesque form—sinking deep and tearing with a flourish.
A horrendous, wet sound echoed through the chamber.
A beat of silence.
Then—
Asmodeus screamed.
A deep, soul-shaking howl of agony that made the very walls of the Treasure Room tremble.
The mutilated phallus hit the ground with a wet splatter, dissolving almost instantly into a puddle of vile, steaming fluid.
The girls flinched—but then, seeing the monster’s agony, their expressions hardened into grim smiles.
Joker didn’t even glance back. "NOW! Tear him apart!"
Comet roared as she sprinted in, her cutlass flashing like a comet’s trail. Panther unleashed a barrage of searing Fire magic, setting Asmodeus's wounds alight. Dead-Eye spun, fanning the hammers of her twin pistols, riddling the demon’s body with a deadly hail of bullets. Vent slashed vicious arcs with her disc, lacerating exposed, bubbling flesh.
Asmodeus flailed wildly, trying to heal—but the damage was too much, too fast.
Joker, meanwhile, was already in motion—circling the chaos like a wolf, eyes locked onto his real prize: the Crown.
Above Asmodeus’s head, the oversized golden Crown pulsed—the true symbol of his warped authority.
Akira narrowed his eyes, timing it perfectly.
As Asmodeus staggered backward, howling, Joker sprinted up the crumbling debris of the Treasure Room stairs—parkouring effortlessly from rubble to ledge to pillar—racing upward.
At the perfect moment, he leapt, flying through the air like a bird.
"You're no King..." he muttered as he soared.
With a single, savage swipe of his tonfa, Joker knocked the Crown clean off Asmodeus’s head.
It clattered to the ground with a deafening crash, rolling and shrinking until it was no bigger than a real crown.
The atmosphere of the Palace shifted instantly—the oppressive, suffocating power around Asmodeus breaking like glass.
The demon’s regeneration stuttered—then failed entirely.
Asmodeus roared again—this time not in anger or arrogance, but pure terror.
Joker landed lightly on a pillar, smirking coldly.
"Checkmate."
The Crown hit the ground with a hollow clang— and in that moment, everything changed.
Asmodeus-Kamoshida staggered, reeling, massive hands clawing at his head as the dark power sustaining him bled away. The grotesque form began to wither and shrink, muscles sagging, skin bubbling and sloughing off in greasy clumps.
From his perch on the broken pillar, Joker twirled his tonfas once, then sheathed them with a smooth flick of his wrist. He flashed a wolfish grin at his team.
“All yours, ladies.”
The girls didn’t need to be told twice.
Comet was the first to move. She charged forward, blade flashing, pure rage in every step.
“FOR EVERY GIRL YOU HURT—!”
Her cutlass carved a vicious arc across Asmodeus’s thigh, forcing the demon to one knee with a roar of pain.
Before he could recover, Panther was there, fire coiling around her like a living thing.
"FOR EVERY SLEAZY COMMENT, EVERY SICK TOUCH—!"
She slammed a blazing Agilao spell directly into Asmodeus’s chest, searing deep and sending waves of fire rippling across his flesh.
The demon writhed, screaming—until Dead-Eye stepped up, a cold gleam in her eye.
“And for trying to break us…”
“…we break YOU.”
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Dead-Eye’s twin pistols roared, each shot perfectly placed—knee, shoulder, gut, face—driving Asmodeus back, back, back, until he crashed against the wall of the Treasure Room, leaving a massive, cracked crater.
His monstrous form shuddered violently, seams of light cracking across his body.
With a final, pitiful groan, Asmodeus’s demonic shape collapsed inward— melting, dissolving, shriveling—
—until all that was left was Shadow Kamoshida himself, curled up and whimpering on the cold stone floor. His once-proud figure now just a broken, weeping shell.
The Phantom Thieves stood over him, weapons lowered but not forgotten.
Joker dropped down from the pillar with casual grace, hands in his pockets, surveying the wreckage without a hint of pity.
Comet spoke first, voice low and steely.
“No kings here.”
Panther followed, cold fire still dancing in her palm.
“Just trash.”
Dead-Eye cocked her pistols one last time.
“And we’re the ones taking it out.”
Joker simply smiled thinly.
The massive golden crown shuddered violently, shrinking to manageable size as Joker placed his hands upon it, a bone-deep rumble shaking the very foundations of the Castle. The air thickened around them, warping and cracking like the death throes of some ancient beast. At the heart of it all, Shadow Kamoshida collapsed to his knees, the grotesque illusion of kingship dissolving until all that remained was a broken, crumbling man. His wide, glassy eyes darted from face to face, wild with terror and realization.
“Why... why was I allowed to...” he rasped, voice thick with disbelief and guilt. His hands clawed at his head, as if trying to tear the memories out by force. “I hurt them... I destroyed them...!” A sob tore free from his throat, raw and ugly, the mighty "King" reduced to a pitiful, weeping wreck.
Akira stepped forward, the heavy crown dangling from his gloved hand, his storm-grey eyes steady and unreadable. “It’s over,” he said simply, his voice cutting through the swirling dust and the groaning stone around them. “Face yourself. Confess your sins. It's the only way you move forward.”
Shadow Kamoshida crumbled further at those words, tears streaming unchecked down his face. He reached out toward the Thieves in a feeble, pleading gesture — and then his form began to fade, breaking apart into nothingness like mist under a rising sun.
A thunderous crack split the air. The Castle shuddered harder, massive fissures tearing through its grand halls.
“It’s coming down!” Vent shouted, spinning toward the door without hesitation.
“Go, go!” Joker snapped, shoving the Crown into his satchel and leading the charge as they sprinted for the exit.
They exploded back into the real world in a rush of blinding light and stumbled into the narrow alleyway beside Shujin University, hearts hammering and muscles burning from the desperate escape. For a long moment, none of them spoke — too busy catching their breath, the weight of what they had done crashing down on them all at once.
Comet was the first to find her voice, bending over with her hands on her knees. “What... what the hell just happened?!” she demanded between gasps.
Akira straightened first, as calm and composed as if he'd just finished a leisurely stroll. He pulled the crown from his satchel — only now, it wasn’t a crown at all. In its place sat a battered Olympic gold medal, its ribbon faded and the surface scuffed and dull. It gleamed weakly in the afternoon sun, a pathetic relic compared to the grandiose treasure it had represented.
“The Treasure,” Akira said, tossing it up once and catching it with an easy motion. “It's the core of a Palace’s existence. Take it, and the whole world falls apart.”
Vent leaned in, eyeing the medal suspiciously. “Is that thing even real?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
Shiho snatched it from Akira’s hand, flipping it over in her fingers. “Pfft. Fake.” She tossed it back with a casual flick. “The real medal’s probably locked up in some safe at Kamoshida’s house. This was just... what mattered most to him.”
Akira caught it neatly and slipped it into his pocket, his lips curling into a faint, satisfied smirk. Around him, the girls slowly straightened, the adrenaline wearing off, replaced by a powerful, silent understanding. They had confronted evil head-on. They had forced a monster to face the consequences of his own sins.
Akira looked at each of them — Ryuemi, Ann, Shiho, Morgane — and felt a fierce, unshakable pride swell in his chest.
This was only the beginning.
The next few days dragged by, thick with a tension no one dared speak aloud. Classes stumbled along in a daze, students whispering behind hands and glancing nervously at teachers in the hallways. The air inside Shujin’s campus felt heavy — like the whole university was holding its breath, waiting for some unseen disaster to finally break free.
Akira walked through it all with an almost lazy grace, hands shoved in his pockets, that familiar glint of knowing amusement flickering in his storm-grey eyes. Around him, Ann, Ryuemi, Shiho, and Morgane stayed close, sharing glances and quiet murmurs but otherwise moving with a shared sense of grim anticipation.
And then the announcement came: mandatory assembly. Gymnasium. No exceptions.
The entire student body packed into the gym, the buzz of confusion hanging over them like a low cloud. The smell of sweat and polished wood filled the massive space. Faculty lined the walls, stiff and stone-faced. Murmurs rolled through the crowd as everyone caught sight of Suguru Kamoshida — not swaggering, not smirking, but walking stiffly toward the stage, flanked by two uniformed police officers. Ren and Naoto, looking grim, followed a few steps behind, their presence driving home that this wasn’t some administrative slap on the wrist. This was something far bigger.
Akira leaned casually against the bleachers near the back, Ann, Ryuemi, Shiho, and Morgane forming a loose half-circle nearby. None of them spoke. They didn't need to.
Kamoshida stepped up to the microphone, his face ashen, his hands trembling at his sides. He stood there for a moment, staring out at the sea of students, teachers, and flashing phone screens. The silence stretched, taut as wire.
Then he exhaled a ragged breath, gripped the lectern like it was the only thing holding him upright, and spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
The words rang through the gym, shocking in their rawness. Conversations cut off mid-whisper. Every eye locked onto him.
“I’m so sorry,” Kamoshida rasped, his voice cracking. “I... I abused my authority. I hurt my students. I... assaulted them. Lied to protect myself. Forced others to stay silent out of fear...”
He broke down, tears spilling down his face as he staggered away from the podium, clutching at his hair like he could rip the guilt out by the roots.
“I thought I was untouchable... a king... but I was a monster.”
A ripple ran through the crowd — gasps, horrified murmuring. A few teachers looked pale; others hung their heads, unable to meet the students’ eyes.
Down near the bleachers, Ann was frozen, fists clenched at her sides. Shiho stood perfectly still, a hollow, almost fragile look in her eyes. Ryuemi wrapped an arm around her shoulders protectively. Morgane muttered something furious under her breath, but Akira caught the faintest shimmer of satisfaction in her gaze.
Kamoshida stumbled down the steps from the stage, turning without hesitation toward the waiting officers. He held out his wrists, head bowed low.
One of the police officers stepped forward, snapping the handcuffs into place with grim finality. The gym remained dead silent, hundreds of students and teachers watching as the former "king" of Shujin was led away, no longer untouchable, no longer feared. Just a man, broken by the weight of his own sins.
Ren and Naoto exchanged a brief look, then fell into step behind the officers as they guided Kamoshida out of the gym. As they passed by Akira, they both gave him a look of approval before leaving.
Akira let out a slow breath through his nose, a small, almost invisible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was done.
Justice — real justice — had finally begun to take root.
The gymnasium emptied slowly, the students still dazed and murmuring amongst themselves as they trickled out into the bright afternoon light. Akira walked at an easy pace, hands still shoved into his pockets, flanked closely by Ann, Ryuemi, Shiho, and Morgane.
They had barely stepped beyond the heavy double doors when a sharp voice sliced through the air.
“You did something.”
Akira turned his head lazily toward the sound. Striding toward him with purpose, fire burning in her eyes, was Makoto Nijima. She moved with the precision of a blade, her posture rigid, her mouth set in a hard, thin line.
"I beg your pardon?" Akira said coolly, arching an eyebrow.
The girls stiffened around him immediately. Ann narrowed her eyes, Ryuemi squared her shoulders, and Shiho subtly shifted closer, protective instincts rising to the surface.
Makoto stopped a few feet away, her fists clenched at her sides. “Don’t play innocent. First, a calling card appears, practically accusing Kamoshida of being a criminal. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he’s confessing to abuse, sexual harassment, attempted rape?!” Her voice rose with each word, drawing glances from passing students, but she didn’t seem to care.
"That's too much of a coincidence!" she snapped, jabbing a finger toward Akira. "There’s no way the University Administration wouldn't have noticed something like that happening under their noses! Kamoshida was a respected faculty member. He was a medalist! They would’ve caught it if any of these accusations were even close to being true!"
Akira said nothing, simply regarding her with a calm, unreadable gaze that only seemed to fuel Makoto’s anger.
"You—" Makoto’s voice trembled with emotion now, somewhere between rage and disbelief. "You have a record. Everyone knows you’re here because of it. And now this? It's obvious you're trying to cover your tracks, dragging Kamoshida down to save your own skin!"
The words hung heavy in the air.
Ann stepped forward sharply, her voice cutting like a whip. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
Ryuemi bristled beside her. "Yeah? Maybe open your damn eyes for once, instead of parroting whatever crap the Admin feeds you!"
Shiho, usually so quiet, spoke too — her voice soft, but steady and slicing through Makoto’s accusations like a knife. "We know what he did. We lived it."
But Makoto wasn’t listening. Her eyes stayed locked on Akira, her face rigid with disbelief and fury, as if she was clinging to some crumbling ideal she couldn’t afford to let go of. Every word the girls threw at her bounced off like pebbles against steel.
Akira didn’t flinch. Didn’t retaliate. He simply watched her with that same maddening calmness, almost pitying.
He could have torn her argument apart. He could have mocked her naïveté, her blind faith in a system that had failed so many. But he didn’t. He just stood there, steady as a mountain, letting her rage crash uselessly against him.
Makoto’s lips twisted into a sneer as Akira continued to stare at her without a flicker of emotion. His silence seemed to ignite something volatile in her.
“Say something!” she snapped, her composure finally cracking as she stormed forward and jabbed a finger hard into his chest. "Admit it! Admit you rigged this whole thing! You're a criminal! You tricked everyone, just like you did back then!"
Akira didn’t even flinch under the force of her pokes, the impact bouncing harmlessly off him like raindrops against a stone.
The girls around him shifted — Ryuemi growled low in her throat, ready to step in, but it was Shiho who moved first, her hands curling into fists at her sides.
"Stop it!" Shiho said sharply, stepping forward. Her voice trembled, but not with fear. With fury. "You don’t know what you’re talking about! Kamoshida—he hurt people. He hurt me! Akira didn’t make him do anything! We’re the ones who lived it!"
Makoto whirled on her, her face twisted in frustration and stubborn disbelief. "Oh, please," she scoffed. "Maybe you did something to provoke them. Maybe you just wanted attention. And you—" she snapped, rounding on Ann, "—with the way you dress, flashing yourself around like some kind of harlot, you shouldn't be surprised if people... misinterpret your intentions!"
The words hit like a slap across the face. Shiho recoiled as if struck, her eyes wide and shimmering with hurt. Ann’s mouth dropped open in horror, her hands clenching into trembling fists at her sides.
Ryuemi started forward, ready to tear Makoto apart—
—but Akira was faster.
He stepped forward like a shadow falling over her, his entire presence sharpening into something dangerous, something predatory. His storm-grey eyes, usually half-lidded and lazy, now blazed with a fury so cold it burned.
"You," he growled, voice low and lethal, "don’t get to talk to them like that."
Makoto tried to stand her ground, but each step Akira took forward, she instinctively retreated, the fire in her eyes giving way to uncertainty.
"You sit there, high and mighty, clinging to the rules like they're a shield. Pretending they make you better. Smearing people you don't even know just to feel safe inside your little glass box," Akira said, advancing another step. "But the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified of admitting the system you worship is broken. That your precious University, your precious authority figures, failed. And because you’re too scared to face that, you blame the victims instead."
Makoto’s back hit the wall with a faint thud. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, her breath coming faster, hands trembling at her sides.
Akira slammed his palms against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in, leaning in close enough that she could feel the force of his words in every breath.
"Open your eyes and use your brain, Makoto," he snarled. "Don’t be the sheep they want you to be... you're better than that."
For a long, frozen heartbeat, the world was silent except for Makoto’s ragged breathing.
Then, without sparing her a second glance, Akira turned his back on her. He went to Ann and Shiho instead, his hands gentle as he touched their shoulders, pulling them and Ryuemi close with a quiet strength. He whispered soft reassurances they could barely hear over the blood pounding in their ears. Morgane didn’t spare Makoto a glance as she picks up everyone’s bags.
Together, the five of them walked away, leaving Makoto standing there, shaking and alone, her back pressed against the cold wall, her entire world cracking apart around her.
Leblanc was warm and dimly lit when they pushed through the door, the familiar scent of coffee beans and old wood wrapping around them like a blanket. It was a sharp contrast to the raw tension still lingering in the pit of Akira’s stomach, but the moment he saw how drained the girls looked, he set aside his own anger without a second thought.
"Grab a seat," he said quietly, flashing them a small, reassuring smile as he slipped behind the counter and tied on an apron. "I’ll make you something."
The girls sank into the booth by the window, still silent, still shaken. Akira moved around the café with smooth efficiency, checking on the few other customers before turning his full attention to his friends.
Ann was the first to order, her voice small but clear. "Something sweet... something fluffy," she said, trying for a smile. "Like... a marshmallow in a cup."
Akira gave a small huff of amusement and set to work, whipping up a decadent caramel latte piled high with foamed milk and a generous dusting of cocoa powder.
Ryuemi leaned on the table with her chin in her hand, her usual fire banked low but not extinguished. "I’ll take something light... nothing too bitter. I just need to relax a little."
For her, Akira brewed a delicate café au lait, gentle and mellow with just the faintest hint of vanilla.
Shiho surprised them all. She looked up at Akira, her gaze steady even if her fingers still trembled slightly. "Black. As strong as you can make it," she said.
Ann blinked at her. Ryuemi raised an eyebrow. Even Morgane looked impressed.
Akira simply nodded, not questioning it. He brewed a pure, dark roast coffee — no sugar, no milk, just raw and bold, like the strength Shiho was beginning to show again.
As for Morgane, she leaned back in her seat with a faint smirk and said, "Make me a café au sirop d’érable et cerise, Joker. A Leafy."
Akira chuckled under his breath at the very Quebecois request, pulling out the hidden bottle of maple and cherry syrup from under the counter. He crafted a strong espresso cut with a small, luxurious pour of syrup, the rich sweetness blending with the coffee’s deep bitterness.
Between serving drinks and the occasional order from a customer at the far end of the café, Akira moved back to check on them — dropping off a drink, squeezing a shoulder, ruffling hair affectionately, offering a wordless warmth that said more than any words could.
"You’re safe now," his touch seemed to say. "You’re not alone."
They stayed like that for a while — sipping their drinks, laughing a little more freely as the worst of the afternoon faded into the past.
When closing time rolled around, Akira slipped off his apron, grabbed his coat, and ushered them gently toward the door. The night was crisp and cool, the station a short walk away under the hazy glow of streetlamps.
At the station gates, he stopped and turned to each of them, pulling them into brief, tight hugs one by one.
Ann was first, her arms wrapping around him fiercely before she pulled back, her cheeks pink. Then Ryuemi, who clapped him hard on the back in a way that made him chuckle. Shiho hesitated for a second before stepping into his arms, breathing out a shaky laugh against his shoulder. Even Morgane — usually so prickly — allowed a quick, almost reluctant squeeze before pulling away with a little muttered "Merci."
"Text me when you get home, alright?" Akira said as he pulled away from the last of them, his voice gentle but firm. "I mean it. I want to know you're safe."
They nodded, each of them feeling a little lighter than they had hours before — the warmth of Leblanc, and Akira’s unwavering support, lingering with them even as they disappeared into the night.
Ann lay sprawled across her oversized bed, a swirl of pastel pinks and creamy whites surrounding her like a cloud. Plushies of all shapes and sizes framed her like silent sentries, and the soft scent of vanilla drifted through the air from a candle flickering on her nightstand.
She wiggled her freshly painted toes, admiring the glossy candy-apple red she'd brushed onto them just moments ago. Her mind, however, wasn't on her impromptu pedicure. It was elsewhere — on a boy with unruly black hair, storm-grey eyes, and a crooked little smile that somehow made her heart trip over itself.
Akira.
She bit her lip, the brush dangling forgotten between her fingers as her thoughts tangled into a hopeless, giddy mess. There was something about him — the way he moved, the way he listened, the way he saw her, really saw her, in a way so few people ever had.
Ann reached for her phone, almost without thinking, the screen lighting up to reveal a half-typed message."Hey, um... I was just thinking about today. And about you. I... I think I like you, Akira..."
Her thumb hovered uncertainly over the "Send" button. Her heart thudded in her chest, louder than the rain tapping gently at her window.
For a moment, the possibility hung in the air, so close she could almost taste it.
Then — with a soft, almost embarrassed laugh at herself — Ann pressed delete. Letter by letter, the confession vanished into the digital void, leaving only the empty message box and the hollow ache of things unsaid.
She tossed the phone onto her duvet and flopped backward onto the bed, one arm thrown over her eyes.
Through the gap in her curtains, she could see the city lights blinking lazily against the night sky. Somewhere out there, Akira was probably curled up with a book or a cup of coffee, that same calm, steady presence anchoring the world around him.
Ann smiled faintly, feeling both impossibly happy and a little heartbroken all at once.
"Maybe someday..." she whispered to the ceiling, before closing her eyes and letting herself drift into dreams — dreams where maybe, just maybe, she found the courage to tell him everything her heart was screaming.
Ryuemi flopped back deeper into her beanbag chair, a half-empty can of soda teetering precariously on the floor beside her. The familiar background music of Street Fighter 6 hummed through her battered old TV speakers, filling the cozy clutter of her room.
The place was a mess — clothes draped haphazardly over the back of a chair, a few forgotten textbooks stacked under her nightstand, and a growing mountain of sports magazines threatening to topple in the corner. Near the door, a pair of scuffed running shoes sat next to a modest set of weights, as if daring her to pick them up.
But for tonight, she wasn't worrying about training, or homework, or anything else. Tonight was about unwinding — and maybe... just maybe... letting herself think about someone she couldn't quite get out of her head.
Her thumb hovered over the controller, the character select screen flashing brightly. She cycled through the fighters with lazy flicks of the joystick, landing on Vega.
Ryuemi smirked a little to herself.
"That mask though," she muttered under her breath, the corner of her mouth twitching up into a grin. "It's just like his..."
Without thinking, she hit "Confirm."
Vega's sleek figure twirled onto the screen, his face half-hidden behind a silver mask, his movements smooth and dangerous. It was stupid, she knew. A video game character wasn’t the same — not even close. But there was something about it, something that made her chest squeeze in a weird, fizzy kind of way.
"Not as good as playing with the real thing," Ryuemi said, chuckling to herself as she stretched out her legs and settled in for a few rounds.
As the match started, her mind wandered — not to strategies or combos, but to storm-grey eyes and that confident, easy grin that had a way of turning her thoughts inside out.
Shiho sat cross-legged on her bed, lazily nodding her head to the pulsing beat of Paramore’s crushcrushcrush blasting softly from her old speaker. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of string lights tacked haphazardly along the ceiling. She was dressed comfortably for the night — an oversized SCANDAL tour tee that slipped off one shoulder, and tiny cotton shorts barely visible beneath the hem.
One hand absently tugged at the frayed edge of her shirt as her mind drifted, the lyrics slipping past her ears like a half-remembered dream.
Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone...
Shiho closed her eyes for a second, letting herself get pulled under the music, under the memory of a moment that had been playing on a loop in her head for days now — Akira, standing tall and furious, shielding her with his whole body like she was something precious, something worth protecting.
She braced herself for the familiar churn of fear to claw at her stomach. The helplessness, the shame.
But it didn’t come. Instead, all she felt was warmth. A steady, reassuring kind of safe that wrapped around her heart and anchored her trembling thoughts.
Shiho opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling, her lips quirking into the faintest smile. She hugged a pillow to her chest, squeezing it tightly as the song picked up again, her foot tapping absently to the beat.
Ann had tried so hard to help her heal — she loved Ann for it, more than words could say — but somehow, Akira had managed to reach a part of her even she hadn’t realized was still broken. He didn’t treat her like she was fragile glass waiting to shatter. He didn’t see her as "damaged."
He just... saw her.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Shiho believed she could be strong again.
Because maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't have to fight her battles alone anymore. Maybe there was someone — messy black hair, storm-grey eyes, and that infuriating, perfect smirk — who would stand at her side no matter what came next.
Shiho squeezed the pillow tighter and let out a small laugh, the sound light and free.
Maybe, she thought as the song faded into the next track, he's the reason I’m not afraid anymore.
Morgane flopped face-first onto her bed with a dramatic groan, muffling a string of colorful French curses into the pillow. She rolled over, kicking her legs up so they hung off the side of the bed, staring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged her.
"What the hell is wrong with me..." she muttered, flipping her phone between her fingers. She hadn't even meant to open the text app, but somehow she'd typed out Akira’s name without even thinking.
Morgane grimaced and threw the phone down beside her.
It’s just 'cause he’s nice to you, imbécile, she told herself. Anyone would feel like this if someone fought for them, protected them, smiled at them like they're not some... some stupid troublemaker who doesn’t belong.
But even as she tried to rationalize it, Morgane could feel the blush creeping up her cheeks. It was stupid. It was annoying.
The way her heart did a dumb little flip whenever Akira said her name.
The way she caught herself looking for him first in a crowd without even realizing it.
The way she kept remembering how he smiled at her after making that perfect Quebecois coffee without even batting an eye, like he actually knew her.
Morgane sat up abruptly, dragging both hands through her hair with a frustrated growl.
"I don’t like him," she declared to her empty room, jabbing a finger toward the window as if daring the world to argue. "I respect him. That’s it. That’s all."
There was a beat of silence.
And then Morgane dropped back onto her bed with a defeated sigh, burying her burning face in her pillow.
"...Merde," she mumbled into the fabric. "I'm so screwed."
Makoto stormed back and forth across the living room of the cramped apartment, her footsteps echoing faintly against the sparse furniture and sterile walls. A single lamp cast a pool of yellow light onto the floor, the rest of the space swallowed up by shadows. Sae's absence — once something Makoto prided herself on enduring — now only seemed to magnify the swirling storm inside her chest.
"Idiots," Makoto hissed under her breath, clenching and unclenching her fists. "Self-righteous... reckless... arrogant idiots!"
She had to prove them wrong. She would prove them wrong. She would show them, show him, that she was right to be suspicious — that she wasn't some naive little girl with stars in her eyes. That she wasn't...
Makoto faltered mid-step. Her hand touched the wall for balance as a shiver ran through her body, unbidden and unwanted.
Don’t be the sheep they want you to be… you're better than that…
Akira’s voice — low, rough, unyielding — echoed in her mind.
Makoto squeezed her eyes shut, but it only made the memory sharper: the heat of his body caging her in, the heavy thud of his hands against the wall on either side of her head, the intensity of his storm-grey eyes boring into hers.
Her breath hitched. Her knees buckled slightly, and she sank to the floor, legs folding beneath her.
"No," she whispered fiercely to the empty room. "No. I won't— I won’t—"
But even as she fought it, a flush burned hot across her cheeks, down her neck, her entire body betraying her. Her hands, shaking slightly, pressed tightly between her thighs as she curled forward, whimpering through gritted teeth.
It was infuriating. It was humiliating. Makoto bit her lip until she tasted blood, hating the helpless throb of warmth pooling low in her stomach. Hating how easily he had broken through her walls without even meaning to.
Still trembling, she hugged her knees to her chest and glared bitterly at the far wall — though it wasn't really the wall she was angry at.
"...I'm not a sheep," she whispered again, but this time there was no conviction in her voice. Only a desperate, trembling need to believe it.
And somewhere, buried deep beneath the layers of resentment, ambition, and pain, something inside her shifted — just a fraction.
A crack forming in the armor she had worn for so long.
The familiar scent of worn leather and woodsmoke enveloped Akira as the Velvet Room took shape around him, a sprawling loft filled with endless bookshelves and a crackling hearth. Seated in his high-backed velvet chair, Igor fixed Akira with his ever-cryptic gaze, the flickering firelight casting deep shadows over his sharp features.
"You have done well," Igor said, sounding almost fatherly in his praise. "But your journey is only beginning."
Akira stood before him with casual ease, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, waiting for the inevitable wisdom that always came couched between riddles.
"In order to face the storms ahead," Igor continued, "you must nurture and rebuild the bonds that once gave you strength. Cherish the connections you forge, Trickster, for they will shape your fate more than any blade or Persona."
From her usual place at Igor’s feet, Lavenza closed the thick tome she had been reading and looked up at Akira with a tender smile. "You’re not alone, Akira," she said, her voice soft and clear. "You never will be."
The warmth of their words clung to him as the Velvet Room dissolved into mist, leaving Akira blinking awake in the soft morning light spilling into his bedroom. His phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand, vibrating against the wood. Groaning under his breath, Akira dragged himself upright, his hair sticking up wildly in every direction. He reached out, squinting at the screen as five new messages lit it up. Scrolling through, Akira's mouth quirked into a sleepy, surprised smile.
Shiho:
Hey, are you free today? I was thinking maybe we could hang out? No pressure! (｡•́︿•̀｡)
Ann:
Heyyyyy Akiraaa~ I'm sooo bored, you wanna go shopping or something? (｡♥‿♥｡)
Ryuemi:
Yo, Joker. You down to hit an arcade or grab food? I owe you a soda after everything.
Morgane:
It's a beautiful day and yet I'm stuck thinking about YOU, tabarnak. Let's hang out before I lose my mind. >:(
Kasumi:
Good morning, Akira-kun! If you're free, would you like to go to the park with me? I'd really love to spend some time with you!
Akira rubbed the back of his head, laughing softly to himself. Guess everybody's feeling social today.
Without a second thought, he thumbed out a group reply:
Akira:
Sure, I'd love to hang out with you all. Meet at Shibuya around 11? :)
Satisfied, he tossed his phone onto the blanket and stretched — only for it to buzz one more time almost immediately. Curious, he checked the latest message.
Futaba:
You're a dumbass.
Akira blinked at the screen, then barked out a laugh. He had no idea what she meant, but knowing Futaba, it probably wasn't anything serious. Right?
Chapter 10: Rebirth of the Phantom Thieves Of Heart
Summary:
A more relaxed slice-of-life chapter after all the excitement of Kamoshida's Palace, which I think the whole group deserves, lol.
A chaotic gremlin invites our intrepid hero to her cave :)
A visit to the bookstore sparks the next arc.
Chapter Text
The hum of Shibuya swirled around Akira like a living thing — neon lights bleeding into the overcast afternoon, waves of footsteps and conversation crashing against the sidewalks. Yet, standing by the Hachiko statue, he seemed untouched by the chaos.
He spun his phone lazily between his fingers, his posture deceptively relaxed. His outfit — faded black jeans clinging perfectly to long, powerful legs, a thin black shirt molded to his lean frame, and a crimson button-up left open to the wind — radiated that infuriating, effortless cool. Like he’d just woken up like this.
A low chime from the station entrance pulled his storm-grey gaze upward.
The first to emerge from the sea of commuters was Kasumi.
She skipped toward him, a bright flash of color in the crowd. Today, she’d abandoned her typical prim attire in favor of something lively — a loose bomber jacket, crop top underneath, baggy joggers patterned with graffiti prints, and a beanie pulled low over her red hair. She looked like she could step onto a street dance stage at any moment.
Akira's lips curved into an easy smile. "Looking good, Kasumi."
Kasumi’s hand brushed nervously at her jacket sleeve, cheeks flushing pink. "Ah — thanks! I, um, wanted to try something a little different." She glanced down at her sneakers, then back up, determination flickering behind the shyness. "I really love hip-hop and breakdancing styles. They’re so... alive, you know? Sumire always says ballet is purer, but..."
Akira chuckled, tilting his head. "Both take crazy skill. But if I’m being honest…" — he leaned in slightly, a spark dancing in his eyes — "This style suits you better."
Kasumi's breath hitched — only slightly — before she beamed, radiant as ever.
Before she could summon a reply, a 5-foot keg of dynamite cleared her throat, drawing both their attention.
Morgane arrived like a thundercloud wrapped in leather.
Her outfit was sharp, precise — high-waisted leather pants tucked into sleek boots, a fitted black top emphasizing her trim figure, a tailored charcoal blazer hugging her shoulders. Around her throat, a bold yellow neckerchief tied in a sharp knot. Her sharp blue eyes glinted with mild irritation, clearly annoyed she hadn’t been first to arrive.
Akira chuckled softly under his breath and greeted her with an exaggerated, slightly accented, "Enchanté, mademoiselle."
Morgane blinked — a rare misstep — then recovered, lifting her chin proudly. "Pas mal, mon gars," she replied smoothly, hands slipping into her pockets.
Kasumi giggled behind her hand as Morgane joined them, shooting the redhead a playful glare.
Morgane wouldn’t admit it aloud, but the casual, charming way Akira spoke French — her language — sent an unwelcome flutter straight to her chest. She crossed her arms and scowled harder, willing herself to not smile.
The growing group turned as the next arrival barrelled through the crowd.
Ryuemi wasn’t running — not quite — but the bounce in her step betrayed her nerves. She wore a soft lavender skater dress with white sneakers, and had even attempted makeup: just a little gloss, a touch of eyeliner. On her, it looked... adorable. Fresh. Completely at odds with her usual tomboy aesthetic.
Akira’s eyebrows shot up in mock disbelief. He whistled low. "Wow... who are you, and what have you done with Ryuemi?"
The bottle-blonde flushed beet-red, fists balling at her sides. Without thinking, she socked him lightly in the shoulder — a half-hearted punch that lacked any real heat.
"Shut up, Akira," she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a pleased grin she couldn't quite suppress.
Kasumi clapped quietly, and even Morgane let out a tiny, amused scoff.
Inside, Ryuemi’s heart raced. He noticed. He actually noticed.
The sound of heavy boots on concrete announced the next arrival, and Akira turned to see Shiho weaving through the crowd, radiating punk princess energy.
A black-and-red plaid skirt swung against her thighs; ripped tights showed off long legs; her oversized hoodie — a vintage Paramore design — slipped off one shoulder with studied casualness. A studded belt cinched her waist, and black combat boots completed the rebellious look.
Akira grinned, arms crossing loosely over his chest. "You auditioning to be the new face of Stereopony?"
Shiho shot him a glare — but it was the kind that lacked any real venom.
"Keep talking, ‘Kira," she drawled, flipping her hair over one shoulder with exaggerated sass.
Still, the edges of her scowl softened into a secret smile as she fell into step beside him. His teasing felt... different from others'. Respectful. Fun. Safe.
And then, time slowed.
The crowd seemed to part naturally as Ann made her grand entrance.
Her platinum hair spilled over her shoulders in perfect waves, her heels clicking confidently across the stone. She wore a form-fitting mini-dress under a cropped jacket, the kind of outfit that turned heads without even trying. She towered nearly at eye-level with Akira, every inch the model she was destined to be.
Akira swallowed — visibly — the first time he caught full sight of her.
Ann caught it and laughed — a sultry, knowing sound — as she sauntered up and slipped her arm through his without hesitation.
"You’re drooling, Mr. Cool," she teased, pressing her curves against his side with a wink.
Akira chuckled, recovering his composure fast. "My bad. You caught me off guard, Ann."
The other girls were not amused. Morgane’s glower could have melted asphalt. Ryuemi shifted awkwardly. Shiho rolled her eyes. Kasumi's smile faltered — just for a heartbeat.
Ann only smirked wider, victorious.
"Looks like we’re all here now," she said breezily, squeezing Akira’s arm like she already owned him. "So... where to, fearless leader?"
Akira laughed softly under his breath — dense as a brick when it came to the complicated web of emotions now swirling around him — and looked out toward the bustling streets of Shibuya.
"Anywhere you want," he said simply.
The familiar chimes and neon glare of the arcade welcomed them in, the air buzzing with excitement and the shrieks of game sound effects.
Shiho immediately gravitated toward a row of rhythm games, Ryuemi eyed the racing cabinets, and Morgane — to no one's surprise — headed straight for a high-stakes trivia machine.
But it was the colorful, innocent glow of the claw machines that caught Kasumi and Ann's attention.
"Oooh! Look at that one!" Kasumi gasped, pointing at a machine stacked with plush animals — fat birds, cartoon cats, and puffy, oversized frogs.
Ann leaned closer to Akira, her perfume brushing his senses, and grinned. "Bet you can't win me that pink alpaca."
Akira simply smiled, casual as ever. "Challenge accepted."
He slid a few coins in, took a brief glance — barely a second — and then, with a flick of his wrist, dropped the claw perfectly onto the alpaca.
The machine shuddered, and the prize tumbled neatly into the chute on the first try.
Ann blinked. "Wha— No way!"
The others, noticing the commotion, gathered around as Akira handed Ann the fluffy prize with a crooked smile. She accepted it — then very deliberately brushed her fingers over his as she did.
He didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he turned to Kasumi. "Want me to get you something too?"
Kasumi blushed to the roots of her hair. "Um, maybe that bunny? If it's not too much trouble—"
Another smooth play. Another perfect catch.
One by one, the girls pointed out plushies — sometimes just to see if he could keep the streak going. He didn't miss once.
Shiho chose a grinning skull plush, Ryuemi pointed out a bright blue shark, and Morgane, after pretending she was too cool for it, finally relented and requested a black cat doll — which Akira won her with a lazy two-finger flick of the joystick.
Each time he handed a prize over, he smiled warmly, and each girl — even Morgane — clutched theirs a little tighter than necessary.
Kasumi hugged her bunny to her chest. Ryuemi kept sneaking glances at her shark. Shiho grinned into her hoodie sleeve.
The mall pulsed with life, a storm of shoppers weaving past as music and advertisements blared from overhead screens. The moment they stepped inside, Ann took charge like a woman on a mission, latching onto Akira’s arm and dragging him forward with a gleam in her eye.
"Okay! Shopping time!" she announced, heels clicking confidently on the polished floor.
Akira just chuckled, his hands sliding casually into his pockets as he let himself be pulled along. Behind them, the others followed — some more hesitantly. Shiho was already fiddling with the strap of her bag, Ryuemi looked half ready to bolt, and Morgane was scowling like someone had just offered her a "50% off" coupon for bad decisions.
Ann wasted no time, leading them into a sleek fashion boutique. The blonde immediately began grabbing outfits off racks, posing dramatically in front of mirrors. She threw on a slinky red jacket at one point, twirling around with a grin. "Think this would look good... on a date?"
Akira smiled without missing a beat. "You’d look good in anything, Ann."
The comment was tossed out so casually, so genuinely, that the whole group seemed to collectively short-circuit for a second. Ryuemi turned crimson to the tips of her ears. Shiho made a choking noise into her hoodie sleeve. Morgane muttered something savage in French. Even Kasumi fumbled the scarf she had been admiring, her cheeks flushed pink.
And Akira? He just tilted his head slightly, wondering what he said wrong.
They roamed the mall for a while longer, drifting from store to store. Somewhere along the way, Akira began casually picking out little gifts for each of them, entirely unprompted.
For Kasumi, he chose a simple silver bracelet adorned with a tiny leaf charm, handing it to her with a soft, almost reverent smile. "It reminded me of you. Always growing, always moving forward."
Kasumi clutched the box to her chest, visibly overwhelmed, managing only a squeaky thank-you.
Morgane got a sharp black beret from a French boutique, Akira balancing it on her head with a teasing glint in his storm-grey eyes. "It matches you. Sharp. Stylish. Dangerous."
Morgane blushed so hard it was almost purple but managed a haughty toss of her hair as she adjusted it properly.
For Ryuemi, who had been eying the sports stores wistfully, Akira bought a new set of earbuds along with a cute matching case. "Figured you could use these when you’re out running," he said, giving a small smile.
Ryuemi stared at the gift like it was a live grenade, before finally punching his arm lightly — her version of a heartfelt thank-you.
Shiho, meanwhile, received a leather cuff bracelet with a subtle, punkish edge to it. Akira slid it onto her wrist himself, grinning as he said, "It suits you. Tough and cool."
Shiho’s cheeks burned, but she wore the bracelet proudly, flashing it at Ann like she’d just won a prize fight.
Ann tried to protest when Akira bought her a choker with a delicate red gemstone, claiming she didn’t need anything. Akira just smirked and fastened it around her neck himself, murmuring, "You don't have to need it. You deserve it."
That shut her up — for once.
And still, Akira seemed blissfully unaware of the subtle (and not-so-subtle) gazes lingering on him, unaware of the glances the girls threw at one another when he wasn't looking.
Just money, he told them when they protested. "You’re all important to me."
They might as well have all collapsed on the spot.
Wilton Buffet
Night had fallen by the time they arrived at the glittering Wilton Buffet. A faint mist clung to the sidewalks, the city lights smeared and glowing against the darkness.
The buffet was an ocean of luxury: pristine white tablecloths, chandeliers throwing soft golden light, the mouthwatering scent of dozens of cuisines blending together.
When the hostess mentioned the price, Akira didn’t so much as blink. He just handed over his card with a lazy smile.
"You don’t have to—" Ryuemi started to protest, but Morgane, sensing his unshakable determination, elbowed her sharply in the ribs. Ryuemi bit her lip and grumbled under her breath, falling silent.
They found themselves tucked into a cozy corner booth, hidden slightly from the main floor. Plates were piled high — sushi, steak, delicate pastries, chocolate fountains gurgling nearby.
Akira, for all his athletic build, ate surprisingly light. He favored grilled fish, rice, a little fruit — simple, clean food. The girls, meanwhile, descended on the buffet like locusts.
Conversation buzzed back and forth.
Kasumi kept leaning just a little too close whenever she spoke to him, her shoulder brushing his arm, her perfume light and sweet. Every time he turned to her, she smiled shyly, and Akira found himself smiling back without even thinking.
Morgane challenged him to a food trivia duel at one point, demanding he guess the ingredients in a particularly fancy dish. Akira played along, pretending to fumble a few answers so that Morgane could correct him, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
Ryuemi started a spicy food contest, daring him to try increasingly hotter dishes. Akira, unfazed, matched her bite for bite, grinning lazily even as the others begged for water.
Shiho spent most of the meal kicking him lightly under the table, smirking whenever he raised an eyebrow at her but said nothing. It became a game between them: her testing how much she could get away with, him pretending not to notice.
And Ann — Ann simply fed him bites of cake without warning, laughing when he leaned in and accepted them like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Akira’s composure held admirably. He laughed, he teased, he chatted easily. But here and there, cracks appeared: a faint flush when Kasumi beamed up at him, a slightly choked breath when Ann wiped a crumb off his cheek with the pad of her thumb.
Still, he didn’t see it. Not fully.
To him, they were just his friends. Just girls being friendly.
God help them all.
They lingered after dessert, sipping tea and lounging in their seats, full and warm and a little sleepy from the heavy meal.
It was Kasumi who stood first. "I'm gonna head to the restroom real quick," she said, her voice light but hurried.
Akira smiled and nodded, watching her disappear into the glittering halls beyond.
The others watched too — then shifted slightly, exchanging glances. There was a weight to the air now, an unsaid question lingering.
Something was coming. Something they hadn't even realized they'd been waiting for.
Akira leaned back in his chair and idly spun a fork between his fingers, gazing up at the soft lights like he had all the time in the world. But his eyes — storm-grey, sharp and searching — drifted slowly across each of them. Morgane, arms crossed and one brow arched, but her posture loose, comfortable — trusting, even if she’d never admit it. Ryuemi, slouched lazily in the corner of the booth, sneakers tapping an idle beat under the table, the beginnings of a cocky grin tugging at her lips. Shiho, sitting tall and proud, the leather cuff Akira had gifted her snug around her wrist like a badge of honor. And Ann, twirling the delicate chain of her choker between her fingers, her bright blue eyes alight with mischief and something softer underneath.
Akira leaned forward, setting the fork down with a soft clink. His voice, when it came, was low and steady, carrying a weight that pulled all of them in. "I'm proud of you," he said, simple and unvarnished.
The girls stilled, blinking at him.
"You didn’t just survive Kamoshida." His gaze swept across each of them, steady and sure. "You fought back. You took your lives into your own hands again. That takes guts most people never find."
A silence settled, thicker and heavier than before. Akira exhaled slowly, feeling the words rise inside him, sharp and aching.
"But..." he said, voice roughening slightly. "We all know Kamoshida’s not the only one out there."
The easy atmosphere they’d built through the day dimmed a little. Faces sobered. No one spoke.
"There are people everywhere," Akira continued, "who abuse their power. Who hurt others and get away with it. Who live like they’re untouchable."
He paused, clenching his hands briefly in his lap before forcing them open again.
"I can't just ignore that," he said, locking eyes with each of them. "We— I— have a power that not many others have. We could say we're done now. Walk away. Live our lives."
He swallowed hard, his chest tightening.
"But I can’t. I won’t."
Another breath, deeper this time. His shoulders squared.
"I want to fight back. For the people who can’t. For the ones still trapped, like we were."
His fingers brushed across the table unconsciously, as if trying to reach them.
"If any of you want to join me... I could really use the backup," he said, voice dipping into something almost shy at the end. "But if you don’t, I understand. You've already done more than anyone could ask for."
The silence stretched for a heartbeat longer. Then Shiho — always stronger than she knew — straightened in her seat and spoke, clear and sure.
"I'm in," she said. No hesitation. No fear.
Akira felt something tighten in his chest — pride, maybe, or awe.
Ryuemi laughed — low, warm — and bumped her shoulder against Shiho’s. "Hell yeah. I'm not letting you idiots have all the glory without me."
Ann leaned in, her smile slow and dangerous. "You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Akira," she said, her voice almost purring.
Finally, all eyes turned to Morgane.
The petite Quebecoise girl sniffed, tossing her hair over one shoulder.
"You lot wouldn’t survive without me," she grumbled, but her smirk betrayed her. "I’m in."
Something shifted at the table then — a crackling energy, a weight shared between them. Not a burden. A choice. Akira smiled — a slow, brilliant thing — and nodded once.
"Then it’s settled," he said quietly. "The Phantom Thieves of Heart... are officially born."
The moment lingered between them — heavy but warm, like a vow sealed without needing anything as formal as words or gestures.
It was then that Kasumi returned, weaving through the buffet tables with her usual graceful gait. She slid into the booth beside Akira, her bright smile faltering just a little when she caught the shift in atmosphere — the subtle but undeniable bond that seemed to hum between the others now.
She opened her mouth to ask — then hesitated.
Instead, she leaned casually against the table, choosing—for now—to simply watch. Whatever had changed... it felt good. She didn’t want to spoil it by pointing it out.
The evening wound down soon after. Between the laughter, the food, and the quiet new promise that bound them, everyone was full — in more ways than one.
Akira, being Akira, insisted on walking each of the girls home, his easy smile cutting through any protests. "You’ll have to suffer my company a little longer," he teased.
One by one, he made sure they each got home safely, lingering just long enough to exchange soft goodnights under the warm city lights.
By the time he made it back to his apartment, the streets had fallen mostly quiet. The neon of Shibuya was behind him now, replaced by the quieter, older streets of Yongen-Jaya.
He kicked off his shoes, locked the door behind him, and collapsed face-first onto his worn couch with a satisfied grunt.
His phone buzzed almost immediately.
Futaba.
With a tired but genuine smile, he reached for it.
Meme Queen: heard u went on a date today... with ur harem ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Meme Queen: dirty boy
Akira snorted into the couch cushions, turning onto his side and lazily typing back.
Trickster: They're just my friends.
Trickster: I'm not hot enough to have one girlfriend, let alone a harem lol
The typing dots popped up almost instantly.
Meme Queen: u are the densest human alive. i'm in awe.
Meme Queen: but...
The dots paused. Came back. Paused again.
Meme Queen: i kinda felt left out today.
Meme Queen: you're... my only real friend, akira.
Meme Queen: and i'm scared. scared you'll leave me behind. scared to leave my room too.
Meme Queen: i dunno what to do.
The quiet in the apartment felt heavier all of a sudden.
Akira stared at the screen for a moment, heart clenching. Then, without even thinking about it:
Trickster: Would it help if I came over tomorrow?
Trickster: We can just hang out. No pressure.
He waited. Seconds passed. Then a minute.
The dots appeared — vanished — reappeared — vanished again.
Finally:
Meme Queen: ...ok.
Meme Queen: come over tomorrow.
Akira smiled softly and set the phone down on the low table beside the couch, stretching out and folding his arms behind his head.
"You’re not alone anymore, Futaba," he murmured to the ceiling.
And he meant it.
It was just after 10 a.m. when Akira stepped into Leblanc, the door chime jingling softly overhead. The familiar smell of coffee beans and aged wood wrapped around him like an old blanket.
He pushed the door closed with his foot, juggling a couple of large, colorful gift bags in his hands.
"Sorry I’m late," he called, spotting Sojiro behind the counter, polishing a mug. Akira lifted the bags with a sheepish grin. "Getting back from Akihabara was murder."
Sojiro looked up and gave a low grunt — though the warmth in his eyes betrayed any pretence of annoyance. He set the mug down and came around the counter with a soft sigh.
"It’s fine, Akira. Futaba’s been bouncing off the walls all morning. I can’t thank you enough for doing this."
Akira shrugged. "It’s nothing. I like spending time with her."
His phone buzzed sharply before Sojiro could reply. He pulled it out and chuckled as he read the screen:
Meme Queen: COFFEE LATER!!! GET OVER HERE NOW!!! (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻
Grinning, he turned the phone to show Sojiro.
Sojiro barked a laugh and shook his head. "Better not keep her waiting."
"Right," Akira said, tucking his phone away and adjusting the bags. “Don’t want to get the table flipped on me.”
They crossed the quiet street together toward Sojiro’s modest home, familiar from both timelines. As they reached the porch, the front door clacked loudly and swung open before Sojiro could even lift his keys.
And there she was.
Futaba stood in the doorway, framed by the soft interior light. She looked almost exactly as Akira remembered her — vibrant orange hair tumbling past her shoulders, those thick glasses still sliding down her nose — but there were subtle, almost imperceptible differences. Her lips were just a bit fuller now, her cheekbones slightly higher, lending a delicate sharpness to her face that hadn’t been there before. Even her hair seemed... softer, silkier, like she’d started taking a little more care with it.
Her oversized black hoodie still screamed "gremlin chic," complete with low-hanging sleeves and mismatched socks, but the cut and detailing had a faintly more feminine flair — not overt, but intentional. Her usual techcore aesthetic remained intact, but it had matured, just a touch. Like Futaba herself was beginning to.
She squinted dramatically at him — then broke into a bright grin when she spotted the bags.
"You brought offerings!" she declared, eyes gleaming behind her glasses as she spread her arms like a welcoming goddess.
Akira couldn’t help laughing. He offered a theatrical bow. "At your service, Queen Futaba."
Behind him, Sojiro snorted. “Don’t encourage her,” he muttered with a smirk, stepping past them toward the back of the house. "Have fun, you two. Try not to blow anything up."
Futaba whirled around and led Akira inside like a proud general dragging in a prize. Her stride was energetic, almost bouncing, and Akira followed willingly, his smile soft.
It was strange, he thought as he stepped into the warmth of the Sakura household — how familiar everything felt… and yet, how different.
Futaba wasted no time grabbing Akira’s wrist once they were inside, tugging him eagerly toward the living room. She practically dragged him down the hall, as though worried he might vanish if she let go for even a second.
When they arrived, she plopped onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, tucking her legs under her in one fluid motion. Akira had half-expected her to assume her old, familiar ‘gargoyle pose’ — crouched like a mischievous little imp on the cushions — but to his mild surprise, this Futaba seemed to prefer curling up more like a content cat. It suited her.
She leaned forward, peering at the colorful gift bags with open curiosity, her green eyes practically glowing with anticipation.
"You said Akihabara..." she sing-songed, rocking a little on the couch. "So what did you get me?"
Akira chuckled, shaking his head with mock disapproval. "Who said they were for you?"
Immediately, Futaba's bottom lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, her whole body seeming to deflate dramatically.
Akira couldn’t hold back a laugh. "Alright, alright," he relented, pulling out the first wrapped box. "You win."
Futaba’s mood flipped like a switch. She squealed in delight as he handed her the box and tore into the wrapping paper with frantic energy, crumpled scraps flying around the room like confetti.
Her hands stilled the moment the gift was revealed.
"WHAT!!!" she shrieked so loudly that Akira flinched, laughing. "Pink Argus? You got me the new limited edition Pink Argus?!! How did you even get your hands on this??? They sold out in, like, two minutes!!"
Akira leaned casually against the arm of the couch, grinning. "Turn it over."
Futaba blinked, flipping the pristine box in her hands — and immediately let out an even higher-pitched scream that made Akira's ears ring.
"It's... it's signed??? By Yukari Takeba??? Like, THE Yukari Takeba??? THE original Pink Argus herself?? HOW????"
Akira just shrugged, smiling in that maddeningly mysterious way he always did. "I have my ways."
Futaba gawked at him, clutching the signed box to her chest like it was a sacred relic. She looked like she was two seconds from either crying or proposing marriage on the spot.
Before she could recover, Akira reached into the bag again and produced another wrapped box.
"There's more?" Futaba gasped, greedily accepting the second gift with trembling hands.
Once again, she shredded the paper without mercy — and her jaw dropped as she stared down at the contents.
Inside were three sealed figurine boxes, each featuring immaculately detailed models of iconic characters.
"Wait... Ashley, Rei AND Mari?!" she yelped, clutching the boxes like they might vanish into thin air. "Where did you even FIND these?! These are out-of-print!!! They're, like, holy grail tier!!!"
Akira just laughed again, watching her bounce on the couch like an over-caffeinated chihuahua.
"You said you liked Neon Genesis Evangelion," he said simply, rubbing the back of his neck, "so I looked around to see what I could find."
Futaba looked up at him, her glasses slightly askew, eyes wide with a cocktail of wonder and adoration.
"You’re a wizard," she whispered reverently. "A miracle worker. My hero."
Akira just laughed again, feeling that familiar warmth bloom in his chest at the sight of her genuine, ecstatic happiness.
It had been a long time since he'd seen her like this — and it was worth every second he’d spent elbow-deep in Akihabara’s labyrinth of second-hand stores and specialty shops.
Futaba remained glued to the couch, cooing over her new treasures with a kind of reverence usually reserved for holy artifacts. She spun the Pink Argus box in her hands, still not quite believing it was real — and signed.
"You seriously have no idea how rare this is," she murmured, eyes sparkling behind her glasses. "Yukari Takeba doesn’t even do signings anymore! I thought she disappeared to run a bakery or something!"
She cradled the figurines next, carefully inspecting each one like a jeweler examining priceless gems. "Ashley’s still got the original matte paint, not the cheap glossy reprint. And Mari’s got the extra set of hands! Look at Rei’s cape detail—LOOK AT IT, Akira."
Akira leaned closer, grinning as she shoved one of the boxes into his hands to admire. "I believe you, I believe you."
Just then, Sojiro stepped into the room, a tray balanced in his hands with three steaming mugs of coffee.
"Hope I’m not interrupting," he said, voice dry but amused.
Futaba immediately turned toward him, holding up her new Pink Argus like a trophy. "Sojiiii! Look what Akira got me! Look, look, LOOK—signed and mint condition! This is, like, level 99 friendship gift stuff right here!"
Sojiro raised an eyebrow and chuckled as he set the tray on the low table. "You gonna build a shrine to him now, or just name your firstborn?"
Futaba gasped dramatically. "Why not both?"
Akira nearly choked on laughter as he reached for a mug.
Sojiro gave a quiet grunt, clearly trying to suppress a smile as he sat on the armchair opposite them. He sipped his coffee, watching the two banter with a fond expression that softened the usual sternness in his eyes. Whatever worries he’d once had about Akira and his daughter, they were long gone.
Once the drinks were drained and the laughter had slowed, Futaba leapt to her feet and grabbed Akira by the wrist again.
"Come on! You have to see where I’m gonna put them!" she said with barely restrained glee, already dragging him toward the stairs. "I’ve got the perfect spot—right next to my limited-edition Nier Automata figurines and above the Genshin wall!"
Akira glanced back at Sojiro, who gave him a small wave of mock sympathy before turning on the TV. Then he was being pulled upstairs.
Futaba’s room hadn’t changed too drastically at first glance — still dark, still cluttered with electronics, figurines, plushies, and scattered projects. But it was... better than before. Cleaner. There was a kind of organized chaos to it now, like a system only Futaba could navigate but that was navigable.
Akira took it in, a slow smile creeping across his face.
"Looks way better than I expected," he said, looking around.
Futaba beamed proudly. "I did some decluttering last month. Upgraded the shelving, moved the junk PC tower graveyard under the bed, rerouted my VR cables. Feng Shui, nerd edition."
She made a beeline for one of her shelves and started carefully arranging the new figurines in a spot of honor, adjusting the angles like a director setting up a scene.
Akira watched her arrange the figurines with a fond smile, then let his eyes wander—only to freeze when something unfamiliar caught his attention on the bed. A pastel pink, clearly silicone object sat nestled between two plushies.
He blinked. Leaned slightly closer.
Then immediately turned away, ears going pink. “Uhh…”
Futaba looked up at the change in his tone, then followed his gaze to the bed.
“Oh. That?” she asked, tilting her head.
Akira gave an awkward cough. “Yeah. That.”
She blinked a few times, clearly puzzled by his reaction. “What about it?”
Akira kept his gaze firmly averted. “People… don’t usually just leave that kind of thing out.”
There was a pause.
Futaba tilted her head again, frowning faintly in thought. “Why not?”
Now it was Akira’s turn to be baffled. “Because it’s... you know. Private.”
“But it’s mine,” Futaba replied, genuinely trying to follow the logic. “I mean, I washed it and everything. It’s not like I was gonna make it a centerpiece, I just forgot to put it away. Besides, it’s not gross or anything.”
Akira rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not about being gross, it’s just—uh—most people would be embarrassed to have someone see that.”
Futaba narrowed her eyes slightly in thought, then glanced at the toy again. “Huh... I’ve seen streamers with like, body pillows and anime boob mousepads in the background, and that’s fine, but this isn’t?”
“Well—yeah, but that’s...” He trailed off, realizing he wasn’t exactly winning this one.
Futaba leaned back slightly, lips pursing in quiet thought. “Humans are weird.”
Akira laughed, relief bubbling up as the tension eased. “Yeah... yeah, we are.”
Futaba just shrugged and walked over, casually scooping the toy off the bed and tossing it into a drawer with zero ceremony. “There. Hidden from the prudish masses.”
Akira shook his head with a soft chuckle. “Thanks for sparing my delicate sensibilities.”
Futaba grinned faintly and flopped onto the bed, arms spread wide like a starfish. “Don’t mention it. Now, you wanna see the new cable setup I did for the VR rig? I figured out how to reduce motion lag by, like, 11%. It’s awesome.”
“Okay, okay, so listen—! After the cable thing, I also hacked together this cooling system for the PS5 so it won’t sound like a jet engine anymore, and then then I rewired my desk so the RGB lights sync up with my heart monitor—oh!” She bounced a little in excitement. “And I found this mod that lets you put Thomas the Tank Engine into Elden Ring! It’s cursed! Wanna see???”
Akira laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “One thing at a time, Futaba. One thing.”
She grinned mischievously, clearly delighted he was keeping pace. “Right, right. Priorities.” She zipped over to the entertainment center and booted up the PS5. “Games first. Gotta see if you're all talk, Trickster.”
“Oh, it's on,” Akira smirked, settling beside her as she shoved a controller into his hand.
They started with some co-op shooter—something chaotic with lasers, explosions, and adorable pixelated enemies. Futaba gave a running commentary, chirping out tips and teasing remarks, but Akira held his own easily, pulling off ridiculous headshots and impossible dodges that made her jaw drop more than once.
At one point, she paused, staring at him with wide eyes. “Okay, okay, confession time—are you secretly a cyborg?”
Akira chuckled, casually reloading without missing a beat. “Just good at adapting. It’s my thing.”
Futaba made a noise that was somewhere between impressed and faintly scandalized. “Teach me your ways, Sensei.”
They played for a few more hours, the tension from earlier completely dissolved into easy laughter and playful trash talk. Futaba was bright and lively, bouncing from topic to topic—her latest anime obsessions, a tech conspiracy she was half-investigating, some new music mod she wanted to try—while Akira listened attentively, occasionally steering her back when she started tangling her own train of thought.
It wasn't until they were winding down, both sprawled comfortably on her bed, controllers abandoned nearby, that the energy in the room shifted.
Without a word, Futaba shifted closer and rested her head against his shoulder. Akira blinked, surprised—but he didn’t move away. Instead, he smiled softly and let his arm slip around her shoulders, guiding her to rest fully against his chest.
“Thanks,” Futaba mumbled, her voice small. “Thanks for not making me feel like a weirdo.”
Akira tightened his arm around her a little, resting his chin lightly on her hair. “You’re not weird, ‘Taba. You’re unique.” His voice was steady, warm.
For a moment, there was silence—then, like a crack in a dam, the words started tumbling out of her:
“I just—sometimes I don’t get stuff, you know? Like, things other people think are obvious... jokes, looks, feelings. I don’t always connect it right. And then I get scared, because what if I say something wrong, or weird, and people leave? And it’s easier to just stay inside where I know the rules but then... but then I get lonely, and I wanna see the world, but the world’s loud and messy and people are scary sometimes—”
Her voice hitched, and she clutched the front of Akira’s hoodie like a lifeline.
Akira didn’t interrupt. He didn’t tell her to calm down or that she was overreacting. He just held her, solid and steady, grounding her.
Futaba hiccupped a breath. “And I don’t wanna lose you. You’re my only real friend, and if you leave too, I... I don’t know what I’ll do...”
Akira tightened his hold slightly, leaning down just enough so his cheek brushed her hair.
“I’m not going anywhere, Futaba. Not ever.”
Slowly, her breathing evened out, the trembling in her shoulders easing as the pent-up storm of emotion drained out of her. They stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped up in the quiet safety they’d built together.
Finally, Futaba mumbled, so softly he almost didn’t catch it: “You’re the best, Akira…”
He smiled gently, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Right back at you, ‘Taba.”
Futaba’s breaths had slowed, her body relaxed and warm against Akira’s chest. He glanced down and smiled softly—her glasses had slipped slightly down her nose, and a faint trace of a smile still lingered on her lips, even as she drifted off. Carefully, so as not to wake her, Akira shifted and eased her down onto the bed, adjusting the pillow beneath her head and pulling the blanket over her.
She murmured something in her sleep, curling slightly toward the spot where his warmth had been.
Akira stood for a moment, just watching her, before moving quietly around the room. He picked up the discarded game cases, straightened the chair, tucked away a few scattered snack wrappers, and adjusted the position of the newly displayed figurines so they faced the window, like they were watching over her.
By the time he made his way downstairs, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting warm golden-orange streaks through the windows. Sojiro was waiting near the front door, arms folded, his eyes darker than usual with emotion.
He didn't say anything at first—just looked at Akira, then past him, toward the stairs.
Finally, he spoke, his voice a little rough.
“Akira… Thank you.”
Akira nodded, resting a hand on the older man’s shoulder in a firm, quiet gesture of reassurance.
“I got her,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
Sojiro held his gaze for a moment, then gave a single, grateful nod.
Akira stepped out into the cool air of early evening, the quiet of the neighborhood settling around him like a familiar blanket. The street was mostly empty, and the gentle hum of a cicada somewhere nearby served as background music as he crossed toward his apartment.
But just before he could reach the door, a familiar voice drifted through the quiet like a bell’s chime.
“Would you happen to have time for one more friend, my Trickster?”
Akira stopped and turned, a grin already forming as he recognized the voice.
There stood Lavenza, bathed in the warm amber glow of sunset. But she wasn’t wearing her usual formal Velvet Room attire. Instead, she wore something far more grounded in the real world: a soft velvet-blue hoodie that was slightly oversized, the sleeves bunching at her wrists, paired with a pleated navy skirt and opaque tights. Her boots were chunky and practical, with a shimmer of silver at the heel, and her signature headband was replaced by a cute knit beanie with tiny embroidered butterflies. Her long platinum hair was in a braid that fell over one shoulder, catching the last of the sun’s light.
Akira blinked in surprise for just a moment, before grinning wider.
“How can I say no to a request from you, Lavenza?”
She beamed, cheeks tinged the faintest pink, then stepped closer and slipped her arm through his with quiet confidence. It felt easy—normal, even.
“Can we go to that place with all the books again?” she asked. “The warm one, with the creaky stairs and the cat who sleeps on the counter.”
Akira nodded, amused. “You mean the old bookstore near Yongen Station?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. I want to smell the pages again.”
Akira chuckled. “Then let’s go.”
The old bookstore near Yongen was quiet at this hour, its windows glowing faintly under warm amber lights. A small bell above the door jingled as Akira pushed it open for Lavenza, who stepped inside like a cathedral pilgrim, reverent and wide-eyed. The familiar scent of paper and dust settled over them like a blanket.
Lavenza drifted among the aisles with a kind of practiced grace, her fingers brushing across spines and titles. “Books are strange,” she murmured. “They do not speak, and yet they never stop talking.”
Akira chuckled from behind her. “I guess that’s why I like them.”
She turned to him, head tilted. “You understand silence. Most people fear it.”
He shrugged, smiling. “It’s comfortable. Easier to listen that way.”
Lavenza seemed to take that in, her expression softening. She turned back toward the shelves, plucking a weathered novel from the middle of the fantasy section. “This one smells like campfire smoke and old tears,” she announced.
Akira blinked. “You… smell emotions?”
“Sometimes,” she said, voice airy. “Sometimes I think they’re the only real thing left.”
She wandered back to the front, where a black cat was curled up beside the register. Sitting on the creaky bench by the front window, she motioned for Akira to join her. He sat down beside her, leaning back as they watched the quiet street through the rain-splashed glass.
“Do you ever wonder if the world would still turn if you vanished?” Lavenza asked softly.
Akira frowned. “I used to. Not so much now.”
Her lips curved into a small smile. “Because of them? The others?”
He nodded. “They gave me something real to fight for.”
There was a pause. Then Lavenza said, “You gave them something too… something they didn’t know they needed. You gave them you.”
Akira blinked at her, caught off guard. “Me?”
She looked up at him then, eyes big and blue and startlingly earnest. “Yes. And I think…” She trailed off, glancing down at her hands, then laughed softly. “Never mind.”
Akira blinked again, confused, but didn’t press her.
As they made their way toward the counter, something snagged at the edge of Akira’s vision. A poster—tacked neatly to the bulletin board near the door—stood out like a thorn in a bouquet.
"Masterpieces Reborn: The Madarame Art Exhibition."
Akira stopped cold.
Lavenza paused beside him, glancing up with quiet curiosity.
The image on the poster was exactly as he remembered: a graceful swirl of brushstrokes, vivid colors arranged in a way that seemed artistic and hollow all at once. And in the center, that face—Madarame’s face—placid, serene, a mask of benevolent wisdom.
His gut twisted.
He’d seen that face before. In a gilded Palace, surrounded by stolen dreams and twisted pride. He remembered Yusuke—sharp, honest, wounded Yusuke—desperate for the truth about his mentor. He remembered lies peeling away like paint on rotting canvas.
But that was before. In the old timeline.
In this one, he hadn't even met Yusuke yet. For all he knew, Madarame might never cross their path.
Still...
He stared at the poster longer than necessary, tension coiling under his skin.
Lavenza watched him carefully. “You recognize this name.”
Akira nodded slowly, then forced himself to look away, letting out a breath. “Yeah. And I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”
“But?” she prompted gently.
“But things are different this time. Everything’s shifting.” He shook his head, more to clear it than anything else. “I don’t know if the same things will happen… or if they’ll happen worse.”
Lavenza’s gaze grew solemn. “The past offers guidance, but never guarantees. You are treading a new path now, Trickster.”
He nodded again, this time more firmly. “Which means I need to be ready. And the others do, too.”
A new fire sparked behind his eyes.
If Madarame was still corrupt, if Yusuke still needed saving, then the Phantom Thieves couldn’t afford to stumble into it blind.
They needed to train. They needed to get stronger.
They needed to go back into Mementos.
Akira turned from the poster, his expression sharpening into quiet resolve. “Time to get to work.”
As they walked away from the board, Lavenza once again slipped her hand into the crook of his arm—her touch light, but lingering just a second longer than necessary. "You really do carry the world on your shoulders," she murmured, almost too softly to hear.
And Akira… still didn’t.
Chapter 11: The Palace of All
Summary:
The newly formed Thieves visit the spooky train tunnels. How are they going to get around without the Monabus?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The air was thick with the hum of distorted electricity, the tunnels of Shibuya Station twisted into grotesque parodies of themselves—arches stretched too high, tiled walls stained with flickering static, and steel rails that pulsed with unnatural red light. The Mementos gate loomed behind them, closed now that they’d stepped through.
Five figures stood on the cracked platform, silent for a moment, taking in the transformation.
“Okay,” Comet said slowly, glancing around with wide eyes, “this is… definitely not normal.”
Dead-Eye adjusted her gun holsters, warily scanning the cavernous station. “Did the escalators melt?”
“Are those teeth in the walls?” Panther added, hugging her arms across her chest. “I hate that I can’t tell if I’m joking.”
None of them said it out loud, but the unease was clear in their faces. Even Vent—who had put on a brave front and strode through the gate with confidence—was standing closer to Joker than usual, eyes narrowed as if trying to spot a trap.
But Joker?
Joker was calm.
Leaning slightly on the railing at the edge of the platform, his storm-grey eyes swept the tunnel with casual familiarity. His posture was relaxed, as if this nightmare realm were nothing more than a detour on the way to the arcade. That, more than anything, helped steady the others.
“Welcome to Mementos,” he said, tone dry but not unkind. “The Palace of the Collective Unconscious. It’s like... a shared Palace. Everyone’s Palace.”
The girls blinked at him.
“You’re gonna have to explain that one, Joker,” said Panther, raising an eyebrow.
Joker nodded. “Everyone has desires. Most people’s aren’t twisted enough to create a full Palace like Kamoshida’s. But those thoughts don’t just vanish. They build up here, in the subconscious of the masses.”
“So this is… what, a dump for bad thoughts?” Comet asked.
“Not just bad,” Joker said, “but unchecked, unfiltered. This is where Shadows gather—regular people’s Shadows, not cognitive versions of them. The ones even they don’t realize they have.”
“Wait,” Comet frowned, “so… could we run into our own Shadows down here?”
Joker shook his head. “No. Persona users don’t have Shadows the same way. Or rather… we’ve already faced ours. Our Personas are our Shadows—our inner selves, tamed and under control.”
Vent tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Then this place is just crawling with the Shadows of random strangers?”
“Pretty much.”
“Cool,” she muttered. “Totally not horrifying.”
Panther winced as she glanced down at the rails. “So, like… are we supposed to walk the whole thing?” She tapped the toe of her high-heeled boot on the concrete platform. “Because I love these shoes, but they were not made for dungeon crawling.”
Joker glanced at her, then at Vent—his smile faint but unmistakable.
Somewhere, in another life, he’d seen this moment play out differently: a van-shaped Morgana purring, “Get in.”
He chuckled.
“Don’t worry, Panther,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Our ride is on its way.”
A low mechanical rumble echoed from deeper within the tunnel, distant at first, then steadily growing louder.
Panther blinked. “Wait… are you serious?”
The rumbling grew louder, echoing across the warped tracks like a beast approaching at full gallop. Then the shadows parted—and the girls stared in disbelief as a sleek, futuristic van/ train hybrid glided into view, tires whispering against the rail-like grooves that lined the tunnel floor.
It was beautiful, in an unsettling, otherworldly way—deep Velvet blue, with softly glowing sigils across its sides, and windows that shimmered like liquid glass. It looked like it had been assembled not in a factory, but dreamed into being.
The front door swung open with a hiss, and there—seated behind the wheel, smiling like this was the most normal thing in the world—was Lavenza, clad in a crisp, neatly pressed blue chauffeur’s uniform, cap and all.
“Greetings, Phantom Thieves,” she said brightly, tipping her cap. “Your chariot awaits.”
Joker just grinned, stepping smoothly forward. “Welcome aboard the Velvet Express, ladies.”
The interior of the vehicle was impossibly spacious—comfortably wide, softly lit, and lined with plush blue seats that wouldn’t look out of place in a high-end lounge. There was even a screen near the front, currently displaying a stylized map of Mementos.
Akira sat in the passenger seat next to Lavenza, legs crossed, one arm stretched across the backrest, speaking in a mock announcer’s tone as the vehicle glided along the rails.
“Ladies and gentlemen, on your left you’ll see existential horror and the repressed guilt of the general public. On your right, unresolved trauma and capitalism.” He gave a playful wink over his shoulder. “Please keep your hands and limbs inside the vehicle at all times.”
Comet giggled. “You’re such a dork.”
Akira placed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I am a distinguished dork.”
Then he gestured to the driver’s seat with a flourish. “And may I introduce your conductor for this expedition—Lavenza Papillon, Attendant Extraordinaire, Lady of Many Talents, and one of my closest friends.”
Lavenza gave a small wave over her shoulder. “Delighted to meet all of you. Please ignore the walls—they may occasionally whisper rude things.”
Once the laughter quieted, Joker sat up a little straighter. His voice, though still warm, carried more purpose now.
“All right, everyone. Jokes aside—here’s the mission.”
The display map zoomed in, showing highlighted zones deeper in the tunnel.
“We’re here to train. Find Shadow nests. Learn how to move and fight together. The Palaces are only going to get harder from here on out. If we’re going to survive what’s coming, we need to get stronger. Fast.”
Comet cracked her knuckles. “So, Shadow-whacking road trip. Got it.”
Panther pouted. “And here I thought you were going to take us to a hot spring…”
Joker smirked. “Maybe after we beat up a few nightmares.”
Vent spun her throwing disc. “Let’s go punch some dreams.”
The Velvet Express rumbled to a smooth stop near a wide platform deep within Mementos. Flickering lights illuminated a derelict, cathedral-like station shrouded in eerie mist. It felt liminal—like a place that had never known sunlight, where time twisted in lazy spirals.
Joker was already stepping off the MPV, pulling his black hoodie tighter as he scanned the foggy expanse. “All right. Out. Time to work.”
The girls followed, stretching limbs and checking gear. Comet drew her cutlass; Vent tossed her throwing disc in the air, catching it with ease; Panther rolled her shoulders, already warming up her flame-coated whip; Dead-Eye adjusted her red-rimmed visor and spun her pistols in her hands with a practiced flair.
They expected Joker to lead like before—to call out moves, keep them coordinated, guide the battle with calm, surgical precision.
Instead, he stepped back.
“Figure it out,” he said, hands in his pockets. “You’ve all awakened to your Personas. Now learn to use them.”
They exchanged confused looks.
“You’re not gonna help?” Comet asked, raising a brow.
“If you’re in real trouble, I’ll jump in. But no more handholding.” His voice was firm, but not cold. “This is your power. You have to own it.”
The first wave of Shadows surged out of the dark like a broken tide—Jack Frosts, Bicorns, and a hulking Eligor leading the charge. The girls hesitated for half a second... then leapt into action.
It was chaos at first. Panther’s Agi missed and exploded against the wall. Vent overcommitted on a Wind attack and nearly got sideswiped by a Bicorn. Comet swung too early and lost her rhythm. Dead-Eye’s shots scattered wide, failing to take anything down.
Joker watched from the edge of the field, calling out quick, clipped advice. “Panther—control your fire radius. Vent, let them come to you. Comet, don’t overextend. Dead-Eye, stop going for flash. Aim center mass.”
Slowly, they adjusted. Carmen’s flames began striking true, catching enemies in spreading gouts of fire. Lola Belmont’s wind magic danced in wide arcs, flinging Shadows like ragdolls. Anne Bonny’s electricity stunned even the biggest foes, letting Comet dive in and crack skulls with devastating follow-ups. Dead-Eye found her rhythm—gunfire rang out in sharp, efficient bursts, picking off threats with surgical precision.
An hour passed. Then another. Then another.
They trained against wave after wave of Shadows—learning to chain combos, to time buffs and debuffs, to trust each other. At one point, Vent tossed her disc to Dead-Eye mid-fight, who used it to block a lunging Shadow’s claws before spinning and blasting it apart. Comet caught a rebound spell meant for Panther, channeling it into her own follow-up attack. Their teamwork, once clumsy, was evolving—becoming something dangerous.
When the final pack of Shadows finally dissolved into black ash, the girls stood—panting, bruised, soaked in sweat.
“…I can’t feel my legs,” Comet groaned, flopping onto the plush seats inside the Velvet Express.
“Don’t talk to me,” Panther muttered, dragging herself in and collapsing dramatically.
Vent slumped next to her, hair frizzed from too many Wind spells. “I think I reached a higher plane of exhaustion.”
Dead-Eye simply sank into a seat with a long exhale. “…My trigger finger has blisters.”
Joker stepped on last, nodding at each of them in turn. “Not bad. Still rough around the edges. But not bad.”
He turned to the console and tapped a few glowing sigils. The display above the driver’s cabin blinked, then flared to life, revealing Persona data charts—each one showing significant growth.
“Level twenty?” Panther blinked. “Wait—seriously?!”
“You’ve all improved,” Akira confirmed. “Your Personas are starting to reflect your will more clearly.”
He pointed to each display in turn:
Vent’s Persona, Lola Belmont, now shimmered with a sharper grace. Her spells—Garula, Magarula, and Wind Boost— would help her carve through enemies like a hot knife through butter. The addition of Mediarama and Divine Grace made Vent their mid-battle healer, unexpectedly nurturing beneath her aloof exterior.
Comet’s Anne Bonny crackled with deadly energy. Zionga, Skull Cracker, and Swift Strike made her a brutal midline skirmisher. Elec Boost and Shock Boost amped her volt-casting to dangerous levels.
Panther’s Carmen radiated heat. Agilao and Maragion turned the battlefield into a flaming dance floor, while Fire Boost, Burn Boost, and Charm Boost ensured she was both deadly and disarming. Marin Karin was still unpredictable, but when it hit—it hit.
Dead-Eye’s Annie Oakley now reflected her real-life counterpart. Double Shot, Dream Needle, and Trigger Happy amplified her precision; Sand Shot added debilitating control; and Lucky Bullet and Scattershot turned her into a wild card of her own.
“...Damn,” Comet whispered, eyes wide.
Joker gave them a small smile, folding his arms.
“You’re getting stronger. Not just the Personas—but you. You’re starting to move like a team.”
And as the Velvet Express began its return ride, rolling silently through the dreaming veins of the city’s unconscious, Lavenza glanced at Akira with something soft in her eyes.
“You’re becoming quite the leader, Trickster.”
He glanced behind him to look at his team – Vent was already half-asleep, curled on the seat. Dead-Eye leaned against the window, her breathing slowing. Comet stretched across two cushions without shame. Panther rested her head on Dead-Eye’s lap with a muttered “Don’t you dare move.”
Joker smiles softly, then looks back over at Lavenza, brow raised. “Let’s hope it’s enough.”
The scent of curry and freshly brewed coffee drifted through Leblanc, warm and rich, curling through the wood-paneled café like an inviting blanket. The café was dimly lit in the evening calm, the low jazz in the background barely audible over the chatter and laughter of five very tired, very hungry girls crammed around the central table.
Akira stood behind the counter, expertly stirring a pot of his signature curry while the siphon bubbled with his latest brew. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Ann burst into giggles as Ryuemi mimed nearly tripping over her own feet during training. Shiho chuckled into her mug, nudging Morgane, who looked unimpressed—though the faint upturn of her mouth gave her away.
Lavenza was curled up near the window, sipping from a delicate blue teacup that matched her new outfit—a stylish velvet-blue jacket and pleated skirt combo, paired with black tights and heeled boots. Her long platinum hair was tied into a ribboned ponytail, and she observed the girls with wide, intrigued eyes, occasionally scribbling something into a small butterfly notebook she carried.
Akira carried over a tray with bowls of curry and small saucers of pickled veggies. “Seconds, anyone?”
Ann raised her hand before he even finished. “Yes, please. My stomach is a bottomless pit right now.”
“You’re lucky he’s cooking,” Morgane muttered, “Otherwise you’d be eating instant noodles and regret.”
The bell above the door jingled. Akira turned, already recognizing the familiar, polite voice. “Excuse me—oh, is it okay if I join you all?”
“Kasumi!” Ryuemi called out, waving her over enthusiastically. “You’re just in time. He made the curry!”
Akira smiled as she approached. “I'll get you a plate.”
“No rush,” Kasumi said with a grateful smile. “You already look like you’re running a one-man restaurant.”
He handed off the tray, brushing his bangs back with his wrist. “It’s fine. Just… don’t expect table service.”
“Oh no,” Shiho said with mock horror. “The charm’s wearing off.”
“He’s doing his best,” Ann said, patting his arm when he passed. “Let the boy live.”
The night settled into a warm, easy rhythm. The girls talked and laughed, swapping stories from the day—careful to leave out anything too suspicious with Kasumi around. They teased each other, argued about their favorite anime protagonists, and one-upped each other’s worst school lunch stories. Shiho loudly declared that Ryuemi once tried to microwave a whole mackerel. Nobody knew why.
Akira, meanwhile, slipped between tables with quiet efficiency, refilling water glasses, checking on customers, and occasionally sliding into the booth to rest his legs for a minute. Whenever he passed the girls, one of them would call out to him—“Akira, did you hear that?”, “Hey, back me up!”, “Do you know who Rise Kujikawa wrote ‘Seeker of Truth’ about?”—and he’d smile, nod, and get pulled into the chaos for a few moments before wandering off again.
Eventually, the evening wore down. One by one, the girls stretched, yawned, and began gathering their things. Lavenza was the first to hug Akira, her small frame surprisingly strong. “Thank you for the meal,” she said, eyes bright. “And for the kindness.”
“Anytime, Lavenza,” he said softly.
Ann hugged him next, grinning. “You’re gonna make some girl very happy someday, you know that?”
Shiho and Ryuemi followed, both giving him friendly squeezes on the arm and whispering their thanks. Morgane hesitated but eventually stepped forward, poked his chest, and said, “Don’t go turning soft on us, connard.” Her lips quirked before she brushed past him.
Kasumi was the last to leave, giving him a bright smile. “Thanks again, Akira. You’re a really good host.”
As the door closed behind them and the silence returned, Sojiro stepped out from the kitchen with a mug in hand, arching a brow as he leaned on the counter. “So.”
Akira looked up from wiping down a table. “Hm?”
“Which one are you dating?”
Akira blinked. “None of them. They’re my friends.”
Sojiro stared at him. “You’re friends with six cute girls, and you’re not dating any of them?”
Akira shrugged, grabbing another rag. “It’s not like any of them would date me.”
Sojiro’s mug paused mid-air. He stared at Akira like the kid had just claimed water wasn’t wet.
“…What are you, a monk?”
Akira looked genuinely puzzled. “I just—what?”
Buzz.
His phone vibrated in his back pocket. He pulled it out and flipped the screen.
One new message from Futaba. You dense doofus!!!
Akira stared at the message, furrowing his brows. “What did I do now?”
Sojiro just chuckled, shook his head, and walked back into the kitchen.
The sun had long dipped below the Tokyo skyline, leaving only the soft amber glow of streetlamps spilling through Akira’s apartment window. He sat cross-legged on his futon, scrolling through his phone with a thoughtful expression as he thumbed open his messages.
Trickster :
Need you to do some digging for me, but I can't tell you why yet. Ichiryusai Madarame. Something about him smells, and I need to know why.
He hit send, setting the phone aside just long enough to sip the now-lukewarm coffee on his desk. It hadn't even been ten minutes before his phone buzzed again, not once, but several times in rapid succession.
He picked it up and blinked.
Futaba had sent him a wall of text—an entire document filled with hyperlinks, archived interviews, articles, rumors from shady forums, and several footnotes in her familiar chaotic but efficient style. Right beneath it was her follow-up message:
Meme Queen :
Not sure what you're looking for, but here's everything I can find. Hope it helps.
Akira let out a low whistle as he skimmed through the file. There was definitely something off. Madarame was a respected figure publicly, but the way former students vanished off the grid after studying under him... it was too clean. Too silent.
His grin spread slowly as he tapped out a reply.
Trickster :
More than you know. Thanks, ’Taba. Let me know when you feel like hanging out again—maybe this time you can cross the street and come visit me, lol.
There was a pause. For a moment, he figured she’d probably gone offline for the night. But then, his phone lit up again.
Meme Queen :
...maybe. I’ll think about it. I mean, your apartment is pretty close to The Outside™... but maybe not AS terrifying.
Then another message, seconds later.
Meme Queen :
No promises tho. You gotta earn that visit, Trickster Boi. 💻👀
Akira laughed softly, the sound bouncing off the quiet walls of his small apartment. The document on his screen still glowed, Madarame’s name highlighted and ominous.
There was definitely something there. And now, thanks to Futaba, he had the first thread to pull.
Thunder cracked in the distance, rumbling low above the Tokyo skyline. Rain pattered gently against the grand windows of a private estate nestled deep within Azabu—a district so exclusive that even whispers required permission to speak.
Inside, a long, high-polished mahogany table stretched across a chandelier-lit chamber. The walls were decorated with priceless art, both modern and ancient—pieces that would be featured in museums if not hoarded here.
Seated at the head of the table was a bald man with reptilian composure and a grin like a guillotine. His orange-tinted sunglasses glowed faintly in the low light, hiding his eyes but not the malice behind them. His tailored black suit hugged a frame that oozed quiet menace. Masayoshi Shido.
To his right, slouched in his chair, was a man in a rumpled lab coat, mop of brown hair half-falling into his eyes. He looked almost out of place—friendly, even—but the cold calculation in his gaze betrayed something darker. He smiled faintly as he spun a silver pen between his fingers. Dr. Takuto Maruki.
On Shido’s left sat a woman in her mid-forties, draped in an emerald green dress and wearing far too much makeup. Her every movement was rehearsed and precise, as if she believed she were always on camera. Her lips curled in amusement as she glanced around the table.
Next to her lounged a man in an immaculate charcoal suit, maybe late fifties, with the kind of weathered confidence that comes from money and generational power. His fingers tapped lightly on a gold-plated phone.
Then came the aristocrat—ancient, silver-haired, his elaborate kimono a patchwork of bold, clashing colors. His ponytail was loose and swaying as he chuckled softly at some joke only he found amusing. Rings glittered on every finger.
A muscular man with slicked-back hair and a half-buttoned dress shirt leaned back in his chair, a lit cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Tattoos coiled up his forearms just beneath the cuffs. His sharp eyes scanned the room like a predator waiting for orders.
And finally, at the far end of the table, nearly spilling out of his ill-fitting gray suit, was a bald, obese man with beady eyes and a perpetual sheen of sweat across his face. He wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief, breathing heavily, saying nothing.
The air was thick with anticipation—unspoken, electric.
The atmosphere in the chamber tightened even further as the double doors at the far end creaked open. The figures around the table reached for the intricate black and red masks in front of them and placed them over their faces.
Eight figures entered, each clad in sleek, tailored black, all wearing simple black masks over their faces. Their movements were efficient, disciplined—military, almost. At their head walked a young man in his early thirties with sharp brown eyes and hair to match, swept back in a manner that lent him both charm and authority. The only one to not wear a mask.
Shohei Sugimura. Code name: Manchineel
The resemblance to Shido was subtle but undeniable—especially in the way he commanded attention without saying a word. The air around him crackled with unspoken dominance.
To his left strode a tall woman with cold, calculating eyes and a crisp, unblemished uniform. Her ash-blonde hair was loose and fell to her back in layered waves. A SIU badge was discretely pinned to her uniform.
Bringing up the rear were the youngest members of the group: both appeared to be young women in their late teens or early twenties. The one on the left had caramel-coloured hair and wore a longcoat with a detective’s badge pinned to her lapel.
And beside her, a girl with fading crimson highlights in her dark ponytail, moving like a shadow in a dancer’s body—quiet, unreadable, graceful. As the eight came to a halt at the foot of the mahogany table, Shohei met his father’s gaze without hesitation. Shido gave a slight nod.
Shohei cleared his throat, voice crisp, cool, and utterly composed. “Kamoshida has indeed been compromised. And we can’t reach his Shadow.”
A ripple of interest moved around the table. Shido’s smile disappeared. “Elaborate,” he ordered.
Shohei shifted his weight slightly, his brow furrowed. “As far as we can tell, his Shadow didn’t return to the Metaverse after his Palace collapsed. But Kamoshida isn’t catatonic, which means the Shadow hasn’t been killed. He also doesn’t have a Persona, so it’s not like he somehow mastered it. I don’t get it…”
He glanced sideways toward Maruki, who had already retrieved a leather notebook from his coat pocket and was scribbling notes rapidly, muttering to himself.
Shohei turned back toward the head of the table. “Should we just have him dealt with the old-fashioned way, Father?”
Shido’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then slowly turned toward the ash-blonde woman. “Have him released to Dr. Maruki. I’m sure we can… examine this situation.”
The woman nodded, pulling her phone from her pocket as she turned and walked briskly from the room.
Shido now turned his predatory gaze to the detective. “Belladonna.”
Ren stepped forward and bowed slightly, voice level. “Nothing that can lead back to us. All police reports relating to Kamoshida have been destroyed.”
Shido gave a short, approving nod. “Good. And the other matter?”
Ren hesitated only a fraction of a second before shaking her head. “I’ve been patrolling the Metaverse every night. No sign of them yet—but I will not rest until I find them.”
Shido studied her with a look that blended disdain with expectation. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand: “Do better.”
Ren bowed again, retreating silently.
The silence that followed was heavy. Tension. Expectation. Dread.
Shohei didn’t so much as flinch. He turned to Shido once more. “I’ll begin tracking potential leads tomorrow. If there’s a new player in the Metaverse... we’ll find them.”
Shido’s sneer returned slowly. His fingers tapped once, twice, three times on the table before stilling. “See that you do, my son.”
GROUP CHAT: Operation: Steal His Heart ❤️
BimboBerry:
Okay but can we just take a moment to talk about how stupidly nice Akira is?
PlunderBae:
You mean how he made us each feel like the main character during that Akihabara trip?? 😩 I still can’t believe he won me that plushie on the first try.
BangBangBaby:
He won all of us plushies on the first try. Who even has that kind of luck?? I’m half-convinced he’s cheating at life.
BimboBerry:
And the way he paid for lunch without even blinking??? Sir, we’re poor students, and you're out here being our sugar daddy.
SiroccoFée:
I'm still trying to understand how he cooked us that curry when we got back like it was no big deal. That wasn't a meal, that was a religious experience.
BangBangBaby:
Y’all. He’s so protective too. Like—he stays just behind us in combat and watches our backs, but still pushes us forward like he believes in us.
PlunderBae:
God, it’s so dumb. He gets me, y’know? Like even when I’m struggling, he doesn’t try to fix it—he just gets it. That matters more than I can say.
BimboBerry:
🫠🫠🫠
He really doesn’t even notice how hard we flirt with him though. It’s actually embarrassing.
SiroccoFée:
He’s dense. Like, I’m-pretty-sure-you-could-drop-a-building-on-him-and-he’d-think-it-was-a-hug dense.
PlunderBae:
Imagine being so fine and yet so oblivious. It's infuriating.
BangBangBaby:
Okay, but real talk—remember when he kabedoned Makoto??
BimboBerry:
OHHHHH MY GOD YES.
I would’ve just died. Flatline. Heart emoji over each eye.
SiroccoFée:
That was a power move and a half. If it were me, I probably would’ve punched him on instinct, then proposed marriage five seconds later.
PlunderBae:
Honestly? Same. Except I wouldn’t punch him. I’d just melt into the floor and become one with the tiles.
BimboBerry:
Okay okay, I’m gonna say it—Kasumi is so down bad for him too. We should probably add her to the chat. Poor girl’s out there suffering alone.
SiroccoFée:
No. 👏
This chat is Phantom Thieves only. No exceptions.
BangBangBaby:
Aww c’mon, Morg. She is trustworthy. I mean, I trust her.
SiroccoFée:
Trustworthy and “knows about the Metaverse and can handle it” are two very different things.
Until she’s ready for the truth, she’s staying out.
PlunderBae:
Fair...ish. But if she does prove herself, she’s in?
SiroccoFée:
...Fine.
If she proves she can handle the Metaverse—and more importantly, if we all agree she can be trusted with everything—then maybe. Maybe.
But she better not start gushing too loudly. We have a system.
BimboBerry:
Oh, she will. She’s already halfway there. Let’s be real.
BangBangBaby:
And when she joins, she’s gonna read all this and realize we’re the most unhinged girl group on the planet.
PlunderBae:
As it should be 💅
The room is dim, bathed in soft golden light from a small desk lamp. The walls are neatly decorated with medals, ribbons, and inspirational posters. A pair of bunk beds dominates one side of the room.
Kasumi lies on her stomach on the bottom bunk, feet in the air, kicking gently. She’s in her pajamas, hugging a pillow to her chest, her voice dreamy and full of unfiltered joy. On the top bunk above, Sumire lies in shadow—awake, but quiet.
Kasumi: "He was so thoughtful, Sumi. Like, I know I already told you he remembered I liked the strawberry taiyaki from that one café in Asakusa, but then he actually went out of his way to bring me one! Just casually, like it was nothing! Who even does that?"
Silence from above. Kasumi continues without noticing.
"And when we were walking home, this guy tried to get my number and Akira just—stepped in front of me. Like one second he was beside me, and the next, boom. Wall of warm hoodie and subtle menace."
Still nothing.
"I know he doesn’t mean it that way, but I swear, every time he smiles at me I feel like my heart’s doing a whole floor routine. And he’s so kind? And calm? And—God, he listens. Like really listens. I talk and he sees me, y’know?"
From the top bunk: a soft, barely audible exhale. Kasumi hugs the pillow closer, cheeks flushed, smiling at the ceiling.
"I wish I could tell him. But I don’t want to scare him off or mess up what we have. He’s just... he makes me feel like I’m more than the ribbon and the stage and the name. Like I’m just Kasumi."
She trails off, the room settling into quiet again.
A pause, and then—
Kasumi (gentle, affectionate): "Do you want me to fix your hair this weekend? You’re starting to go dark again."
A longer pause.
Then, a quiet voice from above.
"...Sure."
Kasumi smiles to herself and closes her eyes, unaware that Sumire’s own eyes remain open in the dark, watching the ceiling with a conflicted expression.
The room is dark, lit only by the soft blue glow of the city outside. A faint hum of traffic echoes far below.
From the lower bunk, Kasumi’s sleeping breaths are soft and even. The bed creaks as she turns in her sleep, murmuring something sweet and indistinct.
Above her, Sumire lies wide awake, eyes glassy as she stares at the ceiling. Her hands are clenched in her blanket, body tense with emotion she can’t name—won’t name.
Sumire (V.O.):
She’s everything I’m not.
Beautiful. Graceful. Perfect.
Everyone sees her.
No one ever really sees me.
Her throat tightens. She swallows against the lump rising.
Sumire (V.O.):
Not unless she’s not there to block the light.
She turns onto her side and looks down—through the mattress, through the floor—to the sister sleeping below. Her voice plays again in her memory:
“I think I might be in love, Sumire.”
“He saved me... like some kind of superhero.”
“He’s so kind. And patient. He makes me feel like I’m more than just a gymnast.”
Sumire’s fingers curl tighter around the blanket until her knuckles whiten.
Sumire (V.O.):
You don’t even realize it, do you?
How lucky you are?
How easy everything is for you?
Her eyes begin to sting, but she doesn’t cry. She refuses.
FLASHBACK – EXT. GYM EXIT – SUNSET
Their gym bags are slung over their shoulders. They’re both tired. Sweaty. But Kasumi is beaming—coaches had just praised her routine again. Teammates had clapped her on the back.
Sumire trails behind, one step slower. Her ankle throbs with every stride. She had landed poorly—again—and the pain’s getting worse.
Kasumi (cheerfully): That triple spin really clicked today! I’ve been working on it for weeks!
Sumire: Yeah… you did great.
Kasumi doesn’t notice the hesitation. Or the limp. Or the look on her sister’s face.
Sumire (V.O.):
I was hurt.
I told the coach I couldn’t land it.
But I still tried.
I always try.
And it’s never enough.
FLASHBACK ENDS
Back in the bunk, Sumire bites her lip until it almost bleeds.
Sumire (V.O.):
Then the accident.
Her stomach turns at the memory—the scream, the headlights, the rain. Her body had frozen, but Kasumi had moved without thinking. And then he had moved even faster.
That stranger in the hoodie.
Akira Amamiya.
He saved Kasumi. Took the hit. And just like that, Kasumi was a miracle, and he was a hero.
Sumire (V.O.):
Everyone’s eyes were on her again.
The miracle girl who cheated death.
I was right there. I saw it happen.
But no one asked how I was doing.
Her hand brushes her chest. The weight pressing there hasn’t left since that day.
And now…
Sumire (V.O.):
Now she’s in love with him.
With the boy who saved her.
She talks about him like he’s a fairytale prince.
And I’m supposed to listen. Smile. Encourage her.
She grips the edge of the bunk, fingers trembling with the force of what she’s holding in.
Sumire (V.O.):
I love her. I do.
She’s my sister. She’s my everything.
But sometimes…
Her breath catches. The thought comes like a whisper she’s been trying not to hear.
Sumire (V.O.):
Sometimes I wish she’d never come back.
A single tear rolls down her cheek. But it’s not grief. It’s not even guilt. It’s rage. Deep and ugly.
Sumire (V.O.):
She has the life I was supposed to have.
My routines.
My future.
Even my savior.
The edge of her lip twitches. Not quite a smile.
Sumire (V.O.):
Dr. Maruki said he can help me fix things.
That I don’t have to live like this.
That I can rewrite what went wrong.
She looks out the window, eyes glinting in the light of Tokyo Tower’s glow.
Sumire (V.O.):
I just need time. Control.
And when I have that…
Life will be fair.
And I’ll finally be more than her shadow.
Her hand drops from the railing.
Sumire (V.O.):
I’ll be the one they see.
I’ll be the one they love.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)---------------------------------------------------------
Bit of a shorter chapter here, just to set up Mementos and introduce the main antagonists. For those wondering, the idea of Sugimura being Black Mask comes Flames of Rebellion: Royal by BlazingMoon375 - give it a read, it's quite fun.
Also, I am thinking of adding character profiles after every major arc, so we can track how everyone's Personas are evolving. Is that something you all want to see, or would you rather just have the story?
Chapter 12: Paint Your Heart
Summary:
Akira discovers a new palace, takes the time to bond with his girls, and even gets himself a stalker
Also, a certain Black Mask takes her first steps into the light
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The clock ticks quietly past midnight. The only light in the room comes from the glow of Akira's laptop and the warm, dim bulb above the kitchen sink. A cup of half-drunk coffee sits forgotten at his side, cooling beside a neatly highlighted notepad filled with scribbles, names, and half-formed strategies.
Akira leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes before glancing back at the file that Futaba had sent him—an exhaustive document stuffed with links, press articles, forum gossip, and scans of old interviews.
"Looks like not much has changed here..."
He scrolls further, tapping his pen absently against his temple as he reads aloud, piecing the puzzle together.
"Same Madarame—beloved artist with an ‘eclectic’ style. Same glowing reviews. Same tragic story behind Sayuri being stolen decades ago. Same whispers about him plagiarizing his students, but nothing concrete."
He clicks over to the section marked "Former Students." A familiar list of names scrolls by—blurred out headshots, timestamps of blogs long taken down. And there, near the bottom, is the most recent addition.
"Y. Kitagawa… art student at Kosei Academy, Madarame’s one and only current protégé."
Akira exhales slowly, leaning back as he pictures Yusuke’s face once more—serious expression, sharply cut bangs, eyes that somehow manage to look both intense and vaguely unhinged.
"Hopefully Yusuke won’t be as much of a weirdo this time and demand to paint Ann in the nude."
A beat passes. His brow furrows as a hypothetical scenario starts to play out in his mind.
"...Although knowing my luck, he’s probably going to demand that all four of the girls strip for him..."
He lets out a groan, dragging a hand down his face. "Then I’ll have to deck him."
A chuckle escapes him despite the late hour. He stretches, cracking his neck, then closes the laptop with a soft click and stands.
"Maybe it'll knock some sense into him. Might even get him to join the team quicker."
He glances at the clock again. 12:47 AM.
"Well, tomorrow’s Sunday. No classes. Might be worth swinging by Madarame’s shack... see if I can get a read on the place."
The sun hangs lazily in the sky as a breeze rustles the leaves of a small park nestled across from a certain rundown shack. The building itself seems ready to collapse under its own weight—its wood panels warped, paint chipped away, roof patchworked with tarps and prayers.
Akira stands across the street, hands in his pockets, his gaze sharp as he takes in the sight of the supposed home and studio of Japan’s beloved artistic genius. Still the same dump… Not hard to see why everyone buys the “reclusive master” act when he pretends he lives in this.
He steps back from the sidewalk and into the quiet park. His eyes scan the area until he spots the perfect perch: a bench partly obscured by a wide tree and a hedge, angled just enough to offer a clear view of the shack without being obvious. Akira smirks to himself “Good place for a stakeout… Better grab a few snacks then.”
Akira returns, casual as anything, cracking open a box of Pocky as he settles in. One leg crossed over the other, he taps his foot idly as he munches, eyes flicking toward the shack every so often.
People come and go—an old man walking his dog, a couple of tourists snapping photos, a few art students looking lost. No one approaches the shack. No movement from within.
Akira pulls out his phone, thumbing through the files Futaba sent him again… but then pauses. His gaze lingers on the shack. “Let’s try something…”
He taps the Metaverse Navigator app. The familiar interface pulses to life, sleek and ominous. "Ichiryusai Madarame… Shack… Art Gallery..."
The screen glows red. “Beginning navigation…”
The world lurches.
In an instant, reality melts. The cracked wood and grime vanish beneath shimmering paint and flowing velvet. The shack stretches upward and outward, reshaping into a towering gaudy art gallery, golden frames covering the walls like fungal growth. Spotlights gleam across marble floors. Music—dissonant classical notes—echo faintly through the air.
Akira steps back, watching as long lines of humanoid Shadows—blank-faced, dressed like starving artists—queue obediently at the entrance, holding canvases close to their chests like sacred offerings.
Akira lets out a low whistle, “Well, that confirms that…”
He shifts his weight and smiles as his Phantom Thief attire ignites into existence—a sudden flash of red-lined black, his hood settling over his messy hair, his storm-grey eyes gleaming with focus behind his mask. “Guess it won’t hurt to take a peek…”
A click of metal on glass.
Joker swings himself over the skylight ledge with the fluid ease of someone used to rooftop runs and sneaking through locked windows. He crouches for a moment, one gloved hand pressed against the rim, his lowered hood whispering in the still air.
Below him, the first gallery wing stretches out—grand and opulent, with gold-plated columns and velvet ropes herding imaginary patrons through curated pathways. Opulent paintings, most clearly forgeries or derivatives, hang in neat rows on the blood-red walls. Spotlights beam down in dramatic flourishes, making every brushstroke glow unnaturally.
With a smirk, he drops.
THUMP. Boots hit polished marble. Not a soul in sight.
“Looks pretty much the same so far…”
He slowly straightens, letting his eyes sweep the corridor. His hand rests lightly on his holstered tonfas as he advances, each footfall near-silent.
No patrols. No Shadows.
Yet the space feels watched. Oppressively curated. Like the art itself is judging him.
He stops at the hallway's threshold—where the path opens up into the next chamber—and walks forward… only to be met with a sudden thrum.
A blue-and-gold force field flares into existence across the corridor. Joker halts just short, his reflection shimmering in the wall of light.
“Huh?…”
He scans the surrounding architecture, trying to find switches, mechanisms, anything resembling the Palace’s usual trickery. But nothing jumps out. No hidden panels. No floating keys. No obvious triggers. He even tries the old “throw a coin at a suspicious statue” move. Nothing.
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.
“No weak point… and brute force might alert the Palace…”
He steps back slightly, studying the barrier again as if sheer observation might will it to vanish. But the symbols etched into the glow remain motionless. The path is sealed.
After another minute of fruitless searching, Joker finally leans against the edge of the nearest pedestal and crosses his arms. He glances up at the painted ceiling—a grotesque montage of hands reaching toward a single golden canvas, like moths to flame.
“Seems like I need to wait… I’m guessing these barriers don’t drop until we go to the exhibition... which is two weeks away.”
A dry chuckle escapes him as he turns and begins retracing his steps toward the skylight.
“I suppose I could work on my bonds for now.”
He disappears into the rafters as silently as he came.
The cozy blue-hued loft crackles softly with the ambient firelight from the hearth. The smell of aged books, arcane incense, and something like ozone fills the air. Velvet drapes sway gently, despite no wind. This is a place outside of time—a crossroads for the soul.
Akira stands before a wide stone wall lined with golden plaques, each etched with the Arcana of his fate: The Wall of Bonds.
Twelve small sigils glow steadily across the surface—each corresponding to a bond in his life. Most pulse with a steady, golden light. Some are flickering faintly, still new. And one…
One glows crimson, angry and pulsing like a warning light: THE HIGH PRIESTESS.
Lavenza stands beside Akira, her hands are clasped before her, her eyes soft but grave.
Akira (frowning): “…What does that mean?”
He’s staring hard at the crimson Arcana, brows furrowed.
Lavenza: “The Priestess is actively fighting against forming a bond with you, Trickster. Her heart and her mind are at war. She is torn between what she believes… and what she feels.”
Akira sighs heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Akira: “Makoto…”
His eyes linger on the glowing sigil a moment longer.
Akira (dryly): “Seems like she’s even more pig-headed this time around.”
Lavenza tilts her head in quiet agreement, though her gaze remains focused on Akira—not unkind, but studying.
Lavenza: “You understand her burden. But it is not yet yours to lift. Not until she lowers her defenses… and sees you not as a threat, but a possibility.”
Akira nods absently, turning his attention to the rest of the wall.
Each Arcana now flickers with current strength levels:
-
MAGICIAN — 1 (Morgane)
-
LOVERS — 3 (Ann)
-
CHARIOT — 4 (Ryuemi)
-
JUSTICE — 2 (Ren)
-
HERMIT — 4 (Futaba)
-
STRENGTH — 6 (Lavenza)
-
MOON — 2 (Shiho)
-
FAITH — 4 (Kasumi)
And below them, dim but waiting:
-
EMPRESS — 0
-
STAR — 0
-
FORTUNE — 0
Akira exhales slowly, eyes lingering on Strength, which glows warmest of all—Lavenza’s bond. He glances sideways at her with a faint smile.
Akira: “You’re pulling ahead of the others.”
Lavenza giggles, her hand brushing lightly against his sleeve.
Lavenza: “I am your Attendant, Trickster. It would be a poor reflection on me otherwise.”
Akira smiles faintly, but then glances back toward High Priestess, the scarlet hue still glaring in the dim.
Akira (softly): “…We’ll get there. One step at a time.”
With the barrier in Madarame’s Palace sealed and no clear way forward, Akira turns his focus elsewhere. For the next two weeks, he dedicates himself to strengthening the bonds that could shape the future of the Phantom Thieves. One by one, he makes time for his friends —learning more about who they are, what they love, and how best to support them.
Magician: Rank 2
Outside the Shinagawa Ice Arena – Early Afternoon
The sky is crisp and cloudless, the late spring breeze stirring loose strands of Morgane’s black hair as she walks beside Akira, hands stuffed in her hoodie pockets. The muffled roar of the crowd inside the arena grows louder as they approach.
Morgane: "I can't believe you're actually taking me to a hockey match. Most people would just nod and pretend to care when I mention I like it."
Akira (smirking): "What can I say? I aim to please."
She gives him a look—half glare, half flustered surprise.
Morgane: "D-Don't act all smooth about it, dummy... I just figured you’d drag me to a ramen place or something."
Akira raises an eyebrow but says nothing, enjoying her reaction.
[Inside the Arena – During the Game]
The stands are packed, the ice a brilliant white under the lights. Morgane is on the edge of her seat, practically vibrating with excitement. She’s yelling at the players, slamming her fists on the seat arms during tight plays, and groaning dramatically when her team nearly scores.
Akira watches her more than the game, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips. She's radiant when she forgets to be guarded.
During the second period, she catches him watching and looks away quickly.
Morgane (muttering): "Stop staring like that... it’s embarrassing."
Akira: "Sorry. It’s just… nice seeing you fired up like this."
She stiffens a bit, but then relaxes. After a pause, she leans in slightly, speaking quieter this time.
Morgane: "...Most people think I’m weird for liking this stuff. Or too loud. Or too much. But you... you just go along with it like it’s normal."
Akira: "It is normal. You're allowed to like what you like, Morgane."
For a moment, she’s quiet. Then, in an almost shy voice:
Morgane: "...There's a skating rink nearby, you know. I used to go every week before moving to Tokyo."
Akira (grinning): "Then next time, the rink’s on me."
Morgane (turning red): "W-whatever. You better not suck."
She punches him lightly in the arm, but doesn’t move away.
Chariot: Rank 5
It starts with a shoebox.
Akira holds it out to Ryuemi with a crooked smile as she blinks at him, sweaty from warm-up stretches. “Thought you could use a boost.”
She lifts the lid, and her breath catches. Inside are a pair of sleek, high-performance running shoes—black with electric blue trim and just a hint of crimson around the heel. But what really stuns her is the stitching: “Comet” embroidered along the sides in shining silver thread.
Her eyes go wide. “You... had these made for me?”
Akira rubs the back of his neck. “Figured if you were going to get back into it, you should do it right. You’ve earned it.”
Ryuemi looks like she’s fighting back something—laughter, tears, or both—before she drops onto the track bench beside him and nudges his shoulder with hers. “You sap. You know these are worth more than my rent, right?”
“You’re worth more than your rent,” he says plainly, and her teasing smirk falters just a little at that.
They spend the rest of the day running drills together—sprints, hurdles, baton passes. Akira isn’t close to her speed, but he keeps up long enough to make her laugh, wheeze, and collapse in the grass with a triumphant grin.
“I forgot how good this feels,” she pants, staring up at the clouds. “Like... like I’m not broken anymore.”
Akira lies back beside her, letting the silence stretch comfortably. “You were never broken, Ryu. You were hurting. That’s not the same thing.”
She turns her head just enough to look at him, and her smile this time is softer. “Thanks for not giving up on me.”
He smiles back. “You never gave up on yourself. I just reminded you how to run.”
Moon – Rank 3
It starts in the cafeteria.
Shiho is picking at her salad, earbuds in and hood up, tuned out from the world when someone drops into the seat beside her. She glances up—then blinks as Akira slides something across the table.
A glossy concert ticket.
She pulls her earbuds out. “What’s this?”
“A secret Band-Maid show,” he says with a lopsided grin. “Tonight. Underground venue in Akihabara. Pick you up at 7.”
She barely has time to register what he said before he winks and is gone, leaving the ticket between her fingers and her heart pounding like a kick drum.
That evening, Shiho paces in her living room, dressed in her pop punk princess finest—plaid skirt, combat boots, a distressed crop hoodie over a graphic tee. She’s barely gotten through her third loop around the couch when there's a knock at the door.
She opens it—and nearly chokes.
Akira stands there in head-to-toe black, his usual hoodie traded for a fitted jacket, silver chains and bracelets jangling softly. He’s wearing guyliner, and his normally tousled hair has been styled into a side-swept emo shag, complete with a subtle smirk.
“You look amazing,” he says.
Shiho flushes bright red but rolls with it. “You look like you walked off the cover of a Visual Kei album.”
“That’s the vibe,” he says, offering his hand. “Ready to scream?”
They do just that. The venue is tiny, packed, and electric with energy. Band-Maid plays like goddesses of noise and rhythm, and Akira and Shiho are right there—singing, screaming, jumping, laughing. Shiho loses herself in the music, her voice hoarse, her smile unfiltered, her body moving like it's never been caged.
Later, as Akira walks her home beneath the buzz of neon signs and distant train rumbles, she finally speaks again.
“I used to sneak into shows like that in middle school,” she admits. “Ann covered for me. Said I was at her place. The sound... the rush... it made everything else feel less real. Or maybe more real. I don’t know.”
Akira listens without interrupting.
“I couldn’t listen to music after Kamoshida,” she continues, softer. “It felt like he took that from me too.”
“He didn’t,” Akira says gently. “You’re taking it back.”
She smiles at him, wide and a little bittersweet. “Thanks for reminding me how to scream.”
He smiles back. “Anytime.”
Faith – Rank 5
It starts with a simple request.
“Um… Akira-senpai?” Kasumi asks one afternoon, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “Would you maybe… want to come watch one of my heats? It’s nothing huge—just a regional qualifier—but… I’d really like it if you were there.”
Akira, of course, agrees instantly. When she arrives at the arena the next day, she spots him immediately in the front row, arms folded over the railing, his smile wide and encouraging.
He cheers loudly when her name is announced.
And louder still when she lands the final flip of her routine with breathtaking precision, the crowd erupting around them.
Afterward, she finds him waiting just outside the changing area, already holding a small bouquet of cherry-red camellias.
“Thought they matched your ribbon,” he says.
Kasumi flushes from ear to ear.
He suggests dinner to celebrate and offers to invite Sumire as well. Kasumi beams, but when she texts her sister, Sumire declines with a clipped response: Practice. You two enjoy.
Kasumi frowns faintly but quickly brushes it off.
They end up at a cozy, upscale sushi restaurant in Ginza, where Akira insists on letting her order whatever she wants. Over plates of melt-in-your-mouth nigiri and sweet grilled eel, the two talk easily—about training, music, their favorite comfort foods, and Kasumi’s dreams of going to the Olympics someday.
She laughs more than she has in weeks.
After dinner, they walk side-by-side beneath the warm glow of streetlights. Ginza at night is alive with color and sound, and Kasumi pauses when she hears the pulse of a speaker around the next corner.
They turn to find a street dance crew performing in the square, drawing a small crowd. The dancers move with fluid grace and explosive energy, and Kasumi's eyes widen with fascination.
“You like street dancing?” Akira asks, catching her expression.
“I love it,” she admits. “I used to do hip-hop a lot when I was younger. It’s how I learned rhythm before I even touched a beam.”
Akira grins. “Then you should join them.”
“What?! No way—I can’t just—!”
But he's already talking to the performers, casually explaining that his friend is a gymnast with some serious skills. They beckon her over with enthusiastic whoops and offer her the floor.
Kasumi hesitates… then smiles, stepping forward.
And when the music shifts into something fast and bright, she comes alive—cartwheeling, flipping, and body-popping with jaw-dropping control. Her routine fuses street dance swagger with graceful gymnastics, a hybrid style that leaves the crowd stunned.
When it’s over, she’s breathless, laughing, her cheeks flushed and her braid half-loosened.
“You’re incredible,” Akira says, offering her a bottle of water.
She takes it, then surprises him with a quick hug. “Thank you. For coming to my heat. For dinner. For this. I haven’t felt that free in so long.”
Akira just smiles. “You don’t need a routine to shine, Kasumi.”
Hermit – Rank 5
The message comes late in the morning, pinging on Akira’s phone just as he’s finishing up some reading at home.
Meme Queen:
okay okay okay
deep breaths
I’m gonna do it
Will you come with me to the combini?
Just the one around the corner. I wanna pick up snacks
and I don’t wanna go alone
Akira doesn't hesitate.
Trickster:
Be there in 1. You got this.
When he arrives, Futaba is already outside the gate, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, oversized hoodie sleeves hiding most of her hands. Her eyes light up when she sees him—part nerves, part determination.
“I’m not freaking out,” she says, more to herself than to him. “I’m totally not freaking out. I’m just casually walking to the convenience store with my cool friend and everything is FINE.”
Akira chuckles. “You’re doing great.”
“Don’t patronize me, I’ll hack your internet history.”
“Duly noted.”
The walk is short, but every step matters. The sun is bright, people are out, and Futaba flinches slightly when a bike passes a little too close. Akira gently steps between her and the street, a silent but clear shield. She looks up at him and, after a beat, gives him a grateful little smile.
The combini is quiet, just a sleepy college student behind the counter. Futaba grabs armfuls of snacks: ramen, melon soda, pocky, and a very suspicious-looking energy drink labeled "NERVROCKET™."
“You’re going to drink that?” Akira asks, eyebrow raised.
“No, but I’m going to make you drink it and watch what happens. For science.”
Back at Akira’s apartment, they kick off a mini anime marathon, sprawled out with snacks and controllers between them. They bounce between games and episodes—Akira introducing her to a new turn-based game from a small French studio that he's hooked on, Futaba forcing him through a cursed old dating sim that makes absolutely no sense.
“This one’s a secret final boss disguised as a school nurse,” she explains, pointing at the screen. “But you can only unlock her route by maxing out your lunch money donations and joining the glee club.”
Akira squints. “...Why do I feel like you made this game?”
“I didn’t! Probably. Maybe. Look, shut up and click the questionable dialogue choice.”
Hours pass without either of them noticing. Futaba talks more freely now, her jokes sharper, her laughter louder. She even curls up at the far end of the couch with her head half-lolling off the cushion, her legs draped over Akira’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You know,” she says after a long pause, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I really didn’t think I could do it. Not again. Go outside. Be normal. But with you there… I dunno. It doesn’t feel scary.”
Akira doesn’t say anything—just reaches over to gently ruffle her hair.
She squeaks and flails. “Hands off the goods, coffee boy!”
He grins. “You’re welcome.”
Lovers – Rank 4
11:03 a.m. — Leblanc
Ann doesn’t knock—she bursts through the door like a blonde hurricane in designer boots, already talking.
“Okay, okay, okay—you’re dressed, right? Good. We have so much to do. Ginza, Harajuku, Shibuya, and MAYBE Akihabara if we have time, but I make no promises because I need boots, and I saw a pleated skirt last week that might still be on sale, but if it’s not I’ll need emotional support and at least one bubble tea—OH, and makeup! I’m running out of setting spray!”
Akira doesn’t even get a word in. She grabs his wrist and drags him outside with manicured determination.
11:44 a.m. — Harajuku, store #3
“This is the dress I wear when we crash the Met Gala. This one is for clubbing. This one’s for my tragic villain arc. And this—” she holds up something backless, sheer, and questionably legal, “—is for when I finally seduce you.”
Akira blinks. “That last one’s see-through.”
“Exactly.” She smirks. “Wait here. If I die in this dressing room, avenge me.”
A minute later, she emerges. “How do I look?”
“You’ll definitely get arrested.”
Ann claps. “Perfect. I’ll take it.”
12:30 p.m. — Shibuya 109, shoe department
Ann is sitting on the floor surrounded by eight boxes of platform heels, sneakers, wedges, and combat boots. Akira’s holding a thigh-high stiletto in one hand and a bubble tea in the other.
“I can’t decide, Akiraaaa!” she whines. “Do I go slutty-chic or rebellious-goddess?”
“You’re going to twist your ankle in either.”
She gasps. “How dare you speak such slander. My ankles are invincible.”
“Last week you tripped over a wrapper.”
“That thing was aggressive.”
She grabs two pairs. “Fine. I’ll take both. And that means I have to get the harness bag too. And maybe those sunglasses. No, wait. These sunglasses. I look like a sexy beetle in these, don’t I?”
“…Sure.”
“SEXY. BEETLE. VIBES.”
2:05 p.m. — random alley market
Ann has acquired a ridiculous pink sunhat, novelty earrings shaped like sushi, and a full bag of second-hand anime pins. She spins around dramatically in the middle of the street, nearly knocking over a food stall. Akira, buried under six bags, just barely manages to steer her away.
“I AM A GODDESS OF GLAM AND CHAOS,” she declares. “AND YOU—YOU ARE MY BEARER OF BAGS.”
“I didn’t sign up for this.”
“You did when you said ‘hi’ to me on our first day.”
“…That checks out.”
They end up at Pâtisserie de Rêves, a cozy café hidden in an alley near Harajuku. Ann beams as the waiter sets down their order: a towering strawberry parfait and a slice of tiramisu that looks like it belongs in a museum.
“This place is my favorite,” she says, poking at the whipped cream with her spoon. “I used to come here after auditions. Especially the bad ones.”
Akira watches her quietly, letting the moment settle.
“It’s stupid,” she says after a pause. “But eating something sweet… it made me feel like I was still worth something, you know? Even when I bombed. Even when I thought everyone was looking at me and thinking, ‘she only got the role because she’s hot.’ Like I wasn’t enough.”
“You are,” Akira says softly, without hesitation.
Ann looks up.
“You’re kind, and funny, and stubborn as hell. You care about people more than you admit, and you never let anyone see how much it gets to you.”
She stares at him, spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.
Akira leans back with a shrug. “Plus, you’ve got great taste in desserts.”
Ann bursts into laughter, but it’s watery. Her cheeks are flushed, and for once, she doesn’t cover it with a flirty comeback.
“You’re really something, you know that?”
He blinks. “Me?”
She shakes her head with a quiet smile. “Never mind. You’d never get it anyway.”
Justice – Rank 3
8:47 p.m. — LeBlanc, Yongen-Jaya
The last customer leaves with a mumbled “thanks,” the little bell above the door giving a soft jingle as it shuts. Akira exhales and starts wiping down the counter when it rings again — not five seconds later.
He looks up.
Ren Akechi stands there in the doorway, coat slightly askew, tie loosened, hair a mess. She doesn’t say a word. Just walks in slowly and sinks onto a stool at the counter like she’s about to melt through it.
She looks like she’s had a week crammed into a single day.
Without asking, Akira grabs a mug, pours her a cup of LeBlanc’s best roast, and places it in front of her. She blinks at it in mild surprise, then at him.
“…You read minds now?”
“I read faces.”
She stares at the dark liquid for a moment. Then, quietly:
“My witness today got my name wrong. Three times. The detective in charge of the scene asked if I was someone’s intern. And a superior officer called me ‘kiddo.’ Twice. In front of a suspect.”
Akira says nothing. Just nods and wipes down a mug.
“Also,” she continues, wrapping both hands around the coffee for warmth, “my favorite pancake stall closed. Gentrified. They’re putting up some minimalist dog café or whatever the hell.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That stall with the strawberry souffle ones?”
She slumps forward. “Yes. The one place I could count on. Gone. Just like that. I swear, if one more person says something condescending to me, I might actually snap and throw someone through a vending machine.”
Akira slides the sugar jar toward her without comment.
“I slept three hours last night. And there are reports to file. And the new tech guy keeps breathing loudly like it’s a choice.”
She sips the coffee and groans — not out of pain, but comfort. For a moment, her whole body relaxes.
“…You really do make the best coffee.”
Akira smiles faintly. “So I’ve been told.”
A beat passes. She looks up at him.
“You’re not going to tell me to breathe deeply, or meditate, or... whatever?”
“Nope.”
“No unsolicited advice?”
“Still nope.”
“…Why are you like this?”
Akira pours her another cup with a shrug. “Because you don’t need someone to fix it. Just someone to listen.”
Ren stares at him for a long moment — like she’s not used to that answer, like she might say something more.
But she doesn’t.
She just lowers her gaze and says, very softly, “…Thank you.”
??? – Surveillance Log #008
Location: Yongen-Jaya + Various
Time: Variable
A pair of sharp eyes peeked out from behind a vending machine.
Akira Amamiya laughed at something Morgane said as the two exited the ice rink. The way he ruffled her hair, the casual intimacy of it—it had to be fake. It had to be. The girl was smirking, cheeks faintly pink. A well-practiced mask. All of them wore masks.
“He’s playing them. All of them. He’s too good at this.”
A quick scrawl followed into a bubblegum pink notebook—the kind meant for middle school crushes, complete with a happy panda on the cover.
Inside, however, the writing was cramped, obsessive. Scribbled maps of Yongen-Jaya, hastily drawn diagrams of seating arrangements at cafés, timestamps, outfit notes, keywords like "ice hockey – shared interest", "Band Maid ticket – favors/debts?" and underlined in red: Charming. Charismatic. Dangerous.
Next day, a different location.
Behind the bushes near Shujin’s courtyard, tucked in tight against the breeze. A plastic cup of strawberry milk trembled slightly in gloved fingers.
Akira handed a pair of pristine running shoes to Ryuemi and grinned. She looked like she’d been struck by lightning and the sun at the same time. The tension in her shoulders vanished. Another note.
“He knew her nickname. ‘Comet.’ Who told him that?”
“He’s getting close. Too close. I know what this is—grooming. Slowly pulling them in. Making them rely on him.”
Another page. Another day.
From the shadows of the crowd at Ginza’s street festival, the watcher stared as Kasumi twirled to the rhythm of the music, laughing and flushed. Akira watched her like she’d hung the stars.
The pen scratched again.
“Why does he care so much? Why do they all trust him so easily?”
The watcher’s muttering grew low, intense, breath fogging against their scarf.
“…He’s not some misunderstood transfer student. He’s dangerous. He’s planning something. I know he is. I’ll prove it. I’ll show them... I’ll show her..."
A fresh note was written in red ink across the next page, heavy and final:
Observation will continue. No one will believe me until I have proof.
The panda’s face on the cover grinned innocently beneath the fraying edges of a reinforced elastic strap.
Shujin University – Outdoor Cafeteria, Friday Afternoon
The sun filtered through the trees lining the courtyard, casting gentle shadows across the campus. At their usual lunch spot, the Phantomettes—as Shiho, Ann, and Ryuemi had recently dubbed themselves, much to Morgane’s visible annoyance—were mid-discussion about upcoming assignments and who had the worst professor this term.
Ann was gesturing animatedly with a half-eaten sandwich, Ryuemi was poking fun at Morgane’s usual scowl, and Shiho was giggling into her water bottle when—
Thud.
A body dropped into the seat beside Shiho, making her squeak in surprise. She turned to see Akira grinning unapologetically, the wind teasing his messy hair and his storm-grey eyes twinkling like he absolutely knew what he was doing.
“You scared the hell outta me, jerk,” Shiho muttered, cheeks pink, elbowing him lightly.
Akira shrugged, unbothered, and set an envelope down on the center of the table with deliberate flair. “Who wants to absorb some culture this weekend?”
The girls blinked, looking between each other in curiosity before Ann lunged across the table. “Dibs!”
She ripped the envelope open and skimmed the invite, her brows quickly knitting together. “ Masterpieces Reborn: The Madarame Art Exhibition Grand Opening?” She looked up, squinting at Akira. “I didn’t know you were into fine art.”
He held up a finger, deadly serious. “Let’s just say I’m a man of many layers…” He paused dramatically. “…Like an onion.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then, collective groans.
“Boo!” Ann hissed, tossing a balled-up napkin at his head.
“Oh my god, that was awful,” Ryuemi groaned. “Like... physical pain.”
“I hate that I laughed,” Shiho admitted through a giggle.
“Peel back those layers and there’s just more dumb jokes underneath,” Morgane deadpanned.
“You’re all just jealous of my refined taste in jokes,” Akira said smoothly.
“More like suffering from secondhand embarrassment,” Morgane muttered into her drink.
But then Akira’s expression sobered just enough to draw everyone’s attention. He tapped the envelope.
“No, but really… I’ve been hearing a lot of whispers about this guy lately. Sketchy stuff. Old rumors resurfacing—plagiarism, abuse, shady dealings with his students. Nothing concrete yet, but… it’s setting off alarm bells.”
The girls went quiet, listening now. The fun lunch vibe faded just enough for the mission mindset to start creeping back in.
“Could be our next target,” Akira finished, tapping the envelope. “Figured this would be a good way to get a read on him, see if anything feels off. You in?”
Ann leaned forward, smirking. “Are we going as Phantom Thieves or as fashionable students looking to score free wine and hors d'oeuvres?”
“Why not both?” Akira replied.
Morgane groaned. “I hate how this onion keeps making me cry.”
Sunday Afternoon – Outside the Exhibition Hall
Akira stood just off to the side of the main entrance, blending in like he belonged there. Brown slacks hugged his long legs, the fit clean and tailored. A dark grey turtleneck softened the look beneath a sharp brown blazer, and for once, his unruly hair was combed neatly into something that looked almost... refined.
He checked his watch—ten minutes early—and glanced down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets as a soft spring breeze rustled the open banners outside the gallery.
A movement caught his eye.
He looked up—then did a double take.
Ann, Shiho, Ryuemi, and Morgane were walking toward him in a perfect line, like the start of a movie montage. The kind that made time slow down and music swell.
Ann was dressed in a flowing cream midi dress cinched at the waist with a bold red belt, her blonde hair styled in loose, elegant curls. Gold hoop earrings danced in the sunlight, and a crimson clutch swung from her hand like it held the keys to the universe.
Shiho, walking beside her, had opted for a sleek black jumpsuit with silver accents, her long hair pulled into a clean, low ponytail that showed off a pair of minimalist geometric earrings. Her expression was calm, but there was a quiet strength in the way she carried herself.
Ryuemi practically radiated energy. She wore a stylish navy blazer over a white crop top, paired with high-waisted trousers and sporty sneakers—her version of chic clearly skewed toward ready-to-sprint glamour. A gold "C" pendant rested at her collarbone, catching the sunlight.
And Morgane… Morgane was sulking. Or at least pretending to. She wore a charcoal grey pinafore dress over a sheer black turtleneck, patterned tights, and ankle boots with a subtle wedge heel. Her dark lipstick was immaculate, and a silver chain looped between two belt loops of her dress like a silent threat. Her hair was pinned half-up with a simple blue clip, and though her arms were crossed tightly, her eyes flicked to Akira immediately.
"Mon dieu... You really have surrounded yourself with quite the gallery, Trickster," came Arsène’s velvet-smooth voice from the back of his mind. There was a note of dry amusement in his tone.
Akira didn’t respond aloud. But his lips twitched slightly at the corners.
"Ah," Arsène sighed dramatically, as if he could sense the pause. "You are thinking it. I know that look. You’ve got that quiet, tortured admiration thing going. Women eat that up, you know."
Akira mentally pushed him aside, but the smile remained.
“Sorry we’re late!” Ann chirped as they arrived, twirling once to show off her outfit. “It took forever to get Morgane to agree on a color palette.”
“I looked fine,” Morgane muttered, then gave Akira a side-eye. “You clean up alright, I guess.”
“Nice turtleneck,” Ryuemi said, popping a gum bubble before adding cheekily, “Very ‘brooding detective who probably smolders a lot.’”
“Stylish and punctual,” Shiho teased, giving him a once-over. “Is there anything you aren’t good at?”
Akira raised a brow, playing it cool despite the warmth creeping up his neck. “Trigonometry. And keeping my nose out of other people’s business.”
The girls laugh.
“Shall we?” Akira gestured toward the exhibition entrance, stepping aside with a mock bow.
Ann looped her arm around his without hesitation. “Let’s go absorb some ‘culture,’ Mister Onion.”
Akira just smiled, the flutter of nerves beneath his calm exterior quickly buried beneath that familiar fire of purpose. Time to see what secrets this so-called master artist is hiding…
From across the street, nestled half in shadow behind the cover of a phone booth no one used anymore, a figure adjusted their hoodie and lowered their notepad—pink, with a grinning cartoon panda on the cover.
Their eyes, sharp and unblinking, followed the group as they entered the Exhibition Hall—him, surrounded by them. Always surrounded. Always laughing. Always… trusted.
The pen scratched across the paper again.
May 10. 1:04 p.m.
A . Takamaki, S. Suzui, R. Sakamoto , M. Leclair . All accompanied A. Amamiya to the Ichiryusai Madarame Exhibition. Confirmed: close, unguarded dynamic. Physical proximity, shared laughter, group synergy too polished. Trust levels = high.
Suspicious.
There’s something wrong with him. I can feel it.
He’s hiding something. He has to be .
The pen dug harder into the page, nearly tearing the corner. A bitter breath slipped past clenched teeth.
Why can’t they see it? Why do they follow him? Why does she trust him?
They flipped back through pages and pages of observations. Timelines. Class schedules. Conversations overheard and painstakingly transcribed.
And now, this: a public outing. Just like that.
It’s all part of his plan. He’s manipulating them. He’s dangerous. I know it.
Their hand hovered over the page for a second, then wrote:
I have to protect her. I have to show them. Show her. Before it’s too late.
They pressed their pen against their lips for a moment, as if to silence the voice of doubt rising in the back of their mind.
Then quietly, they slipped the notebook into their bag, pulled up their hood, and began to cross the street—fading into the crowd with silent determination.
The warm hum of conversation floated through the air like the scent of oil paint and overpolished floors. The exhibition hall was bathed in soft lighting, which highlighted the grand, sweeping brushstrokes and vibrant canvases lining the walls—works that seemed to cry authenticity and suffering, though Akira knew better.
He stood still for a moment, observing the movement of the girls gliding through the hall. Ryuemi lounged near a massive painting of a weeping woman with outstretched hands, nodding absently while a pair of elderly patrons rambled on about "Madarame’s divine use of negative space" and "how tragedy inspires such transcendent beauty."
Ann leaned close to a much younger art critic and purred something that had the poor guy visibly sweating. She tilted her head just enough to hear the nearby murmurs of another cluster—"don’t ask too many questions," "those rumors were handled," "he’s protected, you know."
Shiho and Morgane drifted by a series of abstract brushwork pieces, whispering quietly. Morgane, arms folded, looked thoroughly unimpressed. Shiho nodded along, pretending to be captivated, even as she subtly tapped her phone screen, recording the ambient conversations around them.
Akira exhaled quietly through his nose. Good. They’re doing well.
He shifted closer to a column, listening to the ebb and flow of voices.
“...her father’s company practically sponsors the gallery—why do you think her name’s on the guest list every year?”
“—and that other artist? The one who went missing? Whole thing disappeared overnight. Pfft. Money talks.”
“If you dig too deep, you stop getting invites. Or worse.”
Same as last time, Akira mused grimly. Same rot, dressed up in finer clothing.
He scanned the room again, this time with a different goal in mind. Where is he…? He should be here. In the last timeline, this was the moment Yusuke Kitagawa stood proud beside his master. Devoted. Blind. But there was no Yusuke. Why?
His eyes flicked to the center of the room where the crowd had parted, forming a respectful semicircle.
A camera crew hovered close, and at the center stood Madarame himself—regal in a rich silk haori, his expression serene and falsely humble as he addressed the press.
“…as an artist, one must always strive to give voice to the voiceless,” he intoned, hands folded in front of him. “But art, you see, is a gift. It flows through me and becomes something greater. Something eternal.”
Beside him stood a young woman.
Tall. Willowy. Dressed in a lavish kimono patterned with plum blossoms and ravens. Her skin was pale and smooth, almost too perfect—like porcelain kissed by moonlight. Hair as black as spilled ink shimmered with the faintest sapphire glint under the lights, styled elegantly with traditional pins.
And her eyes—gods, her eyes.
Deep. Glassy. Haunted.
Yet sharp.
So sharp.
Akira’s steps slowed as he drew closer, heart thudding once in his chest.
“…my apprentice,” Madarame said with a thin, proud smile, “the exceptionally talented Yukiko Kitagawa.”
Akira’s breath caught.
Yukiko?
She offered a polite bow, her expression schooled and perfect—mask-like.
But in the moment she straightened, her gaze swept over the crowd—and landed on Akira.
It was only for a second.
But her eyes widened just a fraction. Barely visible, unless one was trained to look.
Then they passed over him as if he were nothing more than another admirer.
Akira’s fists clenched at his sides.
So… no Yusuke this time.
But the apprentice remained.
And she's hiding something.
The lights were always too bright at these events.
Yukiko stood perfectly still beside Madarame—Sensei—her hands folded neatly in front of her, sleeves of her elaborate kimono draped like porcelain wings. Her smile was soft, practiced. Empty. Her spine ached from the rigid posture, and the pins in her hair tugged mercilessly with every tilt of her head.
But she did not move.
She was his masterpiece.
She must be flawless.
“…my apprentice, the exceptionally talented Yukiko Kitagawa,” Madarame said, gesturing toward her with that serene, grandfatherly smile that charmed every camera lens and old-money critic in the room.
She bowed automatically, muscles memorizing the motion years ago, and murmured, “I am honored to be Sensei’s student.”
The press cooed. The patrons smiled indulgently.
No one noticed how hollow her voice had become.
No one ever did.
They saw the beauty. The poise. The refinement he had sculpted.
They didn’t see the stolen brushstrokes. The paintings signed with his name. The praise that never reached her ears—only his.
But Yukiko reminded herself—he saved her.
She remembered, as she always did, the shrine’s cold steps under her knees, barely able to walk. How his hands had reached for her, lifting her up. She was barely old enough to form sentences when her mother passed—a failed artist, a broken woman—and yet Madarame took her in.
He gave her food. A roof. Art.
She owed him everything.
Even now, she told herself this, over the faint tremble of her knees. It had been two days since her last meal. Her stomach ached, coiled like a dying blossom, but Sensei said that true art came from suffering. That discipline forged greatness. That she would be allowed rice and soup when she produced something worthy.
“Find inspiration, Yukiko,” he had said last night, his voice soft but firm. “Make me something that sings. That screams. You can eat after.”
She’d nodded, of course.
She always did.
But the canvases remained blank.
Inspiration did not come when your body was crumbling.
And yet—
Her breath caught in her throat.
A presence had entered the room.
It was like a pressure drop—like the moment before a thunderstorm cracks the sky in two.
Yukiko’s eyes, trained to scan while appearing demure, flicked across the gallery. And there—near the far column, partly obscured by a marble bust—stood him.
Tall. Composed. Effortless in a way that was both irritating and… impossible to ignore. He wore brown slacks and a blazer, nothing extravagant, but he moved like a tiger in a den of peacocks. Controlled. Tense. Dangerous.
And his eyes—
Storm-grey. The kind of eyes gods might weep when they were angry with the world.
Yukiko inhaled, then exhaled slowly through her nose. Her smile did not waver.
But her heart—
Oh, it moved.
Even as Madarame spoke beside her, laying claim to genius he hadn’t touched in years, Yukiko found herself drifting—just a fraction—toward the man. Not physically. That would be obvious. But her gaze.
Her attention.
It gravitated.
Who is he?
Why does he feel like… the missing piece of my soul ?
He wasn’t like the others. Not one of the critics or sycophants who circled Sensei like moths to a dying flame.
He watched. Quiet. Sharp.
Yukiko felt something ignite within her. This man… was her salvation.
The exhibition had begun to wind down, the last of the gallery patrons drifting toward the exit as soft music played overhead. Akira stood near the doors with the girls—Ann animatedly recounting a story about one of the paintings that looked like a cabbage, Shiho laughing along, Ryuemi nodding sagely like a war general, and Morgane scanning the room like a suspicious feline at a dog show.
Akira casually slipped his hands into his pockets, preparing to suggest ramen.
Then—
“You… I must have you…”
The voice came like a bell cutting through fog—quiet, melodic, but so sincere it halted every conversation around it.
Akira turned to find Yukiko Kitagawa standing before them, her expression intense and strangely reverent. Her kimono fluttered slightly in the air-conditioned breeze, dark hair falling like silk around her face.
The girls immediately closed ranks.
“Excuse me?” Ann asked, half-glaring.
Shiho tilted her head. “You must have him?”
Even Morgane, normally aloof and snarky, took a step forward, arms crossed. “Who are you and what do you want with Akira?”
But Akira just… grinned.
“Sorry, Ms. Kitagawa… It’s not 1589 anymore. I don’t come for free.”
The girls collectively groaned.
“Akira…” Ann muttered under her breath, burying her face in her hands.
Yukiko blinked owlishly, confusion evident on her face—as though the joke had flown right past her. She turned her head slowly, as if just now registering that others were with him.
“I… paint,” she said, softly. Almost apologetically.
Morgane narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t explain anything.”
But Akira stepped forward gently, his expression softening.
“Let me guess,” he said kindly. “You want me to model for you? For a painting?”
Yukiko’s eyes widened. “Yes… yes. Your form… it’s magnificent. The lines… the tension… I must paint it and… I must—”
Her voice faltered as a loud growl echoed from her stomach.
Yukiko went still, her cheeks darkening just enough to be noticeable.
The group blinked.
Akira chuckled, a warm, sincere sound. “Join us for a snack,” he said, tone gentler now. “We’ll talk about it then. I insist,” he added, seeing her instinctively retreat behind hesitation.
Yukiko stared at him, searching his face for mockery. She found none.
“…Very well,” she finally whispered, her voice a little hoarse.
Ann, Shiho, and Ryuemi exchanged glances behind Akira’s back, silent looks that said we’ll be talking about this later.
Morgane, however, kept her eyes locked on Yukiko the entire time, as though trying to decode a puzzle she didn’t like the shape of.
Just outside the exhibition hall, the warm glow of paper lanterns bathed a humble food stall in gold. The scent of soy sauce, grilled chicken, and freshly fried croquettes clung to the evening air. Akira and the girls had commandeered a long table, bowls of ramen and plates of skewers spread before them like a victory feast.
Yukiko sat at the far end of the table, perfectly straight in her seat. Her delicate fingers hovered over a modest bowl of udon. She stared at it, unmoving, eyes flicking between the broth, the crowd beyond the stall, and the entrance to the gallery behind them.
Ann, Ryuemi, and Shiho chatted animatedly about one of the stranger sculptures in the exhibit—a lump of metal that somehow sold for six figures. Akira, seated beside Yukiko, kept glancing her way.
She’d taken three bites in twenty minutes.
“Everything okay?” he asked gently, keeping his tone casual.
Yukiko jumped slightly, then nodded once—sharp, automatic. “Yes. Fine. It’s… very good.” She took another bite, barely chewed, swallowed quickly. Her gaze darted over her shoulder again.
Morgane caught the motion. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she observed Yukiko, then shifted to Akira, silently questioning.
Akira gave a slight smile and stood, brushing his pants off.
“Actually… this table’s a bit cramped. There’s another one open back there,” he said, pointing to a smaller table tucked into a shaded corner under a nearby tree. “Let’s move. Easier to talk.”
He looked at Yukiko meaningfully, not pushing, just… inviting.
She hesitated, then quietly stood and followed him, clutching her bowl like a precious object. Once seated at the tucked-away table, Yukiko visibly exhaled. Her shoulders, previously stiff and raised, sank. She finally picked up her chopsticks and began to eat with real appetite—elegantly, but with an urgency that betrayed her hunger.
Morgane watched the shift in demeanor with narrowed eyes.
Akira glanced over his shoulder, met her gaze—and mouthed, Later.
As the others lingered behind, finishing their meals and chatting among themselves, Yukiko stood beside the corner table, wiping her mouth delicately with a napkin. Her expression had softened, but the nervous energy hadn’t quite left her. Akira stepped closer, hands in his pockets, giving her space but keeping his tone warm.
“So,” he said casually, “about that painting…”
Yukiko’s head lifted, her eyes meeting his. “Yes,” she said quickly, almost too quickly. “I… still wish to paint you. If the offer still stands.”
Akira chuckled. “I think I promised, didn’t I? Just let me know when and where.”
Yukiko hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the napkin.
“…Sensei’s atelier,” she said at last. “Tomorrow. Morning. Around eleven.”
There was a flicker in her voice—something unsure, as if she wasn’t entirely comfortable inviting him there… or entirely comfortable with herself for wanting to.
Akira nodded, smiling gently. “Eleven it is. I’ll be there.”
Yukiko bowed, murmuring her thanks so quietly it nearly vanished into the wind. Akira, ever the gentleman, walked her back toward the exhibition hall, his pace easy, unhurried. As they reached the steps, she gave him one last look—half gratitude, half wonder—before disappearing inside.
When Akira returned to the stall, the girls were finishing up, laughter in the air.
He offered them a crooked grin.
“Anyone fancy a coffee?”
The comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air of Leblanc, blending with the quiet hum of conversation. The late afternoon sun spilled through the windows in warm, amber streaks, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor.
Akira placed a cup in front of each of the girls, then leaned against the counter, watching them take their first sips. Once he saw the initial notes of satisfaction cross their expressions, he nodded slightly.
“Go ahead,” he said, his eyes flicking to Morgane.
Morgane set her cup down with a quiet clink, her amber eyes narrowing slightly. “That girl… Yukiko. Something’s not right.”
The others stilled. Akira said nothing.
“You picked it up too, didn’t you?” Morgane continued. “That’s why you agreed to model for her.”
Akira didn’t answer, not directly. Instead, his gaze shifted to the others.
Ann was the first to speak, chewing her lip. “I think… she’s been starved,” she said softly. “Like, actually starved. She was way too jumpy around food—like she wanted to eat so bad but wasn’t sure if she was allowed.”
Ryuemi, arms crossed, added, “It wasn’t just that. Her posture. Her movements. She acts like she’s always on display. Like she’s not a person—more like…” Her brows knit. “A piece of art.”
Shiho nodded. “Yeah. Every smile was rehearsed. Every bow had the exact same rhythm. And she barely looked at anyone but Akira. It was… creepy.”
Akira exhaled slowly and pushed off the counter. “My guess?” he said, voice low but firm. “Most of the paintings in that exhibit are hers. Maybe all of them. Madarame’s just signing his name on them.”
Ann frowned. “But why would she let him?”
Akira gave a humorless smile. “Because he probably tells her it’s for her own good. ‘It’s better to show them under my name, Yukiko, I’m famous. We’ll say they’re yours when you’re ready. When you’ve earned it. But for now…’” He trailed off.
There was a tense silence.
“Classic grooming tactic,” Morgane muttered, disgust threading her voice.
Shiho looked up, her expression dark. “Then we’ve got our next target.”
The Gallery of Vainglory shimmered into existence around the Phantom Thieves, twisting the real-world architecture of Madarame’s atelier into something far more lavish—and far more grotesque.
Gold leaf and lacquer covered nearly every surface. The corridors were lined with baroque patterns, massive columns shaped like twisted paintbrushes, and gilded chandeliers dripping with pearls. A thick scent of linseed oil and roses hung in the air, cloying and oppressive.
"Wow," Vent muttered, spinning her throwing disc idly. “Madarame's ego called—he wants his interior decorator shot.”
Comet snorted, slipping into a ready stance as a group of Shadows slithered into view. “Let’s paint the walls with these freaks.”
The Shadows—twisted forms resembling headless mannequins clutching paint palettes—lurched forward, and the team sprang into battle.
The first wave fell quickly. The team worked in tight formation, dispatching foes with smooth efficiency. Comet and Anne Bonny swept through the enemy ranks, while Dead-Eye and Annie Oakley took out more Shadows with surgical precision. Vent darted in and out of combat, her deadly disc singing through the air and Lola Belmont by her side, and Carmen scorched their foes with lashing fire while Panther whipped them into submission.
And at the center, Joker—calm, controlled, lethal—tore through Shadows with his collection of supercharged Personas and brutal close-quarters style.
But it wasn’t the battles that left them shaken.
It was what they found after.
“The Hall of Contributors,” read the arching sign over the next corridor, carved in marble and trimmed in gold leaf.
They entered cautiously.
The room was vast—like a cathedral. Tall frames lined every wall in clean rows, each housing a formal portrait of a different person, rendered in heavy strokes, muted color, and with a glassy, lifeless quality to each subject's eyes.
Dead-Eye stepped closer to a frame. “There’s a plaque,” she murmured. “‘Mayumi Handa. Contribution Period: 1987–1990.’”
Beneath that was another plaque. Red letters. Etched deep.
CONTRIBUTION ENDED – DISPOSED
03/14/1990
The team went still.
They moved down the rows, reading each one. Decades of names. Decades of smiling, posed faces. And always that second plaque.
DISPOSED.
Sometimes the dates were recent. Sometimes they were older than they expected. But they always ended.
Until they reached the end of the hall.
There, centered on a pedestal, was a portrait far more detailed and reverent than the rest. The subject was strikingly familiar: a young woman with porcelain skin and cascading blue-black hair.
Yukiko Kitagawa.
There was only one plaque:
YUKIKO KITAGAWA
Contribution Period: ONGOING
There was no red plaque beneath it.
Panther exhaled slowly. “He’s been doing this… forever.”
Vent’s voice was a whisper. “They weren’t students. They were supplies.”
Joker stared at Yukiko’s painting, his hands clenched at his sides. “He didn’t adopt her. He claimed her. Like all the others.”
The others said nothing.
They didn’t need to.
They pressed on.
Beyond the Hall of Contributors, the aesthetic of the Palace began to shift. The corridors narrowed, the gold growing tarnished, cracked—peeling back to reveal something darker beneath.
Rotting canvas. Splattered pigments. Blood-red hues.
The smell changed too.
Less like oil and roses.
More like sweat.
And fear.
“Art Studio – Inspiration Wing” read the twisted placard above the next chamber. Inside, the walls were lined with easels—hundreds of them. At first glance, they appeared innocuous. But as the team stepped inside, the illusions fell away.
On each canvas was the image of a young woman—her face twisted in exhaustion or blank detachment. Some were in loose robes. Others in barely-there lingerie, sitting or kneeling or lying in positions clearly designed for one thing: voyeurism.
And standing around them—painted into the backgrounds like shadows—were faceless men. Hands behind their backs. Watching. Judging. Owning.
Vent’s breath hitched. She stopped walking, her fingers tightening around her disc. “He made them pose like this... for his friends...?”
Dead-Eye took a staggering step back, one hand over her mouth.
Panther’s voice cracked with raw fury. “This isn’t art. This is—this is stripping them. Reducing them.”
They moved through the room.
Each canvas worse than the last.
Comet stood before a painting of a girl curled in a corner, ribs showing, brush in hand. Her fingers bled from open blisters. A single bowl of rice sat untouched beside her.
“…he starved them,” she whispered. “Used food as leverage... like he does to her.”
Dead-Eye, teeth gritted, found a schedule scrawled on the wall in wet crimson:
3AM – Wake. Paint.
6AM – Paint.
9AM – Paint.
Noon – Sketch. No food until progress.
3PM – Pose for Evaluation.
5PM – Paint until collapse.
Repeat.
She stumbled back, face pale. “This is—this is torture.”
They turned a corner.
There she was.
A full-scale rendering of Yukiko, painted in agonizing detail. Her skin looked translucent, her body thin as a reed. She knelt in front of an altar of paintbrushes, her head bowed low, ropes of her dark hair obscuring her face. One shoulder was bruised. Her wrists were red.
The plaque beneath it read:
“The Ultimate Muse – In Eternal Devotion”
Status: Active. Fertile. Prime Inspiration.
Vent recoiled. “He’s not just using her art. He’s using her. Body, mind, soul.”
Her voice wavered—cold fury laced with horror. “He’s turned her into a shrine maiden for his sick fantasy.”
And through it all—
Joker did not move.
He stood before the painting of Yukiko like a statue carved from rage.
His gloved hands were curled into fists at his sides, his expression hidden behind his white mask—save for his eyes.
His eyes burned.
Ren Akechi scowled beneath her mask as she leaned against a grotesque column shaped like a screaming muse. Her combat heels tapped against the marble floor—each click echoing with irritation and the faint hum of the Metaverse’s static air.
“What a shithole,” she muttered.
The stench of old varnish and ego was practically baked into the Palace walls. Gold leaf peeled in corners, revealing rusted scaffolding and canvas stretched thin by madness. The whole place reeked of Madarame's delusions.
Freya’s voice came like thunder, low and dry: “You loathe him almost as much as you loathe yourself, Belladonna.”
Ren sighed. “Can you blame me? I get stuck doing patrols while Shido's favorite lapdogs wine and dine.” She cracked her neck. “And for what? Chasing rats through psychotic palaces for men who’d throw me in a ditch the second I slip up?”
Maid Marian’s voice was silkier, but no less direct. “Then leave, dearest. Raise your blade. Cut free.”
Freya snorted. “She won’t. Because she can’t. She knows what happens when you go against the Society unprepared.”
Ren growled. “I know, alright? I’m not stupid.” She exhaled. “Not strong enough. Not yet.”
There was silence between the three of them for a beat—tense, tight, familiar.
Then Ren’s thoughts turned—unbidden, as they so often did—toward him.
Akira Amamiya.
The boy with the storm-grey eyes and the laugh like sunlight breaking through clouds. The boy who always smiled at her without hesitation, who always offered her coffee without condition, who didn’t know she was watching—every step, every smile, every moment he shared with those girls.
“I wish I could tell him,” she murmured. “That I want to be part of his team.”
Her fingers curled over her forearm, gripping her sleeve.
“Or that I could find the other Persona-user—the one with the white mask. He’s good. Damn good. He might even be strong enough to take them on. If I could just talk to him…”
She didn’t notice the tiny smile that tugged at Marian’s spectral lips.
Freya hummed like rolling thunder.
“You seek the same soul in two masks, child . Curious.”
Ren frowned. “What?”
Before she could question it further, her communicator crackled in her ear—sharp and cold: “Belladonna, this is Control. You have intruders in the first sector of the Palace—move to intercept, NOW.”
Ren straightened immediately. “Copy that, Control. How many intruders?”
A pause. “…Five… no, wait. One. Strange—I could’ve sworn there were five blips just now. No matter. There’s one. Unauthorized. Terminate with extreme prejudice.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“…One, huh.”
Her thumb traced the hilt of her saber.
“I’m on my way.”
She clicked off the line, took a breath, and leapt from the mezzanine.
Panther turned first, stepping toward him. “Joker…?”
He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t.
His storm-grey eyes were fixed on another canvas in front of him—one showing Yukiko, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes hollow, her arms bound in brushstrokes like shackles.
He shook his head slowly. “Don’t worry about me, Panther. I just need to…”
His voice faltered. He made a vague gesture around the room, as if trying to explain the inferno of fury inside him. Then his body went still.
His eyes snapped to the far end of the room.
Footsteps.
Not just any footsteps.
Calculated. Sharp. Confident.
“Shit…” he hissed. “Someone’s coming.”
His voice hardened.
“Go. Get out of here. I’ll hold them off.”
“What? No way—” Dead-Eye stepped forward, but he raised a hand to cut her off.
“I got this,” he said, louder now. “GO!”
They hesitated. All four of them. Torn between trust and fear.
Then Vent’s eyes narrowed. She turned, grabbing Comet and Dead-Eye by the arms.
“You better make it back to us, Joker,” Panther said, voice cracking as she lingered by the exit. “Swear to God—”
Joker finally turned, and for the first time, they saw the fire in his eyes. Cold. Steady. Unshakable.
“Trust me,” he said softly. “I’ll be fine.”
And then they were gone.
The chamber emptied, leaving only silence.
And Joker.
Waiting.
The soft clack of boots echoed into the oil-painted silence. Ren stepped cautiously into the chamber, eyes scanning left and right, sabre already in hand.
The air was thick with something unnamable. Oppressive. Like the walls themselves had witnessed atrocities they could never unsee.
She grimaced. “God, this place reeks…”
Her gaze swept the room—canvases hung like corpses, portraits twisted in agony, women painted into cages of brushstrokes and shame. Her hand tightened on her weapon.
And then she saw him.
Half-shrouded in shadow, standing in front of a massive, mural-sized canvas.
Black hoodie with crimson lining. Tactical harness over a dark top, fingerless gloves of blood red. A blank, stylized mask—devoid of mouth, nose, expression—only eyes burning behind it like twin coals of fury.
Ren inhaled sharply. “We meet again.”
He didn’t turn. Not at first. His voice floated back to her, calm and quiet—but sharp as glass. “How do you sleep at night?”
Ren froze.
The figure continued, his gaze still locked on the painting before him. “Does it bother you?” he asked. “Seeing the suffering people like Madarame inflict on others? Do you care?”
“I… I…” Ren stumbled, the words catching like thorns in her throat. “I don’t—It’s not that simple.”
Finally, he turned.
He looked at her—not with anger. Not with judgment.
But something worse.
Hope.
“You do care,” he said quietly. “You actually care more than you want to admit…”
Ren’s breath hitched.
That hope in his voice—it stung. It made her feel naked. Seen. It was infuriating.
“What does it matter if I care or not?” she snapped, teeth gritted. “I can’t do anything.”
He tilted his head, the mask giving him an unreadable silhouette—but his tone was gentle, almost sorrowful.
“Can’t... or won’t?”
The words hit her like a slap.
For a heartbeat, she said nothing.
Then, without warning, she lunged forward—sword raised, grief and fury bleeding into motion.
Ren screamed as her sabre clashed into nothing but air.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each swing faster than the last, wild and furious—desperate to connect, to silence the man in the mask who moved like a ghost, always just out of reach.
Joker didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t counter. He watched—weaving between strikes like a whisper of wind. His red eyes glinted behind the white mask.
“How many others have you seen suffer like Yukiko?”
Dodge.
“And how many more will you let suffer?”
Sidestep.
“Do you really think obeying them will save anyone?”
“SHUT UP!!” Ren howled, her voice cracking.
She lashed out with everything she had, sabre whistling through the air. Joker backstepped, a feather’s width from being cut. “You don’t know anything—!”
“I know you’re crying, Ren.”
The name landed like a slap.
Ren screamed and came at him again, her strikes growing wild, erratic—her vision blurred by tears.
“What do you know?! What do you KNOW about how I feel?! How much I hate this?! I HATE IT—I hate doing this! I want to help them, I—”
Another slash.
Another dodge.
“I want to help them… but I can’t! I’m not strong enough—!”
Steel flew from her hand as Joker deftly disarmed her—his hand twisting, redirecting the motion, then catching her by the wrists and pinning them behind her back.
Her sabre clattered to the ground.
Ren froze, breath heaving, body trembling against his.
She sagged into his chest, the fight draining from her limbs like blood from a wound.
“…I’m not strong enough…” she whispered, voice breaking. “I can’t help anyone…”
And then she broke.
Shoulders shaking, face hidden against the crimson-lined hoodie of the man she didn’t even know—but somehow trusted, more than she’d trusted anyone in years.
Joker held her steady, silent as her sobs echoed through the grotesque gallery.
A moment passed.
Then another.
And finally, in a voice quieter than a breath:
“You’re wrong.”
Ren trembled in his arms, her mask slick with tears, breath hitching as she clutched the fabric of Joker’s hoodie. The fight had left her. All that remained was the ache—of guilt, of exhaustion, of longing.
Joker didn’t rush her.
He simply held her.
One hand kept her wrists gently pinned, the other moved slowly, comfortingly, tracing circles along her back. The rage that had burned in his eyes minutes ago was gone, replaced with something deeper.
Softer.
“You’re stronger than you think,” he said quietly, his voice steady and kind. “You’re still here, aren’t you? Still fighting—even if it’s from the wrong side. That means there’s still a spark left in you. Still something worth saving.”
Ren’s breath caught.
“You don’t have to carry it all alone.” He loosened his grip, letting her move if she wanted. “There are others who would fight beside you. You just have to reach out.”
She was quiet for a moment.
Then—barely audible:
“…I’m scared.”
Her voice broke again, fragile and raw.
“Scared they’ll turn me away… when they find out what I’ve done… what I let happen…”
Joker chuckled softly—not unkindly. He rubbed her back again, slower now, grounding her.
“You just need to trust,” he said. “Trust that they’ll accept you anyway… because they see you—not just your mistakes.”
Another silence.
Then, Ren nodded once, the motion slow and uncertain.
“…I’ll think about it.”
Joker smiled beneath his mask. He tilted his head down and pressed the smooth faceplate gently against her helmet—where her forehead would be. A phantom kiss. A silent promise.
“That’s all I ask.”
He let the moment linger.
Then, with a whisper:
“Dormina.”
Ren’s breath caught again, this time in surprise as the soft lull of sleep magic wrapped around her like a blanket. Her knees buckled, and Joker caught her, lowering her slowly to the ground with care.
Her vision dimmed.
Her limbs grew heavy.
As the world faded, she heard his voice one last time—tender, amused, and aching with sincerity:
“Do you know why I love lotus flowers so much?”
A pause. Then, softly:
“They shine bright… despite growing in mud.”
And then—darkness.
The velvet mist swirled faintly around Akira’s boots as he stepped out of the shadows, cradling Ren gently in his arms. Her breathing was even now, the sleep spell holding her in a peaceful slumber. She felt small like this. Fragile. Like something precious that had been bent nearly to the breaking point but hadn’t yet snapped.
His boots echoed through the gold-trimmed corridor, past oil paintings twisted by ego, down velvet-draped steps that stank of rot behind the perfume.
And then, at last—the entrance.
She stood there waiting.
Lavenza.
Unmoving, ethereal, comforting in a way only she could be. She didn’t blink as her golden eyes fell on the girl in Akira’s arms.
“The others have already returned to the real world,” she said softly, answering the question he hadn’t asked. Her hands were folded in front of her, calm and resolute.
Akira let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Relief flickered briefly across his storm-grey eyes before he looked down again at the girl cradled against his chest.
"Could you..." he began, the rest of the sentence caught in the lump forming in his throat.
But Lavenza only nodded.
"Of course, Trickster. I will return her safely. You have my word."
He met her eyes—grateful, but solemn—and slowly lowered Ren to the ground. His hands were impossibly gentle as he laid her down, brushing an errant strand of hair away from the edges of her mask.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Then, he turned.
Without another word, he walked back into the darkness of the Palace.
Back into the stench of exploitation and stolen brilliance.
Back into the Inspiration Wing.
It hit him again, like a fist to the gut—the canvases stretched beyond their limits. The easels stained with paint and blood. The mirrors rigged to reflect and distort. The unspoken rules that dripped from every oil painting: suffer, starve, obey, and be silent.
His hands clenched into fists.
He could feel the heat rising in his chest.
That familiar, slow-boiling fury.
Then—a shadow beside him.
A deep, amused voice.
“Mon ami… still your heart burns like wildfire.”
Akira turned his head, and there he was—Arsène.
Hat tipped low. Coat fluttering in an unseen breeze. A gleam in his eye like a blade half-drawn.
Akira stared forward, voice low and cold.
“Let’s get to work, Partner.”
Arsène’s grin widened into something feral.
“With pleasure.”
And then, the walls began to burn.
The Next Morning – Madarame’s Atelier – 1 0.43 a.m
The atelier felt wrong today.
Too quiet.
The sunlight slanting through the high, dust-smeared windows cast long shadows across the paint-stained floor, making the space feel more like a confessional than a workspace. Yukiko paced across the wooden planks, her bare feet whispering softly with each step. The silk of her kimono rustled faintly—worn over the thin, lacy nightdress she hadn’t dared remove.
She hadn't eaten.
Not since… Saturday?
She couldn’t remember.
Her head was fuzzy. Her limbs trembled slightly from more than just nerves. She touched her fingers to her lips, then pressed them against her chest—trying to center herself. To breathe.
He'll come. He said he would.
But what if he didn’t?
Her stomach twisted—not with hunger this time, but with something deeper. Hope was a dangerous thing, and Akira had given her far too much of it.
The memory of yesterday's exhibition flashed across her mind—his eyes, grey like thunderclouds, his voice like balm and steel, his kindness like nothing she'd ever known. She hadn’t meant to say "I must have you." The words had just spilled out. He was art—no, freedom made flesh. He was the kind of person she'd only ever dared to imagine painting.
And Sensei had seen it too.
Last night had started normally enough. Madarame had sat behind her for hours as she worked, commenting in his usual offhand way, until the shift.
The wince. The muttered curse. The trembling fingers at his temples.
He had wept.
Real tears.
Begged her for forgiveness, though she didn’t understand for what.
Then he’d locked himself in his private quarters and hadn’t emerged since.
This morning, he’d left.
No instructions.
No permission.
No food.
She didn’t know if she was allowed to eat, or allowed to change out of the humiliating slip of fabric he insisted she paint in. So she'd wrapped her kimono around herself and tried to hide the way the chill clung to her skin and made her feel bare, vulnerable, wrong.
Every time the floor creaked, she jolted.
Every car that passed outside made her flinch.
Please come. Please be real.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Firm.
Measured.
Confident.
She turned to the door, heart hammering in her chest as it slowly creaked open.
And there he stood.
Storm-grey eyes. Dark hoodie. Hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just walked into a powder keg of tension.
Akira.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her knees buckled slightly, but she caught herself.
“I…” she started, her voice a thread of sound. “You came.”
Earlier
[Group Chat: “ Joker and the Phantomettes ” | 9:12 AM]
CherryBombshell:
Still can’t get the image of that “Hall of Contributors” out of my head.
It’s like… how many people has he used like that? How many lives did he just toss aside?
HeartshotHero:
Yeah. It made me feel sick.
And those dates... some of them started before we were even born.
FleetBooty:
The voyeuristic crap was the worst.
Those paintings... those setups. He made them pose for creeps.
It’s not art. It’s softcore trauma on canvas.
VentDuNord:
He’s a monster.
We need to get Yukiko out of there today. All of us. Together. Confront her. Make her see what he is.
Trickster:
I agree we need to help her.
But we also have to remember—Yukiko might not realise she needs saving.
Madarame raised her. Since she was a baby.
CherryBombshell:
Stockholm Syndrome?
Or maybe she just thinks… this is normal.
VentDuNord:
That’s why we need to go. She needs to see the truth from us, not from him.
She won’t listen to reason unless we show up and shake her.
Trickster:
And that might break her.
She’s already unstable—barely eating, barely sleeping, clinging to what little structure she has.
If we confront her too hard, she could shut down. Or worse—run straight back to Madarame.
HeartshotHero:
…Akira’s right.
I want to storm in there too. But Yukiko’s in a cage she doesn’t even realise she’s in.
You don’t blow a cage like that wide open. You unlock it slowly and show her the way out.
CherryBombshell:
Same.
She’s not ready for five people in her face.
Akira has the best shot at getting through. She already opened up to him a little yesterday.
FleetBooty:
As much as I hate sitting on my hands… yeah.
She’s already latched onto you, Akira. Maybe she sees you as a lifeline.
VentDuNord:
…but what if he walks in there and she’s already gone? Or worse—what if Madarame’s waiting?
Trickster:
I hear you, Morgane. I really do.
But you can’t take a hammer to every problem.
Sometimes, you need to take a much softer approach.
One word. One hand held out. One door opened.
VentDuNord:
…
VentDuNord:
Fine.
But if anything feels off, you message us immediately, got it?
Trickster:
Promise.
CherryBombshell:
You got this, Akira 💪
Bring her back to us.
HeartshotHero:
We believe in you.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her knees buckled slightly, but she caught herself.
“I…” she started, her voice a thread of sound. “You came.”
Akira gave her a gentle smile as he stepped fully into the atelier, taking in the clutter of half-used palettes, towering canvases, and the acrid tang of turpentine that lingered in the air. The light filtering through the high windows painted Yukiko in a strange glow—half-divine, half-ghost.
“Of course I did,” he said calmly, closing the door behind him. “You asked.”
Yukiko looked like she might cry at that, but instead, she spun on her heel with a strange, jittery energy and began rifling through a stack of blank canvases near the far wall.
“This one,” she muttered. “No, too small. This one—yes. You’ll stand over there, in the light, I think, it’ll bring out the shape of your shoulders—” She dragged the canvas upright with a grunt, her sleeves slipping back to reveal bony wrists. Her kimono was rumpled and loosely tied, and underneath, Akira could see the edge of a nightdress, sheer and inappropriately thin for a visitor.
He said nothing—yet.
Yukiko darted over to her paints, kneeling down with the grace of someone used to working through exhaustion. She began mixing colors with feverish intensity, her hands trembling slightly. “This piece matters. It has to be perfect. He said I was close to breakthrough… that if I can just capture it this time, then—then maybe…”
Her words trailed off as she realized she’d nearly knocked over the water jar, and she caught it with one hand while the other smeared a line of blue across her sleeve. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Yukiko,” Akira said gently, stepping toward her, “have you eaten anything today?”
She blinked rapidly, then shook her head. “No—I didn’t know if I was allowed to. And I didn’t want to be sluggish when I started. Food makes me sleepy. Besides, Sensei didn’t say—” She cut herself off, eyes wide, then clamped her mouth shut.
Akira crouched down beside her, placing a hand on her paint-stained one.
“You don’t need permission to take care of yourself.”
She looked at him, stunned. Her mouth opened as if to argue, then closed again.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a neatly wrapped sandwich, setting it beside her palette. “I brought this for you. It’s still warm. Please—just a few bites. I promise I won’t start posing until you’ve had something.”
Yukiko hesitated, her eyes flicking from the food to Akira’s face, as if searching for a trap. Her fingers hovered over the wrapping, then pulled back.
“I really shouldn’t waste time,” she whispered. “I—I always take too long. Sensei says I think too much when I paint. That I question instead of obeying. He says my brush should feel, not doubt.”
Akira’s voice was steady, but there was a quiet fire behind it. “I’m not your Sensei. You asked me to come. That means we go at your pace. And right now… your body’s telling you to eat. Please.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, like a frightened animal testing its safety, Yukiko reached out, unwrapped the sandwich, and took a tentative bite.
The effect was immediate. Her shoulders sagged in relief. Her eyes fluttered closed, and for a second, she just breathed.
“God,” she whispered. “I forgot what warm bread tastes like…”
Akira sat beside her on the floor, not saying anything, just letting the silence stretch in a comfortable way.
She took another bite. And then another.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured after a while. “I’m not usually like this. I mean… maybe I am. But not like this.”
“I know,” Akira said gently. “You don’t have to apologize.”
She smiled faintly—just a ghost of one—but it was real.
The room had settled into an uneasy stillness, save for the rhythmic scratch of Yukiko’s brush against the canvas.
She stood barefoot now, kimono sleeves rolled up and streaked with color, her mouth set in a tight line of anxious concentration. A halo of pale light bathed the painting corner, catching the glint of sweat on her temple and the tremble in her hands. Her brush moved quickly, almost violently, as if she were trying to exorcise something from inside her.
Akira sat silently across from her in a relaxed posture, exactly where she had asked him to be. The light from the window bathed him in a soft glow, casting just enough shadow to give definition to his face and frame. But his eyes weren’t on the canvas. They were on her—watching every twitch, every tic, every burst of erratic movement as she worked herself into a frenzy.
“I need to get this absolutely right for Sensei…” she mumbled, her voice a breathy rush between brushstrokes. “He says I can be brilliant when I stop thinking and just obey. That’s the trick. Obey.”
Akira's jaw tightened.
Breathe. He forced himself to inhale slowly. Don’t show it. Don’t scare her.
Inside, his fury simmered like lava beneath thin stone. Every new phrase was another crack in his restraint—another brick in the wall of evidence confirming what he already knew. Madarame had broken this girl. Shattered her self-worth, shackled her talent, twisted her into a marionette with a paintbrush. Just like he had with hundreds before her.
But the more she spoke—those fragmented, frightened thoughts bleeding out of her like pigment on wet paper—the more difficult it became to keep the fury in check. Madarame hadn’t just stolen her art. He’d twisted the very way she thought—turned basic human needs into sins. Left her terrified of warmth, of rest, of kindness.
Akira watched her push herself harder, her motions becoming more erratic. The brush clattered to the floor once, and she let out a strangled cry before diving to retrieve it. Her knees buckled as she bent, and she staggered upright with a wobble.
He stood immediately. “Yukiko—”
“I’m fine!” she snapped, trying to raise her brush again, but her arm trembled like a leaf. “I’m fine, I just—just need to finish the light on your cheek—Sensei said I need to stop relying on sleep as a crutch—”
She swayed again. And this time, she didn’t catch herself.
Akira was across the room in an instant. He caught her just before she hit the floor, cradling her gently in his arms.
“I said I’m fine!” she hissed, weakly squirming, her fingers clawing at his shoulder. Her nails raked down his collarbone, drawing blood.
Akira didn’t flinch.
“Yukiko—stop.”
“No! I have to paint—I have to paint! He’ll throw me out if I don’t—he’ll erase me if I don’t—”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and Akira stared down into her wild, panic-glazed eyes.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
His own eyes blazed crimson.
He gently pressed his forehead against hers and whispered, “Sorry for this.”
Then, softly, “Dormina.”
The effect was immediate. Her body relaxed, the resistance melting from her limbs as the sleep spell took hold. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let out a tiny, broken sigh as she slumped against his chest.
Akira carried her gently to the futon laid out in the corner. He lowered her with the care of someone handling fine glass, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her cheek as she settled into unconsciousness.
He sat beside her for a long moment, the anger in his chest simmering like a storm held barely in check.
“Sleep, Yukiko,” he whispered. “We’ll get you out of this.”
The moment Yukiko was fully asleep, Akira stepped out into the hallway of the atelier and dialed a number from memory. The line clicked once before a familiar, no-nonsense voice answered.
“Tae Takemi.”
“It’s Akira. I need a house call.”
There was a beat of silence on the line. “That serious?”
“Yeah. It’s urgent.”
She didn’t ask any more questions. “Text me the address. I’ll be there in ten.”
True to her word, Dr. Takemi arrived in just under ten minutes, medical bag slung over her shoulder and a sharp glint in her eyes that said she was already preparing for the worst. Akira led her into the studio quietly, where Yukiko lay unconscious on the futon, pale and curled in on herself like a wilting flower.
Tae knelt beside Yukiko, her movements clinical and precise. She took vitals, checked her pupils, examined her hands, her wrists, the faint bruises beneath her eyes.
After several minutes, she straightened up, pulling off her gloves.
“She’s severely dehydrated and malnourished,” Tae said, her voice tight. “On top of that, she’s in an acute state of exhaustion. From what I can tell, she hasn’t had proper rest in days. Could be longer. It’s going to be touch and go for a little while.”
Akira’s jaw clenched. “Can she stay here?”
“No. She needs a hospital. I’m calling an ambulance.”
As she stepped aside to place the call, Akira glanced down at Yukiko again. Her breathing was shallow, but steady. Her face, finally at rest, looked heartbreakingly young.
The ambulance arrived minutes later. As the paramedics moved in, Tae glanced back at Akira, her expression grim.
“This… looks like textbook abuse. Psychological, physical, probably emotional too. How’d you end up here?”
Akira exhaled slowly. “She asked me to model for a painting. She was nervous about it—really nervous. But I didn’t think it would be this bad. She’s Madarame’s apprentice. Practically worships the ground he walks on.”
Tae clicked her tongue. “So if he’s responsible, she won’t say a word against him.”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll still need to report it,” she added. “Doesn’t matter if she won’t talk. I’ve got to submit a statement. It’ll probably get buried—Madarame’s too famous, too well connected. But I’m still going to file it.”
Akira nodded, his eyes flickering crimson for the briefest of seconds. “Yeah… Madarame is Madarame.”
He stood there, silent, as Yukiko was carefully loaded into the ambulance. Tae lingered a moment longer.
“Let me know when she wakes up?” he asked, his voice low.
Tae gave a single nod. “I will.”
Then she climbed into the ambulance, the door clanging shut behind her.
Akira stood alone in the fading light, watching the red-and-white vehicle disappear down the narrow street, sirens off, lights pulsing like a heartbeat.
Then he reached for his phone.
Trickster: Time to go in.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)--------------------------------------
Chapter 13: False Idols Burn the Brightest
Summary:
The Thieves explore more of the Gallery of Vainglory
Yukiko begins to see the truth of her situation
Madarame gets a backstory
The team gains a Fox (sort of)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Inspiration Wing, once pristine and curated with fake reverence, was now a scorched ruin.
Walls were charred black. The once-framed paintings had been burned into the surfaces themselves, melted and warped, like tortured souls trapped in a prison of fire and ash. Each grotesque smear of color whispered of fury unleashed—of someone who had seen too much and decided to respond in kind.
The Phantom Thieves stood silently in the doorway for a beat, taking it all in.
Panther’s mouth parted in disbelief. “Holy crap…”
Vent, crouched low beside her, blinked rapidly. “Was this… you?”
Dead-Eye’s tone was unreadable. “You torched the whole damn room.”
Comet let out a low whistle as she stepped inside, boots crunching faint embers beneath her. “Kinda reminds me of that one time Shiho accidentally set fire to the chem lab.”
“Hey! That wasn’t me—that was your experiment!” Shiho shot back automatically, but her eyes were still fixed on the scorched murals.
At the head of the group, Joker stood with his hands in his pockets and a sharp, crooked grin carving across his face.
“Bet that old goat had the mother of all headaches when I did that.”
The girls exchanged glances. Panther's lips parted slightly. Vent flushed and looked away quickly. Dead-Eye frowned, then crossed her arms—but didn’t deny the thought running through her mind. Even Comet tilted her head, a grin pulling at her lips.
They didn’t say it out loud. But in unison, they thought: How can someone so terrifying also be this hot?
The next few corridors passed in a blur of muted tension.
Shadows came. Shadows fell.
Comet’s cutlass glowed as she sent enemies flying with electric rage. Dead-Eye’s bullets rang out with precise finality. Panther’s whip cracked through inked illusions and golden lies. Vent spun and sliced with her chakram, moving like a dancer made of steel.
Joker was at the center of it all—fluid, relentless, calculating. Every spell, every Persona shift, every silent command rippling through the team like they were an extension of his will.
And then they reached it.
The hallway widened, then dropped into a massive chamber open to a painted sky. A false sun hung above, casting garish golden light on the centerpiece below—a towering, grotesque statue of Madarame himself.
Fifty feet tall, it loomed over them like a tyrant from a fever dream, dressed in mock-feudal regalia. His face had been stylized to look serene, wise, almost divine—but the craftsmanship was lazy and excessive. Too much gold leaf. Too much self-indulgence. The eyes glowed with artificial smugness.
Beneath the statue, hundreds of faceless figures lay prostrate, their backs bent unnaturally, gold paintbrushes at their sides like offerings. The room reeked of chemicals, false grandeur… and something rotten beneath the surface.
Vent’s voice was laced with venom. “This is disgusting.”
Panther crossed her arms, frowning. “He made a monument to his own ego… and buried his victims under it.”
Comet muttered, “Even the Metaverse version of this guy has no taste.”
Joker took a few steps closer, then looked back over his shoulder. “Incoming.”
From behind the statue, a figure emerged.
Draped in flowing silks of crimson and gold, with a monocle gleaming over a skeletal mask, the figure descended the stairs with theatrical pomp. His voice slithered through the air like oil on water.
“Ah, the critics arrive. How quaint.”
Panther stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”
“I am The Curator,” the figure replied smoothly. “The loyal servant of the great Shogun. His voice in the world. His shield against scandal. His brush upon the canvas of legacy.”
“More like his attack dog,” Dead-Eye spat.
The Curator smirked beneath his mask. “My duty is to ensure that the Shogun is pleased. That the peasants know their place. That the machine of genius is well-oiled, with sacrifice. A little suffering is the cost of eternity.”
Joker's tone was ice. “Does that give him the right to exploit and abuse people? To treat them like tools?”
The Curator made a tsking sound, finger wagging. “Exploit? Abuse? What crude little words. You misunderstand. The Muses offer their talents. The Contributors give their lives. Willingly. What greater honor than to feed the brilliance of a master?”
Vent snarled. “You’re delusional.”
The Curator tilted his head, golden gloved hands clasped in mock prayer. “And yet, I am not the one standing in a palace of genius, swinging blades like savages. Such... violence.”
His fingers snapped.
The room erupted in chaos.
Dozens—no, scores—of Shadows burst forth from behind statues, from hidden alcoves, even rising from the gold-veined floor itself. Ink-slick monstrosities with paintbrush spears, shrieking palette-demons, and twitching mannequins with blank faces.
“Scatter and conquer!” Joker barked, already lunging forward.
The girls rushed to intercept the Curator.
He stood at the center of it all, conjuring barriers and spewing spells from his gilded staff, his voice oozing false gentleness.
“You poor children… still trying to resist.”
Panther’s fire hissed against his barrier, barely singing it. Vent darted in, her disc spinning, but she was blasted back with a shockwave of gold dust. Dead-Eye landed a clean shot—only for the wound to vanish beneath shimmering mending magic.
“Let me show you what real elegance looks like,” The Curator drawled, before hurling a barrage of Curse magic at the team.
Panther was the first to stumble, battered and panting. Then Vent collapsed with a choked cry, clutching her ribs. Dead-Eye dropped to one knee, barely blocking a follow-up slash. Only Comet remained standing, bloodied, breathless, determined. “I won’t let you hurt them…”
She fought like a woman possessed, dodging, punching, parrying—but there were too many. Her eyes darted toward the others.
Where’s—
“—DOOR OF HADES!!!”
A voice thundered from behind her.
The Shadows froze—then shrieked as a massive, spectral gate ripped open in the air behind Joker. Black chains lashed out like vipers, dragging every minion—screaming—into the void. The room went deathly silent.
Comet coughed once, eyes wide as Joker stepped forward from the smoke, shoulders squared, eyes glowing crimson beneath his mask.
The Curator was on the ground, gasping, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle.
Joker didn’t speak. He didn’t say a word as he pulled out his tonfas. Didn’t hesitate as he slammed them into the Curator’s gut, then ribs, then shoulder. Over and over and over again. One final strike sent the Curator sprawling, wheezing, barely conscious.
Joker stood over him, lifted his hand, and whispered: “Eigaon.”
A sphere of deep darkness erupted point-blank. When it faded, only silence and a smoking scorch mark remained.
“Y-you ok?” Joker asked, turning to Comet. His voice was soft again, concerned.
Comet nodded slowly, blinking. “Y-yeah. Yeah. I’m okay.”
Behind them, Panther groaned, Vent sat up coughing, and Dead-Eye leaned on her six-shots like crutches as she tried to get up.
Joker reached into his hoodie, pulled out a Bead Chain, and crushed it in his palm. Healing light flared out, wrapping around the team like a warm breeze.
Everyone exhaled as strength returned to their limbs.
Joker crouched beside the Curator’s ashes, where a glowing key now rested. He picked it up, turning it over.
“This looks important.”
Comet offered a tired grin. “Give me a minute, then we can go looking for a door.”
Joker chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. That fight took a lot out of all of us…”
He looked toward the warped hall beyond, voice low.
“…We should head back to reality.”
“But…” Comet started.
“I know,” he interrupted gently, holding up a hand. “But we’re no use to her like this.”
The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the room—too clean, too white. The hum of machines was soft but constant, a dull accompaniment to the rising sound of distress from the lone patient in the bed.
Yukiko thrashed weakly beneath the covers, her dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. The monitor beside her beeped in sharp, uneven bursts as she mumbled under her breath, eyes wide and unfocused.
“Sensei... I have to— I have to paint… He needs me—he needs me—!” Her voice cracked. “He’ll be so angry, he’ll say I’m ungrateful—he’ll—he’ll think I’ve wasted everyone’s time…”
Her hands tugged at the IV line in her arm, trembling fingers curling around the tubing.
“I can’t be here, I can’t—he’ll be furious—!”
The nurse on duty rushed in, eyes wide with alarm. “Yukiko-san, please—you need to stay calm!”
“I can’t!” she cried, voice raw and desperate. “Please, he needs me to work—Sensei says the piece has to be perfect—has to—!”
When she tried to sit up and yank the IV out completely, the nurse gently but firmly pinned her shoulders down. Yukiko writhed, panicked sobs rising in her throat.
“Yukiko-san, stop—! You’re not well!”
A second later, the door opened again. This time, Dr. Tae Takemi stepped in, white coat flaring slightly as she moved with purpose.
“I’ve got it from here,” she said, voice cool but firm.
The nurse looked uncertain. “She—she was trying to remove her—”
“I said I’ve got it.”
Tae’s voice brooked no argument.
The nurse hesitated, then backed off.
Tae stepped closer, kneeling at Yukiko’s side. Her expression shifted the moment she saw the girl’s tear-streaked face and trembling hands.
“Yukiko.” Tae’s voice was low and steady, like a hand reaching into a storm. “Look at me.”
Yukiko whimpered, fingers twitching. Her eyes darted around until they locked onto Tae’s. She blinked. Once. Twice. Her breathing hitched.
“I… I don’t have permission to be here…” she whispered. “He’ll be disappointed…”
“No,” Tae said firmly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “You’re safe. He’s not here. You don’t need his permission to be alive, Yukiko.”
Yukiko’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes brimmed with confusion and fear… and something else. Doubt.
“You’re going to rest now,” Tae continued, voice softening. “You’re exhausted. Dehydrated. You nearly collapsed. But you’re here. You made it out.”
Yukiko blinked rapidly. Her arms slowly relaxed, falling to her sides.
“I… made it out?”
Tae nodded once. “You did.”
Hospital Lobby, 20 Minutes Later
The serenity of the hospital was being tested to its limits.
“I demand to see her!” Ichiryusai Madarame’s voice cut through the space like a saw blade. “I am her guardian, her mentor, her Sensei! She belongs in the atelier, not here wasting everyone’s time!”
A weary doctor stood his ground, clipboard in hand. “Madarame-san, Yukiko is under strict observation. She was severely malnourished and dehydrated when she arrived. I can’t release her just because you—”
“She is mine to take care of!” Madarame roared, his voice attracting wary glances from nurses and visitors alike. “If she has any issues, I will deal with them. You people don’t understand the pressure a young artist is under!”
“And I’m saying she isn’t medically stable enough to leave.” The doctor’s tone was polite but firm.
“I have exhibitions to prepare for. Her work is vital! She can’t stay here lying around like a useless little—”
Madarame stopped suddenly, as if realizing how many heads had turned.
His eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a tight, false smile. “Very well. But I’ll be back for her. And if I find she’s been allowed to indulge in laziness... I will take this higher.”
With a final glare, he turned and stormed off, muttering under his breath.
The automatic doors slid open behind him. And in walked Akira. The moment Madarame saw him, something in the air shifted. Tension sparked like flint.
“…You,” he muttered. “You’re the one who—”
Akira didn’t stop walking. He passed Madarame without a word, without a glance. Just a whisper of movement—cold, deliberate.
But as he moved toward the elevator, his eyes flicked sideways just once.
And in that instant—
Madarame shuddered.
It wasn’t rage. Or defiance.
It was the weight of something far older, far colder.
Something watching him from behind storm-grey eyes.
The elevator doors closed.
Madarame stood there, breathing shallowly.
For the first time in years...
...he felt afraid.
The quiet hiss of the hospital door sliding open barely stirred Yukiko from her curled position on the bed. Her back was to the door, hair cascading over her shoulder, hospital gown wrinkled and clinging to her thin frame. The IV in her arm pulsed with a slow drip, a fragile tether holding her in place.
“Yukiko.”
She knew that voice.
Her fingers twitched. Her body tensed.
“…You shouldn’t be here.”
Akira stepped in anyway, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click. He didn’t sit. Just stood a respectful distance away, watching her.
Yukiko didn’t look at him. Her voice came small, tight. “You… meddled. You had no right.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence sit between them until she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“You lied to me,” she snapped, finally turning toward him. Her eyes were bloodshot, puffy. Her face pale and streaked with dried tears. “You said you wanted to help. You said you wanted to model, but that was just a trick, wasn’t it? So you could call a doctor and get them to take me away from him.”
Akira met her anger without flinching. His voice was calm, low. “You were dying, Yukiko.”
“I was fine!” she screamed, sitting upright. “You don’t get it—he needs me! I have to work harder, now more than ever—he said the exhibition is coming up and he doesn’t need the hassle of dealing with weak links!”
Her breath was starting to hitch again, panic taking hold.
“I have to make it up to him—! I can’t let him down again—he’ll hate me!”
Akira stepped forward slowly, like one might approach a wounded animal. “Yukiko,” he said softly, “do you really think someone who loved you would treat you like this?”
She flinched like he’d struck her.
“I’ve seen your work,” he continued. “Your real work. Not the stuff with his signature slapped over it. You’re brilliant, and he knows it. That’s why he’s stealing it. And when he’s not stealing it, he’s breaking you so you won’t fight back.”
Her hands balled into fists. “Stop—”
“You're not allowed to eat without permission. You collapse from exhaustion. You wear whatever he tells you to—no matter how demeaning. He doesn’t see you as a person, Yukiko. Just a tool.”
She shot up, trembling. “You don’t understand him! He’s a genius! He’s sacrificed so much to train someone as worthless as me! He saved me!”
“No,” Akira said, gently but firmly. “He found you. Then broke you down, so you’d think you owed him for it.”
“You have no concept of what loyalty means—”
“And neither does he.”
His voice was steel now, slicing through her defenses.
“Loyalty isn’t slavery, Yukiko. It's not obedience without kindness. It's not giving everything and getting nothing. That’s not love. That’s control.”
Her knees gave out. She sat back hard on the mattress, silent, shaking.
Akira’s tone softened. “I saw him downstairs. He was here. Not to check on you. Not to ask if you were alright. Just to demand that you be released so you could get back to work.”
Yukiko’s lips parted. No sound came out.
“He never asked if you were in pain,” Akira continued. “Never asked what happened, or how you felt. He just wanted you back in the atelier so you could keep producing for him.”
Each word landed like a hammer on cracking glass.
“He doesn’t love you, Yukiko. He loves your talent. And he’s bleeding it out of you.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, her breath hitching in small, painful gasps.
“I…” she whispered. “I thought… I thought if I worked hard enough, I could be worthy. That if I was perfect, he’d see me.”
Akira stepped forward and knelt beside her bed. “You’re already worthy. Not because of what you paint. Because you’re you.”
She looked at him, truly looked at him, for the first time since she’d woken up. And her face broke.
She clutched her arms around her stomach, curling into herself, sobbing. Not out of fear this time. Not panic. But grief.
Grief for years lost, for illusions shattered.
And Akira said nothing more. Just stayed by her side, silent and steady.
Yukiko’s sobs had quieted, leaving her breathing in slow, unsteady intervals. Akira hadn’t moved from his seat at her bedside, arms draped loosely over his knees, head slightly bowed in quiet vigilance. A tentative knock at the door drew both their attention. Yukiko tensed.
“It’s just me,” came a familiar voice, soft but warm. “Ann.”
Yukiko sat up a little straighter, brushing at her eyes. “Come in,” she croaked.
Ann stepped inside gently, a paper bag in hand. She gave Yukiko a small, sympathetic smile before walking over to place the bag on the side table.
“I brought you some snacks,” she said, voice light but deliberate. “And a protein drink Tae recommended. The real one, not the chalky hospital stuff.”
“Thank you…” Yukiko mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
Ann didn’t sit. Not right away. She stood beside the bed, glancing at Akira, then down at Yukiko. “You know, I used to think my looks were all I had going for me.”
Yukiko blinked, confused.
Ann chuckled without humor. “Kamoshida made sure I thought that way. Always talking about my body. How I should be ‘grateful’ for his attention. How I should use what I had to ‘get ahead.’”
Akira looked down at his hands, jaw clenched. Yukiko said nothing.
“I let myself believe that for a long time,” Ann continued, her voice tightening. “That my worth was in what others saw. And that if I didn’t give them what they wanted, I’d be forgotten. Unloved.”
A long pause.
“Ryuemi… Shiho… they went through it too. We all thought it was our fault. That we had to earn the right to be treated like people.”
Yukiko’s lower lip trembled.
“But we got out. We’re still healing. And you know how?”
She finally sat, placing a hand over Akira’s.
“Because we had people who gave us the strength to fight back. People who reminded us that we mattered for more than what we could give.”
Her eyes lingered on Akira as she said it, full of quiet admiration and something gentler, deeper.
Yukiko’s eyes filled with tears again—but this time, they didn’t fall. “I don’t know how to fight back,” she whispered. “I don’t even know who I am without… him.”
“You don’t have to know yet,” Ann said softly. “You just have to let us help you find out.”
Yukiko looked at both of them now. At Ann’s quiet determination, and at Akira’s unshakable presence. She looked so small in that moment, so fragile… and yet, for the first time in what felt like years, she looked hopeful.
“…Can you really help me?”
Akira nodded, then gently reached out, placing his hand against her forehead. His fingers were calloused and warm.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We can.”
His eyes flickered—storm-grey igniting to burning crimson.
“Diaharan.”
A warm, gentle green light bloomed beneath his hand, pulsing softly through Yukiko’s chest. Her breath caught as a sudden warmth surged through her—strong, comforting, mending. Not just flesh and fatigue, but something deeper. Something broken long ago.
She gasped sharply, the tears spilling over again—though now they were different. Cleansing.
Ann stared in stunned silence. “What was that…?”
Akira slumped back in his chair, visibly drained. He gave a weak grin and a small shrug. “Magic headache cure. Don’t ask me how it works.”
Ann let out a breathy laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
After a few quiet minutes, Akira forced himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, catching himself on the chair before offering Yukiko one last tired but genuine smile.
“Get some rest,” he said softly. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
And for the first time since she woke up, Yukiko didn’t feel afraid of tomorrow.
She nodded. “Okay.”
I
Want Akira To Do Bad Things To Me
💦🔥
Members
:
BimboBerry
- BangBangBaby - PlunderBae - SiroccoFée
BimboBerry:
You guys. You guys.
I still can’t get over what Akira did at the hospital today.
PlunderBae:
Spill. He just said Yukiko was stable when I asked.
BimboBerry:
He used Persona magic. In the real world.
Like full-on healing spell. Hand on her forehead, glowing light, the whole thing.
He said it was tied to a Persona he doesn’t summon because it’s “chained up in his soul.”
WTF does that even mean???
PlunderBae:
It means he’s terrifying and we should all be in love with him.
Which I am. Obviously.
BangBangBaby:
Wait, what.
He used healing magic in the real world??
That’s some straight-up manga protagonist energy.
BimboBerry:
Yep. Yukiko looked like she could breathe again for the first time in weeks.
And he nearly collapsed doing it. Sat there smiling like a drunk puppy. 😭
SiroccoFée:
That’s... actually incredible.
PlunderBae:
You guys should’ve seen him against The Curator.
The way he fought… like he snapped. Just dismantled that creep, like he was personally offended someone dared to hurt us.
It was terrifying. And honestly? So hot I forgot how to breathe for a second.
BangBangBaby:
So you’re telling me he went full “vengeful demon boyfriend” mode?
Yeah okay I’m in love.
SiroccoFée:
And then gave me a Bead Chain because I faceplanted like an amateur.
Didn’t even say anything. Just smiled and kept moving like it was nothing. 😳
PlunderBae:
...And he set the entire Inspiration Wing on fire. 🔥
Tell me that’s not someone who cares deeply.
BimboBerry:
Not just about Yukiko either. About all of us.
He listens. He sees us.
Not just the strong parts we show the world but the messed-up, hurting bits we hide.
And he never flinches.
SiroccoFée:
...So I guess I’m not the only one slowly losing my mind over him, huh?
BangBangBaby:
Sweetie, you never had your mind to begin with.
BimboBerry:
😂
But yeah. Speaking of Yukiko—he says we’re taking her into the Gallery of Vainglory tomorrow.
PlunderBae:
Wait, what? She’s barely stable.
BimboBerry:
He said she needs to see it. That it’s the only way she’ll really break free of Madarame’s grip.
He’s going to be with her the whole time.
BangBangBaby:
That sounds risky, but… I kind of get it.
No one broke me out of Kamoshida’s hell but me.
But I never would’ve gotten that far without all of you—and him—by my side.
SiroccoFée:
…Yeah.
It’s dangerous. But if he says she needs it, I’ll trust him.
Just means we have to be ready. In case she isn’t.
PlunderBae:
Then we go in together. For Yukiko.
For each other.
And for the guy who’d set the world on fire just to keep us warm.
BimboBerry:
...So, are we officially calling this a crush support group now, or what?
BangBangBaby:
It was always a crush support group. The chaos was just a smokescreen. 😌
The Next Day
The sky was overcast, casting a moody grey pallor over the quiet street. Across from Madarame’s atelier, Akira stood still, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, his expression unreadable.
Beside him, Yukiko hovered close—too close, not that he minded. Her transformation from just days prior was startling. Her skin had regained its color and smoothness, her once-lifeless hair now glossy and neatly tied back. The sunken gauntness had faded, replaced with the faintest healthy curve to her cheeks. She no longer looked like she’d shatter if someone breathed too hard.
But her eyes… her eyes still bore the weight of chains.
She was hugging herself tightly, one shoulder brushing Akira’s. Her fingers twitched against her arm.
“I’m okay,” she said, as if trying to convince herself more than him. “I want to see it. I need to see it.”
“You’re not alone,” Akira said gently.
Footsteps echoed, breaking the tension. Ann, Shiho, Ryuemi, and Morgane crossed the street toward them, all dressed casually, their eyes flicking between Yukiko and Akira with quiet support.
Morgane arched a brow, clearly surprised at Yukiko’s dramatic improvement, but said nothing.
“You ready?” Ann asked softly.
Akira pulled out his phone. “Let’s go.”
The air shimmered. A familiar ripple of distortion peeled the world back like wet canvas. The atelier melted, warping and twisting until reality bled into illusion.
The Gallery of Vainglory stood before them once more—towering, grotesque, and indulgent.
As the last of the shimmer faded, Yukiko let out a sharp, horrified gasp.
“What is this?” she whispered. “Why is it so… gaudy? So inelegant? The symmetry is all wrong, the palette is confused—such terrible design…”
The other girls stared at her, mouths agape.
Comet tilted her head. “Okay, she does have an eye for aesthetics.”
“Yup,” Panther murmured, glancing at Akira. “That just happened.”
Joker, however, was smiling faintly to himself, one corner of his mouth curling with quiet pride beneath his blank mask.
In the depths of his soul, Arsene’s smoky voice rumbled with amusement: “Man or woman, doesn't matter what timeline… still the same passion for art and aesthetics.”
Satanael’s deep baritone followed, dry and wry: “And the same burning need to burn away all falsehoods. The fire just hasn’t reached her hands yet.”
Joker’s smile sharpened. “We’ll guide her to the truth,” he murmured.
As the ripple of cognition settled and the Gallery of Vainglory fully materialized around them, Yukiko’s breath caught again—but this time, for a very different reason.
Her wide, astonished eyes drifted across the others, taking in their transformed appearances with almost childlike wonder.
“You all…” Yukiko murmured, her voice hushed with awe. “These outfits… They’re like… manifestations of who you are. I can see it. Ann—yours is all fire and confidence, and Ryuemi’s is like a storm, barely leashed… Shiho, you’re sharp, unyielding, like a blade… and Morgane…”
Morgane tilted her head, her bright eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
“You look like vengeance dressed as art,” Yukiko whispered, and Morgane actually blinked.
“…okay, I like her,” Morgane muttered.
Ryuemi grinned. “She’s got taste.”
“But wait,” Yukiko looked down at herself. “Why haven’t I changed?”
“You haven’t awakened yet,” Ann said kindly. “That’ll come in time. When you're ready.”
Morgane snapped her fingers. “Speaking of, we need to give her a codename. No real names in here, especially not until we know if this place will react to her.”
Yukiko blinked. “A codename?”
Ann nodded. “Yeah, it helps protect our identities—and honestly, it’s kind of fun.” She then points at each Thief in turn. “Comet, Vent, Dead-Eye, and I’m Panther.” She giggles as she points at Akira, who is standing a little further apart, seemingly lost in thought. “That’s Joker.”
Dead-Eye studied Yukiko for a second. “How about we call her Snow for now?”
“Snow?” Yukiko echoed.
“It fits,” Vent said, crossing her arms. “Elegant, graceful, but also hides the fact it can be deadly when it piles up. And it’s got a nice contrast to all this... gilded rot.”
Yukiko considered it for a moment, then gave the smallest of nods. “Alright… Snow. I can work with that.”
Joker chuckled quietly as he makes his way back to them. “Then welcome to the team, Snow,” he said warmly, and for the first time since entering the Palace, Yukiko smiled.
It was small. Fragile. But it was real.
Yukiko walked just behind Akira, one hand unconsciously clutching his sleeve as they stepped deeper into the Gallery of Vainglory. Though her posture was more upright and her features healthier than they had been even the day before, there was still a tremor in her step—like a bird relearning how to fly after being caged too long.
Their first destination was the Hall of Contributors.
Yukiko’s breath caught as the group entered the long chamber. Framed portraits lined the high gilded walls—dozens, maybe hundreds—each surrounded by faint golden chains etched into the marble itself. She stopped short when her eyes found her own.
“That’s…” she whispered.
Her face stared back at her from the portrait—stoic, obedient, dulled. Even the brushwork was rigid and mechanical, devoid of her usual flair. She looked like a stranger wearing her skin.
“Sensei… He sees us as just tools, doesn’t he?” Yukiko’s voice cracked. “To be used and to be discarded once we can no longer contribute.”
No one answered. They didn’t need to.
Joker stepped beside her, silent and solid, and after a moment, she followed again.
The deeper they went, the more the air shifted—like descending through different levels of madness.
Then they reached the Inspiration Wing.
“What happened here?” Yukiko asked, eyes wide as they took in the scorched devastation. Every wall was blackened, the paintings burned into the architecture itself—charred impressions of beauty turned grotesque by flame. The scent of soot and lingering fury clung to everything.
Comet let out a low, satisfied chuckle. “Angry Joker.”
Yukiko turned sharply toward Akira. “You…?”
Joker only smirked faintly, his hands buried in his pockets as he strode ahead without explanation.
They pressed on.
The next chamber opened like a cathedral—broad, tall, and dramatically lit from beneath to create long shadows on the grotesque centerpiece: a fifty-foot gilded statue of Madarame, styled as a grotesquely exaggerated feudal Shogun. Its face was smug, eyes half-lidded in faux serenity. Around it, smaller statues knelt in submission, faceless and identical, each one clutching a golden paintbrush like a holy relic.
Yukiko stopped again.
“Oh gods…” she said, voice thick with revulsion. “This is hideous.”
Panther raised a brow. “I mean, yeah, we figured that part out.”
“No, no, it’s worse than that,” Yukiko muttered, stepping forward and circling the monstrosity like it physically offended her. “The proportions are all wrong, the composition is derivative, and the paint detailing is amateur at best. And the symbolism—ugh!—the self-aggrandizement is so obvious it loses all meaning.”
She turned on the group, eyes wide and burning. “No real artist could appreciate this. No real artist would create something so gaudy, so... soulless!”
Everyone just kind of stared.
Dead-Eye blinked slowly. “Did she just art-rant a ten-story statue into the ground?”
Vent grinned. “She’s gonna fit in just fine.”
Joker gave Yukiko a moment longer, then turned toward the far end of the room. A massive, ornate door loomed ahead—studded with brass and inset with strange geometric carvings.
He reached into his pocket and drew out the glowing key they’d taken from the Curator. It pulsed faintly in his hand.
Without hesitation, he slipped it into the lock.
A sharp click echoed through the chamber… and the door rippled—then vanished like mist on the breeze.
Yukiko stared at the space where it had been, her heart pounding.
“You still with us, Snow?” Joker asked, glancing back at her with a half-smile.
She nodded, quiet but determined. “Let’s keep going.”
The moment the door vanished, a suffocating pressure fell over them.
The air grew thick. The temperature dropped.
And then came the voices.
Loud. Grating. Unrelenting.
“More!”
“This isn’t good enough!”
“Do better, or you’ll be nothing.”
“Perfect, perfect, perfect!”
“Where’s the genius I was promised?”
The Thieves winced as they stepped into a long corridor, each side lined with tall, gilt-framed mirrors that shimmered not with reflections, but with scenes.
Joker led the group, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. Behind him, the girls flinched one by one as the voices hammered at their psyches. Yukiko stuck close to his side, breathing heavily, her gaze darting between mirrors.
“What is this place?” she whispered.
Vent rubbed at her temples, ears twitching as if the voices clawed at her physically. “Some kind of mental feedback loop, maybe? Like all his traumas and justifications crammed into one hallway of hell.”
Dead-Eye stepped forward and pointed to the first mirror. “Look.”
The image shimmered into clarity.
A young boy—no older than six—sat in a bright classroom, gripping a crayon so tightly his knuckles were white. His drawing was crude, almost childishly messy. Laughter echoed from off-screen. Other children were holding up more polished pieces. A teacher frowned disapprovingly.
“Yeesh,” Comet muttered. “Kids suck.”
Panther folded her arms, watching intently as the boy—Madarame—shrunk under the weight of ridicule. The next mirror lit up.
Same boy, same terrible artwork—but this time, at home. A warm voice spoke from the side.
“They just don’t understand your vision yet, baby. You’re going to be something great—Mama knows it.”
A woman sat beside him, gently running her fingers through his hair as he scribbled on. Her smile was soft. Loving. Blind.
Yukiko took a sharp breath and stepped closer.
“She… she believed in him.”
Joker didn’t respond. He was watching the next mirror as it flickered to life.
Now a teenager, Madarame sat alone in a tiny room, surrounded by torn canvases and half-used supplies. He stared blankly at a half-finished painting—still just as awkward and uninspired as before. His expression twisted—frustration, disgust, self-loathing.
“You have to keep going,” a faint echo of his mother’s voice drifted in. “You’re special.”
He hurled the brush at the canvas.
Then the next mirror. A funeral.
Madarame stood beside a small casket, expression unreadable. No one else was there.
Next: Madarame, older now, rifling through a modest apartment. He opened a drawer and froze.
There—wrapped carefully in cloth—was a painting.
And it was beautiful.
Detailed. Lyrical. Emotional.
Signed not by Madarame, but by his late father.
The mother had kept it hidden. Cherished it. Madarame stared at it for a long time… then folded it up and placed it in his bag.
The next mirror sparked to life.
Madarame, standing in an art gallery. Beaming. Accepting praise. Cameras flashed.
“Truly brilliant, Madarame-sensei.”
“Such depth. Such soul.”
“A genius of our time.”
Behind him, displayed prominently… his father’s painting.
And the name on the placard?
Madarame Ichiryusai.
The Thieves stood in silence.
“He stole it,” Dead-Eye said flatly.
“Started with a lie,” Comet murmured. “And just kept building on it.”
“Like plaster over a broken statue,” Panther added, her voice grim.
Yukiko trembled. “He… he’s always told me that great artists borrow and greater ones refine. That originality doesn’t matter if you can evoke emotion. But this—this is theft. Fraud.”
“Worse,” Joker said softly. “It was betrayal. He sold his mother’s belief. Used his father’s talent. All so he wouldn’t have to face the truth.”
He turned and met Yukiko’s gaze. “That he couldn’t make it on his own.”
Yukiko stared at the mirror as the image began to fade. Her voice was barely a whisper.
“He lied his way into greatness…”
Vent gave a low whistle. “He didn’t just fake his legacy. He killed the part of himself that might’ve ever created something honest.”
Joker looked down the hall. There were more mirrors. More memories.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re not done yet.”
The group continued through the corridor. Mirror after mirror flickered to life as they passed, each one peeling away another layer of Madarame’s carefully crafted façade.
The early ones showed the beginning of his scheme.
Young, hungry artists—some barely more than teens—handing over vibrant, soul-filled paintings in exchange for meager envelopes of yen. Their eyes were filled with naive pride, believing they were making connections, starting their careers.
Then came the reveals. Those same pieces now hanging in grand halls, crowded by critics and collectors.
“Another Madarame masterpiece.”
“He never stops innovating.”
“A true visionary.”
Panther growled lowly. “All lies.”
Next mirror: a young man in tears, confronting Madarame. Madarame smiling thinly and holding out a bulging envelope.
The next: that same man walking away, face pale and drained, pockets heavier—but soul emptier.
Then the tactic shifted.
Madarame now welcomed students—"apprentices"—into his home. The mirrors showed them painting for hours, days, weeks. Eating little. Sleeping less.
“Art is sacrifice,” Madarame’s voice echoed from one pane. “You must bleed onto the canvas to matter.”
In each mirror, Madarame would take their finished work, sign it himself, and bask in applause. Their names never spoken. Their efforts never acknowledged.
Comet muttered darkly, “He built his empire on stolen dreams.”
Dead-Eye's eyes narrowed. “And no one stopped him…”
Vent flicked her fingers. “Or they were too afraid to.”
The corridor darkened as they reached the final set of mirrors.
The first made them all freeze.
Madarame—older now, face heavier with age but eyes still burning with that same calculating intensity—stood over a woman sprawled on the floor of his atelier. Her long, dark hair spilled across the tiles like ink, hiding her face.
In one hand, Madarame held a small pill box.
In the other… a dripping paintbrush, slick with dull grey paint.
The implication was deafening.
Yukiko made a small sound in the back of her throat, stepping closer, horror blooming in her chest. “Who… was she?”
Nobody answered.
The next mirror shimmered on.
Madarame again—his face softened now, almost reverent—as he cradled a small infant in one arm.
In the other hand, a framed painting.
The child stared up, unaware.
The painting was ethereal. Subtle. Beautiful. A portrait of a young woman, head bowed lovingly, a serene expression on her face. In her arms was a gentle swirl of pale gray.
The last mirror lit up.
A massive art gallery.
Critics surrounded Madarame, hailing his new “masterwork.” Cameras flashed. The center of the display: the painting.
A woman, gazing down in maternal devotion. In her arms—a grey cloud.
“The Sayuri,” Yukiko whispered. “That’s… that’s the Sayuri. That’s his magnum opus!”
The realization hit her like a truck. She staggered backward, hand over her mouth. “He—he always said it was inspired by grief. That it represented beauty in mourning. He said—he said it came to him after his mother passed, that it was his tribute to her!”
Joker’s voice was low, but steady. “But it wasn’t. Was it?”
Yukiko turned to him, her face pale, eyes glassy.
“I—I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Panther walked over and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “That’s okay. You don’t have to figure it all out right now.”
Dead-Eye stepped beside her. “What matters is that you see it. That you know.”
Vent tilted her head, ears twitching as she listened to the fading echoes of praise from the final mirror. “And now we all know.”
Joker moved to the far end of the corridor, where a heavy door awaited them. He turned back, locking eyes with Yukiko.
“You ready to keep going, Snow?”
Yukiko stared one last time at the Sayuri in the mirror. The warm, loving gaze of the painted woman no longer brought her comfort.
She clenched her fists. Straightened her back.
And stepped forward.
“…Yeah.”
The door dissolved before them, revealing a vast chamber cloaked in stillness and shadow. It looked like the interior of a grand shrine, but twisted—wrong. The air was heavy with incense and paint fumes.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of faceless monks sat cross-legged in perfect rows, each one hunched over a canvas. The scratch of brushes against paper echoed like a prayer. None of them looked up. None acknowledged the intruders.
“Creepy doesn’t even start to cover this,” Comet muttered, her hand twitching near her weapon.
In the center of the chamber stood an easel taller than any of them, flanked by thick stone pillars carved with kanji for obedience, sacrifice, and genius.
Chained to the base of the easel was a woman.
Her blue-black hair hung in limp curtains down her back. Her rags were stiff with dried paint, her hands red-stained and trembling. And she painted—over and over—canvas after canvas, her body jerking with mechanical precision.
Then, she looked up.
Yukiko gasped, stepping backward in alarm. “Wha… How? Why does she look like me?”
She turned to Joker, her voice caught between confusion and dread.
Joker stepped forward, shielding her instinctively. His voice was low, almost tender. “She isn’t you… She’s how he sees you. Weak. Pathetic. A slave.”
Then he turned back to Yukiko, eyes steady and kind. “But that’s not what you are… is it?”
Yukiko looked up at him, lips parting—about to respond—when a voice like grinding stone echoed from the far side of the chamber. “Oh, but she is. Just like her mother was…”
The Thieves spun around, weapons shifting into their hands with instinctual ease.
From the shadows, he emerged.
Shadow Madarame.
Regal, overdressed, grotesquely bloated with pride. He wore the finery of a daimyo—lavish purple and gold robes embroidered with ink-brush designs, a lacquered fan clutched in one hand, his smug expression stretched across a painted mask of politeness.
And beside him… a tall woman in imperial garb.
Her kimono shimmered like an oil slick—beautiful and wrong. Her eyes were cold, calculating. Her presence reeked of entitlement and faded power.
His mother.
Shadow Madarame spread his arms grandly, voice dripping with false affection. “Yukiko… my most prized possession. What are you doing with this rabble? You should know better than to associate with peasants. Come, return to your quarters. Fulfill your destiny—contribute to my eternal glory.”
Then the Shadow Empress spoke, her tone like honey over rusted nails. “Yes… your talent must feed my Ichiryu, like all the others. It’s only fair. No one may surpass him… He needs your gift to unlock the brilliance hidden within… the brilliance his father left him… just as your mother, Hinata, passed her talent to you.”
Yukiko reeled, staggering back as if struck. Comet was there in a flash, catching her shoulders and holding her steady.
The other girls circled in, expressions fierce.
“What?” Yukiko breathed, shaking her head. “Hinata? My mother?”
Shadow Madarame’s laughter echoed through the shrine. “Ah yes… Hinata. Poor, sweet Hinata. She was so talented… yet so fragile.”
He sighed with exaggerated pity. “Epilepsy. Such a tragic little flaw. She created that final masterpiece—the masterpiece—but refused to give it up. Said it was for her baby. She needed her medication… and I made her a deal.”
He grinned. Wide. Cruel. “The pillbox… for the painting. She held out, stubborn little thing, even as the tremors started. But in the end… desperation always wins.”
The Shadow Empress gave a twisted, indulgent laugh. “And he gave her exactly what she deserved. An empty box.”
“Best deal I ever made,” Shadow Madarame said proudly, spreading his arms toward the canvas-flooded room. “My magnum opus… for an empty pillbox.”
His mother joined him in laughter, the sound twisted and echoing through the stillness.
Yukiko’s knees buckled. Only Comet’s arms kept her upright.
Her mouth opened—but no sound came out.
Just a breath.
Then another.
And then—
“He murdered your mother,” Dead-Eye said quietly, eyes blazing. “He didn’t just steal from you. He took everything.”
Panther stepped forward, voice shaking with fury.
“This ends today.”
Joker, fists clenched, turned back to Yukiko. “We don’t have to keep listening to this. We can burn it all down.”
Yukiko collapsed to her knees, the stone floor cold beneath her palms. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts—ragged and panicked—as the truth carved itself deeper into her heart.
He lied… He manipulated me… He used me…
He killed my mother.
Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. Her hands shook violently. Her lungs burned as she gasped for air, unable to draw in enough. The world was tilting, spiraling into chaos.
How much of me is even real? How long has he been shaping me—twisting me—into what he wanted?
She squeezed her eyes shut.
I can’t do this. I can’t—
Then—
A voice.
Not Madarame’s.
Not Joker’s.
Not even her own.
But something deeper. Older. Stronger.
Firm, yet gentle. Like a river beneath winter ice.
“Your eyes are finally open, little vixen.”
“There is a great deal of ugliness in this world. But there is also beauty.”
“Choose now. Do you wish to fall into the ugliness of defeat and misery? Or do you choose to stand up… To fight…
To claim the beauty of rebellion? ”
Yukiko’s breath slowed.
Her heart began to steady.
She lifted her head.
The tears still flowed, but her gaze was clear now—piercing. Fire burned behind her dark eyes, now veiled behind a porcelain kitsune mask that shimmered into being, elegant and fierce. The fox's carved features gleamed with subtle gold accents, like light breaking through the storm.
She looked at the twisted shadows of Madarame and his mother.
And she rose.
Her voice rang out, clear and sharp as a bell.
“I choose to rise.”
“I choose to fight.”
“I choose to reclaim myself.”
She screamed.
The sound cracked through the shrine like thunder.
She reached up and tore the mask from her face, and in that instant, a cold, searing fire exploded outward from her body—azure flames licking around her limbs, wild and hungry.
The Phantom Thieves shielded their eyes from the blinding flare of her awakening.
When the light faded, Yukiko stood tall.
Her body was now clad in midnight blue kunoichi armor, sleek and ceremonial. Silver embroidery traced kitsune motifs across her sleeves and collar. Her long hair, once unkempt, was now pulled into a proud, high ponytail that swayed behind her like a banner of war.
An icy katana, its blade shimmering like frost under moonlight, rested in her hand. The hilt bore the image of a fox curled protectively around a flame.
Over her upper face, the kitsune mask had returned—settled into place like it had always belonged.
And behind her, glowing with quiet might, stood her Persona.
Tomoe Gozen—the legendary female samurai—towered in radiant poise, armored in flowing crimson robes and battle-worn hakama. Her fierce eyes scanned the room from behind a demon-slaying helmet, her polearm resting across her back like judgment waiting to strike.
Joker’s grin was slow and proud. “Welcome to the fight, Snow.”
The shrine trembled beneath the weight of power as Yukiko stepped forward, her eyes blazing behind the kitsune mask.
She pointed her katana toward the Shadow duo—voice firm and resonant.
“My name is Vixen. Not ‘apprentice.’ Not ‘girl.’ Not ‘possession.’
I am not your puppet—
I am not your legacy—
I am my own masterpiece!”
The kitsune mask gleamed in the flickering shrine light as she turned her full focus to the twisted shadows before her. “And for what you’ve done—for the lies, the chains, the death—I will make you pay.”
Shadow Madarame sneered, tugging his ornate daimyo robe tighter around his thin shoulders. “So much noise. You were always ungrateful, just like your mother. Such… a disappointment.”
With that, he turned and strode into the shadows beyond the shrine’s far gate, vanishing with a flash of gold and black.
But his mother remained.
The twisted, regal shadow of Madarame’s mother lifted her arms, her Empress robes unraveling into ribbons of shadow and bone. “You will not deny my son his glory,” she hissed, voice shrill and ancient. “You will feed him, like all the others.”
With a howl of rage, her form distorted—limbs elongating, face warping—and with a blast of psychic energy, she transformed into a grotesque, towering figure.
Mother Harlot.
Her golden chariot screeched into existence behind her, drawn by a nightmare beast fused from the bodies of writhing, faceless women. Her mouth, twisted in an eternal sneer, opened in a shriek of psychic malice.
Around the shrine, the rows of faceless monks rose as one—each bursting into the shapes of Shadows:
Nue. Arahabaki. Ippon-Datara. Makami. Koppa Tengu.
The air roared with the sounds of battle.
Vent was the first to leap in, hurling her chakram like a frisbee, the blade singing through the air before rebounding to her hand. Comet danced between enemies, landing spinning kicks and gunshots with brutal precision. Dead-Eye opened fire from a perch near the rafters, targeting weak points with uncanny accuracy. Panther stormed the center, cracking skulls with her whip, while Joker was everywhere, taking out enemies and shouting instructions while shielding and supporting the others.
And in the middle of the chaos—
Vixen moved like liquid elegance.
Her icy-blue blade glided in sweeping arcs, each movement precise—measured. Every step was graceful, deliberate, like she were painting with each motion.
She spun between two Koppa Tengus, her katana tracing a crescent moon through the air. “Bufu!” she whispered.
A sharp spire of frost erupted beneath one of the Tengu, encasing it in ice before shattering it to mist.
She turned, sliced upward— “Mabufu!”
A fan of cold surged outward, frost biting across the battlefield and slowing enemies in place. Arahabaki tried to charge—only to be frozen solid by a Bufu to the chest, then shattered by Joker’s brutal kick.
“She’s incredible,” Panther whispered mid-swing, awe in her voice. “She’s not even fighting—she’s creating.”
As if hearing her, Vixen pivoted on her heel, driving her blade through a Nue’s chest in a stroke that looked more like calligraphy than violence.
But Mother Harlot shrieked again—psychic waves rippling out and knocking several Thieves back. Vixen stumbled, catching herself on one knee, panting.
The others regrouped.
“Together!” Joker called. “We finish this—now!”
A chorus of Personas responded:
“Carmen!”
“Lola Belmont!”
“Annie Oakley!”
“Anne Bonny!”
“Tomoe Gozen!”
A cascade of elemental fury rained down—ice, fire, wind, electricity. Mother Harlot screamed as her chariot split apart, her form collapsing into smoke and shadow.
The shrine went eerily still.
The enemies were gone.
Silence returned.
Then—
Vixen took one step forward.
And crumpled.
“Vixen!” Comet was at her side instantly, catching her before she could hit the floor.
Joker knelt next to her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
“Hey. It’s alright. First awakenings are always tough. You just tore off the chains someone else wrapped around your soul. That kind of freedom… hurts at first.”
Vixen blinked, the strength fading from her limbs but not from her eyes.
“I… I did it,” she murmured.
“You did,” Joker said, smiling. “But we’re not done yet.”
Dead-Eye glanced at the others. “We should head back. Vixen needs rest.”
Panther nodded. “And maybe a protein shake. Or six.”
Vent simply offered Vixen a hand. “You stood tall today. Come back strong tomorrow.”
Together, they lifted her up. Then the world shimmered, stretched — And they were gone.
The bell above the door jingled softly as the Phantom Thieves stepped into Leblanc, the familiar aroma of spices, roasted coffee beans, and warm wood wrapping around them like a comforting blanket. The place was quiet—just a couple of older regulars sitting near the front with their newspapers and tiny cups of espresso.
“Back booth,” Akira said, nodding toward the far corner.
The girls moved instinctively, sliding into the large booth like migrating birds settling on a favored branch. Yukiko shivered and pulled Akira’s oversized hoodie tighter around herself. The garment all but swallowed her slight frame, but the warmth of it—and his scent, faintly coffee and clove—seemed to steady her nerves.
Akira slipped behind the counter with practiced ease, rolling up his sleeves and grabbing ingredients from muscle memory. The soft sound of a knife hitting the cutting board, the gentle bubbling of curry on the stove—it grounded them all after the surreal intensity of the Metaverse.
He glanced up briefly when Yukiko’s voice broke the quiet. “Um… if it’s not too much trouble… do you have any herbal tea?”
Her voice was timid, still fragile from everything they’d seen.
Akira smiled and reached under the counter with a flourish, producing a slim wooden box with neatly labeled compartments of loose-leaf teas. He opened it with care and turned it to show her the options like it was a display case at a fine art gallery.
Sojiro, wiping down a mug nearby, let out a soft scoff. “Show-off.”
Akira just grinned. “Chamomile okay?”
Yukiko nodded, a little overwhelmed by the quiet kindness.
The water boiled. The curry thickened. Coffees were poured exactly how each girl liked them. Just as he was putting the finishing touches on the plates, the door chimed again. Kasumi stepped in, cheeks pink from the evening chill, dressed in a comfy jacket over her tracksuit. “Evening!” she called cheerfully. “Hope I’m not too late.”
Ann waved her over. “Perfect timing. Come meet Yukiko.”
Yukiko offered a polite smile as Kasumi slid into the booth. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Kasumi said, then tilted her head. “You look familiar…”
Yukiko looked away, mumbling, “You’ve probably seen one of Madarame’s exhibits…”
Kasumi’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t press.
Akira emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray with practiced grace. He distributed the bowls of steaming curry, set down the drinks, and then offered Yukiko a small tray with her tea, a tiny honey pot on the side.
“Eat up,” he said, warm but tired. “You’ve earned it.”
As the others tucked in, chatting more softly now, Akira moved to serve one of the regulars up front. The sounds of clinking spoons and low conversation filled the cafe in a quiet rhythm of comfort.
When he returned to the booth and slid into the seat beside Shiho, he gave Yukiko a steady look. “Do you need a place to stay tonight?”
Yukiko blinked at him, surprised by the offer, then looked down at her tea. Her fingers were still shaking slightly. She hesitated… then gave a small nod.
Before Akira say anything further—
“She can stay with me,” Ann cut in quickly. She smiled warmly. “I’ve got space, and my parents are out of town. Plus, I think she could use a nice warm bath and a girls’ night.”
Yukiko looked at her, then the others—Ryuemi giving her a thumbs-up, Shiho nodding solemnly, even Morgane offering a rare smile.
Her eyes glistened slightly, but this time it wasn’t from pain. “Thank you,” she whispered. “All of you.”
Ann smiled. “We’re glad you’re with us now.”
Ann’s Apartment – Late Evening
The apartment was cozy, softly lit by a few scattered lamps and the ambient glow of the Tokyo skyline through the windows. A pile of mismatched blankets and throw pillows had taken over the living room floor. The smell of popcorn and freshly applied nail polish drifted through the air.
Yukiko sat on her knees, back straight and posture perfect, as she delicately applied a glossy crimson lacquer to Shiho’s fingernails. Her brow furrowed with intense focus, as though she were working on a piece for a gallery rather than giving her new friend a manicure.
Shiho, for her part, looked both amused and honored by the attention. “You’re treating my nails like they’re on display at a museum,” she murmured.
“They are,” Yukiko replied without missing a beat. “Your fingers have excellent length and shape… it would be a disservice not to treat them as art.”
Ann stifled a laugh from where she was lounging in one of her oversized beanbags. “See? I told you she was intense.” She turned to Yukiko with a sly grin. “But seriously, that’s the best my nails have ever looked. You’re gonna ruin nail salons for me.”
Yukiko’s ears turned a shade pinker. “I’m just… I want to do it right. I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”
Morgane stretched out dramatically on a plush throw, arms behind her head. “You mean slumber parties or nail painting?”
Yukiko hesitated, eyes still on Shiho’s nails. “Both, actually. I never had… well. Friends. Like this.”
That earned a brief silence, followed by Ryuemi gently bumping her shoulder. “Well, you do now. And we’re not going anywhere.”
“Yeah,” Kasumi added with a soft smile. “You’re one of us now.”
A warm, quiet stillness settled over the group for a moment. Then Ann clapped her hands. “Okay! Now that the emotional bit is out of the way—let’s talk nightwear.”
Yukiko looked up, confused. “Nightwear?”
Cue collective snickering.
Ann walked over to her room and came back with a lacy, low-cut camisole and silky shorts that seemed designed more for dramatic movie scenes than sleep. “So… this is the only spare I have. Sorry in advance.”
Yukiko stared at the garment like it had personally offended her sensibilities. “This… this can’t possibly be for sleeping in.”
“You get used to it,” Shiho smirked.
Yukiko sighed with quiet dignity. “Very well. For tonight… I shall suffer for art.”
Cue laughter again as Yukiko disappeared into the bathroom to change. When she returned—wrapped in a hoodie over the scandalous sleepwear—the others gave a round of exaggerated wolf-whistles.
Ann grinned. “Honestly? You make it look classy.”
Later, they sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor, passing around snacks and doing each other’s makeup while Yukiko continued her nail-artistry like a serene fox among giggling hens.
“So…” Ann said, eyeing the others with a mischievous spark. “We gonna pretend we haven’t all developed a massive crush on a certain curry-making, coffee-brewing, impossibly sweet boy?”
Morgane rolled her eyes. “Oh, finally. I thought we were going to dance around it forever.”
Kasumi looked a little pink. “You mean… Akira?”
Shiho nodded. “He’s like… I don’t know. The way he looks at you like you matter, like he’s actually listening to what you say? That’s dangerous.”
Ryuemi flopped backwards dramatically. “He literally carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and still makes time to walk me home after class. I’m ruined for all other men.”
“I don’t understand him,” Yukiko said, voice quiet and thoughtful as she focused on painting Morgane’s nails in a shimmering indigo. “He… showed up out of nowhere, broke through every wall I’d ever built, and… didn’t ask for anything in return. He didn’t even seem angry at me for yelling at him. He just… stayed.”
“Welcome to the club,” Morgane murmured, cheeks tinged pink.
Ann smiled. “The Akira Amamiya Appreciation Society. Population: us.”
They all laughed again—gently, warmly—and the night wore on with soft music, whispered jokes, and the comfort of finally, finally not being alone.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - ???/??? (Codename: Vixen)
Chapter 14: Fall Of The Shogun
Summary:
The end of Madarame's Palace
Yukiko officially joins the Thieves
A certain Detective Princess sheds her Black Mask
Akira is still dense
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The air inside the Gallery of Vainglory was heavier than before.
Now that the true heart of Madarame’s cruelty had been revealed, the Palace had shifted. The corridors no longer whispered — they sneered. Vibrant gold leaf peeled off the walls like molting skin, revealing the darker, corrupted strokes beneath. Portraits stretched and warped into grotesque caricatures of praise, each bearing Madarame’s name in oversized lettering — “Genius. Visionary. Sole Author.”
And yet, for the Phantom Thieves, there was no turning back.
Vixen ran beside Joker as the group darted through a tilted hallway, her midnight-blue kunoichi garb flowing like ink on parchment. The mirrors had disappeared, replaced now by enormous canvases with rippling surfaces — distorted memories leaking color into the air like smoke.
"Incoming!" Vent shouted from above, having leapt onto an overhead beam.
From the walls, shadows bled forth: a formation of Ippon-Dataras and Arahabakis, their iron skin gleaming in the unnatural light.
Without hesitation, Joker snapped his fingers. “Let’s move.”
Vixen sunk in a perfect crouch, her icy katana already drawn. She sliced a downward arc, releasing a wave of frost that exploded outward — Mabufu. A few Shadows froze mid-advance, glinting statues in motion.
“The stillness before the brush strikes,” she murmured. “I find it beautiful.”
Dead-Eye vaulted over one of the frozen enemies and blasted it apart with a precisely-placed bullet from each of her pistols. “You're getting poetic now?”
Vixen smirked, ducking under a swing and retaliating with a sweeping slash. “What is battle, if not performance?”
“She's enjoying this,” Comet said with a laugh, unleashing a chain of lightning from her Persona. “Told you she'd be a natural.”
As more Shadows surged forth, Joker and Vixen moved in perfect sync — like strokes from the same hand. Joker took point, his tonfas slamming in between gaps in armor, while Vixen darted in behind him, her katana painting streaks of cold blue across the battlefield. Occasionally, she would brush past him — either to leap off his back or catch his arm mid-dodge — always with a spark in her eyes.
At one point, after cleaving a Makami in two with a flash of light-infused steel, she turned to Joker, slightly flushed. “I must confess… watching you fight is terribly distracting.”
Joker blinked. “...Huh?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she added smoothly, flicking shadow ichor off her blade. “It’s not your fault. I simply have a weakness for captivating compositions.”
Panther, fighting alongside Vent a few feet away, grinned wide. “Did she just flirt with him mid-fight?”
Vent blinked. “Wait, what?”
Joker simply gave a small, baffled shake of the head before charging forward again. “She’s just having some fun.”
Behind him, Vixen chuckled softly, sheathing her katana. “So very dense. How adorable.”
As the team pressed on, the rooms grew stranger. One corridor consisted entirely of floating frames — empty, yet echoing faint, tormented voices. Another twisted into an infinite spiral staircase, where the walls wept pigment and every step triggered a new hallucination: applause, criticism, his mother’s voice.
They fought off Nues, Koppa Tengus, and even a rare Decarabia that had been masquerading as a palette of paint. And through it all, Vixen stayed close to Joker — not by his command, but by her own design. Her spirit of rebellion flared brighter with every swing of her blade.
“It is liberating,” she whispered after cleaving through a Nue, “to use art not for submission… but for defiance.”
They entered the final chamber.
It stretched wide like a grand cathedral, bathed in harsh light. Canvases lined the walls — thousands of them — each one portraying a warped, exaggerated version of Madarame in various forms of godhood. Above them all was a massive stained-glass depiction of Sayuri, twisted so her sorrowful gaze looked directly down at the intruders.
And there, at the far end of the chamber, was a nebulous cloud of light and gas.
It pulsed with power — the heart of the Palace.
The team gathered near it, catching their breath.
Joker slid his tonfas back into their thigh holsters and looked to the others. “This is it.”
Vixen stood at his side, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “What happens now?”
He gave a half-smile. “We do what all Thieves do – steal his Treasure.”
Evening.
The exhibition hall glowed with soft gallery lighting, but Ichiryusai Madarame’s expression could’ve soured milk.
He stood before a massive canvas — his latest “masterpiece” — with arms crossed and brow furrowed, ignoring the dozens of guests murmuring praise as they wandered the floor. To them, he wore the serene mask of the revered genius. But inside?
He was seething.
The hospital still hadn't given him a straight answer about Yukiko’s condition. The girl had collapsed, been rushed away in an ambulance... and then nothing. No status update. No admittance that she was under his care. No access, no answers — nothing.
His lip curled.
Ungrateful little brat, he thought. I saved her from obscurity. She should be begging to return.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Rumors were swirling again. Whispers of plagiarism. Of exploitative “apprenticeships.” An anonymous post on a popular art critic’s blog had gone viral: “Genius or Ghoul?” The allegations were unsubtle. And dangerous.
And as if that weren’t enough… his latest mistress — that clingy, talentless college dropout who couldn’t even arch her back properly — had decided to make things even worse.
“She’s pregnant,” he growled under his breath, staring blankly at a painting of golden koi swimming in a blood-red pond. “Pregnant.”
The word was poison in his mouth. She’d cornered him at lunch. Said she was keeping it. Wanted him to “do the right thing.” As if he would marry someone who didn't even understand brushwork from a broomstick.
“Stupid girl. Just like Hinata. Just like all of them. Starry-eyed, useless parasites, thinking talent comes from love, not sacrifice. They should know their place. They should be grateful.”
“Madarame-sama?”
The voice was soft, feminine. He turned.
His new aide — the shy, quiet one with the doe eyes and high cheekbones — approached with tentative steps. She was young, very eager to please. She bowed deeply and extended a small envelope.
“A courier left this. He said it was urgent.”
Madarame’s brow furrowed as he took the envelope. It was plain. Thin. No markings, no sender name. Odd.
He opened it.
Inside was a single card. Red and black.
His fingers stiffened as he pulled it out and read the message, the letters cut from magazines and pasted carefully into place:
Ichiryusai Madarame
The Shogun of Vainglory
You build your empire of lies upon the brushstrokes of the more talented, but less fortunate.
For too long, you have been allowed to bleed them dry like the leech you are.
This ends now.
— The Phantom Thieves of Heart
Madarame’s face went pale, then blotched red with fury.
He crushed the card in his fist.
“You dare,” he hissed, eyes darting across the room, as if expecting the Thieves to be watching. “You dare challenge me? Me?”
His aide shrank back instinctively, but Madarame didn’t notice. His pulse was roaring in his ears.
“Filthy little rats... I’ll end you. All of you. No one steals from Ichiryusai Madarame and lives to gloat.”
He turned toward the nearest painting and sneered at the koi. They looked like they were swimming away from him.
Steam curled gently through the modest bathroom, fogging up the mirror and clinging to the warm tiles. The soft patter of the shower echoed off the walls… until it was drowned out by a sudden, insistent buzz.
BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ.
Pause.
BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ.
From the vanity, a sleek black phone — not her regular one — vibrated like an angry wasp, the muted screen flashing an unlisted number.
Ren pushed aside the shower curtain, water still cascading from her hair. Droplets ran down her back as she stepped onto the bath mat and snatched the device up with a scowl.
“Yes.” Her voice was clipped, precise.
The voice on the other end was distorted, genderless. A synthetic mask layered over cold command.
“The Artist has received a Calling Card. You are to observe and report back. Understood?”
Ren’s grip tightened on the phone. Her bare feet left damp imprints on the tile as she moved toward the mirror.
“…Understood, sir. Wha—”
Click. The line went dead.
Ren stared at the phone, her own reflection glaring back at her through the fogged mirror. Her breath fogged it further.
“…Tch.”
She set the phone down, her jaw tightening.
The Phantom Thieves emerged once more into the towering cathedral, bathed in sickly golden light. The vaulted ceilings loomed high above, and the sound of a solitary paintbrush scratching against canvas echoed eerily through the air.
At the far end of the chamber, suspended in unnatural stillness, was the Treasure — a massive painting encased in a grotesquely ornate golden frame, nearly twice the height of a person. The canvas shimmered with conflicting colors, as if resisting a single interpretation. The strokes were bold yet inconsistent, vibrant yet lifeless — a contradiction in form. At the base, a name was carved in thick kanji:「Ichiryusai Madarame」
Vixen stepped forward, her expression a blend of resolve and grief. The soft pad of her feet echoed as she approached the painting, one trembling hand reaching toward the canvas.
But before she could touch it — WHAM.
A comically enormous paintbrush — bristles stiff with blood-colored pigment — came crashing down from above. Vixen gasped and spun away, narrowly dodging the strike. The brush struck the stone floor with a sickening splatter, leaving a long red smear like a wound.
From behind one of the marble columns, Shadow Madarame stepped out, draped in his daiymo robes, his eyes gleaming with delusional grandeur. A smirk curled beneath his painted face. “Did you think it would be so easy?” he sneered, arms wide. “This is not merely a painting. This is my legacy.”
He began to circle the Treasure like a proud curator.
“I am the god of the art world. The great Ichiryusai Madarame! The masses may not remember the names of the artists who bled and wept onto their canvases—but they will remember mine. Because it is not the painter who is immortalized, but the unveiler! The collector! The visionary!”
The Thieves fanned out into battle positions, but Vixen stood firm in the center, her voice cold. “You let her die…” she whispered, trembling with rage. “You let my mother die… Why?”
Madarame's expression twisted into something ugly. He scoffed, eyes gleaming with poisonous contempt. “Because she dared to defy me,” he spat. “Not only did she withhold what she owed me—her talent, her masterpiece—but she had the temerity not to love me.”
His voice rose, hysterical now, laced with resentment and bile. “She chose a construction worker—a nobody! A sweat-stained, uneducated brute! She gave him her heart, and then had the gall to bear his child after he died! She ruined herself—ruined my pure, beloved Hinata!”
He threw his arms up toward the Treasure, as if invoking a divine truth. “Hinata was my first masterpiece! And she spat in my face.”
Silence.
Vixen’s breath hitched. Then she stepped forward, her voice a dagger wrapped in velvet. “My mother was never your canvas. And neither am I.”
Her sword slid free with a whisper of steel. The cold fire behind her eyes ignited. “This is the end of your illusion, Madarame.”
The room shuddered.
Shadow Madarame snarled, his face melting into a grotesque parody of divine wrath.
“Enough. I gave the world masterpieces… and all I asked in return was everything. You brats think you can defy your betters?! You are nothing—nothing but smudges on my canvas!”
He raised his scepter. The walls cracked. “Now — beg for forgiveness before I blot you out completely!”
The cathedral trembled as Shadow Madarame stretched unnaturally, veins of paint pulsing beneath his skin. His limbs twisted like tortured brushstrokes, merging with the ornate painting behind him. Gold leaf peeled back. Canvas became flesh. Frame becamew bone.
He bellowed as his transformation completed — a grotesque fusion of man, painting, and monster: “I am Azazel-Madarame, Lord of Vainglory! Kneel! Cower! Worship me!”
The hulking beast towered over them now, a head crowned in cracked porcelain masks, multiple arms wielding grotesque brushes, and a pair of massive, torn wings made of rotting canvas. Colors swirled violently across his body, melting off and dripping onto the cathedral floor.
Akira scoffed, tonfas spinning lazily in his hands. “Big name for a hack who built his fame on corpses and stolen dreams. I’ve seen better art in kindergarten.”
He grinned behind his mask. “I bet you can’t even draw a proper henohenomoheji.”
The insult landed like a dagger.
Azazel-Madarame roared in fury, blotches of color exploding from his body. Each droplet slammed into the floor with a wet splash, forming into a new figure — identical to Madarame, but cloaked in distinct colors: red, blue, green, yellow, cyan, pink, black, white, brown, grey.
One became two. Two became ten. Ten became dozens. The room was suddenly swarming with colorful Madarames, their warped faces twisted into smug, sneering grins.
The Phantom Thieves formed a tight defensive circle, shoulder to shoulder.
“Eyes sharp,” Akira commanded, calm and steady despite the chaos. “Watch for patterns. Don’t overcommit until we know what we’re dealing with.”
He glanced at each teammate, voice sharp and clear.
“Vixen! Ice the reds.”
Yukiko nodded, her eyes alight behind her fox mask. Behind her, Tomoe Gozen unsheathed her katana. “Gladly. Let’s see how they like a little touch of frost…”
“Panther, blues are yours.”
The blonde cracked her whip with a smirk, fire curling at her heels as Carmen shimmered into view. “I’ll turn them to ash.”
“Vent, Comet — take greens and yellows.”
Vent readied her disc, spinning it once with precision. “Right. Try to keep up, Comet.”
Comet cracked her knuckles, a fierce grin on her face as Anne Bonny flared to life behind her. “Let’s wreck their palette.”
“Dead-Eye, you and I will handle the rest.”
The wielder of Annie Oakley drew her pistols, nodding with quiet resolve. “Understood. Let’s keep the pressure up.”
Without warning, the horde surged.
Red Madarames rushed in first — their brushstrokes fiery and fast. Vixen dashed forward, her icy blade glowing. “Your form is lazy… your lines, derivative! Allow me to correct that.”
She flicked her katana in a wide arc — Mabufu! A shockwave of cold erupted, freezing several reds mid-lunge into perfect statues. One exploded into glass-like shards.
Blue Madarames followed — casting waves of water and ink. Panther grinned as she leaps into their midst, whip crackling. “Boring! Try making something original before you drown in your own mess.”
She unleashed Maragion, turning the tide into steam and screams.
Meanwhile, greens and yellows — faster and more agile — darted toward Comet and Vent.
Vent twisted in a dancer’s spin, disc flashing. “You want a masterstroke? Try this on for size!”
Magarula erupted, tearing through the yellow-clad fakes. Comet followed up with a brutal flurry of cutlass strikes, enhanced by Zionga, taking out the green ones.
In the back, Joker and Dead-Eye fended off the rest — black, white, grey, brown, pink — all with unique and unpredictable abilities. One fired Nuclear attacks. Another tried to blind them with technicolor paint explosions.
Akira slammed into one with a spinning tonfa strike, calling on Arsène to counter with Maeigaon. “Too many colors. Let’s go monochrome.”
Dead-Eye ducked beside him, her bullets precise, each shot targeting joints and weak spots. “We need to push forward — they’re stalling us!”
Vixen flipped back beside them, breathing hard but grinning. “Let me help with that. Mabufu!”
A surge of cold air swept across the battlefield — freezing multiple duplicates mid-motion. The group took the cue and ripped through the ice statues with brutal elegance.
And above them, Azazel-Madarame seethed. “Enough! You wretches! You’ll regret ever daring to tarnish my name!”
The cathedral floor was a war zone of torn canvas, shattered paint-sculptures, and scattered pigments. Fakes continued to surge, but the Phantom Thieves didn’t falter — they cut through the duplicates with precision and purpose, back to back, a symphony of elemental fury and relentless steel.
Vixen cleaved another red-cloaked Madarame in two with a single icy stroke — but something was off.
This one bled green.
Her eyes narrowed. “Wait…”
Another rushed her — a swirl of yellow and cyan, its face already starting to blur. She parried its blow with ease, slicing through it in a flash of silver and frost. It shattered immediately.
She gasped, stepping back, voice rising. “He’s running out of paint!”
The others paused just a beat. “He won’t be able to make more soon!”
The realization spread like wildfire. Panther let out a cheer. “Let’s drain his palette!”
Vent cackled. “Time to finish our masterpiece!”
The Thieves surged forward as one, their teamwork seamless. Greens and yellows fell under Comet and Vent’s dual assault. Panther and Dead-Eye cleared the flanks with blazing fire and precise gunfire. Joker and Vixen spearheaded the charge, moving like shadows.
Azazel-Madarame snarled, watching his creations fall one after the other, puddles of oily color spreading beneath them. “Damn brats… I need more paint!”
With a grotesque motion, he slammed his brush into a nearby painting, sucking the color from it like marrow from bone. The ornate canvas curled inward, color bleeding from it in thick rivulets, flowing back into the monster’s limbs.
But Joker’s already moving. “Not happening.”
He dashed forward, leaping into the air with a burst of momentum. His mask flared. “Arsène — let’s shut him down!”
The Phantom shot forth in a swirl of black feathers and violet flame, his claws extended, his eyes glowing.
He plunged into the canvas like a blade through silk—vanishing for a beat—before bursting out the other side, dragging something with him.
Shadow Madarame.
No longer colossal, no longer divine — the withered man in a once-regal robe dangled in Arsène’s grip, splattered in dripping paint, his face a mask of horror. “N-No! I am vainglory! I am greatness! You can’t do this to me—!”
The colors began to pour from the wounded canvas like blood. Red, blue, gold… each drop pooling beneath the Thieves’ feet like the last gasps of a dying god.
Arsène hurled the shadow to the floor with a violent crash. Shadow Madarame crumpled, crawling backwards like a worm, eyes darting in every direction, searching for an exit that didn’t exist.
And then…
A slow, deliberate dragging sound.
Vixen.
Her katana scraped along the ground with a cold, metallic hiss. Her eyes glowed faintly behind the fox mask. She walked toward him, calm, composed, deadly. “You bled her dry. My mother. You called her your masterpiece, and still let her die in agony. You tried to clip my wings before I even learned to fly.”
She stopped, the tip of her blade resting an inch from his throat. “Now look at you. A smear. A mistake. An ugly footnote in the margin of a better artist’s story.”
Shadow Madarame gurgled, color oozing from his mouth.
For just a moment, a flicker of something human — something pitiful — crossed Shadow Madarame’s face. His wide, painted eyes glanced over Vixen’s shoulder, as though searching for a savior in the chaos. Perhaps some last-minute redemption, a miracle to snatch him from oblivion.
But no one came.
His gaze snapped back to the girl before him. The prodigy he almost crushed. The legacy he tried to steal. “P-Please,” he whimpered, voice cracking. “I don’t want to die.”
Vixen let out a low, bitter chuckle. Her eyes were unreadable behind the glint of her porcelain fox mask. She slowly raised her katana, pressing its icy tip to the bottom of his chin — a predator toying with her prey.
“Don’t worry… sensei,” she spat the title like poison, the corner of her mouth curling with disdain. “Unlike you, I’m not a coward. Killing you… would be a waste of good steel.”
She stepped back, blade still trained on him.
Joker moved beside her in one smooth motion, crouching low so his storm-grey eyes met the trembling, fading Shadow. There's no rage in his voice. No gloating.
Only cold truth. “Go back to your real self. Do the right thing… for once in your miserable life. Admit to everything. All of it.”
Then he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Otherwise, the Black Mask will be the least of your worries.”
Shadow Madarame went pale, eyes wide like saucers. His mouth opened, but no sound comes out. And then...
He began to dissolve — fading into light, paint, and silence. A tremor shook the cathedral.
“Everyone, move!” Vent shouted, already sprinting towards the glowing exit on the other side of the room. “Palace collapse imminent!”
The stained-glass windows shattered. Great columns split and crashed down. Paint flowed from the walls like blood. The other Phantom Thieves sprinted for the exit, Vixen clutching the Treasure — the original Sayuri, showing Hinata Kitagawa cradling baby Yukiko, signed falsely by Madarame — under one arm. Joker paused for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning the rafters. Then, with a subtle nod, he leapt through the glowing portal just as the entire Gallery of Vainglory collapsed in on itself — a blinding flash of multicolored light bursting outward like a star going nova.
And then—
Silence.
The Thieves tumbled back into the real world, landing in a heap behind Madarame’s shack in the evening gloom.
As the glow of their victory faded and the world stabilized around them, Akira stretched with a groan, one hand rubbing his stomach. “We just beat a narcissistic demon god and sprinted through a collapsing cathedral,” he said, deadpan. “I’m starving. My treat.”
That was all the encouragement they needed.
Big Bang Burger - Shibuya
The Phantom Thieves were wedged into the corner booth like puzzle pieces, soda glasses sweating on the table. Their laughter bounced off the checkerboard floors and neon signage as the adrenaline started to wear off — leaving only aching muscles and a warm, shared buzz of victory.
Ann was recounting how she'd nearly tripped over a loose floor tile mid-fight. Ryuemi and Morgane were arguing about who’d gotten the most KOs, jabbing each other with straws. Shiho was laughing at both of them. Akira was scrolling on his phone, responding to a barrage of texts from Futaba.
Yukiko sat slightly apart, watching with a small, content smile. She sipped from her orange soda and finally spoke up — her voice soft, but certain. “Can I ask something?” she said. “What’s the real goal here? I mean… the Phantom Thieves. Why do you all do this?”
The table stilled a little, the question bringing with it a ripple of seriousness.
Ryuemi leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “To help people,” she said, no hesitation in her voice. “People like us — stuck in something awful and thinking there’s no way out. Like what happened with Kamoshida. Or with you and Madarame.”
Yukiko looked down, nodding slightly. “Then… I’d like to join. Formally. Not just as someone you saved, but as one of you. If you’ll have me.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Shiho snorted, waving a fry at her. “Formally? Girl, what are you talking about? You’re already part of the team.”
Yukiko blinked. “W-What?”
“You got a mask, you got a Persona, and you almost turned that creep into sashimi back there,” Ann added with a grin. “You’re in.”
A flustered pink crept up Yukiko’s cheeks, but she was spared from further embarrassment by the timely arrival of their food — a chaotic mountain of burgers, fries, and chicken baskets.
The table broke out into renewed chatter and the sounds of wrappers crinkling, trays being divvied up, and Futaba humming over her chili dog.
As they dug in, Akira looked up from his drink and turned to Yukiko again. “So… now that Madarame’s going down — he’ll probably confess in a couple days — it’s likely all his assets will be seized. That includes the atelier. Do you have a place to go?”
Yukiko paused, halfway through dipping a fry in ketchup. “I… could probably stay at the Kosei dorms. It’s not ideal, but it’s a roof over my head, and I doubt they’ll kick me out.”
Akira nodded, thoughtful. Then, without another word, he stood and excused himself from the booth, weaving through the crowd to step out front.
The others watched him go, a little confused. But by the time he returned five minutes later, his usual calm expression was back — only this time, he wore a small, knowing smile.
“Everything okay?” Ann asked.
“Fine,” Akira replied, sitting down and picking up his drink again. “But first… food.”
He took a long sip, ignoring the curious glances around the table.
Yukiko squinted at him, suspicious. “You’re hiding something.”
He shrugged, entirely unapologetic. “Eat first,” he repeated, with the faintest smirk. “Then we’ll see.”
Harajuku – Early Evening
The city buzzed around them: lights flickering on in storefronts, laughter spilling from open cafés, and the low hum of distant trains threading through the sky. Yukiko glanced around uncertainly, hugging the jacket she had borrowed from Ryuemi a little tighter around herself as she stood beside Akira outside a modest, modern apartment building tucked between a bookstore and a bubble tea shop.
“So… why are we here again?” she asked, brow furrowed as she looked up at the building’s facade. “I thought we were just picking up some coffee.”
Akira didn’t answer at first — just gave her one of those small, mysterious smiles that seemed to say trust me. He stepped forward, hand gently tugging her along.
“Come on,” he said. “You’ll see.”
They stepped into the letting agent’s office tucked beside the building’s lobby. A polite woman behind the counter greeted them, already holding out a key and a stack of paperwork. “Ah, you must be Miss Yukiko Kitagawa. Everything’s in order. The apartment’s ready for you — you can move in anytime.”
Yukiko blinked. Once. Twice. “I—I’m sorry, what?”
She looked at Akira, who leaned against the counter with casual ease, hands in his pockets, looking very pleased with himself.
“It’s a studio,” he said, voice low and reassuring. “Fully furnished. Close enough to Kosei that you won’t have a brutal commute. You don’t have to worry about rent — it’s paid for the year.”
“You—” Yukiko’s breath caught. “You paid for—? Akira—what—? Why?”
He tilted his head. “Because you needed a fresh start,” he said simply. “And everyone deserves one. Especially you.”
For a moment, Yukiko just stared at him, lips parted in shock.
Then, without warning, she stepped forward and threw her arms around him — clutching him tightly, fiercely, as though anchoring herself.
“You idiot,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “You… unbelievable, ridiculous idiot. Thank you.”
Akira blinked, surprised by the intensity of the hug. But after a heartbeat, his arms came up gently around her shoulders.
“Anytime,” he said softly.
Later That Night
Yukiko had just finished unpacking the last of her things — mostly art supplies and books — into her new apartment when her phone buzzed with a notification.
Group Chat: “Akira Thirstposting HQ”
(Members: BimboBerry , BangBangBaby , PlunderBae , SiroccoFée… and now Yukiko)
After finding out who was who, Yukiko changed her chat name to BlossomUndone
BimboBerry:
Welcome to the chaos, Yukiko~ 😘
Where we all dream about what Akira’s hugs feel like and aggressively support each other’s delusions.
BlossomUndone:
Warm… safe…
Like nothing bad could ever happen to you.
SiroccoFée:
…That’s oddly specific.
How do you know what his hugs feel like?
Another pause. And then Yukiko, completely unaware of the emotional detonation she was about to cause, replied:
BlossomUndone:
I hugged him earlier today.
After he showed me the apartment.
The one he rented for me.
The typing bubbles vanished. For a moment, the chat went completely silent. Then—
BimboBerry:
🎇🎆🔥🚨 WHAT DO YOU MEAN “THE APARTMENT HE RENTED FOR ME” EXCUSE ME??? 🔥🎆🎇
BangBangBaby:
👁️👄👁️
Did you just drop a life-altering bomb like it was nothing?
PlunderBae:
NO HOLD ON BACK UP REVERSE—
WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE RENTED YOU A WHOLE APARTMENT
SiroccoFée:
I asked how you knew what his hugs felt like
AND YOU RESPOND WITH A HALLMARK MOVIE PLOT TWIST????
BimboBerry:
Yukiko. Babe. Honey.
Start from the beginning.
Do not skip a single goddamn detail.
We are all living vicariously through you now.
SiroccoFée:
Wait, I’m still trying to catch up—he what?? 😳
BangBangBaby:
He. Paid. For. An. Apartment.
An ENTIRE YEAR.
For her.
SiroccoFée:
I swear to God, if this boy turns out to be secretly royalty I’m gonna lose it
BlossomUndone:
He took me to this apartment building in Harajuku.
I thought we were just picking up coffee, but… he brought me to a letting office.
He paid for a year of rent on a furnished studio apartment.
He just… handed me a fresh start.
And when I hugged him…
That’s what it felt like.
BangBangBaby:
I’m crying.
Like. Legitimately crying.
Who does that?
PlunderBae:
Akira “Emotionally Wrecking Us All Since April” Amamiya, apparently.
I’m gonna be insufferable about this for days
Someone get Akira a crown, the man is PEAK
BangBangBaby:
Forget a crown, get him a throne.
And I will sit next to it.
Or on it. I’m flexible.
SiroccoFée:
You’re all unhinged
PlunderBae:
And you love it 💋
BlossomUndone:
…Is it always like this?
BimboBerry:
Oh honey
You have no idea.
The dim crimson glow of the Mementos entrance shimmered against the subway tracks, casting long shadows over the tiles. The air buzzed with residual cognition, humming with the uneasy stillness of a mindscape on the brink of unrest.
Akira stood near the ledge with his hands in his coat pockets, head tilted slightly back, storm-grey eyes half-lidded with thought. His boot tapped lightly on the edge of the concrete, the only sound aside from the occasional crackle of ambient static or distant mechanical groan.
Thud.
A Shadow skittered into view — misshapen, twitching, already unraveling at the seams.
Bang.
It exploded in a flash of blue flame before it could even form a coherent shape, leaving nothing behind but ash and smoke.
Floating just to his right, arms crossed and boots hovering slightly off the ground, Arsène gave an exaggerated sigh.
"Careful, trickster," the Persona purred in that rich, velvety tone. "At this rate, Mementos will run out of Shadows before you run out of brooding."
Akira smirked faintly."Not brooding. Just thinking."
"Ah yes, thinking. About how you rented an apartment for your new artist friend and didn’t once consider how that might look?" Arsene's glowing eyes narrowed with amused skepticism. "Truly, your obliviousness is… impressive."
Akira shrugged, still calm. "I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. The Phantom Thieves don’t need it. I barely buy anything for myself. If I can make someone’s life better… why wouldn’t I?"
Arsene gave a mock sigh and stretched his arms out wide. "And yet you remain baffled by the hearts you steal without even trying."
Arsène was about to say more when something shifted — a cold pressure cutting through the air like a knife.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of sharp heels striking stone echoed down the tunnel, even and deliberate.
Akira didn’t move. A grin slowly pulled at the edge of his mouth. “I was wondering when you were going to show up…”
He turned, his eyes catching the glint of blue and velvet black. Ren stood at the edge of the gloom, framed by the flickering lights of Mementos. Her Black Mask uniform hugged her frame with deadly elegance, saber glinting at her side, her helmet hiding her expression — but not the storm in her posture.
“Okay… I can’t tell with the whole mask thing,” Akira said, taking a cautious half-step back, one hand drifting near his tonfa. “Are you pissed off? You’re not, right?”
Ren’s only answer was a sudden hum as her energy saber cleaved toward him. He leapt to the side, pulling his tonfas out with practiced ease.
“Okay, you’re pissed!” he said as he dodged a second slash, boots scraping across the floor. “Why are you pissed?!”
Another lunge, this one closer. The saber grazed his sleeve. Sparks flew.
“Ren—talk to me!”
“Shut up and fight!” she snarled.
There was no time to hesitate. Akira ducked a low swing and deflected the next with the flat of his tonfa. Sparks and breath. Light and shadow.
“Show me what you can do,” Ren hissed, her blade crashing against his guard.
“Ren—”
“Show me you can make a difference.” Her strikes came faster now, anger and something more tangled in every blow.
Akira blocked again, then rolled back, breathing hard. “I don’t understand—”
“Show me that you can keep me safe!” she shouted, voice raw. “Like you keep them safe…”
The words hung in the air like gunpowder, crackling with unshed emotion.
Akira’s breath caught — and for the first time, he didn’t dodge.
Ren’s saber halted a hair’s breadth from his throat. Trembling. Her chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths.
Slowly, Akira reached up and gently pushed the blade aside with his tonfa. His voice was quiet, steady.
“…Always.”
The echoes of their earlier battle had long since faded, swallowed by the slow, pulsing heartbeat of Mementos. Now, the subway cavern felt still — like a breath held in silence.
Ren sat on the cold stone steps leading down into the tracks, helmet discarded beside her. Her hair was damp with sweat, clinging to her cheeks, and her eyes shimmered faintly in the dim red light. Akira sat beside her, his arm slung gently around her shoulders, holding her close without pressure, his other hand brushing away the tears that slid down her face.
For a while, she didn’t say anything. Just leaned against him — her body heavy with exhaustion, her mind heavier with the burden she’d carried alone for far too long.
Then finally, softly:
“I didn’t even mean to come here, you know.”
Akira glanced down at her, waiting.
“I stumbled into Mementos by accident… not long after my mother killed herself.” Her voice didn’t waver, but her shoulders tensed under his arm. “I was thirteen. I was angry, I was scared, I wanted answers no one could give me.”
Her fingers curled into the hem of her gloves, eyes distant. “That’s when I met Freya… she burst out of me in a firestorm. Claimed to be my rage — my desire to tear the world down before it could break me again.”
She swallowed, then gave a small, humorless laugh. “Then came Maid Marian. All courtly manners and archaic speech. She says she’s my compassion… though she’s just as strong as Freya when it comes to a fight. Maybe stronger.”
Akira said nothing, letting her speak. His thumb gently rubbed circles into her shoulder.
“One of the foster homes I ended up in… the father had ties to Kirijo. Labs. He recognized the signs, the talk about Personas, cognition, shadows. He reported me. And next thing I knew, I was ‘recruited.’”
Her voice dropped.
“For testing.”
A bitter note slipped into her tone.
“Eventually, they put me on a special taskforce. They said it was modeled after Mitsuru Kirijo’s old team. Said we were going to save the world.” She looked down at her hands. “But I wasn’t saving anyone. We were the scalpel they used in the dark. We didn’t protect the world… we protected powerful men.”
A long silence stretched between them. Akira’s expression hardened slightly, but he remained still — present.
Finally, Ren looked up at him, her eyes tired and haunted. “I didn’t find out the truth until years later. That the man behind it all — the one bankrolling the ‘Utopian Society of the Future’ — was Masayoshi Shido. The real leader. The one who decides who lives and dies in this quiet little empire.”
She gave a humorless laugh, bitter as bile.
“And lucky me… I’m his daughter. Not that he knows it.”
That got a blink from Akira — not of shock, but understanding. He knew what it meant to be caught in someone else’s web.
Ren continued, voice quieter now. “The Black Masks. There’s seven of us. Eight, once Lily finishes training. We serve the Society, but only answer to Shido.”
Her head tilted slightly, resting against his shoulder. “Madarame was one of them. So when you took his Palace… you didn’t just beat a corrupt artist.”
She looked at him, solemn and a little proud.
“You picked a fight with the real power in this country.”
A pause.
“Nice going, idiot.”
Akira let out a breath, not quite a laugh. “What can I say? I like punching up.”
Ren leaned into him a little more.
“…I’m tired of being their weapon.”
Her voice barely above a whisper.
“I want to choose who I fight for.”
Akira finally looked down at her, his storm-grey gaze steady.
“You already have.”
Outside, the Tokyo night hummed quietly — streetlamps casting golden halos on the pavement, the hum of traffic softened to a distant purr. Inside the café, all was calm. Muted lighting, clinking mugs, and the low murmur of other patrons wrapped the small booth in a cocoon of peace.
Akira sipped at his black coffee, steam curling upward like ghostly fingers. Across from him, Ren was halfway through demolishing a towering stack of pancakes—glazed in honey, drizzled in chocolate, loaded with strawberries and a mountain of whipped cream. It looked less like a dessert and more like a structural engineering challenge.
Akira’s lips twitched upward. “One of these days, I’m going to make you and Ann compete to see who has the bigger sweet tooth.”
Ren didn’t even look up. She simply narrowed her eyes mid-bite and sent him a look of pure venom from over the rim of her plate.
He chuckled, unbothered, sipping again.
They talked for a while about nothing — teasing over favorite shows, arguing about the superior ramen spot in Tokyo, Ren casually threatening to stab him if he kept making fun of her syrup habits. But as her fork hit the empty plate and she wiped the chocolate from the corner of her mouth with a napkin, the air between them shifted.
Akira’s smile faded. “Are you sure you want to do this? Being a double agent is dangerous, Ren. If they suspect even once…”
“They won’t.” Ren’s tone was calm but firm. “I’ve spent years pretending to be the good soldier. I know how to walk their line. And right now?” She exhaled slowly. “As the Thieves are, going after the Society would be suicide. But with me on the inside… I can buy us time. I can warn you if things start going pear-shaped.”
Akira studied her, brows slightly furrowed. “You shouldn’t have to shoulder this alone.”
“I’m not.” She smiled softly, the edge of her teacup tapping the saucer. “Not anymore.”
A long silence settled, not awkward — but heavy with everything unsaid.
Akira studied her for a moment, his storm-grey eyes thoughtful. Then he smiled — just a little crooked, a little dangerous.
“So…” he said, leaning back in the booth, “the Detective Princess is now a Thief?”
He shook his head with a grin. “Nao-nee would absolutely have a fit.”
Ren leaned forward, resting her chin in one hand as she smiled at him through lidded eyes.
“Mm,” she purred. “Maybe she should’ve warned me about how bad an influence you’d be…”
Akira raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So this is all my fault now?”
Ren smirked. “You’re the one who saved the tragic girl with daddy issues and gave her pancakes and purpose.”
He laughed. “That sounds like a weirdly specific fairy tale.”
She shrugged with mock innocence. “I like my fairy tales with black coffee and sharp jawlines.”
Akira looked away, trying — and failing — to hide the warmth rising to his cheeks.
A Few Days Later – Early Evening – Television Broadcast
The camera zoomed in on Ichiryusai Madarame, disheveled and glassy-eyed, as he was escorted in handcuffs out of his manor by a pair of uniformed officers. Flashbulbs popped in rapid succession. He looked nothing like the dignified, venerable master the public had once revered. His eyes were sunken, his frame hunched, the once-pristine yukata hanging loose on his shoulders.
Behind him, sharp-eyed viewers could spot a familiar figure in the crowd — Ren, clad in a tailored black suit, her expression unreadable behind her mask of professionalism, arms crossed as she watched Madarame being stuffed into the back of a police van.
[TV News Anchor – Voiceover]
“Breaking news tonight as famed artist Ichiryusai Madarame has been taken into custody following a shocking confession that has rocked the Tokyo art world. In a written statement released by his legal representation, Madarame admits to a laundry list of crimes including:
– Systematic plagiarism of his students’ work
– Financial and intellectual theft
– Sustained physical and psychological abuse
– Endangerment of minors
– Homicide by willful inaction… and more.
In a chilling excerpt, Madarame writes: ‘I built my empire on the bones of the talented and the trusting. I turned a blind eye to suffering… and I let someone die when I could have helped her.’"
Leblanc – Interior – Dusk
The glow of the television flickered softly in the warm interior of Leblanc, casting light across the quiet, gathered group.
Ann. Shiho. Ryuemi. Morgane. Yukiko. All watching the screen in silence.
When the news anchor wrapped up the segment and the screen cut to a commercial, nobody said anything at first. Then slowly, almost instinctively, the Phantom Thieves glanced at each other — eyes meeting, smiles forming.
A ripple of satisfaction passed among them, the weight of righteous justice finally settling.
"Looks like the bastard finally got what was coming to him," Ryuemi murmured.
"About damn time," added Shiho, nudging Yukiko gently. "You okay?"
Yukiko, her arms folded, nodded quietly. Her eyes were glassy, but she smiled. “Yeah. Better than I ever thought I’d be.”
Morgane smirked. “We do good work.”
Akira, standing behind the counter , met their gazes one by one.
No words were needed.
They’d done it.
They’d brought him down.
Akira turned toward the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. As the smell of simmering spices and fresh-ground beans began to drift through the café, the group settled in, the tension in their bodies giving way to something gentler. Relief. Closure. Even hope.
But just before the scene could settle into comfort, Akira spoke — calm, but firm.
“We hit Mementos tomorrow. Training day.”
Several groans.
A few mock complaints.
But no objections.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Chapter 15: Dancing Among The Shadows
Summary:
All aboard the Velvet Express :)
The new girl learns how to play with others, and our intrepid Thieves start taking requests.
The orange-haired gremlin makes another friend and goes outside
Chapter Text
The shadows curled and hissed around the entrance platform of Mementos, a surreal subway station floating in the yawning abyss of the collective unconscious. Distant echoes of train horns faded into the stale, static-charged air.
Joker stood at the edge of the platform, arms crossed, storm-grey eyes watching the endless track fade into darkness. Beside him stood Comet, her hand resting on her cutlass. Panther and Dead-Eye leaned against one of the pillars, chatting softly, while Vent leaned on the railing, her throwing disc balanced on her back like a warrior’s shield. Vixen stood still, taking everything in with quiet wonder.
“So… this is Mementos,” she murmured, her voice tinged with awe.
Joker nodded. “The collective unconscious of Tokyo. Every suppressed emotion, every buried wish, every fear people deny—they all gather here, twist themselves into Shadows.”
“And you say we can explore it?” Vixen asked, tilting her head. “The deeper we go, the more twisted things get?”
“Exactly,” Joker replied. “The more people believe in us… the deeper this place lets us go. It's like the world itself is watching us. Judging us. Granting us access—if it thinks we’re worthy.”
Vixen looked intrigued. “Fascinating… It’s like the boundary between cognition and spirit has been made literal…”
Vent huffed from her perch. “So what, we just keep going after big-name dirtbags? Build a fanbase?”
Joker shook his head. “Yes… and no. High-profile targets raise our rep, sure. But that’s not the only reason we’re here.”
He looked out into the distance, where the tracks shimmered in the dark like veins of some massive beast. “There are people out there suffering in silence—being hurt by co-workers, lovers, family. Bullies and abusers don’t always make headlines… but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous.”
He paused, voice low but firm. “Even if there’s just one victim… I want us to help them. No matter what.”
Comet looked up at him, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “I get it, Joker. But how do we even find these people? We’re not exactly psychic.”
A new set of footsteps echoed on the stairs behind them.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
Joker didn’t turn, but the grin was already tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“That’s where she comes in.”
The footsteps reached the final stair, and the group turned as a new figure stepped into view. Cream-colored sweater dress, slouchy off-the-shoulder fit. Dark leggings. Ankle boots with just enough heel to click dramatically against the cold stone. The soft, familiar voice that followed froze half the team in place.
“Hey,” said Ren, with a calm smile and a small wave.
“REN?!” Dead-Eye nearly dropped pistol that she had idly been spinning.
Panther’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Hold up. Ren?! Detective Ren?!”
Even Vent was stunned into silence.
“Wha—what are you doing here?” Comet asked, stepping forward like she wasn’t sure if Ren was real.
Joker just smirked, already walking over to Ren like none of this surprised him. “Great. You made it.”
He turned back to the group, hands in his pockets and expression far too smug for his own good. “Ren’s going to be joining the team.”
“WHAT?!” Dead-Eye gasped.
“But—how? Do you even…” Panther began.
“Have a Persona?” Ren cut in smoothly, that faint grin tugging at her lips. “Yup. I have two.”
The platform fell completely silent. Then flames curled around Ren’s body in a wave of gold, red, and pink. The heat shimmered in the air as she stepped forward transformed—Freya to her left, stood tall and imposing, her blue skin etched with glowing silver runes that pulsed with ancient power. Golden hair whipped around her like wild firelight, and a cloak of wolf pelts billowed behind her shoulders. She gripped a staff crowned with a raven skull smoking with violet energy, her lavender eyes alight with cold wrath. Each step she took left frost in her wake, the spectral shapes of wolves flitting around her like silent guardians. Maid Marian, to her right, radiated a calm, radiant strength—her freckled skin and fiery red braid softened by the shimmer of golden-green light. Clad in a deep emerald gown trimmed with gold thread and wind-swept ivy, she moved with the effortless grace of a forest spirit. At her hip hung a quiver of luminous arrows, and in her hands she held a silver-inlaid bow, its string glowing with Bless energy. Leaves stirred at her feet, stirred by a wind that carried the hush of ancient woods.
Ren’s outfit glittered beneath the low light of Mementos: a sleek, white bodice hugged her form, trimmed with delicate red and pink accents that traced her silhouette. A short, petal-like skirt flowed outward in layered sheer fabric, each layer edged in gold like morning sun on dew. Her gloves bore faint lotus motifs, and the gold circlet wrapped elegantly around her forehead like a crown plucked from an enchanted glade. Her red mask was sharp and sleek, balancing delicate beauty with defiant rebellion. She had even replaced her energy sword with an intricately-detailed staff.
The stunned silence was broken by Dead-Eye’s high-pitched scream: “Oh. My. GOD. She’s like a magical girl! She’s freaking Sailor Moon!!!”
Panther squealed, practically teleporting to Ren’s side. “Where did you get this look?! It’s perfect!”
Vent blinked. “Okay. I hate how much I love this.”
Comet burst into laughter, and even Vixen found herself smiling softly despite being the only one unfamiliar with the normally stoic Ren.
Ren flushed scarlet under the attention, clearly overwhelmed but trying to maintain her composure. She looked to Joker, suddenly self-conscious. “Too much?”
Joker stepped forward, his gaze warm. “You’re perfect.”
He winked. “Welcome to the team, Lotus.”
Lotus looked around, overwhelmed—but her smile was radiant. For once, she didn’t feel like she was pretending to belong. Surrounded by laughter, cheers, and compliments, she felt it deep in her chest:
Acceptance.
The Phantom Thieves didn’t have long to marvel at Lotus’s transformation before the telltale rumble of the Velvet Express reached their ears. A moment later, the RV screeched to a stop on the platform beside them, its engine growling like a caged beast. The door slid open, and Lavenza leaned out from the driver’s seat, hair tied back and goggles resting on her head.
“Apologies for the delay, Trickster,” she said, voice calm as always. “I took the liberty of tuning the transmission to handle deeper layers. And I brought snacks.”
Vixen blinked, confused. “Who…?”
“Vixen, meet Lavenza,” Joker said with a smirk. “One of my closest friends. She helps us get around and occasionally smacks me upside the head with metaphysical truths.”
“And you must be Justice,” Lavenza said, regarding Lotus with serene interest. “Your energy… it’s as if two masks share the same soul. Not the power of the Wildcard, but still very powerful.”
“Try living with them,” Lotus muttered, stepping aside to let the others board. Joker lingered at her side for just a moment.
“You ready for this?”
“I will be,” she said. “I have to be.”
The Velvet Express roared down into the deeper layers of Mementos, the scenery growing stranger and darker with every level. When it finally skidded to a stop, they stepped out into a cavernous expanse lit only by eerie red and purple veins pulsing through the rock.
“Alright,” Joker said, cracking his knuckles. “This is a good spot. We’ll run formation drills. Work on synergy. Learn each other’s rhythms.”
Lotus crossed her arms. “I know how to fight.”
“You know how to fight alone,” Joker replied. “Let’s fix that.”
The first wave of Shadows struck hard—low-level but fast, a swarm of agile Nekomatas, Hua Pos and Apsarasases that came at them in a blur of claws, ice and fire.
“Comet, Vent, you’re on crowd control,” Joker shouted, flipping over a lunging Nekomata and crushing it with a spinning heel kick. “Panther, Dead-Eye—pressure flanks. Vixen, support. Lotus, pick a target and stay with it!”
Lotus didn’t listen.
With a wordless command, Freya exploded from her mask in a maelstrom of flames, casting a devastating Maeiha that staggered every enemy at once. Lotus darted forward like a missile, carving down two enemies with her staff and snapping orders to Maid Marian for a finishing Hamaon.
Impressive. Flawless. Solo.
By the time the rest of the team caught up, there was nothing left.
The next few battles played out much the same. Lotus was a hurricane of precision and fury, tearing through foes before anyone else could land a blow. Her Curse and Bless combo was devastating—Freya sowed fear and panic, Marian delivered swift, blinding justice.
And it was pissing the others off.
“Are we training or just watching the Ren Show?” Vent snapped, disc flying back to her hand with a frustrated whistle.
Comet scowled. “You’re strong, yeah. No one’s denying that. But the point is working together.”
“I don’t need—” Lotus started, but Joker cut her off.
“Walk with me.”
They stepped away from the others, into the dim-lit shadows by the cave wall. Joker crossed his arms.
“You’re good. But good’s not enough, not for what we’re up against.”
“I’m trying—”
“No,” he said, firm but not unkind. “You’re trying to carry everything yourself. That won’t work here. If something happens to you because you didn’t trust your team—” He paused. “I won’t let that happen. So don’t make me choose between protecting you and protecting them.”
Lotus looked at him, startled by the intensity in his voice. Her hands clenched at her sides. “I’ve… never really had people I could trust before.”
“Start now,” Joker said. “We’ve got your back.”
The next encounter was a mid-tier enemy — a Kin-Ki with high defense and unpredictable tactics. Lotus hesitated for just a moment… and then dropped back in formation behind Vixen.
“Vixen, cover Dead-Eye,” she ordered. “Comet, distract it. Vent, take out its legs.”
The plan worked perfectly.
Comet darted forward, parrying a club strike with her cutlass while Vent ricocheted her disc into a behemoth’s knee. It stumbled, and Lotus surged in—but not alone. Dead-Eye and Panther pinned the beast down long enough for Lotus to finish it off with a one-two punch of Eiga and Kouga.
They moved like a unit. A team.
Dead-Eye whooped. “Okay, okay, now she’s in sync!”
Panther gave a sly grin. “Took you long enough, magical girl.”
Lotus just grinned and adjusted her gloves. “Had to make sure you were worth keeping up with.”
Joker nodded in approval, letting the team bask in their progress for a moment. Then he stepped forward, drawing his tonfas.
“Alright,” he said with a crooked grin. “Now let’s get started on our real mission.”
The team piled back into the Velvet Express, breathless, bruised, and sweating—but also grinning, buzzing from the adrenaline and victories earned.
The engine purred beneath them as Lavenza guided the vehicle along a smoother path, allowing the Thieves time to rest and regroup. Inside, the cabin glowed with a soft blue light, casting gentle shadows on the group’s tired but satisfied faces.
Joker stood near the front, one hand braced on a rail as he turned to face his team. His storm-grey eyes swept over them, sharp but kind.
“Alright,” he began. “First off—nice work today. I saw a lot of progress.”
He pointed to Comet and Vent. “Your coordination was on point. Keep that momentum up.”
“To be fair, she’s learning,” Vent muttered, nudging Comet with her elbow. “But I am a great teacher.”
Joker ignored the quip and turned to Panther and Dead-Eye. “You two provided excellent support. Tight movement, quick response, good communication.”
Dead-Eye shot a grin at Panther. “Told you we’re the dream team.”
“Yeah, yeah, say more,” Panther said, flicking her hair dramatically.
Then Joker turned his gaze to Lotus. “And you… You showed real growth today.”
Lotus shifted a little, her mask now resting beside her in the seat, her pink-gloved fingers curling around the edge of the bench.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice low but sincere. “For rushing ahead earlier. I thought I had to prove myself… but I see now I don’t have to do it alone. I promise I’ll do better.”
A beat of silence—then Dead-Eye leaned forward and cuffed her lightly on the shoulder.
“Dude, you’re fine.”
Panther nodded, smiling. “Seriously. We’re just glad you’re here.”
“You’re already one of us,” Comet added, offering a fist bump.
Lotus hesitated… then bumped it.
Joker smiled, warm and proud. “Good. Because we’re going to need all of us working together for what’s next.”
Lotus reached into a small side pouch on her belt and pulled out a folded notepad, offering it to Joker. “These are some of the complaints we’ve received in the last couple of weeks. None of them had the cognitive density to generate a Palace, but the ones on that list…” She tapped the notepad. “They’re lingering. Hiding. Somewhere in here.”
Joker flipped the notepad open. Scrawled neatly inside were names, brief descriptions, and patterns—anonymous tips and police complaints involving verbal and physical abuse, bullying, coercion, even stalking. The kind of pain that society brushed aside.
He looked back up at the team.
“I had Lotus take a look through the police archives—open cases that didn’t go anywhere. Abuse, harassment, exploitation. The kind of stuff that breaks people slowly.”
He held the notepad aloft so they could all see it.
“They’re not big enough to spawn Palaces… but their Shadows are still in here, festering. Feeding off their warped thoughts. That means they’re vulnerable.”
He grinned, eyes glinting with purpose.
“So what do you girls say? Want to make some house calls?”
Dead-Eye’s eyes sparked. “Hell yeah.”
Panther cracked her knuckles. “Let’s show these bastards what justice looks like.”
Vent leaned back in her seat with a smirk. “Nothing like a little therapeutic beatdown.”
Vixen nodded eagerly. “If it helps people, I’m in.”
Lotus, sitting beside Joker, gave him a sidelong look—half-flirtatious, half-respectful. “You really know how to get people fired up, you know that?”
Joker chuckled. “You love it.”
Lavenza looked at them through the rearview mirror and gave a rare, fond smile. “Destination set. Let us begin the purge.”
The Phantom Thieves had settled into a rhythm.
The Velvet Express roared down deeper levels of Mementos as each Shadow alert pinged across Lavenza’s dashboard like sonar. Each time it did, the team disembarked—spirits high, weapons ready.
One: Haruka Nishida – a cruel landlord who verbally abused her tenants and ignored life-threatening maintenance issues.
“You think I care if the water’s poisoned? You little rats should be grateful you have a roof at all!”
Panther unleashed Agilao, igniting the Shadow’s grotesque rat-like form. Vent followed with a Garula-infused chakram throw, knocking it flat. Joker finished the job with a precise Terror Strike from Arsène.
Haruka’s Shadow curled up, sobbing, promising to treat people like humans again.
Two: Kazuki Kanno – a high school coach accused of shaming his athletes and encouraging dangerous overtraining.
“Weakness is failure! If they break, they deserve it!”
Comet tackled the hulking Shadow head-on, drawing its attention. Vixen and Lotus flanked from both sides, their Personas—Tomoe Gozen and Freya—launching Bufu and Eiga in rapid succession. Dead-Eye slammed him into submission with a radiant Flash Bomb.
“Maybe if you’d listened to your students,” Dead-Eye growled, “they wouldn’t be in the hospital.”
Three: Minoru Takeba – a supervisor who used his position to harass and manipulate female interns.
“You liked the attention, don’t lie! You wanted this!”
Comet responded with a wrathful Zionga, while Maid Marian’s Kouha lanced through the Shadow’s sleazy form. Panther and Vent tag-teamed a combo attack, finishing with a stylish double strike.
Panther flipped her hair, exhaling hard. “No woman asks for this, scum.”
The team returned to the Velvet Express, laughing and chatting between battles. Lotus sat beside Comet and Vent, trading off-handed compliments. Panther and Dead-Eye bickered playfully over who’d scored more knockdowns.
“Nice timing back there, Lotus,” Panther said, tossing her a water bottle. “Your Bless/Curse combo is killer.”
Lotus caught the bottle with a grin. “Took me a while to learn to stop getting in your way.”
Joker watched from the front of the van, leaning casually against the back of his seat, sipping from his coffee mug. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The smile on his face said enough.
Then, Lavenza’s voice interrupted the moment.
“We have one more target on this floor. I’ve triangulated his Shadow’s signature. Estimated aggression is… high.”
“Who is it?” Joker asked, already pulling his gloves back on.
Lavenza’s eyes flicked to the readout. “Masato Fujimori.”
The team quieted.
Joker unfolded the case note Lotus had supplied. “Young guy, university dropout. His online handle was traced back to hundreds of misogynistic posts and threats. He used social media to stalk women, harass them, and leak their private info. Some of the girls even received death threats.”
Comet’s jaw tightened. “Bastard.”
Vixen muttered, “He deserves more than a scare.”
“Still no Palace,” Joker confirmed. “Which means he’s not completely lost… yet.”
They soon arrived at their destination to find Masato Fujimori’s twisted form, like a spider wrapped in cords and cables, hunched over a laptop with jagged antennae protruding from its back. His face was elongated into a mocking smirk, and screens floated around him, showing images of laughing girls, blurred-out faces, and flashing comment sections.
When he noticed the Thieves, he let out a shrill, digital screech.
“You think you’re better than me?! I was NICE to her! And she LAUGHED! Her friends LAUGHED!”
The team flinched at the feedback in his voice. Vent clutched her head. “Ugh, someone turn the reverb down!”
“I gave her compliments! I followed her online! I even bought her gifts! But they treated me like garbage—like I didn’t EXIST!”
A shadowy video flickered behind him—a girl rejecting him in front of her friends, one of them recording with a phone, all of them laughing. It was hard to watch. The cruelty felt… too familiar.
“That doesn’t justify what you did,” Lotus said, stepping forward, Freya emerging behind her, her eyes glowing ominously. “You attacked strangers. Stole their safety just because you felt small.”
“You don’t know what it’s like!” Fujimori’s Shadow screamed, wings of tangled wire spreading wide. “To want someone so badly and have them mock you! Like you’re a joke!”
“No,” Joker said, stepping beside Lotus, “but I know what it’s like to be hurt. And I also know the difference between pain… and cruelty.”
“Let’s bring this freak down,” Comet muttered.
“Everyone,” Joker called. “Formation. Let’s finish this.”
The Phantom Thieves stood ready—six against one.
But Masato Fujimori’s Shadow was no ordinary foe. The monstrous spider-wired beast hissed from its perch, long tendrils of neon blue data and black cabling writhing in every direction. Screens spun like wings, reflecting insults, rejection texts, laughing emojis.
“All of you… you're just like her. Fake smiles. Lying eyes. Nothing behind the makeup but rot and cruelty!”
Then he struck.
A web of electricity lashed through the air."Mazionga!"
The whole platform lit up as arcs of lightning surged across it. Vixen cried out, dropping to one knee. Vent’s disc clattered to the ground, her chakram sparking with residual static.
"Psiodyne!" came next—a wave of crushing psychic energy slammed into Dead-Eye and Panther, sending them tumbling backwards with a shriek.
“Status warning,” Lavenza called from the Velvet Express, “Fear and Brainwash conditions detected!”
Panther staggered, blinking rapidly as her eyes clouded over. “I… maybe he’s right… maybe we deserved—”
“No you didn’t!” Comet tackled her aside, only to get struck with another surge of Psiodyne that sent her sliding across the floor.
Lotus tried to rally them. “Keep your spacing tight! He’s fast, but his patterns—dammit, why do our attacks keep missing?!”
Freya launched a Eiga, only for the digital Shadow to phase-shift a foot to the left.
“Too slow!” Fujimori cackled. “Too predictable! You’re just another herd of glittering parasites!”
He launched again—Psiodyne and Brain Jack in tandem—forcing the team back.
“Panther! Vixen, left flank! Dead-Eye, center with me!” Lotus barked out orders, the light of Maid Marian’s Mediarama flickering across the group, but even with support, their stamina was running thin.
The Phantom Thieves regrouped behind a fractured pillar, panting and bruised.
“This guy’s no joke,” Vent muttered. “He’s dodging like crazy.”
“He’s cracked and cracked out,” Dead-Eye growled, wiping blood from her lip.
Lotus leaned on her staff. “We’re too scattered. We’re reacting to him, not taking control.”
“Exactly,” came Joker’s calm voice from behind them.
The group looked up. Joker hadn’t moved from the rear, hands still tucked in his hoodie pockets, a quiet sentinel behind it all.
He stepped forward now, the soft clack of his boots the only sound in the dead air. “You did well,” he said gently. “You held out longer than most would’ve. Now let me handle this.”
Lotus opened her mouth to protest—but the look in Joker’s storm-grey eyes silenced her.
Joker cracked his neck, and the air shifted.
“Let’s dance.”
He called his first Persona—
“Kaguya!”
A radiant burst of moonlight cleaved the air, Kaguya appearing in a swirl of silvery mist. Her Shining Arrow attack blasted Masato’s Shadow back, searing through his shielding cables.
“Melchizedek!”
With a flash of divine light, the towering Persona struck with Divine Judgement and a glowing shield of Makakarn, reflecting Masato’s next Zionga back at him.
The Shadow screeched, staggered.
“Why aren’t you breaking like the rest of them?!”
Joker’s answer came with a change in tempo.
“Kin-Ki.” A flash of gold and iron. The iron-clad ogre slammed his fists down with a Charge-boosted Negative Pile, smashing cables and panels underfoot.
“High Pixie.” Electricity danced across her fingers as Mazionga surged back through the Shadow’s limbs—payback.
“Kushinada-Hime.” Gentle, maternal winds swirled as she cast Mediarahan, healing the bruised and battered girls behind him.
“Kurama Tengu.” The masked tengu zipped across the battlefield in a blur, delivering sharp Magarudyne attacks that sent the Shadow spinning, disoriented.
“Valkyrie.” A warcry split the air as she emerged, blade in hand, cleaving through Masato’s screen-wings with a powerful Deathbound, shattering his illusionary defenses.
And then, the final call.
Joker’s voice dropped an octave.
“Arsène.”
The air warped. The original trickster emerged, cloak fluttering like wings of shadow, red eyes glowing.
Joker adjusted his gloves and took a step forward.
“No more hiding.”
"Phantom’s Requiem."
Arsène blurred forward, a flurry of Curse-infused blows striking true. The final strike sent Masato’s Shadow crashing into a wall of corrupted data, a howling mess of shattered projection and static.
Dust settled. Silence.
What remained was a boy—a young man, no older than them—curled up, shoulders shaking, his face buried in his hands.
“…I just wanted someone to see me,” he whispered, “but they laughed… they all laughed…”
The others remained silent. None of them approached. But Joker did.
He stepped forward, crouched beside the sobbing boy, and gently helped him up.
Then, without a word, he pulled him into a hug.
“I get it, man,” Joker said quietly. “Rejection sucks. And being made fun of—especially when you’re just trying to reach out—hurts like hell.”
Masato blinked, startled.
“What they did to you was cruel,” Joker continued, “but turning around and hurting others because of it? That doesn’t fix anything. All it does is turn you into the thing that broke you.”
Masato’s bottom lip quivered. “But… I don’t know how to be better…”
“You start by stopping,” Joker said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Dust yourself off. Build yourself back up. There’s someone out there who’ll see the real you. Not the bitterness. Not the fear. Just you.”
The Shadow looked at him, wide-eyed, then nodded slowly.
And with that… he faded away.
Inside the Velvet Express
The tension of battle had faded, but the air still buzzed faintly with adrenaline and exhaustion as the Phantom Thieves piled back into the Velvet Express. Lavenza hummed gently to herself at the wheel as they ascended the multicolored veins of the Collective Unconscious.
Inside the vehicle, the group sat quietly, nursing minor scrapes and catching their breath. Ren leaned back against the cushioned wall, her eyes closed but her posture relaxed. She looked—finally—like she belonged.
Akira, sitting up front, turned to glance back at them. “You all did great today. That last fight was rough, but we made it through.”
Yukiko nodded, rubbing her arm. “That guy was strong. But… it felt good, helping someone like that.”
“Ren,” Akira continued, looking at her directly, “You stopped trying to solo everything. That made all the difference.”
Ren opened her eyes slowly, guilt flickering in her expression. “I’m sorry I kept rushing ahead. I just… I’ve spent so long thinking no one else could handle it. That it had to be me.”
Shiho reached over and nudged her with a small smile. “Hey. We get it.”
“Yeah,” added Ann. “You’ve been through a lot. But you’re not alone now.”
Ryuemi winked. “We’re all kinda broken. Makes us fit together better.”
Ren gave a quiet laugh, eyes misting just a little. “Thanks… for not giving up on me.”
Morgane smirked from the back seat. “Took you long enough to get with the program, Lotus.”
The laughter that followed carried them all the way out of the Metaverse.
Night – Café Leblanc, Yongen-Jaya
The bell over the door jingled softly as Akira stepped inside. The lights were low, the warm scent of curry and coffee hanging in the air like a cozy blanket. He shrugged off his hoodie and stepped behind the counter without needing to be asked.
Sojiro glanced up from polishing a mug. “Good timing. We’ve got a few late customers coming in.”
Akira nodded, rolling up his sleeves. “Hit me.”
But before Sojiro could speak again, the kitchen door slammed open with a dramatic flourish. A small figure, bright orange hair fluffed and wild, launched through the doorway like a cannonball.
“AKIRAAAAAAAA!”
Akira blinked once—then laughed as he caught the girl mid-flight, instinctively spinning her once before settling her against his chest. “Whoa there! Surprise attack successful.”
Futaba clung to him like a limpet, legs kicking, arms locked around his neck.
Sojiro chuckled, crossing his arms. “She walked here all by herself. Said she wanted to surprise you.”
Akira looked down, genuinely touched. “You did?”
Futaba grinned up at him, glasses slightly askew. “Mmhmm! Stealthed past three dogs, one drunk old man, and two vending machines. Ninja level: maxed.”
He tried to set her down, but she only clung tighter. “Nope. This is better. I wanna know what it’s like to be a giant.”
Akira laughed again, warm and unguarded. “You’re such a dork.”
“So are you,” she mumbled into his chest.
Sojiro sipped his coffee behind the bar and shook his head, a rare, proud smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get her some coffee before I head home. You get her settled.”
Akira looked down at the girl in his arms. “You hungry, Futaba?”
“I could demolish some curry.”
“You got it.”
As he carried her to a booth, still smiling despite the long day, the quiet of Leblanc wrapped around them like a blanket.
A small mountain of empty curry bowls sat in front of Futaba, who was now slouched in the booth like a satisfied cat. Her chopsticks clacked against the side of the current bowl as she ranted with unrelenting energy, cheeks puffed with every bite.
“…so then the Shogun Mecha powers up his Jet Storm Katana, and I swear he’s about to slice that idiot protagonist in half, but noooo, plot armor kicks in and bam, he learns a new move just in time!” She paused only to shovel in more rice. “And don’t even get me started on that dungeon boss in Cyber Vice IV. It spammed confuse status like it was on sale!”
Akira chuckled from behind the counter, hands busy drying cups as he kept one ear on her ramble. “You actually finished that boss?”
“With no healing items left,” she said proudly, pointing at herself. “Just pure, unfiltered genius. And hentai brainpower.”
Akira raised an eyebrow. “I’m not even gonna ask.”
“Too late,” Futaba smirked. “You’re already thinking it.”
The doorbell chimed softly, and Akira turned. Standing in the doorway was Kasumi, still in casual training gear, her red ponytail slightly tousled from whatever practice session she’d just finished.
“Oh, hey!” Akira called, setting the mug down. “Come on in, Kasumi.”
She smiled, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “Am I too late?”
“Nah. Got just enough curry left for a champion.” He was already dishing it up, then setting the plate on the counter with a fresh mug of coffee. “Your usual. You want extra potatoes?”
“Always,” she said, sliding onto the nearest stool.
Futaba tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Ohhh. So this is the girl Akira almost became roadkill for.”
Kasumi blinked. “What?”
Akira nearly choked on his laugh. “Futaba.”
“What?” she said, completely serious. “You almost died. That counts as dramatic backstory.”
Kasumi’s expression tightened for a split second, a little discomfort flickering in her eyes. “I… didn’t mean to get him hurt.”
Akira walked over and placed her plate in front of her gently. “Hey. Don’t mind her. Futaba just has a different way of saying things.”
Futaba, still chewing, gave Kasumi a thumbs-up with her chopsticks. “It’s not a bad thing. Just shows you’re important.”
Kasumi blinked again, then gave a soft little laugh, the tension easing from her shoulders. “That’s… actually kind of sweet. In a weird way.”
Akira ruffled Futaba’s hair as he refilled her drink. “She grows on you.”
Futaba made a pleased “mrrrp” sound at the head-pat, kicking her feet under the table.
“I’m gonna start cleaning the kitchen,” Akira said, walking back behind the counter. “Give me a shout if you girls want anything.”
He pulled on an apron, his back to them as he began rinsing dishes, leaving the two girls—one slurping curry and the other sipping her coffee—eyeing each other across the booth.
The kitchen door swung shut behind Akira, leaving Kasumi and Futaba in a pocket of quiet. The only sounds were the soft hum of the fridge, the faint clatter of pots in the kitchen, and the clink of Futaba’s spoon against her plate.
Kasumi glanced at her, unsure how to start a conversation with someone who’d just accused her of starring in a melodrama.
Futaba leaned back, sipping her soda lazily, eyes flicking toward Kasumi—then pausing. Her gaze zeroed in on a familiar item dangling from the strap of Kasumi’s backpack.
“...Hold up.” Futaba leaned forward, one hand on the table. “Is that a Neo Featherman Ultra keyring?”
Kasumi blinked. “Huh? Oh! Y-Yeah!” She lifted the dangling red and gold keychain slightly, smiling. “It’s Red Hawk. He was my favorite growing up.”
Futaba gasped, nearly knocking over her soda. “Red Hawk is my favorite too! He’s the only one who actually thinks with his brain and not his fists!”
“I know, right?!” Kasumi grinned. “Like, that whole arc in season four when the others thought he betrayed them, but he was actually undercover the whole time? I cried.”
Futaba slammed her hand on the table. “Yes! And when he took on Mecha Tyrant alone? That speech about courage wasn’t just cool, it was practically Shakespeare!”
Both girls burst into laughter, the earlier tension dissolving in an instant. From there, it snowballed fast—topics bouncing from Neo Featherman to obscure anime titles, speedruns, boss fight rankings, and the eternal debate of turn-based vs real-time combat.
“No way,” Kasumi laughed. “You like Void Gear Strikers too?”
“Are you kidding me? I modded mine to include the voice packs from the international beta build. Better sound design, better insults. Way more satisfying.”
“Okay, that I need to hear,” Kasumi said, nearly tipping her coffee in excitement.
They were so deep in their geeky back-and-forth that they didn’t notice the door to the kitchen swing open again.
Akira walked out, a towel slung over his shoulder and his sleeves rolled up, stopping just a few steps into the room. He watched for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips as Futaba threw her arms in the air, dramatically reenacting a victory pose, while Kasumi leaned forward, laughing so hard she had to clutch her stomach.
He raised an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned that two of the smartest girls I know are bonding over anime power-ups and combo chains?”
Futaba smirked. “Not unless you’re prepared to get thrashed in Celestial Blade Fighters.”
Kasumi gave him a smug look over her shoulder. “She’s already promised to train me. You’re going down, Senpai.”
Akira held up his hands in surrender, grinning. “I’ll start writing my will.”
The laughter continued a little longer before Kasumi glanced at the clock and sighed. “I should get going. I’m wiped.”
As she stood and reached for her bag, she turned to Futaba. “Hey, um… would you want to come to Akihabara with me tomorrow? There’s a limited event at the Game Galeria—signed merch, exclusive artbooks, cosplay showcase... I thought it might be fun.”
Futaba froze, eyes wide.
Her mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.
“I…” she began, her voice small.
She wanted to go. Her body practically buzzed with excitement at the thought—but the very idea of stepping back into the world outside, with all its noise, people, and unpredictability…
“I… I really want to,” she murmured. “But going out like that, with all those people… I dunno if I can…”
Kasumi’s face softened. “It’s okay, I didn’t mean to pressure you—”
“I’ll come too.”
Both girls turned to Akira, who was leaning against the counter, watching Futaba with quiet understanding.
“If I’m there,” he said gently, “would that make it a little easier?”
Futaba hesitated. Then slowly, shyly, she nodded. “...Yeah. I’d like that.”
Kasumi beamed. “It’s a date, then!”
Futaba snorted. “He’s already dating four other girls. We don’t stand a chance.”
Akira groaned. “Not this again…”
Outside Yongen-Jaya Station
The streetlights bathed the sidewalk in a soft yellow glow as Akira walked Kasumi to the train station. The night was quiet, the city’s usual buzz muted under a blanket of calm. Kasumi clutched a small bag of leftovers from Leblanc—Futaba had insisted she take a curry bun “for the road”.
“Thanks again for dinner,” Kasumi said as they neared the platform. “And for introducing me to Futaba. She’s… a lot, but I really like her.”
Akira smiled. “Yeah, she grows on you. Like a gremlin. Just don’t feed her after midnight.”
Kasumi laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She hesitated, then added more softly, “And… thanks for offering to come with us tomorrow. I think it meant a lot to her.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”
She smiled, a little brighter this time. “Goodnight, Senpai.”
“Night, Kasumi.”
He watched her go, waiting until her train disappeared down the tracks before turning and heading back toward Leblanc.
Back at Leblanc
The last chairs were stacked. The lights were dimmed. Akira had just finished locking up when Futaba emerged from the kitchen, still carrying her empty glass and wearing her hoodie like a blanket over her head.
“Ready?” Akira asked, slipping on his jacket.
“Mmhm,” Futaba mumbled. “But there’s one thing left to do.”
Akira blinked. “...Yeah?”
She walked right up to him, and—without warning—jumped onto his back.
“Away we go, Roach!”
“Gah—!” Akira stumbled for a second before catching her legs and adjusting his grip. “Futaba, you can walk.”
“Yes, but this is superior,” she said, already nuzzling into the back of his neck. “Also, your shampoo smells like safety and dreams.”
Akira chuckled as he set off into the night, carrying her with ease. “You okay back there, ’Taba?”
“Ssssshhh,” she whispered dramatically, nose pressed into his collar. “Let me have this. I’ve never wanted physical contact before, so I need to find out why I’m enjoying this so much.”
Akira raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it. “Fair enough.”
She shifted slightly, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. “Maybe it’s the endorphins. Or maybe you just have prime piggyback stats. Strong back. Solid stride. Good hair.”
He snorted. “You’re profiling me like I’m a Pokémon.”
“I’m scientifically observing, thank you very much. This is for research. Emotional research.”
They passed under a street-lamp, shadows stretching behind them. Futaba sighed contentedly against his shoulder.
“…You know,” she mumbled, “this isn’t so bad.”
Akira smiled, quietly. “Yeah. It’s really not.”
Yongen-Jaya – The Next Morning
Akira adjusted his scarf as he walked up the quiet, residential street toward the Sakura residence. The morning air was crisp, the sun just beginning to warm the chill from the concrete. As he turned the corner, he stopped short at the sight before him.
Futaba was already waiting by the gate, pacing in tight, twitchy little circles. Her outfit was a vibrant clash of colors and fandom love: a bright green puffer jacket plastered with anime pins—tiny figures of magical girls, Gundams, and at least three Pokemon—worn over a Splatoon graphic tee in green and pink. Green shorts, sheer black leggings, and knee-high green Converse boots completed the ensemble.
“Hey,” Akira called as he approached, grinning. “Ready?”
Futaba turned with wide eyes, then held up a hand. “One sec.”
Without warning, she reached behind her, grabbed an oversized Neo Featherman head—one of those novelty display helmets meant for store mascots—and plonked it down over her head. It wobbled on her neck, completely swallowing her tiny frame.
“Now I’m ready,” she said, voice thoroughly muffled inside the enormous helmet.
Akira had to press his knuckles to his lips to keep from bursting out laughing. “Can you even see out of that thing?”
A beat.
“No… and it’s really heavy.”
“…So take it off.”
“No… scary…”
Akira sighed, lowering his voice into something softer and gentler, as if coaxing a shy cat out from under the couch. “’Taba, wearing that thing’s gonna give you neck problems. C’mon, let’s go back inside and find you something lighter.”
“This is the only mask I have,” she whined. “And ‘Sumi is waiting for us…”
Akira let out a quiet breath, then stepped closer and tilted his head so their gazes (or where he assumed her gaze was) could meet.
“Okay, how about this,” he said patiently. “Take off the mask, and I’ll give you a piggyback until we hit the first conbini. We’ll find you a facemask. I’m sure they have a Featherman one.”
Inside the mask, there was a long pause. Then: “Deal.”
She wobbled dangerously as she tried to pull the helmet off on her own, nearly tipping forward before Akira darted in and steadied her. Carefully, he helped her lift the comically large head off, revealing flushed cheeks and a tangled mess of bright orange hair.
He set the Featherman head down gently on the front step and crouched down. “Alright, climb on.”
With a surprising amount of enthusiasm for someone who claimed to be terrified, Futaba threw herself onto his back, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders.
“Launch me into bravery, Akira!” she declared with a shaky laugh.
Akira smirked as he stood and adjusted her weight. “To Akihabara we go.”
Akihabara Station – Late Morning
The electric hum of the city greeted them the moment Akira and Futaba stepped out of the station. Neon signs flickered even in daylight, advertising maid cafés, retro arcades, figure shops, and the newest releases in anime and games. People bustled around them in a blur of color and noise—but Futaba remained glued to Akira’s side, one hand wrapped tightly around his sleeve, the other clutching her now-purchased Featherman facemask.
“Wow…” she breathed, eyes flicking around but never fully detaching from Akira. “Still scary. Still worth it.”
Akira glanced down with a reassuring smile. “We’ll take it slow.”
A delighted squeal cut through the air, and before either of them could react, Kasumi came bounding toward them from near the station’s main archway.
She was radiant in her own geeked-out ensemble: an oversized red Neo Featherman graphic tee, cropped at the sides to show the hem of a black tank top underneath. Her red-and-black capris hugged her toned dancer’s legs, and she moved with natural grace even in simple red ballet flats. Her hair was down today, framing her face in soft waves.
She nearly knocked Akira off balance as she lunged past him to wrap Futaba in a warm, squish-happy hug. Despite her awkwardness, Futaba melted into it with a surprised yelp, then let out a muffled giggle into Kasumi’s shoulder.
Kasumi pulled back, her smile radiant. “I love your jacket! And your pins—and your hair clips! You look awesome.”
Futaba, flustered but pleased, clung a little tighter to Akira’s shoulders and mumbled, “Kasumi… you’re like... sunshine made of sugar.”
Kasumi laughed, then turned to Akira, cheeks coloring as she reached out more hesitantly. “And—hi to you too, Akira-senpai…”
Akira blinked as Kasumi reached up and gently pulled him into a soft hug. It wasn’t long—but something about it made time feel like it had slowed.
She felt it instantly.
The way he paused—not from surprise, but something else. Something deeper.
For the briefest moment, his hands hovered like he didn’t know what to do with them. His body tensed under her arms, then very gently leaned into the embrace, just enough to make contact… before carefully pulling back.
Kasumi smiled—but inside, a quiet understanding formed.
He’s touch-starved.
He’d hidden it so well—behind all that composure, all that warmth he gave out so easily to others. But the hesitation, the ache in the way he accepted something so simple—it told her everything.
He needs this more than he realizes.
Kasumi made a mental note right then and there. I need to tell the others.
Akira glanced away, a faint pink to his ears. “You look like you're ready to lead the Featherman Corps.”
Kasumi laughed and struck a playful pose. “Red Hawk, reporting for shopping duty!”
Futaba, still clinging to his arm like a limpet, peered up at her. “Are you the kind of person who spends too much money in figure shops and then cries later?”
Kasumi blinked. “…I mean, define too much.”
Futaba gave her a slow, impressed nod. “You’ll do.”
Akira chuckled. “Alright. Arcade first, or food?”
The girls looked at each other—and with a simultaneous, conspiratorial grin, pointed at opposite directions.
Akihabara – Late Morning to Afternoon
The day bloomed into a kaleidoscope of color and sound as the trio launched into their quest across Akihabara.
First stop: Super Neo Featherman Galaxy Store.
Futaba practically teleported to a wall of collectible keychains. “Oh my god, they have Mint Phoenix in her final transformation Ghost armor! I’ve only ever seen this one in bootleg form!”
Kasumi, bouncing on her toes beside her, squealed. “Wait, that one’s the limited run from the OVA! They made only a hundred of those in Tokyo!”
From a few feet behind, Akira calmly checked the price tag, raised an eyebrow, then nodded and added it to the growing bag slung across his shoulder. “Well, can’t let it get away now.”
Next: Akiba Retro Dreams, an underground haven of vintage consoles and physical game cartridges.
Kasumi and Futaba dropped to their knees at the display case of mint-condition Famicom titles. “Look at that copy of Chrono Legend II! The original pixel cover art! Do you see the hand-drawn shading?!” Kasumi gasped.
Futaba tapped the glass reverently. “I would sell a kidney for this. Maybe both. I don’t use them.”
Akira raised an eyebrow. “No organ-selling today.” He crouched next to them. “You two wait here.”
Five minutes later, the game was theirs.
By midday, they were deep into Idol Lane, dodging crowds of fans, browsing stacks of rare CDs and concert photo books.
Futaba found an “underground hacker-idol” photobook and proudly held it up. “She’s like if you merged me and Risette into a single person. I love her.”
Kasumi stared, jaw slack. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”
Akira, sipping canned coffee, simply offered a “Want it?”
Futaba’s muffled “Yes, please” behind her facemask was barely audible over the store’s stereo.
3:00 PM – Café COMP: Devil Summoner Edition
Their final stop was a new, neon-lit pop-up tucked between two arcades—Café COMP, themed after Soul Hackers 2.
The inside glowed in a moody palette of teals, purples, and black. The booths had touchscreen menus built into the tables, the walls adorned with sleek AR projections of Arrow, Ringo, and Milady posing like fashion models.
Drinks had names like Data Dive Daiquiri, Ion Protocol Latte, and Soul Hackberry Soda.
Futaba went straight for a luminous purple drink with glowing candy shards. “It’s called ‘Ringo’s Binary Reboot.’ Looks like liquid malware. I love it.”
Kasumi ordered the citrusy Comp Hack Tonic, while Akira stuck with black coffee—his one rebellion in a world of neon sugar.
Their table hummed with energy. Kasumi leaned in, eyes bright. “Did you see the part in Featherman Crisis X where Crimson Wing rips the mech’s arm off and uses it like a baseball bat?!”
Futaba pounded the table. “YES. That was so over-the-top I had to pause and scream into a pillow!”
Akira watched, sipping his coffee quietly, a fond smile tugging at his lips. This was their world—one he was content to orbit around.
But then—
Just as Kasumi was halfway through a hilarious story about her first cosplay disaster—
Futaba’s voice dropped.
“Hey… have either of you heard of Cognitive P-Science?”
The tone shift was instant.
Kasumi blinked. “Cognitive what?”
Futaba swirled the candy shards in her drink, her voice low but precise. “Cognitive P-sience. With a P-hyphen. I found pieces of it in some scrubbed university archives—old server dumps, blacked-out PDFs. Weird, fragmented stuff.”
Akira straightened subtly. His attention was laser-focused.
“It talks about cognition affecting reality. Like, the human will shaping matter. Forming places and entities. Fringe science, but not random. It had funding. Lots of it. Some of the documents were classified government files, buried deep.”
The air at the table grew still, despite the buzz and neon all around them. Akira set down his coffee and nodded once. “Tell us everything.”
The glowing drink in Futaba's hand was untouched now. The vibrant energy of the themed café faded into the background hum of distant conversation, flickering neon, and the faint thrum of synth-heavy background music. At their corner booth, a different kind of story was beginning to unfold.
Futaba leaned forward, the shadows from the AR projections painting thin lines across her glasses. “So, uh… here’s the thing. I didn’t just stumble onto Cognitive P-Science.”
She looked between Akira and Kasumi, then slowly set her drink down. “My mom—Wakaba Isshiki—was a lead researcher on it. And get this: she used to work for the Kirijo Group.”
Kasumi’s brow furrowed slightly. “Wait, isn’t that the group that runs the big tech conglomerate? Pharmaceuticals, biotech, military contracts…”
Akira didn’t say anything, but his eyes hadn’t left Futaba.
Futaba nodded, expression uncharacteristically serious. “Yeah. This was after Mitsuru Kirijo took over the company. The project originally started under her grandfather, Kouetsu Kirijo. That guy? Total doomsday prepper. Believed that cognition could unravel reality—like literally collapse the boundaries between thought and matter. Nihilist vibes, big time. He thought we were all just meat puppets waiting for our collective unconscious to backfire.”
Kasumi blinked. “That’s… terrifying.”
“Right?!” Futaba nodded sharply. “But Mitsuru’s dad—Takeharu—he was different. More grounded. He tried to rein things in, I think. From what I could dig up, Mitsuru got involved herself later on, probably to clean up the mess. But the trail goes dark after that.”
She let out a small breath, then reached up and tugged at her bangs. “The thing is... I spent years blaming myself for my mom’s death. I thought I caused it—like, not metaphorically. I thought my existence was some glitch in the system that ended her life. When the guys in black suits came to tell us she had stepped into traffic and ended her life – I thought it was because of me. They let me believe that.”
Kasumi’s hand gently slid over the table, resting near Futaba’s. She didn’t interrupt.
Futaba swallowed, eyes glassy but focused. “I convinced myself I didn’t deserve the light. That I should just stay hidden in that dark little room and let the voices in my head keep telling me I was a monster. Sojiro was the only person to not give up on me.”
She finally looked up, gaze moving between Kasumi and Akira. “But now… I’m not so sure anymore. Something’s changed. It’s quieter now—those voices. I feel lighter. I don’t want to hide anymore.”
Akira’s voice was gentle. “You think your cognition changed?”
Futaba gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Yeah. That’s what I wanted to ask. If reality is shaped by cognition, and we can literally reshape it with enough belief… then what happens when the thing being reshaped is us?”
Kasumi, still holding her expression steady, whispered, “You think you’re healing… not just mentally, but metaphysically.”
Futaba blinked rapidly. “Whoa. Yeah. That’s… that’s it. I am.”
Akira smiled faintly. “Then I’d say you’re on the right path, ‘Taba.” Futaba blushed, eyes darting away, but her grin slowly spread.
“You know what that makes me think?” she said, stirring her drink with a straw again. “If cognition is that powerful… maybe there are other people out there who’ve been hurt like I was. Who are still stuck in the dark. Maybe there’s a way to reach them. Help them rewire their own inner world.
Akira nodded, swirling his coffee absently. “Probably. It’s worth a thought.”
Kasumi’s brows furrowed slightly. “That kind of sounds like what happened to Kamoshida and Madarame.”
Futaba tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
Kasumi leaned in. “Well, not exactly the same, but… both of them suddenly confessed out of nowhere. Like they had some kind of breakdown. And the media keeps saying they had a ‘change of heart,’ right?”
Akira gave a noncommittal hum, sipping his drink.
Kasumi tapped a finger against the side of her glass. “And didn’t Kamoshida get that weird calling card? The one that said something like ‘we will steal your heart’?”
Futaba perked up, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Yup. Madarame got one too. It’s not public knowledge, but…” She hesitated, then smirked. “I hacked the police database. The wording was almost identical.”
Akira kept his expression even—quiet curiosity, as if this was the first he’d heard of it—but inside, a storm was brewing behind his storm-grey eyes.
“They’re putting it together faster than I expected,” he thought.
“What do I do?” he asked silently, mind reaching for the velvet edges of that familiar voice.
There was a soft chuckle in the back of his mind, elegant and amused. “Just wait and see, mon ami,” came Arsène’s smooth reply. “Futaba no longer has a Palace—but she still has the potential to awaken.”
Across the table, Futaba stirred her drink idly, staring into the swirl of color. “Still, that’s wild,” she muttered. “I used to think only really evil people had something broken inside them. But maybe… maybe it’s not about being evil. Maybe it’s about being lost. Like your mind twists itself up trying to survive.”
Kasumi nodded slowly, thoughtful. “If that’s true, then maybe these changes of heart… aren’t just punishments. Maybe they’re a chance. A reset.”
Akira quietly rose, picking up his empty cup and the girls’ now-finished plates. “Refills?”
Futaba blinked back into the moment. “Yes please!”
Kasumi smiled. “That would be lovely.”
As he walked toward the counter, their voices fading behind him into soft laughter again, Akira’s thoughts lingered on Futaba’s words—on awakening, cognition, and the way a single conversation could turn the gears of fate.
And deep inside, Arsène’s voice echoed once more—low, sly, certain. “The stage is set, Trickster. All that remains... is the curtain call.”
The train rocked gently as it sped through the city, its overhead lights casting a soft hum across the mostly-empty compartment. Akira, Kasumi, and Futaba sat together in one of the corner rows, the late hour finally catching up to them after their Akihabara adventure. Futaba was wedged comfortably between the two, her green puffer jacket halfway unzipped, and her Featherman-themed tote bag resting across her lap.
Akira sat relaxed, one arm loosely draped over the back of the bench, his storm-grey eyes distant as he twirled his phone between his fingers with practiced ease. Kasumi, still buzzing from the day, was quietly humming the theme from Neo Featherman Ultra, her head tilted against the window, watching the lights blur by.
Futaba kept sneaking glances at Akira. His fingers moved with casual elegance, but his mind clearly wasn’t with them anymore. He had that faraway look—the one that said he wasn’t entirely there.
Her gaze flicked down to the phone spinning at his fingertips.
Impish curiosity sparked.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about, Mister Broody?” she teased. When he didn’t answer right away, she grinned and made her move.
In one quick motion, she snatched the phone from his hand, holding it aloft like a stolen treasure.
“Hey—Taba,” Akira warned, reaching lazily toward her. “Careful. Give it back.”
Futaba stuck out her tongue. “Ohoho, what’s this weird app?” she asked, her thumb hovering over a crimson icon shaped like a stylized eye. “Looks sketchy. You sure it’s not malware or something?”
Akira’s eyes snapped to the screen. “Futaba. Don’t. I’m serious.”
She winked. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Her thumb tapped the icon.
A beat of silence.
Then:
“BEGINNING NAVIGATION.”
The words echoed from the phone's tinny speaker, loud in the quiet train car.
Kasumi leaned forward. “Navigation? What nav—?”
The lights flickered. The floor dropped.
And the world turned inside out.
Chapter 16: Kids In The Dark (Tunnel)
Summary:
Futaba and Kasumi encounter a very dangerous Shadow and awaken to the Personas
Akira does his best impression of Batman
The team unwinds - and the girls start bonding even more
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The air was cold.
Not chilly—cold, like a forgotten basement or the hollow of a tomb. The ground beneath them was gritty and uneven, metal rails vibrating faintly under the soles of their shoes.
Futaba stirred with a groan, one hand clutching her glasses. “Ugh… what happened?” Her voice echoed oddly, like they were in a tunnel. She blinked rapidly and adjusted her frames. “Kasumi…?”
“I’m here.” Kasumi’s voice came from nearby, tight and wary. “I’m okay. I think. Are you hurt?”
Futaba sat up slowly, taking in their surroundings. The space around them was dark and shadowed, lit only by the dim crimson glow of flickering emergency lights bolted into the arched ceiling. Jagged graffiti coated the stone walls—shapes and words that didn’t make any sense, twisting and shifting if stared at too long. The train tracks ran forward into a yawning tunnel and back into gloom.
And Akira was nowhere in sight.
Futaba’s breath caught. “Wh-Where the hell are we?!”
Kasumi took a shaky breath, then another, and forced herself upright. “I… I don’t know. One second we were on the train, and the next—this.” Her fists clenched. “It’s not a prank, right? This is real?”
Futaba gave a shaky nod. “Yeah. Too real.”
There was a beat of silence—just the faint rumble beneath their feet and the mechanical hiss of something moving in the distance.
Then, panic bloomed in Futaba’s voice. “Where’s Akira?! What if something happened to him?! What if we got separated because he’s—what if this is one of those alternate dimension things? What if we’re stuck here forever and—”
“Futaba!” Kasumi grabbed her shoulders, grounding her. “Look at me. We’re not going to panic. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to figure this out. Together.”
Futaba trembled, eyes darting, but nodded slowly.
Kasumi took a calming breath and said, “Right now, we need a plan. Step one: find Akira. Step two: figure out how to get out of here. Okay?”
Futaba’s lip quivered, but then she blinked, her mind catching up. “Right. Plan. We need data.”
She adjusted her glasses again, scanning the tunnel. “Okay… okay, so this looks like some kinda train track. Creepy train tracks. If there’s a way out, it’s probably connected to the station. We could try walking until we find stairs going up?”
Kasumi nodded. “That makes sense. Let’s follow the tracks and keep an eye out for signs. Anything that could lead us up.”
They glanced once more behind them—just in case Akira appeared out of nowhere—then stepped forward, side by side, into the red-tinted gloom. Their footsteps echoed down the tunnel as they pressed on, not knowing what waited in the shadows ahead…
They had been walking for what felt like forever.
The crimson glow of the tunnel lights offered no real sense of direction, just the illusion of progress. The walls around them pulsed faintly, like something alive was breathing just beneath the stone—slow and rhythmic, as if the whole place had a heartbeat.
Kasumi tried to ignore the way her own did the same: fast and shallow.
Futaba kept close, her oversized puffer jacket bouncing slightly with every cautious step. She glanced at the wall again and shuddered. “Okay, seriously. This place looks like someone took Silent Hill, Train to Busan, and Evangelion and blended them into nightmare soup.”
Kasumi swallowed. “That... sounds about right.”
Every now and then, they encountered these formless clumps of black goo writhing across the tunnel floor or clinging to the walls. The blobs twitched and moaned softly—human, but wrong.
Kasumi always froze, her breath caught in her throat. But each time, Futaba would whisper, “Not that way. Detour.” And somehow, she was always right. She led them through side corridors, under fallen beams, or behind broken vending machines—paths that seemed invisible until they needed them.
“You’re good at this,” Kasumi muttered once, catching her breath after skirting another shadow mass.
Futaba didn’t look at her. “I don’t know how. It’s like... they feel like corrupted data. Bugs in a system. I just—sense them. Like malware signatures.”
The tiny hacker gave a shaky laugh. “Or maybe I’m just glitching.”
Kasumi managed a tired smile. “Whatever it is, I’m glad you’re here.”
Futaba blinked, then gave a small, awkward thumbs-up.
But the fatigue was creeping in. Kasumi could see it in the way Futaba was starting to drag her feet, the way her voice had lost its edge. She felt it too—her legs ached, her back hurt, and there was a pressure building behind her eyes from constant tension.
And then came the sound.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Chains. Faint, but steady. Just at the edge of hearing. Somewhere deeper in the tunnel.
Kasumi stopped mid-step. “Do you hear that?”
Futaba nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. “Chains. Not subway chains. These sound... off.”
The noise came in rhythm. A soft drag, then a metallic rattle. Over and over. It seemed to echo off the walls, impossible to pinpoint.
Futaba moved closer to Kasumi. “Okay, definitely not creepy at all. Nope. Totally normal ambience.”
Kasumi glanced around, eyes wide and alert. “Should we follow it or go the other way?”
“Normally I’d say nope out of here,” Futaba whispered. “But I think it’s getting louder either way.”
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Futaba turned toward Kasumi, worry plain on her face despite the humor in her voice. “I have a very bad feeling about this.”
Kasumi reached out and took her hand without hesitation. “Me too. But whatever happens, we stick together.”
The girls nodded at each other—tired, frightened, but united—and pressed onward, toward the source of the rattling chains and the ever-deepening mystery of the nightmare world they’d fallen into.
CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.
The sound had grown louder, closer, and colder.
Futaba and Kasumi were running now—legs aching, breath ragged, shadows streaking past as they tore down the twisting, pulsing tunnels. The red lights flickered overhead, painting the world in jagged bursts of crimson and black.
“This isn’t normal!” Futaba shouted between gasps. “That thing—whatever it is—it’s hunting us!”
Kasumi looked over her shoulder and felt her blood turn to ice.
Behind them, the shadows seemed to ripple and split. Emerging from the darkness was a shape that looked stitched together from nightmares: a towering figure in tattered robes, a skull mask grinning over its sack-like head, glowing red eyes locked forward. Oversized, rune-etched pistols hung from its hands, chains dangling and scraping the floor with every inch.
Kasumi grabbed Futaba’s hand. “Move!”
The two tore through side passages, ducked under cracked girders and squeezed through broken fences. Every time they thought they were safe, the sound followed.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Then—BOOM. A gunshot. The wall beside them exploded in a shower of brick and shadow.
Futaba screamed, nearly tripping, and Kasumi pulled her up. “Go, go, go!”
The creature didn’t charge. It stalked. Played. Like a predator toying with prey.
Every corridor they fled down twisted in on itself, the architecture warping. Glowing veins of red and blue light stretched across the ceiling like nerve endings. Every breath tasted metallic. Futaba’s skin was clammy. Her vision blurred at the edges.
“I don’t know where to go—” she sobbed.
“Just keep moving!” Kasumi panted, though her own legs were buckling.
Then—dead end.
They skidded to a halt in front of a sealed steel gate. The tunnel behind them shuddered.
CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.
Kasumi turned, planting herself between Futaba and the oncoming horror.
The apparition floated into view, towering, radiating malevolence.
Then, it screamed.
A sound of pure, endless void.
The tunnel itself seemed to tremble. Both girls clutched their heads as the psychic wave of Despair washed over them. Their thoughts turned inward—memories, fears, doubts exploding to the surface.
Kasumi dropped to her knees, hands clenching at her chest. Every insecurity she had—the fear of being a failure, of never being good enough—crashed down on her like a tidal wave.
Futaba screamed, hugging herself tightly as tears welled up. “No—no, not again! I can’t—I can’t go back into the dark—I don’t want to disappear—”
The creature raised its pistols. The air crackled with death.
And then—
CRASH.
The ceiling exploded.
Shards of concrete and rebar rained down as a figure dropped from above, landing in a crouch with thunderous impact between the girls and the monster.
Dust curled around his feet.
Akira stood slowly, red lines of light racing across his body as his Phantom Thief attire snapped into place—hood flaring, gloves igniting. His storm-grey eyes burned as he glared up at the shadow cornering his friends.
“Stay away from them,” he growled, his voice cold and sharp as tempered steel.
A gust of wind swept through the tunnel. From behind him, Arsène materialized in a spiral of blue flame and shadow, wings flaring wide. The ghostly gentleman cracked his knuckles, his deep voice resonating with menace. “Ah, The Reaper. Quite the ugly brute to target such delicate souls. Shall we, mon ami?”
Akira narrowed his eyes. The Reaper screamed again, this time with rage. Akira didn’t flinch. He stepped forward once, hands tightening into fists. “You picked the wrong girls to hunt.”
The Reaper’s scream had pulled every buried insecurity and shadow of self-doubt to the surface, freezing Futaba and Kasumi where they stood. But Akira’s voice—low and furious—cut through the miasma like a knife.
“Stay away from them.”
The spell broke.
Futaba gasped for breath, as if surfacing from water, eyes wide behind her glasses. She stumbled back, her body trembling from the aftershock. Kasumi blinked rapidly, then pushed herself upright, dragging Futaba behind a twisted chunk of debris.
“W-we have to move—come on,” Kasumi whispered, her voice unsteady but determined.
They huddled behind a fallen slab of steel, watching in stunned silence as Akira strode forward, shadow trailing behind him like a storm.
The Reaper opened fire.
Two massive blasts of cursed energy tore through the space, but Akira leapt into action, vaulting off a pipe and twisting midair. The blasts exploded harmlessly behind him.
He landed, then pushed forward with speed that blurred the edges of reality.
“Arsène! Phantom’s Requiem”
His first Persona appeared in a roar of black flame, slashing with claws of searing shadow. Akira moved in perfect rhythm with him, tonfas flashing. The two danced around the Reaper’s gunfire, Akira flipping over rails, wall-kicking off vertical surfaces to maintain pressure.
Then—
“Kurama Tengu!”
A red flash as the long-nosed tengu spirit materialized beside him, wind howling as Garudyne erupted in a roaring vortex that slammed into the Reaper’s cloak, sending chains scattering.
“High Pixie—Ziodyne!” A bolt of lightning followed, crashing into the Reaper’s pistols, forcing it to recoil.
“Valkyrie—Deathbound!” Valkyrie shot forward, blade in hand, unleashing a brutal cleave that tore a glowing line across the Reaper’s form. Sparks and ichor flew.
But the Reaper did not fall.
Instead, it let out a fierce, unnatural screech, shaking the entire tunnel.
From the shadows, shapes began to emerge—crawling, flying, dragging themselves free.
Futaba’s breath hitched. “That’s… a lot of them…”
Pale Riders on skeletal steeds galloped in formation. Piscasas slithered along the walls, Chernobogs raised bloodied axes, and Hell Bikers revved chainsmoking engines, screeching around the edges of the battlefield like rabid specters.
And then…
THUD… THUD… THUD…
A giant figure stomped into view. Nearly eight feet tall, it was clad in a ruined ice hockey uniform, its goalie mask cracked, revealing something vaguely human—but twisted—beneath. Its jersey was stitched with the number 00, and it dragged a massive hockey stick behind it, ichor dripping from the blade like oil.
Its empty, glowing eye sockets locked onto Akira.
Kasumi’s voice shook. “W-what is that?!”
“Boss fight logic,” Futaba muttered, awe and fear mingling in her voice. “It’s a miniboss... and he brought his whole team.”
Akira stood his ground. “Okuninushi—Heat Riser!”
A multi-colored glow surged around him as the spell increased his speed, power, and resilience. The Shadows charged.
Akira didn’t wait. He vanished in a blur—reappearing mid-spin. “Hassou Tobi!!”
Blades flashed in eight directions as he cut through the horde, the shockwaves shredding the oncoming wave of Shadows. Pale Riders collapsed. Hell Bikers crashed and burned. Piscasas dissolved in a splatter of ink.
Smoke and embers filled the tunnel.
But more came.
A second wave of Chernobogs and the demonic goaltender charged in, blades raised.
Akira glanced over his shoulder, eyes locking with Kasumi and Futaba’s—storm-grey and calm, despite the chaos.
Then he nodded once.
And launched himself forward with a battlecry that echoed through the tunnels—
“Let’s dance!”
Smoke and fire danced along the curve of the tunnel, lighting Akira’s silhouette in flashes of red and blue. He moved like a whirlwind—blades in his hands, Personas bursting forth in seamless succession. The shadows came like a flood, and still, he stood.
Kasumi and Futaba crouched behind twisted debris, barely breathing.
“Holy crap…” Futaba whispered, glasses slightly askew. “He’s… he’s fighting all of them by himself…”
Kasumi clutched the edge of the concrete slab they were hiding behind, fingers white with tension. “He’s protecting us.”
More Shadows poured from the walls. The monstrous goaltender roared, its voice like scraping steel, and launched a frozen projectile straight at Akira.
He dodged—barely. But a Hell Biker clipped his side with its burning chain, knocking him off balance. Then a Chernobog slammed into him from behind.
He staggered.
Kasumi gasped. “No—!”
Akira gritted his teeth and pushed forward, cutting down a Pale Rider—but he was slowing. The fluid grace of his movements faltered, his breath came harder. Sweat streaked down his temple. Blood trickled from a gash across his ribs.
And then the goalie Shadow lunged forward, raising its jagged hockey stick high.
CRASH.
The hit sent Akira flying like a ragdoll. He slammed into the tunnel wall hard enough to crack the steel. Dust and sparks rained down. He hit the ground, and didn’t move right away.
“Akira!!” Futaba screamed.
Kasumi stood halfway before she even realized it.
Akira coughed, lifting his head with sheer willpower. His storm-grey eyes flicked toward them. “Kasumi… Futaba… run…” he rasped. “I’ll hold them back…”
The girls froze.
Futaba’s breath hitched. “He… he doesn’t think he’s going to make it…”
Kasumi’s fists clenched. “He’s trying to save us… again.”
Their eyes met. No more panic. No more helplessness.
Just fire.
Something ancient stirred deep inside them—an ache that had been growing for weeks. Their bonds with him. The way he looked at them—not as burdens, but as equals. As people worth fighting for.
And now it was their turn.
Futaba stepped out first, defiant, glaring at the horde like a queen who had had enough.
“Get away from my nerd.”
Kasumi stepped beside her, straightening her back and planting her feet like a dancer ready to perform.
“You want him?” she said, voice cold and clear. “You’ll have to get through us.”
The tunnel pulsed—blood-red, heartbeat-thick. Shadows surged toward them like waves of nightmares. Akira struggled to push himself to his feet, his vision blurring.
"Futaba... Kasumi... please—"
But they weren’t running.
They were transforming.
Futaba’s hands curled into fists. Her breath came in sharp gasps—but not from fear. From clarity. From the fire building in her chest, wild and crackling.
"I thought I was broken. That I could never be more than the weird shut-in, the girl who let her mom die.”
"But now... now I remember something else."
"I’m Futaba freaking Sakura. And I was never the problem."
Green data surged like a circuit storm around her, glyphs and light patterns spinning into a tight sphere. A distorted, electric voice echoed across the tunnel: "Thou art I… I am thou… I am the system forged of your rebellion, the mother-code of perception. I am… NECRONOMICRON."
The sphere exploded outward, revealing Necronomicon— a sleek, obsidian spacecraft with chrome-blue thrusters and an angular design, like a weaponized drone from a lost future. Thin neon panels rotated like data shields along its hull, and a bright green holographic core pulsed at its center.
Futaba grinned, eyes glowing behind a newly-formed sleek visor that covered her face from brow to cheekbones. Her suit gleamed: tight black-and-neon-green circuitry traced her curves, and stacked heeled boots planted her like a hacker goddess. "Let’s rewrite this script."
The ship opened—and absorbed her in a beam of green light. Inside the cockpit, Futaba locked in, her fingers flying across a floating keyboard. “Beginning combat support protocol!”
A glowing beam of energy shot from Necronomicron and slammed into Akira, knitting his wounds and reigniting his aura in a blaze of red fire.
Akira stood, his fury reignited. “Thanks, ‘Taba.”
Kasumi closed her eyes. Her heart thudded once, like a snare hit. A low, musical hum filled the air around her as the shadows of the tunnel warped—becoming light and motion.
“I don’t want to be the one that is always being saved. I want to stand side-by-side with him – to show him how much he means to me. ”
A flash of crimson spiraled around her. The wind surged, petals of scarlet and violet exploding outward. Her hair whipped around her shoulders as the voice echoed: "Thou art I… I am thou… I am the rhythm of your soul, the muse of defiance and art. I am… TERPSICHORE."
White-hot fire exploded at Kasumi’s feet, spiraling around her in a brilliant helix. Her body lifted from the ground, arms wide, spinning like a dancer breaking free of her chains.
The flame sculpted her new look as it swirled — an urban dancer's ensemble with crimson and black accents: a cropped hoodie that fluttered with her every move, high-waisted street leggings, sleek arm wraps, and red-and-black dancing boots. Her weapons manifested in her hands—two sleek, metallic weighted yoyos, inscribed with graffiti-like designs, spinning with dangerous precision.
Her Persona descended like a divine street idol—Terpsichore, a radiant figure of motion, cloaked in a fusion of divine regalia and street style. Her long, flowing jacket shimmered like feathers, and her golden sneakers sparked with every levitating step. Her eyes glowed like spotlights on a stage.
Kasumi landed in a graceful spin, sliding beside Akira and catching a returning yoyo mid-air with a satisfying snap. “I’m not leaving you behind. Let’s finish this.”
Akira’s eyes burned with pride. He gave her a lopsided grin, breathing heavy, but steady. “Kasumi, leave the big guys to me. Focus on crowd control and don’t let either you or Futaba get overwhelmed.”
Kasumi spun her yoyos once, energy sparking off the cords. “You got it.”
The Reaper let out a metallic howl, firing a hail of bullets at Akira, who ducked, rolled, and launched himself into a spinning kick off the tunnel wall. The shots ricocheted behind him as he sprang toward the Reaper, switching Personas mid-air.
“Kurama Tengu!” A blast of Garudyne screamed from his hand, only to fizzle uselessly against the Reaper’s shadowy aura.
“You’re not going to brute-force it,” Futaba’s voice crackled from Necronomicron’s interface. “Let me give you an upgrade—releasing auxiliary platforms!”
With a rapid sequence of digital chirps, glowing blue hexagonal panels sprang to life around the battlefield, creating a complex lattice across the tunnel’s walls and ceiling. Akira didn’t hesitate. He leapt, flipped, rebounded – using the newfound elevation to attack from different angles. He shot past a horde of Chernobogs and launched a flaming Agidyne at the hulking demon goalie (which Futaba had finally identified as a Humbaba), searing across its tattered goalie mask.
“Bless does the trick, too! Kasumi!” Futaba called. “Light that meat tank up!”
Kasumi was already in motion.
Her yoyos glowed with shimmering Bless energy, whirling at her sides like twin meteors. She dashed between shadow mobs, twisting her body mid-flip, planting a hand to spin-kick a Hell Biker straight into a Pale Rider.
She danced.
Every strike flowed into the next: a pivot into a leg sweep, followed by a backflip—yoyos flicking out like divine ribbons of judgment. She spun on one foot, tossing a yoyo high into the air, then caught it with her foot mid-spin, slamming it into a Chernobog's head as she rebounded off the wall.
“Dancing Flames!” she called—Terpsichore echoed the motion above her, flame ribbons igniting around Kasumi’s targets in a pulsing rhythmic burst.
Futaba’s voice rang out again. “Shielding deployed—Kasumi, incoming! Upper left!”
A Pale Rider dropped from the ceiling—but a hard-light shield pulsed to life over Kasumi, blocking its scythe just in time.
“Thanks, ‘Taba!” she called, flicking her yoyos out with surgical precision and binding the enemy in glowing cords before it exploded in a glimmer of white light.
Meanwhile, Akira had his hands full with both the Reaper and Humbaba. The Reaper’s bullets moved with lethal rhythm, but Akira countered with timed dodges and Hassou Tobi, slashing through mid-air while spinning across Futaba’s platforms.
One by one, the smaller Shadows fell.
Then silence.
Only the Reaper and Humbaba remained, their forms battered but unyielding, glaring at the trio with silent, burning hatred.
Akira stood between them and the girls, tonfas still raised.
Kasumi stepped beside him, catching a yoyo in a casual spin.
Futaba hovered above in Necronomicron, visor gleaming, hands steady on the controls.
“This is it,” Kasumi murmured. “We’ve got this.”
Akira gave a slight chuckle. “Together.”
But then—
SKREEEEEEEEEEE.
The Reaper let out a shuddering, ghastly scream, shaking the tunnel walls. The shadows it cast on the walls pulsed and rippled—like oil spilling through cracks in reality.
“Wait—what’s happening?!” Futaba gasped.
From the walls, the floor, and the air itself, more Shadows began to emerge. Twisting, malformed, and enraged.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Kasumi whispered, eyes wide.
“It’s not letting us go that easy,” Akira said darkly, lowering into a ready stance again. “Get ready, both of you.”
The tunnel pulsed like a living thing.
And the battle began again.
The tunnel had become a warzone.
Necronomicon’s holographic shields flickered weakly, Futaba’s fingers trembling at the controls. Sweat ran down her temple beneath the sleek visor, her breath coming in gasps. Even with her data feeds and traps, the enemies kept coming—too many, too fast.
Beside her, Kasumi faltered. Her limbs screamed with exertion, her once-fluid movements now ragged and rushed. One of her yoyos got caught mid-swing, and she narrowly ducked a Hell Biker’s blast. Bless energy shimmered dimly now, her Persona beginning to flicker like a candle on the verge of going out.
“Kasumi! On your left!” Futaba shouted.
Kasumi spun, landing a weak kick that barely staggered a charging Pale Rider.
Akira saw it all.
He was still moving like a storm incarnate—slicing through enemy ranks, vaulting over flickering data-formed platforms, a blur of shadow and blood-red trim—but even he was slowing. His mask was cracked and broken in places and a gash ran down the side of his neck. His left arm trembled slightly as he brought his tonfa around to block a swing from Humbaba’s massive, ichor-dripping hockey stick.
Then—Akira ducked low, drove his boot into the goalie’s knee, and sent it stumbling. He whipped around to face the girls.
“Kasumi! Futaba! Run!” he shouted, his voice raw. “Now!”
“What? No—!” Kasumi started.
“We can’t leave you here!” Futaba cried, hands tightening on her controls.
Akira’s eyes met theirs—storm-grey, unwavering, filled with command and care. “Please,” he said. “Get out. I’ll cover you.”
A moment’s hesitation. Then—
Kasumi turned to Futaba, breath shallow. “Come on. We have to trust him.”
Futaba swallowed, her chest aching. She gave a small nod. “Fine—but you better not die, you dumb hero.”
Akira nodded as they turned and bolted.
Necronomicon’s boosters ignited, lifting Futaba ahead. Kasumi followed at full sprint, pushing her body through the fatigue. They pounded up the winding staircases of Mementos, shadows screeching behind them—but none pursued. All attention remained fixed on the lone thief facing the horde below.
Behind them, the air rippled with power. “You want hell? I’ll show you hell,” came Akira’s final snarl. “LAMENT OF THE DAMNED!!!”
A blinding beam of holy destruction ripped down the tunnel like a divine cannon, blasting everything in its path. The walls shook, chunks of the ceiling collapsed, and the very ground quaked beneath the girls’ feet.
They didn’t look back.
Up and up they ran, lungs on fire, the tunnel lit only by flickering red warnings and crumbling stone. Until—
A final flight of stairs. A gate. Then—
Light.
They burst onto an empty platform, gasping, knees nearly buckling from exhaustion.
And standing there, calm as a candle in the dark, was a girl in blue.
She looked no older than fifteen, dressed in an elegant velvet-blue dress with silvery accents. Her platinum-blonde hair was styled in soft waves, and her golden eyes radiated serenity. “Welcome,” she said gently, her voice echoing like a bell in a cathedral. “You’ve come far.”
Kasumi stared, panting. “Wh… who are you?”
“My name is Lavenza,” she replied, folding her hands. “The Trickster… Akira’s Attendant… and like you, I hold him dear to my heart.”
Futaba collapsed onto a bench, shoulders shaking. “Is Akira… is he okay? What if—what if he didn’t—?”
“He will return,” Lavenza said quietly. “That much, I promise.”
Time passed.
The clock on the platform wall ticked faintly. Each second stretched, their hearts tight with anticipation and dread.
Then—
Footsteps.
From the mouth of the tunnel came a figure, walking slowly, steadily.
Akira.
His hoodie was in tatters, blood staining one sleeve. He was bruised, limping slightly, a deep scratch on his cheek. But his eyes—
Storm-grey. Steady. Fierce. “You girls okay?” he called out, voice hoarse.
Futaba let out a breath that turned into a choked sob. “You idiot!” she yelled, running toward him.
Kasumi followed, eyes wide with relief.
But just as they reached him—
Akira’s knees buckled.
He collapsed forward, unconscious, barely breaking his fall with one hand.
“Akira!” Kasumi dropped to her knees beside him.
Futaba knelt on the other side, checking his pulse. “He’s alive—he’s just… he overdid it…”
Lavenza walked up behind them, her eyes soft. “He did what he always does. He protects others before himself.”
She raised her hand. A gentle blue glow surrounded Akira. “Rest now, Trickster. Your path is far from over…”
The light grew brighter, wrapping around all three of them as the platform began to fade—
Akira stirred.
His eyes fluttered open, greeted by the soft haze of dawnlight bleeding through the curtains. For a moment, everything was still—quiet, warm, safe.
Then the pain hit.
A low groan escaped his lips as he sat up, his muscles howling in protest, ribs aching, limbs leaden. His throat felt scraped raw, like he'd swallowed gravel. “What the hell happened…” he rasped.
His vision focused—and he blinked.
Leaning against the side of his bed, head resting on the mattress, was a familiar mop of orange hair. Futaba, glasses fogged, faint traces of tears crusted beneath her eyes, her breathing soft and even. She’d cried herself to sleep.
He turned his head at the sound of gentle footsteps, and there she was.
Kasumi, emerging from the kitchenette in a simple sweater and leggings, her hair loosely tied back. In her hands: a steaming cup of coffee. Her expression softened when she saw him awake.
“Futaba… Kasumi…” Akira croaked. “What are you two doing here?”
Kasumi nearly dropped the cup in surprise, but she caught herself, setting it on the side table before moving to his bedside. Her voice was soft, trembling with emotion.
“You’re awake…”
Inside his head, a deep, familiar voice echoed. “You were reckless, Invoker.”
He closed his eyes briefly. Satanael. “Calling upon my power when you are still not ready... I'm not sure whether to praise your willpower or condemn your stupidity.”
A low chuckle followed, suave and amused. “Come, mon grand… what choice did he have? He did what was necessary.” Arsene.
Akira exhaled, leaning back against the pillows. “I’m just glad it worked… getting them out safely is all that matters.”
He didn’t need to hear words to feel the surge of agreement from his inner selves—Arsène’s quiet pride, High Pixie’s approval, Valkyrie’s battle cry of respect, even Okuninushi’s silent nod of solidarity.
“Well said, Akira…” Satanael rumbled with a faint trace of amusement. “Now, I believe you have two women to placate.”
He opened his eyes again—and both girls were staring at him now, as if not sure whether to slap him or sob harder.
Akira cleared his throat. “I—”
Futaba launched herself at him. “You… absolute… jackass… moron…” she hiccupped, her voice cracking as she buried her face in his shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around his torso.
He winced—but didn’t stop her. He wouldn’t dream of it.
“You scared the hell out of us…” she sniffled. “You were unconscious for hours, Akira! You barely made it out and then you just—collapsed! You looked—dead, you idiot!”
Kasumi stood frozen for a heartbeat longer, then moved in beside Futaba and, without a word, wrapped her arms around Akira too.
She didn’t speak—just held on, her shoulders shaking slightly, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.
“We were so scared…” Kasumi whispered at last, her voice fragile. “We thought we lost you…”
Akira blinked, throat tightening. He lifted his arms—aching though they were—and gently wrapped them around both girls. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Futaba made a muffled sound—half a sob, half a curse—and tightened her hold even more. “Next time… next time, if you ever do something that dumb again, I’m installing a shock collar on you, I swear to God.”
Kasumi gave a soft, watery laugh despite herself. “And I’ll help her design it.”
Akira chuckled faintly. “Guess I’d deserve that.”
Akira shifted slightly beneath the covers, managing to lean back against the wall behind his bed with a soft grunt. Every muscle in his body still ached, but it was manageable now—a dull soreness compared to the screaming pain from before. Maybe it was the healing magic. Maybe it was just the comfort of having people who cared about him close by.
Futaba and Kasumi had finally calmed down—mostly. The hacker had returned to her seat by his bed, though her hand stayed firmly clutched in his. Kasumi now sat on a cushion nearby, the untouched coffee still steaming faintly beside her. Their eyes hadn’t left him.
He gave them a small, crooked smile. “I’m fine. Seriously. A few cracked ribs, bruises, and a killer headache… nothing I haven’t bounced back from before.”
Kasumi arched a brow. “You collapsed. After fighting through an army of nightmares. You’re not going anywhere.”
“And I’m disabling the apps on your phone,” Futaba added, pushing up her glasses with a dangerous glint. “No creepy tunnels until we say so.”
Akira opened his mouth to protest.
“Nope.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Don’t even try.”
They spoke in unison.
He chuckled, helplessly raising his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. Message received.”
There was a short, thoughtful pause, and then Kasumi leaned forward, her expression shifting from stern to genuinely curious.
“Akira… that place we were in. The train tunnels. The monsters… Personas… What was all of that?”
Akira looked between them both. This was the part that always felt strange—trying to explain the impossible in grounded, human terms. But after everything they’d seen and lived through, they deserved the truth.
Both girls looked at him expectantly.
“What you two saw… the monsters, the tunnels, even your awakenings… it’s all part of something called the Metaverse. It’s a world born from human cognition. What people feel and believe can shape places, objects—even people—inside it.”
“So… like collective dream logic made real? What we were talking about – Cognitive P-Science?” Futaba asked, brow furrowed. “That’s terrifying. Also kinda awesome.”
Akira nodded. “Inside that world, Shadows exist—fragments of people’s hearts, often corrupted. And Personas are manifestations of one’s rebellion. Your true selves.”
Kasumi looked down at her hands. “That was… Terpsichore? She felt like a part of me I didn’t even know was there.”
“She is you,” Akira said softly. “Same with Futaba and Necronomicon. You both awakened because you refused to give up. You stood your ground. That’s rebellion.”
Futaba blinked. “So… you’re some kinda masked rebel leader in all this?”
“Kind of,” he admitted. “We call ourselves the Phantom Thieves of Hearts. We go into the Metaverse to steal the distorted desires of twisted individuals. It changes them, forces them to face their sins. And it saves lives.”
Kasumi’s eyes lit up. “I want to help. I want to fight beside you—both of you.”
Futaba grinned. “Hell yeah, I’m in. Like I’m gonna let you do all the cool stuff while I sit on the sidelines.”
Akira opened his mouth to protest—
Knock-knock-knock.
All three heads turned toward the door.
Futaba blinked.
“...Oh no,” Akira groaned. “You called them.”
“I didn’t know who to tell, so Kasumi suggested calling Ryuemi. It kind of snowballed from there”
The door swung open—
And in came Ryuemi, red-faced and panting, followed closely by Ann, Shiho, Yukiko, Morgane and Ren. Each wore a different expression—concern, panic, relief, unfiltered annoyance—but all of them rushed forward at once when they saw him awake.
“Akira!”
“Oh my god, you idiot!”
“We were so worried—what happened?!”
“Where is he hurt? Is he still bleeding?”
“You reckless moron, you better not be dying on us.”
“Nice to see you too,” Akira rasped.
Ann knelt at the edge of the bed and gave him a once-over with her eyes.
“You look like you got hit by a train.”
“Close,” he replied. “Demonic hockey goalie with a grudge.”
Ryuemi frowned, brushing hair behind her ear. “Are you really okay?”
Then, he looked around at the gathered girls, his eyes lingering for a moment on Kasumi and Futaba—then shifting to the rest of his team, who’d come running without hesitation.
His heart swelled with something heavy, but warm.
He had people. A family. A team. “Everyone,” he said slowly, “I think we have two new members of the Phantom Thieves.”
Kasumi offered a small bow. “I’ll do everything I can to fight with you.”
Futaba gave a lazy salute. “I bring firewalls, aerial support, and a whole lotta sass.”
Ann snorted. “You’re gonna fit right in.”
Morgane folded her arms. “We’ll train you. You’ll need it.”
Kasumi grinned. “Looking forward to it.”
Akira leaned back, watching them all interact, listening to the voices around him buzz with a strange mixture of concern, affection, and excitement. His body still ached like hell.
But in that moment?
He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
“—and then Akira just slammed through the ceiling like some kinda action movie badass,” Futaba was saying animatedly, glasses askew and arms flailing. “His outfit burned into existence, his eyes were glowing, and boom—Arsène appeared like, ‘what’s good, bitches?’”
The rest of the girls sat or stood around Akira’s small apartment, some cross-legged on the floor, others perched on the edge of his bed or leaning against the walls. The tension from earlier had gradually eased, replaced by awe, concern, and no small amount of chaotic chatter.
“I’m glad I didn’t go,” Ryuemi muttered, clutching a throw pillow. “I would've had a heart attack by the second Reaper scream.”
Kasumi nodded beside her. “It was terrifying. But when Akira showed up, it felt like…” she paused, then smiled softly, “...like everything might be okay.”
“Until he collapsed after nuking the tunnel,” Futaba added. “Like, please! Give a girl a break!”
“You two awakened during that fight, didn’t you?” Ren asked.
Both girls nodded.
“It was like… everything clicked,” Kasumi said, eyes shining. “We couldn’t just stand back anymore.”
“Yeah, and then I got a cool-ass spaceship,” Futaba grinned. “Pretty standard day.”
There was a beat of silence. Morgane, perched on the windowsill, swung her legs and let the silence sit a moment before clearing her throat.
“Alright, touchy-feely exposition over. If they’re gonna be official Phantom Thieves, they need codenames. Can’t go into Mementos sounding like high schoolers doing ballet and coding club.”
“Hey!” Futaba and Kasumi said in unison.
Ann smirked. “She’s not wrong. Codenames are kinda the whole vibe. I’m Panther.”
“I go by Comet,” Ryuemi offered with a grin.
“I’m Dead-Eye,” Shiho said with a soft smile.
“And I’m Vixen,” Yukiko added, folding her hands.
“I’m Lotus,” Ren said, her eyes gleaming.
“Vent…” Morgane says, puffing her chest out slightly.
All eyes turned to the new recruits.
Futaba placed a hand over her chest and stood dramatically. “From this day forward, you may address me as... Oracle.”
“Not ‘Hackqueen’?” Akira asked dryly.
“Tempting, but no. Oracle fits. I’m the one who sees the truth behind the code.”
The group nodded in agreement.
Kasumi thought for a moment, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “It’s hard to choose something that feels… right. But when I was fighting, I felt like I wasn’t just dancing—I was singing something deep from my soul. So…”
She smiled, eyes shining. “Aria. Call me Aria.”
There was a collective hum of approval from the team. “Nice!” Ann grinned. “Aria and Oracle. Welcome to the crew.”
Akira, smiling faintly, pushed himself up against the pillows. “We could run a team bonding session in Mementos tomorrow—train a little, help you two get used to the terrain—”
Seven heads swiveled toward him.
Seven expressions of horror, disbelief, and righteous indignation.
Ann raised an eyebrow. “You mean the same Mementos where you almost died today?”
“You literally passed out,” Shiho added.
“If you even try to go in, I will sit on you until you calm down,” Ryuemi threatened.#
“Me too,” said Yukiko casually.
“You all realize that’s not really a threat, right?” Ren muttered under her breath, looking away.
Akira blinked. “I mean… if it helps you feel better…”
“Oh my god,” Futaba whispered. “He’s oblivious. This man tanked a mega-demon with the power of will and still doesn’t get flirtation.”
“It’s… honestly kind of adorable,” Kasumi added, hiding her smile behind a hand.
Akira rubbed the back of his neck, utterly missing the flirtatious edge in all their voices. “Alright, alright. I surrender. Today, I rest.”
“And tomorrow,” Ann cut in, “we go to Kichijoji. Group trip. Shopping, snacks, chill time. No combat allowed.”
“We’ll make a day of it,” Yukiko said, eyes soft. “It’s time we had something nice.”
Group Chat: Phantom Thirsts 💀🔥
BimboBerry
✨Group Chat Update!✨
Added: Futaba , Kasumi , and Ren
Futaba has changed her name to PixelPrincess
Kasumi has changed her name to BendMeBaby
Ren has changed her name to SinGlazed
BimboBerry
🧁 Welcome to the Akira Amamiya Appreciation Society, where we support each other in our collective crush on the softest and densest boy in the history of mankind 💕
We’re all here.
Yes, even Morgane. 😏
SiroccoFée
I protest this name.
Also, I joined to make sure you guys don’t get weird.
...
Too late, isn’t it?
PixelPrincess
As a housewarming gift 🎁 behold: sexy wet Akira photo 📸💦
[attachment: IMG_00X9.jpg]
He just got out of the shower. Hair all messy. Joggers riding low. Look at those hip bones. 👀👀👀
BangBangBaby
😳😳😳
I have fallen
And I am not getting up
PlunderBae
OH MY GOD FUTABA
ARE THOSE ABS?!
LIKE, DEFINED ABS??
BlossomUndone
I am experiencing a spiritual crisis.
He looks like a painting.
A painting I want to lick.
SinGlazed
…Where did you get this? 👁️👄👁️
BendMeBaby
Wait, yeah, good question.
This is kind of… really up close…
PixelPrincess
😇 First time I visited his apartment, I installed a few hidden cams. For science. And personal enjoyment. He’s really nice to look at, so like... why shouldn’t I?
SinGlazed
Futaba.
That’s highly illegal.
SiroccoFée
You what?!
That’s literally stalking!
PixelPrincess
🥺 But it’s Akira. He makes coffee and smells good and does the eyebrow furrow thing when he’s reading…
Why can’t I collect my thirst data??
Besides. That’s just one picture.
Should I not have taken the other 24?
BimboBerry
...Well…
It’s just us, right? 😇
It’s not that bad…
SiroccoFée
I’M SUPPOSED TO BE THE RESPONSIBLE ONE
SinGlazed
This is so, so wrong.
…Do you have one of him smiling?
PixelPrincess
Oh ho ho 😏
[attachment: IMG_0145.jpg]
[attachment: IMG_0213.jpg]
[attachment: IMG_0328.jpg]
[attachment: IMG_workout.mp4]
BangBangBaby
THAT LAST ONE WAS HIM DOING PUSHUPS
WITH ONE HAND
WHILE SWEATING
AND BITING HIS LIP
BlossomUndone
I need holy water.
Or a fan. Possibly both.
PlunderBae
He looks so focused when he’s training 😩
And that little grunt he makes when he exerts himself??
BendMeBaby
…he’s kind of beautiful, huh?
SinGlazed
Yeah.
But also just—
So kind.
It makes it worse somehow.
BimboBerry
Right? Like he’s this quiet, beautiful storm cloud of a boy, and then he makes you coffee and listens to you talk about your day and doesn’t even realize he’s making your heart explode??
BendMeBaby
…He really is gentle. Like, genuinely sweet. But…
I think he’s touch-starved.
SiroccoFée
Touch-starved?
You mean—
BendMeBaby
Like... I hugged him once and he flinched a little, like he wasn’t used to it. Then he smiled like it meant the world to him.
He holds back from reaching out. Even when he wants to.
It’s subtle, but…
I think he’s starved for affection.
SinGlazed
…I asked Naoto-senpai about him.
She said Akira’s family barely talked to him, even before the false arrest.
After that, they completely disowned him.
No letters. No visits. Just silence.
PixelPrincess
…I hacked the juvie system when I first heard about him.
(You know. Normal girl stuff.)
He spent almost 90% of his time in solitary confinement.
That’s three years with almost no contact.
He barely spoke to anyone.
BangBangBaby
That’s horrible…
BlossomUndone
No wonder he flinches.
BimboBerry
…We have to do something.
Make sure he knows he’s loved.
That he’s not alone anymore.
PlunderBae
He’s always there for us. We should be there for him.
Whether he realizes it or not.
SinGlazed
Agreed.
Even if he’s clueless about how we feel, he deserves to be surrounded by people who care.
SiroccoFée
We’re going to fix this.
With love.
And probably cuddles.
...Eventually.
PixelPrincess
🥺🥺🥺
You guys…
This is beautiful.
Also
Btw
Did I ever tell you what happened the first time Akira came to my room?
BimboBerry
👀 oh no
SinGlazed
Futaba.
PixelPrincess
He sat on my vibrator 😌
BendMeBaby
WHAT?!
BangBangBaby
AKIRAAAAA NOOOOOOO 😭
PlunderBae
WAS IT ON?!?!
BlossomUndone
This is why we can’t have nice things!
SinGlazed
We just had a moment!!
A real moment!!!
Why are we like this?! 😫
SiroccoFée
This chat needs to be burned. Immediately.
PixelPrincess
Love you too 💚
Kichijoji Outing – The Next Day
Akira adjusted his collar as he approached Futaba’s house, expecting to wait a few minutes. So when he spotted her already standing at the front gate, he paused, blinking in mild surprise.
She was rocking on her heels, hands clasped behind her back, her usual oversized clothes swapped for something a bit more... thought out.
A lot more, actually.
Futaba was dressed in a pleated skirt with pixel-heart patterns, a mint-green graphic tee featuring an 8-bit slime with the words "HP Full, Let's Go!", and a cropped jacket decorated with enamel pins—Sailor Moon, Metroid, a tiny neko with "MEOW" in comic font. Her knee-high socks had mismatched stripes, and her sneakers were platform-style, covered in Sharpie doodles. She even had on a subtle touch of lip gloss.
Akira gave a soft whistle. “You’re early.”
“Gasp! Am I... responsible now?” she said, throwing her hands up like she’d leveled up. “But don’t tell Sojiro. He’ll expect it again.”
He smiled. “You feeling okay, 'Taba? First awakenings are always tough. And you had a hell of a first experience with the madness.”
Futaba giggled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Says the guy who nearly got himself turned into brain jelly saving me.”
Her voice softened. “But... that’s a convo for another time. Today’s not about trauma dumps—it’s about fun. So.” She did a little twirl on the spot, skirt flaring just enough to show a bit of thigh. “How do I look?”
Akira blinked, then offered a crooked, genuine smile. “Cute. Very... you. Like you hacked a fashion blog and made it crash.”
Futaba went bright red. “Dude!” she squeaked, swatting at his arm with both hands. “What the heck kind of compliment is that?!”
“The sincere kind.”
“Ughhh, you’re lucky you’re hot.” She then immediately clamped her mouth shut. “I-I mean—H-hot tea! You make hot tea. Like a barista. Yep. Smooth save, Futaba.”
Akira just raised an amused eyebrow.
She latched onto his arm suddenly, burying her face in his shoulder like she could hide from the embarrassment. “Don’t look at me,” she mumbled.
He chuckled. “We meeting the others there?”
“Mmm-hmm,” came her muffled reply. “Ann said they’re already at Penguin Sniper. Ren and Kasumi were grabbing drinks.”
“Good,” Akira said as they began walking toward the station, Futaba still clinging to him. “You all deserve a day to just breathe.”
She looked up at him, eyes soft behind her glasses. “So do you, y’know.”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
Futaba shrugged but didn’t let go. “You’re always taking care of everyone. Just figured... maybe we should return the favor.”
Akira didn’t say anything right away. But his expression warmed, touched by something quiet and unspoken.
Then Futaba poked his side. “But don’t get used to me being sappy. I still have three embarrassing photos of you stretching this morning, and I will use them if you try to pull a disappearing act.”
He groaned. “Remind me why I gave you a key again?”
“Because I’m adorable, terrifying, and you love me,” she sang.
Akira paused. “I didn’t say that.”
“Not yet, you haven’t,” Futaba grinned, tightening her grip on his arm as they disappeared into the crowd heading toward the station.
Kichijoji – Penguin Sniper Arcade
The familiar scent of polished wood, vending machine sugar, and faintly burnt takoyaki filled the air as Akira and Futaba stepped into Penguin Sniper. The sound of clacking pool balls and dart throws blended with laughter and music overhead.
Futaba made a beeline toward the raised lounge area in the back, still clinging to Akira’s arm.
“There they are,” she said cheerfully, nodding toward the girls gathered around a small booth.
Akira spotted them—and paused.
It hit him all at once, like walking into a fever dream of color-coded aesthetics and very intentional fashion choices: Ann was perched on a barstool in a pink crop top with glitter lettering that read DADDY’S GIRL, paired with a white tennis skirt and rhinestone-studded platform sneakers. Her hair was curled and glossy, lips glossed even glossier.
Shiho had gone full pop punk princess - distressed denim shorts over fishnet tights, a band tee for The Babymetal Angels tied at the waist, and combat boots. She wore her makeup sharp, dark, and winged.
Ryuemi had that effortless sporty chic thing down: a cropped black athletic jacket over a crimson sports bra, loose high-waisted cargo pants, and sleek sneakers. Her high ponytail bounced as she gestured mid-convo.
Yukiko was the picture of elegant artsy in a flowing deep violet midi dress with abstract patterns, paired with a minimalist shawl and soft ankle boots. She had a paintbrush tucked behind one ear like an accessory.
Kasumi wore a half-zipped silver bomber over a bold red sports tank, black joggers with reflective side stripes, and fingerless gloves. Her ponytail was loose and tousled.
Morgane exuded a refined French charm, in a high-collared cream blouse tucked into a black mini with sheer tights and ankle boots. Her short curls were pinned with a delicate clip, and she sipped an espresso like it was wine.
Ren’s look was the most surprising of the bunch. Her cutesy outfit consisted of a pastel-pink hoodie with bunny ears on the hood, a white pleated skirt with embroidered stars, and heart-shaped barrettes in her hair.
All of them looked incredible. And all of them turned as one when they saw him.
“There’s our knight!” Ann beamed, sliding off her stool and hurrying over.
Before Akira could say a word, she threw her arms around his neck in a warm, casual hug.
Shiho was next, grinning as she elbowed Ann aside just enough to give Akira a one-armed, friendly squeeze around the shoulders. “Damn, you clean up nice for a weekday, hero.”
“Uh… thanks?” Akira replied, blinking.
Ryuemi grinned wide, giving him a backslap that turned into a loose hug around his middle. “You good?”
“Yeah, I—” He didn’t finish before Yukiko leaned in with a gentle, elegant embrace, her cheek brushing his.
“You came,” she said with a soft smile. “That makes me… happy.”
Akira opened his mouth, shut it, looked faintly pink.
Kasumi twirled in after her, bright and bouncy. “Hi, senpai~!” she sang, and hugged him from the other side. “Looking handsome as always!”
Akira gave a slightly dazed, “Hey, Kasumi…” like his brain was buffering.
Then Morgane swept in with the grace of royalty, one arm loosely around his waist as she kissed the air beside his cheek. “Bonjour, Monsieur Amamiya. You are, as ever, dangerously charming.”
He stared at her. “Who are you and what have you done with my prickly Morgane?” which earned him a smack from the pint-sized Quebecois and an exasperated huff.
And finally, Ren—last but not least—walked up with a tiny, hesitant smile. She didn’t say anything at first, just gently stepped in and hugged him around the waist.
She didn’t let go right away.
Akira’s arms hovered in the air, unsure of where to place them.
“...Ren?”
She pulled back slightly, cheeks pink. “Just wanted to say thank you. For what you do for all of us.”
Akira looked around at the circle of girls, every one of them either smiling, giggling, or pretending not to smirk.
“Did I… miss a group memo or something?”
Futaba, still at his side, gave him a devious grin.
“Nope,” she said innocently, tugging him toward the booth. “You’re just finally reaping what you sowed, Hero-kun.”
None of the girls said anything aloud.
But as they all watched Akira take a seat—still looking confused but undeniably pleased—several meaningful glances were exchanged. There were smiles. Little nods. Raised eyebrows. Silent agreements.
Game on.
No sooner had greetings wrapped than Futaba was off like a shot, weaving between teenagers and dodging a couple on a date as she made a beeline for the claw machines.
“OCTOPUSSSSS!” she cried, pointing dramatically at the middle machine. Inside, nestled between a whale shark and a mint-green dinosaur, was a round, bubblegum-pink octopus plushie with oversized eyes and stubby little legs. It blinked at her through the glass like it knew it was about to become someone's favorite.
She fished out a 500 yen coin from her zippered side pouch, cracked her knuckles, and jammed it into the slot. “You are mine, cephalopod cutie.”
Ten seconds later, the claw grabbed air. Her lips twisted. “Okay. RNG. Fine.”
Second attempt. The claw landed on the plushie… then gently caressed it before giving up and wandering off like it had better places to be. Third attempt was no better.
Futaba stared at the machine with the wide-eyed betrayal of someone who’d just been ghosted mid-conversation.
“Stupid machine…” she muttered, hands pressed to the glass like she was trying to guilt-trip it into submission. “You were supposed to be mine, Tako-chan…”
A soft chuckle came from behind her, and a hand lightly ruffled her hair. “Scoot over,” Akira said, stepping up beside her. “Let me take a crack at it.”
She blinked up at him. “You gonna show me the ways of the Claw, oh Sensei?”
“Something like that.”
He slid in a 500 yen coin smoothly. Gripping the controls, he gave the joystick a couple of precise nudges, eyes narrowed in calm concentration. Then—
Clink… click… thud.
The claw closed firmly around the octopus and dropped it into the chute with clean, almost surgical precision.
Futaba gasped, watching Akira reach in and pull out the plush. “NO WAY. That’s illegal. You’re illegal.”
He turned, holding the toy out to her with a small smile. “You wanted it, right?”
Futaba’s brain short-circuited for a full two seconds before she snatched it from his hands and hugged it to her chest. “You magnificent crane game demon.”
Akira turned to the rest of the group. “Two tries left. Anyone else want something? Ren? Yukiko?”
Ren perked up immediately. “Ooh! Um… that one. The magical girl in the pink cape. She looks like Lily-chan from Witch Hearts Unlimited.”
Akira nodded, slid the controls, and snagged the tiny anime sorceress without hesitation. A beat later, he handed the plush to Ren, who clutched it to her chest and whispered, “She’s going on my pillow next to my Mami figure.”
Next up, Yukiko, after a moment of thought, pointed delicately. “The fox plushie. The red one, next to the dumb-looking chicken.”
Akira chuckled and delivered with casual grace. As he handed the fox to Yukiko, she traced her fingers over the stitching with a faint smile. “His name is Takemaru. He will protect my sketchbook.”
“Okay, NO,” Futaba said, spinning on her heel and pointing at the machine like she was filing a lawsuit. “This is rigged. These machines are designed to rob you blind. What you did is impossible.”
Kasumi giggled behind her hand. “This isn’t the first time he’s done that. He won all of us a plushie the first time we went out together.”
Ann leaned in, arms folded under her chest. “Didn’t he clear that UFO shooting game in one run, too?”
“Yup,” said Shiho. “And the basketball hoops. He beat the machine record.”
Ryuemi shook her head. “I still think he has cheat codes.”
Akira scratched the back of his head, pink dusting his cheeks. “Guess I’m just lucky? I’m… pretty good with my hands?”
Eight pairs of eyes zeroed in on him like laser sights.
Ann nearly choked.
Ren made a noise that could only be described as a giggle-groan.
Yukiko discreetly fanned herself with her fox plushie.
Shiho smirked and muttered, “Understatement of the year.”
Morgane raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fact, Monsieur Amamiya?”
Even Kasumi was bright pink now, looking very intently at her shoes.
Akira blinked, confused by the sudden silence and shifting body language. “…Did I say something weird?”
Futaba was biting her knuckle, vibrating with the effort of not saying something wildly inappropriate.
Ryuemi finally broke, voice high and innocent. “So how good are you with your hands, exactly?”
Akira, oblivious, tilted his head. “Dunno. Pretty decent, I guess?”
The girls died.
Futaba clutched the octopus plushie like it was her emotional support animal. “I need a save point. Right now.”
The warm, cozy lighting of Penguin Sniper’s darts lounge created a mellow contrast to the noisy arcade downstairs. A few patrons occupied side booths, but the Phantom Thieves had claimed one of the electronic dartboards. Futaba was already tapping through the interface with intense focus, trying to customize avatars for each player.
“We’re doing teams,” she declared, grinning over her shoulder. “I call Akira.”
“Hold up,” Ann said, flicking her hair over one shoulder. “You had him all the way here. It’s my turn.”
Shiho crossed her arms with a teasing smile. “You mean our turn, right, Ryuemi?”
“Dibs,” Ryuemi added, looping an arm around Shiho’s shoulders.
Kasumi tilted her head, putting on her best smile. “Um… I haven’t played darts in years, but I wouldn’t mind a refresher with Akira…”
Ren, cheeks slightly pink but tone sweetly firm: “He is good with his hands.”
Morgane, with a cool smirk: “I am not pairing with anyone else. I refuse.”
Yukiko, arms crossed, expression almost regal: “I do not care what the rest of you decide. He’s my partner.”
The entire group devolved into a chorus of overlapping complaints, accusations of “unfair dibs,” “hogging privileges,” and “strategic manipulation of social cues.”
Akira blinked at the chaos for a moment, utterly bewildered but also vaguely amused. Then he raised his hands, smiling gently. “Okay, okay. Let’s settle this fairly.”
They turned to him in near-unison.
“I’ll play once with each of you,” he offered. “Sound good?”
The tension evaporated instantly, replaced by a flurry of smug smiles, subtle fist-pumps, and suspiciously intense stretches.
Round One: Futaba
She started off full of fire, spinning dramatically like a magical girl before each throw… and missing the board entirely.
“Wha—WHY did it veer off like that?! Is it magnetically sabotaged?!”
Akira leaned in and adjusted her fingers gently on the dart. “Try holding it like this.”
Her face turned bright red. “Oh my god. Okay. Nope. That’s cheating. You’re using your protagonist aura.”
She still missed the board, but declared her octopus plushie was “judging everyone silently.”
Round Two: Ann
Ann held her dart like a lipstick and posed before each throw. “Style over accuracy,” she purred. Then immediately hit a 1.
Akira chuckled. “You wanna aim slightly left—”
“Don’t mansplain my aesthetic,” she replied, launching a dart into the 12 ring by sheer luck. “See?”
He leaned over and whispered, “Nice shot.”
Ann nearly dropped her last dart.
Round Three: Shiho
Shiho wasn’t bad. Her stance was solid, her aim decent. She even got a bullseye once. “Volleyball drills gave me eagle eyes,” she boasted.
Akira raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Wanna make it interesting?”
“You’re on,” she grinned.
She lost, but by a close margin—and bumped fists with him anyway, cheeks a little pink.
Round Four: Ryuemi
Also decent, though far more casual. She kept grinning after each throw, muttering, “How do you make everything look smooth, ‘Kira?”
When Akira handed her a dart with an accidental brush of fingers, she froze for 0.5 seconds too long.
“Cheater,” she whispered under her breath.
Round Five: Kasumi
She was… trying. But darts were not her game.
“I think I missed the board entirely,” she mumbled after her second throw hit the wall. “Do I get points for style?”
“You get points for effort,” Akira said gently, giving her a soft smile.
Kasumi beamed and turned away very quickly so no one would see her blushing.
Round Six: Morgane
A different beast entirely.
Refined. Precise. Calculated.
“You shall not beat me,” she intoned dramatically, flicking her dart and landing a triple 20 on the first try.
Akira actually had to concentrate for once.
They were neck and neck by the end—and when he barely edged out a win, Morgane snapped her fingers. “Curses. You are quite the foe.”
“You say that like you’re planning a rematch,” he teased.
“Oh, I am.”
Round Seven: Yukiko
Elegant and intense. She didn’t talk much—just focused, aimed, and hit bullseyes like it was personal.
“You’re scarily good at this,” Akira admitted, shaking his hand after.
Yukiko gave him a small smile and whispered, “Art requires precision. So does winning your attention.”
Akira blinked. “…Huh?”
“Nothing,” she sang, turning on her heel.
Final Round: Ren
Cute outfit, cute demeanor—utter shark beneath it.
“You’re not going to let me win, are you?” she asked sweetly as she launched a triple 19.
Akira laughed under his breath. “Not a chance.”
Ren stuck out her tongue. “Didn’t think so.”
They played in near silence, exchanging narrowed eyes and smiles with each round, until Akira missed the last throw.
Ren turned to the group. “My win. Destiny.”
Ann: “You’re so dramatic.”
Ren: “Let me have this.”
As the games wound down, the girls lounged together, comparing scores and teasing each other. Akira leaned against the wall, sipping a canned coffee Morgane had handed him with a huff, quietly content.
He didn’t notice the soft smiles the girls exchanged behind his back.
Kichijoji Izakaya – Early Evening
The warm glow of hanging lanterns bathed the long table the Phantom Thieves had claimed. Plates of gyoza, karaage, sweet potato fries, grilled yakitori, and assorted side dishes filled the center like a feast. Laughter echoed from their little corner of the cozy izakaya, a perfect cap to the arcade chaos.
Akira sat near the middle, flanked by Futaba and Shiho, but conversation flowed in every direction.
“Okay but hear me out,” Futaba said, clutching her octopus plushie like a pillow. “If the heroine of CyberShogun Delta had a Persona, it’d totally be a mech-goddess hybrid. Like Athena, but with plasma cannons.”
Kasumi’s eyes lit up. “Ooh! And she’d have a transformation sequence! With, like, neon spirals and giant cherry blossoms!”
Yukiko, sipping matcha with perfect posture, gave a faint smirk. “I admit, the composition of the transformation scenes in Delta are quite masterful. The use of light layering and framing? Gorgeous.”
Futaba gasped. “Wait—you actually notice cinematography?”
“I analyze cinematography,” Yukiko said with pride. “And manga paneling. Art is everywhere, after all.”
“Dude,” Futaba whispered. “We’re going to be besties.”
Kasumi nodded with a grin. “I give it three days before you two are trading doujinshi.”
At the far end of the table, Ann was waving her chopsticks like a conductor. “Okay, but Shiho definitely cheated at darts.”
“I did not!” Shiho huffed, bumping shoulders with her. “You just suck.”
“Ladies, please,” Ryuemi said with mock dignity, throwing an arm around each of them. “There’s enough sass for all of us.”
“Yeah, but you’re on thin ice after that ‘Nice shot, Captain Clutz’ comment,” Shiho said, poking Ryuemi with a skewer.
Ann grinned. “You two are just jealous ‘cause I’m cute and talented.”
“More like cute and delusional,” Ryuemi muttered under her breath, ducking a napkin Ann tossed her way.
On Ann’s other side, Ren was delicately pouring syrup over a stack of dorayaki.
“I’m so glad someone else appreciates dessert as a main course,” she said, eyes sparkling.
Ann clasped her hands together. “Finally! Everyone else treats sweets like an afterthought. Ren, we need to do dessert cafés sometime.”
“I’m making a list,” Ren replied, already typing on her phone. “Number one: the place with the sakura parfaits and edible glitter.”
Akira leaned over slightly. “Are you two planning an all-sweets pilgrimage?”
Ren and Ann exchanged a conspiratorial glance. “Yes,” they said in unison.
“Dance and gymnastics?” Ryuemi asked, impressed. “Damn, Kasumi, when do you sleep?”
Kasumi laughed. “Between 1 and 5 AM. Not recommended.”
Shiho nodded knowingly. “Athletes' insomnia. I get it.”
“You’re all nuts,” Ryuemi said, raising her glass of soda. “But I respect it. We should totally train together sometime.”
Kasumi brightened. “Really? That’d be fun.”
“You bring grace,” Shiho said, nodding to Kasumi. “Ryu brings speed. I bring power. We’d be unstoppable.”
“Like a sports anime trio,” Ryuemi grinned.
Further down, Morgane was inspecting a ceramic dish with delicate glaze. “Look at this craftsmanship. Hand-painted, for sure. Mid-Edo design?”
Yukiko nodded with subtle approval. “Good eye. The brushwork suggests traditional Kyo-yaki technique. You don’t often see it outside Kyoto.”
Morgane leaned forward, intrigued. “You study pottery?”
“I study everything artistic,” Yukiko said calmly. “Even the arrangement of this table tells a story.”
Morgane’s lips curled into a rare, warm smile. “You’re wasted on this generation.”
“And yet, here we are,” Yukiko replied, raising her tea in a toast. “Kindred spirits.”
“Your nails,” Yukiko murmured, glancing at Ren’s fingers as she reached for her parfait spoon. “They're adorable.”
Ren wiggled them proudly. “Pink gradient with gold foil. Morgane helped me pick the palette.”
“I prefer something subtler,” Yukiko mused, showing off hers—polished slate blue with delicate silver lines. “But I admire bold choices.”
“We should paint each other’s nails sometime,” Ren offered.
“I accept.”
As laughter and chatter swirled around him, Akira found himself smiling more than he expected. Not just from the food or the jokes—but from the easy rhythm of it all. Everyone seemed to be connecting in their own way. Finding common ground. Building something warm.
He passed a plate of fried lotus root to Futaba without being asked. Handed Yukiko a spare chopstick. Refilled Ren’s tea. Quiet gestures, but always noticed.
Futaba leaned close, whispering to Kasumi and Ren: “Told you. Touch-starved, but emotionally loaded. You feel it too, right?”
Kasumi nodded, cheeks pink. “It’s… different with him.”
Ren tilted her head, gaze soft. “I think we all know.”
Akira blinked as he caught them looking at him.
“…What?” he asked, confused.
“Nothing!” the three said at once, returning to their food far too quickly.
Akira raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
The private karaoke room was bathed in pink neon and starry ceiling lights, with two long sofas and a raised platform at one end. Drinks with light-up ice cubes lined the table. A giant catalog of songs glowed on the screen, already queuing up the next set.
Laughter echoed off the walls as Ann and Ren finished their performance of “Pon Pon Pon”—a ridiculously catchy J-pop idol track. Both girls had fully committed to the choreography, spinning and twirling with perfect synchronicity.
“Okay but why do they look like they rehearsed that?” Ryuemi muttered, awestruck.
“They probably did,” Futaba deadpanned, sipping a melon soda through a curly straw.
Ren and Ann ended with a final wink and finger heart, striking matching poses as the screen exploded in digital sparkles.
Ann flopped back onto the couch, panting but glowing. “Top that!”
Shiho took the mic next and immediately launched into a raw, high-energy rendition of “DICE” by Band-Maid. Her voice cracked with perfect punk aggression, and before long, Ann and Ryuemi leapt up to join her for the screaming chorus, fists pumping, heads bobbing.
Kasumi watched with wide eyes. “Are they forming a band or staging a riot?”
“Both,” Yukiko murmured approvingly, sipping tea like it was wine.
Then came Futaba and Kasumi, arms linked, giggling as they selected “Starflight Overdrive”—the opening to one of Futaba’s favorite space adventure anime. The beat kicked in, and the two girls launched into a spirited, slightly off-key but adorable duet, complete with overly dramatic finger-pointing and sparkly eyes during the emotional chorus.
“I was born for this!” Futaba declared, voice cracking on a high note but eyes shining with glee.
Kasumi giggled, almost missing her next line.
Then Yukiko stepped up alone, selecting a haunting Japanese ballad—“Tsuki no Koe”. As the first melancholic piano notes filled the room, the chatter faded. Her voice was soft at first, then blooming with strength and control, full of longing and quiet grace.
Even Morgane, who had been humming along dismissively at first, sat forward by the second verse.
When she finished, there was a full three seconds of stunned silence—then thunderous applause.
“Holy hell,” Ryuemi said.
“You could record that,” Ann whispered, still spellbound.
Yukiko gave a modest bow. “Thank you.”
Then Morgane took over.
“I found a Marie-Mai song,” she declared with theatrical flair. “You’re not ready.”
She wasn’t wrong.
With a wild grin, she launched into “C.O.B.R.A.”, shaking her hips and belting every syllable in French with high-octane energy. Her accent, her stage presence, the sheer chaos—it was hypnotic. She tossed her hair dramatically and even tried to get Akira to dance with her during the bridge.
He politely declined with a tiny smile, which just made her smile harder.
Suddenly, the beat dropped hard.
Ryuemi and Kasumi had queued up “BeatFreak Riot”, a viral rap track known for its speed and wordplay. Everyone stared as the two seemingly sweet girls began spitting fire, trading lines with shocking confidence, Kasumi bouncing on her toes and Ryuemi flowing like a pro.
“Where was this all day?” Futaba shrieked.
“They’re possessed!” Shiho cried.
Ann wiped a tear. “My babies are all grown up.”
As the girls collapsed in a sweaty, laughing heap, drinks and snacks strewn around them, someone realized something important.
“Wait,” Ren said, eyes narrowing. “Akira hasn’t gone.”
He raised both hands. “I can’t sing.”
“Lies!” Futaba shouted.
“You dodged every single round!” Ann accused, pointing a glowstick at him.
“Don’t you dare make us beg,” Shiho warned.
Ren crossed her arms. “Too late for that.”
Then, in perfect unison, eight pairs of puppy-dog eyes turned on him.
Akira froze. “…That’s not fair.”
Futaba pressed her palms together. “One song, Akiraaa.”
Kasumi tugged his sleeve. “Please?”
A long sigh. “...Fine.”
He took the mic awkwardly, scrolling for a while before settling on “I Won’t See You Tonight” by Avenged Sevenfold. A few eyebrows rose.
“...He’s picking that?” Shiho murmured.
The instrumental kicked in—gritty, dark, theatrical. Akira stood rigid at first, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
Then the vocals started.
His voice was low, rough and magnetic. As the song built, so did his confidence. The second chorus hit, and suddenly Akira was performing, not just singing—a haunting, powerful rendition that filled the room with raw intensity.
His posture changed. His body leaned into the rhythm. His voice soared on the bridge, nailing the high notes.
The girls sat in stunned silence, mouths open.
By the time he hit the final chorus, Morgane’s jaw was on the floor. Ren’s face was pink. Ann looked starstruck. Even Yukiko looked faintly breathless.
He ended the song with a low, fading note—and immediately sat down, face burning, eyes locked on the floor.
“…You liar,” Futaba whispered reverently.
Kasumi, quietly: “That was… hot.”
Akira just buried his face in his hands.
The group eventually wound down, leaving the karaoke box in sleepy, satisfied pairs and trios. The sky was deep violet now, the air soft with early summer humidity.
But one thing was clear to every girl there: Akira Amamiya was full of surprises.
And they weren’t done falling for him yet.
Laughter echoed down the lantern-lit street as the group spilled out of the karaoke building, cheeks flushed and voices hoarse from too much singing and soda. Kasumi and Ryuemi were still beatboxing half of the last rap verse. Futaba had one arm slung over Yukiko’s shoulders, animatedly describing her dream anime crossover. Morgane was twirling a glowstick like a rapier while Ann and Ren giggled behind her.
At the center of it all, Akira walked with his hands in his pockets, quiet but smiling, his storm-grey eyes soft beneath the golden streetlamps. When Shiho nudged his shoulder playfully, he laughed—a rare, unguarded sound that made the others glance his way with quiet joy.
And just across the street, half-shrouded in the shadows of a vending machine alcove, someone was watching.
A hood drawn low. A worn notebook clutched tight. Pen scribbling furiously even as it shook.
June 10th, 21:41 PM — T hree new girls confirmed.
TOTAL: 8.
→ All young. All attractive. All attached to him.
→ Laughter. Touching. Eye contact. Deference. WHY?
A quick, darting glance upward. The figure’s eyes narrowed behind tinted glasses, lips twisting.
“He just keeps… pulling them in,” they whispered, voice raw with obsession. “They orbit him. Like satellites. No resistance. No suspicion.”
The pen moved again, fast and sharp, stabbing the paper.
Coercion? Grooming? Manipulation.
→ sex cult? trafficking? drugs?
No evidence. Not yet. Just patterns.
Certain words were scrawled, underlined, circled, crossed out violently—then rewritten again. There was no logic to it anymore, only desperate pattern-seeking.
They looked up again.
Ann laughing with Ren. Kasumi slipping her hand into Akira’s arm. Futaba tugging on his hoodie like a kid. Yukiko walking a bit closer than necessary. Morgane glancing back at him, unreadable.
“He’s in control. Somehow. And they don’t even see it. He’s not even doing anything. That’s what makes it worse.”
A deep breath. Their voice dropped to a whisper.
“…How is she okay with this?”
A flash of pain crossed their face, barely illuminated in the machine’s reflection. They flipped back a few pages. There was a name there, half-erased. A small flower doodle scrawled beside it.
“She won’t talk to me. Won’t answer. Pretends nothing’s wrong. But I know. I know there’s something wrong here.”
The sound of laughter again—Akira gently tousling Futaba’s hair. Kasumi leaning into his side.
Their grip tightened on the notebook.
“I’m not wrong,” they hissed.
I’m not wrong.
I’M NOT WRONG.
The pen tore through the page.
They glanced down. A cartoon panda grinned stupidly up from the pink cover of the notebook, its big sparkly eyes seeming to stare into theirs like judgment.
“…Don’t look at me like that.”
The panda didn’t blink.
“I have to know what he’s doing. I have to stop him. Before they fall any deeper.”
The last words they muttered to herself were quiet, almost like a prayer. Or a curse.
“Akira Amamiya is dangerous.”
The notebook snapped shut.
And from the edge of the light, they followed.
The street outside the karaoke lounge was quieter now, the neon signs casting pools of color on the wet pavement. The energy had mellowed into something soft and warm, like the afterglow of a perfect day.
Ann stretched her arms overhead with a content sigh. "That was so fun. I think I blew out my vocal cords though."
"You say that every time," Shiho said, elbowing her gently. "You just like screaming into microphones."
"Hey! That’s called stage presence."
Ryuemi laughed, then gave Kasumi a fist bump. "Still can’t believe you kept up with that rap. Girl’s got hidden fire."
Kasumi flushed a little. “I practice… in the mirror sometimes.”
"You are so valid for that," Ren added with a giggle. “I do full idol choreography alone in my room. No shame.”
Yukiko nodded. “That explains why you and Ann nailed that J-pop song. It was like watching a music video.”
“Next time we should film it,” Morgane said, stretching her arms behind her head. “And maybe bring better snacks. Those convenience store melon pans were not gourmet.”
“Still better than that canned coffee you made me try,” Akira teased.
Morgane glared at him. “You didn’t think to bring proper coffee with you.”
The group slowly began to drift apart as they reached the station entrance. One by one, they exchanged hugs and waves.
“Text us when you get home!” Ren called as she linked arms with Ann.
“Don’t let Futaba stay up all night gaming!” Ryuemi added, pointing at Akira like a scolding older sister.
Shiho smirked. “Like he could stop her.”
Akira chuckled, raising a hand in mock defeat. “No promises.”
Futaba puffed out her cheeks. “I’ll have you all know I’m very responsible! In my own… uniquely chaotic way.”
She was still clinging to Akira’s arm, her octopus plushie nestled under her other one like a precious trophy. “C’mon, Mr. Claw Machine God. Home awaits.”
“Night, everyone,” Akira said, offering a small wave as the two of them turned to head toward the opposite platform.
He didn’t see the looks they got as they walked away—affection, curiosity, even a hint of envy from more than one girl. But no one said anything. Not yet.
Only Morgane, watching them disappear around the corner, whispered under her breath with a thoughtful hum.
“…This was actually kind of fun, actually.”
The others chuckled, then turned to head their own ways, their footsteps echoing softly on the empty platform, hearts a little fuller than before.
THIRST_COVEN_COVERT_CHAT 🐾🔥💦
Members: BimboBerry, BangBangBaby, PlunderBae, SiroccoFée, PixelPrincess, BlossomUndone, SinGlazed, BendMeBaby
BimboBerry:
Okay but… real talk?
Tonight was perfect. I haven’t laughed that hard in weeks.
PixelPrincess:
For real!! Between the anime duet and Morgane losing her mind over that French-Canadian singer, I thought I was gonna die.
Also: MY OCTO BOI IS SAFE AND WARM ON MY BED NOW 🐙💕 TY AKIRA
PlunderBae:
Lmao it was a banger night
Still can’t believe we got Akira to sing. That growl during the chorus??? 🥵🔥
SinGlazed:
I was clutching my chest like some Victorian maiden ngl.
He really hit us with that, “I can’t sing 😌” and then went full rock god.
BangBangBaby:
Classic Amamiya move. Undersell, overdeliver.
Guy probably plays violin and builds boats in his spare time.
BlossomUndone:
You joke, but I would not be surprised.
He feels like someone who knows how to whittle.
SiroccoFée:
I cannot believe I am saying this, but I might forgive him for insulting my melon pan.
...Might.
PixelPrincess:
K soooooo question.
Is it weird that we all use this chat to thirst after Akira but don’t really know each other that well?
BimboBerry:
Wait omg yeah? We’re always hanging out around him, but not really talking with each other that much.
Except me and Shiho and Ryuemi—cuz like, ride or die since middle school.
But still!
BlossomUndone:
Then let’s remedy that. Right now.
Girls’ bonding session. No boys allowed.
BangBangBaby:
Ooooh let’s do “this or that.” Keep it simple but revealing.
🏖 Swimming pool or beach?
BimboBerry: Beach! Bikini and all.
BangBangBaby: Pool. Easier to cannonball into.
PlunderBae: Pool. Gotta keep it controlled for laps.
PixelPrincess: Neither. Ocean’s full of aliens. Chlorine’s full of sadness.
SinGlazed: Beach. Sun, wind, waves... music video vibes.
BlossomUndone: Beach. More scenic. More inspiring.
SiroccoFée: Pool. Controlled temperature. No sand in delicate places.
BendMeBaby: Pool! I love doing flips underwater.
👠 Flats or heels?
BimboBerry: Heels. Duh.
BangBangBaby: Combat boots count as flats, right?
PlunderBae: Flats. Heels are death traps.
PixelPrincess: Sneakers. All day.
SinGlazed: Heels. For the drama.
BlossomUndone: Heels—if I’m being indulgent.
SiroccoFée: Heels. Beauty is a battlefield.
BendMeBaby: Flats. I’m already on my feet all day.
📱 New phone or new clothes?
BimboBerry: Clothes! I need the drip.
BangBangBaby: Clothes. I don’t even know what model phone I have.
PlunderBae: New running shoes > everything
PixelPrincess: Phone. I have needs.
SinGlazed: Clothes. Gotta stay cute.
BlossomUndone: New coat, new inspiration.
SiroccoFée: Clothes. I curate my look like a gallery.
BendMeBaby: Clothes! So many colors to try
🚿 Singing in the shower or singing in the car?
BimboBerry: Shower. I am the moment.
BangBangBaby: Car. I need to scream-cry to Avril in traffic.
PlunderBae: Car. Headbanging optional.
PixelPrincess: Both. Constantly. Everywhere.
SinGlazed: Car! Preferably with a hairbrush mic.
BlossomUndone: Shower. Acoustics are divine.
SiroccoFée: Car. More drama.
BendMeBaby: Shower! It’s relaxing
🍫 Dark chocolate or milk chocolate?
BimboBerry: Milk!
BangBangBaby: Dark. I’m brooding and mysterious.
PlunderBae: Milk. Simple pleasures.
PixelPrincess: White chocolate. I’m built different.
SinGlazed: Dark, but only if it’s fancy.
BlossomUndone: Dark. Richer flavor.
SiroccoFée: Dark. With sea salt. Perfection.
BendMeBaby: Milk! Especially with caramel
👗 Dress or skirt?
BimboBerry: Dress! Show-stopper.
BangBangBaby: Skirt. Easier to kick someone in.
PlunderBae: Skirt with shorts under.
PixelPrincess: Skirt with fandom pins all over.
SinGlazed: Dress. Always.
BlossomUndone: Dress. Effortless grace.
SiroccoFée: Dress. Like poetry you can wear.
BendMeBaby: Dress! I love twirling!
🍝 Movie date or dinner date?
BimboBerry: Movie. Dark room, shared popcorn, flirty tension
BangBangBaby: Dinner. I need eye contact.
PlunderBae: Dinner. More chances to laugh.
PixelPrincess: Game date. You said movie or dinner, I said gamer girl rights.
SinGlazed: Movie and dinner. Greedy like that.
BlossomUndone: Dinner. I love meaningful conversation.
SiroccoFée: Movie. I want to cry in the dark and blame the film.
BendMeBaby: Dinner! I love cozy restaurants
☀️ Sunbathing or swimming?
BimboBerry: Sunbathing. Bikini. Flirt.
BangBangBaby: Swimming. Get in, loser.
PlunderBae: Swimming!
PixelPrincess: Sunbathing under an umbrella. With a Switch.
SinGlazed: Sunbathing. Gotta tan the thighs.
BlossomUndone: Swimming. Preferably in a scenic lake.
SiroccoFée: Sunbathing. I burn beautifully.
BendMeBaby: Swimming! It’s so freeing 🌊
🎢 Rollercoaster or ferris wheel?
BimboBerry: Rollercoaster! Hair down, scream loud.
BangBangBaby: Ferris wheel. Easier to make out in.
PlunderBae: Coaster! Adrenaline, baby.
PixelPrincess: I’ll wait on the ground with your bags.
SinGlazed: Ferris wheel. I’m a romantic.
BlossomUndone: Ferris wheel. Calm and scenic.
SiroccoFée: Rollercoaster. I like the drop.
BendMeBaby: Ferris wheel, but only if I’m not alone
💋 Make-up or no make-up?
BimboBerry: Beat the face. Always.
BangBangBaby: Light makeup. Gotta breathe.
PlunderBae: No makeup unless it’s warpaint.
PixelPrincess: Cat eyeliner or bust.
SinGlazed: Full face glam, every time.
BlossomUndone: Minimal, but intentional.
SiroccoFée: Subtle makeup that whispers wealth.
BendMeBaby: Light and fresh
🍯 Sugar or spice?
BimboBerry: Sugar with a spicy kick.
BangBangBaby: Spice. I like a little danger.
PlunderBae: Spice. Bring the heat.
PixelPrincess: Yes.
SinGlazed: Sugar. How is that even a question?
BlossomUndone: Spice. It lingers.
SiroccoFée: Sugar. Velvet over steel.
BendMeBaby: Sugar! I’m a cinnamon bun!
💅 Manicure or pedicure?
BimboBerry: Mani! My nails are weapons.
BangBangBaby: Black nails rock!
PlunderBae: Ermmmm… I dunno
PixelPrincess: Green polish, chipping within 24 hrs.
SinGlazed: Manicure. Sparkles or death.
BlossomUndone: Manicure. Art in miniature.
SiroccoFée: Both. I am indulgence personified.
BendMeBaby: Manicure! Cute colors make me happy
🌶 Spicy or mild?
BimboBerry: Mild, I cry easily.
BangBangBaby: Spicy. Make me regret it.
PlunderBae: Spicy. I train on wasabi.
PixelPrincess: Infernal. Burn my tongue and my soul.
SinGlazed: Mild, but I’ll pretend it’s spicy for attention.
BlossomUndone: Spicy. Fire in balance.
SiroccoFée: Spicy. Quebecois cuisine wishes.
BendMeBaby: Mild please!
PixelPrincess:
OKAY. TIME FOR BONUS ROUND 😈
Smooth or landing strip?
BimboBerry: …Smooth
BangBangBaby: Trimmed. Tactical.
PlunderBae: Landing strip. Leave some mystery.
PixelPrincess: Bald as a baby 💅
SinGlazed: Cute heart shape 😳
BlossomUndone: …Minimalist.
SiroccoFée: French sigh—I mean, clean. Clean.
BendMeBaby: W-what is a landing strip?? 😳
Giving or receiving?
BimboBerry: Giving. I like control 😉
BangBangBaby: Receiving. Show me how it’s done.
PlunderBae: Both. Switch queen.
PixelPrincess: YES.
SinGlazed: Receiving... unless I really like you.
BlossomUndone: …Giving. I enjoy focus.
SiroccoFée: Depends on the partner. Some people are delicious.
BendMeBaby: 😳😳 …Next question please.
Big or small?
BimboBerry: …Yes.
BangBangBaby: As long as he knows how to use it.
PlunderBae: Big. Duh.
PixelPrincess: THICC
SinGlazed: Big, but like… not scary big.
BlossomUndone: Balanced.
SiroccoFée: I do not discuss cuisine portions.
BendMeBaby: You’re all monsters. 😭
Spit or swallow?
BimboBerry: Depends on the vibe.
BangBangBaby: Swallow.
PlunderBae: Swallow. Proudly.
PixelPrincess: What am I, a quitter?
SinGlazed: Swallow. But only if he deserves it.
BlossomUndone: Swallow. With dignity.
SiroccoFée: Spit. In his mouth.
BendMeBaby: I HATE THIS CHATROOM
Hairpulling or spanking?
BimboBerry: Both.
BangBangBaby: Hairpulling. Rough.
PlunderBae: Spanking. Bring it on.
PixelPrincess: …yes.
SinGlazed: Hairpulling 😳
BlossomUndone: Spanking. Artful.
SiroccoFée: You’re all so vanilla.
BendMeBaby: I’M CLOSING MY EYES I’M CLOSING MY EYES
SinGlazed:
Okay but… no lie? That was actually really fun
And kind of amazing?
BimboBerry: Right?? I feel like we’re not just “girls who like Akira” anymore.
BangBangBaby:
I know this started as our “Akira thirst chat”… but I kinda… love this group?
Like, actually love it. Not just the banter.
You all feel like home.
BimboBerry:
Same… I don’t think I’ve had something like this since I was a kid.
BlossomUndone:
There’s something powerful about choosing each other like this.
Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s complicated.
PixelPrincess:
Thirst brought us together
but girlbonding is keeping us here 💅
SinGlazed:
Let’s make a pact then.
SiroccoFée:
Friends first. No matter what happens with him—or between us.
PlunderBae:
Deal. I’ve got your backs.
BimboBerry:
Ride or die.
BangBangBaby:
Sisters, sinners, soulmates.
BendMeBaby:
I’m in. A thousand percent.
PixelPrincess:
Group hug or I riot 🤗
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Ren: ???/ SinGlazed (Codename: Lotus)
Futaba: ???/ PixelPrincess (Codename: Oracle)
Kasumi: ???/ BendMeBaby (Codename: Aria)-------------------
What's this? 2 chapters in one day? :) Nah, but seriously - 5.5k pairs of eyeballs on this is something worth celebrating, so I figured you all deserved something more :) Thank you all so much for all the support you've given me since I've started posting this.
------------------
The Humbaba comes from a discussion I had ages ago with one of my closest friends over what our Shadows would be - he came up with a demonic hockey goaltender :)
Chapter 17: A Board Of Stars
Summary:
A Shogi Star finds herself drawn into Akira's orbit
Chapter Text
A few weeks had passed since the day in Kichijoji—their chaotic, laughter-filled outing still fresh in everyone’s minds. Something had shifted after that day. The group chat, once primarily used to thirst over Akira, had quietly evolved into something more... something warmer. The girls no longer needed an excuse to talk. More often than not, conversations veered into casual check-ins, meme dumps, and shared photos of daily life—late-night selfies, bento boxes, nail art.
Morgane, though still sarcastic and guarded, no longer acted like every friendly gesture was a personal attack. She and Yukiko had formed a quiet but intense bond over their shared love of art, often slipping off to museums or quiet galleries around Tokyo. Sometimes they invited the others, sometimes not. There were even rumors in the group chat that they'd held hands for an entire train ride—though Morgane flatly denied it with a very red face.
Ren and Ann had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, always scouting out new dessert cafes and rating them together like an adorable sweets-obsessed couple. They’d even started dragging Shiho along sometimes, though she usually preferred more protein-heavy options. Kasumi and Futaba were nearly inseparable these days, constantly trading anime recommendations, cosplay photos, and fan theories. They’d even started planning a joint cosplay for Comiket, much to the delight (and horror) of the rest of the group.
Shiho, Ryuemi, and Kasumi had taken up a morning running routine, each one pushing the others to keep pace—an unspoken promise that their strength, both physical and emotional, would always be shared. When memories of Kamoshida crept back in, as they sometimes did, the three of them would sit on the school rooftop or outside the gym and just be there for each other, no words necessary.
Ann, Ren, and Yukiko had become nail salon regulars, swapping color palettes and style inspo. Futaba once snarked that they were going to become a "Sparkle Cabal," but later asked Yukiko if she'd paint her nails too. She didn't say it, but the pastel purple shade Yukiko picked made her feel weirdly safe.
Morgane and Ann had bonded over their shared love for foreign films—French, Italian, Korean, even old black-and-white noir flicks. They’d started doing movie nights at Morgane’s apartment, where they’d tearfully analyze cinematography while eating overpriced popcorn.
The chat still thirsted over Akira, of course. Some things never changed.
But beneath all the playful teasing and chaotic debates over who had the best thighs or softest hair, something deeper was forming—something strong.
And in the background, the Phantom Thieves had begun to rise.
Thanks to Futaba's meticulously designed PhanQuest message board, the team had a constant stream of anonymous pleas for help pouring in. The interface was simple: one could post without a name, only a brief title and a description. Tags like #abuse, #revenge, #helpme, or #please became beacons in the sea of digital noise. Some were obvious scams or venting, but others… others sparked something.
They’d already taken on eight cases in Mementos since Kichijoji. Each one harder than the last.
Word was spreading. Threads on message boards speculated about a mysterious team bringing justice in the shadows. Rumors flew like wildfire, and “Phantom Thieves” became a keyword to watch for—especially among the desperate and the hurt.
The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, forming a ghostly halo above the boardroom's chandelier. The room itself was expensive but impersonal—mahogany-paneled walls, blackout curtains, a thick, immaculately polished table surrounded by high-backed leather chairs.
At one end of the table sat a woman in her late forties, clad in a sharply tailored silver and black business suit. Her makeup was caked on like armor—red lips, smoky eyes, cheekbones contoured to resemble blades. The kind of woman who smiled without ever meaning it. Her name was Mitsuyo Togo.
Across from her lounged a man with prison ink creeping up his neck and forearms, the sleeves of his cheap suit rolled to the elbows. He had slicked-back hair, mirrored sunglasses perched on his forehead, and an easy, dangerous smile—one that hinted at the many bones he’d broken for less. He took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled through his nose.
A laptop sat open between them, showing a sleek betting app interface—numbers, odds, fluctuating graphs.
“Takings are looking good…” the man muttered, tapping ash into a crystal tray. “We can tell the girl to move in for the kill. Blowout win. Big payout. All eyes on her.”
Mitsuyo didn’t respond. She was watching a different screen, mounted on the wall behind him. A livestream of a shogi match flickered across it—high-definition and color-corrected. The camera zoomed slightly as a white-gloved hand reached out and removed a silver general from the board.
Not the girl’s hand. The opponent's.
Mitsuyo's crimson lips curled faintly. “Not yet,” she said.
The man raised an eyebrow. “She’s up four pieces.”
“Let her lose one more.” Mitsuyo lit a fresh cigarette from the dying flame of her old one. “The end must be emphatic. Talked about. A comeback—a miracle. That’s what sells. Not inevitability.”
The man gave a slow, casual shrug. “Whatever you say, boss. It's not like the Venus could ever lose, right?”
Mitsuyo’s eyes narrowed as the girl on the screen adjusted her seat, calm and composed, as if unaware of the cameras, the money, or the whispers behind her back.
“No,” Mitsuyo said softly, smoke trailing from her lips. “She never loses.”
Leblanc – Evening
The warm amber glow of Leblanc’s overhead lights cast soft shadows across the counter, where Akira quietly wiped down a pair of coffee mugs. The scent of freshly ground beans lingered in the air, blending with the faint spice of curry and the sharper bite of Sojiro’s preferred tobacco.
At one of the booths, two of the café’s regulars were deep in conversation. Middle-aged men in business suits, their ties loosened and their eyes bright from a long day finally winding down.
“I swear, absolutely magnificent,” one of them said, leaning in. “You should’ve seen it. One moment, it looked like the match was in the bag for her opponent. The next—bam—Promoted Lance and Rook combo, just wipes her off the board.”
The other man chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “She’s truly blessed, isn’t she? I mean, skills like that—some say she’s on par with Hiroe Nakai herself.”
“And don’t forget the looks. That girl’s got idol potential. I’m telling you, she could surpass Kanna Hashimoto if she ever decided to go that route.”
Akira paused in the middle of setting a mug down. He turned slightly, polite curiosity in his storm-grey eyes.
“Excuse me,” he said, voice calm but clear. “Who are you talking about?”
Both men turned to him, surprised, then grinned.
“Looking for someone new to fan over, Akira-kun?” the first one said, gesturing with his spoon for emphasis. “Hifumi Togo. The Venus of Shogi.”
“The what?” Akira echoed.
“The Venus,” the second man repeated with something like reverence. “That’s what they’re calling her. Unmatched poise, ice-cold strategy, charm like a shrine maiden. She’s Tokyo’s queen of the board, and she’s just getting started.”
They returned to their conversation, voices fading into a blur of admiration and speculation.
Akira resumed wiping down the counter, but his mind had already drifted. Back to a different time. Back to a quiet church in Kanda. Many nights spent hunched over a battered shogi board with a cute girl with a penchant for dramatic battle cries. Venus of Shogi, huh…
Akira’s Apartment – Late Evening
The soft hum of his laptop was the only sound in the dimly lit attic. Akira sat cross-legged on his futon, hoodie sleeves pushed up, his storm-grey eyes flicking across the screen as one article led to another.
Each headline was flashier than the last.
“The Venus of Shogi: Hifumi Togo’s Beauty and Brilliance Dazzle Again”
“Checkmate in Heels: How One Girl Turned a Gentleman’s Game Into a National Obsession”
“Brains, Beauty, Balance: What Makes Togo Hifumi the Perfect Idol?”
Akira clicked into the first one, a glossy editorial from Shūkan Envy, accompanied by high-definition photos of Hifumi mid-match. Her expression was calm and focused, her delicate fingers poised above the shogi board like a dancer preparing for a final step.
“With porcelain features, perfect posture, and a win streak that has toppled top-tier professionals, Hifumi Togo has captured the nation's heart. Her signature? A soft smile, flawless etiquette… and heels that could kill.”
A fan photo was embedded underneath — Hifumi bowing after a match, her kimono lifting just enough to reveal a silver stiletto underneath the hem. The caption read: “Togo-san’s balance is as elegant as her bishop play. She never slips—not even in five-inch heels.”
Akira raised an eyebrow. He clicked into another article, this one from a more traditional outlet: The Tokyo Tribune.
“In a scene dominated by older men, 19-year-old Hifumi Togo is not just holding her own—she’s redefining the battlefield. Analysts call her play ‘ruthlessly poetic,’ noting her uncanny ability to bait her opponents into overextending before she closes in like a vice.”
Further down, a quote from a senior pro read: “Her signature use of the Promoted Lance is like a fencer’s riposte—elegant and final. Togo-san doesn’t win by brute force. She wins by making you think you had a chance.”
A sidebar article caught his eye: “Footsteps of a Champion: Inside Hifumi Togo’s High Heel Collection”
He clicked. “For every victory, a new pair. Hifumi Togo is known not just for her gameplay, but for her fashion sense—particularly her obsession with high heels. Fans and photographers alike eagerly await the post-tournament reveal, where Togo-san steps out in the latest pair from her curated collection.”
A photo gallery followed: stiletto boots, rhinestone-dusted sandals, glossy pumps in velvet boxes. Beside each image, the name of a designer and the date of her victory. One pair — sharp-toed and blood red — was captioned “Worn after her infamous comeback win at the Yokohama Invitational.”
At the bottom, an interview excerpt:
“I always give my winnings to my mother,” Hifumi said with her usual demure smile. “She manages my career and household needs. But I keep just enough to buy a pair of heels after each victory. They remind me that I’ve earned the right to stand tall.”
Akira sat back, rubbing his chin.
"A right to stand tall?" he thought. "Does she mean that literally? Or is it something else..."
He glanced back at the photos. Her posture was perfect in every one. Her gaze never met the camera. Eyes always slightly lowered, distant. Like she was looking at something just over the photographer’s shoulder—or avoiding them entirely.
The more he read, the more polished, the more perfect it all seemed.
Too perfect.
Idol photoshoots in gravure magazines were everywhere. One had her in a loose yukata on a garden veranda, eyes turned to the sky. Another featured her in a glossy red skirt and blazer combo with matching pumps, standing beside a shogi board in an artfully staged “schoolgirl strategist” theme. All tasteful. All carefully posed. There was a subtle seduction in each, never explicit—but unmistakably intentional.
His eyes narrowed as he stared at the quote again: “I always give my winnings to my mother…”
Was that her decision? Or something imposed?
Did she enjoy the heels?
Or were they… currency? A leash made of leather and elegance?
He leaned forward again, searching more forums, fanblogs, and video interviews. Every word she said in public was perfectly rehearsed. Always modest. Always grateful. Always smiling.
Akira frowned slightly.
Akira reached for the lid of his laptop, fingers brushing the trackpad to close the final article—when a subtle chime stopped him.
A pop-up appeared in the lower right corner of the screen. “Checkmate With A Smile: Come Challenge the Venus of Shogi!” it read in bold gold letters over an image of Hifumi, serene and poised with her hands resting on a shogi board. The ad continued:
“This Sunday only! Watch live or take a seat across from the prodigy herself at Ginza’s Shogi & Sweets Café ‘Kaku no Sato.’ Limited seating. Walk-ins accepted. All challengers welcome.”
Akira’s brows lifted slightly. He leaned in and clicked.
The details loaded quickly. Not far. A twenty-minute train ride at most.
He gave a quiet, intrigued huff through his nose, lips quirking into a subtle smirk. “Why not?”
He closed the laptop, the glow fading. Outside, the rain had stopped.
Shogi & Sweets Café “Kaku no Sato” – Next Day, Late Afternoon
Warm light spilled across the polished wooden tables of the Shogi Café, mixing the rich scent of matcha with fresh-baked sweet bean mochi. A crowd had gathered—whispering in reverent tones as they watched match after match unfold on the low stage near the back.
At the center of it all sat Hifumi Togo, radiant and composed in a soft lavender kimono embroidered with swan feathers. Her hair was pinned back with silver combs, a few strands falling loosely to frame her delicate features. On her feet: obsidian-black heels with a subtle floral lace pattern—sleek, elegant, impossible to miss.
She bowed to the latest challenger, a middle-aged man sweating as he backed away from the board, defeated.
The emcee—an older woman with dyed mahogany hair and a karaoke-host energy—announced over a mic, “Another win for our Venus! Is there anyone brave enough to be next?”
There was a pause. Then the soft shuffle of approaching footsteps.
Hifumi straightened, graceful but tired from hours of play. She lifted her gaze—
—and her breath caught.
A young man in a simple hoodie and jeans approached, his presence utterly unassuming, yet there was a quiet, magnetic confidence in his stride. He didn’t rush. Didn’t glance around for attention. He moved like someone who already knew he belonged.
And when he looked at her—really looked at her—with those storm-grey eyes, calm and unreadable…
Her heart skipped.
She blinked. Once. Twice. A strange warmth spread from her chest to the tips of her fingers.
Akira bowed politely as he took his seat. “I hope I’m not too late.”
Hifumi recovered quickly, though her voice was softer than usual when she answered. “Not at all.”
She composed herself, brushing a loose lock of hair behind her ear. Then bowed from the waist, hands folded neatly on her lap.
“Here’s to a good game.”
Akira’s lips curved slightly. Not smug—just sincere. “Of course.”
The board was reset. Fresh tiles gleamed under the warm café lights. Patrons leaned forward with interest as Hifumi gently placed her first piece forward—a calculated opening.
Akira tilted his head slightly, observing. Then, to Hifumi’s mild confusion, he spoke—not with analysis, but narrative flair. “The Dragon Queen makes her opening gambit,” he murmured, voice low, more to himself than anyone else. “A solitary brave soul advances against the armies of the Rebel Prince. What fate awaits him?”
Hifumi’s eyes flicked up in surprise, caught off guard by the strange metaphor.
He offered a sheepish smile. “I like to visualize my pieces like an army. Give them a backstory. Makes it more fun.”
For a moment, she was stunned into silence.
He does it too, she realized.
Memories flickered—of her younger self narrating grand battles in whispers as she played, treating each match like an epic tale, until her mother’s sharp voice dismissed it as childish nonsense. She hadn’t dared to think that way in years.
“…Interesting,” she said softly, recovering her poise.
But as the game progressed, Hifumi relaxed a little too much. This wasn’t a tournament. This boy—handsome as he might be—seemed like a hobbyist at best. A romantic.
So she played lightly, still precise, but not cutting. Polished, but a touch lazy.
That was her mistake.
Several turns in, she blinked as her bishop found itself cornered. She reached for a knight—only to realize the space it needed had been blocked.
Her brow furrowed.
She glanced at the board again, this time really seeing it.
He had been closing the walls on her.
Not aggressively—elegantly. Every move with just enough misdirection, like a magician guiding your eye. She’d underestimated him. A flush of embarrassment—and excitement—rose in her cheeks.
So that’s how we’re playing it.
She sat straighter, her hand no longer graceful but sharp, deliberate. A pawn was sacrificed to trap one of his lances. She captured a silver general two moves later. A triumphant glint returned to her eyes.
Yet…
Akira was still in control.
Every new strategy she devised, he slipped around like water, dodging traps, bending through narrow escapes, countering with creativity she hadn’t seen since she started facing adult pros.
Who is he?
Finally, backed into a corner, she resorted to her patented combo—Promoted Lance and Rook. A devastating pincer attack she was known for in headlines.
Akira studied the board for a beat. Then slowly leaned back, hands raised in surrender.
“I concede.”
The café, dead silent until then, broke into polite applause. A few clapped louder than others. Someone near the back whistled.
Hifumi bowed politely, heart still pounding.
But as they straightened, Akira looked at her—his eyes gentle, unreadable—and mouthed three deliberate moves.
Hifumi blinked, startled.
Before she could speak, he turned and left the café. No grand farewell. No flourish.
Just…gone.
She glanced back at the board, half-expecting some riddle or joke—but her fingers moved almost instinctively, plotting out the sequence he’d mouthed.
One…
Two…
Her lips parted.
Three.
“Checkmate,” she whispered.
Her fingers hovered over the final move in disbelief. Had he…? No. That wasn’t possible.
He’d seen it. A path through her pincer. Her combo, her pride—defeated with grace.
Her head snapped up. She scanned the café.
He wasn’t in the crowd.
He wasn’t near the door.
Gone.
“Who was that?” she breathed.
Rain tapped lightly against the tinted windows, the streets of Shibuya melting into a blur of color beyond the glass. Inside the car, the atmosphere was still and pressurized, like the moments before a match.
Hifumi sat upright, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her expression unreadable. Her eyes, however, flickered constantly—tracing invisible paths across the air as she replayed the game from earlier over and over in her head. The boy’s moves. His rhythm. The three steps he mouthed.
So close.
Too close.
“You’ll be filming that variety show next week,” Mitsuyo Togo said crisply, not looking up from her tablet. “The one with the go board champion and the actress from that drama you did the opening for. Then there’s the product shoot for the new shampoo line. Oh, and don’t forget the shogi-with-fans segment—live audience, very good exposure. Wear the lilac blouse for that one, it brings out your skin tone.”
“Yes, Mother,” Hifumi said automatically, her gaze still on the window—but she wasn’t seeing the rain.
She was seeing that quiet smile, those storm-grey eyes, the gentle precision with which he sacrificed his pieces.
The way he walked away.
The realization, dawning slowly and terribly, that she hadn’t won.
She had lost, and he had let her save face.
“Your next charity exhibition match is in three days,” Mitsuyo continued, still scrolling. “You’ll be playing against a pair of university champions. It’ll be filmed, of course. You’ll smile, laugh, win easily, and wear the silver heels with the blue stones.”
“...The silver ones,” Hifumi repeated softly. Her voice barely carried over the sound of the rain.
That, finally, made her mother look up.
Mitsuyo’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. The pair you bought after the Saitama Invitational.”
Hifumi’s mind drifted to an article she’d seen that week. “Venus of Shogi’s Winning Habit – Another Victory, Another Pair of Heels!” It had been fluff—publicity designed to make her seem elegant, womanly, desirable. “I give most of my winnings to my mother,” the quote read, “but I always set aside enough to buy myself a new pair of heels. Every pair marks a battle won.”
But whose words were those, really?
She stared at her hands.
“Mother,” she said suddenly.
Mitsuyo looked up, brows raised in mild annoyance. “Yes?”
“That boy… the one who played me last. The quiet one. Do you know who he is?”
There was the briefest of pauses.
Then Mitsuyo shrugged and turned back to her tablet. “No. Why? Has he caught your eye?”
Hifumi looked down, heart skipping—though not out of romantic excitement. Out of something colder.
“You better not be thinking about getting to know him,” Mitsuyo added sharply. “That would be most inconvenient and damaging to your image.”
Hifumi swallowed. “No… I’m just wondering why he conceded when he did.” Her voice trembled, just slightly. “He could have won.”
Mitsuyo didn’t even look up this time. “If he could have won, it was because you were feeling generous, my daughter.”
She tapped the tablet firmly, as though punctuating her next words. “You’re the Venus of Shogi. No one can beat you.”
Hifumi turned to stare at her mother fully now. Really looked at her.
The flawless makeup, slightly overdone. The perfectly curated smile. The meticulous planning. The constant control. The whispers Hifumi had overheard from other players, always behind closed doors or in quiet corners:
“It’s strange… my invitation to the qualifiers never arrived.”
“Togo-san always seems to draw easier opponents.”
“Her mother’s connected to the sponsor, you know…”
She looked down at her hands again. The same ones that had held pieces for years. Moved them through countless victories.
“Of course,” she whispered.
And then, more quietly still—only in her heart:
But someone just did.
The café was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional soft clink of mugs being stacked behind the counter. Sojiro had long since retired upstairs, leaving Akira and Ren alone in the dim warmth of the shop.
Outside, Tokyo pulsed in restless neon. Inside, the world slowed to a thoughtful stillness.
Ren sat curled in the booth opposite Akira, nursing a half-full cup of lavender tea. Her stockinged legs were tucked beneath her, and her jacket hung loosely around her shoulders. Her gloves lay on the table beside her.
Akira took a slow sip of his coffee, gaze steady as he watched her.
“Ren,” he said finally, voice low. “I wanted to ask you more about the Society. And the Black Masks.”
Ren’s expression darkened just slightly, but she didn’t shy away. Instead, she reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re sure you want to know?” she asked.
Akira simply nodded.
She let out a quiet breath. “The Society’s inner circle is made up of seven people—seven ‘pillars,’ they call them. Shido and Maruki are the only ones I’ve ever seen unmasked. The others all go by titles.”
She tapped a finger softly against the side of her mug. “There’s The Artist—that was Madarame, though I only figured it out after the Calling Card. The others are The Mother, The Professor, The Warlord, and The Businessman. I couldn’t tell you exactly who they are… but if I had to guess, I could probably pin down one or two.”
Akira leaned forward slightly, brow furrowed. “Any guesses you’d be willing to share?”
Ren tilted her head. “Not yet. Not until we’ve got more solid evidence. Knowing won’t help if we can’t prove it—and if we move too soon…”
He nodded. Fair. She was cautious, and smart to be.
“And the Black Masks?” he asked, keeping his tone even. “You said there are eight of you.”
Ren gave a small nod, her eyes tracing the rim of her mug. “Same kind of deal. We all wear masks when we meet, even in training. Shohei—Manchineel—is the only one we all know. He’s Shido’s second. Everyone else has a codename. I’m Belladonna, remember?”
Akira smiled faintly. “Hard to forget.”
Ren rolled her eyes, then continued. “Then there’s Oleander, Othalanga, Hemlock, Monkshood, and Rosary Pea. Seven of us from the start. Dr. Maruki brought in the eighth member a little while ago. She’s young—probably around our age. They call her Lily.”
“Lily,” Akira repeated. “Another poisonous flower.”
“Yeah,” Ren said with a dry laugh. “Shido has a theme. He says the world is rotting, and that the only way to cleanse it is with poison. So he gave us poisonous names to remind us of our purpose. Our ‘purity.’” She made finger quotes, her voice bitter.
Akira’s expression darkened for a beat. Then, without a word, he reached across the table and gently placed a hand over Ren’s.
Her breath caught.
He didn’t squeeze. Just the warmth of his palm against hers, steady and grounding.
“Well,” he said softly, “then I guess that makes us the antidote.”
Ren stared at him.
For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
The café lights cast him in soft gold, and his eyes—storm-grey and calm—held hers with quiet certainty. Unshakable, bone-deep belief that they could change the world, no matter how much poison had already seeped into its roots.
Ren looked down at their hands.
Then back up at him.
“…Thanks,” she murmured.
Akira gave her a small, warm smile. “We’ll take them down. One pillar at a time.”
Kosei Academy – Monday Morning, Courtyard
Sunlight filtered through the budding trees, casting warm shadows across the tiled walkways of Kosei Academy. The chatter of students discussing projects, critiques, and weekend gallery visits filled the air like birdsong. Among them, Hifumi Togo moved silently, a figure of poise and grace in her crisp uniform and long, dark skirt—though her mind was far from the campus grounds.
Her steps were slower than usual. Her eyes, unfocused.
That boy…
His quiet confidence. The way he had visualized the board like a battlefield. The way he had smiled—not with arrogance, but with a kind of wistful joy, as if he hadn’t cared about victory, only about the beauty of the game.
He should have won.
She had replayed those three final moves in her mind all morning.
Her thoughts swirled like leaves in a stream, so preoccupied she didn’t see the figure rounding the corner.
Thunk!
She collided with someone solid and warm. Books and sketchpads flew into the air, and Hifumi let out a soft gasp as she stumbled and fell to the ground with a startled yelp.
“I’m so sorry—I wasn’t looking—!”
“It’s okay! I’m fine, I’m fine!”
The other girl was already pushing herself up with a light laugh. Hifumi blinked, dazed, and reached out automatically to help—then froze.
“…Yukiko?” she whispered.
Yukiko grinned down at her, brushing a few flower petals from her lap. Her long black hair was pulled into a soft braid, and she wore a pale blue scarf that caught the light. Her skin had color. Her eyes were alive in a way Hifumi had never seen before—bright and almost mischievous.
For a moment, Hifumi barely recognized her.
“Good morning, Hifumi-chan,” Yukiko said, tilting her head. “Please don’t worry. You didn’t hurt me. How was your weekend?”
Hifumi hesitated, still staring. “You… you look…”
“Better?” Yukiko smiled. “I feel better.”
The warmth in her voice coaxed something loose in Hifumi’s chest.
She found herself speaking before she could second-guess it.
“I… I met someone yesterday. At Kaku no Sato—the shogi café in Ginza. My mother made me attend one of their events. As always.”
Yukiko nodded gently. “I’ve heard of it. That’s where you were first discovered, right?”
“It feels more like a stage.” Hifumi's voice was quiet. Bitter. “The same as always. Strangers lining up for a chance to lose against the ‘Venus of Shogi.’” She scoffed, then looked away. “I hate that name. I hate how they look at me, like I’m not even… real.”
Yukiko’s smile softened. She took a small step closer. “Like you’re an object,” she said. “A piece in someone else’s game.”
Hifumi looked up sharply, eyes wide.
Yukiko met her gaze, steady and kind. “I know what that feels like.”
Silence passed between them, heavy but not unpleasant.
Then Yukiko added, “But… things are different now. I met someone too. Someone who helped me realize it’s okay to be myself. Even if the world doesn’t always approve.”
Hifumi flushed faintly, color rising to her pale cheeks. “I—I don’t even know his name…”
Yukiko laughed softly, a warm and musical sound. She leaned in and nudged Hifumi’s shoulder with her own. “Then I guess that’s your next move, isn’t it?”
“…My next move?”
“To find him,” Yukiko said simply. “I’ll help.”
They began walking side by side toward the Fine Arts Building, the wind tugging at their clothes and lifting the scent of early summer blossoms around them.
Shujin University – Criminal Psychology Lecture, Midday
The lecture hall buzzed faintly with the sound of note-taking and soft murmurs. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting clean lines across the rows of desks. Professor Kawakami stood near the podium, gesturing toward a whiteboard where she had written:
“Perception, Bias, and the Criminal Mind.”
“…We tend to assume that a criminal always chooses wrongdoing, but psychology tells us it’s rarely that simple,” Kawakami explained, tapping the board. “Bias plays a huge role—not just for the suspect, but for the investigator, the media, and even the jury. What one person sees as self-defense, another may perceive as aggression.”
She took a sip from her thermos. “This is why it's so important to challenge our assumptions when—”
A voice, sweet as poisoned honey, cut through the classroom.
“Professor Kawakami, why don’t we have Amamiya himself explain the criminal mind?”
The room went dead quiet.
Heads slowly turned toward the front, where Makoto sat prim and proper in the first row, arms folded over her notebook. Her expression was the picture of politeness—except for the glint in her eyes, sharp enough to cut glass.
“After all,” she continued, “he is a convicted felon.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the class like wind over tall grass. A few students exchanged looks, unsure whether to be horrified or impressed.
Kawakami froze mid-step. “Niijima, that’s completely out of line—”
“It’s okay, Professor,” Akira said calmly, raising a hand from his spot in the back. “If Ms. Niijima needs to hear this from my own mouth, I don’t mind explaining.”
Kawakami hesitated, clearly torn between shutting it down and trusting Akira. Finally, with a faint nod, she stepped aside.
Akira stood up slowly and walked to the front of the class. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look rattled. He stood straight, hands in his pockets, eyes calm.
“Ms. Niijima,” he said as he turned toward her. “Would you care to join me?”
Makoto stiffened. “Why would I—”
“Because I’d rather not lecture at you,” Akira replied gently. “I’d rather talk to you. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to keep judging from a distance.”
A few students exhaled in surprise. Someone muttered, “Damn…”
Makoto’s jaw tightened. After a moment’s hesitation, she rose and stepped beside him, arms folded tightly.
Akira looked to the rest of the class.
“You asked about the criminal mind,” he said. “The honest answer is: I don’t know. I can’t pretend to speak for all criminals. But I can tell you what I was thinking the night I got arrested.”
Silence.
“I was fifteen. I’d just finished my part-time job and was walking home when I heard shouting in the street ahead. A man was pushing a woman toward the back of a car. He was drunk, slurring words I won’t repeat. She was crying. Her blouse was ripped. She kept screaming for help.”
He turned his gaze outward, scanning the students.
“And in that moment, I thought: A bad man is doing a bad thing to a woman. So I stopped him. I pulled him back. He fell. Hit his head. The woman ran. And by the time the police arrived…” He gave a thin smile. “Well. You all know the rest.”
He looked around the room again.
“Would anyone here say those thoughts were unreasonable? That stopping him was irrational?”
There was a pause. Then slowly, awkwardly, students began to shake their heads.
Akira turned back to Makoto.
“And you, Ms. Niijima? Would you say those thoughts seem reasonable?”
Makoto’s eyes were fire.
She looked like she wanted to strike him, or shout something—anything—to put him back in a box. Her mouth opened slightly… but no words came out.
For the first time, she didn’t seem to have an answer.
Akira tilted his head, not unkindly. “You’re studying law, aren’t you? Then you must know the importance of context.”
Makoto's fists clenched at her sides.
Kawakami, still at the podium, cleared her throat. “Thank you, Amamiya. That was… illuminating.”
Akira nodded politely and turned to walk back to his seat. As he passed Makoto, he paused just long enough to say in a voice only she could hear:
“Maybe next time, ask before you judge.”
He sat down quietly.
The room remained hushed for a long moment before Kawakami resumed the lecture. But the atmosphere had shifted. And Makoto stared at her notepad with a storm behind her eyes—not just of anger… but confusion.
The lecture had ended ten minutes ago, but Akira was still in the hallway, sliding his notebook into his satchel, when he heard brisk footsteps behind him.
“Amamiya.”
He turned.
Makoto stood there, her jaw clenched, her fists trembling slightly at her sides. Her perfect posture made her look like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” she said, stepping closer. “You twist words and spin your story just right, and suddenly you’re not a criminal anymore, is that it?”
Akira met her gaze. Calm. Quiet. “No. I’m still a criminal. That’s what the record says.”
“You’re a liar.” Her voice was sharp, almost shaking. “You stood up there pretending like you’re some kind of martyr—”
“I didn’t say I was a martyr,” he replied evenly. “I said I saw a woman being attacked. That I stopped it. That’s all.”
Makoto took another step forward, eyes narrowing.
“You expect me to believe that? That you—you—just happened to be the hero in that story? I’ve read the file. The victim never came forward. The man you hit pressed charges. You assaulted a prominent official. You were tried and convicted.”
“Yes,” Akira said simply. “That’s all true.”
Makoto blinked.
“And that doesn’t bother you?” she hissed. “You still think you did the right thing? Even after you threw your life away for it?”
“I didn’t throw anything away,” he said. “I did what I thought was right. The system disagreed. That’s how justice works sometimes.”
She was seething now, teeth gritted.
“You talk like you know justice. Like you're some authority on it. You're not. You're scum.” Her voice rose a little louder. “You’re a convict pretending to be noble. You think if you play the quiet, misunderstood boy long enough, people will forget who you really are.”
Akira still didn’t flinch.
“They won’t,” she snarled. “I won’t.”
He tilted his head slightly. “And who do you think I am, Niijima?”
“A manipulator. A snake. Hiding behind polite smiles. You’re dangerous. You’re rotten.”
Akira’s voice didn’t rise. His eyes didn’t waver.
“And yet here you are,” he said softly, “trying to get me to snap. So what does that make you?”
Makoto stiffened. He continued, his tone still quiet, still controlled.
“You want me to lash out. Hit you. Prove your story. Give you something to take to the dean, or the ethics board. Maybe even your sister.” A pause. “But I won’t.”
Makoto’s breath caught.
“Because I’ve been in that room,” Akira said. “I’ve been handcuffed. I’ve had adults tell me I’m worthless. That I’m a threat. That I deserve everything I get. So no—I'm not going to prove you right.”
Makoto opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“I don’t hate you,” he added. “I pity you.”
A silence fell between them.
And then Makoto began to realize… they weren’t alone.
Students had gathered around them—classmates, underclassmen, even a few from other courses. Dozens of eyes. Dozens of ears. Not a single sympathetic face.
But the judgment in their stares wasn’t aimed at Akira.
It was aimed at her.
She saw it in the way they frowned. In the way they looked at each other. Whispers fluttered like moth wings:
“What the hell is wrong with her?”
“He was so calm…”
“Is she trying to get him expelled?”
“Niijima’s totally unhinged.”
Makoto took a step back. Her throat felt dry. Her face was hot.
Akira didn’t say anything more. He just picked up his bag and walked past her, slow and steady, not sparing her a second glance.
The crowd parted for him.
Makoto stood frozen, staring at the floor, her world spinning in quiet, suffocating silence.
The light from the setting sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, golden bars across the otherwise dim Student Council room. The hum of the fluorescent ceiling lights overhead was the only sound — that, and the quiet rustling of papers as Makoto sat alone at the head of the long table, her arms braced on the polished wood. She wasn’t reading anything. Not really.
She’d been sitting like this for nearly an hour. A tall stack of unfiled reports and complaints sat off to one side. Her eyes flicked toward them, then away, as Akira’s voice echoed in her head for what must’ve been the hundredth time.
“I don’t hate you. I pity you.”
Her fingers clenched around the armrest of the chair.
“Manipulative bastard,” she muttered under her breath.
But even that didn’t land with the satisfaction it once would have.
She stood suddenly, pushing the chair back with a harsh scrape of wood on linoleum. Pacing. That always helped.
“Of course he’s trying to manipulate me. That’s what people like him do. That’s how they get in. They pretend to be calm. Measured. Empathetic.”
She turned and paced back the other way, arms folded tightly across her chest.
“I’ve been in that room. I’ve had adults tell me I’m worthless.”
Her steps slowed.
She looked again at the pile of complaint forms, shoved into a file she had all but forgotten. Anonymous, mostly. A few named. Some old enough that they were already gathering dust. Her eyes skimmed the dates.
Kamoshida.
She pulled a few free. Read them again. Words she’d once brushed off now landed like bricks:
“Coach touched me after practice. Said I was lucky to be ‘noticed.’”
“The girls get it worse. Everyone knows. No one says anything.”
“Why does no one believe us?”
Makoto’s throat tightened. She found one report written by Ryuemi. Her friend. Her only friend.
“He told me if I told anyone, I’d regret it. I thought the Student Council would help.”
She had read this before.
And done nothing.
Director Kobayakawa had said it was “emotional exaggeration.” “Young adult drama.” She had believed him.
Because that was what she was taught to do.
“The law is infallible,” Sae’s voice echoed in her head, crisp, cold, reverent.
“And those who uphold it must also be infallible.”
“There is no place in this world for doubt and uncertainty.”
“Those in authority are always right.”
“To doubt that is to doubt the law. The very law our father gave his life for.”
Makoto’s breath came quicker now. Her pacing had stopped, but her mind was spinning.
If Sae was right, then authority was always just.
If authority was always just, then she had been just.
But if she was just... why did everything suddenly feel so wrong ?
Her fingers dug into her arms.
“He has to be lying,” she whispered aloud. “Trying to turn me against everything I stand for.”
But her voice cracked on the word “stand.”
“Then why does it feel like he’s telling the truth…?”
Silence. The question hung in the air like smoke.
Makoto collapsed into the chair, burying her face in her hands. For the first time, the foundation she’d built her entire identity on began to tremble.
What if Sae wasn’t always right?
What if justice wasn’t always clean?
What if Akira Amamiya wasn’t a liar?
And worst of all…
What if she had been part of the problem all along?
Yukiko’s Apartment – Early Evening
The apartment smelled faintly of bergamot and sandalwood, the kind of scent that lingered in the cushions and curtains. Hifumi sat carefully on the edge of the couch, her posture immaculate. The room was cozy and gently cluttered — mismatched mugs on a bookshelf, art prints taped to the walls, and a half-solved puzzle on the coffee table. It all suggested a space that was lived in, where people came and went often.
She glanced around again, eyes landing on a soft knit blanket draped over an armchair and a corkboard by the kitchenette covered in Polaroids. In many of them, Yukiko was smiling with various girls — some in casual clothes, some in what looked like cosplay. One featured Yukiko mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with joy, holding up a grotesquely pink parfait while another girl (was that... Ren Akechi?) looked on in horror.
“You seem to have landed on your feet after the whole incident with Madarame,” Hifumi said, her voice calm but honest. “I’m glad for you.”
Yukiko emerged from the kitchen with practiced grace, carrying a wooden tray. Two steaming ceramic mugs sat neatly beside three empty ones.
Hifumi quirked a brow. “Expecting more company?”
Yukiko set the tray down with a soft laugh. “A couple of friends should be coming over shortly.” She smiled. “You’ll like them.”
Hifumi opened her mouth to respond, but there was a knock at the door — two sharp taps, followed by a muffled voice calling, “Yukiii, open up! I brought sweets and trauma!”
Yukiko chuckled and moved to the door. “That would be Futaba.”
The door slid open to reveal Morgane, Futaba, and Kasumi—a strangely eclectic group, but each glowing with their own kind of charm. Futaba was already kicking off her sneakers and bounding forward with a happy noise.
“We brought snacks!” she grinned, holding up a box of taiyaki.
“Yukiko, your tea smells heavenly,” Kasumi said warmly as she followed, closing the door behind them. Her eyes caught on Hifumi, and she gave a polite bow. “Oh—sorry! Didn’t know you had someone over.”
Yukiko turned, already gesturing toward her guest. “Everyone, this is Hifumi Togo. We go to Kosei together. Hifumi, these are my friends: Futaba Sakura, Kasumi Yoshizawa, and Morgane Leclair.” She gave Morgane a look. “Who’s very sweet, when she wants to be.”
Morgane plopped onto the couch beside Hifumi and held out a hand. “Morgane, enchanté. You’re the shogi prodigy, right? The one with the immaculate taste in footwear?”
Futaba gave Hifumi a once-over with those clever violet eyes and offered a lopsided smirk. “Venus of Shogi, huh? Gotta say, you look more human than the posters make you out to be.”
Hifumi flushed slightly, caught between insult and intrigue. “Thank you... I think.”
“You’ll get used to her,” Yukiko said lightly, setting tea in front of everyone and slipping gracefully into the armchair across from them. “Hifumi’s been trying to track down a mystery shogi player,” she explained lightly. “Played her yesterday at Kaku no Sato and vanished before anyone could catch his name.”
“Cute,” said Morgane. “You crushing on a ghost?”
Hifumi flushed. “N-no, I just—he was… different. His playstyle wasn’t flashy, but it was surgical. And then he—he conceded. When he could’ve won.”
That got everyone’s attention.
Futaba looked up, blinking. “Wait. Ginza, Kaku no Sato… yesterday?”
She looked at Morgane and Kasumi, who both stared at her like a light had just gone on.
Kasumi tilted her head. “You don’t think…”
“There's no way,” Morgane said, but she sounded amused, not doubtful. “Hifumi, this mystery boy… was he tall? Kind of serious-looking? Black hair like a crow got in a fight with a comb?”
“Storm-grey eyes?” Futaba added.
“… Voice that tickles your soul?” Kasumi finished.
Hifumi blinked at them. “Y…yes?”
Futaba leaned back and smirked, arms crossed behind her head. “Congratulations. You met Akira Amamiya.”
There was a pause.
“…You know him?” Hifumi asked, voice hushed.
“Oh yeah,” Morgane said. “We know him.”
“Very well,” Kasumi added.
Yukiko gave Hifumi a gentle smile, her eyes twinkling. “Looks like your search is over.”
The room had warmed considerably — from both the tea and the presence of the girls sprawled around the cozy space. Futaba had claimed the beanbag by the kotatsu, phone now forgotten as she animatedly chatted with Kasumi and Morgane. Yukiko sat cross-legged in her chair, calm and observant as always, and Hifumi… she sat quietly, hands curled around her tea, observing the lively energy swirling around her like a current she hadn’t expected to enjoy.
Then, with a mischievous grin, Futaba suddenly looked up from her perch. “Oh, by the way,” she said, as if suddenly remembering. “Akira’s dropping by later. He said he’d bring dinner.”
Hifumi looked up, surprised. “He’s coming here?”
“Yep.” Futaba grinned. “I’ll tell him to bring extra. Hifumi, you will die. Trust me. His yakisoba-pan is divine. And don’t even get me started on his mapo tofu.”
“...He cooks?” Hifumi asked, eyebrows rising faintly.
“He chefs,” Morgane corrected dramatically. “It’s obscene. I think he made a pact with a kitchen demon or something.”
Yukiko laughed lightly as she tucked her legs beneath herself. “He’s always feeding people. And making sure we drink water. And sleep.” Her gaze grew soft. “He’s the one who helped me get this place, you know.”
Hifumi blinked. “What?”
Yukiko nodded. “I had nothing after everything with Madarame fell apart. Akira found out and… quietly paid for a year’s rent here. Said it was ‘no big deal.’” She smiled at the memory. “But it was a big deal. It gave me space to breathe again. To heal.”
Futaba gave a small, almost shy nod. “Yeah… He’s kinda like that. I used to be a total shut-in. Couldn’t go outside without a panic attack, couldn’t handle crowds or new people. Akira didn’t judge me. He just… showed up. Quietly. Gently. Every time I got overwhelmed, he helped me find ways through it. Like he didn’t expect me to be anything but myself.”
There was a pause. Hifumi’s fingers curled slightly around her cup. Her lips parted, but she said nothing.
Kasumi smiled gently, her voice quieter. “He saved my life.”
The room stilled just a little.
“Last spring, I was chasing after my sister on Shibuya Crossing. I tripped in the middle of the street. A car was coming. I… I couldn’t move.” She looked at her tea. “I didn’t even know who he was at the time. He just sprinted out of nowhere, grabbed me, and took the hit himself. Didn’t let go of me.”
“That was the first time I ever saw him,” Kasumi added softly. “He brushed it off. Said anyone would’ve done the same. With broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a smile.”
“They wouldn’t have,” Morgane muttered.
“No,” Hifumi echoed, her voice quieter. “They wouldn’t have.”
She sat still, surrounded by these stories — these testimonies of Akira Amamiya. Not tales of a savior or a saint. But of a boy who listened. Who noticed. Who helped.
And suddenly, the brief, quiet game they'd shared yesterday took on a new shape in her mind.
A pause.
Then Morgane grinned and leaned toward Hifumi with mock gravity. “So. You gonna tell us what exactly happened during that match of yours, or are we gonna have to interrogate you with hot tea and weird cake rolls?”
Futaba nudged her. “Ooooh, we should make her tell us one thing he said. One thing!”
Kasumi leaned closer, eyes twinkling. “Did he say anything mysterious?”
Hifumi blinked, then looked down into her cup. Slowly, a faint, utterly uncharacteristic smile touched her lips.
“…He called me ‘Dragon Queen.’”
The room exploded.
Hifumi tucked her hair behind one ear, expression thoughtful. “He was unlike anyone I’ve ever played against. Not in just skill — though he was exceptional — but in attitude. He wasn’t just trying to win. He was… telling a story.”
“A story?” Yukiko echoed.
Hifumi nodded slowly. “He narrated the match like it was an epic fantasy. Said things like ‘The Knight’s charge is bold, but reckless… the Queen lies in wait beneath the fog of war.’” She smiled faintly. “Every move he made, he gave a name. ‘Cloak of Cinders,’ ‘Lament of the Forgotten Pawn,’ ‘The Devil’s Encirclement.’”
Yukiko blinked. “Wait—he roleplayed the match?”
Morgane grinned. “Nerd.”
“I used to do that, too,” Hifumi said softly, eyes distant. “When I was little. I’d turn every match into a battle between ancient generals or rival mages… My mother put a stop to it. Said it made me look childish. Unprofessional. Unworthy of sponsorship.”
There was silence for a moment.
“I stopped naming my pieces. I stopped smiling when I played,” Hifumi continued quietly. “She wanted the ‘Venus of Shogi’ to be distant, mysterious, untouchable.”
Yukiko glanced down at her tea, and Morgane frowned.
Then—
THUMP!
A squeal, followed by the unmistakable crash of someone meeting the hardwood floor echoed from the entrance.
All heads snapped toward the sound.
A tangle of orange hair, tangled limbs, and five-inch black stilettos lay in the entryway.
“Holy cow, ’Fumi…” Futaba groaned, sprawled dramatically on the ground. “How do you wear these day in and day out? You must have ankles made of adamantium.”
Hifumi bolted upright. Her normally composed expression had twisted into a taut line of alarm as she hurried toward the scene.
“It’s fine! I’m fine!” Futaba called as Yukiko and Kasumi rushed over to help her up, both laughing.
“You look like a baby deer on a trampoline,” Kasumi teased.
Futaba pouted. “Look, I just wanted to see what it’s like to walk a mile in your heels. Respect, honestly.”
As the others tended to Futaba, Hifumi knelt quietly and retrieved the heels. She turned them over in her hands, inspecting every surface. No scuffs. No scratches. No bends. Only once she was certain they were unharmed did her shoulders visibly relax, and she exhaled.
When she stood and turned back around, all four girls were staring at her. Not judging—just… curious.
Yukiko’s brow furrowed slightly. “Those heels… they’re part of the act, aren’t they? The ‘Venus’ image.”
Hifumi nodded once, the movement slow and restrained. “My mother’s idea. The ‘unattainable goddess of the board.’ Her phrase, not mine. Every victory? A new pair. My closet looks like a trophy case.”
Kasumi tilted her head. “Do you even like wearing them?”
The question hung in the air.
Hifumi looked down at the shoes in her hands. Her brow furrowed.
“…I don’t know.”
It wasn’t a lie.
She didn’t know.
She used to wear sneakers and talk about shogi pieces like they were warriors in a myth. She used to giggle when her rook took down a bishop. She used to—
A knock sounded at the door.
All heads turned.
Futaba perked up. “Oop. That’ll be dinner.”
Yukiko smiled knowingly. “And the cook.”
Morgane grinned. “Careful, Venus. Speak of the devil…”
Kasumi whispered with a wink, “…and he brings takeout.”
Hifumi’s heartbeat quickened ever so slightly as Yukiko stood to answer the door.
The door opened with a creak and a breath of cool air, and in stepped Akira Amamiya, carrying two large bags of food and wearing an expression of relaxed ease, windswept black hair falling into his storm-grey eyes.
“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, holding the bags aloft like he'd just retrieved the Golden Fleece.
“FOOD!” Futaba bolted upright like she’d been summoned from the grave.
“Praise be to the curry king,” Morgane intoned, already helping him unload plastic containers onto the low table.
“I made extra,” Akira said casually, setting down the bags. “Futaba warned me someone new might be joining.”
Hifumi blinked. He already accounted for me?
“I told you, you’d die,” Futaba smirked at Hifumi, elbowing her.
“I don’t usually ‘die’ from curry,” Hifumi murmured dryly. “But this smells… divine.”
“It is,” Yukiko confirmed, already pouring tea again as Kasumi laid out chopsticks.
The apartment swelled with noise and heat and overlapping conversations as everyone gathered around the kotatsu. Laughter bounced off the walls. Hands reached across one another for curry rice and pickles and steamed vegetables. At one point, Futaba stabbed a piece of karaage with a fork and fed it to Kasumi like a princess being pampered. Kasumi accepted it with a wink.
“Do you want a bite, Akira-kun?” Morgane asked sweetly, lifting a spoon of curry toward him.
Akira, entirely oblivious, said, “Nah, I’ve got my own,” and kept eating like nothing had happened.
Morgane made a mock-wounded noise.
“I don’t think he knows what flirting is,” Kasumi whispered to Hifumi with a laugh.
Across the table, Yukiko rolled her eyes and leaned her shoulder into Morgane’s with a knowing grin. Morgane didn’t miss a beat—she shifted her seat until her legs brushed Yukiko’s beneath the table, and Yukiko’s smile only grew.
They flirt with each other so easily, Hifumi thought, watching the way the girls moved in orbit around Akira and each other. Like it’s natural. Like it’s allowed.
It was…
Unfair.
And beautiful.
She looked at Akira again.
He was wiping a smudge of sauce off Futaba’s cheek with the edge of a napkin, patient as a monk.
And yet, he hadn’t noticed Morgane’s coy looks, or Kasumi’s subtle touches, or the way Yukiko’s eyes lingered on him when he wasn’t looking.
He doesn’t see it at all, Hifumi realized, with a strange flutter in her chest. He just… exists. He makes space for everyone else.
Just as the last of the rice was scraped from the bowls and everyone leaned back with satisfied groans, Futaba reached beneath the kotatsu like some tiny gremlin retrieving forbidden treasure.
With great ceremony, she slid a shogi board onto the tabletop.
No one spoke.
Hifumi stared at it.
Then up at Akira.
He met her gaze, blinking once.
“I want a rematch,” she said quietly, voice steady. “No holding back this time.”
The room went still.
Akira looked at her, then down at the board.
Then he smiled.
The kind of smile that held secrets and sparks and just a hint of danger.
“Understood.”
Click.
A silver general landed with pinpoint precision, sweeping across Hifumi’s defense like a blade slicing silk.
She stared down at the board, heart hammering.
He saw it.
Her feint to the left, her baited rook—he hadn’t just sidestepped the trap, he’d anticipated it and used it against her.
Again.
The others were cheering—someone had just said something about calling this Shogi Royale—but the sound had faded to a low, distant buzz. Hifumi’s world had narrowed to the polished wooden board, the carefully arranged pieces, and the boy across from her.
Akira Amamiya.
He sat cross-legged, back straight, his expression calm and unreadable. His fingers moved with a casual elegance, each turn smooth, precise… inevitable. Like water moving around a stone. Like he was dancing across her battlefield rather than fighting on it.
And his eyes…
Dark, half-lidded, unreadable. Serene.
Like he’d already seen the ending and was simply playing it out with quiet grace.
Hifumi grit her teeth and made her next move, quick and aggressive. Her bishop swept in hard.
Click.
Without hesitation, Akira slid his knight forward, perfectly countering it. Another trap shut before it even had time to spring.
She blinked.
Did he predict that three moves ago?
She glanced up again. That same unreadable gaze, resting lightly on hers. Like he was… waiting.
For her.
For what?
A better move?
A real challenge?
Her breath hitched.
There was no arrogance in his expression. No mockery. Just that calm, maddening patience.
And then—there it was.
The smirk.
Just the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.
Like a whisper.
Like a dare.
“Damn you,” Hifumi muttered under her breath, fingers tightening on the next piece. She didn’t even know which one she was reaching for until it was already moving.
Click.
“Oooh, aggressive,” Morgane murmured from the sidelines, munching on the last mochi.
“Akiraaaa, you gonna let the Venus of Shogi do you like that?” Futaba called out, legs swinging off the couch. “She’s going full Valkyrie right now.”
“She’s incredible…” Kasumi breathed, eyes wide.
But Akira didn’t flinch.
He barely glanced at the new formation before lifting his gold general and placing it just to the right of her encroaching lance.
Click.
Perfect coverage. No overextension. No greed.
No mistakes.
How? Hifumi’s mind raced. How is he doing this?
She wasn’t holding back. Not this time. She was using everything. Years of study. Her instincts. Her experience in the pro circuit. The openings she’d honed. The tempo she built into her games.
And he was keeping up with her like it was a walk in the park.
No—not keeping up.
He was dancing around her.
Reading her like an open book.
And yet…
She didn’t feel humiliated.
She felt alive.
Every piece he moved sent a jolt of fire through her veins. Every counter made her grit her teeth and rework her strategy. Every calm glance across the board dared her to dig deeper, think sharper, go further.
This wasn’t just a game.
It was a duel.
A story.
A quiet war fought across a grid of 81 squares.
And he was pulling her into the rhythm of it. Into his rhythm.
The way he narrated their last match—like a knight facing a queen, like the board was a battlefield, like her skill was something worth naming and honoring—it came back to her all at once.
She used to do that, too.
When she was little.
Before her mother had taken the stories out of her voice.
Before “The Venus of Shogi” became a brand.
Before she forgot that this was supposed to be fun.
Akira looked up again, meeting her eyes with that impossible calm.
Hifumi’s heart thudded.
And for the first time in years—
She smiled.
Just a little.
And made her next move.
Click.
Silence.
The clink of the final piece echoed through the room like a bell tolling the end of battle.
Hifumi stared down at the board, her breath catching in her throat.
She had won.
Barely.
By the skin of her teeth.
It had taken every ounce of her skill—and more. She’d clawed for every inch, twisting strategies mid-match, weaving in untested formations, gambling on instinct when logic failed her. She hadn’t fought like that in years. Not on this level. Not with this much on the line.
And it had all come down to one misstep from Akira.
A subtle one. A hesitation. A momentary lapse.
But just enough.
She exhaled shakily, then looked up—and found Akira watching her, calm as ever, that faint smirk still playing on his lips.
He dipped his head slowly, reverently, and murmured: “The Dragon Queen is victorious, her kingdom safe and her crown secure.”
His voice was soft, warm, and maybe—just maybe—a touch proud.
Hifumi blinked, and then—
She grinned.
A real, radiant grin that chased the breath right out of her lungs.
She placed a hand on her chest, as though accepting a sword at court, and replied in a clear, steady voice: “I honour thee, Valiant Trickster. Thou fought with cunning and grace, and I am richer for our clash.”
There was a pause.
Then the room exploded.
“YOOOOOO!” Kasumi whooped, leaping off the couch and throwing both arms in the air.
“I KNEW YOU HAD IT IN YOU, ‘FUMI!” Futaba cried, practically vibrating. “You guys were playing 4D chess over there!”
Kasumi beamed. “That was incredible! It was like watching a story unfold...!”
Yukiko, hands clasped under her chin, was grinning too. “I haven’t seen Hifumi smile like that in forever...”
Amid the applause and chatter, Hifumi let herself breathe.
And she looked across the board again.
Akira met her gaze with quiet intensity.
No resentment. No bitterness. Just… respect.
And maybe something else, too.
Something in the way he looked at her like he saw her—past the polished image, past the heels and the brand, past the perfection her mother had demanded.
Something that made her feel like a real queen.
Shoes were slipped on, bags hoisted, and the last of the dishes were stacked neatly by the sink. The cozy apartment still buzzed with the laughter and warmth of the evening’s chaos — full bellies, teasing jokes, and an intense shogi match that had left everyone wired and a little breathless.
“I’ll walk you all to the station,” Akira said, already pulling his hoodie up and reaching for the apartment door.
“You really don’t have to—” Hifumi began, polite but hesitant.
“Don’t even bother,” Morgane said dryly, zipping her jacket. “He’s like this every time.”
Kasumi gave Hifumi a little nudge and a knowing grin. “Just accept it. It’s easier that way.” Then she turned to Akira and stuck out her tongue playfully. “Still annoying, though.”
Akira smirked. “You’re all still here, though. Curious.”
Futaba had already slipped her boots on and was halfway out the door. “That’s because you carry the good snacks and have main character plot armor.”
Yukiko lingered by the doorway, waving them off with a warm smile. “Text me when you get home, alright? And next time, we’re getting the whole group together.”
“Next time, I’m not going anywhere near high heels,” Futaba muttered, wobbling slightly as she walked.
Hifumi shot Yukiko a quick thank-you smile as she followed the others out, the door closing gently behind her.
On the Way to the Station
The night air was cool and crisp, the streets mostly quiet save for the occasional hum of traffic. They walked together in easy rhythm, Kasumi and Futaba chattering about an upcoming anime movie while Morgane hummed a pop song under her breath.
Hifumi found herself walking beside Akira — just the two of them in a comfortable silence.
After a moment, she checked her phone again. No messages. No missed calls.
She let out a soft breath of relief.
Akira noticed. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s just my mother. She likes to know where I am. Since it’s just the two of us now... she worries.”
A small, quiet pause.
“She worries a little too much sometimes,” Hifumi admitted. “But it’s because she cares.”
Akira nodded, eyes thoughtful. Then his gaze dropped briefly to her feet — the same sharp stilettos that had been the cause of Futaba’s earlier fall.
Then back to her face. And softly, he said:
“Shackles, no matter how pretty, are still shackles.”
Hifumi blinked at him, surprised.
He looked forward again, his tone calm, unreadable.
“But sometimes, those same shackles can be the key to freedom.”
She slowed her steps, furrowing her brow. “What?”
But Akira had already moved ahead, hands in his pockets, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips like he knew exactly what he’d said — and exactly what he’d left unsaid.
Hifumi looked down at her heels, then up at the boy who had somehow, without warning, made her think harder in one night than most people had in years.
And for the first time… the heels felt a little lighter.
The door clicked shut behind her with a practiced motion. No one greeted her. No scent of dinner lingering in the air. Just the quiet, cold stillness of a house too clean, too perfect — more showroom than home.
On the entryway table, her mother’s handwriting waited for her — a neat note left beside the day’s unopened mail.
“Don’t forget: Shoji Weekly interview Thursday @ 3PM. Charity exhibition match rescheduled for Friday evening. Coach Morishita will arrive Saturday morning to help prep for the Championship qualifiers. No distractions. Stick to the diet plan.”
Every sentence was clipped. Efficient. Unemotional.
Hifumi stared at the paper for a long moment before folding it in half and placing it silently beside her keys.
No “How was your day?”
No “Glad you’re home safe.”
She didn’t expect them. But sometimes she still hoped.
She made her way upstairs and stepped into her room — pristine, well-maintained, filled with soft greys and muted pinks. A single rack-lined wall drew her gaze. Shoes. Dozens of them. Tall, elegant heels in every color and style. Not a single one under four inches.
A perfect regiment of feminine perfection — the kind the cameras loved. The kind her mother insisted on.
Hifumi toed off her stilettos and bent to place them carefully in their assigned place. Her eyes lingered on the rows of heels, the artificial glimmer of polish catching the low light.
She closed the closet doors.
Silence.
She stripped out of her clothes, slipping into a silk robe, and padded barefoot across the cool wood floor into the bathroom. The mirror greeted her with a pale reflection — delicate, disciplined, distant.
She splashed cold water on her face, hoping it might shake the thoughts loose.
But they lingered.
“Shackles, no matter how pretty, are still shackles… But sometimes, those same shackles can be the key to freedom.”
Akira’s words echoed again, quiet but persistent. The boy who beat her — who saw her — and then let her win.
Her stomach twisted. Not out of shame or anger… but something stranger. Something unfamiliar. A spark of rebellion she hadn’t let herself feel in years.
As she dried her face, her eyes flicked toward her phone sitting on the counter.
She hesitated.
Then picked it up and sat on the edge of her bathtub. The screen glowed gently in the dim light. She opened her browser. Typed slowly, deliberately.
“Phan—?”
The autocomplete filled in: PhanQuest Board – Anonymous Requests for Justice.
Her thumb hovered.
She had dismissed it before. Rumors. Idle talk from classmates and online whispers. Nothing substantial. Nothing real.
But tonight… tonight felt different.
Hifumi tapped the link.
And the page loaded.
Chapter 18: The Temple Maiden’s Despair
Summary:
The Venus reaches out to the Thieves
Akira tries to explore the Palace but is stopped by the weird barrier
The Akira Appreciation Society gains a new member
Akira hangs out with his girls - and starts to feel things
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Late Night – Futaba’s Room
The soft blue glow of three monitors illuminated the space like an electric cocoon. One hummed with code, another streamed old episodes of Galactic Pretty Yuna, and the center screen — her main window into the world — blinked with a notification:
[1 New Submission]
Futaba slurped the last of her soda, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and leaned in.
"Let’s see what kind of trash humanity has thrown up tonight…" she muttered to herself, cracking her knuckles as she opened the new post.
And then she stopped.
Reading it once wasn’t enough. She had to read it again.
And again.
“I don’t know what I want from this. Maybe I just needed someone to see it.”
“I’m… tired. Every day is a performance. I wake up, put on my armor—my makeup, my heels, my smile—and march into another game I’m supposed to win. Every win means another exhibition, another photoshoot, another round of being perfect. When I win, I become more of a thing. A product. My name isn't mine anymore. My life isn't mine anymore.”
“My mother says it's because she cares. But I don't remember the last time she asked if I was happy. I don’t even think I know what that means anymore. I don’t think I’m a person to her. Just her last chance at something.”
“They call me Venus. But what kind of Goddess lives in a cage?”
“I feel like I’m screaming underwater and no one can hear me.”
The silence in Futaba’s room was sudden and deafening.
She slowly pushed her chair back, eyes still locked on the screen. Her chest ached in a way she hated. A way she remembered. Too well.
Futaba’s gaze flicked over to a small photo propped near her monitor. A candid shot, taken by Kasumi during a group outing. Akira in the middle, half-laughing. Herself, Kasumi, Ann, and Shiho all squished around him. Chaos. Warmth.
A found family.
Someone out there needed that. Needed them.
“…We’ve got a new quest,” she whispered, already pulling up her encrypted logs. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, beginning to backtrace the metadata—not to expose the poster, but to keep them safe, hidden, protected. She set a flag to monitor any replies. Added a lock on the post, to keep it from being buried.
Then she opened the group chat.
“Guys. We need to talk. Someone out there is drowning.”
The smell of toasted bread, instant miso, and fresh coffee hung in the air, but nobody was eating. Eight Phantom Thieves sat or leaned around the compact space — Kasumi cross-legged on the couch, Ren perched on the armrest, Ann and Shiho seated on floor cushions beside the kotatsu, Ryuemi sprawled out like a cat next to Morgane, who sat primly with her disc in her lap. Yukiko stood near the window, arms folded. Akira leaned against the kitchen counter, cup of black coffee in hand. Futaba’s laptop was open in front of her, fingers flying.
On-screen, the anonymous PhanQuest request glowed faintly — the plea of someone slowly suffocating behind a smile.
“I feel like I’m screaming underwater and no one can hear me.”
They’d all read it. And now, they all sat in silence.
Until Morgane broke it: “It’s her.”
“Yeah,” Kasumi murmured, gaze fixed on the screen. “She called herself Venus. That’s what they call Hifumi on the Shogi circuit.”
Ren sighed, frowning. “Damn. That’s… a lot of pain, hidden behind all that poise.”
Akira set his coffee down. “She needs help.”
Shiho exchanged a look with Ryuemi and Ann. “No hesitation. We’re in.”
Ryuemi gave a sharp nod. “That post… that wasn’t just venting. That was a flare.”
“But there’s a problem,” Futaba cut in, spinning the laptop toward them. “I ran a quick probe. Her mom, Mitsuyo Togo? Not showing up in Mementos.”
Kasumi blinked. “Then what does that mean?”
Ren straightened, voice grim. “She’s definitely distorted, so that can only mean…”
“…She has a Palace,” Akira finished, his expression darkening.
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
“We need her Keywords,” Morgane said, expression sharp.
“But how do we get them?” Shiho asked. “It’s not like we can walk up to Hifumi’s mom and start asking weirdly specific questions about how she views the world.”
Futaba was already typing. “Working on it. Running her name through a couple of press clippings, interviews, professional databases—might pick up something useful.”
Akira turned to Yukiko. “Can you try talking to Hifumi at school? See if she can give us anything, even indirectly?”
Yukiko shook her head. “She’s out the entire week. Full schedule. Photoshoots, interviews, two charity matches… and prep for the championship. I doubt she even has her phone with her.”
The group was quiet for a moment, frustration hanging heavy.
Then Ann perked up. “What magazines is she posing for? Do we know?”
Futaba clicked away. “Let’s see… Mostly sports and Shogi-focused publications. But… huh. Well look at that. She’s also doing a thing with TokyoBelle.”
Shiho’s brows shot up. “Seriously? That’s not exactly a Shogi mag.”
“She’s probably being rebranded for broader marketability,” Ren muttered. “Sell the ‘elegant prodigy’ image.”
“TokyoBelle…” Ann mused, a slow smile forming. “I’ve done shoots for them before. If I ‘just so happen’ to be in the area on the day of the shoot… I could get in. Probably even squeeze into the shoot. They love a two-for-one deal. Especially if one of those is me.”
Kasumi nudged her with a laugh. “Modest.”
“Not wrong though,” Shiho added, smirking.
Akira gave her a grateful look. “That might be our best shot.”
“’Taba?” he added, looking toward the girl behind the screen.
Futaba snorts and starts typing. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Gimme an hour and I’ll have her entire itinerary, the security layout for the building, and the brand of coffee the photographer drinks.”
Morgane raises a brow. “You scare me sometimes.”
“Good.” Futaba grins wide. “Means you’re smart.”
Two days later – TokyoBelle Studios – Makeup Room
Hifumi sat still as a statue in the makeup chair, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly through her thoughts. Her reflection stared back at her—impossibly pale, blank-faced, the beginnings of glossy pink eyeshadow already dusted onto her lids. A makeup artist chattered cheerfully in the background, but Hifumi didn’t hear a word.
She was exhausted.
The last forty-eight hours had been an endless parade of flashbulbs and microphones, hands adjusting her hair, stylists pinning her clothes tighter, voices telling her to smile, pose, project confidence. Exhibition matches where her opponents didn’t even look her in the eye, just bowed respectfully and then lost with a smile—because that was the script. The perfect girl. The genius. The star. Venus of Shogi.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had more than ten minutes to herself.
And now this.
Her eyes flicked to the wardrobe rack in the corner of the room. Tiny bikinis. Sheer fabric. Ribbons and glitter. The kind of outfits she would have never chosen for herself. Gravure.
Her mother had signed the contract on her behalf. Expanding your brand, she had called it. Opening doors to bigger and better opportunities. Modeling agencies. Sponsorships. Television. The tone had been crisp, businesslike. No room for doubt, no trace of warmth.
Hifumi hadn’t protested. Not really. She never did.
“We can’t afford for you to fall behind now,” her mother had said last night, while driving her home from an interview. “You’re on the cusp of greatness. You need to be all-in, or not at all.”
And what could she say to that?
So now she sat beneath bright lights, in a room that smelled of foundation and hairspray, trying not to show how tightly she was gripping the arms of the chair.
Her skin prickled at the thought of stepping in front of the camera dressed in those flimsy costumes. Of pretending this was something she wanted. Something she chose. Her throat tightened.
She was supposed to feel empowered, wasn’t she? Strong? Beautiful?
Instead, all she felt was… exposed.
Lost.
Trapped in a story someone else had written.
And deep in her chest, like a tiny flame struggling to stay lit in a windstorm, something whispered—
“I don’t want this.”
She blinked and looked away from the mirror. Her fingers had gone white from gripping the chair so hard. She forced herself to release them, one by one.
There was a knock at the door, light and polite. The makeup artist called out that they were almost ready. Hifumi barely heard.
Instead, her mind wandered to a different voice. Calm. Mellow. Impossible to ignore.
“Shackles, no matter how pretty, are still shackles…”
“But sometimes, those very same shackles can be the key to freedom.”
She frowned.
What did he mean?
Before she could chase the thought further, the door opened—someone had stepped inside.
A voice, bright and breezy, cut through the fog.
“Hope I’m not late!”
The door swung open, and in walked a goddess.
Or at least, that’s how it felt to Hifumi.
A tall girl with long, honey-gold hair cascading down her back in soft waves. Legs that went on forever beneath a pair of sinfully short designer shorts. A cropped tee that clung to her curves like it had been tailored to worship them. She moved with the easy confidence of someone who belonged—not just in the room, but in the world. Like she was always the main character, no matter where she stood.
“Ann-chan!” the lighting guy called.
“Back so soon?” added one of the stylists.
The girl laughed. “You know I can’t resist when you guys have your cameras out.”
She breezed across the room, exchanging hugs, cheek kisses, and winks with the crew like it was a party and she was the guest of honor. Everyone gravitated toward her like planets around the sun. Even the director looked slightly starstruck as he jogged after her, speaking in rapid-fire English that she returned with a wink and a casual flip of her hair.
And then those clear, sea-glass blue eyes turned to Hifumi.
Oh.
Hifumi blinked as the girl crossed the room, all smiles and sugar, extending a perfectly manicured hand.
“Hi! I’m Ann Takamaki—nice to meet you!” Her voice was bright, bubbly, completely effortless. “I was in the area and decided to drop in. The director somehow convinced me to join the shoot—hope you don’t mind!”
Hifumi blinked once more.
The smile. The voice. The sheer presence. It was like being hit with the full force of summer.
“I... um...” she stammered, taking Ann’s hand automatically. It was soft and warm. “No. I mean—of course not.”
Ann’s smile grew warmer, her head tilting slightly as she squeezed Hifumi’s hand. “You’re the Venus of Shogi, right? I’ve seen you in some magazines. You’re even prettier in person.”
Hifumi felt her face go hot.
Ann plopped down beside her in the makeup area like they were old friends and grinned into the mirror. “So! What’s the theme of today’s shoot? Sexy spring queens? Scandalous sisters? I didn’t read the brief.”
The stylist laughed, already adjusting Ann’s curls. “Close enough.”
Then, as if sensing the tension simmering just beneath Hifumi’s carefully composed surface, Ann gave a gentle smile and leaned in a little closer.
“You doing okay?” she asked softly, voice still bubbly but touched with sincerity. “First time with this kind of shoot?”
Hifumi hesitated.
For the first time that day, someone had asked her how she was feeling.
And for a moment, she didn’t know how to answer.
The set looked like a fever dream of sensuality and symbolism. Soft chessboard patterns sprawled across the floor. Oversized shogi pieces—Rook, Bishop, King—had been placed strategically around a smoky velvet throne, a set piece meant to represent the “Queen’s Domain.” The lighting was warm, golden, and flattering, but the real star of the aesthetic was the fashion: opulent, deliberately provocative, and utterly impractical for any real game of shogi.
Hifumi stood beneath the rigged lights, her heels impossibly high—five-inch obsidian stilettos with red bottoms that clicked sharply with every step she took. Her first outfit was a sleeveless black bodysuit with gold accents, barely more than lingerie, with a red satin cape that draped from one shoulder like a royal mantle. It showed off more skin than she’d ever been comfortable with.
And beside her—draped over the velvet armrest of the throne like she owned it—was Ann.
Ann’s look was bolder: a pearl-white corset with criss-cross laces in the front, paired with matching thigh-high heels and gloves. Her makeup shimmered. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders like spun sunlight. She posed with the confidence of someone who knew her power—and relished it.
“Alright, ladies, we’re doing the ‘Queen’s Gambit’ layout first,” the photographer called out. “Ann, lounge on the throne. Hifumi, kneel beside her, right hand on the bishop piece. Look into the lens—strong, not soft.”
Hifumi took her position stiffly.
Her body felt too long, too rigid, too exposed. She heard the clicks of the camera, the murmurs from the crew. Even the weight of her lashes felt heavy.
Then, she felt a light touch on her arm.
Ann’s voice came soft and sugary, barely above a whisper.
“Try pretending you’re posing for just one person,” she said with a wink. “Someone you want to see you like this.”
Hifumi blinked.
One person?
Without thinking, her mind conjured a pair of storm-grey eyes. That knowing smirk. The warmth of his voice when he called her Dragon Queen.
Her pose shifted—subtly, but enough.
Her spine arched a little. Her gaze, though still directed at the lens, softened and narrowed, almost challenging. Her hand on the shogi piece relaxed into a possessive grip.
The camera shutter clicked more rapidly.
“There we go!” the photographer barked. “Hold that—yes!”
They cycled through more poses: standing back-to-back, seated with interlocked legs, Ann trailing a finger along Hifumi’s jaw as if to crown her with touch alone.
Every time Hifumi began to tense, Ann would make a silly face, or compliment her curves with cheerful, almost teasing candor.
“You’ve got ballerina posture,” Ann beamed between takes. “Seriously, I’m jealous.”
“Your legs are like something out of a dream,” Hifumi found herself replying before she could think. It wasn’t even flattery—it was just true.
Ann giggled. “Well, yours could stomp a man’s heart into paste with those heels. And look good doing it.”
By the time they broke for water, Hifumi was sweating—but smiling.
They stepped off set and found a quiet spot near the wardrobe racks, sipping chilled tea as staff bustled around them.
“You’re a natural, y’know,” Ann said, bumping Hifumi’s hip gently with hers. “Most girls take way longer to warm up. Especially in shoes like those.”
Hifumi glanced down at her stilettos, then over at Ann’s even taller pair.
“It’s not the shoes,” she said, a bit breathless. “It’s everything.”
Ann nodded, then tilted her head thoughtfully. Her voice dropped into something quieter—just curious enough to seem harmless.
“Do you do this kind of modeling often? Or was this… your mom’s idea?”
There was a flicker in Hifumi’s eyes.
“She arranged it,” Hifumi admitted, eyes downcast. “She said it would help expand my brand—reach new demographics. She’s always managing things like that.”
Ann sipped her drink and leaned in, just enough to keep it conversational. “Is she your agent, or...?”
“She’s my mother,” Hifumi replied with a thin smile. “And… yes, my manager. I suppose it started small, but over time, she took over everything. Shoots. Matches. Interviews.”
“She must care a lot,” Ann offered carefully.
“She does,” Hifumi said, but her voice lacked conviction. “I think she’s afraid I’ll waste my opportunity. She used to be in an idol group, years ago. Back before I was born. She never broke out solo—said she didn’t expand her brand early enough.”
Ann’s eyes sharpened. “So she wants you to live the dream for both of you.”
“Yes,” Hifumi whispered. “She calls it building a legacy. But sometimes… it feels more like a prison.”
Ann’s expression turned soft. She reached out and gently squeezed Hifumi’s hand.
“You’re not alone, okay?”
Hifumi stared at her, stunned by the sudden honesty behind those warm blue eyes.
“…Thank you,” she whispered.
From behind them, the photographer called out. “Alright, ladies! Final setup! Let’s bring the queens back in!”
As they made their way back to set, Hifumi stood a little taller.
But somewhere inside, something cracked. Or maybe, freed.
The lights dimmed slightly for the last layout, casting everything in a sultry amber glow. The shogi throne had been replaced with a low velvet bed strewn with glossy shogi tiles, each one comically oversized. The vibe was unmistakably seductive—an intentional play on power, strategy, and allure.
Hifumi stood center-stage, now dressed in a sheer crimson wrap that clung to her curves and pooled like blood at her feet. Her heels gleamed gold. Her hair had been swept into a loose updo, delicate tendrils brushing her bare shoulders.
She didn't fidget this time.
She owned it.
Every tilt of her chin, every line of her body was deliberate, bold—entirely hers.
Ann was beside her again, now in a matching black satin two-piece with gold lacing, her heels razor-sharp and confidence incandescent. She leaned into Hifumi with the casual grace of a woman who knew she could seduce a camera without trying.
The photographer barked out, “Let’s see something intimate. Pull her close, Ann.”
Ann turned and pressed against Hifumi’s side, one hand resting on her waist. Her voice lowered to a smoky whisper.
“Remember... just one person. He’s watching. Just for him.”
Hifumi didn’t even need to close her eyes.
Akira.
She could almost feel his gaze—curious, steady, quietly reverent. She shifted her stance, pressed closer to Ann. One hand trailed down her partner’s thigh, fingers brushing the lace. Her other hand toyed with the oversized shogi tile beside them, nails tapping in rhythm with her rising pulse.
The photographer was ecstatic.
“That’s it—YES. That’s the cover shot right there.”
Ann dipped her head, her lips brushing the curve of Hifumi’s ear in a whisper only she could hear.
“You’re killing it, Venus.”
Hifumi let out the faintest breath of laughter. “You’re dangerous.”
Ann only smirked.
Between Shots – Near the Vanity Mirrors
Ann passed Hifumi a drink—water this time. Hydration was essential, even in seduction.
“You looked like you were born for this by the end,” Ann teased. “Your mom’s gotta be thrilled.”
Hifumi’s smile dimmed slightly. “She’ll critique every photo before she praises a single one.”
Ann tilted her head, casual but attentive. “She seems... intense. Was she always like that?”
“She has a vision,” Hifumi replied. “She says I’m her second chance. Her way to make sure the world doesn’t forget the Togo name.”
Ann swirled her water bottle absently. “She ever get nervous about letting go of control?”
Hifumi gave a small laugh. “Control is her comfort zone. She even has a nickname for the photo studio back home. She calls it her ‘Temple.’ Says it’s sacred ground. It’s where she feels most powerful.”
Ann’s eyes flicked toward Hifumi’s reflection in the mirror. She kept her tone breezy. “Sacred, huh? That’s a hell of a word.”
Hifumi shrugged. “She means it. It’s a few blocks from our house—she’s there more than she’s home.”
Ann nodded, her expression unreadable behind the sweep of lashes and gloss. “Thanks for telling me.”
As the shoot ended, the lights dimmed, and the crew applauded their best shots of the day. Hifumi bowed politely, exhausted and glowing from the high of it all.
Ann bounded over and threw her arms around her in a warm, tight hug.
“You were amazing,” she whispered into her ear. “Like, seriously. Iconic.”
“Thank you,” Hifumi whispered back, stunned by how genuine it felt.
When she pulled away, Ann was already disappearing into a sea of assistants, hairdressers, and rolling carts. She never looked back.
That Night – Togo Residence
Hifumi stood in her room, undoing the clasps of her final outfit. Her feet throbbed from the hours in heels. She peeled off her stockings with a sigh and reached for the pants she had worn to the shoot.
As she turned them inside out to hang properly, something slipped from the back pocket.
A small, black card.
At first, she thought it was an old business card, but then she saw the symbol—a stylized mask she recognized from that strange message board. PhanQuest.
Her breath caught as she flipped it over.
In elegant, hand-written script, it read: We hear you.
For a moment, Hifumi could only stare.
Then, slowly, she pressed the card to her chest—her eyes stinging not from exhaustion this time, but from something deeper.
Something like… hope.
Akira’s Apartment – Early Evening
The usual clutter of tea mugs and takeout wrappers sat untouched on the table. Futaba’s laptop glowed softly, the PhanQuest board open to Hifumi’s anonymous post — Venus’s post — still pinned at the top.
The Thieves were all gathered, seated or leaning around the room, waiting.
Ann arrived last, dropping into her usual spot on the kotatsu with a quiet huff. Her hair was still pulled up in a ponytail from the shoot, a faint trace of blush clinging to her cheeks.
“I got it,” she said.
Everyone leaned in.
Ann tapped her manicured fingers on the table, thoughtful. “Keyword’s Temple. It's a photography studio a few blocks from her house. Her mom calls it sacred ground — she used those exact words. I didn’t even have to push that hard, she just… let it slip.”
Futaba’s fingers danced across her laptop. “Matches up with the metadata I pulled. Her mom’s socials tag that studio constantly. Some kind of rebranding headquarters. PR shoots, portfolio building, even coaching other girls now. She practically lives there.”
Ann crossed her arms, then leaned back against Morgane. “She said it so casually. Just dropped it like it was normal for someone to worship a building more than her own daughter.” Her voice held a bitter edge, but she quickly tempered it. “Hifumi’s good at hiding it, but she’s cracking. The pressure, the control, the way she tries to talk like she believes all of it... It’s killing her.”
Ren whispered, “And she thinks she has no choice.”
“She doesn’t,” Ann said. “Not in her mind. She’s locked in—and she doesn’t even see the bars.”
“She will,” Morgane muttered.
Ann nodded, then offered a faint smile. “I slipped her a calling card. Not the calling card, just... a symbol. Let her know she isn’t alone. That someone heard her.”
A beat of silence passed. Kasumi’s smile was soft. “I’m glad it was you. You were the perfect person for that moment.”
“I just hope it was enough,” Ann said.
Akira rose from the couch.
“I’m going to check it out.”
Everyone began moving, grabbing coats and bags.
But Akira raised a hand.
“Alone.”
The girls froze.
“It’s a scouting run. I just want to see what we’re dealing with first — how strong the Shadows are, what the layout’s like, if there are traps or barriers. That’s it.”
“But—” Kasumi began.
“I’ll call if anything goes wrong.”
Shiho folded her arms. “We don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to,” Akira replied evenly. “Just trust me.”
Morgane gave him a long look, then reluctantly sighed. “Fine. But the second things get weird, you call us in. No lone-wolf heroics.”
He nodded once, already pulling on his coat.
As he turned to leave, Ann’s voice followed him — quiet, but firm:
“Don’t be reckless, Akira. Make sure you come back to us.”
Akira didn’t look back, but he raised one hand in a silent salute before slipping out the door.
With a ripple of static and distortion, Akira stepped from the shadowed alley of the real world into the shifting unreality of the Metaverse. His boots crunched against stone.
He looked up.
The Palace loomed before him — a towering three-story Japanese temple, its ancient wood lacquered a dark, near-black red, glowing faintly in the ever-shifting Metaverse sky. Lanterns swayed in the phantom wind, their paper sides emblazoned with stylized cherry blossoms — each one warped, their petals bleeding into thorny spirals.
The sound hit him next: a low drone of female voices chanting, interspersed with rhythmic clapping, like ceremonial prayers being offered again and again and again. The incense in the air was thick and heady — more like perfume than temple smoke — and with it came a weight, a stifling sense of expectation. Perfection hung like a curse on every breeze.
“You’re going to keep doing this forever, aren’t you?”
Akira spun, hand reaching for his mask.
Standing just behind him on the steps was Lavenza.
She wore a midnight-blue velvet tracksuit, hood pulled up to cast her face in shadow. A blue butterfly mask covered her eyes, and her long braid spilled over one shoulder like silk thread.
Akira blinked. “…What are you wearing?”
Lavenza grinned like a pixie. “Tactical couture. And really, Trickster, did you think you’d slip into a new Palace without me watching over you? Especially given your tendency to… what is the phrase… ‘overdo things?’”
Akira rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t going to solo the place, just…”
Lavenza raised one pale brow.
“…Okay, yes, I was going to see how far I could get so that the infiltration would be easier for the others.”
Smack.
Her gloved hand rapped against the back of his head with a surprising amount of force.
Akira winced, then glared half-heartedly.
Lavenza sighed, pulling her hood back just enough to let her platinum hair fall free. “How do you expect them to grow if you insist on coddling them so much?”
“I’m not coddling,” he muttered.
“You are absolutely coddling,” she countered, already moving past him and toward the edge of the temple courtyard. “And don’t try to argue. I’ve been watching you since the first infiltration. You're the glue that binds, Trickster — but glue doesn't carry the entire structure by itself.”
Akira exhaled slowly… then smiled faintly. “Alright, alright. No charging ahead. Just recon.”
“Good,” Lavenza said with a faint smirk. “Now come along. We’ve got a Temple to trespass in.”
Mitsuyo Togo’s Palace – Outer Steps
The chanting had grown louder, almost alive, as Akira and Lavenza approached the heavy temple doors. The polished wood shimmered with a lacquered sheen, engraved with camera motifs and lined with red cords braided like ceremonial rope.
Akira reached for the handle—
And was met with an invisible force.
A sharp crack of etheric energy surged from the doorway, pulsing like a heartbeat, and sent a ripple of distortion through the air. He stepped back quickly, staring at the shimmering barrier that now glowed faintly in front of the grand entrance.
“…A barrier,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Just like Madarame’s.”
He glanced at Lavenza, who was already watching him with a calm, knowing expression.
“I suppose there needs to be some kind of event that opens the path?”
Lavenza gave a quiet nod, stepping up to gently run her gloved fingers just shy of the threshold. The air buzzed under her touch. “Until that moment arrives — the Temple remains out of your reach. Her cognition has created a threshold that cannot be forced. Not with brute strength…”
Akira folded his arms, lips pressing into a thin line. “So we wait.”
Lavenza turned to him, a small smile curling on her lips. “In the meantime, dear Trickster… you might consider working on your bonds.”
Akira raised a brow.
She tilted her head playfully. “You’ve been so focused on the missions — on protecting everyone — that you haven’t noticed how closely they’re watching you. They’ll be… very appreciative of your attention.”
Akira narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re being cryptic again.”
“Oh, I assure you, it’s actually very clear.” She winked, then tugged her hood back up. “Now go. The real world awaits, and some threads must be pulled before the tapestry falls into place.”
Akira glanced back at the Temple, towering and glimmering in the dull, blood-colored sky. The clapping and chanting carried on without pause — fervent, obsessive.
He turned his back on it.
“Guess it’s time to get social.”
[ GROUP CHAT - "Thieves Hideout 📱🔥"]
Members: Trickster , PolishedPuzzle, VentDuNord, GlitchGoddess, CherryBombshell, HeartshotHero, FleetBooty, ScarletSway, SakuraVeil
Trickster:
Can’t infiltrate the Palace yet.
There’s a barrier over the entrance. Same type we saw at Madarame’s.
Lavenza says something still has to happen before we can get in.
She’ll keep watch on her end for now.
FleetBooty:
Ughhh. Does that mean we just have to wait around?
GlitchGoddess:
PFFT. I hate waiting. 😤
But at least that gives me more time to dig up dirt on Ms. Idol-Mommy Dearest.
SakuraVeil:
So what do we do until then? Just hang tight?
Trickster:
We train. Take on some Mementos requests. PhanQuest is still active.
And I’ve got a feeling Mitsuyo’s Palace won’t be easy to crack.
[UNKNOWN NUMBER HAS JOINED CHAT]
Lavenza:
Greetings Phantom Thieves.
Lavenza has changed her name to VelvetWhisper
HeartshotHero:
…
How did you—
What the—??
GlitchGoddess:
HOW ARE YOU IN THIS CHAT
THIS ISN’T EVEN A PUBLIC SERVER
DO YOU HAVE A PHONE??
VelvetWhisper:
I exist where bonds exist.
Also, I borrowed Margaret’s old tablet. 🤖
FleetBooty:
NO. WAY.
VelvetWhisper:
The Trickster is correct — Mementos will help you grow stronger.
But do not neglect the threads that bind you. Shared strength comes not only from battle… but from understanding.
CherryBombshell:
Wait, is this your way of telling us to go on friend dates??
VelvetWhisper:
Precisely. 💙
Trickster:
Noted.
VentDuNord:
This is weird. Why does she type in blue?
SakuraVeil:
Let her vibe, Morgane.
[GROUP CHAT: THIRST TEMPLE 🔥👀💦]
Members: BimboBerry, PlunderBae, SiroccoFée, BangBangBaby, PixelPrincess, BlossomUndone, SinGlazed, BendMeBab y
BendMeBaby:
Okay so… if we’re taking Lavenza’s advice seriously…
We should each get one-on-one time with Akira this week 💡
SinGlazed:
Yes. Agreed. For team bonding. Not for other reasons. 👀
PixelPrincess:
L O L
SURE "team bonding"
I'm taking notes tho. Dude needs affection therapy stat.
BlossomUndone:
Let’s be real. It’s not just about him needing affection.
We need our fix too. 😤
He looked criminally good in that black v-neck yesterday.
BimboBerry:
RIGHT??
I swear I could see his collarbones breathing.
BangBangBaby:
Okay, you need to calm down.
(Also yes. But calm down.)
PlunderBae:
I literally choked on my water when he adjusted his gloves with his teeth in Mementos.
His TEETH.
WHO TAUGHT HIM THAT.
SiroccoFée:
It’s not taught. It’s instinctual.
He’s a predator. We're prey. Facts.
BendMeBaby:
FOCUS!
We have 7 days in a week and 8 of us…
We need a fair rotation—
Lavenza has joined the chat
Lavenza changed her name to ButterflyBliss
ButterflyBliss:
Correction.
There are 9 of us. 💙
All:
...
PixelPrincess:
👁️👄👁️
She did NOT just—
BimboBerry:
NINE???
SinGlazed:
I—I need to sit down.
BlossomUndone:
Who even invited her here!?
SiroccoFée:
She appears like a blue ghost. No one invites her. She chooses.
ButterflyBliss:
Your concern is noted.
I humbly request the Sunday evening slot.
For… observation.
PlunderBae:
That sounds fake. And horny.
BangBangBaby:
You're just mad she called dibs.
PixelPrincess:
Okay okay okay. Everyone calm down.
Here’s the master plan:
🗓️ THE HOLY AKIRA SCHEDULE 🗓️
-
Monday: Morgane – “For science and sulking and also hand-holding, maybe.”
-
Tuesday: Ann – “Shopping till we drop. I’ll report his tastes back.”
-
Wednesday: Ren – “We’re going to emotionally damage him with softness.”
-
Thursday: Yukiko – “I’ve already picked the art gallery. He’s going to wear slacks.”
-
Friday: Shiho – “I’m taking him to Penguin Sniper. And I’ll have him leaning over my shoulder teaching me to play pool.”
-
Saturday Morning: Ryuemi – “Running – I’m going to make him sweat.”
-
Saturday Evening: Kasumi – “I’m making him dinner and he’s going to moan when he eats it.”
-
Sunday Morning: Futaba – “Video games. Pajamas. Touch starvation therapy.”
-
Sunday Evening: Lavenza – “Classified.”
BimboBerry:
This is the thirstiest calendar ever created and I am obsessed.
SinGlazed:
This is… ambitious. 😳
SiroccoFée:
If he survives the week, he deserves a medal. Or another week of this.
PixelPrincess:
GIRLS.
WE’RE ORGANIZED.
WE’RE DANGEROUS.
WE’RE HOT.
BangBangBaby:
Let’s not kill him.
…Actually, no. Let’s test his endurance.
BlossomUndone:
He is Joker. This is just another challenge.
ButterflyBliss:
May fortune smile upon our shared endeavor.
And upon our shared Trickster.
Monday – Ice Rink at Yoyogi Park
The afternoon sun cast long golden beams through the high windows of the skating rink , glinting off the smooth ice like it was polished glass. The faint scent of pine from a nearby vendor stand mingled with the cool air and the hum of laughter and skates carving arcs into the rink.
Akira adjusted his gloves, peering up at the neon signage for the rink before stepping inside. His breath puffed in faint clouds as he scanned the crowd—until—
"Took you long enough, slowpoke."
Morgane stood by the benches, already laced into sleek black skates with yellow laces, wearing a fitted snow-white jacket with fur trim and red ear muffs. Her dark hair was braided over one shoulder, her arms crossed in her typical unimpressed posture.
Akira gave a warm grin. "You look cute."
Morgane instantly flushed and spun on her heel. "Sh-shut up. You’re late, and I’m not cute—I’m cool. There’s a difference."
"Right, right," he chuckled, stepping closer. “Super cool.”
With a huff and exaggerated eye-roll, Morgane marched onto the ice and immediately kicked off in a flawless glide, her body swaying with practiced ease. She arced around a few couples, did a sharp spin near the center of the rink, then skated backwards toward him, looking far too pleased with herself.
"Well?" she said, arms out. “Are you just gonna stand there looking like a penguin, or are you gonna skate?”
"That depends—are you going to catch me if I fall?" Akira asked, stepping gingerly onto the ice.
Morgane’s mouth twitched. "If you fall, I’m going to laugh. Then maybe help you. Maybe."
Akira slipped slightly, catching himself. “Comforting.”
Morgane snorted and circled him like a shark, nudging his elbow. “Bend your knees more. You're stiff. You’re gonna eat ice like that.”
“Yes, Coach Morgane.”
“That’s Capitaine Morgane, thank you.”
They did a few cautious laps together, with Morgane occasionally skating ahead and spinning back around to correct his posture with pokes and snarky muttering. But now and then, she’d glance at him when she thought he wasn’t looking—her eyes soft, thoughtful.
After Akira finally managed a full lap without stumbling, he turned to her with a smile. “You’re really good at this. How long have you been skating?”
Morgane blinked, a little stunned by the sincerity. “Oh. Uh. Since I was a kid.”
She slowed, coming to a gentle stop near the edge of the rink. Her expression grew distant. “There was a lake near my house in Quebec. It’d freeze every winter. Me and my cousins used to sneak out before sunrise to skate. No noise. Just the ice and the wind and—” she shook her head, “—sorry. Rambling.”
“Sounds peaceful,” Akira said, coming to rest beside her. “Do you miss it?”
Morgane hesitated, biting her lip. “Yeah. Sometimes. The cold here’s not the same. There’s no snowstorms. No smell of woodsmoke. It’s just... different.”
Akira reached out, touching her sleeve gently. “Homesickness sucks. But… I’m glad you’re here.”
She stiffened under his touch—then relaxed, eyes darting away.
“…Idiot,” she muttered. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”
“But it’s true.”
Morgane looked back at him, cheeks red. Not just from the cold. “You’re seriously the densest guy I’ve ever met.”
Akira blinked. “Why? What’d I do this time?”
Morgane groaned, dragging a glove down her face. “Ugh. You’re impossible. But—” she glanced sideways, voice quieting, “—thanks. For today. It… helped.”
He offered his hand. “Another lap, Captain?”
She took it without hesitation—grumbling the whole time, but with her fingers tight around his.
“…Fine. But if you drag me down with your clumsy ass, I’m siccing Lola on you in Mementos.”
Tuesday Afternoon — Harajuku with Ann
“Come on, Akiraaaa~!”
Ann's voice rang out like a bell over the noisy crowd on Takeshita Street, her manicured hand wrapped around Akira’s wrist as she all but dragged him past a cluster of crepe stands and neon-lit purikura booths. Her outfit screamed ‘getting ready for summer’ in the best way—tiny pink halter top, low-slung denim shorts, big sunglasses propped on her head, glossy lips, and towering wedge heels that clicked with every confident step.
“Ann, where are we—”
“Shopping!” she chimed, spinning on her heel to face him, walking backwards with expert balance. “Duh. You promised to hang out with me, and this is what we’re doing today. I need new summer stuff, and I’m putting you to work, mister!”
Akira exhaled a laugh, resigned to his fate. “So I’m your pack mule.”
Ann gasped dramatically. “No! You’re my fashion assistant-slash-judgement god! Very different roles!”
Before he could retort, she spun again and pulled him into the first store: a kaleidoscope of light fabrics, sheer dresses, pastel bikinis, and crop tops barely big enough to cover a phone.
Store #1 — “Peach Baby”
“Okay okay okay,” Ann said, holding up two skirts. One lavender. One mint green. Both tiny. “Which one says ‘I might flirt with you but I also might step on you’?”
Akira blinked. “Is… is that the vibe you’re going for?”
She grinned. “You bet your ass it is. So? Which one?”
He pointed to the lavender. “That one.”
Ann beamed. “Yay, you do know me!”
She vanished into the changing room and re-emerged a few minutes later in a different outfit entirely—flowy sundress, bare shoulders, strappy sandals that left her pink-painted toes on full display.
“Be honest. This one too girly, or just enough to make a guy melt?”
Akira coughed and averted his gaze. “You look good.”
Ann tilted her head. “Oh?”
He shrugged. “It’s soft. Pretty. You… pull it off.”
Something flickered behind her playful expression. A softness. A note of surprise. “Thanks,” she said, quieter now. “That actually means a lot coming from you.”
She turned to the mirror, spinning slowly. “Hey, random question—what kind of perfume do you like on a girl? Floral? Fruity? Musky? Or maybe something spicy?” She shot him a playful look. “C’mon, Akira. Help me weaponize this hotness.”
Akira scratched the back of his neck. “…Floral. Like jasmine. Or something… warm. Clean.”
She blinked. “Ooh, a classic boy. Good to know.”
Then, casually, she extended a leg and wiggled her foot in its sandal.
“…Also, not to pry, but—you keep looking at my feet.” She tilted her head again, smile growing mischievous. “Do you have a little thing for toes, Joker?”
Akira froze. “I—I wasn’t—!”
Ann laughed, full and delighted. “Relax, dork. I think it’s adorable. You’re way too stoic for your own good, so seeing you flustered is like... the best prize ever.”
She gently nudged his leg with her foot. “Besides, if it makes you happy, I’ll wear sandals every day this summer.”
Store #3 — “Crystal Sugar” (Accessories & Perfume)
The scent of cherry blossoms, vanilla, and citrus floated in the air. Ann had her arm around Akira’s shoulder now as she sprayed different testers on thin strips of paper and waved them in front of his nose.
“Sniff this one. And this. And this—no, that one’s awful, sorry.”
He laughed, actually enjoying how natural this felt. Ann was sunshine and chaos and cotton candy—but she was real. Kind.
“Okay, so you like the one with vanilla and jasmine,” she said thoughtfully, slipping a tiny bottle into her basket. “Noted.”
She was watching him now, even as she pretended to examine a wall of sunglasses. “You know,” she said lightly, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
He turned. “Hm?”
Her voice softened. “You’re really easy to be around. You make people feel… seen. Safe. And that’s rare. Like—really rare.”
He blinked, caught off-guard by her sudden sincerity.
Ann smiled again, gentler now. “I just want you to know that. We see you, Akira. And we love you.”
She leaned in, kissed his cheek lightly—just to the side of his mouth—then pulled back with a wink. “Now come on. I still need to find the perfect anklet for my ‘step on you’ skirt.”
Later, at the train station…
Ann shoved two big shopping bags into his arms and looped her arm around his.
“You’re a keeper,” she said, smirking. “But you already knew that.”
Akira raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”
“Yes. But in the fun way.”
Wednesday Evening — Inokashira Park with Ren
The grass in Inokashira Park was soft beneath the thin picnic blanket, the spring air scented with new blossoms and warm rays of the setting sun filtering through the branches above. The lake shimmered a few meters away, still and glassy, reflecting the lazy sky. Children giggled in the distance, and a few couples wandered slowly by the water’s edge.
Ren sat cross-legged on the blanket, her shoes set neatly to one side. Her usual Detective Princess confidence had been replaced by a soft, thoughtful calm. Today she wore a pale cardigan over a camisole, a long skirt that rippled like water when she moved, and the lotus hairpin Akira had gifted her a few days ago gleaming faintly in her caramel hair. Akira, seated opposite her, had just opened the hamper he’d packed: onigiri, cut fruit, neatly wrapped sandwiches, and a flask of warm barley tea.
“You really did pack all this?” Ren asked, smiling with quiet wonder as she picked up a slice of pear.
Akira shrugged modestly. “You said you liked simple days.”
“I do,” she murmured. “And you… really listen. That’s rare.”
They ate in companionable silence for a while, the soft hum of cicadas and distant voices filling the space between words. Then Ren’s voice drifted in, softer than before:
“Do you ever think about how people survive awful things?” she asked, eyes on the sky. “How they rebuild themselves after being broken?”
Akira looked up from his tea, nodding slowly. “Sometimes.”
“I do. A lot.” She paused, fingers absently folding her napkin. “It’s like… trauma sinks its claws into you and won’t let go. Some people fight it, some people drown in it. And some people... become it.”
She met his gaze then. Her stormy eyes were unusually fragile, shadowed by guilt.
“I hate that I became part of it. That I was someone’s trauma. When I was with the Black Mask, I thought I had no choice. That the world would never give me a place unless I carved one out in blood.” She exhaled shakily. “But you… you reached me. You saved me before I became someone I wouldn’t recognize anymore.”
Akira leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You saved yourself, Ren. I just gave you a hand.”
She gave a broken little laugh. “You’re too kind. Always are.”
“I mean it.” His voice was firmer now, eyes locked to hers. “You’re not alone. You never will be. I’ll be there—for you. For all of you.”
Ren blinked, lips parting slightly. The way he said it—steady, warm, without expectation—sounded like a love confession. But she didn’t point it out. She just smiled, faintly, and looked down at her hands.
“You really have no idea what you do to people,” she murmured.
They stayed like that for a while, quiet and unhurried. When the food was gone, and the sun had started its descent, Ren lay back on the blanket, arms folded behind her head.
“Do you know the stars?” she asked, voice lighter now.
Akira followed her gaze upward. The sky had shifted to dusk-blue, and the first few pinpricks of starlight had begun to emerge, delicate and tentative.
“Not really,” he admitted.
“Then I’ll show you.” She lifted a hand and began pointing.
“There’s Vega, the Weaver Star. Part of the Summer Triangle. And Altair, the Cowherd. There’s an old story about how they’re lovers separated by the Milky Way, only allowed to meet once a year.”
“Sounds lonely.”
Ren’s lips curved into a faint smile. “A little. But it’s also romantic, in a doomed fairytale kind of way.”
Akira didn’t reply. He was watching her now—not the stars.
Ren felt it, and didn’t turn her head. She just kept tracing constellations with her finger, her voice quiet, steady, and full of a gentle hope she hadn’t felt in years.
Thursday Evening — Gallery Opening in Ginza with Yukiko
The streets of Ginza glowed under the city’s golden dusk, the glass facades of high-end boutiques reflecting the low sun like burnished metal. Akira adjusted the collar of his black blazer as he walked toward the gallery’s front steps, the polished leather of his shoes clicking lightly against the marble. He wasn’t used to dressing like this—smart trousers, crisp white shirt, charcoal jacket that fit better than expected—but Yukiko had asked, and something in her tone had made it impossible to say no.
He checked his phone. 6:02 PM.
Then he looked up—and froze.
Yukiko stood by the gallery doors, a vision of quiet elegance. She wore a pale plum silk kimono with subtle ink-brush motifs along the hem and sleeves. Her obi was tied in a simple, traditional fashion, the muted gold fabric accentuating the curve of her waist. Her black hair had been swept up into a delicate twist, leaving her nape exposed—graceful and bare. Akira blinked. She looks…
Beautiful didn’t cover it. Poised. Refined. Mesmerizing.
Yukiko noticed him and offered a soft, gentle smile.
“Akira,” she said, her voice a warm breath. “Thank you for coming.”
He found himself stepping forward a little too quickly. “Of course. You look…”
She tilted her head slightly, waiting.
“…really elegant,” he finished, scratching the back of his neck.
Yukiko’s smile widened as she took his arm with quiet familiarity. “Come. It’s just about to begin.”
Inside, the gallery was bright and hushed, full of minimalist lighting and pale walls that made every painting pop. Several students and professors from Kosei Academy were milling around, along with a handful of sharply dressed adults—critics, by the look of them. Many paused to greet Yukiko with polite nods or warm words, occasionally flicking curious eyes toward Akira. He returned the looks with mild confusion.
He leaned in. “Why are they all looking at me like that?”
Yukiko didn’t answer. She simply smiled and pulled him gently through the crowd.
“I want to show you something,” she said, her voice almost conspiratorial.
They stopped at a wall near the back of the gallery, slightly tucked away in a recessed space where the noise dimmed. Akira looked up—and felt his breath catch.
It was a portrait. Of him.
Raw yet composed. Shadow and light danced across his shoulders and jawline, catching the thoughtful crease in his brow, the quiet storm in his eyes. It wasn’t photorealistic—there was artistic flourish in every stroke, from the soft red lining in his imagined coat to the brushwork around his hands, as though they held unseen fire. There was mystery, weight, and something more.
Something intimate.
Akira stepped closer, mesmerized. “Yukiko… this is…”
He looked at her, then down at the plaque beside the painting:
The Thief of Hearts
By Yukiko Kitagawa
“I’m honored,” he said, voice low. “You’ll finally get the recognition you deserve. This is incredible, Yukiko. Your talent—”
He stopped when he saw her expression. Her smile was fond, but slightly exasperated. Then she laughed softly. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
Akira looked at her, puzzled. “Get what?”
But Yukiko didn’t elaborate. She merely reached into her sleeve and handed him a small folded brochure of the gallery’s featured artists. “Here. Keep this.”
Then she reached for his hand, slid her fingers between his, and gave a little squeeze.
“Come on. I want to show you the rest.”
Friday Evening — Penguin Sniper with Shiho
Akira arrived at Penguin Sniper just before sunset, the golden haze of the city casting long shadows on the cracked sidewalks of Kichijoji. Inside, the bar was already humming—a low thrum of music, clinks of glasses, murmurs of laughter, and the rhythmic thwack of cue balls striking home.
Shiho was waiting by one of the pool tables, leaning casually against it. Or rather, trying to look casual.
Her outfit turned heads the moment she walked in: tight, ripped jeans hugging her legs, a vintage band tee knotted just above the silver navel piercing Akira hadn’t known she had. Over it all, a distressed leather jacket, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her dark hair was slightly tousled, lips painted a rich berry red—like she was trying to blend tough girl vibes with just a bit of punk-girl flirt.
She looked great. She also looked nervous.
Akira’s smile faltered slightly as he approached. “Hey. You okay?”
Shiho blinked at him, hands fiddling with her bracelet—the braided leather one he’d given her, way back when they’d all first started hanging out again. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”
He looked at her more closely, frowning. “It’s just… I don’t want to assume anything. But if you’re feeling nervous being alone with a guy—after everything with—”
Shiho cut him off with a flat stare.
Then, to his surprise, she laughed. “Oh my god, Akira. You think I’m nervous because I’m alone with you?”
His eyes widened slightly. “…Aren’t you?”
“Well—yeah. But not like that,” she blurted, cheeks coloring. “I mean, you’re not scary. You’re like… I dunno. Safe. Way too safe, honestly. You’re like a sexy golden retriever with a tragic backstory and a hero complex.”
Akira blinked. “…That’s… specific.”
Shiho groaned and dragged her hand over her face. “Look, forget it. Let’s just play. I wanna learn how to shoot pool. Will you teach me?”
She was terrible at it.
Akira did his best to keep a straight face as she fumbled with the cue stick for the third time, trying to find the right grip. “Okay, so you want to plant your feet a little wider… bend your knees slightly… and make sure your grip is firm but relaxed.”
Shiho huffed, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. “You sound like a yoga instructor.”
“I could be one,” Akira muttered with a small grin, taking a step closer. “Okay, watch me again.”
He demonstrated with ease—leaning over the table, cue gliding through his fingers. She watched, but her scowl deepened.
“Still can’t get it right,” she grumbled, stepping back to her spot. “Can you… I dunno… just show me physically?”
Akira hesitated. “You sure?”
“Yes. C’mon. I don’t bite.”
Slowly, he stepped behind her. Gently placed his hands over hers. She was warm, tense—but didn’t pull away. He adjusted her grip, guided her arms, lowered her stance.
And then he leaned in.
Chest brushing lightly against her back, one hand on her hip as he corrected her angle. “Now… pull back just a little, then follow through—”
The cue cracked against the cue ball. It rolled smoothly across the green felt, knocking another ball into the corner pocket.
Shiho whooped. “I did it!”
Akira smiled. “Nice. That was all you.”
“Liar,” she muttered, but there was a sparkle in her eyes. “You totally aimed that.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But your grip’s getting better.”
Shiho smirked faintly, twisting to look at him over her shoulder. “Yeah. Thanks for the hands-on training, coach.”
Akira raised an eyebrow. “You okay now?”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I just… it’s weird being alone with you. Not in a bad way. Just…”
She looked away, biting her lip, voice quieter. “I’m not used to feeling like this around someone who actually sees me.”
Akira didn’t say anything. He just reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
Shiho’s fingers tightened around his for just a moment longer than necessary.
Saturday Morning — Running with Ryuemi
It was barely 8 a.m. when Akira found himself jogging alongside Ryuemi down the broad sidewalk near the Sumida River, the early morning sun glinting off the water. The city was just beginning to wake, and there was a pleasant hush in the air—just the sounds of their feet hitting pavement, breath syncing, and the rhythmic swish of windbreakers and nylon.
Or at least, his windbreaker.
Because Ryuemi… was wearing a skin-tight black and red running set, the kind designed for high-performance athletes—and, perhaps unintentionally, low-level cardiac arrest. The leggings hugged her legs like second skin, and her sleeveless crop top left her toned abs and strong shoulders on full display. Her ponytail swished behind her like a whip. And when she sprinted ahead, her glutes—
Akira looked away, cheeks red, and focused very hard on the pavement. Don’t be weird. Focus. Breathe. Look literally anywhere else.
But Ryuemi had always been a kinetic storm of muscle, fire, and blunt honesty—seeing her like this, vibrant and laughing, was… something.
“Yo!” she called back, glancing over her shoulder. “You slowing down on me, ‘Kira?”
“No,” Akira lied, catching up.
They eventually stopped near the river, where the breeze danced off the surface and the grass smelled sharp and clean with dew. Ryuemi was bent forward, hands on her thighs as she caught her breath, sweat glistening along her collarbones.
Akira tugged at his collar slightly, trying not to stare. Again.
Ryuemi straightened and started walking, and he fell into step beside her.
They strolled in companionable silence for a bit, the sound of cicadas buzzing in the distance. Then, after a long pause, Ryuemi spoke.
“Hey, ‘Kira?”
“Yeah?”
“Be honest.” She didn’t look at him, her eyes focused on the river. “Do you think I’m… pretty?”
Akira blinked. “What?”
Ryuemi glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You know. Pretty. Attractive. Hot. Whatever.”
“Of course you are,” he said without hesitation. “Who said you’re not?”
She shrugged, suddenly interested in the frayed edge of her wristband. “No one, exactly. But it’s just… I’m not Ann. Or Yukiko. Or Ren. They’re, like, drop-dead gorgeous. All elegant, or model-y, or graceful.”
Ryuemi’s voice turned quieter. “And then there’s me. Loud. Muscular. Kinda aggressive. I’m not what most people picture when they think ‘feminine.’ Sometimes I feel like the… I dunno. The tomboy best friend. Not the one anyone actually looks at like that.”
Akira stopped walking. “Ryuemi.”
She paused, glancing at him.
He stepped closer. So close she could see the concern in his storm-grey eyes.
“Listen to me,” he said softly. “You’re as gorgeous as any of the others. More than that, you’re you. Unique. Strong. Funny. Breathtaking.”
Ryuemi swallowed, suddenly struck silent.
Akira took a half step back, not breaking eye contact. His voice stayed low and sincere. “You burn so bright, it’s hard for me to look away sometimes.”
She stared at him, open-mouthed. Then flushed to her ears and quickly turned away, muttering, “D-Don’t say stuff like that so seriously, dammit…”
Akira smiled faintly.
Ryuemi rubbed her arms, flustered but not unhappy. “You always do this. Say something that makes me feel like my heart’s gonna explode, and then just—just stand there like it’s nothing.”
“I mean it, though,” Akira said, softer this time. “All of it.”
“…Thanks, ‘Kira,” she mumbled, smiling to herself as they resumed their walk. “Just… don’t blame me if I start falling for you harder.”
Akira blinked. “What was that?”
“Nothing! Keep walking!”
Saturday Evening – A Sweet Night In with Kasumi
Kasumi’s kitchen was smaller than Akira expected, but tidy and well-lit. The scent of vanilla extract and warm butter already filled the air, mixing pleasantly with the simmering soy-ginger sauce bubbling on the stovetop. A gentle playlist drifted through a small speaker on the counter—soft acoustic covers and jazz interludes, the kind of music that made everything feel just a little more like home.
Sumire had left just after Akira arrived, tying her hair up and grabbing her gym bag with a determined smile.
“I need to figure out this sequence myself,” she’d said, brushing off Kasumi’s offer to come along. “You two have fun tonight.”
Now, it was just the two of them.
Akira stood at the counter, helping slice carrots into even matchsticks while Kasumi moved from pot to pan like a ballerina across the stage—light, effortless, barefoot. She was wearing a soft pink apron over a slightly oversized cream sweater and a pair of high-waisted shorts that hugged her hips just enough to make Akira’s brain short-circuit whenever she stretched up to grab a spice jar.
But what really messed with his ability to think was the way she kept… touching him.
Nothing overt. Nothing inappropriate.
A light brush of her shoulder against his arm as she reached for the soy sauce. The soft pressure of her chest against his back as she leaned around him to adjust the heat on the stovetop. A moment where she stood on tiptoe beside him, eyes closed, sniffing the sauce he stirred—her nose nearly brushing his cheek.
And, of course, the barefoot dancing.
Kasumi moved around the kitchen with grace that bordered on hypnotic. Her bare feet padded across the tile as she spun and swayed, balancing briefly on one leg as she reached for a mixing bowl from a high cabinet, then bent forward in a stretch that was… well, Akira wasn’t proud of the involuntary gulp he made when her legs extended perfectly behind her in a dancer’s line.
Akira blinked rapidly and looked back down at the cutting board. Focus. You’re slicing peppers, not processing your entire personality in real time.
“Everything okay?” Kasumi asked, a sweet lilt to her voice.
“Y-yeah. Just... sharp knife. Need to concentrate.”
“Ohh,” she said innocently, sliding in beside him and leaning just a little too close to peek at his work. “Let me help.”
Her fingers curled over his, guiding the blade with practiced ease. Her face was close now, too close. Her breath warm on his skin. Her other hand rested on his forearm, fingers light but firm. Her sweater sleeve fell back slightly, revealing a slim, graceful wrist dusted with flour. The scent of strawberries and cake batter clung to her like a halo.
Akira didn’t move.
“Better?” she asked, tilting her head up slightly.
He nodded, heart thumping. “Yeah. Better.”
Kasumi gave a small, pleased smile and stepped back—slowly, as if reluctant to break the contact.
“You’re usually a lot more relaxed in the kitchen,” she said as she turned to the cake batter, giving it a few more whisks before pouring it into a round tin.
“I have a few things on my mind.”
“Oh, I know,” she replied with a cheeky grin, sliding the tin into the oven. Then, with her hands finally free, she moved to the sink—stretching, again, this time pushing up on the balls of her feet as she reached for a dish on the upper rack. The shift exposed the elegant arch of her foot, her painted toes (soft pink, with tiny cherry blossom decals on the big toe), and the flex of her calf muscles.
Akira very nearly dropped the cutting board.
Goddammit, Ann.
Kasumi turned, catching him staring. She said nothing—just smiled in that very knowing way.
The timer dinged and Kasumi clapped her hands, the moment dissolving like sugar in tea. “Dinner’s almost ready! Why don’t you go sit down? I’ll bring everything over.”
“I can help—”
“Nope!” she said brightly, already plating the stir-fry with practiced ease. “You’ve been working hard all week. Tonight, you’re my guest.”
Akira sat down in the cozy little dining nook, still slightly flushed and deeply confused in a way he didn’t entirely hate.
A few minutes later, Kasumi brought over two steaming plates, a pot of tea, and a small bowl of strawberries and cream to share. She sat close beside him—closer than necessary.
“You’ve been so good to all of us lately,” she said, voice soft as she poured him tea. “Let us take care of you a little, okay?”
Akira looked at her. There was something tender in her eyes, something warm and deeply genuine that made the whole world feel a little quieter.
“Okay,” he said, the tension in his shoulders melting.
Kasumi beamed. “Good.”
Sunday Morning
Akira had barely stepped inside before Futaba practically dive-tackled him.
“Key Item obtained!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his waist like a limpet. “Futaba used ‘Summon Boyfriend Pillow’—It’s super effective!”
Akira stumbled back a step, laughing softly. “You know I’m not actually a body pillow, right?”
“Yet you’re soft, warm, and let me snuggle you. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Still latched on like a caffeinated barnacle, she dragged him toward the kotatsu. The floor around it was already a war zone of snacks, open game cases, a Switch in docked mode, and at least three half-watched anime DVDs scattered like shrapnel. Her laptop screen still glowed from some modding tool she’d paused mid-use.
“Okay, got a backlog the size of my social anxiety,” she said, plopping him down. “So. Plan of attack: We marathon Succubus Tactics EX—don’t judge, the story’s actually good—then co-op the Nekomimi Dungeon Crawler. Also, I have Pocky. Strawberry flavor.”
Akira raised an eyebrow. “Succubus Tactics?”
Futaba’s grin turned absolutely wicked. “It’s not that bad. Just a little plot. And by ‘plot’ I mean anime cleavage and innuendo so thick it counts as a weather condition.”
Sure enough, five minutes in, a sultry anime demon girl moaned onscreen about losing her “mana orbs” while writhing in what was definitely not pain. Akira blinked, awkward. “This is what you meant by ‘story’?”
“She has a redemption arc!” Futaba protested, throwing a popcorn kernel at him. “Also, she turns into a catgirl pope in Chapter 12. Very powerful, very emotional.”
“Sure.”
They played, watched, snacked, and giggled. Futaba leaned into him constantly—her head on his shoulder, her legs thrown across his lap, or flopped fully into his side with zero warning.
At one point, while he was struggling with a quick-time combo, she flopped into his lap backwards, gaming controller in hand. “Here, I’ll boost your reaction stats with my gamer aura.”
Akira tried not to panic at the sudden lap-cushion situation. “Futaba, I can’t see the screen.”
“You’ll adapt. It’s good for your growth.”
She shifted slightly, the hem of her oversized shirt sliding up to reveal bare thighs—and Akira very deliberately looked anywhere but there.
Futaba peered up at him from upside down. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“Are too.”
“Your glasses are fogging up.”
“Shhh. I’m observing.”
Then she sat up—on him still, straddling his lap now like it was the most natural thing in the world—and poked his chest. “You’re super warm today. I approve.”
Akira gave a breathless laugh, trying to retain what little dignity he had left. “Futaba…”
She grinned. “Yes, my protagonist?”
“You’re very…”
“Touchy-feely? Gremlin-y? Deeply attached to your hoodie scent?”
“All of the above.”
Futaba didn’t seem embarrassed. In fact, she looked smug. “You don’t mind though.”
Akira paused.
“No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”
Something about that answer made her eyes soften, just for a heartbeat. Then she smirked. “Good. You’re officially my key item, remember? Can’t let anyone else equip you.”
She leaned in close, whispering by his ear. “Maybe I’ll mod you into my next game. Ultimate Trickster Boyfriend DLC."
Akira chuckled, half-flustered, half-amused. “What’s the win condition?”
She nuzzled into his neck like an over-affectionate kitten. “You already cleared it, dummy.”
Sunday Evening — A Dance Beneath the Soul’s Moonlight
When Akira entered the Velvet Room, he expected the usual: firelight flickering beside the grand hearth, shadows of impossible shapes moving in the rafters, and Igor seated in his high-backed chair like some eldritch librarian. But this time, the space was quiet.
Empty.
For the first time, Igor was gone.
Instead, the room had changed again. It had bloomed.
The shadowy corners of the loft had melted into starlight and marble, stretching out into a ballroom that could not logically exist. The vaulted ceiling reflected constellations Akira didn’t recognize, and the heavy blue velvet of the drapes shimmered like deep ocean water kissed by moonlight.
“Forgive the absence of my master,” came a voice, soft and melodic. “He was… called away for the evening.”
Akira turned—and paused.
Lavenza stood a few paces away, her hands folded neatly in front of her. But she was changed.
Gone was the youthful appearance of the attendant he’d always known. Now, she looked older—slightly younger than him, maybe seventeen. Her pale blonde hair fell longer and looser around her shoulders, and her eyes, still golden, now glowed with something deeper. A quiet self-possession.
She wore a flowing gown of midnight velvet—floor-length, with silver threads that shimmered like stardust with each movement. It was fitted at the waist and sleeveless, her bare arms slender and glowing with soft luminescence, as if lit from within.
Akira just stared for a moment.
“...Lavenza?”
She smiled gently. “It is still me, Trickster. The Velvet Room reflects the soul… and my own has grown in response to our bond. I suppose this is how I wish to be seen. By you.”
He felt his breath catch in his throat. “…You look beautiful.”
Lavenza blushed, a delicate flush blooming on her porcelain cheeks.
“Would you… stay a while?” she asked, extending a gloved hand. “Igor ensured the evening would be ours.”
Akira stepped forward and took her hand without hesitation. “Of course.”
A gramophone—one he had never seen before—began to hum. The soft, haunting chords of the Aria of the Soul filtered through the air like mist on still water, echoing from unseen corners.
Lavenza stepped close, placing one hand gently on Akira’s shoulder, the other still in his grasp. He held her waist carefully, reverently.
They danced.
Slowly at first—awkward steps that turned to graceful gliding as the music wound around them. Time didn’t seem to move here. The air shimmered with velvet-blue starlight. The books on the shelves gently fluttered their pages with invisible wind. The great window above the fireplace showed not sky—but a moon of impossible size and clarity, casting its silver light over them both.
Lavenza’s gaze never left his.
“For so long, I was merely a fragment,” she whispered. “Half of a soul, bound by duty and design. But now… I feel more than that. More human. And it’s because of you.”
Akira’s brows knit gently. “I never wanted you to be bound. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
Lavenza smiled. “You never bound me. You freed me.”
She leaned her head gently against his chest. “You’ve brought light to so many hearts… yet never once asked for anything in return.”
“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “I ask for something every day.”
She looked up, curious.
Akira’s voice was low and certain. “For all of you to be safe. For all of you to know you matter.”
Lavenza’s breath caught. Her golden eyes shimmered.
“You are unlike any Trickster that has walked these halls before,” she said softly. “You make even a being like me wonder… what it means to have a heart.”
He rested his forehead gently against hers, and in that moment, they simply stood—two souls suspended in the warm hush of eternity.
Then the music shifted—just slightly.
The familiar refrain of the Aria of the Soul began to twine with something softer, more intimate. It was no longer just a theme of duty and fate.
It was a lullaby of connection.
Of hope.
As the dance came to a close, Lavenza stepped back—reluctantly—and gave Akira the softest of smiles.
“I shall remember this evening always,” she whispered.
Akira nodded, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “So will I.”
The Velvet Room shimmered, the candles dimming gently.
And somewhere far away, Igor smiled behind his tented fingers.
Group Chat: “Thirst Club 🔥💀💋”
Members: BimboBerry, SinGlazed, PixelPrincess, SiroccoFée, BlossomUndone, Kasumi, BangBangBaby, PlunderBae, ButterflyBliss
BimboBerry:
ALRIGHT THIRSTY BITCHES ROLL CALL—WE’RE DEBRIEFING ✨
How did everyone’s “Akira Time” go this week??
Details. NOW. I want gossip, softness, chaos, AND thirst. 😤💦
PixelPrincess:
cracks knuckles
I sat on his lap during the beach episode of Battle Maidens: Crimson Sunrise X 😌
Zero reaction… at first.
Until the hot spring scene came on and I felt him shift 👀
My man tried SO HARD to be stoic, but I felt the tension 💥💥💥
Also?? He smelled like cinnamon and thunderstorms and safety.
BendMeBaby:
U-Um… we baked together.
I was barefoot. And in shorts.
He definitely looked.
Also Ann was right. He kept glancing at my toes and then looking deeply ashamed.
It was kind of… adorable??? 😳
BimboBerry:
I KNEW IT.
HE HAS A FOOT FETISH. I COULD SMELL IT ON HIM. 👣🔥
This is scientific confirmation, ladies. Kasumi, well done. You get a gold star and a Louboutin emoji 💋👠
SinGlazed:
We had a picnic in Inokashira Park.
Talked about life, trauma, fate…
He told me he’d always be there for me.
…Then looked confused when I got all quiet and blushed.
I swear to God he says the most romantic shit and doesn’t even know it. 😭💘
SiroccoFée:
Tch. Not like I wanted him to see how good I was at skating or anything 🙄
But he did. And he was all “Wow, you’re amazing, Morgane.” 😤
So I told him about the lake back home. Got a little… homesick.
He put his hand on mine and told me I wasn’t alone anymore.
THEN SMILED.
I NEARLY COMBUSTED ON THE SPOT 😫🔥
BlossomUndone:
Gallery night. I wore my best kimono.
He stared like I’d invented moonlight.
Then I showed him my painting.
Of him.
Titled “The Thief of Hearts.”
He smiled and told me I deserved all the recognition.
He didn’t even realise it was a love confession.
I should just start painting him shirtless and see how long it takes. 🎨💀
BangBangBaby:
Okay so.
I tried to flirt. I swear I did.
Asked him to teach me pool.
He leaned over me to help me line up a shot. His entire body was against mine.
I. DIED. 😵
He was like “here, let me help,” all innocent and serious and—like—bro. BRO.
I had to take a lap.
PlunderBae:
Morning run. River cooldown.
I asked him if he thought I was pretty.
He said—and I quote— “You burn so bright, it’s hard for me to look away sometimes.”
Girl I almost sat down on the pavement and proposed right there.
I was SWEATING for multiple reasons 😮💨💦
ButterflyBliss:
We danced. In the Velvet Room.
To the Aria of the Soul.
…It felt like time stopped.
He held me so gently, I almost cried.
I think I may be in love with him. In a metaphysical, soul-tied, destined-reincarnation kind of way.
Also? He looked great in formalwear.
PixelPrincess:
Can we call it “Project Boyfriend Share” now?
We’re basically on a soft rotation at this point.
This is a schedule. Not a rivalry. 😤
SinGlazed:
Agreed.
I don’t want to fight over him. I want us to… support him. Each in our own way.
And maybe just occasionally remind him he’s insanely attractive. By climbing him like a tree.
BimboBerry:
Alright sluts. I’m proud of us. We are powerful. We are organized. We are THIRSTY. 💦👠💋
Let’s make this boy so loved he can’t take a single breath without one of us catching it.
PixelPrincess:
Power of friendship intensifies
ButterflyBliss:
Power of metaphysical soul-bonding intensifies ✨
SinGlazed:
Group hug next mission?
Group hug.
Rain tapped gently on the windows. The faint scent of coffee lingered in the air. Akira sat at his desk, arms folded over an open notebook that’s long been forgotten, his storm-grey eyes unfocused and distant. He had been sitting like this for over an hour. Thinking. Trying not to think.
He ran a hand through his messy hair and sighed.
Akira (internal): What the hell is wrong with me?
His mind replayed the week’s events: Morgane’s quiet joy as she told him about skating on the lake back in Quebec. Ann’s teasing looks and warm laughter as she dragged him from store to store. Yukiko’s elegant smile as she took his arm in the gallery. Shiho’s back arching as he helped her line up the pool cue. Ryuemi’s flushed face by the river. Kasumi dancing barefoot in her kitchen. Futaba laughing wildly as she threw herself into his lap. Lavenza, glowing in velvet blue, her hand warm in his as they danced through eternity.
He swallowed hard, the air stifling.
Akira (internal): I want all of them. Not just as friends… not even just romantically. I want them. Completely. And that makes me...
His hand tightened into a fist.
Akira (internal): That makes me disgusting, doesn’t it?
A memory flashed — Kamoshida’s smug grin, his oily words, his cruelty cloaked in fake charm. The pain in Shiho’s eyes. The brokenness.
Akira bolted up from his seat, pacing, his heart racing.
Akira (internal): No. I’m not like him. I’m not.
But then he thought of the way his breath caught when Kasumi stretched. How his mind wandered when Futaba pressed up against him. How his eyes lingered on Ryuemi’s curves in running tights. How Yukiko’s exposed neck made something primal stir in him. How Lavenza’s eyes seemed to look through him and see everything he tried to hide.
And worst of all — how none of it felt wrong. It felt natural. Wanted.
That’s what terrified him.
He dropped onto his bed, head in his hands.
Akira (internal): They trust me. They actually like being around me. And I… I want them all. How can I even face them again?
Arsène was the first to emerge from the shadows of his mind.
Arsène: "Mon ami… you suffer, not because you are wicked, but because you feel . Deeply. Do you truly believe desire makes you no different from a tyrant?"
Before Akira could answer, the air thickened — and Satanael manifested behind Arsène, massive and watchful, wrapped in glowing chains. His voice, when it came, was low and reverberating, like thunder waiting to strike.
Satanael: "You are not Kamoshida. Your desires are not entitlement. They are not greed. You do not seek to own. You seek to love."
Akira swallowed hard. His voice came out hoarse. “…Then why does it feel so wrong?”
Arsène: "Because the world taught you love is a lie. That affection comes with a price. That desire is poison. But they… these women… they show you something else. They choose you, freely. They smile when they see you. They touch you, not because they want something from you… but because they want you."
Satanael: "Your guilt is the rusted shackle of a cell long since left behind. Break it, Invoker. Like you have broken all other shackles to claim your destiny"
Akira stared at the floor. His fists trembled. “…I want to believe that,” he whispered. “I want to believe I’m not… using them. That I’m not broken.”
Arsène: " Then believe this: You have always given them choice. Respect. Protection. That is not perversion. That is devotion. "
Akira turned back toward the mirror. His reflection was still there — still him. But maybe… just maybe… not so monstrous. He sinks slowly back onto his bed, exhausted.
Akira (internal): I’m not sure I can believe it yet… not all the way. But... maybe someday.
A pause.
Akira (internal): For now, I just want to make them smile. I want to make them feel safe. Wanted. Cherished.
He closed his eyes, picturing each of the girls.
Akira (internal): Even if I never tell them how I really feel... that’s something I can do.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Ren: PolishedPuzzle/ SinGlazed (Codename: Lotus)
Futaba: GlitchGoddess/ PixelPrincess (Codename: Oracle)
Kasumi: ScarletSway/ BendMeBaby (Codename: Aria)
Lavenza: VelvetWhisper/ ButterflyBliss
Chapter 19: Someone Save Me
Summary:
Another victim reaches out to the Thieves
A stalker finally gets confronted
The Thieves decide to tackle 2 Palaces at once
A Space Princess takes her first steps to becoming a rebel
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Yushima Seidō – Grand Shogi Exhibition Hall
The auditorium is silent but taut, filled with an electric kind of anticipation. Photographers, reporters, and sponsors sit pressed shoulder to shoulder in velvet rows. Overhead lights shine like judgmental eyes on the lacquered shogi board between the two seated players.
Announcer (voice echoing through the venue): “We’re down to the wire now, folks! Ginza’s Venus of Shogi is once again putting her title on the line—this time against a formidable challenger: Arakawa Miyu, the prodigy from Kansai. Two titans. One board. This is what the game’s all about!”
Hifumi’s expression remains the picture of elegant serenity, her lips lightly glossed, hair perfectly styled, and her kimono immaculate—an icy lavender with geometric cranes folding across the sleeves. The cameras love her. They always have.
But under the table, her legs tremble.
Her mind is fraying at the edges. She’d pulled three back-to-back matches in two days, suffered through a magazine photoshoot that morning, and hadn’t had a moment alone in over a week.
She’s tired. Not tired like “take a nap.” Tired like “I don’t remember the last time I made a move because I wanted to.”
Her fingers slip slightly as she moves a piece forward—poor positioning. Obvious bait.
A younger Hifumi would never have made that mistake.
Her opponent—a sharp-eyed girl with strong brows and a name gaining traction in western circuits—blinks. And hesitates.
Odd.
Then—stranger still—she slowly places her own piece in a non-optimal location. A defensive move. A step back.
Hifumi stares at the board, blinking slowly. What—
Another move. Another mistake from Hifumi. A Rook that shouldn’t have been sacrificed. Her hands are steady, but her stomach is churning.
Arakawa makes another questionable move.
Then... her fingers twitch. Not toward the board. Toward a specific piece. Ever so slightly, she taps it. The Gold General. Once. Twice. A nervous tell? No—too deliberate. Too controlled.
Hifumi lifts her eyes and meets Arakawa’s gaze.
And sees it.
Fear.
Not the fear of losing. But the fear of winning.
The realization hits like a cold stone in her gut. Her opponent isn’t struggling. She’s holding back. Deliberately.
Throwing the match.
Hifumi’s gaze flicks toward the crowd—past the press, past the sponsors, past the familiar faces—to the wings of the stage, where her mother stands. Phone pressed to ear, manicured hand gesturing. Smiling at someone who isn’t watching.
Of course she isn’t watching.
She never really watches.
Just counts the applause.
Hifumi’s hand rises. She’s about to press the clock, to forfeit—take the scandal head-on.
But then—
Arakawa’s voice, quiet and clear across the board: “I concede.”
The room erupts.
The announcer begins shouting. Reporters leap to their feet. Photographers flashbulb like fireworks.
Announcer: “—and that’s it! Another stunning victory for the Venus of Shogi! Togo Hifumi maintains her undefeated streak!”
Hifumi stands slowly, offers her opponent a measured bow. Their eyes meet once more. Arakawa’s glance is full of regret, and apology.
Hifumi answers with a single blink—no emotion. Nothing they can twist.
She walks off the stage, graceful and composed.
Press Area – Minutes Later
She sits beneath a branded sponsor banner, legs crossed at the ankles, smiling just enough. Her voice is soft and cool.
“Yes, I’m very pleased with today’s performance. Arakawa-san is a brilliant player, and I’m honored by the challenge.”
“Mm? Oh—yes, of course. I’ve had my eye on a new pair of Louboutins. Red soles, obviously. A small indulgence to commemorate the match.”
“Yes, I’ll be taking a short break from public matches. Exams are coming up, and my mother always says a clear mind is better than a cluttered one.”
She laughs. On cue. “No, I’m afraid a sit-down interview will have to go through my mother. She handles my schedule.”
A few more camera clicks. More soft questions. And Hifumi answers them all with the same calm, beautiful mask she’s worn for years now.
But behind her polite tone, behind the smooth posture and perfect diction— the board is tipping.
The Bellvere Hotel – Executive Suite
The ticking of the designer wall clock filled the spacious executive suite like a metronome—measured, inescapable.
A young woman sat on the edge of a velvet armchair, legs crossed at the ankles, back painfully straight. Her floral dress, a tasteful arrangement of pastels and fine lace, looked like it had been chosen for a tea garden, not a gilded prison.
She turned the page of the Japanese Garden Living magazine in her lap with a perfectly manicured hand. She didn’t read the articles. She hadn’t read a word for the last half hour.
She was trying very, very hard not to listen.
But the walls weren’t soundproof.
Moans, gasps, the rhythmic thud of the headboard against drywall. A woman’s voice—husky, confident, commanding. A man’s groan in response.
Her mouth was set in a thin line. Her knuckles, bone-white, clutched the paper edges a little too tightly.
Page flip.
A louder thud. A sharp yelp. A man laughing.
Page flip.
Silence.
Ten minutes passed. Then:
The bedroom door opened with a casual creak, and Shohei Sugimura strolled out like a man returning from a lunch break, not an illicit tryst.
His hair was slightly tousled, tie loose, shirt wrinkled. He paused, spotted the young woman in the chair, and gave her a lazy smirk.
He made a show of adjusting his belt, then—deliberately—pulled up his zipper. The sound cut through the air like a guillotine blade.
“Haru, darling... what a pleasant surprise,” he said, voice honey-slick and condescending. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”
Haru rose from her chair and gave a polite, shallow bow, eyes fixed just below his chin. “Father said you wanted to go over some marriage details,” she murmured. “I can come back if you… need more time.”
Behind Sugimura, the other woman appeared.
She was statuesque, nearly six feet tall in heels, with long ash-blonde hair curled over one shoulder. Her eyes were a striking shade between rust and blood, and her mouth—plump, wet, and stained with deep violet lipstick—curled in a satisfied smirk. She wore a black jumpsuit with gold accessories, sharp and elegant.
The woman didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.
Haru’s eyes met hers for a single breathless second.
Then she dropped her gaze and turned.
Sugimura chuckled—a dry, cruel sound like coins in a tin cup. “Nonsense, I have plenty of time,” he said, already reaching for his blazer. “Why don’t you be a dear and make us some tea while I drop Oleander-san downstairs.”
Haru nodded without looking at him, already moving toward the ornate tea set laid out near the kitchenette. “Of course.”
They left. The door shut behind them with a soft click.
She stood there for a long moment, breathing in the silence.
Then she knelt, as if in prayer, and began preparing the tea. The ritual helped. She knew exactly how long to steep the leaves, how hot to make the water. She needed the structure. The familiarity.
By the time Sugimura returned—twenty minutes later—her hands were steady. The tray was laid out. Cups, saucers, milk, sugar, lemon.
She looked up as he entered, his smile smug, the same violet stain still glistening faintly on his lips.
He said nothing.
And neither did she.
The inside of the car smelled like jasmine and leather.
Outside, the city passed in streaks of neon and shadow. The tinted windows blurred the world into something dreamlike—distant and unreal.
Inside the car, Haru Okumura sat alone in the back seat, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak.
She lifted a hand to her mouth, pulling a handkerchief from her purse. A faint smear of dark violet stained her lips, just at the corner.
She dabbed at it gently.
“At least all he did this time was kiss me,” she thought, bitterly. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she steadied them.
The taste of that lipstick still lingered, oily and wrong.
She looked out the window as the Bellvere Hotel faded behind her.
Sugimura had been in a good mood tonight. That always made things worse.
He’d smirked, smoothed her hair back, cupped her face with hands that had just been wrapped around someone else.
He hadn’t hit her. He hadn’t grabbed her too hard. He hadn’t made her undress, or parade around the suite while he pointed and laughed, calling her a “sad little doll.” Hadn’t boasted, his breath reeking of bourbon, about the women he’d bring home—women he’d fuck in their shared bed. Sometimes he said he’d make her watch.
Tonight, he had only kissed her. Touched her chin. Told her what a lucky man he was.
“A virgin bride,” he’d whispered in her ear once, months ago, when her father wasn’t looking. “So rare these days. So pure. I’ll savor it.”
“But don’t worry,” he’d added, like a punchline. “Once we’re married, I’ll break you in real good.”
Haru shuddered violently and reached for the window controls, cracking it open just an inch. Cold air rushed in, and she drank it down like medicine.
She closed her eyes. Willed the nausea away. The driver up front didn’t speak. Didn’t glance at her through the rearview mirror.
She preferred it that way.
Her father had made it clear. Her job was to obey. To secure the merger. To bring prestige, honor, legacy. Her body and her name were commodities, and Okumura Foods was the empire they would fund.
“No complaints,” her father had said, without once looking her in the eye.
“No scandals. You will be a dutiful daughter. That is what it means to be an Okumura.”
Haru’s hands curled slowly in her lap, nails biting into the skin of her palm. She thought about her classmates. About the whispers she’d heard. A group—anonymous, powerful, righteous. They’d saved that volleyball girl. They’d humiliated Kamoshida.
The Phantom Thieves.
She bit her lip.
Her hand moved to her purse again—this time not for the handkerchief, but for her phone.
She opened the private browser and tapped into PhanQuest.
Her thumbs hovered for a moment before she typed:
Subject: I Need Help
Category: Abuse / Blackmail
Details:
I’m being forced into an engagement with someone powerful. Everyone thinks he’s a rising star, but no one knows what he’s really like. He hurts people. He threatens me. He treats me like a thing.
Please. I don’t want to belong to him.
— Daisy Chain
She hesitated. Then hit Submit.
The message vanished into the digital ether.
Outside, the lights of the city blurred into gold and crimson.
Haru leaned her head back against the leather seat and let herself breathe—for the first time all night.
Futaba lay sprawled across her beanbag chair, half-draped over Akira’s legs where he sat cross-legged on the floor. The room was bathed in soft green light from a trio of monitors displaying the usual chaos—one looping gameplay footage, another scrolling lines of chat, and the third open to a heavily encrypted tab on PhanQuest.
“Man, that last boss was busted,” Futaba muttered, reaching for another Pocky stick from the open box beside her. She waved it in Akira’s direction. “You did not warn me there’d be triple-stage enrage. You trying to kill your Navigator?”
Akira just chuckled, his fingers brushing absently over her hair. “Thought you liked a challenge.”
Before Futaba could launch into a dramatic retort, her expression froze. She blinked at the third screen. “…Hang on.”
Akira tilted his head, watching her lean forward. Her eyes scanned the screen, lips pursing in a rare show of quiet concentration.
“A new request just hit the board.” Her voice lost its usual playfulness. “Anon tag is Daisy Chain. Category: Abuse / Blackmail. It’s long. Real long.”
Akira straightened slightly, leaning in. “Read it.”
Futaba did, her voice tight and careful.
Silence. Then Akira exhaled slowly. “Get more details. Carefully.”
Futaba nodded, fingers already flying over the keyboard as she composed a message back to Daisy Chain.
Akira pulled out his phone and flicked open a message thread with Ren.
Trickster :
Is Kunikazu Okumura part of the Society?
It didn’t take long.
PolishedPuzzle:
I can’t say for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised.
A bunch of Black Mask missions have ended up benefiting Okumura Foods.
There’s definitely something there.
Also… yeah. Shohei’s betrothed to Okumura’s daughter. Been arranged since she was a teen.
Don’t think she ever had a say in it.
Akira’s eyes narrowed. He typed one last word: Thanks, then pocketed the phone.
Futaba turned toward him, her glasses slipping a little down her nose. “She messaged back. His name’s Shohei Sugimura. You know—that Sugimura.”
Akira's jaw clenched. “And the MetaNav?”
Futaba pulled it up with a practiced flick. She entered the name: Shohei Sugimura.
“Invalid Target,” she muttered, frowning. “So he’s not the one with the Palace.”
Akira’s expression turned grim. “Try Kunikazu Okumura.”
Futaba blinked. “You mean the Big Bang guy? What’s he got to do with anything?”
Akira leaned over, tapped the MetaNav screen, and met her eyes. “Daisy Chain… I think that’s Haru Okumura.”
Futaba hesitated—then gasped.
“Palace found,” the MetaNav intoned mechanically. “Please enter correct Keywords.”
Akira nodded once.
Futaba looked up at him, her grin gone. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
Akira was already pulling out his phone again. He opened the Thieves’ group chat and typed:
Trickster:
Team meeting tomorrow morning.
We got another one.
The living room smelled faintly of toasted bread and brewing coffee. Akira had barely finished setting out the mugs when the others started trickling in—first Ren and Kasumi, then Ann and Shiho, followed by Morgane, Ryuemi, and Yukiko. Futaba was already sprawled out on the kotatsu, her laptop open and whirring softly. Morgane nudged aside a stack of physics notes with a grunt and claimed the space beside her, cradling a steaming cup of cocoa.
"Alright, everyone here?" Futaba asked, cracking her knuckles. “’Cause this is big.”
The girls shifted into comfortable positions—Ren cross-legged on the floor, Yukiko sitting primly with her hands folded, Ryuemi lounging half-asleep against the couch with Ann. Once they were all settled, Futaba tapped her screen, projecting a holographic feed onto the nearest wall.
“Meet Daisy Chain. New anonymous request on the PhanQuest board, dropped last night.” Her tone lost its usual sass as she read aloud the message once more.
A heavy silence followed.
“That’s… awful,” Kasumi said softly, brows knit with concern.
Futaba nodded grimly. “We got a name. Shohei Sugimura.”
Ann made a face. “Ugh. That guy? Gross politician spawn with too many teeth? Always in the tabloids for hosting loud parties?”
“Same one,” Futaba confirmed. “But here’s the twist—MetaNav says he’s not the one with the Palace.”
Shiho leaned forward. “So then who is?”
Futaba tapped again. “Kunikazu Okumura. CEO of Okumura Foods.”
That made a few eyes go wide.
“Wait... you mean the Big Bang Burger guy?” Ryuemi blinked. “What the hell does he have to do with this?”
Ren spoke up, calm and calculated. “Futaba and Akira think the girl who made the request is Haru Okumura. Daughter of the CEO. Her engagement to Sugimura was arranged years ago.”
Everyone fell silent, letting the implications sink in.
“I can try to look through some police records,” Ren offered smoothly. “See if anything’s been buried that might give us more information. Official connections, domestic incidents, abuse reports…”
“Wouldn’t that be… protected data? I know you're a detective, but wouldn't you need a reason to go digging?” Kasumi asked.
Ren just gave a nonchalant shrug. “I have my ways.”
None of the girls questioned her further.
Shiho looked thoughtful. “If she’s a student at Shujin, maybe we can just talk to her directly. Get a read on her.”
“Yeah,” Ann nodded. “But we need to know what her schedule looks like. Can you find that out, Futaba?”
Futaba grinned and started tapping furiously. “Give me a sec... beep beep beep... okay, got it. Haru’s got a business ethics lecture today at eleven.”
She spun the laptop to face Akira. “You’re in that class, right?”
Akira nodded. “Yeah. I’ll try to talk to her after the lecture. Hopefully, she doesn’t listen to the rumors.”
The atmosphere shifted—something tender flickering among the girls as they glanced his way.
“Is it getting worse?” Ann asked gently, brow furrowed.
Akira gave a noncommittal shrug. “Makoto still has it out for me for some reason, and the gossip vultures are always watching. But hey...” He looked around at the gathered group, his voice softening. “I have you girls. So it’s not all bad.”
There were murmurs of support, and Morgane, who was the nearest to him, leaned her head against his shoulder without comment, her expression unreadable.
The meeting began to wind down. People sipped the last of their coffee, stretched, and started putting on their shoes.
But just as Ren stood, Yukiko’s voice broke through—quiet, uncertain.
“What about Hifumi?”
Everyone turned.
Yukiko’s face was calm, but her eyes—dark, flickering with guilt—gave her away. “Are we just going to leave her?”
Akira looked at her carefully, then at the others, then back to Yukiko.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yukiko... remember rule number one of being a Phantom Thief?” His voice was firm, unwavering. “No one gets left.”
He stepped forward, brushing a hand on her arm gently.
“We’ll save Hifumi. I promise.”
The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, casting soft golden rays across Hifumi’s minimalist room. Her day clothes was already laid out: ironed, pressed, every pleat immaculate. She sat at her vanity in silence, brushing her hair with precise, practiced strokes. One hundred strokes every morning. She used to do it for calm. Now it was just routine—another mask she wore like her carefully arranged smile.
A knock.
“Hifumi, darling—” came her mother’s voice, bright and lilting in that affected tone that always made Hifumi’s skin crawl. “Are you decent?”
Before Hifumi could answer, the door opened anyway.
Mitsuyo Togo stepped inside, dressed immaculately in a rose-colored silk blouse and pencil skirt, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor. She looked like she was ready for a press conference. A thick folder was tucked under her arm, which she flourished like a prize ribbon.
“I’ve just gotten off the phone with the TokyoBelle people,” she said with a syrupy smile. “They are absolutely thrilled with the reception of your shoot. Apparently, the online impressions are breaking records—young men, even some women, can’t stop talking about how elegant and provocative you looked.”
Hifumi blinked, keeping her expression neutral. She knew better than to show fear.
Mitsuyo’s eyes sparkled as she opened the folder, waving a stack of printed contracts in the air. “So they’ve asked for a follow-up. A special feature. Something more... intimate. I’ve already signed the paperwork—everything is set for two weeks from now, right after your exams.”
Hifumi felt her stomach drop. Her fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her bag, white-knuckled.
“A more... intimate shoot?” she repeated slowly, carefully.
Mitsuyo nodded, completely missing—or ignoring—the strain in her daughter’s voice. “Yes, yes! More daring. A modern take on sensuality. Nothing tasteless, of course—they’re calling it 'Refined Erotica.' You’ll be draped in silk, maybe some tasteful lingerie... oh! There’s a shot where they want to use candlelight to highlight the curves of your back—can you imagine the artistry?” She beamed.
The bile rose in Hifumi’s throat like a wave. She swallowed it down.
“It’s happening right after your exams,” Mitsuyo added. “I’ve already signed everything. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Hifumi’s mouth opened—but no sound came out. Her fingers clenched beneath the table’s surface, nails digging crescent moons into her palms. Her reflection in the vanity betrayed nothing. She had practiced that expression for years.
“But, Mother…” she began, voice carefully modulated. “Wouldn’t it be better to wait? Just a little. I haven’t—”
“Nonsense.” Mitsuyo cut her off with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “This is the perfect time. You’re young, you’re beautiful, and your popularity is surging. We’re past the whole shogi prodigy phase. That was your launchpad. This is your ascension.”
She stepped closer, pressing a manicured hand to her daughter’s shoulder.
“No more Venus of Shogi…” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, reverent and feverish. “You will be the Venus of Japan. And I… I will finally gain the respect I deserve. All those years—every sacrifice I made for you—they’ll see. They’ll all see.”
Her hand tightened.
“I created you, Hifumi. I nurtured you. And this—this—is your destiny.”
Then, with a proud little pat, she swept out of the room as suddenly as she had entered, her heels clicking decisively against the hardwood floor.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Hifumi sat frozen in place. Her reflection blinked back at her with the calm eyes of someone trapped behind glass.
Slowly, she lifted the brush again. One hundred strokes. One. Two. Three.
She counted each one to keep from screaming.
The soft creak of the rooftop door gave way to a rush of warm spring air and the gentle scent of damp soil, lavender, and budding tomatoes.
Haru stepped onto the rooftop garden, her patent loafers crunching softly against the gravel path. This place had always been her haven. A sanctuary suspended above the noise, above expectations. Here, no one asked anything of her. Here, she could tend to life, not manufacture it. The plants didn’t care about marriage contracts, or family honor, or how many seconds she hesitated before answering a question.
But today, she wasn’t alone.
There was someone crouched by the rosemary shrubs—a tall young man with dark, messy hair and a sun-warmed sleeveless top that hugged his torso like it had lost a battle. Two oversized metal watering cans rested beside him, and he moved with a quiet grace, alternating between cheerful whistling and the occasional soft hum.
He paused every so often, eyes narrowing slightly as he gently pulled away a dead leaf, adjusted the soil around a fragile shoot, or carefully relocated a curious slug to the corner compost patch.
The sight was… jarring.
That was Akira Amamiya. The Akira Amamiya. She recognized him from campus—everyone did. The boy from juvenile detention. The one with the criminal record and stormy eyes. The subject of whisper campaigns and rumors.
But nothing about him matched the image in her mind.
He looked up and noticed her. Instead of the cold scowl she had braced herself for, he offered a small, amused smile that warmed the corners of his face. His grey eyes—surprisingly soft—twinkled with what she could only describe as… mischief?
"Morning," he said, his voice low and calm, unhurried. “Didn't think anyone else came up here.”
Haru blinked. For a moment, all she could think was he has really pretty eyes.
She caught herself, clearing her throat softly. “I usually come up here between lectures,” she said, stepping lightly onto the path. “It helps me think.”
Akira nodded, setting one of the watering cans down. “Same. Got a little carried away, I think—didn’t mean to intrude.”
“No, not at all.” She smiled—genuinely, if a little shyly—as she knelt by the rose bushes. “You’ve done a lovely job… The soil around these roots was starting to clump, but you broke it up gently. That’s hard to do without disturbing the stems.”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had a friend back home, used to be obsessed with gardening. She said that if we were going to hang out in her garden, I should learn how not to kill anything. She made sure I did.”
“Very wise,” Haru said, and her smile grew, warmth blooming in her chest despite herself.
They worked in silence for a little while, the kind that felt natural. Companionable. Every now and then, Akira would pass her a pair of shears or ask about a plant by name, and Haru would answer, surprised by how easy it was to talk to him.
After ten minutes, she glanced sideways, trying not to stare. His arms flexed as he lifted the can again, and she found herself once again wondering if he owned any shirts with sleeves.
“Do you come here often?” she asked lightly, eyes on the lavender.
“Lately, yeah,” he replied. “It’s quiet. And the plants… they don’t talk back.”
Haru laughed softly. “You sound like me.”
He looked at her for a moment, then smiled again—smaller this time, but more sincere.
“Maybe we’re both running from something.”
She turned her gaze downward, heart catching slightly in her chest.
You have no idea.
The breeze swept through the rooftop again, teasing the leaves of the tomato plants and carrying the faint perfume of the roses Haru had tended since spring. She tried to focus on the comforting routine of pruning, her hands moving mechanically.
Akira had gone quiet beside her, pulling weeds around the base of the thyme with slow, thoughtful movements. But she could feel his eyes on her now and then—watchful, not invasive. Like he was listening without words.
“Haru,” he said gently, as he set down the trowel, “can I ask you something?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “Of course.”
“…Are you okay?”
The question was simple, but it hit with surprising force. Haru froze, her gloved fingers tightening around a stem until a thorn pricked her thumb. She looked away, swallowing hard.
“I…” she began, voice barely above a whisper. “No one ever asks me that.”
Akira didn’t press. He just waited.
She sat back on her heels, hands resting in her lap. Her gaze remained on the soil.
“I’m being forced to marry someone,” she said softly. “Someone I don’t love. Someone I… fear.”
Akira’s expression didn’t change, but the lines around his eyes deepened.
“My father arranged it years ago. I was still in high school when the contract was drawn up.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “I didn’t even know until after I turned eighteen.”
He didn’t interrupt. He just shifted closer, enough to let her know she was safe to continue.
Haru glanced up at the sky. “Sugimura-san… he’s cruel. He enjoys making me uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s just words, sometimes he…” Her breath hitched. “He says he wants me to be ‘pure’ when we marry. That it turns him on. But he touches me anyway. And my father—” Her voice broke, tears springing to her eyes. “My father says this is my duty. That I must be an obedient daughter. That this is what it means to be an Okumura.”
Akira moved slowly, carefully—like approaching a frightened animal—before offering her a clean handkerchief.
Haru took it with shaking hands. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t usually talk like this. I just… you’re easy to talk to.”
He gave a small smile, his voice steady. “Then talk. I’m not going anywhere.”
For a moment, all Haru could do was press the handkerchief to her face and let herself cry. Not loudly. Not in anguish. Just quiet, stifled sobs—the kind born from too many years of pretending nothing was wrong.
Akira didn’t try to touch her. He just stayed close, his presence a quiet anchor, like gravity pulling her back to herself.
Eventually, the tears slowed. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled through her nose, shaky but composed.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Don’t be,” Akira replied. “You don’t need to be sorry for hurting.”
Haru finally looked at him, eyes red-rimmed but grateful. “…Thank you.”
He stood and offered her a hand. “Come on. We’ve got class.”
She hesitated, then took his hand. His grip was firm, grounding.
As they walked toward the door, side by side, Haru glanced at him. “Akira?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not what I expected.”
He chuckled softly. “You either.”
And for the first time in a very long while, Haru Okumura felt a little less alone.
The scent of turpentine and graphite hung faintly in the air, mingling with the late-afternoon light that filtered through high windows. Shadows stretched across the room, pooling behind stools and easels. In front of Hifumi sat a modest still life: a bowl of fruit arranged with academic care, the apple already beginning to bruise.
She stared at it without seeing.
"I created you, Hifumi. I nurtured you. And this—this—is your destiny."
Her mother’s voice echoed relentlessly in her skull. The contract. The magazine shoot. The smile Mitsuyo wore when she said “more erotic.”
Hifumi’s charcoal pencil hovered uselessly in the air, her fingers trembling faintly. Her mind twisted and reeled.
“My destiny?” she thought. “To be exposed to the world? To be a showpiece? To be my mother’s pawn?”
She clenched her jaw. The paper beneath her hand remained blank, and her vision blurred—not from lack of focus, but from a storm of emotion she could no longer suppress.
She didn’t notice the footsteps.
Didn’t hear the soft creak of the studio door opening.
Didn’t sense the familiar figure approaching until the warmth of arms wrapped around her from behind.
Hifumi flinched—but only for a second.
Then Yukiko was there beside her, drawing her in wordlessly, her gentle hands finding Hifumi’s waist, her shoulders, her arms. Pulling her into an embrace that felt more like a shield than anything else.
Hifumi let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding—shaky, broken—and then the tears came. Hot. Silent. Relentless.
She didn’t sob. She wept, in quiet, anguished streams, burying her face against Yukiko’s shoulder as if trying to disappear into her. Her whole body shook with the effort of holding back the scream inside her chest.
Yukiko stroked her back slowly, patiently. “It’s okay… I’ve got you.”
“I can’t… I can’t do this anymore,” Hifumi whispered hoarsely. “She doesn’t care what I want. I’m just a tool to her. A doll she dresses up, paints, sells off to the highest bidder…She’s turning me into… into something I’m not. And I feel so… dirty.”
Yukiko pressed her lips to Hifumi’s temple. “You’re not a doll. You’re not a product. You’re you, Hifumi. And you don’t have to go through this alone.”
Hifumi clung to her harder, like a lifeline tossed to someone drowning. “I hate it. I hate the photos, the poses, the way they look at me. I hate what it’s doing to me—what it’s doing to my soul.”
“And you’re not wrong to feel that,” Yukiko said quietly. “None of this is fair. And it’s not your fault. But we’ll find a way out of it. I promise.”
The two girls remained there for several minutes—just breathing, just existing—until the tension slowly drained from Hifumi’s shoulders.
Finally, she pulled back, eyes puffy but clearer than they had been all week. She gave Yukiko a watery smile. “You always seem to find me when I need you the most.”
Yukiko smiled back, brushing a strand of hair from Hifumi’s cheek. “Maybe I’m like a Knight in shogi—always jumping in sideways when no one expects it.”
That drew a faint laugh from Hifumi. And for now, that was enough.
Alleyway Across from Okumura Foods Headquarters
The skyscraper was glass and steel—slick, sterile, and impossible to mistake. The Okumura Foods logo glinted near the top like a corporate halo. People bustled in and out of the lobby below in tightly choreographed rhythms. To most, it looked like any other successful conglomerate.
But Ren Akechi knew better.
She stood across the street, tucked into the shadow of a narrow alley, half-hidden between a vending machine and a stack of plastic crates. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes—sharp and calculating—were fixed on the building's mirrored facade.
Her thumb hovered over her phone, then typed:
"You were right. It's there. Keyword is Spaceship."
A second later, her phone vibrated.
She glanced down and saw the reply: a cartoon image of a wide-eyed cat in an oversized astronaut helmet, clumsily floating among the stars. A soft laugh escaped her lips before she could help it.
“Cute,” she murmured, thumb brushing the screen before she tucked the phone back into her jacket.
Of course Futaba would send something like that. She could practically see the hacker’s smirk behind the sticker.
Ren turned and began walking away, hands in the pockets of her crimson coat, the city folding itself back around her.
"I wonder if he already has a plan…" she mused.
But there was no irritation in the thought—only quiet admiration.
She glanced back once over her shoulder at the looming Okumura building. "Feels good to finally be able to do the right thing."
The cafeteria buzzed with its usual midday chaos—laughter, footsteps, trays clattering, the low murmur of dozens of overlapping conversations. But the world narrowed to a single point for the observer at the back corner booth, barely touching their untouched curry as their eyes locked on the two figures who had just walked in.
Akira Amamiya. And right beside him—Haru Okumura.
The observer stiffened.
“Haru?! What’s she doing with him?”
They watched her laugh—softly, awkwardly—as Akira said something and gestured toward an empty table. The way she stood just slightly closer to him than necessary, how she smiled despite herself…
“No. No, no, no…”
Fingers dug into the edge of the tray.
“She’s too smart for this. She has to be. There’s no way she’d just—he has to be threatening her. That’s the only explanation. He’s manipulated all of them, hasn’t he? Like some snake—whispering lies until they believe him. Until they trust him.”
The chair screeched against the tile as the observer started to rise, panic overtaking reason—
Only to freeze.
Three shadows had closed in.
“Going somewhere?” Ann’s voice was light, sing-song—almost cheerful.
But her eyes were stone.
Across from her, Shiho smiled coldly as she clamped a hand down on the observer’s shoulder. Her black nails bit into fabric and skin with deliberate force. Her touch was ice. Her grip, iron.
“Stay,” she murmured, leaning in close. “We have something to talk about.”
And then there was Ryuemi, plucking the tattered notebook from the table with two fingers like it was a contaminated specimen. She flipped through a few pages, her expression growing darker with each word.
“…I knew you were delusional,” she said, voice low and brimming with contempt. “But I didn’t think you’d take it this far…”
She held the notebook up for the others to see—sprawling, obsessive entries. Descriptions of Akira. Sketches. Schedules. Diagrams. Pages and pages of surveillance, paranoia, and unhinged theories.
Ryuemi snapped the notebook shut with a sharp clack.
“…Makoto.”
The cafeteria din faded for just a moment. As if the entire world had taken a breath.
Makoto sat back down, slowly, as if her legs had forgotten how to work. Her expression was caught somewhere between shock, shame, and something dangerously close to mania. “How did you—how long—?”
Ryuemi tilted her head, arms crossed. “Since that night,” she said flatly. “The museum. When we met Yukiko.”
Makoto blinked, genuinely stunned.
Shiho’s nails dug a little deeper into Makoto’s shoulder. “You weren’t subtle. You were watching us. Watching him.”
Makoto tried to speak, but Ryuemi cut in, voice sharpening like a blade.
“Akira said to let it go. He thought you were just... misguided. That you’d eventually come around. But I knew better. I knew a bitch like you wouldn’t stop. I saw the way you look at him. Like you already decided he was guilty of everything. And now you’re trying to twist the world to fit that delusion.”
Makoto’s mouth opened. Her voice cracked when she spoke, trying to regain composure—but there was a wildness growing behind her eyes.
“I’m protecting you,” she said. “All of you. You don’t see it, but I do. That boy—Akira—he’s dangerous. He’s manipulative. He’s charming, sure, but that’s how it starts. He gets close. He tells you that you’re special. He listens, and he makes you feel seen. Then he asks for a favor. Just a small one.”
She stared at the tabletop, her voice low, fevered.
“Then another. And another. And each one is a little bigger. And you don’t realize how far you’ve gone until it’s too late.”
Ryuemi sneered. “This isn’t about Akira. This is about you. You hate him because he didn’t fall for your high-and-mighty act. Because he didn’t need your approval.”
Makoto’s voice rose. “No, you don’t get it! He’s building a cult! He surrounds himself with beautiful girls, isolates them, praises them until they’re dependent—until they can’t think without him.”
Ann’s fists clenched. “We’re not brainwashed. We’re not stupid. We chose to be with him.”
Makoto’s voice was rising now, shaking. “He’s a convicted criminal! The law is never wrong! He was arrested for a reason! And you—you’re all too blind to see what he really is! He’s going to destroy you, all of you!”
Shiho’s grip loosened, just enough for Makoto to slump back into her seat.
Makoto was panting, eyes glassy, the dam of restraint fully shattered.
“I have to stop him,” she whispered. “Because none of you will. You’ll just let him lead you to ruin. You’ll follow him off a cliff like sheep. And when everything falls apart, when he finally turns on you—I’ll be the one left to pick up the pieces.”
For a moment, none of the girls moved. The cafeteria’s noise blurred into the background. Then—
“...You really need help,” Shiho said quietly, her disgust giving way to something like pity. “This obsession’s eaten you alive.”
Ann added, voice low and firm, “You don’t get to decide who we care about. Who we trust.”
Makoto looked at them like she didn’t recognize them at all.
Ryuemi knelt, getting level with Makoto’s seat. Her voice was ice.
“You’re not some tragic hero, Makoto. You’re a stalker with a savior complex and a goddamn notebook full of fantasies about a boy you can’t control.”
She stood and looked to Shiho. “Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time.”
The girls turned, notebook in hand, leaving Makoto trembling in her chair—eyes wide, face pale, words long gone.
Alone.
And for the first time, she looked lost.
Makoto remained seated, her limbs stiff, her notebook long forgotten on the table beside her. The cafeteria bustled around her, students chattering, trays clattering, someone laughing too loud across the room. But it was all just noise—muted, distant, irrelevant.
Her eyes were locked on the table by the far windows, bathed in soft midday light.
He was seated in the middle, casual as ever, dark hair tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. Haru sat to his right, speaking softly with her hands folded, cheeks just faintly pink. Akira listened, nodding, warm and open. He wasn’t even touching her.
Then Ann arrived, sliding into the seat beside him with a practiced ease. Her hand landed on his arm as she leaned in to whisper something, teasing maybe—he laughed. Actually laughed. Shiho sat on his other side, tossing a wrapped rice ball at him with a grin. Akira caught it easily. He thanked her with a little bow, exaggerated, just to get her to roll her eyes.
Ryuemi nudged his knee under the table. Kasumi dropped into the seat next to Ann and gave Akira a bright smile as she stole one of his fries. Morgane leaned across the table to flick a napkin at him, and he caught that too.
They all laughed. They all touched him.
He didn’t command it. He didn’t demand it.
They just came to him. Like flowers bending toward the sun.
Makoto’s nails dug into the fabric of her skirt. She watched the way Ann’s head rested briefly on his shoulder before she straightened with a smile. How Shiho leaned against him as they exchanged some inside joke. How Kasumi brushed imaginary lint off his hoodie. How Ryuemi tilted her head, watching him like he was some kind of riddle she wanted to solve.
And Akira… didn’t flinch. Didn’t leer. Didn’t even seem aware of how magnetic he was. He just accepted it all with that same quiet steadiness.
Makoto blinked, her breath stalling in her throat.
Was… was I wrong?
The thought hit her like a slap. Her chest tightened.
No. No, no, no. I can’t be wrong.
She’d seen it. The coldness in his eyes the day she first read his record. The stillness—unnatural, calculated. His criminal past wasn’t fabricated. It was real. He was dangerous. Manipulative. She knew it.
Didn’t she?
“He surrounds himself with girls… isolates them… praises them until they can't think without him…”
Makoto stared at the group again. They weren’t isolated. They had each other. They teased him. Argued with him. Pushed him. Loved him.
There was no desperation in them. No fear.
Just warmth. Safety. Light.
Her throat constricted.
No. There has to be something I’m not seeing. There has to be.
She turned her gaze back to Akira. Back to that enigmatic boy who laughed at a joke from Morgane, even as Kasumi leaned across the table to tie his loose hoodie string in a bow.
He just let her. Laughed again.
Makoto shivered.
Why doesn’t he stop them? Why does he make it so easy to fall into his orbit?
Because that’s what predators do.
Because if he wasn’t dangerous, then everything I’ve done… everything I believe…
Her hands curled into trembling fists.
Sae-oneesan told me the law is never wrong.
That those who uphold it must be unwavering. Righteous. Certain.
She gritted her teeth.
So I can’t be wrong. I’m not allowed to be.
They’re the ones who are blind. Not me. Never me.
But even as she thought it, the words felt hollow. Her certainty had begun to rot from the inside, and she could feel it. Like a crack spidering across glass.
A sudden shriek of laughter erupted from the table. Ann had said something ridiculous, and even Haru was giggling into her sleeve. Akira looked up briefly, catching Makoto’s eyes from across the cafeteria.
He didn’t glare.
He didn’t smirk.
He just looked at her. With calm, unreadable eyes the color of stormy skies. Not mocking. Not accusing.
Just… acknowledging.
Makoto turned away so fast her chair nearly toppled.
She grabbed her bag with shaking hands, clutched her notebook to her chest like a shield, and bolted from the cafeteria—past the throngs of people, past the confused glances, past the light and the laughter.
Out into the cold.
Because if she stayed a moment longer, she might have started to believe that he was innocent.
And then what would be left of her?
Akira watched her go.
Makoto’s shoulders were hunched as she pushed through the cafeteria doors, her steps uneven, frantic. She hadn’t touched her food. Hadn’t looked back.
A crease formed between his brows.
He turned slightly, casting a questioning glance toward Ryuemi, who sat at the end of the table with her arm draped across the back of Ann’s chair. She met his eyes, then exhaled through her nose with a small shake of her head.
“Not worth it,” she mouthed silently, brows raised, trying to be casual—but the tension in her jaw betrayed the effort.
Akira considered it. He glanced down at the table, at the half-eaten fries and the laughter that had died into murmurs.
Then he pushed his chair back.
“I’ll be back,” he murmured, tone calm but firm.
No one stopped him. They knew better by now.
He stepped out into the corridor, letting the cafeteria noise fade behind him as he followed the path Makoto had taken. It didn’t take long to spot her: she was already across the courtyard, her blazer bunched in her fists, her stride stiff and defensive.
He didn’t approach. Just kept his distance, shadowing her quietly. Watching.
Makoto didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, and didn’t care. Either way, she didn’t look back.
She walked off campus, her pace never slowing, and stood at the bus stop like a statue, head bowed, notebook clutched to her chest.
The bus came. She got on.
And Akira watched her go.
Niijima Residence - 6:08 PM
Makoto sat on the floor of her bedroom, papers scattered around her in a wide, unkempt ring. Her notepad sat open in her lap, pages flipped and re-flipped until the ink had begun to smudge beneath her fingers.
Evidence. There had to be evidence. The records were real. She’d seen them with her own eyes. The law said he was dangerous. And the law didn’t make mistakes. That was what Sae-oneesan had always told her, even back when they still lived in that cramped apartment and Sae-oneesan came home with bruises under her eyes from overwork.
“We’re the ones who protect the world from lies, Makoto.”
But now… all she saw were shadows and doubts.
Her notes were a mess. Her theories—shaky. Her “evidence” felt flimsy, stretched, full of assumptions and half-facts. Not one thing, not one concrete thing, could prove Akira was what she wanted him to be. Needed him to be.
Because if she’d been wrong about him, then—
What else have I been wrong about?
She inhaled sharply through her nose, trembling. Her mouth was dry. Her pulse fluttered too fast.
Makoto glanced at the clock on her wall. 6:08 PM.
Sae-oneesan was usually home by seven on a good day. Lately, those days had been rarer and rarer.
Still…
She needed advice. Not from a classmate. Not from a friend. From someone who stood for something real.
Someone who believed in order. In justice. In the truth.
She gathered up her papers, stacked them haphazardly. Her hands trembled so hard the edges bent under her grip.
Then she stood, glancing toward the front door as if willing her sister to walk through it.
Please be home soon, Sae-oneesan. Please tell me I’m not crazy.
Niijima Residence - 7:00 PM
The front door opened with a sharp click.
Makoto looked up from where she was tidying the living room, her heart lurching at the sound of stilettos tapping across the wooden floor.
Sae stepped inside like a gust of winter wind—sharp suit, sharp eyes, and even sharper presence. Her ash-blonde hair was pinned in a professional top-knot, not a strand out of place. Wine-purple gloss coated her lips and nails with surgical precision. Her jacket, perfectly tailored, flared just enough to accentuate her silhouette, and the briefcase she carried matched her heels—sleek, black, and intimidating.
She didn’t take off her shoes.
“Makoto,” she said coolly, eyes sweeping the apartment with the clinical gaze of someone auditing a hotel room. “I’ll only be here a couple of hours. Please have dinner ready after my shower.”
Makoto rose quickly, her hands instinctively reaching for the briefcase. “Yes, of course.”
She took it gently, careful not to brush against Sae’s perfectly manicured fingers, and placed it by the coffee table with practiced grace.
There was a pause—one Sae didn’t bother to fill.
Makoto bit her lip. “Are you… going back to the office?” she asked softly. “Or… out for drinks?”
Sae’s gaze flicked to her, impassive. “Back to the office. I have more work.”
Makoto nodded again. “I’ll lay out your clothes, then.”
A flicker of a smile touched Sae’s lips. It didn’t reach her eyes.
“Good girl,” she said, and patted Makoto lightly on the shoulder—like one might reward a well-behaved dog. “That would be very useful.”
Then she turned and disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound that felt far too final.
Makoto stood still for a long moment.
Then quietly, methodically, she padded down the hallway to prepare her sister’s change of clothes.
Makoto placed the tray on the table with the kind of careful precision she'd practiced for years—simmered hijiki, grilled mackerel, pickled radish, miso soup, and freshly steamed rice. Nothing fancy, but nutritionally balanced. Respectable. Respectful.
Sae took her seat without acknowledgment, inspecting the food like it was a file she was skimming for errors. She picked up her chopsticks and took a bite of the fish.
“…Adequate,” she said coolly. “Sit.”
Makoto obeyed, folding her hands neatly in her lap. The sound of Sae’s eating filled the silence. Precise bites. A sip of soup. A pause to wipe her lips.
The weight of it became too much.
“…Sae-nee,” she began, voice tentative. “I need your advice. There’s someone at Shujin I’ve been… keeping an eye on. A transfer student named Akira Amamiya.”
Sae didn’t respond, but she didn’t interrupt either.
Makoto took that as permission to go on.
“There’s something… off about him. The rumors say he has a criminal record, and he’s always surrounded by these girls. It’s like they’re under his spell, even the ones who should know better. I thought maybe he was manipulating them. Grooming them.” Her voice wavered. “But today, I saw him with one of them—Okumura Haru—and they looked so… normal. Peaceful. Like they actually liked him. And the others… they seem happy. They trust him.”
She swallowed hard.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong… right? I mean, the law—justice—if someone’s been convicted, there’s a reason for that. I just need to know I’m not—”
Sae didn’t look up. She continued eating, as if Makoto had just reported the weather.
When her plate was empty, Sae stood without a word, took her phone from the coffee table, and walked silently into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
Makoto sat frozen for a moment.
Then she got up. She cleared the plates. Washed the dishes. Dried them. Put everything away. She straightened the cushions. Folded Sae’s jacket over the back of the couch. Removed a speck of lint from the rug. Every task mechanical. Every breath tight in her chest.
Niijima Residence – 8.30PM
The bedroom door opened.
Sae stepped out in a different suit—a sleeker black one, tailored even more sharply than the last. Her hair had been re-done into a clean bun, her eyeliner sharper, her lipstick flawless.
Makoto looked up from the armchair.
Sae paused at the door, regarding her younger sister like she was appraising an uncertain junior intern.
“The law is always right, Makoto,” she said calmly.
“If the evidence doesn’t fit… make it fit. Even if you have to change the evidence or stretch the truth. As long as you can convince people you’re right, you have nothing to worry about.”
She stepped into her heels with a practiced motion, adjusted her blazer, and left.
The door clicked shut.
Makoto sat in stunned silence, eyes wide.
The overhead fan turned lazily in the dimly lit room, casting slow-moving shadows over a scene of absolute controlled chaos.
Akira, shirtless and glistening with sweat, was in the middle of his evening workout. His athletic frame moved with precision and power, muscles flexing with each push-up, each crunch. The hum of his controlled breathing filled the space between reps.
Between sets, he stood up, grabbed a water bottle, and paced toward the large whiteboard that dominated one wall of the apartment. The board was a riot of colour—red, blue, green, and black markers crisscrossed in diagrams, team formations, deadlines, and Palace logistics. Strings of taped Post-it notes trailed along one edge like a crime board.
Akira picked up a red marker and circled a date: [Kosei Exams – June 13]
“We need to clear the Temple before Kosei exams finish,” he muttered to himself, jaw tight with concentration. “So that’s two weeks. Haru’s supposed to get married at the end of the month—”
He drew an arrow toward another date in bold: [Wedding: June 30]
“—which gives us an extra week. Going to be tight. Doable if I split the team.”
He clicked the marker’s cap closed, dropped down, and started another set of push-ups—fast and fluid, twenty in under a minute.
“Maybe Ren leads the Temple infiltration,” he said between breaths. “At least the initial foray. Gauge Palace level. Yeah, that could work.”
He stood again and wrote [Team A – Ren / Futaba / Yukiko / Morgane / Ryuemi] on the left side of the board. Arrows pointed to keywords: Recon, Elemental spread, Fast mobility.
“I’ll send ’Taba with her—support and mapping. Morgane makes sure they don’t overdo it. Yukiko’s ice skills pair well with Ren’s Bless and Curse combo. Ryuemi rounds it out with Lightning…”
He paused, clicked the pen shut, dropped down, and did thirty crunches in rapid succession, grunting softly on the last ten.
“Which leaves me with Kasumi, Ann, Shiho…” He nodded slowly. “That’s a balanced front-line. Shiho’s precision, Ann’s raw firepower, and Kasumi’s unorthodox fighting style. Should be enough to get us a fair way through Okumura’s spaceport.”
He flipped over into plank position, holding it steady as a slow breath left him.
“I’ll need Haru on standby,” he said evenly, sweat dripping onto the mat below him. “In case her father’s Palace still has that biometric lock. Maybe the girls can give me an idea how to tell her.”
Akira pushed himself up from the plank and grabbed a towel, wiping his face and neck before stretching out his shoulders. He eyed the whiteboard again.
“I should stop by the Velvet Room,” he murmured. “Reshuffle my deck. It’d be good to have some more heavy hitters going forward. Lavenza will probably have some ideas.”
He capped the final marker, stepped back, and studied the board—lines, connections, names, and dates all swirling into a coherent plan only he could fully see. Still slightly breathless from the workout, Akira grabbed his phone from the counter and padded over to the couch. He opened the encrypted Phantom Thieves group chat and began typing.
Trickster:
Okay. Tentative split:
Team A (Togo Palace): Ren, Yukiko, Ryuemi, Morgane, Futaba
Team B (Okumura’s Palace): Me, Kasumi, Ann, Shiho
Goal is to clear the Temple before Kosei exams end. We’ll need to move fast.
We have an extra week for Okumura’s Palace, but I want to be on the safe side – stakes are way too high.
@GlitchGoddess: is there anyway you can get Haru near the Palace? I have a feeling we’re going to need her to be able to progress.
@PolishedPuzzle: Think you can lead the first foray for the Temple?
PolishedPuzzle:
Affirmative. We’ll go in light, just scouting for now.
GlitchGoddess:
Already on it~ 😎 I just sent an anonymous PhanQuest message.
“Your father is hiding something. Be at Okumura Foods’ HQ at 4pm tomorrow.”
Should be enough to get her near the Palace door without raising suspicion.
Trickster:
Smart. Yeah, that should do it.
SakuraVeil:
Question.
Should we bring Hifumi into her mother’s Palace?
I know she’s not a fighter, but it might help her come to terms with things.
Akira paused, fingers hovering above the screen. His brow furrowed as he mulled it over. Hifumi’s situation was delicate—raw. And yet, there was power in seeing the truth for oneself.
He finally typed:
Trickster:
Recon first. I’ll join you all for the next one. We can take her in then.
A moment passed before the replies came in.
PolishedPuzzle:
Got it.
No unnecessary risks.
SakuraVeil:
Understood. I’ll talk to her anyway.
She deserves to know that some people care.
FleetBooty:
Temple dive starts tomorrow then?
I’ll bring the snacks 🍫⚡
CherryBombshell:
I’ll bring the style and sass 😏✨
Trickster:
Good.
Stay sharp.
This month’s going to move fast.
He set the phone down, leaning back with a slow breath. The plans were in motion. Everyone had their roles, and now it was time to save two young women with no-one else to turn to.
Hifumi stood like a porcelain doll beneath the grey morning sky—perfectly dressed, immaculately styled, yet visibly cracking at the edges. Her signature high heels clacked faintly against the pavement as she shifted her weight, shoulders stiff, eyes ringed with the kind of fatigue that makeup couldn’t hide. Her usual precise posture had wilted slightly, like a delicate flower left too long in the rain.
Yukiko spotted her instantly, the ache in her chest blooming anew. She could see it—beneath the glossy veneer and painted-on composure, Hifumi was unraveling. And Yukiko knew that look all too well. She had worn it herself once, not that long ago.
She approached quietly. “You look like you haven’t slept,” she said gently, offering a small smile.
Hifumi blinked, startled, then gave a wan chuckle. “I was hoping the eyeliner would hide it.”
“It doesn’t,” Yukiko replied honestly. “Cut class with me.”
Hifumi hesitated. “But—”
“No one’s going to come looking for you,” Yukiko interrupted softly, voice low and kind. “Let me take care of you for a little while.”
The silence that followed was fragile.
“…Okay,” Hifumi whispered.
Yukiko’s Apartment - 9:25 AM
The apartment was small and sunlit, the air faintly scented with lavender and warm rice from Yukiko’s breakfast leftovers. Hifumi sat stiffly on the edge of the futon, hands folded in her lap, still in her pressed uniform and heels like armor she didn’t know how to shed.
Yukiko crouched down in front of her, fingertips ghosting over Hifumi’s ankles. “Let me?” she asked.
Hifumi nodded after a moment, more grateful than she could voice.
One by one, Yukiko slipped off the high heels—setting them gently aside. Hifumi’s stockings were sheer, her toes faintly red from the pressure of the heels. Yukiko began to rub gently, her thumbs working slow, deliberate circles into the arches of Hifumi’s feet.
At first, Hifumi sat frozen—uncertain, tense—but then her shoulders sagged, a breath escaping her lips like a long-closed door creaking open.
“…I hate them,” Hifumi murmured.
“The shoes?” Yukiko asked, voice quiet.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Yes. I mean—yes, but also everything. The way I’m forced to be someone I’m not. I hate that I have to smile and bow and act like I’m grateful for being paraded around like some… perfect doll.”
Her voice cracked, and the words came tumbling out.
“I don’t even like the game anymore,” Hifumi whispered. “I can’t say that out loud. I can’t even think it. But when I sit across from an opponent, I feel nothing. No passion, no joy. Just… calculation. Cold, empty moves. Like I’m just proving I deserve to exist.”
Her voice cracked.
“I’m so tired of being useful.”
Yukiko’s hands slowed but didn’t stop.
Yukiko switched to the other foot, her thumbs gently easing the tension from Hifumi’s instep as the other girl’s voice wavered.
“I left a message… on that Phantom Thieves website. I didn’t use my name, but I described her. What she’s doing to me. What she’s planning. But nothing’s happened. No response. Maybe it was stupid…”
Yukiko’s hands stilled for a moment—but she kept her expression calm. She didn’t say the words on the tip of her tongue: We saw it. I saw it. We’re already moving.
Instead, she set Hifumi’s foot gently back down and took her hand.
“It wasn’t stupid,” Yukiko said. “You were brave. You reached out.”
“…But it didn’t help.”
Yukiko gently placed Hifumi’s foot in her lap and leaned forward, laying her hands over Hifumi’s trembling ones.
“…You are worth it,” she said quietly. “You’re worth everything.”
Hifumi’s eyes flicked up to hers, wide and wet.
“You’re not just a title, or a trophy, or someone’s legacy project. You’re Hifumi. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be seen.”
Hifumi’s lower lip trembled. “…You sound so sure.”
“I’ve lived it,” Yukiko whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Hifumi’s ear. “I’ve lived under someone else’s shadow. And I escaped. You will too.”
Tears finally slipped free down Hifumi’s cheeks—and this time, she didn’t try to hide them. Instead, she reached for Yukiko.
Haru stood beneath a blooming dogwood tree, delicately scrolling through her phone, the sunlight catching the slight sheen of anxiety on her brow. The message had arrived an hour ago—anonymous, concise, and unsettling.
URGENT: Go to Okumura Foods HQ today at 4pm. Trust us. You’re not alone.
Her brow furrowed. She had posted something on PhanQuest days ago, half in hope, half in desperation—but hadn’t expected a reply. Let alone this. Was it a trap? A prank? Or something real?
Just as she was considering replying—or deleting it entirely—a familiar voice called out.
“Haru!”
She turned just in time to see Ann Takamaki trotting up the path, her strawberry-blonde hair bouncing with each step, and Akira a few strides behind, hands tucked in his pockets, his gait relaxed as ever.
Haru offered a polite smile. “Ann, Akira. How lovely to see you both.”
Ann wasted no time. “Oh my god, Haru, is it true?!” she gasped, clasping her hands together like an excited child. “Are you really getting married?! Like, actually, seriously, real-world married?!”
Haru blinked. “I—yes. My father—he’s arranged a—”
“Oh my god, girl, what’s the dress like?! Are you going lace? Tulle? A-line? Mermaid? I bet you’d look amazing in something with a sweetheart neckline, ugh, those collarbones?! Deadly!”
“I… I haven’t picked the dress yet,” Haru admitted, flustered.
Ann gasped like this was a human rights violation. “We need to fix that immediately. You’re coming window shopping with me.”
Haru’s eyes widened. “Oh, I—I really shouldn’t, I have—”
“Nope, no excuses!” Ann hooked her arm through Haru’s with all the casual force of a rogue tidal wave. “Come on! Just a little browsing! It'll be fun, you’ll feel better, and I get to live out my wedding fantasy through you! It’s a win-win!”
Akira, still several paces behind, raised an eyebrow at the sight of Haru helplessly swept into Ann’s orbit.
Haru glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes pleading and amused. “Would you like to come too—?”
Ann didn’t even let Haru finish. “No boys allowed! This is bridal business, Akira.”
Haru gave an elegant little sigh and reached for her phone. “Very well. I’ll have the car brought around.”
Ten minutes later, the black limousine slid away from the curb, the two girls inside already chattering and giggling about fabrics, lace, and tiara options.
Akira watched them go, his smirk small but satisfied.
“…Good job, Ann,” he murmured, turning on his heel and heading toward the lecture hall.
Ginza – “La Mariée Élégante” Boutique
“Okay! Now this one—total princess vibes.” Ann clapped as Haru stepped out of the fitting room in a voluminous ball gown, the kind of dress made for cathedral aisles and slow-motion descents. “You look like Cinderella if she had a corporate empire and a standing army.”
Haru laughed softly, the sound as delicate as the lace trailing behind her. “It’s beautiful… but perhaps a little too extravagant?”
“Pfft, you’re a billionaire heiress, Haru. If anyone should be extra, it’s you.”
They had been at it for over an hour—tulle, silk, embroidery, veils. Haru had submitted to every suggestion with polite grace, smiling for selfies, twirling obediently when Ann squealed with delight. For a while, it had been fun. Even freeing.
Then they passed by a display for a luxury bridal lingerie line.
Ann pressed her face to the glass. “Oh. My. God. Haru, we are so going in there.”
Haru blinked. “We… we are?”
“Yes! Girl, you’re getting married—you need something for the honeymoon suite.” Ann wiggled her eyebrows. “Maybe lace... maybe nothing but bows in the right places—ooh, what about red silk?”
Haru gave a strangled laugh, but her expression faltered.
That’s when it happened.
The wobble.
Barely perceptible to anyone but someone who lived by watching expressions. Haru’s smile trembled—then tightened. Her fingers clutched the skirt of the gown just a bit too tightly. Her gaze flicked away.
Ann blinked. Her grin faded. “Haru? What’s wrong? Did I say something?”
There was a pause. A long, taut silence, as if Haru were weighing her entire life on a scale she had only just realized was crooked.
And then—crack.
Her shoulders sagged. Her lips parted. Her breath hitched once.
“I’m—sorry,” Haru whispered, voice trembling. “I don’t—I didn’t mean to ruin—”
Ann didn’t let her finish. She rushed forward, gently grabbing Haru’s hands.
“Hey. No. You didn’t ruin anything.” She pulled Haru into a staff dressing lounge and locked the door behind them. “You’re allowed to cry, okay? Just breathe. I’m right here.”
Haru sank onto the velvet bench and finally let go. The tears came quietly at first, then harder, her body shaking with the weight of months—years—of repressed misery. Ann sat beside her, arms loosely around her shoulders, rocking her slightly as though she were soothing a child.
Eventually, Haru’s sobs began to ease.
“…It’s Sugimura,” she said, voice rough from crying. “He—he’s vile, Ann. He insults me in public, calls me useless behind closed doors. He sleeps around with hostesses and then blames me for not being exciting enough. He says I’m just a stupid little rich girl who should be grateful someone like him even wants me.”
Ann’s mouth was a hard, silent line.
“I told my father once,” Haru went on, eyes vacant. “He told me that I needed to toughen up. That a man like Sugimura was the future. That my feelings weren’t as important as his ambitions. He told me to stop complaining. That I had a duty.”
Ann’s fingers curled into fists.
“I hate it,” Haru whispered. “I hate it all. But there’s nothing I can do.”
“…Like hell there’s not,” Ann snapped, her voice fierce and bright. “You’re not some pawn. You’re Haru freaking Okumura. You’re smart, you’re strong, you’re kind—and if your dad and that scumbag fiancé don’t see that, they’re the ones who need their heads examined.”
Haru began to cry again—but this time, not in helplessness. In pain and rage.
Ann wiped her tears with surprising gentleness. Then she stood up.
“Get your shoes on.”
Haru blinked up at her. “W-what?”
Ann extended her hand, eyes blazing. “Come with me. We’re going to give your father a piece of your mind.”
“I… that won’t change anything—he doesn’t listen—”
“I don’t care if he doesn’t want to listen. We’ll make sure that he has no choice.” She offered a fierce smile. “Come on, Haru. You’re not alone anymore.”
Haru stared at her hand for a long beat… then took it.
As they walked out of the boutique, Ann pulled out her phone and, with one hand still entwined with Haru’s, fired off a quick message to the group chat.
Stage one complete
Yukiko’s Apartment - Living Room
The soft hush of lo-fi music played from Yukiko’s phone on the table, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner. Afternoon light filtered in through gauzy curtains, casting gold and silver streaks across the room.
Hifumi lay curled up on the couch, her head resting on Yukiko’s lap. Her heels had long since been removed, set neatly beside the coffee table. A throw blanket was draped gently over her shoulders. She looked peaceful now—softer, smaller, like a child finally allowed to sleep after days of fear. Her breathing was slow and even.
Yukiko stroked her hair gently with one hand, her other hand holding her phone low against her thigh, thumb flying over the screen as her heart raced with purpose.
SakuraVeil:
She needs this. She needs to feel like she’s doing something. Like she matters.
I’ll keep her safe. I promise.
The reply came quickly—Ren, practical and protective.
PolishedPuzzle:
It’s too dangerous.
We don’t know what’s waiting for us in there.
What if the Shadows are too strong for us?
Yukiko’s brow furrowed. Her fingers moved quickly again.
SakuraVeil:
But Akira didn’t hesitate to bring me in.
Back then, the team wasn’t nearly as strong as we are now. He had to look after all four of us at once.
There was a pause. Then:
Trickster:
That’s different, Yukiko. I had already scouted beforehand. I knew I could handle whatever Madarame’s Palace could throw at us.
There’s a couple of seconds of pause, then:
Trickster:
Look, I get what you’re saying, and I do believe in all of you.
But I’m not comfortable letting you bring a civilian into this without me there to protect you.
Yukiko let out a soft groan of frustration, barely above a whisper.
Hifumi stirred in her lap.
“Mmm… Yukiko?”
Yukiko leaned down slightly, whispering, “Shh… it’s alright. Go back to sleep. I’m right here.”
Hifumi relaxed, drifting back into the warmth and safety of the moment.
Yukiko turned back to her phone, her fingers trembling just a little.
SakuraVeil:
Please, Akira… she’s drowning.
I can’t watch her suffer more than she already is.
There has to be a way.
She watched the typing indicator blink in and out. And then… nothing.
Minutes passed. Long, heavy, suffocating minutes. Yukiko stared at her screen. She was just about to send another message when—
Trickster:
…Fine.
Just… give me 2 hours, ok?
Start the infiltration at 6, not 4.
Yukiko exhaled, relief washing over her like warm rain.
SakuraVeil:
Thank you.
I promise—I’ll keep her safe.
No reply followed, but none was needed. She could picture Akira now—already back at his whiteboard, juggling timelines and party comps, sacrificing his own peace of mind so the rest of them could move forward.
Yukiko whispered gently, almost to herself:
“Just hold on a little longer, Hifumi. We’re going to change everything.”
Okumura Foods Headquarters - Main Lobby
The gleaming glass walls of the Okumura Foods skyscraper were cold, clinical, and pristine—just like its owner. The lobby was filled with the quiet clicking of polished shoes and the muted hum of corporate efficiency.
Haru and Ann stood before a polished marble desk, facing down an equally polished secretary. The woman’s expression was calm, professional, and utterly immovable.
“I’m sorry, Miss Okumura,” she said for the third time. “Your father is currently in a board meeting. He cannot be disturbed.”
Haru glanced at the office corridor behind the desk, her jaw tightening. “I understand that, but this is important. If you could just—”
“I’m afraid not.”
Ann was less diplomatic. “You’ve got to be kidding me. She’s his daughter—what kind of company doesn’t let family speak to each other?!”
The secretary merely smiled that glassy smile again. “If you’d like to schedule a meeting through the appropriate channels—”
Haru’s fingers curled around the strap of her handbag. The same helplessness that had dogged her entire engagement was rising again in her chest. She hated this. The walls. The silence. The way everything was controlled by systems she never got to shape.
She glanced at her watch.
Haru glanced at her watch. 3:59 PM.
A buzz from her phone.
She lowered her gaze and flipped the screen up with a thumb. A message glowed softly on the lock screen:
From: Admin@PhanQuest
Lobby. Far left corner.
Her breath caught.
Right on time.
Right where she was told to be.
Was it a coincidence? No… she didn’t believe in those anymore.
She slid the phone back into her purse and turned her head. Across the polished floor, beyond a row of modern benches and potted plants, the far left corner of the lobby sat quietly in shadow—overlooked, nearly forgotten.
A decision crystallized in her chest. She was going to trust this person.
"Come, Ann-chan," Haru said quietly, her voice stronger than it had been in days. “Let’s go wait over there.”
Ann blinked, then gave the secretary a final, sugary smile and turned to follow.
“Sure, Haru. Whatever you say.”
As they walked away, Haru’s heels clicked gently on the tile, each step oddly reassuring.
She didn’t notice the grin that tugged at the corners of Ann’s mouth—or the quick flick of her thumb as she texted with barely a glance.
CherryBombshell
In position. Go for infiltration.
The transition was silent.
No burst of light. No swirling vortex. One moment Haru was walking beside Ann toward the far corner of the Okumura Foods lobby, her footsteps echoing in the vast marble space.
The next—
- The world around her warped—light fractured, sound folded in on itself, and gravity itself seemed to stutter. The sleek marble floor beneath her vanished, replaced by metal—cold, sterile, humming faintly with mechanical life.
She was no longer in the Okumura Foods headquarters.
She stood on a wide platform of sleek titanium, bathed in sterile white-blue lighting. The ceiling arched overhead in a glass dome, and beyond it… space. The Earth hovered behind her like a painted marble, suspended in velvet black.
Am I dreaming?
Am I dead?
What… is this?
Haru turned slowly, disoriented, clutching her handbag to her chest like a shield. Her breath fogged slightly in the chilled air of the corridor—artificial atmosphere? She didn’t know. She didn’t understand.
A low chuckle purred beside her.
She spun and nearly fell back in shock.
A woman lounged on a control console nearby, draped like a cat over the panel. She wore a blazing red leather catsuit, skin-tight and glossy, its plunging neckline and strategic cutouts leaving almost nothing to the imagination. A black and red whip coiled at her hip. Her mask, sleek and stylized like a feline’s face, framed a familiar smile beneath flowing blonde hair.
Haru’s jaw dropped. “A—Ann-chan?!”
The woman grinned. “Surprised?”
Haru could only gape. “Ann-chan!? How? What? Where—?”
Panther raised three gloved fingers with a wink.
“How?” She put one finger down. “Magic.”
Another finger folded.
“Where? To put it bluntly, we’re inside your father’s brain. Or, well, a cognitive palace version of it. Joker calls this one the Spaceport of Gluttony.”
Haru’s eyes darted around wildly. “This—this is his mind? This… space station…?”
Panther shrugged, then swung her legs off the console and stood gracefully. “Looks that way. Your dad sees himself as king of a futuristic corporate empire. Lots of robots. Explosions. Dramatic lighting.”
She took a step forward, her voice softening, sincere.
“Which brings us to ‘what.’” The last finger folded. “We’re here to change your father’s heart.”
She met Haru’s eyes.
“And to save you, Haru.”
Haru opened her mouth—but no sound came out. Her throat caught.
Ann stepped forward and gently took her hand, her leather gloves surprisingly warm. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to freak out for a sec. But don’t worry, the guy who runs this op? He’s a genius. You’re in very good hands.”
The faint hiss of a pneumatic door sliding open echoed behind them, followed by steady, deliberate footsteps.
A low, amused chuckle cut through the humming quiet. “You’re embarrassing me, Panther. I wouldn’t call me a genius by any stretch of the imagination.”
Panther grinned wide and turned, her whip flicking at her side. “Speak of the devil~”
Haru spun on her heel, breath catching in her throat. Three new figures emerged through the foggy corridor, each stranger—and more dazzling—than the last.
The first was a poised, sharp-eyed girl in a long duster coat and tailored gunslinger attire, black hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She had an old-west kind of poise and cold focus that made Haru instinctively straighten her posture. Two gleaming pistols were holstered on her hips, and she tipped her wide-brimmed hat in greeting.
The second danced lightly beside her, red hair bouncing in loose waves. Her street-dancer outfit shimmered with motion—high-waisted leggings, flowing sleeves, and a cropped hoodie that flared with each twist of her body. She twirled two glowing yo-yos, the light painting playful arcs in the air.
And the third… A figure draped in a black hooded jacket lined with red, a white Venetian mask concealing every feature of his face except for the storm-grey eyes that gleamed like silver lightning. Focused. Calm. Powerful.
Haru’s breath caught in her throat again.
Panther gestured grandly. “Haru, meet the team.”
She pointed to the gunslinger. “That’s Dead-Eye.”
The girl nodded coolly. “Pleasure.”
Panther gestured to the redhead. “The twirling menace is Aria.”
The dancer giggled and waved both yo-yos above her head like pompoms. “Hiya~!”
“And this…” Panther swung her arm toward the hooded figure and smirked. “...is Joker—our fearless, infuriatingly smart, impossible-to-kill leader.”
Joker stepped forward and gave a slow, graceful bow, the edge of his coat flaring like wings.
Haru blinked, mouth parting. “Is this… real? Like, really real? You’re really the Phantom Thieves?”
Joker nodded, straightening.
“We are,” he said calmly. “And you are Haru Okumura. Heir and daughter of Kunikazu Okumura. Engaged to Shohei Sugimura. You reached out to us through PhanQuest, requesting a Change of Heart... to escape a forced marriage.”
Haru stiffened instinctively, lowering her gaze, her hands folding in front of her. She gave a deep bow.
“I… Yes, that’s right. I know it’s selfish of me to—”
Smack.
Panther clapped her on the shoulder so hard Haru nearly jumped.
“Stop bowing, babe. Joker’s just being dramatic.”
She winked over her shoulder at their leader, who shrugged in mock innocence.
“We wouldn’t be here if we thought you were being selfish,” Panther continued. “You called for help. That’s not selfish. That’s brave.”
Dead-Eye nodded solemnly. “You did the right thing.”
Aria giggled and offered a little twirl. “Plus, this Palace is so extra. You gave us a cool mission and a cool location? Iconic.”
Haru looked from face to face, overwhelmed but… comforted. These people, despite their intimidating appearances and strange surroundings, didn’t just see her as an Okumura or a pawn in some corporate marriage.
They saw her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Joker turned, his voice level but kind. “Come on. Let’s show you what we’re dealing with. You deserve to see the truth with your own eyes.”
Panther grinned and threw an arm around Haru’s shoulder, steering her forward.
“Buckle up, Space Princess. Time to start your rebellion.”
The halls shimmered with sterile chrome and humming neon. Conveyor belts clicked beneath plexiglass floors, moving empty trays and grease-smeared packaging in endless loops. The walls pulsed with corporate slogans:
“Loyalty Is Efficiency.”
“Obedience Breeds Opportunity.”
“Your Sacrifice Feeds Progress.”
Fast food jingoism plastered over space-age architecture. Big Bang Burger branding twisted to match the station's sterile veneer—a smiling astronaut mascot offering burgers shaped like planets, held out on silver surgical trays.
Haru stepped forward, eyes wide with disbelief. Her shoes clacked against the synthetic flooring. The others gave her space, watching silently as the horror unfurled.
They passed row after row of shadowy figures slumped over counters, dressed in fast food uniforms and hooked into glowing terminals by cables that pulsed like veins. Their eyes were vacant. Their bodies twitched. Some of them murmured orders on loop—“Welcome to Big Bang Burger, would you like to supernova your combo today?”
Panther growled, “This is sick…”
Then Haru saw the first poster.
She stopped dead.
A giant holographic ad pulsed to life in front of them. It depicted a doll-like, vacant-eyed version of her in a wedding dress made of plastic and LEDs, holding a bouquet shaped like a rocket thruster. The ad looped again, this time overlaying the Haru hologram with an animation of a rocket launching, her smiling face plastered across its nosecone as it blasted off.
Haru staggered a step back, bile in her throat. “He… he sees me as a product.”
Aria growled. “Not even a person. Just… marketing material.”
Further along, a long hallway opened up into what should’ve been a docking bay—but instead, it resembled a giant kitchen-slash-factory line. Half-formed robots slumped over conveyor belts, their glowing eyes flickering weakly. The stench of burnt oil and synthetic beef was thicker here.
Dead-Eye narrowed her eyes. “Shadows.”
From a side corridor, a group of humanoid enemies stumbled out. Workers in scorched fast food uniforms, their faces obscured by iron burger helmets and their movements jerky, exhausted. They groaned more than they roared. “Intruders… unauthorized visitors… productivity risk…”
“Eyes up,” Joker warned.
But the fight was over in seconds.
Panther’s whip cracked once. Aria’s yo-yos flew in a blur of gold. A single shot from Dead-Eye dropped the second Shadow.
They dissolved into a puff of black mist and static.
Haru gaped. “They… didn’t even fight back…”
“They couldn’t,” Panther said grimly. “They’re done. Running on fumes.”
Joker crouched and inspected the residue left behind—empty wrappers, timecards, unpaid overtime reports.
“This whole Palace is built on their backs,” he muttered. “And it’s breaking them.”
They continued walking in silence—through neon-lit tunnels that echoed with automated voices chirping “Work harder, smile bigger, die quieter!” Every sign, every ad, every structure screamed one message: You are not a person. You are a product.
And Haru was the most valuable product of all.
She finally stopped in front of another grotesque poster—this one showed a silhouette of her and Sugimura standing atop a literal pyramid of workers, crushed and flattened beneath them. The tagline read: “MARRIAGE MERGER: PHASE TWO – DESTINATION DOMINANCE.”
Haru turned to Joker, hands shaking. “This is… real, isn’t it? This is what he truly believes.”
Joker met her gaze and nodded.
Haru took a shaky breath. Then steadied herself.
“I want to go deeper.”
Joker gave a slow nod. “Then stay close.”
Panther squeezed her hand. “You’ve already got more guts than most, Space Princess.”
They moved forward, leaving the billboards and the broken Shadows behind—descending into the beating mechanical heart of Okumura’s warped domain.
The deeper they went, the colder it got.
The lighting shifted from sterile white to industrial blue, flickering in and out, casting long shadows down the endless halls. Mechanical hissing echoed through ventilation shafts, and conveyor belts clunked with rhythmic finality as they carried broken fast food machines, shattered toys, and empty employee uniforms into incinerators.
"Performance Below Standard. Eliminated."
"Failure to Meet Sales Quota: Purged."
"Loyalty Is Not Enough. Results Are Everything."
Those were the signs now—slapped on blinking monitors above vats of sludge and cracked visors.
Dead-Eye turned away from a particularly grotesque scene: a group of shadows collapsed in a corner, their bodies thin and brittle, reaching out toward a vending machine labeled "Productivity Supplements - 150 Credits per Hour of Labor." They’d expired trying to afford water.
Panther kicked over a loading cart. “This is worse than I thought.”
Aria didn’t even smile anymore. Her yoyos spun silently around her fingers, clenched in quiet fury.
Every Shadow that attacked them—whether in groups or alone—went down with a whisper. Joker didn’t fight. Panther didn’t use fire. Even Aria and Dead-Eye held back, dispatching Shadows like they were ghosts, too exhausted to even be threats.
Haru had stopped speaking.
Each burst of violence—each twisted depiction of her father’s world—chipped another piece from her expression. Her lips were tight. Her eyes glimmered. But her hands were shaking now.
Joker noticed it first. “Haru,” he said gently. “You don’t have to keep going if it’s too much.”
“No,” she replied, voice like cracked glass. “I do have to keep going. I need to see this.”
“But why?” Panther asked, softening her voice.
“Because some part of me still believed he loved me,” Haru whispered. “Still thought I was being dramatic. I told myself it wasn’t so bad—that maybe Shohei would change, or maybe Papa just needed me to work harder to earn his respect…”
She trailed off. Her fists trembled at her sides.
“…but this… this is how he sees me. This is how he sees everyone.”
They rounded a corner.
And there she was again.
Another Haru—this one dressed in an oversized mascot head and nothing else, pushing a dessert cart topped with a wedding cake shaped like a rocket engine. The poster above her read: "Corporate Harmony Achieved Through Matrimonial Synergy!"
Haru made a sound like a strangled sob and turned away. Panther reached for her but hesitated—then pulled her into a tight hug.
“We’re gonna burn this place to the ground,” Panther growled. “I swear to you, we’ll tear it all down.”
They reached a towering set of bulkhead doors—an airlock with a glowing red scanner labeled:
“EXECUTIVE ACCESS REQUIRED”
Haru stepped up to it and placed her hand on the scanner.
The light turned yellow.
Then red.
“DENIED – INSUFFICIENT ASSET VALUE”
She flinched as if slapped.
“What the hell does that mean?” Aria asked, stepping forward. “She’s his daughter.”
Joker’s face darkened. “Not in this Palace. Here, she’s only as valuable as what she can do for him.”
“Which apparently isn’t even enough to open a damn door,” Dead-Eye added bitterly.
Haru’s hands curled into her sleeves. “So that’s it then. He built a world where I don’t even get to be me. Just his… investment.”
There was a long silence.
Then Aria spoke up, trying to lift the mood. “We can figure out another way. Maybe we trigger a security override or—”
Click.
Panther’s ears twitched. She held up a hand.
“...Footsteps,” she whispered.
Everyone snapped to attention. Joker raised his hand and gestured toward the nearest maintenance alcove.
“Quick. Hide.”
They vanished into the shadows just as the heavy footsteps grew louder—metal boots clanging against titanium floors, accompanied by a mechanical hiss like a vacuum seal.
The team crouched in silence. Haru’s breath hitched beside Panther.
The door hissed.
Someone—or something—was coming.
The hiss of decompressing air. The grinding of heavy gears.
The massive door groaned open, bathing the dark corridor in harsh white light.
Out stepped Shadow Kunikazu Okumura.
He was taller than the real one—at least ten feet tall, swaddled in an imperial version of a CEO's suit: gold-lined, reinforced with metal plating, glowing neon trim shaped like circuitry pulsing down the sleeves. His face was hidden behind a featureless chrome helmet that flickered with stock prices and graphs.
Behind him came Cognitive Sugimura.
His body was bloated and dripping with luxury: a grotesque parody of wealth. His red silk tuxedo glistened with gold embroidery, but it clung to him like wet tissue. His cheeks were puffed, greasy, his teeth too white and too sharp, and he wore a gold chain that read “PROPERTY OWNER.”
Trailing behind them—
—was Cognitive Haru.
She wore a wedding gown, but not a beautiful one—this was manufactured, sterile, with a high neck like a straitjacket. Her expression was blank. Her makeup was garish and caked on. A spiked collar hugged her neck, and Sugimura held the leash like a trophy.
He gave it a tug. “Move faster, you useless little doll. Or do I have to replace you already?”
Cognitive Haru didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.
Shadow Kunikazu’s voice echoed off the metal walls, bored and unbothered. “She lacks initiative. Always has. That’s why she needs a man like you, Shohei, to mold her into something useful. Efficient.”
Cognitive Sugimura barked a laugh. “Useful? You’re being generous, Okumura-san. I’ve had vending machines that moan more convincingly than your daughter.”
Cognitive Haru’s lips curled slightly. Into a smile.
A pre-programmed response.
Panther's fist clenched so hard her knuckles cracked.
Joker didn’t move. But Haru…
…Haru trembled.
Her legs moved on their own.
She stood.
And she stepped out of the shadows.
“Stop,” she said.
The Shadows all froze.
Shadow Kunikazu tilted his chrome head, as if calculating. “Haru?”
“Get your hands off of her,” she hissed, voice shaking.
Cognitive Sugimura grinned like a wolf. “Tch. Jealous? Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re next.”
“Haru,” Shadow Kunikazu said flatly. “You are wasting time. Your value lies not in opinion, but in obedience. The Sugimura arrangement will elevate us both. Your well-being is irrelevant. The marriage will happen.”
Panther growled, stepping out beside her. “You bastard—”
“Don't, Panther.” Joker’s voice stopped her—calm and cold.
But Sugimura wasn’t done.
He yanked the leash hard. “Face it, Princess. You’re not a person. You’re a transaction. A new factory. A brand expansion. You’re not even that pretty, but your name… That’s worth screwing.”
And that was the final straw.
Haru fell to her knees.
The words rang in her ears—warped, echoing, tangled together with real memories: the cold rejection of her father’s boardroom voice… Sugimura’s breath on her neck… Her mother’s grave, forgotten under a calendar of meetings.
You’re not even that pretty.
Irrelevant.
Obedience.
A transaction.
You’re not a person.
You’re not—
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her breath caught in her throat.
Everything was spiraling—
—until a hand settled on her shoulder.
She looked up.
Storm-grey eyes.
Joker knelt beside her, calm as still water, and locked eyes with her like he could see the real her—hidden under the pain, the grooming, the chains. And then he spoke. “You really gonna take that from those maggots…or are you gonna show them the true meaning of fear?”
Silence.
Then—something snapped.
The collar, not around her neck but around her heart, shattered.
A pulse of golden light burst outward.
And somewhere, deep in the spaceport, alarms blared as a massive energy spike surged through the Cognitive world.
Joker stood and took a step back, smiling faintly.
The space around Haru fractured.
A spiral of golden light erupted at her feet, forming a burning rose crest. The oxygen seemed to vanish—everything dimmed except that circle and the sound of her breath, shallow but steady.
She stood.
One foot after another. Head bowed. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
“My whole life… I did what I was told. I smiled. I nodded. I played the perfect daughter. The perfect heir. The perfect bride. And in return… I was treated like a product.”
Her voice cracked. Then sharpened. “But no more.”
A wind howled. Her hair whipped around her face as petals of blue fire spiraled upward, coalescing above her—
—into a woman in a war-torn ballgown, eyes like shattered mirrors, and a grin full of spiteful elegance.
Milady.
She hovered above the ground, poised like a performer awaiting her cue, her voice a haunting whisper that only Haru could hear.
“Ma chère enfant… so long you’ve danced on puppet strings. Shall we clip the hands that held them?”
Haru reached up.
Took Milady’s outstretched hand.
The contract formed—and the blast of energy that followed shook the entire corridor.
When the light faded…
…Haru stood anew.
She wore a form-fitting burgundy tunic with deep violet trim and flared sleeves. A corset of black leather with golden etchings wrapped around her waist, elegant and sharp as a sword’s scabbard.
A high-cut skirt flowed outward in asymmetrical layers, like rose petals dipped in dusk. Thigh-high stockings laced in crisscrossing ribbons and heeled boots completed the look
Instead of a mask over her eyes, she wore a lacework half-mask of dark silver over her lower face—like a masquerade phantom.
And in her hands—
—was a wrought-iron scythe, curved like the crescent moon, shimmering with a violet sheen. It was beautiful, deadly, and hers.
Haru stepped forward, calm as moonlight. The wind from the rift whipped around her new form, her expression unreadable. She leveled her scythe toward her father and fiancé.
Her voice cracked—then hardened. “You can’t buy my silence. You can’t leash my will. I am done being your stepping stone.”
Shadow Okumura’s visor flared red. “This is insubordination—treason!”
Sugimura hissed. “She belongs to me!”
Joker stepped up beside her. “Then you’re both overdue for liquidation.”
Noir raised her hand. “Milady—fire.”
The Persona twirled gracefully, her gown spinning as the six gun barrels beneath exploded with devastating bursts of flame and metal.
The corridor was choked with smoke and flame, the air trembling from the aftershocks of Milady’s barrage. Bits of shattered tile and melted signage rained from the ceiling. The once-vacant expression of the cognitive Haru was gone—her illusion torn to pieces and dissolved into data fragments by the hail of gunfire.
Beside her, Cognitive Sugimura slumped forward in mid-scream, his gaudy wedding tux scorched and torn, his smirking face reduced to molten static and his groin area completed blown apart. His leash fell limp from his hand as he disintegrated, vanishing with a pathetic hiss.
Haru panted, her fingers still trembling on the hilt of her new scythe.
But as the smoke parted—
Shadow Okumura was untouched. A translucent barrier shimmered around him like a corporate halo, and not even a smudge marred his suit. He regarded Haru with neither rage nor fear—just cold, calculated disappointment.
“Hmph. I suppose that was inevitable. Rebellion always makes for a good PR stunt. But you’ve mistaken melodrama for strength, Haru.”
His voice was calm. Condescending.
“You’ll never outrun your destiny. You’re not a leader. Not a fighter. You’re an asset—a tool. And like all tools, you’ll be put back in your drawer the moment you stop serving a purpose.”
Haru’s breath caught in her throat.
“Deep down, you know it too. That’s why you’re trembling. You can scream all you like, but it won’t change your value. You are—and always will be—insignificant.”
He turned smoothly, hands clasped behind his back, and walked toward the biometric door. With a chime and a scan, it hissed open. “Return when you’ve regained your composure, my heir. Perhaps then we can have a productive conversation.”
The door shut behind him with a final click.
“W-Wait—!” Haru took a step, but her knees buckled. Her scythe clattered to the floor as the weight of it all crashed down.
“I… I have to go after him—I can’t let him—”
Strong arms caught her mid-collapse—Panther and Aria, steadying her from either side.
“Hey. It’s okay. You did amazing,” Panther murmured, brushing soot and hair from her friend’s face.
“You’re not alone anymore,” Aria whispered, gripping her hand.
Dead-Eye scanned the sealed door with a frown. “That is one solid looking door. Don’t think we can bust through it.”
She looked to Joker. “We need to regroup.”
Haru looked like she wanted to protest—but the trembling in her legs, the tightness in her throat, the chaos still whirling inside her—said otherwise. “I… I’m sorry. I thought I could—”
“Don’t apologize,” Panther cut in, fierce and gentle. “You faced him. And that’s more than most ever manage.”
The group made their way slowly back through the ruined spaceport. The silence this time was heavier. Not from tension, but the lingering ache of things said that couldn’t be taken back.
At the Palace entrance, the real-world rift flickering in the air like a ripple of glass, Joker turned to the others. “Get her home. Get her food. Water. Sleep. She needs time to process this.”
Haru blinked up at him. “You’re not coming with us?”
Joker chuckled once, low and dry.
He glanced over his shoulder, his mask catching the artificial starlight. “You’re not the only one with an asshole parent, Princess.”
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Ren: PolishedPuzzle/ SinGlazed (Codename: Lotus)
Futaba: GlitchGoddess/ PixelPrincess (Codename: Oracle)
Kasumi: ScarletSway/ BendMeBaby (Codename: Aria)
Lavenza: VelvetWhisper/ ButterflyBliss
Chapter 20: Someone Save Me – Part 2
Summary:
Let's see what's happening with the other infiltration, shall we?
Also, Futaba really needs to learn about privacy, lol
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The air was humid, the summer sun dipping just low enough to cast golden shadows across the sidewalk. The chatter of nearby pedestrians was muted under the dull hum of Tokyo’s late-afternoon pulse.
Yukiko walked beside Hifumi, their pace slow and quiet. The game board clasped in Hifumi’s hands tapped softly against her thigh with each step. The pair hadn’t said much since leaving the station—but their silence was companionable.
Just as they passed an unassuming, concrete-walled building with tinted glass windows and security cameras at every corner, Hifumi came to a sudden halt.
“What’s the matter, Hifumi?” Yukiko asked, voice gentle.
Hifumi’s gaze was fixed on the structure.
“This place… Mother calls it her Temple.” Her knuckles whitened on the shogi case. “She says it’s where her true work is done. Not at tournaments. Not at home. Here.”
Before Yukiko could respond—
“KEYWORDS ACCEPTED. BEGINNING NAVIGATION.”
The synthetic voice echoed from Yukiko’s phone like a triggered security alarm.
Hifumi turned, startled. “Yukiko, what was—”
Then the ground tilted.
The air shimmered like a heatwave, warping the street signs and sky into a kaleidoscope of reds, golds, and deep purples. Hifumi clutched her head with a soft gasp, stumbling as her sense of balance fractured. When she opened her eyes again—
The world had changed.
Where the glass-and-steel building had once stood, there now rose a sprawling Heian-era temple complex. Towering torii gates of crimson lacquer glowed under an eternal sunset. Delicate sakura petals danced through incense-laced air, and soft bells chimed from unseen shrines. The scent of cedar, lotus, and ancient secrets hung heavy.
“What… Where are we?” she whispered.
A soft, knowing chuckle rang out behind her.
Hifumi whirled.
There stood a woman in sleek blue kunoichi garb, her black hair tied in a high ponytail that swayed behind her like a sash. A delicate porcelain fox mask concealed the upper half of her face, and sheathed katana rested at her hip. Despite the transformation, her voice was unmistakable.
“Told you you’d been heard, Hifumi.”
Hifumi blinked. “Yukiko…? Is that you? Why are you dressed like that? What’s happening?”
Before she could finish, the air shimmered again, and five more figures emerged like ghosts through the temple gates.
— A petite girl in a black leather catsuit, her wild dark hair and cat-shaped mask unmistakable.
— A tall blonde with a pirate's coat and a gem-encrusted skull mask, her hand resting casually on a well-worn cutlass.
— An orange-haired girl in a form-fitting cyberpunk bodysuit, glowing circuitry tracing her limbs beneath a sleek visor.
— A magical girl straight out of an anime, complete with sparkles, ruffled skirt, and a glittering staff.
— And finally, a short, sharp-eyed blonde girl in a velvet-blue tracksuit, a delicate butterfly mask covering her eyes.
The magical girl stepped forward first, smiling warmly. “Call her Vixen while we’re here.”
Her voice was bright, playful—but underlined with steel.
“And to answer your other question—” she extended her hand. “We’re the Phantom Thieves of Heart. And we’re here to help you take yours back.”
The newcomers had barely finished introducing themselves—Vent, Comet, Oracle—when the magical girl, Lotus, stepped forward to explain.
“So,” she began, voice calm but firm, “we’re in something called a Palace—a pocket cognitive dimension within a greater whole known as the Metaverse.”
She turned slightly, gesturing with her staff to the sprawling temple complex ahead.
“This place is the Temple of Envy, ruled by Mitsuyo Togo.”
Hifumi blinked. “By my mother? But that’s…”
“I know it seems impossible, Hifumi,” Vixen said gently, stepping up beside her. The porcelain fox mask couldn’t hide the warmth in her voice. “But I promise you it’s true. Madarame was the same—his Palace was called the Gallery of Vainglory. This…”
She gestured toward the torii gates and the ornate halls beyond them, incense smoke curling into the orange-tinged sky like grasping fingers. “This is how your mother truly sees the world.”
Hifumi turned, staring at the temple again. Her brows were furrowed in disbelief, but there was no denying the aching familiarity in the details—the pristine zen gardens, the polished stone paths, the air thick with the smell of cherry blossoms and performance.
“I… I need to see this for myself…” Her voice trembled. “I know my mother is… obsessed with image. That to her, women are meant to be ornamental. That our value lies in our appearance and our fame. But this…” She clenched her fists. “This is on a different level…”
A gust of wind stirred the air as the Thieves turned toward the velvet-blue-clad girl—Lavenza, her butterfly mask glinting.
“I will watch over her as you explore,” she said calmly. “I cannot interfere directly, but I can keep her safe from the cognitive world’s influence.”
Lotus gave her a grateful nod. “Thank you.”
She then turned to the others, her caramel curls catching the dim metaphysical light as she twirled her staff once and pointed toward the temple’s outer gates. “Let’s go.”
The Phantom Thieves advanced quietly through the outer grounds of the Temple of Envy, their footsteps muffled by fine gravel paths and the soft rustle of sakura petals drifting down from the endless cherry blossom canopy. At a glance, the landscape was tranquil—massive red torii gates rose from the earth like ancient guardians, framing winding paths that led deeper into the temple complex. Incense smoke wafted from ornate braziers carved with motifs of flowers and chess pieces, curling lazily in the warm air.
But as they moved, the wrongness of it all set in.
The torii were polished to a mirror sheen—overlaid with golden filigree and lines of corporate branding. The stone lanterns that dotted the path didn’t flicker with flame, but pulsed with a lurid neon pink glow that made the shadows dance unsettlingly. Even the monks, dressed in silken ceremonial robes, knelt before massive posters of Hifumi, hands pressed together—not in prayer, but in slavish praise.
Each poster showed a different version of her:
– Hifumi in a bridal kimono, holding a bottle of designer perfume.
– Hifumi in a gravure bikini, winking beside a chart of rising stock prices.
– Hifumi in full schoolgirl uniform, stylized and airbrushed into idol-like perfection.
At the foot of each shrine, instead of rice or fruit, there were offerings—meticulously arranged cosmetics, contract papers, even scalped hair extensions from rival shogi players.
Vent's eyes narrowed as she passed one such altar. “This is disgusting,” she muttered. “They’ve turned her into… a brand.”
Oracle stared, her visor glinting faintly. “It’s worse than branding. It’s like Mitsuyo is using Hifumi to live out her own fantasy of success and femininity—like she’s trying to build the perfect doll. Not a daughter. A tool.”
That struck Hifumi like a slap.
She’d remained near the back of the group, head bowed, face pale—but at those words, she flinched visibly. “A doll…” she whispered.
Oracle turned, reading her expression. “Sorry. That might’ve been harsh.”
“No.” Hifumi's voice trembled, but she straightened. “You’re right. That’s how it’s always felt. Every shogi tournament… every interview… every pair of heels she made me wear…” Her eyes flicked to one of the posters—her own smiling face, larger-than-life. “I used to think I was paranoid. But now…”
The weight of it settled on her shoulders. The temple wasn’t a distortion of her mother’s mind. It was a magnification of what had always been there. “She’s never seen me. Not really. Just… what I can do for her.”
Lotus placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Then it’s time she finally sees you.”
Behind them, the monks resumed their chanting, robotic and dreamlike: “Beauty is divinity. Obedience is virtue. The Daughter is the Path.”
The Thieves moved on, the smoke growing thicker, the path darker, and the temple's lies more twisted with each step.
The paper doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a long, hushed corridor bathed in low amber light. The floor gleamed like polished lacquer, its surface reflecting the distorted faces of the Phantom Thieves as they stepped inside. The scent of floral incense curled in the air—sweet, almost cloying—underneath which lurked something sharp and sterile.
Comet, Lotus, and Vixen took the lead, their weapons in hand, posture tense. Oracle hovered behind them, Necronomicon already whirring softly with scanning pulses. Vent flanked her, throwing disc gleaming under the lantern light. Bringing up the rear, Lavenza walked beside Hifumi, who stared at the walls in stunned silence.
The corridor was lined with shoji doors, their rice paper panels covered edge to edge with idol photos—all of Hifumi. In each one, she wore a different outfit: a tournament kimono, a gravure bikini, a stage gown, a high-fashion ensemble. All were signed in the same script: Togo Mitsuyo presents—Hifumi, the Venus.
Hifumi flinched. “She’s… keeping all of them,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “Every time she made me dress up. Every shoot. Every show. She’s memorialized them like trophies…”
Ahead, robotic geishas glided noiselessly across the floor in looping circuits. Their painted faces never blinked, fans fluttering soundlessly. As they passed the shoji doors, they paused at small wooden shrines tucked into the alcoves. From faceless visitors—vague outlines of women with blank, smudged faces—they collected offerings: cash, cosmetics, and gold-inlaid shogi trophies. The faceless figures bowed deeply as the geishas whispered mechanical mantras:
“Beauty is duty.”
“A daughter’s shine reflects the mother’s worth.”
“Imperfection is the enemy of love.”
“Obedience blooms into grace.”
Hifumi’s hands balled into fists at her sides.
But then the geishas stopped. All at once. Their fans snapped closed with sharp, metallic clicks as their heads turned in unison toward the group.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then came the grinding sound of plates shifting and silk tearing as the robotic geishas morphed—limbs elongating, faces splitting open like porcelain masks, revealing glowing eyes and too-wide mouths. Shadows erupted from the floor in their place—Lilims, Yakshinis, Queen Mabs, and towering Cybeles, their forms dressed in warped imitations of bridal and idol fashion.
“Contact incoming!” Oracle called out. “Mid-tier shadows, lots of support and charm effects!”
Lotus stepped forward first, drawing her bladed fan with a flourish. “Comet, Vent, Vixen—on me. Break their front line.”
With a war cry, Comet surged forward, cleaving through the nearest Lilim with her sword as Vixen ducked under her arm and flanked a Yakshini, her kunai finding a seam in its armor. Vent moved with precision, spinning past a Queen Mab and slicing through her veil and face in a single motion.
Above them, Necronomicon blinked with signal lines as Oracle cast Dekaja, stripping away the enemies' buffs. “Their charm field’s gone! Hit 'em hard!”
Lavenza remained behind with Hifumi, arms raised, a shimmering sapphire forcefield forming around them both. One of the Cybeles tried to breach it—but the barrier repelled her with a ripple of magical energy.
“Stay close to me, Hifumi,” Lavenza murmured gently, her voice clear and calm despite the chaos. “You’re safe now.”
Hifumi couldn’t respond. Her eyes were locked on the fighting. On the Shadows that wore the image of what her mother wanted her to be. On the girls who fought to keep those images from reaching her. On the fact that they were willing to bleed, just to protect her.
In less than a minute, it was over. The last Cybele detonated in a burst of light, collapsing into ink-black static. The hall grew quiet once more, the scent of burning perfume thick in the air.
Lavenza let the barrier fall and reached out, gently guiding Hifumi into her arms. “It’s all right now…” she whispered. “Nothing will happen to you. Not while we’re here.”
Hifumi collapsed into her arms, her whole body shaking, her voice a whisper that barely carried. “They were... using me. Worshipping me. But not for who I am… only for what I look like. What she made me be.”
The others slowly gathered around, exhaustion lining their shoulders, but their expressions were warm, protective. No one said a word at first. Until Comet quietly added, “Not anymore.”
Beyond the Hall of Offerings, the Phantom Thieves pushed open another pair of lacquered doors.
The space beyond was a jarring contrast—The Sacred Lounge.
Gone was the solemn shrine aesthetic. This room pulsed with a twisted opulence—deep crimson velvet cushions, gold-trimmed booths, shimmering curtains, and stage lighting that washed the room in rose and indigo.
Club music thumped beneath the echo of sutras, a disorienting beat that wormed its way into the back of the skull.
On a raised rotating stage at the center, holograms of Hifumi danced in time with the music—each one clad in short, silken robes and painfully high heels, their limbs bound with delicate-looking chains that clinked as they moved.
Some spun around ornate poles, others sprawled across the stage in elaborate floor dances, their movements seductive yet mechanical. The audience—rows of anthropomorphic Shadows dressed like leering businessmen, talent scouts with flashing cameras, and sleazy shogi superfans—watched in rapt attention.
From above, a warped, droning voice echoed over the speakers. Mitsuyo’s voice, smoothed and sharpened into an artificial deity’s blessing:
“Witness the divine grace of my creation.
See how she captivates.
Her beauty is her bond. Her sacrifice, her salvation.
I gave her purpose.”
“No…” Hifumi whispered.
She stood frozen, staring at the stage. Her face was pale, eyes wide, the images digging deep into scars long buried. “No, no, this isn’t—this isn’t me.”
Her breath quickened, her shoulders rising and falling too fast.
“She used to say… ‘Don’t speak so much. Smile more.’
‘We have to protect your purity, but show just enough skin to sell the fantasy.’
‘Keep your back straight. Men love a proper woman. Be the fantasy.’
That’s all she ever wanted me to be—a doll.”
Her voice cracked on the last word. Her knees wobbled, and she fell to them. “I knew. I always knew. But to see it…”
“Hifumi!” Lavenza was beside her in an instant, wrapping her arms around her and pulling her back just as the nearest Shadows began to stir.
The patrons on the couches turned slowly, their faces melting into grotesque smiles, sharp-toothed and masklike. Suits tore away as limbs elongated, cameras grew teeth, and fingers sharpened into claws.
“Don’t let her stop the show,” one hissed.
“She’s the star,” another gurgled.
And then the Shadows lunged.
“Back off!” Comet shouted, hurling herself forward, lightning flashing up her blade as she slammed it into a shadow’s face. “Nobody touches her!”
“Cover Hifumi and Lavenza!” Lotus barked. “The rest of you—light it up!”
She spun her staff, Freya and Maid Marian flaring behind her—one wreathed in shadowy, spiked chains, the other glowing in radiant golden light. A flurry of Bless and Curse skills shattered the frontline of Shadows, hurling them into booths and knocking tables into the air.
Vent stepped up beside her, a storm rising around her. With a wide sweep of her throwing disc, she sent a razor wind slicing through a group of fan-Shadows trying to circle around.
“I’m so done with this beauty-as-worth garbage,” she snarled, sending another gust of Garula slicing through the air.
Comet darted between couches, her cutlass sparking with Ziodyne as she cleaved through two businessman-shaped Shadows mid-transformation, snarling like a storm in a bottle. “You sick freaks want to watch someone dance? Watch me wreck you.”
Vixen glided across the lounge like a phantom, a chilling elegance to her every step. She whispered Freya’s name, and ice bloomed in jagged, crystalline bursts beneath her strikes. Her katana flashed blue in the low light, precise and unforgiving.
Above it all, Oracle hovered in Necronomicon, a flickering dome of data and hex runes spiraling around her.
“Defense boost—engage! Shadow targeting grid locked! Comet, three o’clock!” she called out, pointing. “Vixen—ice weakness, NOW!”
The team moved with practiced synergy, carving through the room with coordinated grace and righteous fury.
At the back, Lavenza knelt beside Hifumi, shielding her with her small frame. She whispered softly, her voice like a lullaby.
“You are not what she made you.
You are not what they see.
You are you.”
For a long moment, the only sound was Hifumi’s ragged breathing and the fury of the fight.
Just as the last Shadow fell, the music shifted.
The low bass faded into a haunting blend of koto strings and nightclub synths. The velvet curtains behind the rotating stage pulled back with a sultry hiss of silk.
A hush fell over the Sacred Lounge.
From the darkness emerged a figure that exuded equal parts reverence and dread—the ruler of the Temple of Envy.
High Hostess Togo.
She floated more than walked, clad in a lavish midnight-purple kimono threaded with gold kanji—each one spelling out words like virtue, obedience, grace, daughter. Her hair was styled in an elaborate oiran coiffure, dripping with hairpins, butterfly combs, and thin, beaded chains that glittered like starlight. She held a folded fan in one hand, a loop of crimson prayer beads in the other.
Her voice, when she spoke, was sweet as honey—and just as sticky. “Welcome home, little dove.”
At her side skittered a grotesque assistant: The Stylist of Strings, a twisted amalgam of talent manager and puppeteer. Her spidery arms emerged from the sleeves of a tight business yukata, and she controlled a half-dozen mannequin-Hifumis on shimmering thread—each one dressed in a different stage outfit, each moving with mechanical, unnatural grace.
Floating holograms blinked to life around the room.
Shogi tournament speeches. Idol interviews. Beauty commercials. Fabricated memories showing Hifumi bowing, smiling, winning.
“Do you not remember,” cooed High Hostess Togo, her fan hiding a sly smile, “who molded you into what you are today? Who taught you how to smile, walk, sit, win? You were nothing before me.”
She paced along the stage, each step a command. “I gave you poise. I gave you purpose. I gave you fame. Is that not love, my dear Hifumi?”
The Stylist chimed in, her voice like a blade of ice: “You must rehearse. You must obey. The audience is waiting!”
One of the mannequin-Hifumis was dragged forward by glowing threads. She stepped onto the stage. Bowed. Smiled.
A perfect, empty gesture.
“See?” Togo purred. “She looks happy, doesn’t she? Because she listens.”
Behind the Phantom Thieves, Hifumi’s breath hitched.
She was shaking. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open in horror.
Then—her fists clenched.
“I’m…” Her voice cracked. “I’m not…”
She took a shaky step forward. “I’m not your masterpiece. I’m not your puppet.”
Her gaze, clear and burning now, met her mother’s. “I’m your daughter—and you never let me be one.”
The stage flickered.
The mannequins spasmed.
High Hostess Togo’s head tilted—like a snake coiling to strike.
But then—Hifumi heard it.
A memory. A voice like warmth through prison bars.
Akira.
“Shackles, no matter how pretty, are still shackles. But sometimes, those same shackles can be the key to freedom.”
Something within her snapped. Hifumi stepped forward—no longer trembling.
Eyes bright with fire. “You don’t own me.”
High Hostess Togo’s expression twisted—not in sorrow, not in regret—but in cold, dismissive contempt.
“If you won’t obey,” she said, flicking her fan closed with a snap, “then you are worthless to me.”
Her voice oozed venom behind a smile. She didn’t spare her daughter another glance as she turned on lacquered heels and began to walk toward a shimmering doorway of silk veils and gold mist. “Be a dear and dispose of the filth,” she purred to her assistant.
The Stylist of Strings bowed low, spiderlike limbs spreading outward with a sinister elegance. “Yes, Mistress.”
With a flick of her wrist, she jerked the threads—and the mannequins began to march forward.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty. All of them Hifumi-shaped, their faces blank, their limbs moving in eerie unison. More dropped from hidden alcoves in the walls, clambering onto the stage like twisted dancers in a funeral procession.
Each one carried something—a trophy, a fan, a mask, a glittering tiara.
“Practice makes perfect,” the Stylist hissed, eyes glinting behind her mirrored spectacles. “Let’s rehearse your final act.”
Hifumi dropped to her knees.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her hands shaking against the polished floor.
The crushing weight of it all bore down on her—the hollow praise, the artificial love, the relentless control. The performance that had never ended.
But then—
A voice.
Low and warm. Feminine. Proud. Otherworldly.
“Why do you kneel, child of grace and flame?”
“Why do you bow when you were born to rise?”
The room around her seemed to still, just for a moment—though the Shadows continued to march.
The voice grew louder, richer, like a thunderstorm wrapped in silk.
“You are not her puppet. You are not her plaything.”
“You are a sword veiled in elegance. A flame cloaked in stillness.”
“Now rise, and call me by name.”
Hifumi’s eyes widened. Her heartbeat surged.
She reached up—
—and touched the strange dragon-scale mask now covering the left side of her face.
It pulsed against her skin. Alive. Ancient. Watching.
Her fingers curled.
Then with a cry born from every chained moment of her life, she ripped the mask off.
“YUENU!”
The world erupted.
A ring of celestial flames roared to life around her, forming a sigil in the air.
The Stylist stumbled back, shielding her face as the flaming circle ignited with light.
Above Hifumi, the space cracked—and descending from that fissure came a towering, serpentine figure: a glorious white-scaled dragon, with pearl horns, silk ribbons trailing like comet tails, and antique armor carved with eastern motifs.
She coiled in midair with the grace of a dancer, eyes glowing with quiet wrath and divine poise.
“I am Yuenu,” she intoned, voice like a war drum beneath temple bells. “Sword of the Immortal Queen. Guardian of the Righteous Daughter.”
“Your will unshackled me. Let me be your blade.”
As the light of Yuenu’s awakening dimmed, the smoke parted—
—and Hifumi stood transformed.
Her normal attire was gone, replaced by something both regal and lethal: a sleek, high-necked cheongsam-inspired bodysuit, molded to her frame like silk poured over steel. The fabric shimmered as she moved—black and deep violet, laced with silver embroidery that coiled like serpents across her arms, chest, and thighs.
The design split high at both sides, revealing bare legs that caught the flicker of stage lights. Her heels were weapons in their own right—jet-black stilettos with bladed soles and dagger-like tips, made for elegance and battle.
Dark mesh sleeves wrapped around her arms from shoulder to wrist, layered with delicate silver bangles that jingled softly with her every breath—like temple bells warning of divine wrath.
Her hair had been swept up into a coiled bun, held tight with ornate silver pins, though a few stubborn strands had come loose, curling around her cheek like stray wisps of smoke. The final touch: a dragon-scale mask, covering only the left side of her face—sharp, beautiful, and wild. One eye glinted through it with righteous fury.
She looked like a figure out of myth—a courtesan forged into a warrior, a daughter no longer content to play her mother’s puppet.
For a heartbeat, the room was silent.
Then Hifumi moved.
She became a blur—darting forward, her first step cracking the stage beneath her heel.
With a twist of her hips and a flash of motion, she unleashed a storm of kicks—elegant and brutal, each one a cutting arc of force.
The bladed heels sliced through mannequins, shattering porcelain masks and severing strings. Heads flew. Limbs snapped.
A spinning crescent kick decapitated three in one sweep, while a rising strike split another straight down the middle—glass shards and fake smiles clattering to the floor.
The remaining dolls hesitated, almost confused.
She landed in a low stance, one leg extended, bangles still jingling as she slowly rose.
Hifumi said nothing—her eyes were calm fire. Focused. Centered.
The girls behind her stared, awestruck.
“Damn,” Comet muttered. “She’s good.”
“She’s magnificent,” Vixen whispered.
Behind the protective shield, even Lavenza allowed herself a quiet smile.
And at the far end of the chamber, the Stylist of Strings hesitated for the first time—twitching fingers faltering, threads going slack—as the real Hifumi stepped forward, her silhouette framed in shattered stage lights and drifting embers.
The Stylist of Strings let out a strangled hiss, spiderlike limbs twitching in agitation.
“Defective doll! Broken script! You were made to follow—not to rebel!”
With a vicious twist of her wrists, she summoned a new tide of mannequins—ten, twenty, thirty—emerging from the shadows like a grotesque chorus line. Each wore a different imitation of Hifumi: her childhood kimono, her idol performance gowns, her school uniform, her gravure shoot outfit—every stage of her life used as a weapon against her.
The faceless dolls raised their arms in unison, eerie smiles painted across their blank features.
“Stay in your mold!”
“Obey the light!”
“A daughter’s glow is her mother’s pride!”
Their voices were warped echoes of Mitsuyo’s mantras.
But Hifumi didn’t flinch.
Instead, she stepped forward, arms loose at her sides, heels clicking like drumbeats of war. “You dressed me up in perfection and called it love,” she said, her voice steady now—cutting through the artificial noise like a shogi piece slamming onto a board. “But I’m not your trophy. Not your puppet. Not your second chance.”
She snapped her fingers, and Yuenu roared—a spiral of Bless and Fire energy raining down in twin halos upon the approaching mannequins, disintegrating the first wave into ash and starlight.
The other Phantom Thieves surged forward to join her.
Comet darted like lightning across the stage, a blur of light and fury. Her cutlass crackled with electric energy, every strike sending heads and limbs flying as she carved a path toward the Stylist.
Beside her, Vixen moved like a glacier wrapped in silk—cold, elegant, lethal. A single sweep of her katana froze a dozen mannequins in place before shattering them with a sharp flick of her wrist.
Vent was a whirlwind, her throwing disc bouncing between targets like a ricocheting storm, carving through torsos and legs with sharp whunks of impact.
Lotus stood at the center of it all, eyes narrowed and staff glowing with twin auras. Freya unleashed a column of purple-black ruin upon a cluster of mannequins, while Maid Marian summoned spears of searing light, pinning three more to the velvet floor.
Above them, Oracle called out buffs and warnings like a battlefield conductor.
“Vixen, three behind—freeze them!”
“Hifumi, now’s your window!”
And Hifumi—no longer a doll, no longer a pawn—danced like fire itself.
With every slash of her legs, her blade-heeled stilettos tore through plastic and wire. Her movements were precise, controlled—like a shogi master lining up her final move. Mannequins fell in pairs, trios, entire rows, as she unleashed a cascade of kicks, the steel glint of her shoes trailing fire in their wake.
The Stylist of Strings shrieked, lashing out with her segmented arms, trying to snare Hifumi again. “You were perfect! You were obedient!”
“And now I’m free,” Hifumi snarled.
The Stylist lunged. But she never reached her.
Comet and Vixen struck from opposite sides, blades slicing clean through all six of the Stylist’s mechanical limbs in a dazzling cross-slash.
Sparks exploded. The Stylist stumbled back, limbs clattering to the ground like broken marionette strings. “No—no—no—!” she wailed.
Hifumi closed the distance in a single, graceful step.
Without a word, she raised one leg high—the stiletto heel gleaming like a black diamond—and drove it into the Stylist’s eye.
Crunch.
Screech.
Silence.
The Stylist convulsed, twitching once… then collapsed, her body folding like a puppet with its strings cut.
Hifumi pulled her heel free with a slow, deliberate motion. Bits of circuitry and silk clung to the blade.
She looked down at the ruin of her tormentor… and then, with complete poise, wiped her shoe on the hem of the Stylist’s bloodstained kimono.
When she turned, the other Phantom Thieves were staring—not with judgment, but with a kind of stunned awe. Pride, yes. Admiration. But also the raw awareness that something formidable had just awakened in Hifumi.
She gave a tired shrug. “That… felt necessary.”
Then she took a step—then another—trying to return to them… but her knees buckled.
The rush of adrenaline, the strain of her Persona’s awakening, the emotional toll of everything—
“Hifumi!” Lotus and Vent moved as one.
But Hifumi was already on the ground, catching herself on her hands, gasping for breath, sweat slick on her brow.
Lavenza was the first to reach her, kneeling beside her with careful hands. “It’s alright,” she said softly. “You’re safe. You’ve done enough, Star.”
Hifumi was still catching her breath, knees trembling, when the slow sound of clapping echoed through the ruined Sacred Lounge.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
She froze. Her shoulders tensed, body instinctively coiling for another attack. But none came.
In fact, the other Phantom Thieves… looked relaxed. Even delighted.
She turned slowly, heart in her throat—
—and saw a tall figure in a long, dark hooded coat striding toward them. A bone-white Venetian mask covered his face, and his gloved hands rested easily in his pockets, the slow clapping fading as he drew closer.
Lavenza’s smile was serene. “You missed all the fun, Trickster.”
“Finally,” Vixen sighed, brushing back a lock of hair. “Took you long enough.”
“Where were you?” Comet called. “Did you see that last move?! I swear, Hifumi’s heels could cut through rebar.”
“He’s got timing, I’ll give him that,” Vent muttered, hands on hips.
The masked figure gave them a warm, if amused, smile. “You’ve all done well.” His voice was smooth, deep, and familiar. “I saw the last stretch. Clean, fast, brutal. Exactly what we needed.” He turned to Vixen. “You made the right call. She was ready.”
Hifumi blinked, confused. The team clearly knew this person intimately. She turned to Lavenza, who still stood at her side.
“Who is that?” she whispered.
Lavenza gave a low chuckle. “That, dear Star… is Joker. The leader of the Phantom Thieves.”
Hifumi’s eyes widened. She turned back, looking up as Joker now approached her directly.
He said nothing at first—just looked at her. She couldn’t read his face behind the mask, and yet… she felt it. His presence, his regard, carried a strange weight. Not pressure. Not judgment.
But gravity.
Finally, he spoke. Calm. Certain. “Looks like the Dragon Queen finally broke her shackles.”
Hifumi gasped. That name—
“…Akira-kun?” she whispered.
The masked figure chuckled—and with a burst of blue flame, his mask disintegrated in a flash of light.
There was that familiar mop of black hair. Those storm-grey eyes. That small, teasing smile.
Akira Amamiya.
Hifumi’s mouth opened, speechless. She looked at him, then at the others—and suddenly began seeing familiar faces as their masks burnt away.
“Futaba-chan? Morgane-chan? And… and…” Her eyes locked on the magical girl. “Ren Akechi-san?! WHAT?!”
Hifumi then turned to the one girl she didn’t recognize. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name…”
Comet laughed and offered a playful two-finger salute. “Ryuemi Sakamoto. Pleased to meet ya—again.”
Hifumi blinked, then bowed automatically. “Hifumi Togo… though I suppose you all already knew that.” She gave a small, wry smile.
She turned to Yukiko, who had returned to her side. “…I’m guessing Kasumi-chan is part of the team too?”
Yukiko nodded. “As is Ann. And her best friend, Shiho.”
Hifumi let out a soft, dazed chuckle. “I see…”
“Don’t worry,” Joker said, his mask reforming over his face with a pulse of blue. “We’ll explain everything once we’re back in the real world.”
He glanced toward the lounge’s entrance— “Let’s get out of here. You’ve more than earned the rest.”
Leblanc’s bell jingled as the Phantom Thieves stepped inside, the warm, comforting scent of curry and roasted coffee beans wrapping around them like a familiar hug. The glow of the shop’s low-hung lamps made the space feel safe—real. Solid. Far removed from the twisted halls of the Temple of Envy.
Seated around the largest table were Kasumi, Ann, Shiho, and Haru, already chatting and sipping on coffees and hot chocolates. They looked up the moment the group entered, and relief bloomed across their faces.
“Hifumi-chan!” Kasumi shot up, rushing forward to hug her friend, who tensed a bit at first—then melted into the embrace.
“You did it,” Ann added, grinning. “Welcome to the club.”
As the others welcomed Hifumi into the booth, Sojiro, who had been wiping down the counter, glanced up—and froze mid-swipe.
A moment later, he adjusted his glasses, squinting at the entire group of girls now happily clustered in his café.
“…Kid,” Sojiro muttered, before walking up and gently grabbing Akira’s arm, tugging him off to the side.
Once they were behind the counter, out of earshot, he leaned in and whispered: “What the hell’s going on? Why are you suddenly surrounded by a dozen beauties like this is some damn dating sim?”
Akira blinked, then gave a tired, almost sheepish shrug. “I go to school with most of them.”
Sojiro narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an explanation. That’s a footnote.”
“Ren’s my cousin Naoto’s partner on the police force,” Akira added offhandedly. “I helped Yukiko with her housing situation. The rest… sort of happened.”
He glanced over at the booth where the girls laughed and chatted animatedly. Hifumi had her arms around a warm drink, listening as Ryuemi gestured wildly about something—probably the fight.
Sojiro grunted. “Fine. I won’t press. Just…” He eyed the girls again. “That’s a lot of hearts to be carrying around, kid.”
Akira glanced at the table, where the girls were laughing, Hifumi finally starting to smile as Haru poured her tea.
“I don’t deserve to be around them,” Akira murmured. “But I promise I’ll be useful to them. However I can.”
Sojiro was quiet for a beat. Then he clapped a hand on Akira’s shoulder—firm, but not heavy.
“Akira… you don’t need to earn their friendship. Trust me, even an old geezer like me can see how much they care about you.” His voice softened. “They’ve already decided you’re worth it. You just have to catch up.”
Akira looked at him, startled—but said nothing. He turned instead to the counter, slipping on an apron. Sojiro gave him a small smile, then stepped back.
“Go on. Coffee and curry. House special. I’ll go say hi and leave you lot to it.”
Akira nodded. Without another word, he turned and made his way into the kitchen, already pulling ingredients from memory, body moving on autopilot. The hiss of the stovetop began to blend with the murmured voices of his team—his friends—behind him.
Sojiro, meanwhile, crossed the room to where Futaba was seated, resting a hand on her shoulder and giving a light squeeze. “You lot behave, alright? I’m trusting you to not burn my café down.”
Futaba winked. “No promises.”
As the chatter and laughter continued, Sojiro moved to the front door, opened it briefly, and looked out into the quiet Tokyo night.
Then, with a quiet grunt and a knowing smile, he flipped the sign to “Closed”, locking the door behind him.
“Damn kid,” he muttered under his breath as he walked off into the street, the smile still playing at his lips. “Don’t even realize you’re the glue holding them all together.”
Once the door had closed behind Sojiro, Akira got to work.
He moved through the café like a quiet storm—apron tied, sleeves rolled up, focused. Plates of steaming curry and rice appeared before each girl like magic, accompanied by thick-cut bread and generous mugs of coffee, topped with the barest swirl of cream.
“Enjoy,” he said simply, stepping back.
The others wasted no time digging in. After the day they’d had, curry and caffeine were as close to heaven as it got. Oracle was halfway through her plate in seconds. Ren carefully stirred sugar into her coffee. Yukiko eyed her rice mound like it owed her paint supplies.
But Akira didn’t sit.
Instead, he hovered.
He refilled mugs. Cleared empty glasses. Brought out more bread. Topped off Kasumi’s water and offered Haru an extra spoon. He fetched napkins. He added spice to Shiho’s plate. He moved like a shadowed caretaker, present but distant, his smile faint.
Until Ann set her spoon down with a soft clack.
She turned in the booth, eyes narrowed.
“Oh no you don’t,” she muttered. “C’mere, chef-boy.”
Akira blinked. “Huh?”
Before he could react, Ann grabbed his wrist and yanked—and the room laughed as Akira was pulled straight into the booth. Ann didn’t stop until he was seated… right beneath her, as she swung one leg over and plopped down onto his lap, facing sideways.
“Ann—!” he choked, flustered.
“You don’t need to keep waiting on us hand and foot, 'Kira,” she said sweetly, plucking up her spoon. “Time you let someone take care of you for a change.”
He opened his mouth to protest—but too late.
Ann scooped up a perfect spoonful of curry, blew on it gently… and fed it to him.
Akira hesitated. She held firm.
He blinked. Then leaned in—and took the bite.
“…Thank you,” he muttered, chewing. A light blush began to creep up his neck.
“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Kasumi said, practically glowing as she leaned over with her own spoon.
“One bite won’t kill you, Akira-kun,” Ryuemi added with a smile as she joined her.
Even Hifumi, who’d barely touched her plate at first, now offered a spoonful with uncharacteristic boldness. “You fed us. It’s only fair.”
Futaba cackled. “Say ‘ahh,’ Pretty Boy!”
Akira’s face went scarlet. He didn’t know where to look—every booth was filled with bright eyes and grinning faces.
“…You’re all monsters,” he mumbled around a mouthful of Haru’s curry.
Ren leaned across the table, caramel locks catching the light. “No. We’re your allies. Your friends.” She paused. “And you seem to have forgotten that.”
Even Lavenza sipped her tea and smirked. “Consider it recompense for your service.”
As Akira sat there—flushed, flustered, and surrounded by laughter—he felt something in his chest shift. Something warm. Something terrifyingly gentle.
And for the first time in what felt like forever…
He let himself enjoy it.
The warmth of curry and conversation slowly gave way to a calmer atmosphere as the evening settled over Leblanc. The plates had been cleared, the mugs rinsed, and now the Phantom Thieves were clustered around the low-lit café in looser formation—lounging on booths, leaning against counters, curled up on chairs.
At the center of it all sat Haru and Hifumi, still absorbing everything.
“So…” Haru said, stirring her now-cold coffee. “This Metaverse… it’s another reality built on cognition? Where people’s distorted desires become Palaces?”
“Pretty much,” Futaba nodded, her voice gentle. “It’s like if your heart had a funhouse mirror… and then that mirror got angry, built a temple, and hired demons as security.”
“Crude, but accurate,” Lotus added with a tired smile.
Hifumi spoke next, quietly. “And defeating a Palace ruler causes them to… confess?”
Akira nodded, arms folded. “They wake up. The distortion gets torn out of them. It doesn’t fix everything, but it gives them a chance to see the truth.”
Haru’s fingers tightened slightly around her mug.
“And my father… has one of these?”
“Yes,” Joker said gravely. “A fortress. Built of control, deception, and corporate greed.”
Haru nodded slowly, then straightened. “Then I want in.”
The others blinked.
“Um—no pressure!” Futaba added quickly.
But Haru’s eyes were calm, resolute. “If there’s even a chance to change him… I have to try.”
Hifumi looked down, then at Akira. “I… feel the same. I saw what my mother’s Palace looked like. And I can’t ignore that anymore. I want to help stop her. I want to fight.”
“Well then,” Ryuemi said, leaning back with a grin. “You’ll need codenames.”
“Ooh, right!” Kasumi chimed. “Everyone’s gotta have a code name in the Metaverse. Can’t go around shouting ‘Hifumi!’ mid-battle.”
“…Then I suppose,” Haru murmured thoughtfully, “I’ll be Noir.”
The name felt right. It suited her.
Then all eyes turned to Hifumi.
She held their gaze a moment longer before speaking, calm but unwavering.
“Kirin,” she said. “A creature of myth. Elegant. Strategic. Revered… but feared when angered.” She tilted her head slightly. “And with very sharp heels.”
The room chuckled gently, the tension breaking.
Akira nodded. “Noir. Kirin. Welcome to the Phantom Thieves.”
He looked between them. “I’ll figure out a schedule by tomorrow. We’ll hit both Palaces. But for now… we all need rest. Especially you two.”
There was a beat of silence, then nods of agreement.
One by one, the girls gathered their things. Ryuemi bumped fists with Akira on the way out. Futaba ruffled his hair and called him “Coffee Daddy Jr.” Morgane, ever composed, gave him a small nod before slipping out.
Ann hugged him from behind, whispering, “Proud of you,” before disappearing into the night with Shiho.
Even Lavenza paused before the door and said, softly, “You carry their hopes well, Trickster. Don’t forget your own.”
The hiss of water echoed softly against the tiled walls, steam curling lazily through the small bathroom of Akira's apartment. He stood beneath the spray, head bowed, hands braced against the cool wall, as the hot water coursed over his back, washing away the sweat, grime, and psychic residue of another long day in the Metaverse.
But his mind refused to rest.
"The Temple of Envy..." he murmured under his breath, voice low and thoughtful. It was compact, at least in comparison to the sprawling Palaces they’d faced before. But that wasn’t comforting—it was unknown. And in Akira’s experience, the unknown was far more dangerous than the expected.
"It didn’t exist in the previous timeline. She didn’t become a Ruler back then."
The change still sat uneasy with him. This wasn’t a ripple. This was a fracture. Mitsuyo’s corruption had grown enough to form a Palace—a whole realm of distorted cognition. That meant her reach, her damage, her control… had changed. Had spread.
"I’m going to need Futaba on that," he said aloud. "Mapping the layout. Scanning for hidden distortions. I’ll pair Hifumi with Yukiko for now, should make it easier for her. I’ll go with them for the next dive. Hopefully that will make things a bit quicker."
He paused, inhaling steam.
"Okumura, though..." His voice soured. "That one’s going to be a crawl." The Spaceport of Gluttony had been labyrinthine the last time—glitchy, mechanical, deliberately frustrating. Corpo-bots flooding the halls. That damn puzzle in the airlock. He gritted his teeth slightly. "Day One just to get the key. Day Two for that bloody pathfinding puzzle..." He leaned his head back under the water. "I’ll pair Haru with Ann. Morgane and Ryuemi work surprisingly well together, and Shiho’s shooting will make things a lot quicker, given how many fliers there are in that Spaceport. That means Ren, Kasumi and Lavenza can float between teams as needed."
The stream of thoughts continued, battle formations clicking into place in his mind, movement patterns, support dynamics—
Then a sharp jolt. A shiver. The water had gone cold.
Akira blinked and looked up, snapping out of his planning trance.
He turned the shower off and stepped out into the small changing area, grabbing the towel and running it through his messy black hair. Droplets traced silver lines down the length of his lean body. He was vaguely aware of the cool air pressing in now that the heat was gone, but his thoughts hadn’t slowed.
Naked and distracted, he wandered into the apartment’s dim front room, towel slung around his shoulders, hair damp and clinging to his neck.
He dropped the towel with a careless flick of his wrist, stretching his arms above his head. A few quiet cracks echoed from his joints. He exhaled slowly.
Unaware that several hidden cameras were capturing him from every angle in high definition.
Group Chat: Thirsty Thieves 🔥🖤👑
Participants: BimboBerry , BangBangBaby, PlunderBae, SiroccoFée, SinGlazed, BlossomUndone, PixelPrincess, BendMeBaby, Haru, Hifumi
Hifumi has changed her name to QueenOfHeels
Haru has changed her name to BrewedObedience
BimboBerry:
Okay, so... Haru, Hifumi — welcome to our little corner of chaos 😘
This chat is sacred. We talk Akira. We flirt. We support. We thirst. Sometimes all at once.
BangBangBaby:
It started as our safe space after you-know-who.
But it’s kind of evolved into our mutual admiration circle. For Akira and each other.
PlunderBae:
It's where I go to scream about how he fidgets with his pen or his phone. Or how his voice drops when he's giving orders 😩
SinGlazed:
It’s also where we all realized we might be falling for the same boy
…and maybe not minding as much as we thought we would 😶
BrewedObedience:
Heh… you’re all very open about your affections.
May I ask something personal? Don’t any of you… feel jealous? Or territorial?
SiroccoFée:
Ordinarily, I’d claw someone’s eyes out for even glancing at someone I liked.
But with the girls here? I don’t feel that way.
I trust them.
…Maybe fighting through cognitive hellscapes bonds you tighter than friendship bracelets ever could.
PlunderBae:
That and we all know Akira’s kind of messed up in the heart department 😔
Like… he gives so much, but he doesn't expect love back. So when he does take affection, he gets all 🫢
BendMeBaby:
He’s touch-starved, emotionally constipated, and devastatingly kind.
He needs all the love.
And honestly, I’m okay sharing him if it means he finally feels wanted.
QueenOfHeels
…May I ask something too?
What if Akira chooses only one of us? What happens then?
BangBangBaby:
You said us...
If that happens, I think we’d all be happy for the lucky girl.
And we’d take care of everyone else.
That’s the kind of sisterhood we’ve built here.
...You agree, right?
A soft pause in the chat. Then—
QueenOfHeels
I… yes. I do.
BrewedObedience:
This is all so new to me.
I haven’t known him long… but he’s already had such an impact.
And when I imagine being with him now… I also imagine all of you there too.
Isn’t that strange?
SinGlazed:
Not strange at all. Beautiful, actually.
BimboBerry:
A little messy. A little magical.
Just like us.
BlossomUndone:
Haru, Hifumi... welcome to the coven.
PixelPrincess:
🚨🚨🚨SPY CAM DROP INCOMING🚨🚨🚨
Behold… the rawest form of our fearless leader 😏📸🔥
[📷: IMG_7776.jpg]
[📷: IMG_7777.jpg]
[📷: IMG_7778.jpg]
BangBangBaby:
what did you do
PixelPrincess:
what i always do
gather intel
BimboBerry:
WAIT
WAIT WHAT
fumbles phone
I NEED A COLD SHOWER IMMEDIATELY
BlossomUndone:
holy shit is this—
OH MY GOD
QueenOfHeels:
...
...he was just walking around like that??
PlunderBae:
that man was out there committing public indecency in his own apartment
bless him 🙏
BendMeBaby:
blushing furiously
i… i shouldn’t look.
i—
downloads anyway
SinGlazed:
futaba.
we need to talk about boundaries.
SiroccoFée:
yes.
this is a VIOLATION
of his very beautiful, very toned privacy
...do you have one from the side?
PixelPrincess:
lolol
front, side, overhead and mirror angles 💅
i’m nothing if not thorough
BimboBerry:
CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE SIZE THOUGH
that is not a joker
that’s a king
BrewedObedience:
I… oh my.
So that’s what was under all that mystery and stoicism.
...Impressive.
Architecturally.
QueenOfHeels:
I understand now why the rest of you are so…
intensely devoted.
BlossomUndone:
i'm going to have this printed on an art canvas
and tell people it's “study of divine masculinity” 💋
BrewedObedience:
This has certainly been a most illuminating welcome to the group chat.
PixelPrincess:
My tech is wasted on justice.
I could be running a billion-yen fanservice empire.
BimboBerry:
Ok but let’s just appreciate the size of the—
you know what no, I’m saying it
THE BOY IS PACKED. THERE. I SAID IT. 😤
BangBangBaby:
ANN.
BimboBerry:
WHAT WE’RE ALL THINKING IT
Kasumi’s blushing so hard she’s gonna pass out 😂
BendMeBaby:
🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵
i-i-i-i can’t—
(he’s so pretty everywhere) 😳
PlunderBae:
I see why we call him Joker now
man's out here playing with loaded dice 😏🎲
BimboBerry:
okay but seriously
HOW does someone look that good soaking wet??
he had water trickling down his chest like a shampoo commercial 😩
if i licked his collarbone i’d probably reach enlightenment
BlossomUndone:
softly i want to trace the veins on his arms with my tongue.
for art. for symmetry.
PlunderBae:
let’s be real: we all wanna pin him down and ride that man into next semester.
BendMeBaby:
Ryuemi!!!
(…but also yes.)
QueenOfHeels:
His thighs, though. So strong.
I want him to wrap them around my head while—
…ahem.
Never mind.
BrewedObedience:
No, please, don’t stop there, Fumi-chan.
We’re all thinking it.
I bet he smells like spice and smoke and warm cedarwood…
And I’d absolutely let him mess up my lipstick.
PixelPrincess:
girl.
same.
and i don’t even wear lipstick.
BangBangBaby:
you know what’s also criminal?
that smile.
the little smirk when he knows he’s won.
god help me, i’d do anything to earn that smirk aimed at me.
SinGlazed:
you ever notice the way his hands move?
he’s so precise.
when he brews coffee, or fights, or brushes hair from his eyes.
i want those hands everywhere.
SiroccoFée:
also. his voice.
low. velvety. always a little teasing.
like he knows what it’s doing to you.
i would let him read me bedtime stories just to fall apart at the vowels.
PixelPrincess:
Daaaamn. We’ve fully lost the plot, huh?
BimboBerry:
no, we just went from admiring the menu to designing a whole damn buffet 😌
Lavenza:
...May I offer an observation?
I have watched many ages turn and many souls burn with desire.
But this—this chaotic, worshipful, sensual coven—
is truly a phenomenon of its own.
BlossomUndone:
Lavenza-chan, welcome to the thirst pit.
Lavenza:
I find myself intrigued.
Tell me—if he is your star… are you not also stars unto one another?
QueenOfHeels:
...what do you mean?
Lavenza:
You speak of his beauty. But I see it reflected in each of you.
Futaba’s wit. Morgane’s fire. Shiho’s resilience.
Kasumi’s grace. Ann’s boldness. Haru’s poise.
Ryuemi’s spirit. Yukiko’s allure. Ren’s steel and velvet soul.
Hifumi… the dragon within you is radiant.
PixelPrincess:
…okay damn. that was poetry.
BangBangBaby:
you’re not wrong though.
i do think every single one of you is hot as hell.
BimboBerry:
Wait. Are we turning the thirst back around on us now?
because i’m here for it 😏
SinGlazed:
i have definitely thought about kissing every single person in this chat.
several times.
for scientific purposes.
PlunderBae:
same
except mine weren't for science.
mine were for chaos and lipstick smudges
BlossomUndone:
I've imagined cuddling with each of you at least once.
Possibly twice.
Possibly more than cuddling.
BendMeBaby:
I, um… may have dreamed about it.
You were all very… warm.
And soft.
And possibly there was whipped cream??
BlossomUndone:
yes
yes to everything
yes to you all
QueenOfHeels:
This is becoming… dangerously tempting.
PlunderBae:
danger is kinda our thing, no?🫡
BrewedObedience:
This is oddly affirming. I… wouldn’t mind being with you girls. You're all so strong, and beautiful, and—
BlossomUndone:
And sexy. Don’t forget sexy. 😌
Lavenza:
I am not immune to this, either. Akira’s aura affects me in ways I do not fully understand… but yours do too. You all glow in his presence… and in each other’s.
BendMeBaby:
Wait, Lavenza, are you saying—?
Lavenza:
Only that I feel like my place is also with all of you.
PixelPrincess:
😳
SiroccoFée:
Clears throat
Okay, okay. Everyone, chill.
If we keep going, we’ll all need cold showers like Akira.
PixelPrincess:
aaaaaaand that’s our cue. Sleep now. Flirt later. Schedule meetings with our collective therapist in the morning.
BangBangBaby:
Too late, you’re all already my therapy.
QueenOfHeels:
…This is madness.
SinGlazed:
No.
This is family.
Shujin University – Psychology Lecture Hall
Akira slumped a little in his seat, elbow on the desk, cheek resting against his knuckles. Professor Kawakami’s voice floated across the hall—measured and precise—but his mind kept drifting, not to the lesson, but to the odd behavior of several of his teammates since morning.
Ann, Shiho, and Ryuemi had practically been vibrating with energy when he caught up with them on the way in. Their giggles had sounded far too knowing. Ann had even winked at him.
Then there was Kasumi—he’d bumped into her just outside the gym, still toweling off her hair from practice. She had flushed violently red, muttered something that might have been “good morning,” and power-walked away as if the hallway had caught fire.
Morgane had delivered the biggest surprise. Normally guarded in public, she’d hugged him—hugged him—right there in front of the vending machines and two overly curious first-years. No explanation, just a tight squeeze and a muttered “you’ll understand later.”
And then there was Haru. Sweet, composed Haru. She’d barely said a word, but the way her eyes lingered on him… There was an intensity there that hadn’t been present yesterday. When he glanced over his shoulder now, she quickly looked down at her notes—but not before he caught the soft curve of a smile on her lips.
Sitting a few seats to her right, Makoto was acting odd in her own way. Not glaring at him. Not furrowing her brows in disapproval. Instead, she seemed distracted—brows knit, pen tapping slowly against her notebook. Focused, yes, but not on him. Which was… unusual.
"She looks like she's got a lot on her mind," Akira thought, studying her a moment longer. "I'd try to talk to her, but that would probably just earn me more aggro."
With a small sigh, he finally turned his attention back to the front of the class, where Professor Kawakami was discussing the subtle mechanisms of complicity.
“Often, abuse thrives not because people approve of it,” she was saying, gesturing with a remote, “but because they believe it doesn’t involve them. The farther removed someone feels from the harm being done, the easier it is to rationalize doing nothing. That detachment—from responsibility, from empathy—is a critical piece of the psychological puzzle when analyzing systems of abuse.”
Akira’s jaw tightened slightly. Her words were uncomfortably familiar. Not just for what they meant academically—but because they touched the very heart of what the Phantom Thieves had taken up arms against.
Shujin University – Lunch Break
The usual table had never felt quite so crowded—not with bodies, but with tension. Not the sharp, dangerous kind, but something warmer… buzzing. Flirtation hung in the air like heat on sunlit stone. Ann sat sprawled across one side of the bench, one leg crossed over the other, her boot brushing lightly against Ryuemi’s calf under the table. She didn’t even pretend it was accidental. Her eyes were half-lidded, chin resting on her palm as she watched Ryuemi talk to Kasumi, lips curled in an amused, appreciative smirk.
Ryuemi wasn’t hiding it either—her return brush under the table was deliberate, matched by the way she casually leaned into Shiho’s side, shoulder to shoulder. “You always smell amazing, y’know that?” she murmured to Shiho, as if commenting on the weather.
On the other side of the table, Kasumi nearly dropped her chopsticks.
“I-I, um… is it always going to be like this?” she asked no one in particular, voice a notch higher than usual.
Morgane finally glanced up, eyes half-lidded, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Define ‘this’.”
Kasumi flushed harder. “I mean, the flirting. With… everyone. Each other.”
Ann leaned forward, chin in her hand, her voice dropping to something silkier. “It’s probably not always going to be like this. But maybe… it should be.” Her gaze drifted to Kasumi’s lips and lingered just long enough to make the gymnast squeak and duck her head.
“It’s the chat from last night,” Shiho said quietly, though her fingers were lazily tracing invisible lines on Morgane’s stockinged thigh beneath the table. Morgane didn’t flinch. Didn’t push her away. She simply tilted her leg a little more toward her.
“Something shifted,” Shiho continued. “It’s like… I trust you all more now. Like it’s safe to want you. To want this.”
Haru, seated beside Kasumi, stirred her tea gently. “I think I understand,” she said. “I’m… still catching up, though. You all have such an easy way with each other.”
Ann smiled warmly at her. “That’s okay. No one’s rushing you, Haru. We’ve all had our own journeys.”
“Besides,” Ryuemi added, winking. “Some of us like the slow burn. Makes the payoff way sweeter.”
Kasumi let out a strangled noise and buried her face in her bento.
Shiho grinned at her. “You’re adorable, you know that?”
Kasumi didn’t look up, but her ears turned red.
“Honestly,” Morgane murmured, finally setting her phone down, “this shouldn’t be working.”
The others blinked at her.
“This whole… whatever it is,” she continued, her gaze circling the table. “But somehow, it is. It’s messy. But it feels real.”
There was a moment of quiet, filled only by the soft hum of the cafeteria around them and the tension running under the table like a live wire.
Then Ann broke the silence with a sultry lilt: “So, does this mean we can all just start dating each other and Akira?”
Shiho laughed. “Was that not already the plan?”
“Let’s wait till he gets here to propose a shared custody schedule,” Ryuemi joked.
Kasumi peeked up from her bento, wide-eyed. “W-we’re proposing?”
Everyone burst out laughing, even Morgane—just a soft, melodic exhale. Haru smiled too, and that small spark behind her eyes glimmered a little brighter.
The moment broke when one of them spotted Akira approaching from across the courtyard, all black hoodie and calm focus.
“He’s here,” Shiho murmured, but none of them shifted. They simply watched him draw closer—like gravity moving toward its sun.
Ann leaned back, licking a bit of cream from her spoon. “Let’s see if he notices anything.”
Kasumi muttered, “He won’t. He’s too busy thinking three steps ahead in a Palace.”
“Then we’ll just have to be louder,” Ryuemi smirked.
They all grinned in unison.
The courtyard was loud with chatter, laughter, footsteps—too many moving pieces. But Akira barely heard any of it. His footsteps were steady, hands tucked in his coat pockets, but his mind was miles away.
Two Palaces. Two targets.
Timeframe tight on one. Pressure high on the other.
He adjusted the plan again in his head—subtle shuffles of who to take where, how to rotate the squad for minimal fatigue and maximum coverage. And then there was Mementos. They’d left too many requests unchecked lately. Not dangerous ones yet, but still... people crying out. Desperation had a habit of festering if ignored.
Akira’s jaw tightened. He hated letting people fall through the cracks.
He let out a breath through his nose, tried to find his rhythm again. Too many threads, not enough time.
And then there was her.
Makoto Niijima.
He glanced toward the main lecture hall where he’d seen her earlier—face drawn, distracted. Not glaring, for once. Not throwing walls up like usual. But still… distant. Guarded.
He didn’t like it.
She should’ve been part of this by now. Every time he saw her shut down like that—hypervigilant, so alone it almost physically hurt to look at her—he felt that now-familiar tug. The gut-level certainty that she belonged on this team. That she was already fighting shadows of her own.
But how the hell do I get through to her?
He’d tried being polite. Being direct. Nothing stuck. Not yet. She was all spine and steel, and she was going to shatter if she kept holding everything in.
Akira exhaled slowly. One problem at a time.
He could hear the girls before he saw them—soft laughter, low voices. His pace slowed slightly.
He didn’t notice the way their legs brushed. The way Shiho’s fingers lingered on Morgane’s arm, or the look Ann was giving Ryuemi over her drink. All he saw was his team. Relaxed. Bonding. Smiling.
And that, at least, made something in his chest ease.
He was about to step forward—ready to update them on his rough outline of the next infiltration—when something flickered across his mind. A brief image: Makoto. Sitting alone at her desk. Staring at nothing. Hands clenched under the table.
He hesitated.
Then, sighing through his nose, he pressed forward and greeted the group with a calm, “Hope you saved me a seat.”
The chatter at the table hadn’t quite died down when Akira approached, but it shifted, subtly — glances traded, thighs unpressed, hands withdrawn. A few tried to play it cool, but Kasumi turned an alarming shade of red the moment he drew near, and Ryuemi nearly choked on her drink when she spotted him.
He didn’t notice. Or if he did, he said nothing. Just dropped his bag beside the bench, sank down into the seat opposite them, and leaned forward on his elbows. His brows were furrowed, jaw tight, clearly somewhere else entirely.
The girls quieted, one by one. Even Morgane straightened slightly, sensing the change.
Akira didn’t speak right away. His eyes flicked across the table—taking them all in, grateful for their presence, but not quite ready to ask what he needed to ask.
Then he exhaled sharply and turned to Ryuemi. “I need your help.”
The smile on her lips faded. She blinked. “Anything. What’s wrong?”
Akira’s gaze dropped for a second. Then rose again, steady but soft.
“It’s Makoto,” he said quietly. “Someone needs to reach out to her.”
The reaction was immediate.
Ryuemi sat up straighter, her brow furrowed in disbelief. “Wait—what?”
Shiho’s mouth parted, stunned. Ann leaned back, arms folding defensively. Haru looked down at her tray, unsure whether she was meant to weigh in. Kasumi made a quiet, startled noise, but didn’t speak.
“She—what? Akira, you’re joking, right?” Ann asked, not even trying to hide the edge in her voice. “After everything?”
“She helped cover for Kamoshida,” Shiho added, her voice sharp with memory. “She knew.”
“I know.” Akira’s hand came up, palm open in a quiet plea. “I know what she did. I haven’t forgotten. I’m not asking you to forget either.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. It left it even more disheveled, if possible — wild black strands falling into storm-grey eyes, heavy with thought.
“I can’t explain it,” he said. “But I see her. The way she walks. The way she never really talks to anyone. It’s like she’s underwater all the time. No friends. No allies. Just pressure. Expectations. Isolation.”
He looked at Ryuemi again, his voice softer now.
“I know she was cruel. I know she stood by and let people suffer. But... I can see she’s suffering now too.”
There was a long pause. Nobody spoke.
Akira leaned in slightly. His next words were barely above a whisper.
“No one gets left behind. Right?”
Ryuemi stared at him, her jaw tight. Her fingers flexed on the edge of the table. She wanted to argue. To say no. To remind him of the wounds they still carried. But she didn’t.
Shiho let out a long breath. Kasumi, beside her, placed a hand lightly on her arm.
Ann’s brows were still drawn, but the fire in her eyes had dimmed. “You really believe she can be... better?”
Akira looked down at his hands, then up again. “I believe everyone deserves the chance to try.”
Ryuemi stared at him a moment longer, then sighed and leaned back in her seat. She muttered, “Damn it, ‘Kira… you’re the worst.”
But she smiled. Just a little. And nodded.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Ren: PolishedPuzzle/ SinGlazed (Codename: Lotus)
Futaba: GlitchGoddess/ PixelPrincess (Codename: Oracle)
Kasumi: ScarletSway/ BendMeBaby (Codename: Aria)
Lavenza: VelvetWhisper/ ButterflyBliss
Haru: ???/ BrewedObedience (Codename: Noir)
Hifumi: ???/ QueenOfHeels (Codename: Kirin)
Chapter 21: Double Assault
Summary:
A quick mementos run to get the new girls ready turns into an impomptu PT fashion show
The PTs reach the Treasure Rooms of both Palaces - and learn some truths along the way
The girls bond during a slumber party
Notes:
🎉 Upcoming 10,000 Hits Celebration: Ask Akira & the Girls Anything! 🎉
To celebrate hitting 10k (once we actually get there), I’ll be throwing a special in-character AMA featuring Akira and the girls! This is your chance to dig into their heads, get the scoop on their secrets, and hear their thoughts straight from them. Got burning questions for Akira? Curious about what’s going on behind the scenes with the girls? Wondering how they really feel about each other (or you)? Now’s the time to ask!
Drop your questions for Akira and any of the girls either here or on the Discord (Just mark them AMA and say who the question is for). No topic is off limits — from battle tactics and hidden fears to funny moments and future plans.09/07/2025 - AMA will be posted on Monday 14/07, so if you still want to submit questions, you can do so up until Sunday 13/07 either here or on Discord.
Chapter Text
The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, mingling with faint traces of curry and old books. Ren sat cross-legged on the couch, her notes and tablet open in front of her, lips pursed in thought. Akira stood near the window, one arm resting on the sill, watching the slow drift of students heading home below.
“I’m convinced Okumura is part of the Society,” Ren said, tapping her stylus against the corner of her tablet. “I overheard Shohei arguing with the one we call The Businessman — something about how ‘your father doesn’t think your treatment of my daughter, your fiancée, in public is good for any of our images.’ Shohei was pretty dismissive of that, but still...”
Akira’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I suspected as much,” he said, turning back toward her. “Do you think we’ll run into him in the Spaceport?”
Ren shook her head immediately. “Doubt it. Shohei doesn’t do grunt work or protection detail. That’s more Monkshood’s department. RP’s too.” Her tone darkened slightly. “And Lily.”
She shuddered at the name. Reflexive. Visceral. Even her fingers trembled slightly where they gripped her stylus.
“She’s vicious, ‘Kira,” Ren murmured, almost to herself. “She takes her time. And her Persona…”
Ren wrapped her arms around herself, gaze distant.
“Medusa. Specialises in Curse and Ailments. She doesn’t just fight — she lingers.”
Akira opened his mouth to ask more, concern flickering in his eyes—then the door opened without ceremony.
“Yo!” Ann called, stepping in with a small wave.
Shiho followed close behind, with Morgane right on her heels, the latter tugging off her gloves. A beat later, Ryuemi stepped in, her hoodie slung over one shoulder — and with a theatrical groan, Futaba peeked her head over Ryuemi’s shoulder, limbs draped lazily like a backpack.
“Delivery acquired,” Ryuemi deadpanned. “Handle with care.”
“Who’s scary?” Shiho asked as she kicked off her shoes.
Ren straightened quickly. “Akira was telling me about Haru’s awakening,” she said smoothly. “I just said that must’ve been scary.”
Shiho gave her a look — skeptical but not quite accusatory. She didn’t press, but her eyes lingered a beat too long on Ren before she took a seat beside Ann.
“Right,” Futaba mumbled from Ryuemi’s back. “We talking logistics yet or still catching up?”
Akira stood. “We’ll get into it once everyone’s here. We’ve got a lot to plan.”
The knock at the door was soft, but deliberate. Akira turned just as Kasumi stepped inside, her cheeks pink from the walk over, gym bag slung over her shoulder.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Had to finish cooldowns.”
“You’re just in time,” Akira said with a nod, handing her a bottle of barley tea from the fridge.
Moments later, the door opened again — this time with Haru peeking in hesitantly, then smiling warmly as she entered.
“Good evening,” she said, her voice light. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“You’re expected,” Morgane said from her spot on the floor, legs folded beneath her. “Come on in.”
The last to arrive were Yukiko and Hifumi, the former carrying a small tin of manju. She offered it with a shy smile, which Akira accepted with a soft "thanks." Hifumi bowed politely, her eyes sweeping the room before she gravitated toward an open seat near Kasumi.
Akira welcomed them all in and passed out drinks — barley tea, peach soda, or water — and a few bowls of light snacks: rice crackers, senbei, and some matcha Pocky Futaba had snuck into his grocery basket earlier that week.
Once everyone had settled — either on the couch, the floor cushions, or perched along the windowsill — Akira set his own drink down and stood, hands slipping into his pockets.
“Alright. Let’s get down to it.”
The room quieted.
“The plan is simple. We head into Mementos tonight — handle as many requests as we can. It’ll help us clear the backlog and get Haru and Hifumi some real combat experience.”
Haru nodded once, serious. Hifumi simply adjusted the ribbon in her hair.
“Tomorrow, we split into two teams. We’ll do recon on both Palaces — the Temple of Envy and the Spaceport of Gluttony. Cover as much ground as possible.”
“And the day after that?” Shiho asked.
“Rest day,” Akira said. “Non-negotiable.”
There was a ripple of relieved nods across the group.
“We’ll rotate team members depending on what each Palace needs,” he continued. “Ren will lead one squad. I’ll take the other.”
Ren raised a brow. “You’re trusting me with leadership?”
“You’ve got the instincts for it,” Akira said simply. “And you know how to handle pressure. That’s all I need.”
She looked away with a faint, touched smile.
“Hifumi, you’re paired with Yukiko for now. Haru, you’re with Ann. Futaba, Ryuemi, Shiho, Kasumi — you’re all on rotation depending on how things shake out.”
Futaba gave a lazy thumbs-up from where she was curled in her usual sprawl across the beanbag chair.
“Questions?” Akira asked.
There was a beat of silence — not from confusion, but from focus. The kind of silence that meant everyone was already running through the possibilities in their heads.
Then Ann raised her hand, elbow propped on the table, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Yeah, just one question,” she said, drawing everyone’s attention. “Are you finally going to teach us how to change our Metaverse outfits?”
A few of the others chuckled — Futaba let out a snort, and Ryuemi raised her eyebrows as if to say valid question.
Akira blinked, caught slightly off guard. “That’s your priority right now?”
Ann grinned. “I’m just saying, some of us would like a wardrobe refresh. The leather is great, but it squeaks.”
Shiho leaned forward, pretending to whisper behind her hand. “She just wants to match Akira.”
Ann elbowed her, but didn’t deny it.
Akira sighed, but the corner of his mouth curved in amusement. “I’ll… see what I can do.”
“Victory,” Futaba muttered, raising a fist.
The stale, recycled air of Mementos curled in lazy spirals along the red and black tracks. The group stood in their usual rally point just outside the platform entrance, the dim lights flickering overhead. A distant rumble suggested the Velvet Express was approaching… but it always took its sweet time.
Joker stood at the front of the group, arms crossed. But he wasn’t in his usual getup — no black hoodie or stark white mask. Instead, he wore a sleek, red and black bodysuit reinforced with armor plating, his arms exposed to reveal black escrima gauntlets. The Nightwing-inspired outfit fit him like a second skin, the sharp silhouette radiating confidence.
Oracle let out a low whistle. “Okay, first off — damn.”
“Right?” Panther added, fanning herself.
Joker cleared his throat. “So… the idea is to picture yourself in the outfit — really picture it. How it feels on your body, how it moves, how it flows.”
He closed his eyes, and with a soft whoosh, a curtain of blue flame swirled around him. When it cleared, he now wore the unmistakable crimson coat and high collar of Auron from Final Fantasy X, his eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses. His right arm was tucked into the sleeve of his coat, and he gave them a slow, casual tilt of his head.
Oracle practically exploded. “YES. YES. 10/10. Legendary grumpy mentor energy achieved!”
Another flash of blue flame.
Now Joker was decked out in the sleek black tuxedo and tophat, cape fluttering lightly despite the stagnant air. A white mask covered the upper half of his face, and a single red rose rested between his gloved fingers. Tuxedo Mask had entered the chat.
“Oh my god,” Noir squeaked, looking like she might combust on the spot.
Vixen had to grab Aria’s shoulder for support. “He’s so not allowed to walk around looking like that.”
With a faint smirk, Joker bowed with a flourish… then let the fire swirl around him again. It cleared to reveal his usual Phantom Thief attire — black hoodie, black boots, sleek combat trousers, and the bone-white Venetian mask.
“It’s important that you really see yourself in that outfit,” he said, casually adjusting one glove. “Feel it like it’s already part of you. Your confidence fills in the rest.”
He looked at them all. “Now, you give it a try.”
The girls exchanged glances.
“Oh this is gonna be fun,” Comet murmured, already rolling her shoulders.
“Dibs on going next,” said Oracle, grinning.
Oracle was already bouncing in place, hands clasped excitedly. “Okay okay okay — I’ve trained for this moment. I’ve studied the outfit… and the belts. So many belts.”
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath… and woosh — a column of sapphire flame whooshed up around her.
When it cleared, the change was jaw-dropping.
Her Phantom Thief attire was gone, replaced by the striking silhouette of Lulu from Final Fantasy X. Black corset, layered belts cascading down her legs, and deep violet eyeshadow that made her orange hair pop. Even her expression had shifted — smug, regal, a little dangerous.
“Guys,” Panther whispered, “she’s scary hot.”
“I know,” Oracle purred, looking down at herself in glee. “I feel expensive.”
Aria took a deep breath next, clearly nervous — but there was a spark of excitement in her eyes too. “Alright. Focus. Feel it.”
The fire rose around her in a flash — elegant, graceful.
When it cleared, Aria now stood in a perfectly recreated Yor Forger assassin outfit: the black lace-trimmed dress, gold tiara, matching gauntlets, and short heels. A pair of slender black stiletto knives were strapped at her thighs. She looked shy… but powerful.
“Oh hell yes,” Dead-Eye whispered.
“I’m so keeping that look in my mental gallery,” Comet added with a low whistle.
Aria flushed bright red, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “T-thank you. It’s… a little more revealing than I’m used to…”
“You look amazing, Aria,” Kirin said, honest and steady. “Ten out of ten assassin mom.”
“Alright, alright, my turn,” Vent said, rolling her shoulders. “Can’t let the nerds outshine me.”
Blue flame curled around her — elegant, practiced — and when it vanished…
“…You changed your colours,” Oracle blinked.
Vent looked down. Her usual Phantom Thief outfit was exactly the same… except now it was in bold Toronto Maple Leafs blue and white.
There was a beat of silence.
“I meant to do that,” she muttered defensively.
“Dork,” Comet snorted.
“I like it,” said Vixen, stifling a laugh. “You look… very patriotic.”
Panther stepped up next, grinning confidently. “Okay, I’ve definitely imagined myself in Ren’s outfit. This should be a piece of cake.”
The flames rose… then sputtered slightly.
And when they cleared…
“Oh no,” Lotus gasped.
Panther was standing in a partial version of her magical girl outfit — only the skirt was far shorter than it should be, and the top hadn't… fully materialized. The gloves and boots were there, the ribbons were flaring dramatically, but the overall effect was more pin-up cosplay blooper reel than elegant heroine.
Panther immediately yelped, crossing her arms over her chest. “WHY DIDN’T IT FORM PROPERLY?!”
Comet was wheezing with laughter. “Lotus, how do you fight in this thing?!”
“I have more layers than that!” Lotus exclaimed, blushing bright red.
Oracle nearly collapsed, clutching her sides. “I can’t breathe—someone get a screenshot—”
Aria had turned around politely, face redder than a strawberry.
“I hate this place,” Panther muttered, blue flames flaring as she angrily reset back to her original outfit.
Joker finally chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, alright — I think that’s enough Metaverse fashion show for today.”
The Velvet Express finally rumbled into view, its headlights gleaming through the shadows.
“Time to work,” he added. “Let’s see what you all can do in the field.”
The Velvet Express screeched to a halt, its doors hissing open to reveal a wide, crimson-lit corridor lined with pulsing Shadows.
Noir stepped out first, her boots clicking lightly against the cold stone floor. Her grip tightened around the haft of her ornate scythe, the metal glinting ominously beneath the flickering lights. She took a deep breath, then gave Joker a nod.
"Let’s see what Milady and I can do."
With a cry, a pack of Raja Naga slithered forward, hissing as their spears gleamed.
Noir stepped in without hesitation.
Her scythe spun — once, twice — and sliced through the front ranks with brutal elegance, sending Shadows splintering into motes of black static. One lunged at her from behind — but Milady emerged with a sweep of her fan, unleashing a flurry of bullets that burst against the Shadows with surgical precision.
“Elegant Carnage!” Noir called, leaping into the air and bringing her scythe down in a wide arc that shattered the remaining enemies.
Behind her, Kirin darted forward like a thunderbolt — all flowing motion and silent menace.
Her cheongsam flared with each step as she slammed her heel into a charging Cerberus, sending it crashing backward. Another shadow lunged, only for her to spin low and sweep its legs out with a whiplike crescent kick.
“Yuenu!” she called, and her Persona surged forth with blazing eyes and silken ribbons trailing behind her.
With a flick of Kirin’s wrist, Yuenu summoned twin elemental blasts — Agilao and Garula — that tore through the second wave in a tempest of fire and wind. The Shadows scattered like dry leaves.
“She’s really fast,” Vent murmured, watching as Kirin vaulted off the wall and landed cleanly beside Vixen.
"Almost as fast as you," Vixen replied, already launching a burst of Bufula past Kirin’s shoulder to strike a flanking enemy. Without a word, Kirin adjusted her angle and finished the straggler with a spinning axe kick to the jaw.
On the other flank, Noir had drawn back beside Panther and Aria.
“Little help, ladies?” Noir asked sweetly, pointing to a trio of Barongs closing in.
Panther grinned. “Oh, I got this one.”
As Carmen emerged in a burst of flame, Aria flipped forward, yo-yos flashing. The three of them launched into a perfectly timed combo — Noir’s Milady pelting them with gunfire, Panther’s fire bursting along the ground, and Aria’s Terpiscore cleaving straight through the middle.
Joker, standing just behind the frontlines, watched all of it unfold with narrowed eyes — not out of concern, but calculation. His arms were crossed, and even though his tonfas remained sheathed, his presence grounded the whole team like a center of gravity.
When a particularly large Hell Rider emerged from the shadows, flaming wheels spinning with menace, he finally moved. “Leave this one to me.”
He dashed forward, ducking the swinging chains, and in a blur of motion, he unleashed Arsène — one quick Eigaon, followed by a brutal Phantom’s Requiem that left the enemy staggering. One final smash from his tonfas ended it with a thud.
Silence fell for a moment as the motes of broken Shadows faded into the darkness.
Then Comet let out a low whistle. “Well damn. Our new girls are killing it.”
“They’re naturals,” Lotus agreed, wiping her staff clean.
Oracle’s voice crackled in over the comms. “I’m tracking the next cluster of requests one floor down — should be the last ones in this sector?”
Joker nodded, glancing to Noir and Kirin. Both were breathing hard, but smiling — eyes gleaming with adrenaline.
“They’re ready.”
The Exploitive Parents – Cam Show Ringleaders
A distorted suburban house loomed before them, walls covered in smeared makeup and broken dolls. Inside, a throne of cheap luxury — and a Shadow couple laughing, surrounded by golden phones.
“You don’t understand,” the mother sneered. “She’s the one who wanted attention. We just… helped.”
Aria’s yoyo flared to life. “You sold your daughter’s dignity!”
The fight broke instantly. Aria somersaulted in, yoyo lashing at the father’s shadow like a whip. Vixen conjured a flurry of ice shards, freezing his movements mid-swing. Meanwhile, Dead-Eye ducked beneath a flying attack, her dual pistols barking rhythmically as she chipped away at their defences.
Comet, trembling with righteous fury, launched a Zionga blast that sent the mother shadow crashing into a broken vanity.
“Show’s over,” Joker said coldly, unleashing a barrage of tonfa strikes to finish it.
The Office Snake – Reputation Ruiner
A twisted boardroom floated in space, with walls made of whispering mouths. The shadow wore a suit sewn from rumors, his tie slithering like a snake.
“They deserved it! I was just speaking truth! They were all fake! I was honest!”
Noir's scythe cleaved through one whispering wall, silencing it. “You destroyed lives with your gossip.”
The shadow conjured illusions, doppelgängers of the Thieves meant to confuse them. Vent blinked at her mirror-image, then smirked. “Suis plus belle.” She hurled her disk like a boomerang, shattering her clone.
Oracle coordinated the strikes from above. “Vixen, hit the one flanking Dead-Eye! Vent, three o’clock—perfect!”
Panther dived in, her whip snapping around the enemy’s legs. “You want honesty? Here’s the truth — you’re a coward.”
Lotus and Kirin finished it — Lotus casting Eigaon from Freya, and Kirin following up with a high-heel roundhouse to the jaw, shattering the shadow's mask.
The Burglar Ringleader
They entered what looked like a looted convenience store, shelves toppled and cash scattered like confetti. The shadow wore a biker jacket stitched with fear.
“You try feeding six mouths with nothing but government scraps!”
“But you targeted the helpless,” Joker said, stepping forward. “You took from people who were in the same boat as you.”
The battle exploded outward — Panther and Lotus led with fire and precision, twin flames in motion. Comet slid under a collapsing shelf, her cutlass glowing with Zio magic as she slashed the shadow into the air.
Kirin vaulted off a counter, slamming her heel into his back midair. “Checkmate.”
Aria snagged the shadow mid-fall with her yoyo, yanking him down as Dead-Eye shot the last remaining enforcer in the leg. The battlefield went still.
“Six mouths don’t justify stealing from dozens,” Noir said.
The Influencer Grifter
A throne built from broken phones towered over a ruined livestream stage. The shadow — gaudy, golden, grotesque — waved to invisible fans. “I gave them hope in return! I was their dream!”
“You sold snake oil and fake miracles,” Vixen snapped, stepping forward. “You lied to people who needed help.”
The battlefield shimmered with holographic filters and fake donations. Vent and Vixen moved in tandem — ice and wind freezing the floating UI elements and crashing them to the floor.
Oracle cackled. “Let’s get real.” With a surge of code, she stripped away the glittering illusions, revealing a fragile, shriveled form beneath.
Panther leapt onto the stage. “You gave them nothing.” Her whip snapped. “And now? You’ll face the truth.”
She didn’t need to finish it — Lotus conjured Maid Marian, who summoned piercing light arrows that shattered every fake "like" and "share."
The Dog Abuser
A twisted dog park drenched in shadow mist, with howls echoing in the distance. The shadow crouched low, barking orders at a cringing animal-shaped shadow.
“I gave my brother that mutt! I can do what I want!”
“No,” Dead-Eye said, her voice trembling with rage. “You don’t get to break what others love.”
The team moved fast. Dead-Eye’s twin guns laid down suppressive fire while Vixen froze the enemy’s limbs. Vent and Aria tag-teamed their strikes, cutting off escape.
Joker stood over the dog-shadow, gently offering a hand. “We’re not like him. Come with us.”
Yuenu appeared in a flash of golden scales, wrapping around the abuser and tightening — making him feel the pain he had caused others.
“He won’t touch you again,” Noir said softly, as the enemy finally broke down.
The Corrupt Club Owner
A neon-lit cabaret twisted into a maze of mirrors and shattered dreams. The shadow, rotund and greasy, lounged across a bar made of empty tip jars.
“I built this place! They owe me!”
“You took their labor. You stole their pride,” Comet growled. “You’ll answer for it.”
The fight was chaotic and fast. Kirin and Noir cleared the entrance, carving a path. Dead-Eye dashed from side to side, blasting the shadow with her twin pistols to keep him off-balance.
Panther and Lotus danced around his attacks, their magic forcing him into a dazed frenzy. Aria flipped off a broken barstool and sent her yoyo spinning into the Shadow’s eye.
Oracle’s tactical map lit up. “NOW!”
Vixen froze the floor, Vent slid in and ricocheted her disk to give Joker the step he needed to jump higher, and Arsene’s final claw swipe cleaved through the last of the Shadow’s health. The club collapsed in on itself, tip jars raining down like shattered promises.
Silence returned to Mementos. The soft hum of the Velvet Express echoed in the distance. One by one, the Thieves stood — bruised, breathing hard, but triumphant.
Joker looked over them all — at the way Haru and Hifumi were already in sync with the others, the way the team moved together like cogs in a larger, righteous machine.
He nodded, satisfied. “Let’s head back. We’ve got Palaces to raid tomorrow.”
The familiar rhythm of the Velvet Express soothed the Thieves as they slumped into plush seats. Outside the train windows, the shadows of Mementos blurred into blues and blacks, almost peaceful now as the Thieves headed back to the surface.
Joker stood at the head of the carriage, arms crossed as he scanned the group.
“You did good today,” he said simply, but his voice carried weight. “All of you.”
The tired silence shifted — warm smiles, shared nods, the unspoken bond of comrades who had faced something dark and come out stronger.
Joker gestured toward Noir and Kirin, both seated opposite one another. “And you two — I just want to say… I’m glad you’re with us. You fit right in.”
Noir gave a modest smile, brushing hair behind her ear. “I was worried I’d feel like a guest… but I don’t. Not anymore.”
Kirin gave a formal nod, but there was a subtle flicker of warmth in her eyes. “Thank you. I’ve never fought like this before… but I’ve never felt more free.”
Joker gave a small, approving nod before turning toward the front of the vehicle where Lavenza sat behind the controls, watching quietly with that timeless gaze of hers.
He barely made it two steps when a bright flash of blue lit up the cabin.
“I knew I could do it!” came Panther’s triumphant cry.
Joker spun around—only to stare, speechless.
Standing in the center of the lounge was Panther, not in her usual red latex catsuit — but in what could only be described as a sultry, extra-glam version of Lotus’s magical girl ensemble.
Her skirt was shorter, pleats flaring just above mid-thigh. The bodice was tighter, shaped to tease with every breath. High, shimmering red-pink heels lifted her posture, and long fingerless gloves matched the rest of the motif. A delicate golden circlet with trailing rose-vine detail shimmered on her brow, just like Ren’s… only with a tiny heart charm at the center.
Panther twirled, giggling. “Well? What do you think?” She looked directly at Joker.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Aria choked on her water. Lotus actually shrieked. Comet was wheezing with laughter. Vent muttered something about “copycat princesses.” Even Kirin cracked a smirk.
Before Joker could even form a response, another pulse of blue light engulfed Panther — and she flickered back into her usual red suit with a soft pop.
She stomped a heel, arms crossed, lips curled into a pout. “Damn, thought I’d be able to hold that for longer.”
Joker tilted his head, recovering, a slow smirk forming as he walked back toward her.
“You’ll get there,” he said with that quiet confidence of his. “You just need to practice more.”
Panther huffed again, but there was a proud sparkle in her eyes. “Still… I’m getting closer. Felt kinda awesome, y’know?”
Across the cabin, Aria and Vent were furiously whispering — “Did you see the heels—?!” “—she had the hair ribbons too!” — while Oracle clutched her phone, whispering, “Please tell me I got that on video…”
Lotus, still cross-legged on a table and unfazed, just smirked. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
Panther flicked a teasing glance at her. “Oh please, you wish you looked this good in pink.”
The cabin erupted in laughter, and even Joker couldn’t help but grin.
For a moment, everything was peaceful — no targets, no shadows, no looming deadlines. Just friends, the thrum of the Velvet Express beneath them, and the quiet certainty that whatever came next… they’d be ready for it.
Next Day – Akira’s Apartment, After Classes
The afternoon sun dipped low beyond the windows of Akira’s apartment, casting amber hues over the simple living room. He looked around at the circle of familiar faces. The tension was there — subtle, unspoken — but so was something stronger. Readiness. Trust. Unity.
“We split today,” Akira began, hands tucked in his coat pockets. “Two Palaces, two teams. You already know the layouts, the hazards, the likely locations of the Treasure rooms. This time, we explore as much as we can. Secure a route if possible. But no unnecessary risks. Clear?”
The team nodded. No objections. He gestured to the left. “Team One — the Temple of Envy. Ren leads, with Futaba, Hifumi, Yukiko, and Ryuemi.”
Ren, seated on the armrest of Akira’s worn couch, raised a hand slightly.
“Lavenza will accompany you — she won’t fight, but she can heal, buff, and advise. Trust her.” Akira continued.
Lavenza, standing quietly beside the window, gave a gentle nod. “I will do all that is within my permitted role to ensure your success.”
Ren stood. “We’re always happy to have her.”
Akira turned to the right. “Team Two — the Spaceport of Gluttony. I’ll lead that one,” Akira said. “With Haru, Ann, Morgane, Shiho, and Kasumi.”
Kasumi, seated between Ann and Shiho, looked up with a determined smile. “We’ll be careful.”
Ann gave a thumbs up. “Let’s crash that rocket party.”
The room quieted as Akira glanced across the two groups again. “If either team hits a dead end, don’t push. Get out. We regroup. Clear?”
“Clear,” everyone echoed. Ren’s team exited first, Lavenza trailing behind like a ghost in a blue dress, her grimoire tucked under one arm. Ryuemi gave Akira a brief fist bump as she passed. “I expect my curry when we’re done.”
Akira just smiled faintly, stepping out after the last of them. He pulled the door shut behind him, then turned the key with a quiet click.
“Good luck,” he said as they left the building, voice calm but sure. “We’ll meet up at Leblanc after the mission.”
And with that, he tapped his phone and stepped into the swirling red and black of the Metaverse with his team.
The moment Lotus’s team stepped through the veil of shimmering noren curtains, the atmosphere shifted.
Gone was the cloying perfume and garish neon that coated the earlier halls — those stage-like corridors designed to spotlight “The Venus of Shogi” in her sparkling perfection. Here, the air was humid, tinged with the scent of magnolia and steam.
The Garden of Reflections unfolded before them — part Heian temple garden, part soapland fantasy.
Polished floors of lacquered black water reflected the team’s every step. Steam curled in gentle waves from hidden onsen streams. Bamboo walls rose around them, delicate but maze-like. Glowing lotus lanterns hovered in midair, shedding light that danced off every slick surface. At the garden’s center was a massive, lotus-shaped hot spring, steaming under rose-colored lanterns.
The strangest part: every surface was mirrored.
Not just literal mirrors — the polished stones, the water’s surface, the chrome-slick tiles. As they walked, they saw dozens of themselves at all angles. Even the Shadows that drifted by seemed to shimmer with false faces.
“Yeesh,” Comet muttered. “This place is like a vanity mirror on steroids.”
Vixen let out a low breath. “It’s too quiet.”
“It’s not quiet,” Oracle whispered. “It’s holding its breath.”
Lavenza stepped forward beside Lotus, her voice calm. “This is not a space of conflict. It is one of exposure. Be mindful.”
The path led them to a central chamber — a wide, circular bath filled with glassy water. Steam curled upward in lazy spirals, and from the mist emerged holographic projections, replaying scenes like looping theatre performances on the mirrored walls.
A teenage girl in a glittering pink and white uniform stood center stage beneath a hail of confetti. Long hair. Graceful poise. She bowed, smiling like a goddess.
“Ladies and gentlemen—your radiant leader of Seishin Sentai Hime-Halo… MITSUYO!”
Applause thundered.
Mitsuyo’s voice — or rather, her Shadow’s — echoed above. “They loved me when I was perfect. So I became perfect. No pain. No hunger. No sleep. Only perfection. I wore high heels before I finished puberty. I sang through nosebleeds and blisters. I smiled when executives unzipped my outfit backstage. Because the moment I stopped smiling… they’d find someone younger.”
The next screen shimmered into view.
Backstage.
Mitsuyo, still in costume, was sitting rigidly while stylists adjusted her hair and a producer barked orders.
“Skirt shorter.”
“Show more collarbone.”
“You’re the leader. You don’t get to be tired.”
She didn’t flinch. She smiled.
Vixen’s fists clenched at her sides. “They treated her like a doll.”
“She was a child,” Kirin said softly, her voice strained. “That wasn’t praise. That was control. She knows...”
Lotus narrowed her eyes. “And when she couldn’t keep up that illusion…”
The third screen showed a tabloid spread, proclaiming: "Former Idol Turned Diva! Too Demanding for Drama, Too Old for TV!"
Another whisper from the Shadow: “I was twenty-two. They told me I was over.”
Oracle murmured, “This Palace isn’t about envy of others… it’s about envy of who she used to be.”
Suddenly, the mist flared red — and across the reflective pool, a monstrous figure slithered into view.
A distorted version of Mitsuyo’s idol persona — in heels too tall, a dress too tight, surrounded by broken mirror shards forming her wings. Her face was a blank porcelain mask, cracked and leaking glitter.
“You still want to see me, don’t you?”
“You’ll never love the real me.”
With a shriek, the false idol launched a shockwave through the pool, shattering its surface.
Steam hissed from a nearby valve as Panther, Noir, Vent, Dead-Eye, and Aria stood waiting in a stark steel corridor, illuminated by harsh overhead lights and blinking red panels. The massive bulkhead door in front of them remained firmly sealed, its status lights flashing red.
“Whoosh!”
Somewhere in the distance, a faint metal clunk echoed… followed by a very audible, distant “SON OF A—”
“Was that the fifth time?” Aria asked, tilting her head as another whoosh echoed.
Noir giggled gently behind a gloved hand. “It’s very sweet of him, really — volunteering to handle the airlock puzzle alone. It looks quite… frustrating.”
“More like maddening,” Dead-Eye muttered, arms folded. “I swear, I can hear him scream-swearing every time he gets launched past the hallway.”
“He sounds like a flying kettle,” Vent added with a smirk. “A very angry kettle.”
Whoosh—clang—BANG—“FUCK!”
Just then, the door’s lights turned green with a final ding. The sealed bulkhead hissed and slid open.
A beat later, Joker came hurtling into the corridor backwards, his jacket flapping behind him like a windsock in a typhoon. He landed on his feet — barely — stumbling before throwing up his hands and growling:
“Fucking airlocks. Fucking puzzle. I swear, I’m gonna throw that smug robo-asshole out the fucking airlock and see how he likes it. Stupid goddamn space IKEA of a—”
He stopped when a pair of arms suddenly slid around him from behind.
Panther leaned into his back, her entire body flush against him, pressing up like a contented cat marking her territory. She cooed in his ear: “There, there, big boy… You did so well…”
“Why don’t you relax for a bit now… mm?” she purred, dragging her nails lightly up his spine.
Joker froze mid-rant, going entirely rigid. “Uh—I—Panther—what are you—uh—”
Panther just smiled, eyes half-lidded and lips curling in a teasing smirk. She glanced back at the rest of the girls — all of whom were shooting daggers at her.
Vent had one eyebrow twitching. Dead-Eye had the look of someone trying very hard not to pull a gun. Aria’s expression had gone polite-blank in that very Japanese “I’m going to destroy you later” way. Even Noir looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon as she tapped the handle of her scythe against the ground.
Panther gave a wink and stuck out her tongue.
Then, without missing a beat, she grabbed Joker’s hand and gave him a tug. “C’mon, leader~” she said with a dramatic hip sway. “The Palace isn’t going to explore itself.”
Joker blinked, eyes still wide. “…Yeah. Right. Let’s… do that.”
The door finished sliding open with a final hiss, and the team filed through — Vent muttering under her breath about “bimbo magic,” while Dead-Eye cracked her knuckles just a little louder than usual.
The Thieves moved through the brightly lit corridors of the Spaceport, stepping carefully over conveyor belts, shipping crates, and holographic signs that blinked with corporate slogans:
“Productivity is Purpose.”
“Sacrifice Equals Success.”
“Okumura Foods: Fueling Tomorrow.”
As they advanced, clusters of android-like Shadows tried to block their path — all cold precision, moving in perfectly timed formations.
“Hostiles incoming,” Vent barked, leaping onto a crate and flinging her disc through the nearest Shadow’s midsection.
“I’ve got right flank!” Dead-Eye shouted, rushing forward with her dual pistols, going full John Wick in zero gravity, sliding under one Shadow’s arm and blasting it point-blank in the chest.
“Persona!” Aria’s yoyo snapped outward, binding a Shadow in place before Terpsichore exploded onto the field, scattering the rest with a glittering dance of blades.
“They’re getting easier to read,” Panther said, cracking her whip around a drone’s neck and yanking it down.
“That's because you’re getting stronger,” Joker called, tonfas gleaming as he struck the final Shadow down. “Stay sharp, though. We're in enemy territory.”
They regrouped, dusting themselves off and continuing down a narrow, pristine corridor that pulsed with soft blue light. The hall opened into a large, circular chamber marked “Hall of Archives – Executive Access Only.”
Inside, the air was cooler — still. The room had an almost reverent quality to it. Several floating orbs hovered in slow rotation above a recessed platform. A curved digital screen lined the far wall, dormant but humming with quiet energy. The ceiling above was domed like a planetarium, filled with shimmering constellations of data.
“This feels… different,” Noir murmured, stepping in slowly. “Like something meant to be preserved, not just hidden.”
“Weird. For a guy who treats workers like battery chickens, this place feels almost… respectful,” Dead-Eye said, narrowing her eyes.
“Maybe it’s for himself,” Vent muttered. “A monument to his ego.”
Joker stepped forward and cautiously touched the nearest orb. The moment his fingers grazed it, the orb glowed bright blue.
The massive screen flickered, then slowly faded in…
The team watched as old footage played: a younger Kunikazu, standing proudly beside an elderly man — his father — at a ribbon-cutting ceremony.
Voiceover narration echoed softly, like an old commercial: “Okumura Foods — A Family Legacy. Founded on the belief that meals should nourish not just the body, but the spirit. Built on respect, sustainability, and unity.”
The elder Okumura clapped his son on the shoulder. Kunikazu smiled — genuine, warm, young. “Meals should nourish the body and the soul, Kuni. Never forget: we’re here to feed people, not just stomachs.”
He nods reverently. “I understand, Father.”
Now he’s older, seated beside a beautiful woman with gentle eyes — Haru’s mother. They’re laughing over spilled flour and blueprints, surrounded by hopeful notes and test packaging. The image lingers on her placing a hand over his heart. “You’re the structure. I’m the dream. Together we can change the world.”
A young Haru toddles in, covered in dirt, holding a half-eaten rice ball. “Papa! Come look! I helped Mama plant carrots!”
The screen freezes on their laughter, bathed in soft light.
Kunikazu walks through a bustling factory floor, shaking workers' hands and calling them by name — “Tadashi, how’s your boy’s swimming? Ayumi, that lemon tart you made was spectacular!”
Little Haru trails him in a tiny safety vest, waving at the workers. They smile back.
“I remember this…” Noir whispered, eyes wide with sudden tears. “I thought… it was all gone. But this really happened.”
The memory fades… and with it, the blue glow of the orb.
A moment of silence hung over the team — heavy, complicated. “He wasn’t always a monster,” Noir said at last. “But I still have to stop him.”
Joker looked at her — resolute, grieving, growing — and nodded. “Then we’ll do it together.”
The mirrored garden shimmered softly in the aftermath of the fight, silver light bending like ripples over water. The illusory Sakura trees had stilled. Fractured fragments of Idol Mitsuyo — her mask of perfection cracked and flickering — slowly dissolved into light.
Lotus lowered her staff. “Well. That was dramatic.”
“Seriously,” Comet huffed, brushing a smear of glitter from her shoulder. “Did that boss fight have a fog machine?”
“She was an idol,” Oracle quipped. “It’s in the contract.”
“That distortion… wasn’t just fame.” Vixen frowned, stepping forward. “It was longing. Starvation for attention. For meaning.”
“Like she needs applause just to feel real,” Kirin added softly.
The ground pulsed beneath them. The reflection pool rippled… and without warning, a second memory began to play.
A younger Mitsuyo, now dressed in modest clothing — a cardigan, a long skirt — sat in a small, well-kept apartment. Her hands trembled slightly as she poured tea. Across from her sat a calm, soft-spoken man:
Hifumi’s father.
He bowed his head gently as he thanked her for the tea, every movement quiet and deliberate. His voice, when he spoke, was warm but unassuming:
“I’m honored you’ve invited me into your world. But you don’t need to impress me. Just be still. Be you.”
“That’s my dad…” Kirin whispered, almost in disbelief. “That’s how he always was. He… saw people. He listened.”
More images: Mitsuyo smiling faintly as they walked along a riverbank in spring. Sitting in the crowd of one of his shogi matches, tucked away in the back row. Quiet evenings with nothing but books, tea, and the ticking of a clock.
At first, she seemed peaceful.
But as the images progressed, cracks began to show.
She looked out windows longer. Sat at her vanity touching her unopened makeup kits. Fidgeted during quiet meals. Started collecting fashion magazines. Tried to hand him a branded blazer before a televised tournament — which he gently refused.
“Fame is fleeting,” he told her, voice echoing in the garden. “Fulfillment is something you find in stillness.”
She smiled at him then — a brittle, broken thing.
Then came the final image: Mitsuyo standing alone in the dark, lit only by the glow of a vanity mirror. Her reflection stared back — not as she was, but as she used to be, makeup perfect, lips red, eyes hollow.
“Why won’t he let me shine again?” Her voice cracked. “Why does he get to be revered… while I fade?”
The memory faded. The garden fell still again — save for the faint sound of wind through the temple bell in the distance.
“She couldn’t handle it,” Oracle said softly. “The stillness. The anonymity. It was like starving her.”
“And the worst part,” Comet said grimly, “is that she probably loved him. But she resented him anyway.”
“Because he didn’t feed the spotlight she was addicted to,” Vixen added.
Kirin nodded. Then, after a moment: “Let’s keep going. She’s not done showing us what broke her.”
The Hall of Archives was silent again, save for the soft hum of the dormant data orbs. The team stood in thoughtful stillness, the echoes of Kunikazu’s happier years still lingering in the air like the faint scent of incense.
Joker looked to Noir. She hadn't moved from where she'd stood watching her younger self riding on her father's shoulders.
Then, a flicker — the second orb began to glow, reacting to their presence. The massive screen shimmered to life once more, bathing the chamber in cool, sterile blue.
“Here comes the next one,” Vent murmured.
“Be ready,” Dead-Eye said. “This one’s probably not going to be as warm.”
The scene began in a quiet hospital room.
Muted beeping. White sheets. A woman lay in bed — the same kind, bright woman from the earlier archive. She looked tired now, but still managed to smile as a younger Kunikazu sat at her side, holding her hand tightly with both of his.
At the far corner of the room, a very small Haru, barely older than five, clutched a plush rabbit and peeked from behind a nurse’s leg.
The woman reached out and cupped Kunikazu’s cheek, her voice weak but certain:
“Don’t let our dream die, Kuni.”
“Make it into something the world will never forget.”
Kunikazu nodded, eyes glassy, lips trembling. “I promise.”
The screen cut suddenly to black.
A heartbeat.
Then — image after image of newspapers, construction photos, glossy CEO spreads. Kunikazu at boardrooms. At ribbon-cuttings. Not smiling. Not looking at the camera. Just… driven.
“His grief became his drive,” Kasumi said softly, watching the montage. “He couldn’t mourn her. So he worked.”
Each image showed Kunikazu growing more severe. He stared at spreadsheets like they were scripture. Walked past workers without acknowledging them. Refused smiling press photos, always too focused, too intense.
His eyes were always just a little too far away — as if he were still back in that hospital room. “Make it into something the world will never forget.”
The words repeated over and over in the final frame, in bold red text over the Okumura Foods logo, until the screen abruptly went dark.
The orb dimmed. The blue light faded into soft shadow.
Noir’s hands were trembling.
“She… she only meant for him to protect what they built,” she whispered. “But he turned it into an obsession. A monument to her… but it’s not what she would have wanted.”
“No,” Joker said gently, stepping to her side. “But it was all he had left.”
Noir didn’t speak. She stared at the place where the screen had been, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, but not falling. Her jaw tightened. Her spine straightened.
Joker reached out and placed a hand gently on her shoulder — warm, grounding, steady. “You’re stronger than him,” he said, quiet but sure. “You can see what he couldn’t.”
Noir looked at him for a long moment — then nodded. “...Thank you.”
Her eyes moved to the third glowing orb, pulsing faintly now in invitation.
With her chin lifted, she stepped forward. “Let’s see it through.”
She raised her hand — and reached out to touch it.
The mirrored garden pulsed softly, bathed in the lingering afterglow of the battle. The final Shadow guardian lay scattered in fragments of prismatic light, dissolving into data that fluttered upward like fireflies. A hush fell over the team.
At the center of the glass lotus pond, the last orb shimmered — brighter than the others had before. It floated higher, pulsing with a slow, heavy rhythm, as if even the Palace itself were holding its breath.
Without needing to speak, the Thieves approached.
The orb activated.
The screen came to life once again, and this time, the projection felt more intimate. The room shown was small, dimly lit — an apartment illuminated only by the soft glow of streetlights leaking through half-closed curtains. Mitsuyo sat on the edge of her bed, cradling a swaddled newborn in her arms.
Her hair was unkempt. Her eyes were tired, sunken from sleepless nights. But there was something burning in her gaze — something sharp and dangerous. She rocked the baby in slow, trembling motions, and her voice was a hoarse whisper.
"They threw me away," she murmured. "But this… this is my second chance."
She looked down at the infant, eyes widening as if she'd just realized the enormity of what she held.
“She’ll be better,” Mitsuyo breathed. “She’ll have the talent. The poise. She’ll be flawless. No scandals. No mistakes. Not like me.”
Her lips curved into a smile — but it wasn’t the smile of a mother. It was the smile of someone who had just discovered a new mirror.
“She’ll be my masterpiece.”
The scene shifted violently.
Hifumi, no older than four, stood in a traditional kimono, her spine rigid as she tried to mimic the movements of a woman far too tall for her to imitate. Her small hands struggled to hold a folding fan correctly while Mitsuyo stood behind her, correcting her posture with gentle, but unyielding pressure. The apartment was filled with books on shogi, but also photography lights, costume racks, and makeup kits.
At six, Hifumi sat cross-legged in a room full of her father's old shogi journals, her tiny fingers turning pages too worn for her age. Even then, there was eyeliner on her lashes. Even then, the stage was already creeping in.
At ten, she bowed to a crowd of paparazzi, camera flashes blinding her, while Mitsuyo watched from the wings, arms crossed, face unreadable. That same brittle smile never left her lips.
The images started speeding up. More stylists. More reporters. Mitsuyo making phone calls behind closed doors. She slipped envelopes across polished tables. She whispered to promoters with wide grins and greedy eyes. Officials bowed to her, matches were quietly rearranged, and opponents dropped pieces with forced hands.
Meanwhile, Hifumi, now in her early teens, stood on a brightly lit stage. The cameras flashed again. Her hair had been styled into soft curls. Her clothes were no longer simple kimono or shogi hakama — now she wore lace, high heels, and sleeveless fashion meant to appeal, not intimidate. The board was barely in focus anymore. What mattered was the girl at it.
In the background, Mitsuyo’s voice echoed — warped and overlapping like a mantra, like a curse.
“She is my salvation.”
“She is my perfection.”
“She owes everything to me.”
“She is me.”
The final image burned its way across the screen.
A mirror.
And in it, Hifumi — thirteen, silent, staring at her own reflection in a hyper-feminized “Venus of Shogi” outfit. Mitsuyo stood behind her, straightening the collar, whispering with breathless pride:
“This is who you are now.”
Silence.
The reflections dimmed. The orb flickered and faded.
Kirin stood motionless, arms hanging limp at her sides. Her fists were clenched so tight that her knuckles were white, her jaw trembling, her breaths shallow and erratic.
“Shogi was the one thing I had of my father,” she whispered at last. Her voice was so fragile it barely registered at first. “It was his legacy. After he passed… I played to honor him. It was quiet. Beautiful. Mine.”
She sank to her knees, her reflection staring back at her from the polished glass beneath her. It was warped — distorted — and for a moment, she almost didn’t recognize herself.
“But the glitz… the glamour… that was never for me. The clothes, the photoshoots, the heels—” Her voice cracked. “They were for her. All of it. Every second.”
Her hands shook as she pressed them to her face.
“I don’t even know who I am.”
Vixen knelt beside her without hesitation, her hand settling gently on Kirin’s shoulder. She didn’t speak, didn’t press — just offered something solid to hold on to.
Lotus stepped forward and crouched in front of her. Her expression was warm, unjudging, her presence grounding.
“You’re the one who reached out,” Lotus said softly. “You asked for help. You stepped away from all of it. That’s who you are.”
“You’re not her puppet,” Vixen added. “You’re you. And we’re not going to let her take that from you.”
Kirin looked up slowly. Her eyes were damp but burning — not with despair now, but with something defiant. Something new.
“Then I’ll show her,” she said. “I’ll show her that I’m not her masterpiece.”
“I’m my own.”
She rose to her feet, steadied by Vixen and Lotus. Ahead, the garden pulsed one final time. A new path opened — steps descending downward, deeper into the distorted heart of the Temple of Envy.
Lotus drew her sword and turned to the others.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Time to finish this.”
The Hall of Archives had grown colder.
Not in temperature, but in spirit.
The comforting blue hue from earlier projections had dimmed, replaced by sterile white lighting and metallic undertones. It felt like the warmth of the previous memories had been systematically scrubbed away — sanitized. Efficient.
The third orb pulsed gently, waiting.
Noir stared at it for a long time, then stepped forward. Her hand hovered just above the surface.
She didn’t flinch this time.
She touched it.
The screen flickered, then resolved into a series of flashbacks — the years immediately following Haru’s mother’s death.
Kunikazu stood taller now, in sharp suits and spotless boardrooms. His movements were precise. Calculated. Every bit the image of a modern executive — and nothing like the warm man from the previous memories.
A boardroom argument played out: older men, possibly former mentors or long-time employees, raised concerns.
“You’re expanding too fast, Okumura. The quality’s already dropping.”
“You’ve slashed benefits again. This isn’t the company we helped build.”
“You’re cutting corners — this isn’t sustainable.”
Kunikazu met them all with the same cold response. “It’s what she would’ve wanted.”
The scene shifted again.
Factory floors were stripped bare of workers — replaced by blinking machines and automated lines. Surveillance drones flew overhead as employees moved in mechanical silence.
Cameras caught moments of confrontation — workers begging not to be dismissed, to be given a second chance. One dared speak out — and was fired on the spot.
“Compliance is productivity,” Kunikazu said to the HR rep. “Sentimentality is inefficiency.”
Next came scenes of backroom handshakes — Kunikazu meeting with slick, well-dressed politicians and faceless executives. Documents changed hands. Money moved under tables.
“Just one more deal,” he told himself. “Then I’ll fix things.”
But the deals never ended.
The next scene showed a rebranded Okumura Foods commercial. Gone was the family-friendly tone. Now, a booming voice echoed through cold visuals: “Efficiency. Expansion. Excellence.”
Noir clenched her fists at the sound.
The company’s soul was gone. Its heart erased.
Kunikazu sat at the head of a massive boardroom table, but his eyes were distant. His voice was practiced. Polished. Hollow.
“If I don’t do this, the company will collapse. Thousands will lose their jobs. Their families will suffer.”
He looked at the camera — but there was no light behind his eyes.
The next scene showed Haru — still a child — stepping into his office with a drawing in hand. A meal idea. A silly cartoon character.
Kunikazu didn’t even look up from his reports.
Later, the scene showed her again — older this time. Neatly dressed. Sitting through a business seminar. Surrounded by adults.
Kunikazu stood at the podium, speaking proudly.
“My successor, Haru, will one day carry this company forward. She is the next step in our legacy. The final pillar of our promise.”
He didn’t call her his daughter.
He called her a successor.
Just another piece of infrastructure.
The screen dimmed. The light from the orb slowly faded.
And for a moment, no one moved.
Noir stood perfectly still.
Then she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else: “I was never really his daughter… was I?”
Joker didn’t answer.
Neither did anyone else.
Because the truth was already heavy in the air.
“He turned me into a product,” she said quietly. “A symbol. Not a person.”
“That’s not on you,” Panther said firmly. “That’s on him. He made that choice.”
Vent crossed her arms, her voice softer than usual. “He thought preserving your mother’s dream meant turning it into a monument. But monuments aren’t alive. They’re just stone.”
Dead-Eye gave Noir a nudge with her elbow. “You’re real. You feel. That’s more than he can say.”
Joker stepped forward and met Noir’s eyes. “You’re not here to live his dream. You’re here to break the cycle.”
Noir nodded slowly, one tear slipping down her cheek, but her expression was resolute. “Then I will.”
The final orb pulsed once behind them — brighter than all the rest.
“One left,” Joker said. “Let’s finish it.”
The final orb hung suspended at the far end of the chamber, spinning slowly in place. Its glow was different — harsher, tinged with gold and scarlet, casting long shadows against the walls. Something about it felt wrong. Tainted. A beacon not of knowledge, but of guilt.
The team stood still, knowing instinctively what was coming.
Noir stepped forward — alone this time. She reached out, fingers steady, and laid her hand against the light.
The orb ignited.
The screen lit up with a sleek corporate boardroom. Kunikazu stood by the window, gazing out at a skyline dotted with his factories and logos. His face was older now — hollowed out by time and ambition, his hair streaked with gray, his tie perfectly straight.
Behind him, a figure entered the room.
Sugimura Senior.
He was everything Kunikazu was not: loud, smug, broad-shouldered and coasting on inherited power. A powerful industrialist, with enough connections in Japan’s Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry to make—or erase—entire empires with a phone call.
“You’ve hit your ceiling,” Sugimura said casually, pouring himself tea without asking. “Labor commissions crawling through your logistics chains. Too many eyes on your hiring practices. One exposé away from losing your foreign subsidies.”
Kunikazu didn’t turn around. His jaw clenched. He knew the truth.
“You’ve built something impressive,” Sugimura continued. “But impressive doesn’t last without friends.”
There was a pause. A silence thick with implication.
Then Sugimura placed a sealed folder on the table. Inside were contracts. Memos. A photo of his son — a slicked-back politician-in-waiting, all smiles and arrogance.
“Align our families,” Sugimura said simply. “And I’ll make your problems disappear.”
Kunikazu turned.
“You want my daughter.”
“I want a future Prime Minister with access to a global food distribution empire. You want protection, goodwill, and legacy. Everyone wins.”
Kunikazu stared at the folder.
The next montage came in fragments — jagged, nauseating, like flashes of a mind in conflict.
Kunikazu at his desk, sleepless and pale, staring at old photographs of Haru’s mother.
A whisper: “Don’t let our dream die.”
A twist: “She’d understand. She’d want Haru to be strong. To lead.”
The next scene showed Haru, maybe seventeen or eighteen, standing before her father in disbelief.
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “He’s disgusting. He doesn’t respect me — he doesn’t even know me!”
“It’s not about love,” Kunikazu replied coldly. “It’s political. It’s a merger, not a marriage. You’ll be fine.”
Her hands trembled. “You’re… you’re selling me.”
He didn’t respond. He just turned back to his terminal. In his mind, the decision was already made.
The projection showed Kunikazu alone again, hours later. The factory floor was empty. He walked among the machines, talking aloud to no one.
“She’ll hate me now,” he murmured. “But one day… she’ll see I protected everything.”
“She’s idealistic. Naïve. I’ll make the sacrifice so she doesn’t have to.”
The lights around him flickered, bathing him in Okumura Foods' new branding: cold, digital, relentless. “She is the future,” he said. “She doesn’t have to love him. She can just… grin and bear it.”
The screen faded to black.
And the silence that followed was crushing.
Noir’s face was blank — completely unreadable. Not trembling. Not crying.
Just… frozen.
Dead-Eye spoke first, her voice tight. “He sold you off like cattle.”
Kasumi’s fists were clenched at her sides. “And convinced himself it was noble.”
Panther, quieter than usual, said, “He lied to himself… so thoroughly, he stopped hearing your voice altogether.”
But Noir didn’t move.
Joker stepped beside her. “You don’t have to say anything.”
She swallowed. Her voice came out raw. “I thought… maybe, deep down, he still loved me. That I reminded him of her. That he just didn’t know how to show it anymore.”
Her lips trembled. Her eyes burned. “But I wasn’t a daughter to him. I was a solution.”
Panther placed a hand on her shoulder. “That’s not who you are. And it’s not who you’ll become.”
Noir finally looked up at the team. Her eyes were hard now. Clear.
“Then I’ll show him,” she said. “That I’m not a symbol. Or a tool. Or a merger.”
“I’m Haru Okumura. And I’m taking it back.”
The final gate at the end of the Hall of Archives shuddered open — cold air pouring in from the depths of the Palace.
Joker adjusted his gloves. “Let’s finish this.”
The walls twisted like lacquered wood and polished obsidian, lined with LED kanji scrolling down endless pillars. The deeper the Thieves pushed into the Temple of Envy, the more the air shimmered with incense and perfume—overwhelming, artificial.
Lotus led the charge, twin blades flashing with grace.
Vixen and Comet cleared the way with coordinated support—ice and lightning, precise and relentless.
But Kirin was the one who cut through the enemy like a blade honed on memory.
She fought with terrifying elegance: her high heels clicked across polished floors, the blades hidden in her soles flashing with deadly rhythm. Every kick was precise, every sweep of her cheongsam like a slashing ribbon of motion.
“You wanted a masterpiece?” she muttered under her breath, the bladed heels of her shoes slicing through shadows in spirals of light. “Then look at me.”
“Kirin,” Oracle's voice chimed in through support, “your vitals are peaking — but damn, girl!”
Meanwhile, Joker’s team surged forward through glass corridors and automated death traps. Vent’s disk ricocheted down a hall, decapitating a wave of Shadows. Kasumi danced between laser fields and drones like a ghost.
But it was Noir who stood at the center of it all — scythe swinging with brutal efficiency, every strike a roar of fury and freedom.
“You called me a successor,” she growled, tearing through a steel-plated demon. “You used me like a pawn.”
She leapt, drove her scythe into a missile-launching mech, and used it as a springboard to crash down on the remaining Shadows in an explosion of light.
“You wanted legacy?” she hissed, blood roaring in her ears. “This is mine.”
Panther set the wreckage ablaze seconds later, and Vent cheered. “Remind me never to piss off the heiress!”
Dead-Eye shot two hovering turrets out of the air without blinking. “She’s not the heiress. She’s the revolution.”
Joker didn’t say anything—but the tilt of his head said enough.
Lotus’s team arrived at a lavish inner sanctum. The floors were water—shallow, clear, and glowing, reflecting each Thief as they entered. Cherry blossoms floated on the surface like discarded makeup pads.
At the far end, floating above a twisted idol’s throne, a thick cloud of golden mist swirled.
Oracle’s voice came through the comms. “Treasure. But it’s not fully materialized yet.”
Lotus stepped forward, then turned to the others. “We stop here. We’ve seen enough.”
Kirin took one last long look at the mist, then turned away, shoulders squared.
Joker’s team arrived in a wide chamber with spinning orbital rings and collapsed drones piled like bones. In the center, above a pulsing magnetic core, a cloud of nebulous white light hovered, flickering with corporate logos that never settled.
Joker looked to Noir, who stared into the glowing mass with quiet fury. “We send the Calling Card next,” he said. “Then you can tell him what you need to.”
Noir turned from the Treasure mist. Her eyes were wet, but her grip on her scythe was steady.
Akira’s Apartment – That Evening
The sun had dipped low by the time the team reconvened, painting the city in fading gold and soft shadow. Inside Akira’s apartment, the lights were low, the air warm and still. Shoes were left at the door. Jackets draped over chairs. Someone had brought mochi and tea. Morgane was curled up on the armrest with a blanket and a mug nearly bigger than her face. Futaba had taken over the kotatsu, sprawled half-asleep. Kasumi sat beside her, legs tucked underneath her. Ryuemi and Shiho were quietly flipping through one of Akira’s old books. In the center of it all sat Haru and Hifumi, side by side on the futon.
Both were quiet. Both were raw.
Finally, Hifumi spoke up. Her voice was soft, almost timid. “It wasn’t just about her controlling me. I let her dictate who I was because… I thought it was love. I thought that was how you earned love.”
Yukiko set her tea down gently. “You don’t have to earn love, Hifumi. You deserve it. As you are.”
Hifumi smiled faintly — grateful, but tired.
Haru nodded faintly, staring at her own knees. “I was never meant to inherit the company,” she said. “I was meant to preserve an illusion. Something already dead.”
Their voices were barely above whispers — but the room heard them. And then Akira moved — slowly, deliberately — and sat in between them both. He didn’t speak at first. He just listened, the way only he knew how to do — quietly, fully, with presence. And then, as the silence stretched on… Haru leaned into him. And a heartbeat later, so did Hifumi.
They didn’t look at each other — only at him.
Akira froze. For a single second, uncertainty flickered behind his eyes — the instinct to withdraw, to stay composed. But then he sighed, arms gently encircling them both, holding them against him without hesitation.
He tucked his head between theirs, voice a soft murmur. “You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re not what they wanted you to be. You’re more.”
“You’re you. And I’m proud of you.” The words undid them.
Hifumi’s breath hitched — then broke into sobs. Haru trembled against his chest, her fingers curling in his shirt as her composure dissolved. And still, Akira held them. Still and solid as the earth beneath them.
The others didn’t need a cue. Ann came first, kneeling behind Haru and wrapping her arms around her shoulders. Ren crossed the room next, sitting behind Hifumi and pressing her forehead gently against her teammate’s back. Morgane, blanket still clutched around her, shuffled across the floor and sat with her legs folded neatly, one arm sliding around Akira’s waist. Shiho and Ryuemi flanked them both, hands resting on shoulders, murmuring quiet reassurances. Kasumi, eyes shimmering with emotion, knelt beside Hifumi and took her hand. Futaba leaned against Haru’s other side, offering her cup of tea with uncharacteristic quiet. Yukiko, last of all, simply pressed her hand against Haru’s back and whispered something in her ear — too soft to hear.
The living room became a circle of warmth, of shared pain and healing. No one said anything else for a long while. They didn’t need to. The message was clear in every hand, every hug, every whispered word: You’re not alone. We’re with you.
A Few Hours Later – Akira’s Apartment
The living room had dimmed, bathed in soft lamplight and the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows. Tea cups, snack wrappers, and folded blankets now littered the space, evidence of comfort slowly taking root after the storm. Laughter was still sparse, but no longer absent.
Akira stood by the balcony, speaking quietly with Morgane and Ren. His voice was calm, but there was that familiar firmness — leader-mode, as the girls sometimes teased him. “We rest tomorrow,” he said. “We’ve all earned it. I’ll take care of the Calling Cards.”
Everyone nodded. No arguments. Not tonight.
As the girls gathered their things and began heading downstairs, Haru lingered by the door. She shifted awkwardly, fingers clasped in front of her, eyes on the floor. “Um... I...” she started, then stopped.
Everyone turned to her. She swallowed and tried again.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight. In that house. Not after what I saw… not with what I know now.”
Her voice wavered, but her shoulders stayed squared. “Would… would any of you like to come over? To my place?”
There was a pause — not hesitation, just surprise — before Ann perked up with a grin. “Wait. Like, an actual proper slumber party?”
The others blinked. Then slowly began to smile.
“There’s so many more of us now,” Ann continued, walking over to take Haru’s hand. “We should totally celebrate! Pajamas, movies, junk food, gossip. Just us girls.”
“With makeovers,” Futaba chimed in, raising a fist. “It’s practically a civic duty.”
“And face masks,” Yukiko added with a tiny smirk. “Because I am not fighting a Palace with stress acne.”
“And music,” Kasumi said, lighting up. “We could dance. Or play cards.”
“I’ll bring snacks,” Shiho said matter-of-factly. “The rest of you can’t be trusted to get the good stuff.”
“And I’ll bring a movie that isn’t cursed,” Ryuemi muttered, side-eyeing Morgane.
“That was one time,” Morgane sniffed, arms crossed. “Besides, it was getting good!”
Hifumi smiled — soft and real — and looked at Haru. “I’d like that. A lot.”
Haru blinked, overwhelmed by how quickly her offer had blossomed into something… joyful. “Yes,” she said, voice catching on the edge of a laugh. “Please come. All of you.”
“Slumber party at the Okumura estate,” Ann declared, hands on her hips. “Operation: Cheer the Hell Up is a go.”
As soon as Haru made the call, it began.
Her voice was polite — almost dainty — as she spoke into the phone: “Yes, Goto-san. The usual car, please. Eleven passengers. And… we’ll be making a few stops.”
The others expected a car. Maybe a van. Instead, two sleek black luxury town cars glided up to the curb like sharks in a moonlit sea. Doors opened in unison. Plush leather interiors gleamed.
Ann whistled.
Futaba said, “Okay, rich-girl energy is off the charts.”
Ren, deadpan: “Do we bow? Kneel? Kiss the ring?”
Haru, ever demure, smiled sweetly. “No need for all that… but if anyone wants hot towels or sparkling water, they’re in the side compartment.”
“This is going to be awesome,” Shiho declared, climbing in.
The first location was something only Haru would know existed — a high-end, late-night gourmet grocer with ambient jazz and glass-door everything. Within minutes:
-
Futaba had a basket full of strange imported Pocky and three different energy drinks “for science.”
-
Ryuemi and Morgane were locked in a dead-serious debate over which mochi brand was superior.
-
Kasumi and Yukiko had located a rare herbal tea aisle and were calmly out-classing everyone.
-
Ann and Ren filled a basket with “necessary essentials”: popcorn in four flavors, a literal pound of chocolate, a jar of edible body glitter (don’t ask), and three bottles of soda with pastel labels.
-
Shiho loaded up on seaweed snacks and “those stupidly overpriced ice creams that taste like heaven and guilt.”
-
Lavenza, who was clearly unaccustomed to mortal pleasures, quietly stared at a shelf of marshmallows for a solid thirty seconds before placing a single bag in her basket with reverent care. She then whispered, “I would like to roast one.”
The store was open late by appointment only — and Haru had one.
The boutique was all soft lighting and gold trim. An older woman greeted them at the door with a clipboard.
“Ah, Miss Okumura. Right this way. We’ve reserved the lounge.”
“We’re looking for slumber party essentials,” Haru said. “Matching nightwear. Face masks. Nail kits. Hair accessories. You know. The works.”
The woman blinked. Then smiled slowly. “Say no more.”
The girls descended into chaos.
Ann, Hifumi, and Ren form a glam squad triad — Ann found silk robes with lace trim, Hifumi demanded thigh-high leg slits, and Ren somehow ended up in something that looks like it could kill a man at a glance.
Morgane held up a black satin slip and muttered, “...this looks illegal,” before choosing it anyway.
Shiho ended up in rose-pink frills and bows — and then throws on a leather jacket over it “for balance.”
Futaba found fuzzy alien slippers and insisted they were non-negotiable. She also tried to buy a neon sleep mask with ‘WAIFU’ printed on it in glitter, but Yukiko just gave her a look.
Yukiko calmly selected an elegant lavender set and started organizing everyone’s shopping carts by color coordination.
Lavenza, wide-eyed, held up a midnight-blue nightgown with constellations embroidered across the hem and quietly said, “I believe this suits my aesthetic.”
Haru went full royalty. Floor-length silk robe, soft slippers, headband with a small, tasteful tiara embedded.
Shiho: “Are we… paying for this? This is like... a semester of tuition.”
Haru: already swiping a platinum card with one elegant motion “Consider it a thank-you for coming with me.”
Morgane: “Rich. Hot. Generous. She’s gunning for the top spot.”
Ann: “Hey! I’m right here!”
The black town cars glided to a stop at the side entrance of Okumura Manor, tires whispering against the pristine cobblestone drive. Eleven girls spilled out in bursts of chatter and laughter, arms full of luxury shopping bags, candy, and sleepover supplies. Even the drivers, professional and expressionless, couldn’t help but glance at the chaos with faint bemusement.
The foyer that greeted them was somehow warmer than expected — soft ambient lighting, polished marble floors, and the gentle burble of a koi pond nestled beneath an indoor bonsai garden. Haru barely noticed it as she led the group forward with practiced ease, giving her name at the biometric elevator before thumbing it open.
“This is... your house?” Futaba asked, eyes darting across the domed ceiling above the elevator. “Your actual real-life house?”
“Well,” Haru said, smiling a little, “just my wing.”
Ryuemi stared. “You have a wing. Of a mansion.”
“I suddenly feel very poor,” Ann muttered as they stepped into the elevator.
It opened onto a private lounge the size of a university dorm floor. Rich cherrywood paneling lined the walls, interrupted only by sprawling bookshelves, sleek velvet cushions, a fireplace that had already been lit by unseen staff, and a grand piano beneath the windows. Beyond it was a spa bathroom with a hot tub sunken into mosaic tile, and a quiet side room filled with low futons arranged like a private sleep temple. Everything smelled faintly of white tea and rosewood.
“Oh my god,” Kasumi whispered. “This is better than a ryokan.”
“I want to get married in here,” Shiho said flatly, dropping her bags with a thud.
The girls split off to change, darting into guest bathrooms and side rooms with squeals and giggles. In no time at all, the hallway echoed with the rustle of silk and satin and the occasional swear as someone struggled with lace. When they emerged, the effect was dazzling.
Ann was first, in a deep crimson slip with lace trim, her earrings heart-shaped and ridiculous, hair tossed dramatically. She posed with a hand on her hip.
“Ten outta ten, right?”
Kasumi floated in behind her, soft pink and ribbons everywhere, her hair tied up with a satin bow. She looked like she belonged on the lid of a fancy candy tin.
“I love this,” she said, turning in place. “It’s so... soft.”
Ryuemi appeared wearing a black tank top that read “GIRL BOSS FROM HELL” over silk boxer shorts. “I’m here to punch capitalism and paint my nails.”
Shiho walks out chewing gum as she adjusts the bows on her sides. “Only if someone brought snacks.”
“I brought five kinds,” Futaba declared as she slid in behind them, alien slippers flapping and her oversized hoodie nearly swallowing her.
Morgane made her entrance in a black lace camisole set and dramatic eyeliner. “If I’m not the villain in a drama by the end of tonight, someone failed.”
Lavenza stepped out with quiet grace, wrapped in a deep blue nightgown with tiny constellations embroidered at the hem. She carried her marshmallow bag like it was sacred.
Ren, Yukiko, and finally Haru and Hifumi followed — Haru radiant in her champagne-colored robe, already carrying a tray of delicate mochi and peach tea.
Yukiko clapped her hands once and announced, “Right. Everyone sit. I’m doing nails. Haru, you’re first.”
“No protests,” Ann added. “This is a pampering event. Get in line.”
The slumber party began in earnest.
Haru slipped off her slippers and dipped her feet into the heated basin Yukiko rolled in. She looked around the room — at the glow of the fire, the scattered pillows, the friends she once only dreamed of having — and smiled softly, her whole face relaxing.
“This feels like something from a dream,” she said. “Like I’m eight years old again. Only... with better snacks.”
Yukiko raised a brow. “And glitter topcoat.”
Futaba whooped from the couch. “Make her sparkle, Yukiko!”
When it was Hifumi’s turn, she moved with quiet uncertainty, arms folded, as though unsure whether she belonged in a space so bright and warm.
“I’m not really used to this sort of thing for no reason,” she said as Yukiko rolled the basin toward her.
Ren took a seat beside her, brushing a loose lock of hair behind Hifumi’s ear. “Then let this be your first time.”
Shiho added, “You survived your mother’s mental labyrinth and kicked its ass. You can survive getting glammed with friends.”
Ann giggled, passing Hifumi a strawberry mochi. “C’mon. It’s girl time. You don’t have to smile, just exist. We’ve got you.”
Hifumi looked at them — all of them — and let herself breathe. She dipped her feet into the water and let Yukiko take her hand. She laughed, softly. A real laugh.
The room came alive with movement and chatter.
Morgane applied Ann’s eyeliner with surgical precision while reciting deliberately awful pick-up lines. Futaba built a pillow throne in the corner and declared herself Sleepover Queen. Ryuemi and Shiho started a game of slapjack that quickly devolved into mock wrestling. Kasumi and Yukiko tried to create an orderly face mask station before Futaba dumped glitter into the skincare bin. Lavenza sat by the fire and roasted a single marshmallow with intense focus.
Ren stuck tiny stars on everyone's thumbnails when they weren’t looking.
Haru moved from girl to girl, serving drinks, laughing, glowing in a way that made it clear — for the first time in years — that this wasn’t a mask. This was her.
It started, as these things often did, with Futaba. The fire had dimmed to a soft ember-glow, casting warm flickers across the girls sprawled out on the floor of Haru’s lounge. Half-eaten snacks and open nail polish bottles were scattered between them like party debris. A fluffy mountain of pillows and sleeping bags had become a kind of throne circle. Music played low in the background — a dreamy synthwave mix Futaba had queued up from Haru’s obscenely advanced home stereo.
They were all flushed with warmth, sugar, and barely concealed excitement.
“Okay, okay, okay—truth or dare!” she declared from her throne of stolen pillows and alien slippers. Her eyes glittered with mischief behind her glasses as she pointed a half-eaten pocky stick like a wand at Kasumi, who had been sipping herbal tea and giggling quietly.
“U-uh… truth?” Kasumi asked, already blushing.
Futaba grinned. “What’s the first thought you had about Akira that you’d be too embarrassed to say out loud?”
Kasumi turned a shade of pink not found in nature. “I—! I thought… his hair looked soft.”
“Oooooooh,” came a wave of delighted teasing.
“Soft hair, huh?” Shiho smirked.
“That’s valid,” Ann muttered with a shrug, twirling her hair.
Yukiko lifted her tea. “Respectfully agreed.”
And just like that, the game was on.
The dares came next.
Ren was dared to dance to the opening of Sailor Moon — which she did, with dramatic flair and a wink aimed squarely at Yukiko.
Morgane got dared to give Shiho a foot massage, which she did with disturbingly serious commitment.
Ryuemi was dared to say “something dirty in your best serious team captain voice,” which led to everyone choking on mochi.
Then Futaba escalated.
“Okay okay okay. Dare,” she said, eyes gleaming like a chaos imp. “Lavenza. I dare you to sit on Kasumi’s lap and call her your ‘guardian of dreams.’”
A beat.
“I accept,” Lavenza said solemnly, floating over like an oracle in celestial silk. She gently perched on Kasumi’s lap — the poor girl went stiff as a board — and placed one delicate hand on Kasumi’s cheek. “You are my guardian of dreams… and my nighttime blessing.”
Kasumi made a sound like a kettle about to scream.
Ann full-body collapsed into a pillow. “Okay, okay, I did not see that coming.”
It snowballed from there.
Yukiko dared Ann to reenact the scene from her first commercial — but with Ryuemi as her love interest. Ann committed. She straddled Ryuemi’s lap, whispered a line about “eternal sweetness,” and licked whipped cream off her finger.
Hifumi was dared to feed Haru strawberries while maintaining eye contact. She complied… gracefully. Haru nearly forgot how to breathe.
Morgane dared Shiho to kiss Ren’s shoulder — just one, gentle kiss. It landed light as silk, but the room was suddenly very quiet.
Futaba dared Yukiko to paint a heart on Kasumi’s thigh with lotion. She did. In absolute silence.
Laughter still filled the air, but it had changed. Deeper now. Hushed. Breathless. The kind of energy that hovered just beneath something more. Legs draped over laps. Hands touched a little longer. Faces were flushed and eyes lingered too long. Everything shimmered with possibility.
Then Ren’s turn came.
“Truth or dare?” Morgane asked her, voice husky.
Ren’s eyes flicked across the circle. She smiled, just a little. “Dare.”
There was a moment. Silence. Tension pulled taut like violin string.
Ann was the one who leaned forward. “Kiss one of us. Anyone you want. Just… a kiss.”
The girls froze. Everyone was watching her now.
Ann. Yukiko. Haru. Shiho. Kasumi. Ren. Ryuemi. Futaba. Hifumi. Morgane. Lavenza.
Eleven girls, in silk and satin, hearts thudding, pulses fast.
Ren’s lips parted—
Then Lavenza’s voice cut through, soft but firm: “Wait.”
Everyone turned. She sat back, pulling her knees to her chest, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips.
“It doesn’t feel right that we do this without Akira.”
The room shifted. The mood dipped. Not from shame — but from longing. From the unspoken truth that everything they were… everything they were becoming… it always came back to him.
The quiet stretched for a breath.
Then Ren spoke. “One kiss each,” she said gently. “Nothing more. I think… we all deserve that.”
The girls looked at each other.
Then one by one, slow and sweet, the kisses began.
Each kiss was a promise.
Not of ownership.
But of belonging.
They would wait for him.
But they would wait together.
Chapter 22: Relearning to Breathe
Summary:
The aftermath of the slumber party - bonds are tightened
Akira puts on a brave face - but the cracks are starting to show
An olive branch is extended
Two Rulers fall - and plans are made
Notes:
So... 10K hits...
Seriously, I don't really know how to convey how much it means to me to see all of you continuing to enjoy and support this little passion project of mine. Thank you so very much.Right, so I did promise an AMA chapter once we reached this milestone, and it is coming - I've just been a little unwell over the last few days, which has slowed down my writing. So, I'll either be posting both sections of the AMA (the 'clean' and the 'spicy') on Sunday and then the new chapter on Monday, or I'll post everything up on Monday. In the mean time, if you still have any questions you want to submit for the AMA, feel free to drop them here or on Discord, and I'll see if I can get to them.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Morning broke over Okumura Manor in golden streaks, pouring through the tall windows of Haru’s private wing and dappling the floor in sun-warmed ribbons. The air smelled faintly of roses, yuzu-scented bath oil, and leftover popcorn.
Scattered across the lounge in a disorganized constellation of blankets, pillows, and tangled limbs were eleven girls, just beginning to stir.
Kasumi was the first to wake, her eyes fluttering open as she found herself nestled between Hifumi and Futaba, the latter clinging to her like a sleepy koala.
Yukiko was already up, quietly brushing her hair by the window with the kind of grace that made her seem immune to bedhead.
“Morning,” Kasumi whispered.
Yukiko smiled softly. “Good morning. You slept through Morgane muttering about eyeliner and world domination in her sleep.”
From somewhere in the blankets, Morgane’s voice crackled. “I regret nothing.”
A few groans followed as the rest of the girls slowly sat up, stretching, yawning, blinking sleep from their eyes. Hifumi wrapped a blanket tighter around herself. Shiho let her head fall back with a dramatic sigh.
“I feel like I got hit by an emotional freight train,” she muttered.
Futaba flopped onto her back. “More like a glitter-covered friendship nuke.”
Ryuemi sat up, rubbing at one eye. “How is it that I have a hangover and there wasn’t even alcohol involved?”
“Love hangover,” Ann grinned. “They’re the most dangerous kind.”
Ten minutes later, they were seated around the low table in Haru’s sunroom, still in their sleepwear, hair in various states of disarray. A breakfast feast had been prepared by Haru’s early-rising private chef — fluffy pancakes, miso soup, grilled fish, fruit salad, fresh bread, and at least three types of jam.
Futaba shoved a strawberry into her mouth and groaned happily. “Okay. I’ve made a decision.”
Haru tilted her head, sipping delicately from a lavender teacup. “Oh?”
“I wanna live like this forever,” Futaba declared. “All of us. In one huge house. Slumber parties, shared chores, someone always around to kill spiders—I nominate Akira for that.”
There were giggles all around.
“I’m down,” Ryuemi said, pointing her chopsticks at Futaba. “I’d kill for a place like that. With enough space for all of us? Imagine the drama. The laundry room alone would become a warzone.”
“We’d need a full floor just for closets,” Morgane added, primly. “I am not sharing hangers with someone who folds like a raccoon.”
Ann hummed thoughtfully, twirling her spoon. “You think Akira would survive?”
“Barely,” Yukiko said, deadpan. “He may be supernatural, but he’s still outnumbered eleven to one.”
“He’d try to act like he’s the responsible one,” Ren said, smiling faintly, “but we all know he’d get flustered the first time someone walked out in a towel.”
“Oh no,” Hifumi murmured with mock concern. “What if several of us walked out in towels?”
The giggles turned to laughter — the kind that made stomachs hurt.
As the conversation rolled on, Haru sat back, half-listening, her teacup held delicately in her hands as her gaze grew distant.
“...Wait,” she said suddenly. “If we used part of the Okumura mountain property… there's still that old retreat lodge. We’d have to reinforce the structure, modernize the interiors, rework the plumbing… but with about a 30 million yen budget—less if I negotiate directly—we could build something like that. Multiple bedrooms, shared baths, full kitchen, soundproof training area…”
Silence.
Everyone stared at her.
“Haru,” Shiho said, incredulous, “are you seriously designing our polycule dream house in your head right now?”
Haru blinked innocently. “Of course not. I’m designing it in metrics.”
Futaba made a wheezing noise. “Marry me.”
Ren leaned across the table and gently poked Haru’s cheek. “Let the rest of us fantasize, billionaire brain. We were still picturing cute morning cuddles and you’re already installing heated flooring.”
“But we would need heated flooring,” Haru said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You know what?” Ann said, raising her glass of yuzu juice. “To the future Okumura Estate and all the shared laundry disasters, steamy hallway moments, and Akira-flusterings it brings.”
Everyone raised their glasses.
“To home,” Yukiko said softly.
“To us,” Kasumi added.
Laughter rang out again — warm, sleepy, real.
The sun climbed higher.
The sunlight streaming through the windows was bright and gentle, painting gold along the wood-paneled walls of Akira’s apartment. A breeze stirred the sheer curtains. The houseplants were watered. The dishes were done. Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
Akira sat hunched on the edge of the futon, elbows on his knees, hands clamped around the back of his neck. He was still in the t-shirt and joggers he’d worn the night before — clothes he hadn’t changed out of, not even to sleep.
Because he hadn’t slept.
Not really.
He’d tried. He’d laid down, stared at the ceiling, listened to the wind outside. He’d counted breaths, counted heartbeats, counted every damn second that passed.
But the silence had teeth.
And when he finally closed his eyes—
The explosion. Ryuji, disintegrating into light. Makoto screaming. Futaba’s voice, glitching through comms, then cutting out. Haru, covered in blood that wasn’t hers. Yusuke, still trying to fight with one arm limp, yelling “Don’t look away!” before Ann turned him to ash. Ann, melting into static, laughing like she’d gone mad.
And Morgana.
Morgana, the last one.
Reaching for him.
Saying “Don’t forget us.”
Akira couldn’t breathe.
He jerked forward, fingers gripping his skull, breath coming in short, harsh gasps that wouldn’t catch. His chest felt crushed. The apartment was too small. Too quiet. Too full of ghosts.
He staggered to his feet and almost collapsed again, grabbing onto the edge of the kitchen counter. His vision tunneled.
Focus. Count.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to count objects around him.
One coffee mug.
Two knives in the sink.
Three dried plants in the windowsill.
Four photos — photos of his team, smiling, alive— No. No. Wrong. Not alive. Not then.
His breath hitched.
The floor swayed. His palms were slick. His heart was jackhammering in his throat, ribs, ears.
Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Don’t—
He sank to his knees.
He couldn’t do this again.
He couldn’t lose them again.
Not them.
Not after he got them back.
Not after he promised.
A knock came at the door — not loud, not urgent. Just once.
Akira flinched like he’d been shot. His head snapped up, chest still heaving.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Silence returned.
Eventually, the wind picked up again. A crow cawed in the distance.
And still Akira stayed there, knees on the cold floor, shaking hands pressed to his face.
The only sound in the room was his ragged breathing.
The panic had finally begun to recede, though it still lingered in the back of Akira’s throat like smoke. His breath came in shallow pulls as he forced himself upright, one foot dragging after the other as he stumbled into the bathroom. The lights were too bright. The silence too loud. He leaned over the sink and splashed cold water onto his face again and again, until the mirror blurred and his dripping bangs clung to his forehead. The face that stared back at him—gaunt, dark-eyed, haunted—barely looked like his own.
He didn’t bother drying off. The water traced down his jaw and neck as he moved back into the apartment, which felt too clean, too quiet, too carefully arranged. Everything in its place. Everything fine. Except him.
His eyes landed on the table, where two crisp white envelopes sat undisturbed. Calling Cards. The ink had dried hours ago, his handwriting sharp and unyielding.
To: Kunikazu Okumura.
To: Mitsuyo Togo.
He stared at them without moving.
He could do it.
He was strong enough.
He could slip in alone. Crush both Palaces. End it all today. No one else would be at risk.
No more chances to lose them again.
But then, unbidden, he remembered Haru’s trembling voice in the Archive Hall, and the way Hifumi had quietly broken in the Garden of Reflections. He remembered them standing tall anyway. Choosing to face the truth. Choosing to fight.
They deserved to see this through.
More than his need to protect them. More than his guilt. More than the fear clawing at his ribs.
Akira let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, a quiet exhale banishing the knife of terror from his neck. He dropped back onto the edge of the couch and pressed his hands through his hair, elbows resting on his knees. Damp strands clung to his fingers. The two Calling Cards sat on the table beside him, pristine and final.
He didn’t move to pick them up.
Not yet.
The apartment was still. The silence had lost its teeth, but it hadn't grown warm either. It just sat heavy, a weight pressing down from every corner of the room. Akira stayed seated on the edge of the couch, fingers woven through his damp hair, elbows balanced on his knees. The two Calling Cards lay on the low table in front of him like sealed judgments, pristine and final.
He should move. Should get up. Should prepare.
Instead, he stared.
And slowly, the numbness began to crack.
It started as a whisper—barely a thought. Just the echo of a memory: Haru’s voice, shaking but strong. Hifumi’s grief, sharp and bright like shattered glass. The rest of the team, standing behind them, unflinching, unyielding, ready to fight for each other and for the people they had once been.
He loved them.
Not just respected. Not just admired. Loved them.
Not one. Not some.
All of them.
The realization hit like a slow bleed—soft at first, then scalding. His chest tightened. His throat burned.
He hated himself for it.
Because who was he, really? A liar. A manipulator. A reformed convict barely holding himself together. He’d failed them once. He’d watched them die. Over and over, he asked them to fight, to bleed, to suffer—and they did. For him. Because he asked. Because they trusted him.
And now he wanted this? He wanted them? All of them. Their laughter, their warmth, their touch. Their love.
He felt sick.
His jaw clenched, and he let out a bitter breath. Kamoshida had wanted girls too. Collected them like trophies. Took what he wanted, broke them, discarded them.
How was he any different?
He pressed his palms into his eyes, hard enough to see stars. His breath caught in his throat. His shoulders trembled.
He hadn’t cried in years.
But now—
The first tear slipped down his cheek.
Then he heard it—soft footsteps outside the door. Familiar voices, muffled but clear enough.
He jerked upright. In one breath, he was standing. In the next, the mask snapped into place—his expression smoothing into something neutral, calm, fine. He scrubbed a sleeve across his face just before the knock came.
He opened the door.
Ann stood at the front, her red bomber jacket unzipped over a casual tank top and shorts. Behind her were Futaba—already half-walking past him like she owned the place—and Ryuemi, who gave him a crooked grin and a wave.
“Yo,” Ann said brightly. “We were dropping Futaba off, but figured we’d swing by first. Y’know. Check in.”
Akira forced a small smile. “I’m good. Just tired. Been working on the Calling Cards and strategy stuff all night.”
“Uh-huh,” Ryuemi said, eyeing him. “You look like someone who’s been wrestling demons.”
“Metaphorically or literally?” he deadpanned.
Futaba was already curled up on the far end of the couch, hugging one of his throw pillows. “I vote both.”
They chatted for a while. The girls recounted a slightly-sanitised version of the slumber party, hitting all the tame highlights—Lavenza roasting a marshmallow, Yukiko’s flawless manicure skills, a failed popcorn fire started by Futaba (“one tiny kitchen incident!”), and a group scream-along to an old magical girl anime. Akira laughed in all the right places, his voice warm, his posture easy.
But Ann watched him closely.
She laughed too, told her part of the story, nudged Futaba when she exaggerated—but her eyes never left Akira for long. She could feel it. That quiet tremble just beneath the surface. The cracks he was trying too hard to patch over.
Eventually, Ryuemi stood up and stretched. “We should head out before Futaba tries to hijack your console.”
Futaba pouted but grabbed her bag. “Rude.”
Akira walked them to the door. Ryuemi waved, Futaba grinned, and then they were gone.
Except Ann lingered.
She stood just outside, one hand on the frame, watching him.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “You sure you’re okay?”
Akira met her gaze, held it for a heartbeat longer than he meant to. The words almost rose.
But instead, he smiled.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m just… tired.”
Ann studied him for another second, then nodded slowly.
“Okay,” she said. “But… I’m here. You know that, right?”
He hesitated.
“I know.”
She didn’t push. Just smiled, soft and real, then turned and walked away.
Akira closed the door.
And leaned against it, eyes shut.
Still standing.
But only just.
📱Group Name: "Operation: Steal His Heart (Literally 💖)"
BimboBerry
Okay, so... I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I think something’s wrong with Akira.
QueenOfHeels:
Wait what? Did he say something??
BimboBerry
No. That’s the problem.
We dropped Futaba off earlier and stopped by to see him. He smiled, joked, acted like everything was fine…
But his eyes looked really red. Like he’d been crying.
And when I asked if he was okay, he just gave me this fake little smile and said he was tired.
It didn’t feel right.
PlunderBae:
Yeah, I noticed that too. He looked like shit. The kind of tired you can’t sleep off.
I almost said something, but you know how he gets when he’s got that “leader mode” on.
PixelPrincess:
Nooo 😢
Was he actually crying?? He never cries...
I mean I’ve literally seen him solo half a Shadow army without blinking.
SinGlazed:
That doesn’t mean he’s invincible.
He holds in way too much. Always has.
BrewedObedience:
You think he’s overwhelmed? Or... something happened?
BangBangBaby:
Was it about the Calling Cards?
He has been carrying a lot of pressure lately.
SiroccoFée:
Or maybe it’s because Haru and Hifumi opened up yesterday.
He puts everyone else first. He feels everything. Even if he doesn’t show it.
BlossomUndone:
...He’s always the strong one. I wonder if anyone’s ever told him he doesn’t have to be.
BendMeBaby:
I hate that we didn’t notice sooner.
He’s always looking after us, but we didn’t realize something was wrong with him.
SinGlazed:
If it’s about what’s coming... maybe he’s afraid to lose us.
He hides behind that calm so well. Too well.
QueenOfHeels:
Do you think it’s about the Palaces?
About Haru’s and mine? Did we do something wrong?
BrewedObedience:
No, Hifumi. We didn’t.
If anything… I think he’s trying to carry our pain too.
ButterflyBliss:
Akira carries a great burden.
Older than any of you realize.
But he will not allow himself to break. Not yet.
BimboBerry:
...That sounds cryptic even for you, Velvet Girl.
ButterflyBliss:
It is not my place to speak of what is not mine.
But know this:
There will come a day—hopefully soon—when he will allow himself to be honest.
Until then, be patient. Be present. And be ready.
PixelPrincess:
ready for what??
ButterflyBliss:
To catch him.
When he finally falls.
The Next Day
The morning sun filtered weakly through the apartment windows, casting long golden rays across the floor. Despite the warmth, the air inside was taut with the quiet tension of what was to come.
Akira stood at the head of the table, posture straight, the crisp white envelopes in his hand contrasting starkly against the dark sleeves of his shirt. His expression was calm, but his eyes held a quiet fire.
He stepped forward and handed one envelope to Haru, and the other to Hifumi.
“Try to have them delivered during the day,” he said, his voice low and steady. “We’ll strike after classes.”
The girls both nodded, holding the Calling Cards like sacred instruments.
Akira continued. “The Spaceport is first. Team will be Haru, Ann, Morgane, Kasumi, and me. Futaba’s on support.”
Akira turned to the rest. “Next, Temple. Ren, Hifumi, Yukiko—you’ll head in with Lavenza providing backup. I’ll join you once we’ve cleared the Spaceport, so don’t proceed without me.”
There was something in his tone that brokered no argument. Confident. Unshakeable. He wasn’t asking for consensus—he was giving direction.
But two names hadn’t been said.
Ryuemi and Shiho exchanged a glance. The silence had just begun to settle when Shiho stepped forward, brow creasing. “Wait. What about us? Are we—?”
Akira cut her off gently, his gaze shifting to meet hers. “No, I haven’t forgotten you or Ryuemi.” His tone softened further, but the steel in it never left. “I need you to try to get through to Makoto.”
Ryuemi’s eyes narrowed, her mouth opening to protest. “Makoto can wait. The Palaces are more important—”
But again, Akira pre-empted her, his voice dropping low with intensity. “Please. Just trust me on this.”
He stepped forward slightly, his gaze heavy with something older, deeper, and more burdened than any of them could name.
“It has to be you two,” he said. “And it has to be soon.”
Ryuemi froze.
“She doesn’t know it, but she’s close to losing herself. I can’t…” He swallowed hard, then looked away for half a heartbeat. When he looked back up, his eyes glinted—just faintly—with a dull red hue. Unconscious. Unseen by him. “I won’t let that happen.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Ryuemi’s jaw tightened. She looked like she was ready to fire back—but then Shiho placed a gentle hand on her arm.
Shiho’s voice was soft, but steady. “Fine,” she said, holding Akira’s gaze. “We’ll handle it.”
Akira let out a quiet breath, relief easing the hard line of his shoulders. “Thank you.”
The morning sun glared off the polished windows of the Okumura Foods skyscraper as Kunikazu Okumura sat at his desk, sifting through a fresh stack of reports. His movements were precise, mechanical. His fingers flipped through revenue sheets, expansion forecasts, logistics breakdowns—none of it sparked even a flicker of emotion.
Until his assistant, pale and trembling, knocked once and slid a crimson envelope onto his desk.
Kunikazu’s brow creased as he pulled it closer, his sharp eyes tracing the elegant handwriting.
To the Commander of Gluttony—Kunikazu Okumura.
You built an empire on the backs of the weak.
You traded honor for numbers.
You abandoned your soul for the illusion of success.
Your sins will now be laid bare.
Prepare to face judgment.
We are the Phantom Thieves – and there is no
where to run
His hands trembled—not with fear, but with something colder. Sharper. A memory stirred at the edge of his mind: a promise whispered at a hospital bedside. A life traded for ambition.
“Commander of Gluttony,” he echoed softly, rolling the title over his tongue as though testing its weight. Without another word, Kunikazu reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved a black phone—sleek, unregistered.
His thumb hovered for just a moment before pressing the familiar speed dial.
Mitsuyo Togo lounged on an opulent velvet chaise, one hand delicately stirring sugar into a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Sunlight pooled across the floor-to-ceiling windows of her luxury office, but she barely noticed. Her focus was on the thick card clutched between two perfectly manicured fingers.
To the Hostess of Envy—Mitsuyo Togo.
You built your kingdom from your daughter’s soul.
You traded her life for a reflection of your own.
You caged her within your broken dream.
Your sins will now be laid bare.
We are the Phantom Thieves – and we are coming.
Her grip tightened, the card bending slightly under the pressure. The word envy burned against her pride, against everything she had sacrificed to make her daughter shine.
“My masterpiece,” she whispered, a faint edge of desperation curling at the edges of her words. “They would steal her from me?”
The fragile mask of calm slipped, just for a heartbeat.
Her hand darted to the hidden compartment beneath the lacquered side table, pulling free a small black phone.
Her thumb found the dial without hesitation.
The blaring of sirens echoed through the endless steel corridors of the Spaceport of Gluttony, a deafening cacophony punctuated by the hiss of pneumatic doors and the rhythmic pounding of mechanical footsteps. Automated defense turrets pivoted with deadly precision, locking onto intruders and opening fire without hesitation. Every corridor was flooded with waves of automatons, relentless and perfectly synchronized.
“Looks like they were expecting us,” Vent muttered, spinning her throwing disk in one hand, the blade catching the pulsing red light of the sirens.
“Let’s not keep them waiting, then,” Noir said, stepping forward, her scythe gleaming as she hefted it into position. Her expression was calm, but her grip was tight—focused.
The automatons surged forward, and Noir dived into them, her scythe slicing clean arcs through metal and wires, each swing leaving a trail of sparks in the air. She moved like she was dancing, like she had been waiting her entire life to burn these chains away.
Panther was right beside her, lashes singed by the heat of her own fire spells as she torched wave after wave, her whip cracking with sharp precision. Aria darted in and out, her yo-yos blurring as she bound enemies in place, striking with swift, elegant kicks that shattered robotic joints.
Vent moved like a shadow, her disk carving through the thinner machines with deadly accuracy, protecting the others’ flanks.
At the rear, Joker orchestrated the battlefield with relentless focus, switching through his Personas with practiced ease—flames, ice, lightning, barriers, instant counters. His tonfas flashed when needed, but it was his command of the flow that kept them moving forward, that kept the automated turrets from ever catching them by surprise.
“Left flank, Aria—two more dropping in!”
“On it!”
“Panther, push right! Vent, intercept the new wave!”
“Already there, Joker!”
The team pressed on, carving their way through the gauntlet until the final reinforced doors loomed ahead. Oracle’s voice crackled through the comms, breathless but exhilarated. “You’ve got this! Treasure Room’s just ahead. But heads up—it’s crowded in there.”
The doors slammed open. Inside, the Treasure Room glowed with an eerie golden light. Seven massive teleporter tubes lined the walls, pulsating ominously. Hulking robots stomped into formation, their cold eyes locking onto the Thieves as they entered.
Floating above it all, perched arrogantly in his mechanical throne, was Shadow Okumura.
“Ah,” he drawled, the synthetic echo of his voice reverberating through the chamber. “You’ve done well to make it this far. Truly impressive. But I’m afraid this is where your journey ends.”
More robots streamed out of the teleporter tubes, flooding the platform. Within moments, the Phantom Thieves were surrounded—caged in by steel and circuitry.
“You’ve shown remarkable persistence,” Okumura continued, steepling his fingers as he reclined in his chair. “But all of you… you’re nothing but disposable parts. Replaceable. Forgettable. Obstacles. And obstacles are to be eliminated.”
Okumura’s smug grin widened as he adjusted the controls on his floating chair, rising a few meters higher to look down on them like insects. “Let’s see how long you last.”
Joker’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his dagger. His voice was low, steady, resolute. “Team. Formation. No matter what, we don’t back down.”
Noir stepped to his side, her scythe poised and ready. Panther cracked her whip with a spark of flame. Vent twirled her disk, lips curling into a sharp grin. Aria planted her feet, yo-yos spinning like twin comets.
“Oracle,” Joker called out.
“I’ve got your backs,” she fired back instantly. “Let’s tear this place apart.”
“Right,” Joker murmured, eyes burning with fierce resolve as he locked onto the smug silhouette of Shadow Okumura. “This ends today.”
The chamber shook with the relentless march of robotic legions. Shadow Okumura barked orders from his floating chair, his voice slick with smugness as more automatons surged from the teleportation tubes and hidden doors.
“Come now! Is that all you’ve got? Don’t disappoint me!” His fingers danced over holographic panels, summoning another wave. “More! Grind them to dust!”
The Phantom Thieves answered with fire and fury.
Noir’s scythe sang as she tore through the advancing machines, carving clean arcs that split steel like paper. Her breath came in sharp, measured bursts, but her strikes never faltered, never slowed. It wasn’t just skill—it was personal.
Panther’s whip lashed out, flames trailing like ribbons as she detonated the fuel lines of the heavier units, sending them crashing into their own ranks.
Vent’s throwing disk ricocheted with pinpoint precision, slicing through exposed joints, felling two enemies in one spinning arc.
Aria weaved between them, her yo-yos binding targets and pulling them off balance, setting them up for crushing finishes from the others.
At the center of it all, Joker held the formation together.
His voice was constant, commanding and razor-sharp. “Buffs up—Panther, take point! Vent, left flank! Noir, on me—rotate out!”
Persona after Persona flashed around him, a kaleidoscope of elemental mastery. Tarukaja, Masukukaja—boosting his team’s strength and speed. Rakunda, Sukunda—crushing the defenses and accuracy of the oncoming hordes. Every movement, every order was deliberate, calculated. He was everywhere at once.
But the waves didn’t stop.
Okumura laughed, his chair spinning in the air as he queued another reinforcement batch. “Oh, what’s wrong? Feeling a little overwhelmed? I can do this all day, you know.”
More teleportation tubes hummed to life. More units stomped into the fray.
The Thieves were holding the line—but barely.
The tide pressed harder.
Okumura’s voice barked over the intercom: “Deploy reinforcement protocols! Send them all!”
Another wave materialized.
“Send them all.”
Another.
More.
More.
Until— Oracle’s voice crackled urgently over the comms. “Joker! I’m reading no more signals! He’s out of bots! There’s nothing left to summon!”
For the first time, Shadow Okumura’s face tightened, the smug confidence slipping for just a heartbeat.
“...Impossible.”
The Thieves seized the moment.
“Push him!” Joker barked, leading the charge toward the elevated platform where Okumura hovered in his ornate space chair. They sprinted across the ruined battlefield, closing the distance, ready to strike.
But as they neared, Okumura threw out his hand—and a shimmering, golden barrier snapped to life around him, crackling with energy. Aria’s yo-yos rebounded uselessly against it.
Okumura’s calm, oily voice returned, laced with something darker. “You didn’t really think I would dirty my hands with you personally, did you?”
A massive mechanical platform hissed to life at his side. And then— Thunk. Hiss. A single figure rose from the chamber: towering, sleek, unmistakable.
Robo-Noir.
Her mechanical face was modeled perfectly after Noir’s, though her eyes glowed an unnatural red. Her battle armor was elegant but cold, painted in Okumura Foods corporate colors, her arm transforming into a multi-barrel missile launcher as she stepped forward.
“Do your duty as the Okumura heir,” Shadow Okumura commanded, his voice sickeningly gentle.
“Protect me. At the cost of your own life.”
Robo-Noir’s mechanical head tilted slightly. “…Understood.”
She fired without hesitation.
The room exploded in a hail of missiles and lasers, forcing the Thieves to dive for cover as debris and fire rained down around them.
Aria dove behind a wrecked automaton, Vent vaulting to cover beside her. Panther rolled out of the blast radius, gritting her teeth as fire erupted behind her. Noir stumbled backward, her scythe shaking slightly in her hands as she stared, wide-eyed, at the warped reflection of herself.
“She’s… me,” Noir whispered, horror and rage twisting in her chest.
“She’s not you,” Joker called out, sharp and steady. He stepped in front of her, his tonfas catching the light as he summoned another Persona. “She’s just another cage your father built.”
Robo-Noir locked on again, cannons charging.
“Regroup!” Joker shouted, his gaze flicking across the battlefield. “We take her down. Together.”
“She’s locking us down!” Vent snarled, rolling to avoid another burst of gunfire.
“We can’t get close like this!” Aria called, sweat clinging to her brow as she darted behind the remains of a downed automaton.
Robo-Noir's relentless assault kept the team constantly moving, constantly defending. No matter how many times they tried to flank her, the automaton pivoted with cold precision, her targeting systems flawless.
Noir’s breaths came fast and shallow, her scythe trembling in her hands. Every missile, every gunshot—it was like she was watching her own twisted shadow tear her friends apart.
“She’s not me,” Noir whispered to herself, then louder: “She’s not me!”
“Focus!” Joker’s voice cut through the chaos. His mind worked furiously as he cycled through Personas, throwing up shields and barriers to block incoming blasts. But they needed an opening.
His gaze flicked across the battlefield, and a plan clicked into place.
“Panther! Aria! On me— I’ll draw her fire!”
Joker surged forward, hurling a tonfa that sparked against Robo-Noir’s chassis.
“Hey! Over here, tin can!” he roared, firing a bolt of ice that shattered harmlessly against her armor. But the bait worked—Robo-Noir’s head jerked toward him, both cannons charging.
“Panther! Aria! Now!”
Panther’s whip lashed out, snagging Robo-Noir’s left wrist. Aria’s yo-yo zipped around the other arm, locking it in place.
“Noir, Vent—finish this!” Joker’s voice thundered across the chamber.
Noir ran, her scythe trailing sparks behind her. She didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t. The blade bit into the joint of Robo-Noir’s right arm, severing it cleanly. The massive cannon clattered to the floor, deactivating with a dying whine.
Vent vaulted into the air, her throwing disc spinning like a buzzsaw as she hurled it with pinpoint precision.
It sliced through Robo-Noir’s neck joint with a metallic screech.
The automaton’s head tumbled across the floor, landing face-up, its eyes flickering weakly as it sputtered broken fragments of pre-programmed speech.
“Protect… father… must… obey… must—”
The voice died in a burst of static.
The battlefield fell silent, save for the sizzling sparks from the destroyed husk.
Above, Shadow Okumura barely spared the fallen robot a glance.
“Hmph. Worthless scrap. Just like the original.”
His voice dripped with disdain as he turned his cold gaze to Noir.
“I should’ve known you’d fail me—both versions of you. You’ve always been soft. A useless investment. A disappointment.”
Something in Noir’s chest cracked, but she didn’t step back. She stood tall, her scythe still dripping oil from the automaton.
The Thieves charged forward as one—but slammed into Okumura’s barrier again, the shimmering field repelling them with brutal force.
“Tsk tsk. Did you think it would be that easy?” Okumura sneered, lazily spinning his floating chair. “You’ll need more than muscle and sentimentality to bring me down.”
“Joker!” Oracle’s voice crackled in his ear, urgency cutting through the frustration. “I just picked something up! That shield—it’s not infinite. It’s draining his resources like crazy every time we hit it.”
Joker’s eyes sharpened immediately. “What’s the weak point?”
“There is no weak point—he’s the weak point!” Oracle’s voice buzzed with excitement. “The shield’s tied directly to his mental stamina. If we keep hammering it—keep forcing him to maintain it—we can drain him out.”
“So… we chip away at it until it breaks?” Vent asked, already spinning her disk again.
“Exactly!” Oracle confirmed. “Keep pressing him. Don’t give him time to breathe.”
Joker’s grin returned—sharp, dangerous. “Then let’s break him.”
The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the university hallway as Shiho and Ryuemi walked side by side, their footsteps slow, their conversation quiet and strained.
"I don’t know if this is a good idea," Shiho admitted, arms crossed, her gaze distant as she stared ahead. "After everything—after the way she dismissed us about Kamoshida, the way she keeps twisting things to make Akira look like the villain…" She trailed off, biting her lip. "I’m not sure she’ll even listen."
Ryuemi’s jaw tightened, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. "Yeah. She’s stubborn as hell. She’s made up her mind about us—about him. I don’t see her changing it because we ask nicely."
They walked in silence for a few moments, the weight of Makoto’s actions and words hanging between them like a stone.
"But…" Ryuemi finally muttered, stopping at the edge of the corridor. She glanced at Shiho, her expression conflicted but firm. "He asked us to do this. He’s counting on us. He… he wouldn’t have asked unless it was important."
Shiho’s heart twisted. She trusted him—more than anyone. "You’re right. He sees something in her. Maybe something she’s forgotten about herself."
Ryuemi exhaled, steadying herself. "Then let’s try. For him."
They navigated the winding corridors until they found her—Makoto, alone at a table in the far corner of the library, her head bent low over a thick criminal justice textbook, oblivious to the world around her. Her pristine posture and furrowed brow were classic Makoto—a fortress of control.
“She hasn’t changed,” Ryuemi muttered under her breath. But there was something in Makoto’s body language—something brittle. Something tired.
Ryuemi paused, fishing a pen from her jacket and snagging a small card from the nearby librarian’s desk. She scribbled something quickly, her handwriting sharp and decisive.
She quickly scrawled something down, her handwriting sharp and slanted. Without another word, she strode toward Makoto’s table, her footsteps deliberate.
Makoto didn’t notice her until the card slid across the table, the faint scratch of paper on wood catching her attention. She looked up just as Ryuemi turned away without a word.
Makoto blinked in surprise, her fingers hovering over the card.
“Ryuemi—” she started to call out, half-rising from her chair.
But Ryuemi didn’t turn back. She walked away, hands jammed into her pockets, joining Shiho at the library entrance.
Makoto’s eyes dropped to the card. She turned it over, reading the short, simple message written in neat, blocky letters:
Rooftop. 15 minutes.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the card. Something about the deliberate calm of it unsettled her, gnawed at her.
She exhaled slowly, slipped the card into her pocket, and began quietly packing her things.
“Shield integrity at 30%!” Oracle’s voice crackled in their ears. “You’ve almost got him!”
Joker, panting and focused, didn’t let up. His eyes flashed as he called on his Personas to hammer the defenses with fire, ice, and curse energy, creating gaps for the others to exploit.
Noir charged, her scythe gleaming, and with a fierce cry, she slammed it directly into the center of the barrier.
The shield shattered in a burst of light and sound.
Shadow Okumura’s eyes widened just as his hand slammed onto a hidden console embedded in the armrest of his throne. The panel beeped ominously.
“Auto-Destruction Sequence Initiated. This facility will self-destruct in 10 minutes.”
The words echoed coldly throughout the chamber, punctuated by the blare of warning sirens and flashing red lights.
The Thieves froze, the weight of the announcement crashing down like ice in their veins.
“Father… what have you done?” Noir gasped, her grip tightening on her scythe.
Shadow Okumura sneered, though his voice trembled. “Damned Thieves… I’d rather die here, now, than live as a broken husk. If you want to save yourselves, run.”
With surprising desperation, he swung his fist at Noir—a pathetic, clumsy strike.
Clang.
Joker’s tonfa intercepted the blow effortlessly.
“Go,” he said softly, not taking his eyes off Okumura. “Grab the Treasure and get out of here.”
The girls hesitated, torn.
“Joker—” Vent started.
“I’ll handle this.” His voice brooked no argument, though his gaze remained calm, resolute. “You’ve done enough. Please… trust me.”
Panther bit her lip but nodded, pulling Aria with her. Vent’s eyes lingered a heartbeat longer before she too turned away.
Noir stood frozen, her breathing ragged as she looked at the crumbling Shadow of her father.
“Will… will he go back to the way he was before?” she whispered, almost too softly to hear.
Joker finally looked at her, and the honesty in his eyes was crushing. “I can’t promise anything,” he said. “But he will understand what he’s done.”
Noir’s throat bobbed as she swallowed the lump rising there. She pressed her palm to her chest, gave a shaky nod, and turned to flee after the others, the Treasure clutched in her arms.
As their footsteps faded, silence reclaimed the chamber, save for the incessant blaring of the countdown.
Joker exhaled slowly, his storm-grey eyes sharpening like drawn steel. His grip on his tonfas tightened.
“Ten minutes…” He cracked his neck, stepping toward the broken Shadow. “That’s plenty.”
Without waiting for a response, he surged forward, his first tonfa strike shattering through Shadow Okumura’s helmet in a brutal arc.
The impact sent the Shadow sprawling, cracks splitting through his form as Okumura gurgled, dazed, the weight of his sins now unavoidable.
Joker didn’t let up.
The rooftop was quiet at this time of day, the hum of distant traffic and the occasional chirp of birds the only sounds filling the space. The breeze tugged gently at loose strands of hair as Makoto Nijima stepped onto the rooftop, her school bag slung stiffly over her shoulder, her expression composed but wary.
She found them waiting—Shiho and Ryuemi leaning against the railing, their eyes unreadable, their silence heavy.
Makoto stopped a few paces away, uncertain but too proud to show it. “…What is this about?” she asked cautiously.
For a moment, neither of them answered. They simply watched her, the weight of the unspoken pressing in like the summer heat.
Then Shiho spoke, her tone steady but edged with something like sadness. “Akira was right. You look like you’re barely holding it together.”
Makoto blinked, taken aback, but before she could form a response, Ryuemi snorted and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “She’s probably just upset she hasn’t been able to get him expelled yet.”
The jab hit hard. Makoto’s eyes widened, the offense clear in the sharp way she straightened her shoulders. “Is this what you called me here for? To mock me?” Her voice was clipped, but there was a tremble beneath the indignation—a crack in the armor.
Ryuemi’s mouth twisted, somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. “Don’t act like you’re the victim here,” she shot back, her gaze hard. “You don’t get to play high-and-mighty right now.”
Shiho’s hand briefly brushed against Ryuemi’s arm, steadying, before she took a step forward.
“We’re here because Akira… for some reason… is worried about you,” Shiho said, her voice soft but firm. “He thinks you’re carrying something you can’t handle alone. He thinks you’re about to lose yourself. And he asked us to be the ones to talk to you.”
Ryuemi jerked her chin toward Shiho, her eyes never leaving Makoto. “Yeah. He thinks we’re the ones who can reach you. I still don’t get why, but…” She shrugged, her stance still defensive. “Here we are.”
Makoto’s jaw clenched. Her heart hammered uncomfortably in her chest. She had expected a confrontation. She had expected to be accused, maybe interrogated. She had not expected this—concern, raw and honest, dressed clumsily in snark and bravado.
She folded her arms, more out of self-protection than actual defiance. “I don’t know what you think you see,” she muttered. “I’m perfectly fine.”
But even to her own ears, the lie sounded thin.
Shiho tilted her head, her gaze softening, but her words landed with precision. “Makoto… you’re not.”
The silence between them stretched taut, but none of them moved to leave.
The Temple of Envy loomed in eerie silence, its grand archways and glowing lanterns casting long, flickering shadows across the polished floors. The air was heavy, almost reverent, as if the entire structure was holding its breath, waiting.
Lotus stood near the entrance, arms loosely crossed, her storm-grey eyes scanning the quiet corridors ahead. Beside her, Kirin was stretching and loosening her legs, her usually calm features drawn taut with nervous energy. Vixen stood just to the side, her gaze distant but alert, the weight of their mission clearly pressing on her shoulders. Lavenza, serene as ever, watched the group with patient curiosity, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.
Then, in the stillness, a ripple of blue light shimmered in the air. A heartbeat later, Joker materialized before them, his hood fluttering gently as the summoning glow faded.
“Joker!” Kirin was the first to break the tension, rushing toward him, her hands hovering just short of grabbing his shoulders. “You’re okay?”
Lotus was close behind, eyes narrowing as she quickly scanned him for any sign of injury. Vixen’s brow furrowed, and even Lavenza’s usual calm seemed to flicker with faint concern.
“I’m fine,” Joker assured them, his voice warm and steady. “The Treasure has been secured. The Spaceport has fallen.”
The weight of those words seemed to lift something from all of them.
“Okumura’s Shadow has already returned to reality,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over them, making sure they understood. “The others are safe.”
The girls relaxed—just a little.
Joker offered a small, crooked smile. “I told you, I’d be here on time. I keep my promises.”
Without another word, he turned and began walking toward the heart of the Temple, his steps sure and deliberate.
“Come on,” he called over his shoulder, the weight of the mission settling on him once more. “Let’s go see the Hostess.”
The doors to the Treasure Room groaned as they swung open, revealing a grand chamber bathed in a soft, amber glow. Incense curled lazily in the air, mingling with the faint hum of pop melodies that played distantly, as if echoing from another lifetime. The space was a surreal fusion—a Heian-era temple garden interwoven with the glitzy decadence of a modern cabaret club. Neon signs flickered alongside traditional paper lanterns, while golden prayer mats were strewn haphazardly across plush velvet club chairs, piled together to form an opulent throne.
Atop it sat the Hostess of Envy.
Mitsuyo Togo’s Shadow was beautiful, poised, resplendent in a modernized oiran outfit—silken fabrics, shimmering jewelry, perfectly styled hair. Her serene, practiced smile radiated control, confidence, and an all-consuming need to be adored.
Her eyes, however, were hollow.
“Well, if it isn’t my darling daughter and her little friends,” she purred, her voice sweet as sake but laced with something venomous underneath. “Have you come to beg me to step aside? Or have you finally come to understand all that I’ve sacrificed… for you?”
The group fanned out slowly, weapons at the ready, but Mitsuyo barely acknowledged them. Her gaze was fixed solely on Kirin, the weight of her obsession laid bare.
“I gave up everything,” Mitsuyo continued, her voice rising with passion. “My fame, my youth, my chance to reclaim the spotlight for myself… all to ensure you would never be forgotten, Hifumi. I made you perfect! I shielded you from obscurity, from mediocrity. I—” her fingers dug into the velvet armrests “—I built you into the icon you are.”
“No,” Kirin said, her voice cutting clean through the chamber.
The Hostess faltered, her smile twitching.
“You didn’t do this for me,” Kirin pressed, stepping forward, her chin lifted, her eyes blazing with painful clarity. “You did it for yourself. You wanted to relive your own fame through me. You wanted to be adored again, to be needed, to bask in the applause, even if it wasn’t for you.”
Mitsuyo’s facade flickered, her hand tightening around a gilded fan. “I—”
“You’re a hypocrite and a liar,” Kirin spat, her voice trembling with long-buried rage. “You called it love. You called it protection. But it was control. You wanted me to shine, as long as you could stand behind me and soak in the light.”
Each word was a blow, stripping away the layers of justifications, of illusions.
“And now… I finally see you for what you really are.”
Her hands clenched into fists, her knuckles whitening as she shifted her weight, her legs tensing, her bladed stilettos gleaming in the flickering neon.
“You’re not my mother. You’re a monster.”
Something snapped.
The Hostess let out a strangled, furious cry as her throne crumbled beneath her. Her elegant oiran form writhed and twisted, her silken garments shredding into tatters as her body distorted grotesquely. Dozens of arms unfurled from her sides, each one clutching a relic of her obsession—a makeup brush, a microphone, a cracked mirror, a whip, a pair of prayer beads, even a rusted trophy.
Her once-beautiful face split unnaturally, revealing rows of jagged teeth behind crimson lips. Her golden eyes burned with rabid desperation. “If you won’t be my masterpiece willingly… I’ll carve it into you by force!”
The High Hostess of Envy—Abyzou—had finally revealed her true form.
Joker spun his tonfas once and stepped forward, his voice low but resolute. “Stay sharp. She’s not going to hold back.”
Lotus’s eyes narrowed, her Persona already flaring to life beside her. “Neither will we.”
With a roar, Abyzou lunged. Her many arms lashed out—some wielded makeup brushes that shimmered with Bless magic, others clutched microphones that pulsed with psychic energy, and still others cracked whips that shimmered with status-inflicting curses.
Kirin’s response was instantaneous—her legs a blur as she launched herself into a spinning kick, the blades on her stilettos gleaming as they sliced into the Shadow’s nearest limb. She landed in a crouch, ready for the next strike, her movements precise, deadly, and sharp.
Joker darted forward, spinning his tonfas with brutal precision as he barked orders.
“Lotus, Vixen—crowd control! Keep the swarms off us!”
“Got it!” Lotus called back, Maid Marian blazing to life to cast Makougaon, scattering Abyzou’s summoned minions.
Tomoe Gozen’s Mabufula froze the ground beneath the swarming Shadows, shards of ice bursting upward and sending the smaller enemies sprawling.
But more just kept coming.
The minions were grotesque—distorted Shadows that wore twisted, idolized versions of Kirin’s old stage costumes: the glittering capes, the too-tight bodices, the exaggerated heels. They swarmed like locusts, whispering in saccharine, mocking voices:
“Be beautiful.”
“Be perfect.”
“You are nothing without me.”
Kirin’s jaw clenched as she danced through their ranks, her bladed stilettos slashing in precise arcs. “I am not your puppet!” she snarled, spinning into a vicious kick that severed three Shadows at once. Maragilao roared from Yuenu’s maw, immolating entire clusters of the false idols.
Joker charged at Abyzou directly, switching to Okuninushi and using Hassou Tobi. Eight slashing waves of energy erupted around him, cleaving through Abyzou’s regenerating limbs just as they reformed. Severed arms toppled to the ground, writhing and dissolving into black smoke, only for Abyzou to snarl and grow them back again.
“You think you can carve me away, piece by piece?” Abyzou hissed, her voice splintering into a dozen overlapping tones. “You’ll never erase me! I am the masterpiece!”
She unleashed a torrent of psychic blasts, forcing Joker to dive behind a collapsed pillar as the ground shattered around him. His breathing was ragged, but he didn’t hesitate—he surged back into the fray, parrying her lashing whip with one tonfa and crushing another regenerating limb with a sweeping strike.
“She’s targeting Joker!” Lotus shouted, summoning Freya and unleashing Maeigaon to thin the swarms pressing in.
“On it!” Vixen called, sliding in to freeze a pack of charging minions before they could close the gap.
Lavenza stood at the rear, her hands glowing as she provided support and tactical insight. “She’s losing control. The limb regeneration is weakening. Strike now, while her focus is split!”
Abyzou shrieked and sent out another status wave—this time imbued with Charm, her many arms twirling in a hypnotic rhythm, her words dripping with saccharine poison. “Be mine. Dance for me.”
Lotus’s legs wobbled, her expression glazing over— until Kirin appeared in a blur, delivering a punishing backflip kick that severed the arm and snapped Lotus out of the effect. “Stay with me!”
Lotus shook her head quickly. “Right. Thanks.”
Kirin didn’t stop moving, her stilettos flashing as she spun through the battlefield, carving her way toward Abyzou with relentless purpose. “You never saw me as a person,” she growled, her breathing heavy but her footing steady. “But I see you now, Mother. And I will end this.”
Joker appeared beside her, briefly meeting her gaze. His voice was low, but there was iron in it.
“You ready?”
“More than.”
Joker surged forward again, Okuninushi flaring to life as he unleashed another Hassou Tobi, tearing through Abyzou’s defenses, each wave of slashes pushing her back. The regenerating limbs flickered, slower to reform now.
Yuenu roared behind Kirin, who took the opening and launched herself into the air, her legs spinning like bladed pinwheels as Agidyne flames crackled around her. She brought her heel down like a guillotine, cleaving through Abyzou’s core.
The Shadow let out a blood-curdling scream, her arms spasming and dropping her beloved relics—one by one, they clattered to the floor and dissolved.
The battlefield finally stilled.
Panting, Kirin landed gracefully, her stilettos clicking softly against the ground. Joker lowered his tonfas, scanning the room as the last of the minions faded into mist. Abyzou collapsed to her knees, her monstrous form flickering, shrinking, until all that remained was the image of a woman desperately clutching at fading memories.
Her voice trembled as she whispered, “But… I just wanted you to be loved…”
Kirin’s chest ached, but her voice remained steady. “I would rather be forgotten than live as your puppet.”
And with that, the Treasure—a golden microphone, polished to perfection—manifested, glowing softly on the pedestal. Joker stepped back, giving Kirin space to claim it. Lotus, Vixen, and Lavenza quietly approached, watching with a mix of concern and relief as Kirin picked up the Treasure and turned back to them.
“It’s over,” Kirin murmured, her voice catching.
Joker met her gaze with quiet pride. “You were incredible.”
She smiled faintly, tears in her eyes but peace finally starting to settle in her chest. “Thank you… all of you.”
“Let’s go home,” Lotus said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Together, they turned and walked out of the crumbling temple, as Mitsuyo Togo’s Shadow shimmered and disappeared behind them.
The apartment was buzzing with life as the Phantom Thieves gradually trickled in, their voices light, their steps weary but satisfied. Victory always carried a sweet aftertaste, but tonight it was richer somehow. The two Palaces were down. Haru and Hifumi had confronted their demons. The Treasures were secured.
They were all safe. Together.
As always, the plan was to reconvene at Akira’s place before heading to Leblanc for their traditional post-Palace feast, but somehow… no one was in any rush to leave. Bags were dropped lazily by the door, jackets slung over chairs, and the familiar, easy rhythm of being together settled into the room like a favorite song. Someone mentioned just having dinner here.
Akira, out of habit, moved toward the kitchen.
Ann caught him before he could even open the fridge. “Sit,” she said, her tone soft but firm, blocking his path with a hand pressed gently to his chest. Her sky-blue eyes glimmered with something that brooked no argument. “Let us handle it.”
Akira blinked, caught off guard. He half-laughed, half-protested. “It’s fine, really. You all must be exhausted from the Palaces—I can—”
“Akira.” Ann’s hand pushed a little harder against him, not enough to hurt, but enough to make him feel it. Her voice didn’t rise, but the weight behind it was undeniable. “You just went through two Palaces. You fought through waves of Shadows. You carried all of us across the finish line. If we’re tired… then you must be doubly tired.”
Akira opened his mouth to push back again—he always did—but the way Ann looked at him made the words crumble before they could form.
“So just for one night…” Ann continued, her fingers curling softly in the fabric of his shirt, “…let us take care of you.”
The apartment had gone quiet. The others had paused mid-conversation, mid-laughter, watching the moment unfold, their expressions open, fond, and quietly resolute.
Akira slowly exhaled, the tension in his shoulders ebbing as he lowered his gaze. “…All right.”
Ann smiled, her whole body relaxing in relief as she released him and turned to the others. “Okay, kitchen team! Let’s go!” There was an immediate, delighted scramble as the girls sprang into motion. Futaba and Hifumi started pulling ingredients from the fridge. Morgane directed traffic with the expertise of a tiny general. Haru and Shiho took over the counters with chopping boards, while Ren and Yukiko gathered drinks and snacks. Kasumi and Ryuemi argued over which pot to use. Lavenza, as always, gracefully inserted herself wherever she was needed, humming softly as she worked.
For once, Akira did what he was told. He sat back, his heart full and his chest aching in that warm, unbearable way that made him feel like he might fall apart if anyone looked too closely.
He didn’t deserve this. Maybe he never would. But for tonight—just tonight—he would let them hold him up.
The apartment was alive with the soft clatter of plates, the sizzling of food, and the easy hum of conversation. The girls had fallen into a rhythm as if they’d always cooked like this together, teasing each other over chopping techniques and seasoning choices, laughter spilling into the small kitchen like sunlight through open windows.
Akira sat quietly, his heart full, watching them with a tenderness he didn’t dare put into words. The table slowly filled with steaming bowls and colorful plates, until the impromptu feast looked almost ceremonial. They ate together, as always, sharing stories, throwing playful jabs, and basking in the kind of closeness that only they could understand.
As the meal wound down, Kasumi set her chopsticks down with a decisive little clack and pointed directly at Akira. “You know,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief, “you still owe Haru and Hifumi a plushie each.”
Akira blinked, caught mid-sip of his coffee. “Huh?”
“That’s right!” Futaba chimed in, grinning wickedly as she lifted her phone. “It’s, like, Phantom Thief law now. You beat their Palace? They get a plushie.”
“A big one,” Haru added softly, but with just enough mischief to make Akira groan.
“Come now, Akira,” Hifumi teased, her usual composure laced with rare playfulness. “Surely you won’t leave Haru and I out of your traditions?”
Akira’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter as he raised his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Akihabara in the morning. I’ll make sure I win the best ones.”
“Good.” Kasumi smirked, then tapped her chin. “Actually—”
“Hey!” Futaba’s head shot up, eyes wide with sudden excitement as she jabbed her phone toward the group. “There’s gonna be a small fireworks festival at the shrine tomorrow night! Just a local one, not too crowded.”
Instantly, the mood shifted—bright, buzzing with excitement.
“A fireworks festival?” Ann’s face lit up. “We have to go! Ooh, we should totally wear yukata!”
The chorus of agreement was immediate and deafening.
“It’s settled then!” Morgane grinned, looking absolutely delighted. “Girls’ shopping trip for yukata tomorrow!”
Yukiko clasped her hands together, clearly already planning matching colors. “We can all get ready together again. It’ll be perfect.”
Akira chuckled, resting his chin on his hand as he watched their plans spiral into a full-day event of shopping, sweets, and photo ops. “Sounds like I’ve got my morning planned with Haru and Hifumi, then. You girls can run wild after that, and we’ll all meet at the shrine in the evening.”
“Deal!” Ann grinned, leaning against his arm. “Get ready, big boy. You’re gonna have your hands full tomorrow.”
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Ren: PolishedPuzzle/ SinGlazed (Codename: Lotus)
Futaba: GlitchGoddess/ PixelPrincess (Codename: Oracle)
Kasumi: ScarletSway/ BendMeBaby (Codename: Aria)
Lavenza: VelvetWhisper/ ButterflyBliss
Haru: ???/ BrewedObedience (Codename: Noir)
Hifumi: ???/ QueenOfHeels (Codename: Kirin)
Chapter 23: The End Is Just Another Beginning
Summary:
Akira demonstrates his uncanny skills with the claw machines
The team enjoys fireworks and flustering Akira
The aftermath of the Change of Hearts - and a little peek into the Society's plans
Akira meets a few familiar faces and begins his journey to healing
A new target appears
Chapter Text
The morning air in Akihabara buzzed with the usual energy—shopkeepers calling out specials, arcades blaring their signature jingles, and early crowds already flocking to the latest tech displays. Akira waited near the station, hands in his pockets, when he spotted Haru and Hifumi approaching. Both girls greeted him with soft smiles, their pace leisurely but their eyes still carrying the weight of everything they'd been through.
“Morning,” Akira greeted, his voice warm as he fell into step beside them.
As they wandered through the electric streets, past the rows of claw machines and gleaming shopfronts, it was Haru who first broke the silence. "My father didn’t come downstairs for dinner last night. He’s locked himself away in his study. The staff said he’s canceled his meetings indefinitely.”
Hifumi followed quietly, her tone subdued. “My mother… she’s stopped answering her phone. Even her manager can’t reach her. She’s pulled out of all her contracts. It’s like she’s vanished.”
Akira exhaled, nodding. “That’s… normal. It happens after a change of heart. They’re confronting their guilt. Sometimes they disappear into themselves for a while. They know what they’ve done, and now they can’t look away from it anymore.”
His gaze shifted between them, steady but serious. “They’ll confess soon. Probably sooner than you’re ready for. And… you should prepare yourselves. Depending on what they admit to, they might face criminal charges. The police could get involved.”
The words hung heavy between them. Hifumi lowered her eyes, and Haru’s fingers curled tighter around her bag strap. But then Haru straightened, lifting her chin with a faint but resolute smile.
“As much as it hurts… actions have consequences,” she said softly, almost like she was steadying herself with the words. “We just need to remember that.”
Hifumi’s quiet nod followed. “We… knew that from the start. It’s just harder to accept when it’s someone close.”
Akira gave each of them a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Whatever happens—you won’t face it alone. I’ll be there. We all will.”
A brief silence settled over them until Haru suddenly pivoted, her eyes gleaming with a spark of mischief. “Now then, you did promise us plushies. I hope you haven’t forgotten.”
Akira blinked. “I didn’t forget. But I thought you might let me off easy.”
“Not a chance.” Haru laced her fingers behind her back, her smile now fully blooming. “You said the biggest and the best. You’ll need to prove your skill.”
Hifumi’s lips quirked in quiet amusement. “Perhaps the legendary Phantom Thief is only that lucky in the Metaverse?”
Akira sighed dramatically. “I see how it is. I’m being challenged now.”
The girls giggled as they dragged him toward the nearest arcade, where rows of claw machines sparkled under fluorescent lights. Akira stepped up to the first machine, his eyes locked on a plump, squishy carrot plushie wedged between two others. Haru watched with bated breath, but Akira’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. He moved the claw precisely, dropped it, and with an almost theatrical smoothness, the claw gripped the plush and delivered it to the prize chute in one flawless attempt.
Haru’s gasp of delight was quickly followed by Hifumi’s, who pointed to the next machine housing a pristine white rabbit. “That one.”
Akira gave a wry grin, stepping to the second machine. First try. Another perfect win.
He handed each of them their plushies—Haru hugging her giant carrot close, her laughter finally light and free, and Hifumi quietly tracing the rabbit’s ears, her smile small but genuine.
“You’re too good at this,” Haru teased.
Akira shrugged. “What can I say? Lucky guy.”
“Fortune seems to follow you,” Hifumi murmured, her voice almost teasing but laced with a quiet gratitude.
As they walked back out into the sunlit streets, Akira glanced at the two girls, their burdens still present but their steps lighter now. Just one left.
Last Night
The quiet hum of the Velvet Room settled around Akira like a weighted blanket, familiar and strangely comforting. He stood before the Wall of Arcana, his eyes tracing over the twelve plaques arranged in a wide circle, each one etched with the symbols of their respective Arcana.
Eleven of them glowed. Some bright, some soft, all connected by thin golden strands that shimmered faintly, threads of connection woven tighter with every step he took.
At the very top, the Strength Arcana still burned the brightest, its light fierce and unshakable. The glowing number beneath it now read 8. It had been there the longest—steady, immovable.
Below it, the Magician, Chariot, Moon, Lovers, Hermit, Fortune, Justice, and Faith all pulsed in brilliant unison, each showing a steady 7. These bonds seemed to breathe with him, alive, warm.
His gaze softened as it landed on the Empress and the Star. Their lights were smaller, fainter, still growing—3 under Empress, 4 under Star— but the connections were there, bright strands of gold binding them to the others. Fresh, but real.
But then his eyes drifted to the High Priestess. The plaque still glowed a deep crimson, its light sharp, fractured, no golden strand reaching toward the rest. The number beneath it remained stuck at 0.
Yet… something had changed. The searing rage that once bled from it had softened, just a little. It no longer pulsed with anger—it throbbed with something else. Desperation, maybe. A silent cry from behind thick walls.
Akira’s hand hovered near the plaque but stopped short of touching it.
“Hang on just a little longer, Makoto. We’re coming for you.”
His throat tightened. His hand fell to his side.
Behind him, soft footsteps approached. “You fret over her still.” Lavenza’s calm voice filled the room, carrying the weight of quiet certainty. She came to stand beside him, folding her hands behind her back. “But the threads you have woven are resilient. She is not as far gone as you fear.”
Akira’s jaw tensed, but he slowly nodded, his eyes tracing the delicate web of light spanning across the Wall.
So many people. So many hearts. His life, once empty, now tangled and brilliant.
Still, the ache lingered. The images he couldn’t unsee. The bonds he hadn’t been able to save.
“Do I even deserve all of this?” he whispered, half to himself.
Lavenza’s smile was small but certain. “One day, perhaps… you will no longer need to ask.”
Akira turned away, his coat rustling softly in the stillness. The weight on his shoulders was lighter than it used to be—but it was still there.
He would carry it. He would keep going. For them.
The walk to the mall was easy, the early summer breeze pleasant against Akira’s skin as he strolled alongside Haru and Hifumi. Their conversation meandered from the plushies they now carried—Hifumi gently cradling her white rabbit, Haru cheerfully swinging her squishy carrot—to the upcoming fireworks festival that had everyone buzzing.
As they approached the entrance to the mall, they spotted the others already waiting near the fountain. Ann was the first to wave them over, her usual beaming smile in place. Kasumi and Futaba flanked her, with Ryuemi and Shiho standing just behind, deep in conversation about some new sneaker drop. Morgane leaned casually against the railing, her arms crossed, while Yukiko and Ren browsed a store display nearby. Lavenza, perched primly on the edge of the fountain, glanced up as they arrived, her pale golden eyes sparkling with excitement.
“You’re right on time,” Ren said, straightening with a small, approving nod. “Seven p.m. at the shrine?”
Akira confirmed with a warm, “Yeah, meet there just before the fireworks start.”
“Don’t be late,” Ryuemi added, nudging him with a playful smirk. “You don’t want us sending a search party for you.”
Akira chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Got it. Have fun, you guys.”
As the girls dove headfirst into their shopping adventure, Akira quietly excused himself, leaving them to the inevitable chaos. It didn’t take long.
The group scattered through the yukata shops, weaving between fabric stands, mannequin displays, and shelves stacked high with accessories. Laughter echoed as they held up different colors, textures, and patterns to one another, debating styles with mock seriousness.
Morgane paused in front of a rack of dark floral yukatas, tilting her head as if trying to decipher them like a puzzle. “Is… this one appropriate? Or am I going to accidentally dress like a funeral guest?”
Yukiko gently took the yukata from her hands, smiling softly. “You’ll be fine. Come on, let’s find something that suits you.”
Hifumi chimed in with a thoughtful hum. “If you want something that feels a little more modern, we could try something with bolder colors. I think you could pull it off.”
Morgane gave a faint, almost bashful nod, her usual sharp edges softened by the care in their voices.
Nearby, Ryuemi and Futaba were each teetering awkwardly in a pair of trial geta sandals, clinging to each other for balance as they attempted to walk a straight line.
“How are these so hard to walk in?!” Ryuemi groaned, nearly stumbling into a display rack.
“It’s like they were invented to kill me specifically,” Futaba grumbled, her arms flailing for balance before Shiho calmly caught her and set her upright again.
“I think you just need to tighten the straps,” Shiho offered, biting back a laugh.
Further down, Lavenza was engrossed in choosing the perfect pattern, her fingers delicately running over fabrics until she spotted a pale blue yukata adorned with intricate butterflies. Her eyes lit up instantly.
“This one,” she said with certainty, holding it up with both hands. “It must be this one.”
Ann, meanwhile, was locked in a low-stakes battle with the fitting mirror, frowning at her reflection as she adjusted the yukata’s folds for the fifth time. “Why won’t it sit right?” she huffed, tugging at the fabric over her chest. “It’s like it’s either choking me or slipping off!”
“I know the feeling,” Haru sighed from the next stall over, her own yukata caught in the same eternal struggle. “Blessings and curses, I suppose.”
Kasumi, Ren, and Yukiko all burst into laughter, offering suggestions from outside the changing area, while Morgane poked her head around the corner to call out, “Maybe you two need custom fittings—like structural support, y’know?”
Ann stuck her tongue out at her. “Ha ha. Very funny.”
Piece by piece, accessory by accessory, the girls completed their ensembles—hairpins, obi sashes, sandals, delicate drawstring purses. The playful bickering, the shared compliments, and the infectious energy made the hours fly by.
When their shopping bags could hold no more, they finally decided to retreat to Ann’s apartment—conveniently close to the shrine and roomy enough for them to hang out and get ready together without stepping on each other’s toes.
As they walked out of the mall, the late afternoon sun filtered through the windows, painting their path in warm gold. “Let’s relax for a bit when we get to my place,” Ann said, glancing at them all with a grin. “Then we can help each other get ready. Tonight’s gonna be perfect.”
Futaba, still limping from her geta mishap, raised a fist. “It’s gonna be epic!”
The late summer sky was already starting to blush into soft shades of pink and gold by the time the girls gathered at the shrine. The air buzzed with the chatter of festival-goers, the tempting aroma of yakisoba and candied apples wafting through the bustling stalls. Lanterns bobbed gently in the evening breeze, their warm light dancing across the worn stone paths.
They had arrived a few minutes early, their yukatas a kaleidoscope of carefully chosen colors and patterns.
Ann’s yukata was a vibrant scarlet with delicate white lilies trailing along the hem and sleeves. She had styled her hair in loose waves, a cluster of small white flowers pinned to one side, adding an effortless, teasing charm to her usual brightness.
Ryuemi had gone for bold contrasts—a dark indigo yukata patterned with silver cranes in flight, cinched with a crimson obi that popped against the deep blue. Her hair was tied in a loose, tousled bun, strands deliberately escaping to frame her face.
Shiho wore soft lavender with pale hydrangea blossoms. Her obi was a subtle silver-gray, and a simple braided cord tied her hair back in a half-ponytail, swaying softly as she moved.
Yukiko looked classically elegant in her dark maroon yukata, adorned with gold and white plum blossoms. She wore a traditional bun, but a single gold hairpin with a dangling charm glimmered at the side, catching the light when she turned her head.
Morgane had surprised everyone by choosing a charcoal-gray yukata with a subtle pattern of silver camellias, pairing it with a pale blue obi. Yukiko and Hifumi had helped her select it, and though Morgane pretended to be indifferent, the way she occasionally smoothed the fabric betrayed her quiet pride.
Kasumi’s yukata was soft pink with swirling patterns of white and gold sakura petals, the color perfectly complementing her red hair, which she had styled into a side braid.
Futaba had gone for a seafoam green yukata with tiny pixel-style flowers stitched into the fabric—a nod to her gamer heart—paired with a bright orange obi. She fidgeted a little, not quite used to the formality, but her friends’ excitement kept her grounded.
Ren’s yukata was a delicate blend of pink and white fabric adorned with elegant lotus flower designs that trailed gracefully along the hem and sleeves. Her caramel-colored hair had been partially pinned up to reveal the nape of her neck, with a few loose strands framing her face.
Haru’s yukata was a dreamy sky blue, patterned with white peonies and hints of gold embroidery that shimmered faintly when she moved. Her hair was swept up into an elegant braided bun, her usual curls carefully arranged to frame her face.
Hifumi chose a deep sapphire yukata adorned with pale lotus flowers, her look refined yet quietly striking. She had tied her hair into a smooth bun at the nape of her neck, secured with silver pins, echoing her measured, composed aura.
Lavenza’s yukata was pale blue with a delicate spread of butterflies across the fabric, exactly as she had wanted. Her hair was worn loose but tucked behind her ears, framing her small, serene smile.
As they milled about near the entrance of the shrine, they were all scanning the crowd, eyes subtly searching for the one person who hadn’t yet arrived.
“He’s late,” Futaba grumbled, adjusting her obi again. “Watch him just show up with yakisoba in his mouth like nothing’s wrong.”
“I don’t think he’d dare,” Morgane muttered, crossing her arms.
Ren chuckled softly. “You’d be surprised.”
Then Yukiko’s eyes sharpened, and she straightened slightly, tugging on Ann’s sleeve. “There he is.”
They all turned at once.
Walking towards them, weaving effortlessly through the festival crowd, was Akira.
His yukata was a sleek black with understated crimson waves near the hem and sleeves—elegant, sharp, and quietly commanding. The deep red sash at his waist was tied with precise formality, and he walked in geta like he’d done so his whole life. His usually unruly hair had been tamed, swept back and styled so that his storm-gray eyes were fully visible, intense and clear.
It was like something out of a movie. Even the crowd seemed to part around him.
Ann’s breath caught, and she lightly pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh… wow…”
“He cleans up good,” Ryuemi muttered, suddenly finding the ground extremely interesting.
“Of course he does,” Shiho whispered, a soft blush warming her cheeks.
Kasumi blinked, then nudged Haru with a knowing grin. “I did say he’d look amazing in a yukata, didn’t I?”
Haru giggled, her earlier nervousness melting into quiet excitement. “You did.”
Futaba, for all her bravado, could only manage a wide-eyed stare. “That’s… not fair. How can he look that good without even trying?”
Lavenza, watching Akira approach, simply smiled as if she’d seen this coming all along.
When Akira finally reached them, he slowed, offering them all a lopsided, slightly self-conscious smile as he adjusted the small paper bag in his hand.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, his voice warm. “I ran into a stubborn yakisoba vendor.”
Ann finally snapped out of her daze. “You actually did get yakisoba?” she deadpanned.
Akira’s smile widened as he held up the bag in his hand. “Figured we’d need a snack before the fireworks.”
The girls all laughed, the slight tension in the air dissolving like mist.
The shrine grounds were alive with soft lantern light, the murmur of the gathered crowd, and the mouth-watering scent of street food wafting through the evening air. The festival was smaller than the ones in summer, but that only made it feel more intimate, like they’d stumbled into their own secret world.
The Phantom Thieves moved through the bustling rows of stalls, chatting and laughing in a loose, easy cluster.
Ryuemi and Futaba made a beeline for the yakisoba stand. The two quickly devolved into a heated argument about whether sauce yakisoba or salt yakisoba was superior, which ended with both of them ordering their own plates and challenging each other to a “noodle showdown” that neither would truly win.
Yukiko and Morgane browsed the delicate fans and hair ornaments, Yukiko helping Morgane—who still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of traditional customs—choose an elegant kanzashi to match her charcoal yukata.
Ann and Shiho lingered at the goldfish scooping stall, both utterly determined to win. “The trick is not to get excited,” Shiho said seriously, squatting with laser focus as she steadied her paper scooper. “You gotta be patient.”
Ann smirked, scooping two in one go. “Like this?”
Shiho’s eye twitched. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
Meanwhile, Haru and Hifumi gravitated toward the candied fruit stand, happily sharing a stick of candied grapes while they window-shopped, their matching plushies clutched protectively in their arms.
Throughout it all, Akira wandered alongside them, occasionally peeling away to buy snacks for the group or idly challenging festival games—where, of course, his unnervingly good luck won every time. He passed out his winnings without hesitation: a tiny cat keychain to Morgane, a goldfish plushie to Futaba, a pretty folding fan to Yukiko, and a small pouch of rabbit charms to Ren.
Ann nudged him at one point, pouting playfully. “You never win anything for me.”
“You wanted yakisoba, so I brought yakisoba,” Akira said with a faint smirk, not noticing the girls trading pointed looks behind him.
Futaba sighed theatrically as they strolled toward the shrine’s small overlook. “Seriously, how is he this oblivious? It’s almost a talent.”
Kasumi giggled, lacing her hands behind her back. “I think he knows… I just don’t think he knows what to do about it.”
“Or he’s still doesn’t want to believe it,” Ren murmured, watching Akira as he walked ahead.
The girls lingered around him throughout the night, each taking turns pulling him toward different stalls, linking arms with him, stealing bites of his snacks, offering him sips of their drinks, brushing against him just a little too deliberately to be casual.
Each time, Akira smiled, utterly at ease, but never quite reacting in the way they hoped.
It was both maddening and—if they were being honest—kind of endearing.
As the fireworks finally began, they all gathered near the riverbank. The girls sat close, their shoulders pressed together, their laughter mixing with the distant sounds of fireworks popping in the sky.
As the fireworks bloomed overhead, Ren suddenly clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling. “We need selfies. Lots of them.”
“Yes!” Futaba chimed in, already fishing her phone out. “Festival selfies or it didn’t happen!”
It didn’t take much convincing before the girls had gathered around the shrine’s main path, the vibrant yukatas, glittering hair ornaments, and the shimmering fireworks overhead making for the perfect backdrop.
At first, the photos were innocent enough—group shots with everyone flashing peace signs, laughing as they tried to squeeze everyone into the frame.
But then the mood… shifted.
“Okay, now individual selfies with Akira!” Ann grinned wickedly, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Come on, it’s tradition.”
“It is?” Akira asked, caught off-guard.
“It is now,” Ren chimed, already stepping forward.
The first few pictures were innocent enough. Morgane’s pose was demure, Yukiko’s was sweet and a little shy as she leaned her head against his shoulder. Futaba threw up peace signs with her usual mischievous grin, and Kasumi clung to his arm with a bright, blushing smile. Shiho gave him a playful bump with her hip, making him stumble a step to the side in the middle of their shot. Ryuemi and Lavenza’s photos were also more relaxed—genuine, full of laughter, with Lavenza insisting they each wear one of her butterfly hairpins for the shot.
Then it was Ann’s turn.
She draped herself over Akira’s arm, pressing her chest against him with deliberate slowness, tilting her head so her cheek brushed his. “Smile for me, Joker,” she purred, snapping a photo as Akira’s ears turned a vivid red. She sauntered back to the group with a triumphant smirk.
Ren was next, grinning as she confidently looped her arms around Akira’s neck, pulling him down to her height so their cheeks were nearly touching. “You don’t get to look this good and not pay a price,” she whispered teasingly before taking the picture, her hand brushing just a little too low against his chest as she stepped away.
Haru’s picture was back to something sweeter—until she leaned in and quietly said, "You’re the reason I can smile like this again," just as the shutter went off. Her soft sincerity hit him harder than any of Ann or Ren’s teasing.
Akira was still recovering from that when Hifumi approached.
She said nothing as she positioned herself beside him. But then—slowly, intentionally—she slid her hand up his arm, coming to rest gently on his shoulder. She looked up at him with soft, smoldering eyes, her usually reserved expression slipping into something far more daring, far more aware.
The fireworks flared overhead as she captured the moment.
When she moved away, her thumb brushed lightly against his jaw—a barely-there caress—and she turned away without a word.
Akira stood there, completely still, his heart pounding and his mind struggling to recalibrate.
The girls gathered together again, each checking their photos, whispering and giggling amongst themselves.
“He’s completely rattled,” Ann whispered to Ren.
“I know,” Ren giggled, covering her mouth with her sleeve.
“I didn’t think Hifumi would go that bold,” Yukiko added softly.
“She’s learning,” Morgane smirked.
“Learning well,” Futaba grinned, snapping more candid shots of the group.
A week passed in a whirlwind of smaller missions and steady progress through the depths of Mementos. The Phantom Thieves had taken on a string of requests from the PhanQuest message board—bullying rings, workplace exploitation, blackmailers, petty tyrants. Each victory felt sharper, more precise now, as Haru and Hifumi fully found their rhythm within the team.
Haru’s scythe no longer wavered in her hands. She swung with elegance and conviction, dismantling shadows with surgical grace. Hifumi’s kicks, once unsure, now tore through enemies with the speed and precision of a master tactician. Together, they were no longer the ones who needed to be shielded—they had become vital members of the Phantom Thieves.
Still, the inevitable loomed.
When the press conference finally arrived, it dominated the national broadcasts. Every major outlet covered it live, and social media burned with anticipation.
Mitsuyo Togo sat alone at the long press table, her carefully painted face stark under the relentless camera lights. Gone was the effortless poise she once wore like a second skin. Instead, she looked... exposed. Small.
Her voice, however, was steady.
With measured calm, she confessed everything.
The bribed officials. The manipulated sponsors. The paid-off journalists. The rigged matches. The suffocating control she wielded over her daughter’s life. Every sordid detail of her obsession with perfection and public adoration was laid bare. She described, without flinching, how she had twisted Hifumi’s image into her own second chance, forcing her into photo shoots, sexualized wardrobes, exhausting PR schedules, and the smiling cage of the Venus of Shogi.
“I loved my daughter,” Mitsuyo’s voice cracked, briefly. “But I loved the spotlight more.”
The room remained silent, the weight of her confession suffocating.
The camera panned to the side, revealing Hifumi sitting among the rows of reporters and officials. Dressed simply, her hair tied back, she radiated a quiet but unmistakable strength. She rose with grace, walked steadily to the microphone.
The clicks of cameras sounded deafening.
Hifumi met the press with calm eyes. “I want to thank you for listening to my mother’s truth,” she began, her voice carrying through the hushed hall. “But now, it’s time for mine.”
She spoke of her love for shogi—how it had once been a sacred bond between her and her late father. A space of discipline, artistry, and strategy that had nothing to do with fame. She spoke of the crushing weight of expectation, the alienation from herself, and the deep ache of not knowing where her mother’s ambitions ended and her own desires began.
“My victories were not mine. My image was not mine. Even the clothes I wore, the words I spoke... were not mine.”
She glanced down at the glossy white heels she had worn to the conference—a cruel symbol of her fabricated image.
“Which is why,” she said, reaching down to unfasten them and stepping barefoot onto the stage floor, “I am hanging up the heels that have been my shackles.”
She bowed, deeply, her hands pressed to her sides.
“I am officially retiring from shogi.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd, but Hifumi straightened, her spine unbowed.
“I will find who I am, away from the boards, away from the cameras, away from all of this.”
Her final words echoed with quiet finality.
“And next time I stand before the world… it will be as myself.”
The press conference dissolved into frenzied questions, but Hifumi had already turned away, walking off the stage barefoot, her steps light—free.
The second press conference came swiftly after the first, though its tone was heavier, the public’s anger more palpable. Kunikazu Okumura, once the proud CEO of Okumura Foods, now sat under the scorching glare of countless cameras, his once-impeccable suit hanging awkwardly on his frame. He looked smaller somehow, as though his power had already begun to crumble around him.
When he began to speak, there was no grand flourish, no attempt to salvage his image.
“I stand before you today as a man who has lost his way,” he said, his voice flat but steady. “I built Okumura Foods on the foundation my father left me—a foundation of honor, of dignity, of nourishing both the body and the soul.”
He lifted his gaze briefly, as if searching for a piece of the man he used to be.
“But somewhere along the way, I let that dream rot. I pushed for automation, cut costs, turned a blind eye to suffering. I dismissed the pleas of my employees, drove them to exhaustion, allowed unsafe practices to flourish—all because I convinced myself that the ends justified the means.”
The room remained silent, except for the relentless clicking of cameras.
“I exploited people. I treated them as numbers, as tools. I used my wife’s memory, my grief, as an excuse to justify the cruel choices I made. And worst of all—” his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, “—I tried to sacrifice my own daughter for the sake of corporate stability.”
He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out the marriage contract with Shohei Sugimura. His hands trembled as he held it aloft.
“I signed this, knowing full well it would rob my daughter of her freedom. I told myself it was for the company, that it was for her protection. But the truth is—I was afraid of losing everything. I was afraid of losing her.”
The cameras captured the moment perfectly as he slowly, deliberately, tore the contract in half.
“Haru is free,” he said quietly, but the words struck like thunder. “She is no longer bound to this arrangement. She will live her life on her own terms.”
He placed the torn contract on the podium, then continued.
“Effective immediately, I am relinquishing control of Okumura Foods. From this day forward, Haru Okumura is the sole owner and president of this company. I trust she will restore it to the honorable institution it was meant to be.”
As security officers approached to escort him away, the camera panned to Haru standing calmly at the side of the stage. She wore a perfectly tailored navy-blue business suit with subtle gold accents, her usual softness now sharpened into quiet authority.
She stepped forward, her heels clicking confidently against the floor as she took the microphone.
“I am young. I am still learning. But I have inherited not just this company, but the mistakes that came with it. I will not turn away from them.” Her voice was steady, firm. “I will do everything in my power to restore Okumura Foods—not into a machine that chews people up, but into a company that honors its employees, its customers, and the ideals it once stood for.”
Her gaze drifted to her father, who was watching her with tired, almost bittersweet pride as the officers took their positions at his side.
“I have faith in the future. And in myself.”
She stepped away from the podium, her composure never faltering. But as she neared her father, she briefly paused, and—without a word—wrapped her arms around him in a brief but heartfelt embrace.
Kunikazu closed his eyes as if absorbing something long lost.
When they parted, he gave her a small, grateful nod before turning himself over to the authorities, walking away with surprising calm.
In the shadowy confines of a private boardroom in Azabu, the air was thick with tension. Four men sat around a gleaming mahogany table, the only source of light coming from the large TV mounted on the far wall, which had just finished airing a re-run of Kunikazu Okumura’s press conference from a few hours before.
Masayoshi Shido’s jaw was clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might shatter. His fist slammed down on the remote, cutting the screen to black. The force of the blow rattled the silver pen resting by his notes.
“That’s two more,” he snarled, his voice dangerously low. “Madarame… and now Togo and Okumura. What the fuck is going on? Who the fuck are these Phantom Thieves?”
Across the table, Takuto Maruki reclined comfortably in his chair, unfazed by Shido’s simmering rage. He removed his glasses and casually polished the lenses on his sleeve before slipping them back on with an almost languid ease.
“Calm yourself, Masa,” Maruki said softly, his tone irritatingly serene. “Whoever they are, whatever they are… it doesn’t matter. What matters is that now we know for certain they exist. That these… changes of heart… are not random.”
He steepled his fingers, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s just a matter of time before we find them. Besides…” His gaze flicked toward the bank of monitors lining the wall. “They’re providing us with such good vessels.”
Shido followed his gaze as another screen flickered to life—a live feed from a sterile laboratory, its walls glimmering with harsh fluorescent lights. On the screen, orderlies in white coats carefully wheeled in two gurneys.
On them lay the unconscious, heavily sedated forms of Kunikazu Okumura and Mitsuyo Togo.
Silently, the orderlies transferred each of them into separate containment chambers, carefully hooking them up to a web of tubes and machines that beeped steadily as they activated.
As the camera panned across the lab, two other chambers came into view.
One held Suguru Kamoshida.
The other, Ichiryusai Madarame.
Maruki’s smile widened faintly, his glasses reflecting the cold glow of the monitors.
Shido, recovering his composure, leaned back in his chair, a cruel smirk spreading across his face as he adjusts his orange-tinted glasses. “The Benefactor will be pleased.”
A few hours later, in a modest bachelor apartment tucked away on the quieter outskirts of Ginza, Hikigaeru Kobayakawa sat hunched over his coffee table, a half-empty glass of scotch trembling in his hand. The air in the room was stifling, heavy with the sharp tang of alcohol and the sweat clinging to his skin.
The television was off, but the images replayed relentlessly in his mind—the sight of three of his former co-conspirators, and his one-time enforcer, now reduced to lab specimens. Kamoshida. Madarame. Togo. Okumura. Their sedated bodies sealed inside containment chambers, their fates left in the cold, clinical hands of that snake, Dr. Maruki.
Kobayakawa swallowed thickly, the scotch burning on its way down, but it did nothing to steady him. Despite what most people believed about him, he wasn’t a complete idiot. He could see the threads now, how the pieces were starting to align.
The Phantom Thieves had emerged just as Amamiya joined Shujin. Their first target had been Kamoshida. And three of Kamoshida’s victims? They were still circling around Amamiya. They were close. Too close.
His grip tightened on the glass, the ice clinking sharply against the sides. It all fit. The timing. It was too perfect to be mere coincidence. But… it was all circumstantial. Nothing he could take to Shido. Nothing that would save his own skin if this went south.
Not yet.
He needed proof.
Cold, undeniable proof.
And he would get it. He had to. Because if he didn’t—if he failed—he would end up just like the others. Trapped in one of those tubes, or worse.
Kobayakawa glanced nervously at his burner phone lying face-down on the table.
He needed to move quickly. Before the Thieves struck again. Before his name ended up on one of those damned Calling Cards.
And deep in his gut, he knew—his time was running out.
The mood in Akira’s apartment was light for once, a soft hum of conversation and laughter weaving through the room as the team sprawled comfortably across the mismatched couches and floor cushions.
The television played quietly in the background, the sound muted, but the images from the press conferences continued to loop. Mitsuyo Togo’s cold, clinical confession. Kunikazu Okumura’s somber declaration. Then Hifumi, standing with calm, unshakable grace, delivering her retirement speech, her voice a memory now as the footage replayed her final act: slipping off her pristine white heels and walking away barefoot, free at last.
Ann’s gaze drifted from the screen to the silver stilettos Hifumi had kicked off by Akira’s door earlier. A teasing smile tugged at her lips. “Hey, Hifumi…” she murmured, her voice warm with playful affection as she leaned towards her. “You made such a show of stepping away from those heels… and yet… those over there aren’t exactly trainers.”
Hifumi didn’t even try to hide the mischievous twinkle in her eye as she followed Ann’s glance to the shoes in question. She shrugged, a hint of defiant pride in her posture. “I discovered I actually like wearing them,” she admitted, her lips curling into a small, self-assured smile. “But because I want to. Not because I’m forced to.”
Ann’s grin widened, her eyes sparkling with approval. “You, me. Mall. Tomorrow afternoon?”
Hifumi’s answering nod was immediate, her smile softening into something almost conspiratorial. “Absolutely.”
Across the room, Haru and Futaba sat side by side on the floor, Futaba’s laptop perched on her crossed legs. The screen glowed faintly as they scrolled through a corporate profile.
“Hmmm… him. Souji Takakura,” Futaba murmured, tapping the screen. “Background checks are clean, no shady deals. He worked with your grandpa back in the day, and from what I can dig up, he’s actually one of the few left in the company who still believes in the original Okumura Foods mission.”
Haru leaned in, thoughtful, her chin resting lightly on her hand. “Yes… I think we’ve found our new acting general manager.”
Futaba grinned, bumping her shoulder gently against Haru’s. “He’s got the credentials, the loyalty, and no skeletons in the closet. A unicorn in the corporate world.”
Haru smiled, her expression warm but resolute. “That’s exactly what we need right now.”
The sound of quiet conversation and the occasional clink of mugs filled the room as the Thieves continued to relax, their bonds deepening with each shared glance, each teasing remark. They had been through so much, but here, in this room, they found something worth fighting for.
Something worth living for.
Director Kobayakawa sat hunched at his desk, sweat gathering at his temples and soaking into the collar of his ill-fitting suit. The suffocating weight of recent events pressed down on him—the collapse of his allies, the rise of the Phantom Thieves, the gnawing suspicion that they were closer than anyone realized. His trembling hands fidgeted with the edge of a folder as his pulse thundered in his ears.
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter," he rasped, struggling to smooth his features into something resembling authority.
The door creaked open, and Makoto Niijima stepped inside, as composed and poised as ever. Her student council badge glinted in the morning light.
"You requested to see me, Director Kobayakawa?" she asked, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity.
"Ah, Niijima-chan. Yes, indeed." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Please, sit."
Makoto obeyed, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
Kobayakawa opened a drawer and pulled something out—a worn, slightly crumpled calling card. The signature crimson and black design still held an unsettling weight, even months after its appearance. He slid it across the desk toward her.
"Do you recognize this?" His voice was too casual, but his eyes were sharp, watching her reaction closely.
Makoto's gaze dropped to the card, her expression betraying a flicker of something—regret, guilt, maybe even the faintest trace of longing. She knew this card. Everyone at Shujin did. The catalyst. The first domino to fall. The Phantom Thieves had exposed Suguru Kamoshida for what he was, setting in motion a chain of events that had fractured the very foundation of her beliefs.
"Yes, I recognize it," she said stiffly, carefully neutral.
Kobayakawa steepled his fingers, leaning forward just slightly. "I believe these… Phantom Thieves… are part of the Shujin student body." His tone dropped, conspiratorial now. "You’ve always been sharp, Niijima-chan. Diligent. I want you to investigate this. Discreetly, of course. Keep an eye on your classmates. Look into the unusual… friendships. Report back to me with anything suspicious."
Makoto’s spine remained straight, but inside, something twisted. She already suspected. She already knew—or was coming closer to knowing. But she bowed her head slightly, keeping her thoughts private for now.
"Understood, Director Kobayakawa. I’ll begin my investigation immediately."
"Excellent. I trust you'll handle this with your usual precision."
As Makoto left his office, the weight of the calling card still heavy in her mind, Kobayakawa leaned back in his chair and exhaled shakily. It’s just a matter of time now, he told himself. I’ll find them. And when I do…
For once, Akira Amamiya found himself alone.
It was strange. Ever since the Phantom Thieves had formed this time around, moments like these—unclaimed, unscheduled, quiet—had become rare. The girls were scattered across Tokyo today, each caught up in their own slice of life. Hifumi and Ann were off at the mall, no doubt knee-deep in shoes and clothes. Morgane, Ren, and Yukiko had disappeared with Haru, probably indulging in one of her elaborate tea parties. Ryuemi, Shiho, and Kasumi were pushing each other at the gym, training like their lives depended on it. Futaba was holding Lavenza hostage in front of the TV, introducing the Velvet Attendant to what Akira could only pray was not an unholy catalogue of the gremlin’s most degenerate anime selections.
Probably fine… hopefully?
It felt surreal, wandering the vibrant streets of Shinjuku alone. No buzzing group chat, no mission, no one tugging at his sleeve to join them for food or shopping. Just the soft hum of the city and the rhythmic click of his footsteps on the pavement.
That’s when he saw it. He’d almost walked straight past it.
A small, clean storefront tucked between a ramen shop and a dusty bookstore. The sign above the door was plain, almost modest.
C. Mifune — Therapist.
Akira stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the sign like it had told him a talking orange was trying to take over the world.
"Wait, what?" he blinked, frowning slightly. Chihaya? A therapist?
In the last timeline, she’d been a fortune teller, entangled in the schemes of a fraudulent cult. He remembered helping her find her freedom, her agency. But here…?
Something deep inside him—maybe a gentle push from his Personas, maybe something older, more instinctual—nudged him forward. His heart gave a small, inexplicable lurch.
Go in.
Why? he argued with himself. We’re not Confidants in this timeline. She probably doesn’t even know me.
So what? It would still be nice to see an old friend.
Akira glanced at the door. No harm, I suppose.
Before he could overthink it, he reached for the handle and stepped inside.
The inside of Chihaya’s office was… exactly what he should have expected.
Soft, welcoming pastels on the walls, a plush couch, and the subtle scent of lavender diffusing through the air—classic therapist’s office touches. But then there were the little details. A beautifully arranged set of tarot cards on the coffee table. Shelves lined with crystals, some glowing faintly under strategically placed lights. A weathered brass incense burner, its embers cold for now but ready at a moment’s notice. A modest shikishi board by the desk with elegant calligraphy: “Fate is but the wind; the sail is yours to set.”
Akira’s grin tugged lazily at his lips as he took it all in.
“Yeah,” he murmured to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but this is definitely Chihaya’s space.”
Somewhere in the depths of his soul, he could feel Arsène’s low, rumbling chuckle. Even Satanael seemed amused, the weight of the rebel’s amusement settling in Akira’s chest like a phantom hand on his shoulder.
He stepped up to the unmanned welcome desk, absently tracing a finger over a smooth amethyst paperweight when he heard the soft click of a door opening.
And there she was.
Chihaya Mifune, unchanged. The same warm, curious eyes. The same flowing blonde hair and soft, calming presence. She wore a cream blouse and a dark skirt, simple but elegant, with a few faint traces of incense clinging to her.
She glanced up from her clipboard and smiled as she approached. “Hi there. You don’t look like one of my regulars. Do you have an appointment?”
Her voice still carried the faintest trace of an Okinawan accent, carefully masked but unmistakable to someone who had heard her speak before.
Akira’s grin widened. “No, sorry. Do you take walk-ins? I don’t mind waiting, or I can come back another time if I need to book.”
Chihaya tilted her head, glancing at her watch. “Normally, I don’t… but my next appointment just cancelled, so I have a free thirty minutes.”
She gestured toward the open door of her consulting room. “Shall we?”
“Lead the way,” Akira said, his heart strangely lighter as he followed her inside.
Chihaya’s consulting room was cozy, with plush chairs angled toward each other and a small round table set between them. A delicate ceramic teapot sat on a tray nearby, still steaming faintly. It was quiet, warm, and welcoming—an oasis carved out from the relentless pulse of Shinjuku.
As Akira settled into the chair, Chihaya crossed her legs and folded her hands neatly on her lap, studying him with a practiced, curious gaze.
“So,” she began, her tone light but professional, “I should mention that I tend to… mix in a little of my old trade with my therapy sessions.”
Akira arched a brow, intrigued. “Fortune-telling?”
Chihaya smiled softly, nodding. “I’ve found it helps people open up. Sometimes the subconscious needs symbols, stories—something to give shape to what’s weighing us down. The cards don’t control fate, but they help people see the threads they’ve been avoiding.”
Akira leaned back, resting his ankle over his knee, lips curving into a faint grin. “Sounds like you’ve come to terms with your gifts.”
“Therapist by day, fortune-teller by night,” she joked lightly. “But they’re not so different, you know. Both help people find direction.”
His grin widened. “I’ve dabbled in fate myself. Threads, connections… it’s funny how they always seem to loop back to the same people.”
Chihaya’s eyes sparkled, sensing the weight behind his words but choosing—for now—not to pry.
“Would you like a reading? Just for fun?”
Akira shrugged. “Sure. Let’s see if you can pull something interesting.”
She shuffled the deck with expert hands, the soft whisper of card edges filling the room. Her movements were smooth, confident—a practiced rhythm that brought back memories of another life.
“Let’s start with three cards. Past, present, and future. Draw them when you’re ready.”
Akira reached out and selected his cards without hesitation.
Chihaya turned over the first one.
The Tower. Reversed.
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Your past… You’ve witnessed calamity. Not just misfortune—something shattering. Something that upended everything you knew. You survived it, but the scars… they’re deep, aren’t they?”
Akira’s grin didn’t waver, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
She flipped the second card.
The High Priestess. Reversed.
Chihaya’s lips parted slightly, her gaze sharpening. “Your present… You’ve sealed something away. Your heart, perhaps. There’s a wall—thick and high—meant to keep you safe, but it also keeps you isolated. You’re going through the motions, but you’re not really living, are you?”
Akira’s hands tightened briefly on his knees, but he said nothing.
“And your future…”
She turned the last card.
The Wheel of Fortune. Upright.
Chihaya exhaled softly. “Your path ahead is dangerous. There are turning points coming, fateful choices that could reshape everything again. But… if you allow yourself to truly live—to feel, to connect—you’ll have the strength to face it. The wheel turns, and fortune favors those who move with it, not those who hide from it.”
Akira let out a low whistle. “That’s a pretty loaded reading for a walk-in.”
Chihaya gave him a knowing smile. “Fate tends to find those it’s most entangled with.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling softly. “Yeah… sounds about right.”
Chihaya’s gaze softened. “You don’t have to talk about it now. But maybe… don’t wait too long before you start talking to someone about it.”
Akira’s smile this time was smaller, a little sad, but genuine. “Thanks, Mifune-san. I’m glad I stopped by.”
“Me too.”
The rest of Akira’s session with Chihaya was pleasant, the conversation drifting into lighter topics—music, Shinjuku’s ever-changing landscape, even a little playful banter about the accuracy of horoscopes. It didn’t fix anything, not really, but as Akira stepped out of her office and into the cool evening air, he did feel a little less… weighted. Like he could breathe a fraction easier.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and strolled down the familiar streets, weaving past blinking neon signs and small ramen joints with lines already forming outside. His gaze drifted lazily across the shop fronts until it caught on a sign that made him stop and grin.
Crossroads.
He hadn’t been here since the first timeline, since those long, complicated nights spent swapping favors with Ohya. He remembered Lala Escargot fondly—her easygoing warmth, her dry humor, and the way she’d always said, “Come back when you’re old enough, darling.”
“Well,” Akira murmured to himself, lips quirking as he approached the entrance, “I guess I’m old enough now. Not the same Lala… but maybe it’s time I took her up on that offer.”
The low hum of conversation and the soft clink of glasses greeted him as he stepped inside. The air was thick with the familiar scent of cigarette smoke, perfume, and something sweet—probably from whatever fruity cocktail was trending that week.
And there behind the bar, wiping down a glass with a practiced flourish, stood Lala Escargot in all her glamorous, cross-dressing glory—different timeline, but somehow exactly as he remembered. Her makeup was flawless, her kimono a vibrant crimson tonight, and the same teasing glimmer sparkled in her eyes when she noticed him.
“Well, well. A new face.” Her voice was warm, lilting, unmistakable. “What can I get you, sweetheart?”
Akira smiled easily, sliding onto a barstool. “An Asahi Super Dry, please.”
Lala’s brow lifted in pleasant surprise. “Oh, going straight for the beer, huh? I thought someone like you would’ve gone for something with a little more flair.”
“Maybe next round.” His grin softened. “It’s been a long week.”
“Well, sit tight. Let’s fix that.”
As Lala turned to pour his drink, Akira leaned against the bar, already feeling the comfort of familiar places, even if this version of them wasn’t quite the same.
The drinks had crept up on him—smooth, easy, one after another until Akira felt a pleasant, golden buzz humming through his limbs. His cheeks were flushed, his storm-grey eyes soft, his usual iron-clad restraint just a little looser tonight. He leaned against the polished bar, propping his chin on his hand as he talked, words slipping from him like a dam finally giving way.
“They’re all just… incredible, you know?” He sighed, the warmth in his chest twisting painfully now. “Ann’s like… the sun. Just bright and fierce and gorgeous. But not untouchable. She makes you feel like you could stand in the sun with her and not get burned.”
Lala poured him another drink with a quiet hum of understanding, settling into her usual rhythm when dealing with lovesick patrons. She didn’t interrupt, just let him ride the current of his own emotions.
“And Ren,” Akira continued, a soft, crooked smile curling his lips. “She’s sugar and fire. She’s… she’s a hurricane with the sweetest laugh. And Morgane—sharp as hell but so kind underneath. And Haru, gods, Haru is all softness and steel, like she could crush you or cradle you, and either would feel like a blessing.”
“And then there’s Yukiko,” he mumbled, a soft, almost drunken awe in his voice. “She’s so… graceful. Like, she doesn’t even try—she just is. And she’s got this quiet strength, y’know? Like you could lean on her, and she’d carry the whole damn world if she had to.”
He let out a breathy, self-deprecating chuckle. “And Hifumi… you wouldn’t think it, right? But she’s got this quiet fire in her, like this unshakeable grace. She’s… she’s incredible.”
Lala poured him another drink without asking. “You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you?”
Akira groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “That’s the problem. I… I don’t want to choose. I can’t choose. I love them all. Ann, Ren, Futaba, Shiho, Ryuemi, Kasumi, Haru, Hifumi, Yukiko, Morgane…” He let the names tumble out like a litany, each one laced with affection, each one wrapping around his heart like a chain. “They're all… They're everything to me. I don’t wanna lose any of them.”
“Love’s a beautiful thing, sweetheart,” Lala said gently, refilling his glass, “but you can’t keep locking that up inside. Feelings aren’t meant to be bottled up and drunk away.”
Akira let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “Bottled up and drunk away… that’s a good one.” He lifted his drink in a silent toast before knocking it back. “But it’s easier this way. If I don’t say anything, I don’t risk breaking this… this thing we have.”
Lala arched a perfectly drawn brow. “You think they don’t already know?”
That stopped him.
“You seem good at hiding things, sugar, but nobody is that good, despite what they might think.” She smiled, warm but firm. “So, be honest with yourself first… then be honest with them. You owe them that much.”
Akira didn’t answer. His fingers idly circled the rim of the glass, his mind looping back over the same guilt, the same self-loathing, like a needle stuck in the groove of a broken record. After a moment, he sighed and pulled a thick wad of yen from his pocket, placing it carefully on the counter. “Drinks on me until that runs out.”
Lala blinked. “Hey—wait, that’s way too much—”
But Akira was already slipping off the barstool, a little unsteady on his feet but still carrying himself with that lazy, irreverent charm. He shot her a crooked grin, his storm-grey eyes soft and grateful.
“Thanks, Lala.”
Before she could protest further, he turned and walked out into the neon-drenched night, hands in his pockets, whistling softly to himself, the words be honest lingering in his mind.
Chapter 24: Interlude -ASK THE PHANTOM THIEVES ANYTHING - Part 1
Summary:
:) Finally managed to get the AMA chapter I promised to look somewhat decent
Shout-out to SloppyFadge (aka SiriusSensei), gameliy, Skinny, PA2, NuclearBrit, Vein Bloodborne, GalacticGhost77 and everyone else who sent me questions either here or through discord. Since I wasn't able to get to all of them here, I will eventually be compiling them all into Character files which I will upload as a companion piece to the fic). For now, enjoy a day in the life of the Thieves ;)PS - I've split this into two parts - the spicier questions are in the second part.
Chapter Text
Golden light seeps through the thin curtains, painting slow-moving shadows across a mass of tangled limbs and tousled hair. The loft bed is crowded — a collection of bodies nestled together like kittens in a sunbeam.
Soft breathing. Someone stirs.
Ryuemi: (groggy) ...is it Sunday?
Morgane: (muffled from under a pillow) Don’t care. Warm. Staying here forever.
A low chuckle escapes from somewhere near the center — Akira, tousle-haired and half-buried under a pile of silk, cotton, and bare legs, shifts carefully. He’s wearing nothing but tight black boxer briefs, his torso marked with faint scratch lines and love bites.
Akira: If we stay here forever, nobody gets coffee.
That gets a few groans and one soft gasp of betrayal.
Makoto: (barely awake)...you drive a hard bargain.
He slowly, gently extracts himself from the pile — Kasumi half-rolls with him, then flops back down face-first. Ann, loosely draped in one of his old button-downs and absolutely nothing else, lets out a sleepy sigh as he brushes a kiss to her temple before slipping away.
The coffee machine hums in the background, and a kettle whistles softly on the stove. Akira stands at the counter, barefoot, shirtless, muscles flexing subtly as he moves. He wears nothing but a pair of snug, dark boxer-briefs and a quiet, content smile. He moves with practiced ease—grinding beans, pouring water, arranging mismatched mugs in a neat line.
One by one, the girls begin to trickle in.
Ann is first—barefoot, her legs bare under one of Akira’s oversized, well-worn button-down shirts. She pads over with a yawn and wraps her arms around his waist from behind. “Morning, babe.”
Akira turns and greets her with a slow kiss, handing her a caramel latte just the way she likes it. She grins and heads for the den, shirt just long enough to cover her as she walks away.
Next is Futaba in a graphic tee featuring Mecha-Mishy and micro shorts that vanish under its hem. Her striped thigh-high socks are slightly lopsided. “**Yawn** Coffeeeeee meeee.”
Akira kisses the top of her head, hands her a cinnamon-dusted hazelnut blend, and she salutes him on her way out.
Yukiko glides in with a serene smile, her elegant robe cinched at the waist. “Good morning, Akira-kun.” She bows slightly, graceful even when sleepy. “Thank you as always.”
She accepts her perfectly brewed black pour-over and trails after the others.
Morgane, Haru, and Ren enter together, silk and shimmer, sheer robes slipping and clinging as they move like a trio of dreamy ghosts. Each receives a kiss—on the lips for Morgane and Haru, a playful peck to the neck for Ren—and their preferred brews.
Shiho comes in next, hair tousled, clad in a high-cut teddie that hugs her toned figure. She bumps hips with Akira and grins.
Shiho: You're really out here being husband to twelve girls, huh?
Akira: I multitask well.
They share a kiss, she gets her dark roast, and she's gone.
Ryuemi saunters in wearing a dangerously loose vest and cotton shorts that ride low on her hips. The sideboob is real, and Akira raises a brow appreciatively.
Akira: That top’s hanging on by sheer willpower.
Ryemi: So am I until I get caffeine.
He rewards her with a deep kiss and her aggressively strong iced coffee.
Kasumi tiptoes in barefoot, her cami riding up slightly as she reaches for her mug. Akira cups her face gently before handing it over. She beams and practically skips away.
Makoto stumbles in, yawning, wearing a partially buttoned Buchimaru pajama set and fuzzy panda slippers. Her hair is wild and her eyes half-lidded. “Mm. Morning.”
Akira chuckles and places her coffee—just the way she likes it, extra cream, one sugar—into her hands. She takes a grateful sip and offers a lazy, crooked smile before following the others.
Hifumi glides in like a dream, her sheer nuisette clinging to her softly. She closes her eyes as Akira presses a kiss to her temple and slides a delicate porcelain cup into her hand.
Finally, Lavenza appears, small and ethereal in a fairy print nightdress that just kisses the tops of her thighs, ankle socks soft against the floor. She blinks up at Akira, who leans down with a reverent gentleness to kiss her brow. “Your tea, milady.”
Lavenza (blinking sleepily as she kisses Akira’s jaw): My hero.
The kotatsu is out. A blanket nest has formed. Pillows are thrown everywhere. The room glows with warm light from soft lamps and the window haze of morning sun. The girls lounge in various poses — Shiho sprawled across Morgane’s lap, Yukiko braiding Haru’s hair, Ren with her legs folded under her and Kasumi leaning against her shoulder. Lavenza has curled up cross-legged beside the projector setup, scrolling the mousepad. Futaba finishes plugging in the final cable.
Futaba: All right, lazybones. The people of the Internet have questions. We, the beautiful, the feared, the deeply undercaffeinated, are gonna answer.
She taps a key. The projector flicks on, illuminating the wall with the AMA title screen:
✦ ASK THE PHANTOM THIEVES ANYTHING ✦
Live from The Den: Unfiltered, Unhinged, and Definitely Underdressed.
Makoto: (groans, half-laughing) You named the session that?
Futaba: Damn right I did.
Akira walks in with the last mug for himself, finally settling into the kotatsu at the center of the group. A dozen sleepy, playful, wicked smiles turn his way.
Ann: (grinning) Okay, leader. First question's coming up.
Ren: (grinning) Try not to break the Internet.
Q1: How much time do each of you spend on makeup in the morning?
Ann: (grinning, proud) An hour. Non-negotiable. Beauty is war, and I’m winning.
Futaba: (snorts) Ten minutes, tops. Usually just eyeliner. And if I have to go out? Chapstick and vibes.
Hifumi: (smiles primly) Forty-five minutes. Presentation is part of strategy.
Ren: (soft laugh) About thirty? Sometimes more if I’m feeling like making Akira suffer waiting.
Makoto: Twenty minutes, if I’m not rushing out the door.
Ryuemi: Fifteen. But if my skin’s being weird, I’ll say screw it and wear a mask.
Kasumi: (blushing slightly) About twenty-five minutes? I like it simple, but clean.
Shiho: (stretching) Fifteen. I got lazy in high school, but I’ve got it down to a science now.
Yukiko: Thirty minutes. It’s part of my morning meditation.
Morgane: (blowing on her nails) Thirty-five. That includes detangling all this hair, so it’s basically survival.
Haru: Twenty. Ten for makeup, ten to make my hair not look like a fluff explosion.
Lavenza: I require no makeup. (beat) Though sometimes I like glittery lip balm and eyeliner.
Q2: If you could change your hair color, what would you pick?
Ann: I’d go lavender. Like, full-on pastel fairy princess mode.
Futaba: ...Holographic. I want to look like a JRPG boss fight.
Hifumi: (touches her hair) Deep navy blue. Elegant, mysterious. Like Yukiko.
Ren: A wicked cherry red. Like “burn the patriarchy” red.
Makoto: Dark purple. Something subtle but unusual.
Ryuemi: Platinum blonde. Just to see how chaotic I could look.
Kasumi: Rose gold. Soft and shiny.
Shiho: Ice blue. Just once. Let people underestimate me and regret it.
Yukiko: Raven black with a silver streak. Classic. It seems like Hifumi and I wish to swap hair.
Morgane: Emerald green. I’d look like a couture poison ivy.
Haru: Peach. Just peach. I’d be adorable.
Lavenza: (dreamily) Stardust white, with tiny constellations hidden in the strands.
Q3: Who was your first crush?
Ann: This boy in kindergarten who gave me his pudding cup. But real crush? Probably Shiho. She was (and still is) so cool.
Futaba: Link from Ocarina of Time. Don’t judge me. Hero of Time? Hot.
Hifumi: A shogi player named Tendo. I lost to him once when I was nine, and he told me I was brilliant. I obsessed for months.
Ren: My kendo senpai. She was tall, quiet, and terrifying. I wanted her to step on me before I even knew what that meant.
Makoto: A literature tutor I had in middle school. Very refined. Very...nice hands. Strong.
Shiho: Oh, easy. The lead singer of this punk band I used to follow. She had a mohawk and didn’t wear a bra on stage.
Kasumi: (quietly) ...A rhythmic gymnast at Nationals. I didn’t understand why I was so mesmerized, but... yeah.
Ryuemi: A lifeguard at my old swim club. He was sweet. Kinda dumb, but sweet.
Yukiko: One of the boys at Madarame’s shack. We were six. He gave me a rice ball and I thought we were engaged.
Morgane: Lady Amalthea from The Last Unicorn. I cried for a week.
Haru: My violin teacher. He had long fingers and called me “petite chérie.” I was gone.
Lavenza: (smiling softly) Akira. I did not know what “crush” meant until I looked into his soul. And felt warm.
Q4: If you could get a piercing anywhere, no pain, no healing time, where would it be?
Ann: Nipple. I’ve wanted to for ages.
Futaba: Eyebrow. Just enough edge to make Boomers uncomfortable.
Hifumi: (coolly) Tongue. For... strategic reasons.
Ren: (smirks) Corset piercing down my back. Temporary. Gorgeous.
Makoto: (blushing) I always thought a hip piercing would be interesting…
Ryuemi: Oh, inner thigh. Scandalous and secret.
Kasumi: Belly button. Cute, right?
Shiho: Already have one there. So maybe... back of the neck?
Yukiko: Helix, triple-stacked. I like the symmetry.
Morgane: One on my thigh, near the hem of my shorts. Like a naughty little secret.
Haru: (mischievous) Underboob. Just because I can.
Lavenza: (after deep thought) Tiny star gem, inner wrist. To mark my anchor to this world.
Q5: If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be?
Ann: No more body shaming. Like ever. People deserve to feel good in their skin.
Futaba: Everyone gets free mental health care, and cats are legally in charge of the government.
Hifumi: I’d remove the obsession with winning. Let people just play.
Ren: No more violence against women. Zero tolerance.
Makoto: Real justice reform. Burn the old system and start over.
Ryuemi: End corporate slavery. Give people time to live.
Kasumi: I wish kids never had to feel afraid at home.
Shiho: Sexual abuse gets punished. Always. No more looking the other way.
Yukiko: Respect for the elderly. So many are just...discarded. It’s shameful.
Morgane: A world where dreams don’t get crushed for being impractical.
Haru: Food security for everyone. No one should ever go to bed hungry.
Lavenza: I would bind power to kindness, so the cruel may never rise.
Q6: What superpower would you want?
Ann: Shapeshifting. Clothes? Hair? Gender? I’d slay all forms.
Futaba: Techno-kinesis. I want to become the WiFi.
Hifumi: Probability manipulation. Like “what are the odds I win this dice roll?” Answer: 100%.
Ren: Reality warping. Imagine the chaos.
Makoto: Perfect memory. I’d master every subject.
Ryuemi: Super strength. Like, punch-a-train strength.
Kasumi: Aerial grace. Flight with dancer control.
Shiho: Healing. For others, mostly.
Yukiko: Time stop — for when I need a moment.
Morgane: Illusions. Glamour magic. To enchant the world.
Haru: Plant command. I could do so much with that.
Lavenza: Dreamwalking. To wander the minds of others gently.
Q7: If you had to pick one, what animal would you be?
Ann: Fox. Gorgeous, sly, and a little unpredictable.
Futaba: Ferret. I’m chaos in a tube.
Hifumi: Snow leopard. Elegant but fierce.
Ren: Black panther. Obvious reasons.
Makoto: Owl. Always watching.
Ryuemi: Wolf. Pack animal with bite.
Kasumi: Deer. Graceful...but don’t corner me.
Shiho: Lynx. Quiet, dangerous, fast.
Yukiko: Crane. Classic beauty, traditional.
Morgane: Peacock. Fabulous or deadly? Trick question — both.
Haru: Rabbit. Soft, but deceptively fast and strong.
Lavenza: Moth. Drawn to the soul’s quiet light.
Futaba: (grinning at the screen) That was most of the group ones. Now we have some targeted ones.
Ann: We’re gonna be here all day.
Makoto: (sipping coffee) I don’t mind. This is kind of... lovely.
Akira leans back into the kotatsu, letting the warmth of the morning and their voices wash over him.
Akira: Good. Let’s keep going.
Futaba: All right, we’ve got a spotlight set coming up. Ann-tagonist, you’re up.
Ann: (laughs) Please never call me that again.
Makoto: You know she will.
Futaba: Ann-Tagonist: The Final Strut. Coming this fall.
Ann: (rolls eyes fondly) Okay, okay, hit me.
QUESTION 1: Ann, what is your favorite outfit?
Ann: Ooooh, that’s hard. I love fashion too much to pick just one.
She pauses, tapping her mug against her lower lip in thought.
Ann: Okay — real answer? There's this black velvet mini dress with long sleeves and a deep V cut. I wore it on our anniversary date. Paired it with thigh-high boots, gold hoops, and no bra. Very effective.
Akira hides a smirk behind his mug. Several girls cough meaningfully.
Ren: It was extremely effective.
Ann: (grinning proudly) Knew it.
QUESTION 2: Who did you get your good looks from?
Ann: My mom, 100%. She’s Swedish-American and worked as a fashion assistant in Paris for a few years. Absolute stunner.
Yukiko: (smiling) You have her eyes. And her cheekbones.
Ann: Right? I keep her old modeling headshots in my room. She taught me how to walk in heels and take no crap from casting directors.
Morgane: So that’s where you got the strut and the sass.
Ann: (grinning) Born with it. Perfected it.
QUESTION 3: What was, in your opinion, your best photo taken?
Ann: (leans back, humming) There’s a black-and-white editorial I did for CURE:Tokyo. No makeup, wet hair, oversized blazer. Just… me. Raw, vulnerable, fierce.
Kasumi: I remember that one! You looked so powerful.
Ann: Thanks, baby. It was shot after we took down The Fat Man, actually. I was still furious. You can see it in my eyes. The photographer said, “Don’t pose. Just exist.” And something clicked.
Shiho: You looked like a storm. And not the kind you hide from.
Ann reaches over and squeezes Shiho’s hand softly.
Ann: That means everything, coming from you.
Futaba: All right, Lady Panther has officially slain us all. Who’s next for the spotlight?
Makoto: (smiling) Just try not to accidentally start a fashion cult in the comments.
Ann: No promises.
Futaba: And now, for our resident menace. Morgane, you’re on deck.
Morgane: (sipping her coffee with dramatic elegance) Ah, at last. The world is ready for me.
Shiho: (snorts) You were born ready for attention.
Morgane: And adored for it. Proceed.
QUESTION 1: Morgane, why the catgirl aesthetics?
Morgane: (smirks) Because cats are perfect. Obviously.
The room chuckles. Morgane rolls her eyes in a fond, theatrical way, drawing her sheer robe tighter around her shoulders.
Morgane: I’ve always loved cats. They’re clever, independent, sensual, and unapologetically themselves. Everything I aspire to be. And Catwoman? Always my favorite heroine. Stylish, deadly, morally flexible. Leather, heels, and no patience for anyone’s nonsense.
Haru: (teasing) So you just decided to be her, huh?
Morgane: Exactly. With better hair.
Futaba: Can confirm. You are 89% cat, 11% chaos.
Morgane: And 100% irresistible.
QUESTION 2: What was your first experience as a Metaverse user?
Morgane pauses for a beat, face going soft — a rare look of nostalgia pulling at her usually sharp expression.
Morgane: I’ve known about it since I was little. My Aunt Lisa — she’d visit us in Quebec from Yokohama sometimes. She used to tell me bedtime stories about ‘worlds that reflect the heart.’ At the time, I thought they were just fairy tales.
Ren: But they weren’t, were they?
Morgane: Not even a little. Turns out, she was part of something very real. It wasn’t until I moved to Tokyo that I actually found it — by accident. Or maybe fate.
Makoto: That was Kamoshida’s Palace, wasn’t it?
Morgane nods.
Morgane: His twisted castle. I’d heard rumors and followed them. Slipped in, unnoticed — three times. Just to watch. Just to understand. But the fourth time... I wasn’t so lucky.
Ryuemi: (softly) We found her chained in the gymnasium dungeon.
Akira: (quietly) And we didn’t leave without her.
Morgane: (smiling faintly) You two didn’t even hesitate. I was bruised, terrified… and you still looked at me like I was someone worth saving. That moment? That’s when I knew. I was never going to be a bystander again.
Kasumi: (softly) That’s when you became one of us.
Morgane: No — that’s when I chose to become me.
Futaba: Okay. Okay. That was way more emotional than I expected. We’re all crying and in silk robes. This is ridiculous.
Morgane: (smiling smugly) I aim to devastate.
Ann: You’ve succeeded.
Futaba: All right, people — brace yourselves. It’s time for the queen of elegance and emotional damage. Yukiko’s turn.
Yukiko: (smiling) I promise I’ll keep the tears and metaphors to a minimum.
Ann: Please don’t. I live for your poetic devastation.
Hifumi: She's going to make everyone fall in love again, isn’t she?
Morgane: Again? Darling, I never stopped.
QUESTION 1: Yukiko, what was your lightest weight as a young adult?
A hush falls. Yukiko's expression shifts — not ashamed, but quiet. Resolved.
Yukiko: At my lightest, I weighed 120 pounds. I’m 5’11”. That was during my time with Madarame.
Her voice stays level, though her fingers tighten around her mug.
Yukiko: I was painting nonstop, barely sleeping, barely eating. He’d say the hunger “sharpened the lines.” That pain made the brush more honest. I thought suffering was the price of greatness.
Makoto: (softly) It’s not.
Yukiko: (nodding) I know that now. Akira reminded me that art can come from joy, too. That being fed, being loved, doesn’t make your work less meaningful. It just makes you strong enough to finish it.
A long moment of quiet, then a round of soft nods and hands brushing gently against hers.
QUESTION 2: Is there a scenario you want to paint Akira or one of the girls in specifically?
Yukiko: (a slow smile spreading) Oh yes. So many.
Ann: (grinning) That look is dangerous.
Yukiko: I want to paint Akira the moment after battle. Shirt half torn, blood on his knuckles, the light catching the tension in his jaw… but with our lipstick on his collar. The line between danger and surrender.
Several girls visibly shiver. Akira nearly chokes on his coffee.
Yukiko: And I’d paint Ren and Hifumi — one of them undoing the other’s corset ribbons in half-light. It wouldn’t be explicit. Just silk, flushed skin, and a sense of breathless stillness. The quiet before the fall.
Kasumi: (blushing hard) I—I think I stopped breathing?
Morgane: Write that down. Write that DOWN.
QUESTION 3: What genre of painting do you love most after traditional Japanese art?
Yukiko: Symbolist painting. Artists like Gustav Klimt and Odilon Redon. Their work feels like myth — not realism, but emotional truth. Layers of symbolism, golden halos, dream logic. I love hiding secrets in the corners of my canvases.
Futaba: Your studio is like walking into a cathedral and a fever dream at the same time. It rules.
QUESTION 4: Would you ever create a doujinshi of the polycule?
Yukiko: I already have. Two volumes. One emotional. One… not.
Ann: You WHAT?!
Yukiko: (smiling sweetly) Bound, illustrated, watercoloured. There’s even a bonus chapter featuring a bathhouse scene with Hifumi and Makoto.
Makoto: (horrified blushing noises)
Hifumi: (deadpan) I would like a copy.
Yukiko: Of course. There’s a waitlist.
Futaba: How do you make something that’s simultaneously tender, horny, and award-winning?
Morgane: It’s Yukiko. That’s literally her brand.
Futaba: And with that, we’re all emotionally compromised and aroused. Thanks, Yukiko.
Yukiko: (bowing gracefully) My pleasure.
Futaba: OH HOHOHO. Okay. Everyone shut up. It’s time. You have no idea how ready I am.
Ren: I don’t think we even started talking yet.
Futaba: Ssshhshhsh. The data demands silence.
QUESTION: Futaba, what is your personal Game of the Year for each of the past ten years?
Futaba clears her throat and pulls up a second screen. A clean, minimalist list appears projected on the wall, complete with logos and dramatic flair.
2014 –
Transistor
"Stunning visuals, a killer soundtrack by Darren Korb, and a battle system that let me plan ten steps ahead while still feeling like a boss hacker. Plus, Red? Bisexual awakening, ten out of ten."
2015 –
The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt
"Geralt of Rivia: the sad monster dad I never knew I needed. The world was massive, the writing was god-tier, and don’t even get me started on Gwent."
2016 –
Overwatch
"Okay yeah, it fell apart later, but the first year? Peak. Everyone I knew was obsessed. I mained Zenyatta, obviously. Tranquility and passive aggression."
2017 –
Persona 5
A slow turn. Every single girl just stares at her.
Futaba: (grinning like a gremlin) What? It slaps. Killer UI, fantastic music, incredible team dynamic, life-changing waifus...
Ann: You are in love with us, huh?
Futaba: You knew what you were signing up for.
2018 –
Celeste
"Tight platforming, emotional storytelling, trans protagonist, and a banger soundtrack. I cried, I screamed, I got so good at dashing. Inspirational and brutal."
2019 –
Fire Emblem: Three Houses
"I romanced the hell out of Edelgard. Also, teaching a class of murder teens while secretly preparing them to destroy each other in five years? Iconic. Also: tea time."
Ryuemi: You gave everyone a nickname and matched them to our team, didn’t you?
Futaba: You’re Dimitri with better fashion.
2020 –
Hades
"Hades gave me everything. Speed. Style. Trauma. Daddy issues. Plus Zagreus is hot, Thanatos is hotter, and every time Dusa said hi I melted."
2021 –
NieR Replicant ver.1.22474487139…
"Yoko Taro is a mad genius and I will never recover from this game. The music, the despair, the fourth wall breaks, the WORDS. Emil supremacy."
2022 –
Elden Ring
"Open-world perfection. I made a mage who only wore rags and summoned skeletons to do all the work while I rolled away screaming. 10/10, would die to Malenia again."
Hifumi: You made the Tree Sentinel a shogi piece.
Futaba: No one expects Rook, First of the Golden Order.
2023 –
Baldur’s Gate 3
"Peak bisexual chaos. Peak party banter. Peak bear sex. I romanced Shadowheart, then Karlach, then somehow both. Critical success on life."
Kasumi: (giggling) You named your Tav after Akira.
Futaba: And I stand by it.
2024 – Liminal Hearts
Indie visual novel. Zero marketing. Absolute emotional wrecking ball. Nonlinear grief story with code-breaking puzzles. I backed it, modded it, cried over it, and married three NPCs. Game of the year. No contest.
Futaba: All right, folks — everyone sit up straight. Our resident Velvet sugarplum has the floor.
Makoto: (half-teasing) Should we light candles?
Lavenza: (giggling) Only if they’re scented like ink and moonlight.
QUESTION 1: Do Velvet Room Attendants have the power to shift their physical appearance at will, considering you turned physically older a bit ago?
Lavenza sits with her legs folded neatly beneath her, sipping her tea with both hands.
Lavenza: Usually, no. Attendants are eternal and ageless — we are made to serve the Velvet Room in forms that remain unchanged through time. We are the memory between dreams, the silence between clock ticks.
Ann: (softly) That’s... beautiful.
Lavenza: (smiling) Thank you. But… there are rare exceptions.
She glances over at Akira, who’s still tucked under the kotatsu, quietly watching her with that patient, unreadable gaze he saves only for the people he loves.
Lavenza: If an Attendant becomes deeply, truly close to a Guest — and if that closeness is mutual, earned through choice and care — then a shift may occur. We take on a form more resonant with the heart of the one we cherish. A form they see us as most truly.
Shiho: (gently) So you became… older, because of Akira?
Lavenza: (nodding) He saw me not as a child to protect, but as a partner. A soul equal to his own. And in return… I grew into what he believed I could be.
Ren: (softly) That’s… kind of magical.
Lavenza: Of all the Attendants, only myself… and my eldest sister Elizabeth… have ever done so.
QUESTION 2: Who’s your favorite and least favorite out of your siblings?
Lavenza: (instantly) Favorite: Theodore. He’s gentle, soft-spoken, and always offers me tea when I visit his corner of the Velvet Room. He even knitted me a tiny Persona plush once.
Futaba: WAIT, WHAT?
Lavenza: A Queen Mab. She rattles when shaken.
Ann: That’s adorable.
Yukiko: And your least favorite?
Lavenza: (sighing) Elizabeth.
The room gasps, mock-scandalized.
Haru: The famous Elizabeth? The one who blew up that elevator once?
Lavenza: (grimly) She keeps trying to prank me with Slimes. And once, she filled my room with fifty Jack Frost plushies that shouted “HEE-HO!” every time I moved.
Morgane: (choking with laughter) That’s horrible.
Lavenza: Luckily… I have access to Akira’s full Compendium.
She smiles sweetly — and something shifts behind her eyes. Soft light, but with very sharp edges.
Lavenza: He has some very scary Personas. Ones that are very protective of me.
Akira: (deadpan) Margaret told me that she nearly summoned Alice during an argument – and mine is innately stronger than the one Elizabeth has access to.
Morgane: (grinning) That’s our girl.
Lavenza: (serenely) My sisters may be older, but I am not defenseless.
Futaba: Honestly? Icon behavior.
Futaba: That was… oddly comforting and threatening at the same time.
Makoto: She’s Lavenza. That’s her entire vibe.
Lavenza: (smiling warmly) I learned from the best.
Futaba: Up next — it’s our favourite leggy queen of silent thirst: Hifumi.
Ann: (teasing) Place your bets on how long before she makes one of us blush.
Hifumi: (deadpan) As soon as I open my mouth.
Morgane: God help us all.
QUESTION: Hifumi, who gives the best foot massages — and how often do you need them, considering you only ever wear high heels?
Hifumi crosses one long leg over the other, her sheer nuisette catching the low morning light. She considers the question calmly, then speaks with that same soft, measured cadence that makes people lean in.
Hifumi: Well… it’s become something of a ritual now. Every night, after training or a mission. Like taking off your armor. Setting the weight down. Letting someone touch you where you’re most sore — and trust that they’ll treat it gently.
Makoto: (quietly) That’s… really lovely, actually.
Hifumi: (nodding) Akira’s the most consistent. He knows where the tension builds, and his hands are steady. Yukiko’s are cool and precise — she always knows the exact pressure point to release. And Ren’s massages aren’t just relief — they’re slow, melting. Like she’s sculpting the pain out of me.
Futaba: (whispering) This is way hotter than I expected.
Shiho: Same.
Ann: (grinning) But you hesitated. There's one more name you're trying very hard not to say.
Hifumi: (composed… then cracks a smile) Ann.
The room reacts immediately — whooping, teasing, laughter bouncing off the walls.
Hifumi: She doesn’t aim for relaxation. She aims for devastation. Her massages… make my toes curl. I don’t know if I should thank her or file a complaint.
Ann: (leaning across the kotatsu, wickedly smug) Say the word. I’ll take full responsibility.
Hifumi: (meeting her gaze) I’ll be sure to submit it in writing.
Kasumi: I never thought foot massages could be so… intense.
Morgane: That wasn’t a massage. That was foreplay in a sentence.
Yukiko: (smiling calmly) I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy every second of that answer.
Futaba: Okay, that was weirdly hot and elegant. I need a reset. Cold drink. Deep breath. Possibly a fan.
Makoto: Who’s next before Futaba combusts?
Futaba: Aaand now we enter the danger zone. Someone hold my coffee. It’s Ren’s turn.
Makoto: Should I be concerned?
Morgane: Always. It’s Ren. She's a walking red flag with winged eyeliner.
Ren: (smiling sweetly) You're just mad I look better in your lipstick.
QUESTION 1: Ren, what was the dirtiest case you’ve ever had to handle as a detective?
Ren: (quietly) Hm… There was a case I worked a little while ago. I was undercover in a club fronting as a hostess — the place was running an illegal trade ring: drugs, data, girls.
The room immediately stills. The temperature seems to drop a degree.
Ren: The worst part wasn’t what I saw. It was the indifference. The men thought I was just another asset. No face. No name. Just another warm body with a fake smile. One of them tried to touch me.
She pauses — not dramatic, just remembering. The calm that follows is razor-thin.
Ren: I broke his wrist and walked out with a full download of their network on a flash drive tucked in my garter.
Hifumi: (softly) Did you turn them in?
Ren: I turned some of them in. The ones who deserved mercy.
A heavy beat. Then a few slow nods. No one questions her.
Akira: (low, impressed) That was the night you showed up at Leblanc soaking wet, wasn’t it?
Ren: (smirking) Rain on my heels, blood on my cuffs, and your hoodie on my back when I left.
Makoto: (softly fanning herself) Why is this terrifying and hot at the same time?
QUESTION 2: Do you find competing with Akira hot?
Ren: (flatly) Yes.
Laughter immediately erupts around the room. Akira raises an eyebrow, smirking from his seat.
Ren: It’s… annoying, infuriating, and utterly addictive. He pushes all my buttons on purpose. That whole smug “mysterious barista with a criminal record and perfect eyelashes” thing? Weaponized charm. The moment he challenges me, I want to win. Or maybe I want him to pin me against the wall after I lose.
Hifumi: (softly) That’s… vivid.
Futaba: …Okay but why was that kind of a confession?
Ren: Because you asked the right question.
Akira: (low chuckle) I accept your challenge.
Ren: Good. I wasn’t asking.
QUESTION 3: Aside from obviously Ren, who’s the girl closest to a yandere for Akira?
Ren: (without hesitation) Lavenza.
Everyone turns in sync to stare at the tiny platinum-haired girl sipping tea with innocent grace.
Lavenza: (softly) I would kill the world if it ever tried to take him from me.
Makoto: (blinking) Oh my god.
Ann: Okay that’s adorable but also terrifying??
Ren: After her? Futaba. That girl has a tracking program named after his heartbeat.
Futaba: (grinning wildly) Project LoveSignal. Version 3.6.
Ren: Third is Ann. She’ll never admit it, but she watches every girl Akira talks to like a jungle cat waiting for a branch to snap.
Ann: (fake-offended) EXCUSE ME?!
Ren: You growled at the waitress who called him ‘handsome.’
Ann: She winked at him! She deserved it!
Ren: Fourth… Morgane. She doesn’t just get jealous — she gets possessive. She marks him. With lipstick. With perfume. Once with actual claw scratches.
Morgane: (sipping coffee) He looked delicious that day.
Haru: I feel like this is less a warning and more a tier list.
Futaba: And I support it. Akira’s built different. We gotta fight for our spot.
Futaba: Oooohh… this one looks pretty intense. Group question, for everyone — or our Personas: “Say your desires were to become distorted. What shape would your Palace take? What form would your Shadow assume? What demon, god, or monster would be the basis for your Shadow’s monstrous nature?”
A quiet falls over the den. Mugs lower. Bodies shift. No one makes a joke this time.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just leans forward, elbows on his knees, storm-grey eyes distant.
Akira: I think… mine would be a world already reduced to ash. A Palace built on scorched earth — black skies, no stars. Just smoke. And silence. And I’d be sitting at the center, watching everything burn because I finally stopped caring.
Kasumi: (gently) And the monster?
Akira (shruging): Satanael. Without you all to keep us calm, there would be nothing to stop our wrath.
Morgane stretches her legs under the kotatsu, voice smooth and faintly amused.
Morgane: I’d be the kind of monster that makes your insecurities real. Flesh and blood and mirrors that whisper. A Palace of reflections, each one worse than the last.
Ann: Like… illusions?
Morgane: No, truths. Or at least the ones you believe. Even if they’re lies. My Shadow? Maybe an amalgam of Bakeneko and Mara — slinking, seductive, suffocating.
Ryuemi: (bluntly) I’d break people. Push them to be stronger… until they snapped.
She leans her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Ryuemi: My Palace would look like a boot camp or a battlefield. Order, pain, progress. No room for weakness. My Shadow would probably be something like Nemesis — divine justice twisted into obsession. A hammer that doesn’t know how to stop hitting.
Shiho’s voice is quiet. Steady. But there's something raw behind it.
Shiho: I’d be the kind of monster who hurts you first. Before you can hurt me. My Palace might look like a locker room — all tile and metal, everything echoing. Places where trauma clings to the air. Shadow? The Hannya mask. Consumed by jealousy, rage, and fear. Lashing out just to keep from feeling weak.
Ann: (lowly) I’d be the kind of monster who uses beauty as a weapon.
She tucks her knees up, oversized shirt sliding off one shoulder.
Ann: I’d draw people in, make them trust me. Then twist the knife — show them all the ugly things inside themselves. Like Medusa in a mirror maze. My Palace would be a fashion runway built over a pit. Flashbulbs. Applause. And then silence.
Yukiko: (softly) Mine would be about control. About needing everything to be perfect, even if it destroys the people I love.
A silence falls over the group. Her voice is gentle but heavy.
Yukiko: I think my Palace would be an art gallery. White walls, perfect lighting. But every painting would be someone I care about, frozen in agony. Preserved at the cost of who they were. My Shadow would probably be the Yuki-onna — icy, beautiful, deadly, and utterly alone.
Haru: I would punish.
Her eyes are calm, hands folded over her knees, but there’s an intensity that makes the room go still.
Haru: My Palace would be a courtroom where every abuser, bully, manipulator — every cruel person — is sentenced. Not to death. But to feeling the pain they caused. My Shadow would take on the form of The Erinyes. The Furies. Retribution incarnate.
Hifumi: (quietly) A monster of conquest. One who wins for the sake of the spotlight.
She frowns, gaze distant.
Hifumi: My Palace would look like a shogi tournament hall — endless matches, crowds cheering, cameras flashing. And I’d be alone, always alone, because I made it that way. I would be Arachne. Trapped by my own need to be admired.
Kasumi: I think… I’d want everything to fade.
Her voice is light, but there’s something hollow underneath.
Kasumi: No color. No sound. Just… quiet. My Palace would be a foggy forest. Beautiful, but with no way forward or back. You’d walk in and forget why you ever wanted to leave. My Shadow would be a kitsune, but not playful. A spirit that guides you to your own erasure.
Ren: Much like Akira.
She doesn’t elaborate immediately, just clasps her hands and lets the silence build.
Ren: My Palace would be a city on fire. Every window glowing. Every siren screaming. And me at the center, pulling all the strings, because the world deserves to burn. Lilith. The first to rebel. The one who wouldn’t bow. Wrath in a velvet dress. That’s who I think I would end up being.
Makoto: My Palace would be a courthouse. Gilded, spotless. The symbol of justice. And beneath it… cells.
Her voice is controlled, her eyes sharp.
Makoto: I’d torture in the name of reform. Hurt people to “fix” them. Tell myself they deserve it. What would my Shadow be? Probably Azrael — angel of death as judge and executioner.
Futaba: I think mine would be empty.
She huddles deeper into the kotatsu, voice barely above a whisper.
Futaba: Not scary. Just… nothing. A Palace of endless, grey rooms with no exits. Static humming. Clocks that don’t tick. In the middle of it would be Oboroguruma. A spirit that never moves forward. Just sits in place and rots.
All eyes drift to her. She doesn’t answer right away.
Lavenza: I am a Velvet Room Attendant. My being does not… distort.
A pause. Her hand rests over her heart.
Lavenza: But… if I ever lost one of my loves — if I were left alone again…
Her voice lowers to a hush, eyes distant.
Lavenza: Then I would no longer be myself. I would become something that takes. Something that punishes. My Palace would span the stars, and I would pull down galaxies in my grief. What form would my Shadow take? Impossible to tell, but something not born of mythology, but of loss. Something even the gods fear.
The silence after Lavenza’s last words lingers — not awkward, not painful. Just full. The kind of silence that sits between people who know each other’s scars intimately.
Then…
Ann: (softly) Okay, group rule. No more soul-shattering introspection without snacks or kisses.
Futaba: Seconded. I need serotonin. Immediately. In physical form.
Yukiko: (gently) Come here, little gremlin.
Futaba practically dives into Yukiko’s lap, nuzzling into her robe. The chain reaction is instant — like magnets giving up and surrendering to gravity.
Makoto crawls over next, half on her stomach, head resting on Akira’s thigh. Haru, still warm from the kotatsu, folds herself behind Morgane, who hums softly as she threads their fingers together.
Ryuemi yanks Shiho down into a sprawl, pressing kisses to her shoulder through the strap of her tank. Kasumi ends up tangled with Ren, arms slung around each other in a familiar, almost possessive grip. Hifumi, graceful even when curling up, lays down beside Ann — who immediately snakes a leg over hers and presses in with zero shame.
Akira: (chuckling) This is just chaos.
Morgane: (purring) This is home.
He shifts slightly, letting Lavenza curl against his back, her hands pressed flat against the skin of his lower back, as though to ground herself. She lets out a tiny breath, content.
Hifumi: (softly) We really are a mess, aren’t we?
Shiho: The best kind of mess.
Ann: (grinning) We deserve this. Every soft second. Every stolen kiss. Every warm, handsy pile of limbs.
Makoto: Are you calling this a tactical cuddle formation?
Futaba: No. She's calling it foreplay.
Kasumi: (laughing breathily) No objections.
Hands wander — slow, languid, not urgent. Someone strokes fingers through hair. Another traces soft circles along bare skin. Somewhere under the pile, Ren gives a low hum as someone kisses the back of her neck.
It isn’t about arousal. Not really. It’s about belonging. Knowing each other inside and out, warts and all, and still drawing closer.
Lavenza: (barely audible) I love you all.
Ann: (smiling) We know, little star.
Akira: We love you back. Every one of you.
They stay like that a while. Letting silence speak. Letting touch rebuild.
Eventually, someone shifts.
Futaba: Ahem. Now that everyone’s emotionally stable and at least one of you is groping someone under the kotatsu—
Ann: (deadpan) No one said you could call me out like that.
Futaba: —let’s get back to the AMA! I’m picking something nice and gentle. No metaphysical horror. No burning cities. Just vibes.
Which girls hang out with who the most?
Futaba: Look, we’re all pretty codependent at this point — but patterns do exist.
Kasumi: ‘Taba, ‘Venz and I are like the youngest trio, so we tend to stick together for anime marathons and cosplay shenanigans.
Lavenza: I have learned so much. Like how to craft foam armor, and what a “tsundere” is.
Futaba: (grinning) And how to sneak pocky into the kotatsu.
Lavenza: I do not sneak. I gift.
Yukiko: Hifumi, Morgane and I… we have more refined interests.
Morgane: That’s code for “we like art, tea, and judging people in museums.”
Hifumi: Gently judging.
Ann: Then there’s us OG girls — me, Shiho and Ryuemi.
Shiho: We work out together. Usually right after Ann swears she’ll never run again.
Ann: Running is pain. Gym is hot. And then I get you two to be my pack mules afterwards.
Makoto: Haru and I… well, we’re the adults.
Haru: (sipping from her mug) We organize things. Calendars. Grocery lists. Threesome schedules.
Makoto: …No comment.
Ren: I just rotate. I like a little bit of everyone.
Futaba: She’s our wild card. The polycule’s resident secret favorite.
Favourite hangout spots?
Ryuemi: Ramen shop. Then home. Or arcade. I’m a simple woman.
Morgane: Ice rink. Always.
Ann: Depends on who I’m with — sweets, shopping, or somewhere we can strut.
Shiho: Band Maid concerts. Fight me.
Ren: Crossroads. Or Jazz Jin. Or anywhere Ann can be fed something sweet.
Yukiko: Museums and quiet galleries.
Futaba: Akihabara! Cosplay cons! Tech expos! Give me overstimulation or give me death!
Kasumi: Dancing studio. Or Akihabara with this goblin. (gestures to Futaba)
Lavenza: Bookstores. Libraries. Cozy corners where I can sit between someone’s legs and read.
Hifumi: I like anywhere we can just be. Though shopping with Ann is… enlightening.
Haru: Botanical gardens. Especially the hidden ones.
Makoto: Wherever Lavenza or Haru want to go is fine with me.
Do the girls often change their Metaverse attire now?
Futaba: (cackling) DO WE?!
Ann: Feather Force run was iconic.
Ren: Sailor Scout run was dangerous.
Kasumi: (blushing) Akira looked too good as Tuxedo Mask. It was distracting.
Hifumi: The shrine maiden set was elegant. And empowering.
Morgane: Don’t forget the lingerie-and-heels run.
Makoto: Please let’s forget it.
Shiho: (grinning) Akira’s eyes popped out of his skull.
Yukiko: He forgot how to summon his Persona during a battle. More than once.
Akira: (defensively) …I’m only human.
To all the girls — and especially Haru — how hot is it that Akira’s a barista?
Ann: It’s unfair.
Shiho: He makes it look like a sin to pour coffee.
Futaba: That man puts MILK in a mug and I lose motor function.
Makoto: The apron does things to me.
Morgane: The way he moves behind the counter… slow, deliberate… like he’s serving seduction.
Kasumi: (quietly, flustered) And when he hands it to you… and his fingers brush yours…
Hifumi: I once asked him for a “bittersweet dark roast” and he said “just like you, then.”
Yukiko: I ascended.
Lavenza: (softly) I would watch him pour coffee for centuries.
Haru: (dreamily) He’s… graceful. Polished. Quietly powerful. Like the warmth in the steam and the danger in the burn. It’s… very hot.
All the girls melt.
Scariest horror movie for each girl — especially the one they absolutely refuse to watch again.
Ann: Hereditary. I slept in Akira’s bed for a week. Didn’t care who was in it already.
Shiho: Noroi: The Curse. That ending? NO THANK YOU.
Ryuemi: Martyrs. Never again. If anyone puts that on near me, I’m burning the TV.
Morgane: The Descent. Claustrophobia + creepy monsters = NOPE.
Yukiko: Audition. Artistic? Yes. Psychologically scarring? Also yes.
Hifumi: Pulse. The silence… the isolation… I couldn’t sleep for days.
Kasumi: The Ring. Still won’t have a TV in my bedroom.
Makoto: The Exorcist. Old-school horror is still horror.
Haru: Midsommar. It was too… real. Too cheerful.
Ren: The Ritual. She has a deep hatred of antlers now.
Futaba: Paranormal Activity. I ripped the keyboard out of my desktop trying to shut the laptop.
Lavenza: (calmly) The Human Centipede. I walked out twenty-three minutes in and erased it from existence with a minor reality tear.
Akira: Good.
Futaba: (grinning as she scrolls) Okay, okay, okay… this one’s all soft and sparkly.
Makoto: We could use soft and sparkly after “what would your Shadow look like.”
Futaba: Group question — What’s your dream proposal? And your dream wedding?
A collective squeal of interest. Several girls straighten up immediately.
Ryuemi: (casual shrug) Somewhere quiet. Just us. No big show. Just… look me in the eyes, get down on one knee, and ask.
Shiho: (smiling gently) And wedding?
Ryuemi: Here. At home. I want to marry you all here. Where I feel safe.
Morgane: (dreamily) Ice skating.
Kasumi: (soft gasp) That’s so you.
Morgane: Spin with me under the stars, then drop to one knee in the middle of the rink and ask. I’ll cry. Wedding: small. Intimate. Velvet and candles and only the ones who matter.
Ann: I want the whole Disney experience. Fireworks. Dresses. The ring hidden in a glass slipper. Sweep me off my feet.
Makoto: (teasing) So... theme park proposal?
Ann: Obviously! And I want a wedding that’s a princess dream. Horses. Music. A dress with sparkles. You all in couture.
Shiho: Take me to a concert. Get up on stage. Sing our song. Then ask me to marry you in front of everyone.
Futaba: (grinning) That’s so damn cool.
Shiho: I’ll say yes before the last note. Wedding? Something loud. Something alive. Guitars and lace.
Ren: (smirking) Make me work for it.
Makoto: (raising an eyebrow) Of course you’d say that.
Ren: Set up a scavenger hunt. Puzzle clues. Messages from the others. Final destination: you. Ring in hand.
Ann: And wedding?
Ren: Something small. Morgane-style. Clean. Intimate. With cake.
Yukiko: (smiling) Take me to the cherry blossom viewing. Walk with me beneath the trees. And when the petals fall…
She lifts her hand, miming a slow descent of flower petals.
Yukiko: Ask me there. Wedding? Same spot. Same season. Just more laughter and less surprise.
Futaba: (grinning hard) Okay okay okay. Hear me out. You dress like Tidus. I dress like Yuna. You quote a bunch of emotional JRPG lines at me. Then BAM — ring.
Ann: You’d explode with joy.
Futaba: I will. We’ll get married in the middle of Akihabara. Cosplay mandatory.
Kasumi: (blushing, smiling) Wait until I win my first international Gold. I’ll still be on the podium, and you’ll come out of nowhere with a ring.
Haru: That’s so cinematic.
Kasumi: Then we get married on the beach. Something soft and glowing. Me barefoot, everyone dancing in the sand.
Lavenza: (serenely) Ask the Golden Butterfly for my hand.
A hush falls. The kind of hush that only comes from someone speaking poetry like it’s fact.
Lavenza: If they grant you their blessing, we shall wed in the Velvet Room. Where stars spin and eternity waits.
Makoto: (quietly) …I want to go to that wedding.
Ann: That’s the most Lavenza thing I’ve ever heard and I love it.
Hifumi: Propose during Dungeons & Dragons night.
Yukiko: (eyes lighting up) Yes.
Hifumi: Get the ring enchanted in-game. Slip it into a dice bag. Let me roll a Nat 20 on Insight and find it. Our wedding will be themed. Possibly fantasy court. Blades, braids, and ballroom dancing.
Haru: (dreamy) A picnic. Just us. Fresh fruit, sunlight, a gentle breeze… and a ring.
Kasumi: Soft. Sweet.
Haru: And for the wedding? A private beach. Somewhere beautiful and isolated. Just us and the sea.
Makoto: (quietly) Just ask me over morning coffee.
Ann: …That’s it?
Makoto: That’s everything. Simple. Honest. Wedding? Just… yes.
Futaba: Okay that was… so good.
Ann: I want all of these. Let’s just have like… twelve weddings.
Yukiko: We can paint the themes into each one.
Ren: I volunteer to help plan all of them.
Hifumi: You mean co-plot.
Akira: (leaning against the table, quietly) I’ll ask. Each and every way you want. Just say when.
Cue several girls blushing and several more sighing in polycule delight™.
Futaba: Next Q! How soon after the wedding would each of you want to get pregnant, and how many kids are you hoping for?
Immediate chorus of squeals, snorts, blushes, and one strangled groan from Akira who is definitely blushing behind his mug.
Ryuemi: (shrugs, stretching out) It'll happen when it happens. I'm not in a rush. Life’s already crazy.
Shiho: (teasing) You say that, but I’ve seen how you look at Akira when he carries a sleepy Futaba.
Ryuemi: …I plead the Fifth.
Morgane: (lazy smirk) Honestly? Not sure I want kids. But—
She glances toward Akira, who’s now squished under Makoto and Haru, absentmindedly stroking Lavenza’s hair.
Morgane: The moment I see him doting on someone else’s baby, I’ll probably get feral. Like, “put one in me right now” levels of maternal chaos.
Ann: Same.
Ann: Wedding night. Pregnant immediately.
Makoto: (sputtering into her cup) ANN.
Ann: I want a boy who looks like Akira — stormy eyes, smug smile — and a little girl who’s basically mini-me. Best of both worlds.
Shiho: That’s actually so cute it’s dangerous.
Shiho: I want babies within the first year. Twins would be amazing — maybe a boy and a girl.
Ryuemi: You just want to raise future athletes.
Shiho: Exactly. I’ve already picked out their matching tracksuits.
Ren: First one within the first year. Second after three years… maybe a third later on if I’m not overwhelmed.
Futaba: You’ll be fine. It’s Akira we need to worry about.
Akira: (deadpan) Bring it on.
Yukiko: (gracefully) One boy. Conceived on our wedding night beneath the cherry blossoms.
Everyone pauses. Sighs. One of the kotatsu legs wobbles under the sheer romantic pressure.
Futaba: Eeeeeppp—
She hides under a pillow, muffled squeaking emanating from within.
Kasumi: (giggling) That’s a yes.
Futaba: (emerging, bright red) YES. I want a smart, geeky baby who can beat me at Mario Kart by age six. But like… maybe in a few years. Once I can hold babies without panic attacks.
Kasumi: I want at least three. One’s gonna be the dancer. One’s the class rep. One’s probably gonna inherit Akira’s “dark and broody” gene.
Morgane: That’s… kinda perfect.
Kasumi: We’ll all teach them different things. They’ll be unstoppable.
Lavenza: One. Ten. A thousand. If they are his, I would raise galaxies.
A hush falls again, but this time it’s reverent. Even the fluffiest question turns to poetry in her mouth.
Ann: (softly) I want you to raise my baby too.
Lavenza: Gladly.
Hifumi: Maybe… two years after the wedding. Time to travel a little, build the home, maybe finish my next collection of campaigns.
Makoto: Sensible queen.
Hifumi: And then one or two children. I’d love to teach them strategy and elegance.
Ann: And thigh control.
Hifumi: (deadpan) That too.
Haru: (dreamy) Soon. I want a garden full of babies. Little sunbeams toddling around in the dirt while I make flower crowns.
Akira: (softly) That’s… so you.
Makoto: Are you crying?
Akira: (hoarsely) No. Shut up.
Makoto: I would plan it out. Maybe after we’ve fully settled down.
Ann: That means next week.
Makoto: Ahem. I’d like two boys. Responsible, gentle… the kind that give their mother flowers without being told.
Yukiko: You’re thinking so far ahead.
Makoto: Of course. They’ll need school funds, uniforms, custom backpacks…
Futaba: Okay, this question was DANGEROUS. My ovaries are doing cartwheels.
Ann: Mine just set off fireworks.
Morgane: Let’s be honest — he is the danger.
Akira opens his mouth to say something — but Hifumi and Ren both lean in to kiss his cheeks, and the conversation dissolves into giggles and flustered affection.
Chapter 25: Interlude -ASK THE PHANTOM THIEVES ANYTHING - Part 2
Summary:
After some (mostly) wholesome questions - think it's time to dive into something a bit spicier
Chapter Text
The den is warm, bodies are tangled, and everyone’s sufficiently cuddled, caffeinated, and emotionally recovered from the earlier heavy questions. But now? The mood’s shifted. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.
A thigh brushes against bare skin. A hand lingers a little too long. Kasumi’s in Akira’s lap now. Morgane is curled against Yukiko’s side, whispering something into her ear that makes her blush furiously.
Futaba, cheeks pink, grins way too wide as she scrolls down.
Futaba: Aaaand now it’s time for the SPICY ROUND~
Ann: (already stretching seductively) Finally.
Ryuemi: Took you long enough.
Makoto: (buttoning up her pajama top with deliberate slowness) Should I be worried?
Ren: Probably.
Lavenza: (smiling innocently, eyes glowing just a little) I am intrigued.
Futaba: Okay! First spicy question… Group Q — “What are all your measurements, smallest to thiccest?”
Makoto: (sputtering) We are not answering that—
Ann: (grinning) Oh, come on. We all live together. We know.
Shiho: (stretching) Half of us steal each other’s bras anyway.
Morgane: Also, we’ve definitely compared while naked.
Yukiko: (sipping tea calmly) This is common knowledge at this point.
Futaba: Fine, I’ll go first!
B: 81 / W: 56 / H: 82. Tiny but mighty. And I will sit on your face if you mock me.
Kasumi: (giggling, blushing)
B: 84 / W: 58 / H: 85. Compact dancer build. I can do things with my hips that defy physics.
Lavenza: (softly, with an almost imperceptible smirk)
B: 82 / W: 56 / H: 83. Small. Ethereal. Deceptively flexible.
Ren:
B: 86 / W: 60 / H: 87. Lean, mean, and a machine in fishnets. Ask Akira.
Morgane: (smirking)
B: 88 / W: 60 / H: 89. Catgirl curves. My waist-to-hip ratio could start wars.
Yukiko:
B: 89 / W: 59 / H: 91. Tall elegance. Statuesque. Slightly top-heavy.
Hifumi:
B: 91 / W: 61 / H: 92. I look like I should be in a kimono. But my legs say lingerie spread.
Makoto: (reluctantly)
B: 90 / W: 61 / H: 94. Don’t ask how we measured that. It involved a tape measure and Futaba on my back.
Ann: (posing proudly)
B: 95 / W: 60 / H: 95. Balanced. Dangerous. “Goddess mode” unlocked.
Shiho: (grinning)
B: 94 / W: 62 / H: 96. Athletic thicc. I’ve crushed watermelons. Accidentally.
Ryuemi:
B: 92 / W: 63 / H: 97. Lean muscle and deadly thighs. You’ve been warned.
Haru: (sweetly, knowing exactly what she’s doing)
B: 97 / W: 63 / H: 98. Soft in all the right places. I’m basically a luxury seat.
Futaba: Soooo… in order from lil to thicc, it’s: Futaba → Lavenza → Kasumi → Ren → Morgane → Yukiko → Hifumi → Makoto → Ryuemi → Shiho → Ann → Haru.
Ann: (smirking) I’d be offended Haru beat me by a centimeter… but I’ve seen her bend over in the garden.
Haru: And Akira has used that as an excuse to “help me weed” at least five times.
Akira: (hoarsely) I plead the Fifth.
Lavenza: (sweetly) Would you like us all to line up for your reference, Akira?
There’s a beat. A long, heavy beat.
Makoto: (to the group) Don’t. He will combust.
Morgane: (innocently) Or become harder than his own convictions.
Shiho: Or both.
Futaba: Okay! THAT was a top-tier spicy question.
Ren: Got more?
Ann: Please. I am glowing with chaotic girl energy right now.
Futaba flips to the next question, blinks once, and then slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle a giggle.
Futaba: Ohhhh this one’s for Haru specifically. "How often does the S/M position switch between her and Akira?"
Ann: (already smirking) Oh. It’s that kind of question.
Makoto: (blushing) We really shouldn’t—
Shiho: (grinning) Girl, we already have.
Haru: (gently clears throat, folds hands in lap like she’s about to lead a tea ceremony) “Well… I do try.”
The room leans in.
Haru: “With the others, it’s different. I can guide, lead, even command when the mood strikes. But with Akira…”
Her cheeks pinken ever so slightly. Her voice lowers, syrup-smooth.
Haru: “He looks at me. Just… looks at me. And I melt. I try to hold the reins but—he knows exactly how to make me give them up. He knows exactly when to press, and when to wait.”
Ann: (fanning herself with a throw pillow) Oh yeah… He does.
Haru: “So yes, technically I switch. But when it’s him?” She smiles, slow and sweet and just a little dizzy. “I need him to make me submit.”
Morgane: (grinning) I told you she turns into pudding for him.
Futaba: (absolutely vibrating) Can we—can we PLEASE talk about how hot it is when Akira goes full dom?
Ren: (dryly) No one here’s complaining.
Yukiko: (sipping her tea, composed) It’s… mesmerizing. The restraint. The precision.
Hifumi: (a little breathless) It’s like he reads your mind. And then acts on what you didn’t say.
Kasumi: (flushed) He’s so gentle and firm at the same time, like… like silk wrapped around steel.
Lavenza: (smiling dreamily) I once watched him command with only his eyes. I nearly collapsed.
Makoto: (quietly, adjusting her top) The control he has… is infuriatingly sexy.
Ann: It’s always the quiet times. He says nothing — then suddenly you’re tied up, breathless, and asking “please.”
Shiho: (grinning at Akira) Hey babe? You have twelve women simping and squirming. How does that feel?
Akira: (calmly sipping coffee, not even pretending not to smirk) “…Magic.”
Ryuemi: (hoarse laugh) And that right there? That exact tone? That’s why we all fold like cheap lawn chairs.
Futaba: (groaning) You’re not wrong. He says one thing in that voice and suddenly I’m short-circuiting.
Kasumi: (softly) Sometimes he doesn’t even touch me. Just stands behind me, breath on my neck and—
Ren: (interrupting smoothly) You’re going to say too much, and then we’ll all need a cold shower.
Futaba: (half-laughing, half-flustered) Okay okay okay! Question answered. Akira is a dom. Haru melts for him. And the rest of us are horny disasters.
Makoto: Confirmed.
Hifumi: Agreed.
Ann: So, when's round two?
Akira: (deadpan) I never said round one ended.
The girls lose their collective minds. Futaba short-circuits audibly.
Who teases Akira the most? And who gets teased the most?
Ren: (smirking) I’m just saying — if Akira wears grey sweatpants, he knows what he’s doing. And I respond accordingly.
Ann: (twirling a strand of hair) I start teasing the moment he breathes. Like, “oh, you made coffee shirtless?” That’s an invitation, babe.
Shiho: Ann, you moaned when he buttoned his cufflinks yesterday.
Ann: I stand by it.
Haru: But the one we tease the most?
Yukiko: (glancing across the group) …Makoto.
Makoto: (half under a blanket, red-faced) Why?
Futaba: Because you blush like a virgin bride every time Akira bites your earlobe.
Kasumi: (gently) And you stammer when he undoes your buttons.
Makoto: I don’t stammer! I inhale sharply.
Ryuemi: Inhales sharply. Moans softly. Melts instantly. Same difference.
Favorite bed partner besides Akira?
A slow, collective pause. You can almost feel the heat rise.
Ann: Ren. Hands down. That woman knows exactly where to touch.
Ren: (smirking) And you taste like strawberries and sin.
Futaba: I pick Ann. And sometimes Kasumi. And sometimes Ren. And sometimes I’m lucky enough to have all three.
Kasumi: (blushing furiously) Y-you mean that time on the beanbag wasn’t a dream?
Haru: (sweetly) I have a soft spot for Makoto. She just… melts in your hands.
Makoto: Please stop talking.
Morgane: (grinning) I second that. She’s the ultimate sub.
Hifumi: (soft chuckle) Akira’s still top, of course. But Haru? Haru dominates. With tea service and a paddle.
Shiho: I love playing with Futaba. And Ryuemi. You two bite back.
Ryuemi: Equal-opportunity chaos. I love it.
Yukiko: I gravitate toward Hifumi. Her touch is elegant. It’s like being seduced by a poem.
Lavenza: (softly) Everyone brings something different. But my most transcendent experiences? Ann. Ren. Futaba.
Akira: (quietly, and far too calmly) Noted.
Who’s the most open to affection or sex, and who gets the most embarrassed about it?
Ann: (immediately raising her hand) That’s me. No shame. If I want a kiss, I get a kiss. If I want a hand between my thighs, I ask.
Futaba: (raising her hand too) I’m a goblin but I’m also starved. Gimme love. Gimme cuddles. Gimme Akira’s hands. Right now.
Ren: I enjoy breaking people. With patience. And focus. And occasional rope.
Morgane: (grinning) Y’all are freaks.
Kasumi: (nearly squeaking) I–I just… it’s hard not to short-circuit when people are being that open.
Makoto: (still under the blanket) Hard same.
Yukiko: They’re adorable though. The way Makoto flinches when Akira kisses her collarbone?
Haru: Or when Kasumi squeaks and hides behind a pillow.
Ryuemi: We love our shy girls.
Ann: And we corrupt them. Gently.
Akira: …or not so gently.
There’s a sudden silence. A heat-thick hush.
Futaba: (muttering) I need to lie down. On someone. Possibly under someone.
Shiho: You are lying down.
Futaba: …not in the way I meant.
Who has the greatest stamina during our nightly sessions… and who, um, collapses the fastest?
Ann: (grinning) That’s easy. It’s me. Three rounds minimum. Four if Akira growls in my ear.
Ryuemi: (stretching like a slinky) If we’re talking endurance, I go hard. And long. Ask Ann.
Shiho: Guilty. I run marathons. Bedroom included.
Futaba: I'm chaos-coded and caffeinated. If you think I can’t keep up, you have no idea what Adderall, anime, and edging does to a woman.
Makoto: (quietly) How are you all still standing after round three?
Hifumi: (primly) I bow out after two, usually. For strategic preservation.
Kasumi: (flushed) I try to last… but if Akira uses his voice, I’m out in ten minutes.
Yukiko: (smiling faintly) I usually try to retreat with dignity. Doesn’t work.
Lavenza: (meekly, from under Haru’s arm) I… I fainted after fifteen minutes the first time. But I’m getting better. Akira’s very encouraging.
Akira: (soft, smug) You’re doing beautifully.
Lavenza turns pink from neck to ankles.
Who here are the fujoshis? XD
Morgane: Me. 100%. I have binders.
Futaba: SAME. I read BL for plot. (Pause) Okay, no I don’t.
Ren: (raising her hand) I have… definitely written fic. And art. NSFW art.
Ann: I started off ironically. Now I cry over them.
Kasumi: (quietly) I ship Yu and Yosuke so hard I once wrote a haiku.
Makoto: (reluctantly) I follow one or two… dozen artists online.
Shiho: Ryuemi’s whole Google history is just BL.
Ryuemi: (zero shame) I will die on the Victor x Yuri hill.
Yukiko: I just like the aesthetic. The longing. The hands. The angst.
Haru: I… dabble. Discreetly. With wine.
Who smells the best? What do each of us smell like, and what’s Akira’s reaction?
Ann – Vanilla, bubblegum, and the impossible heat of want. There’s always a trace of perfume clinging to her collarbone — sugar-sweet and sharp like a promise she’ll make you beg for. The air around her is rich with arousal, like the moment before lipstick stains and teeth sink in.
Akira: “She smells like sin with lip gloss on. Like you’ll taste candy… and find claws underneath.”
Ryuemi – Rain on pavement, lightning in the distance, lemongrass and green apple. She doesn’t walk — she prowls. Her scent is storm-soaked danger wrapped in clean citrus and the thrill of getting caught. Like she just came in from the rain, breathless and feral.
Akira: “She smells like adrenaline. Like the edge of a rooftop. Like the moment before the fall — and loving it.”
Morgane – Saffron, ambergris, cedarwood and something wicked. Her scent clings to velvet and lace, mysterious and dark, rich enough to fill a room. You catch it in the curve of her neck and the flick of her tail — a feline warning.
Akira: “She smells like secrets I wasn’t supposed to survive. And I keep coming back.”
Shiho – Cherry, saffron, jasmine, patchouli, and worn-in leather. Seduction in a leather jacket. Her scent is loud, magnetic, and unforgettable — like red lights, loud bass, and fingers gripping your jaw.
Akira: “She smells like the best mistake of your life. One you don’t regret. One you hope ruins you.”
Yukiko – Paint, crushed petals, sakura, and glacial air. She’s stillness made sensual — her scent refined, cool, yet with emotion buried just beneath the surface. Like the air in a gallery before the unveiling.
Akira: “She smells like a winter bloom. Cold, vivid, and devastating if it touches you long enough.”
Kasumi – Orange blossoms, sea spray, and faintest lily. Her scent is like sunrise over the ocean — fresh, delicate, and disarmingly pure. The kind of perfume that only clings after a long hug or a stolen moment.
Akira: “She smells like innocence you want to drown in. Like something soft you know will burn you anyway.”
Haru – Amber, orange blossom, marshmallow and vanilla sugar. A decadent, honeyed warmth that pulls you close like hands you can’t see. Her scent is the memory of soft sheets, deep moans, and lingering kisses in sunlit gardens.
Akira: “She smells like indulgence. Like something forbidden made just for me.”
Futaba – Cinnamon, sea salt, lilies, and ozone-charged circuits. She smells like mischief — cozy but sharp. A blend of cracked code and morning spice, like static on your fingertips and a giggle before something explodes.
Akira: “She smells like magic in a motherboard. Like sweet trouble pressed against my chest.”
Lavenza – Stardust, oud, white tea, jasmine and ethereal vanilla. Otherworldly. Her scent doesn’t cling — it haunts. Like a kiss in a dream or the curve of a voice you never heard but still remember.
Akira: “She smells like infinity bottled. Like the space between constellations. I breathe her in and forget where I am.”
Ren – Tonka bean, jasmine, and bitter cocoa — all heat and velvet. A slow-burn perfume that smolders beneath your skin. Her scent is like leather restraint and unspoken dares. Sharp, sensual, utterly lethal.
Akira: “She smells like temptation in a blindfold. Like velvet rope and whispered orders. I can’t stop chasing her heat.”
Makoto – Ink, paper, old incense, coffee and jasmine. The scent of order with a dangerous undercurrent — books and discipline, but with sweat in the spine. Her perfume is the aroma of rules just about to be broken.
Akira: “She smells like control… until I touch her. Then it’s just fire.”
Hifumi – Pomegranate, black violet, orchid and something unspoken. Floral and deep, edged with mystery. It’s the perfume that lingers on bedsheets and in strategy rooms — soft, yet dark enough to pull you under.
Akira: “She smells like the moment before surrender. The checkmate you knew was coming… and didn’t stop."
Futaba: (practically panting) So that’s it? That’s the olfactory kink hour??
Morgane: If someone bottled Akira’s reactions as perfume, I’d never wear anything else.
Haru: (playfully) We could sell it. “Desire: by Joker.”
Ren: (grinning) Smells like being ruined just right.
Makoto: (buried under a pillow) …I need a cold shower.
Futaba: “Okay but like. Actual question. What’s your dirtiest fantasy?”
Makoto: We don’t have to answer that—
Ann: We do now.
Ann: “I want it in a place we shouldn’t. Somewhere like a department store fitting room… mirrors fogged, lips bitten, and your hand over my mouth — or better yet, my own panties between my teeth, keeping me quiet while you do whatever you want. The thrill of being caught… and the pleasure of knowing you’d make me fall apart anyway.”
Morgane: “Put a collar on me. Clip a bell to it. Treat me like your favorite feline — adored, spoiled, petted… until you decide to get serious. Stroke me, whisper to me, make me purr under your hands. Then flip the switch — pin me down and remind me exactly who I belong to.”
Ryuemi: “Let me be a brat. Let me challenge you, mock you, push all your buttons — and then watch the shift when you get tired of playing. I want to see your eyes go dark and know I’ve pushed too far. Then I want you to prove I’m not the one in charge. Teach me my place. Make me love it.”
Futaba: “I want to feel your control when I’m supposed to be in control. Put that remote in your pocket, and activate the vibe while I’m streaming. I’ll try to stay focused, try to hide it, but you’ll know every twitch, every breath I try to swallow. And when I slip — when I fail — you’ll turn off the camera and bend me over the chair. Game over.”
Yukiko: “I want to paint you first. Every line of muscle, every scar, every breath — with nothing but the tip of a brush and my fingers. Then you paint me. And when we’re both dripping in color and tension, we press our bodies to the canvas and create a masterpiece of passion. A memory no gallery could ever hold.”
Shiho: “I want to feel like I can fall apart without falling apart. Push me. Grip me. Let me fight, cry, pant — and show me that I won’t break. That you’ll be right there when it’s over, wrapping me up, holding me, running fingers through my hair. That I don’t always have to be strong.”
Kasumi: “I want to lose control… in a different way. Show me how far my body can bend, stretch, obey. Take me apart and put me back together again — not as the gymnast, the athlete, the prodigy… but as yours. Your creation. Your dancer.”
Makoto: “I crave the feeling of being unraveled — methodically, patiently, until I’m trembling and breathless. Until there’s nothing left but your voice in my ear calling me your good girl. Until I stop overthinking and just feel. Break me… then put me back together.”
Haru: “I want to be in control — until you decide you’ve had enough. Let me tease, toy, take the lead… just long enough to feel powerful. Then flip it. Take it from me. Overwhelm me in the most exquisite way. Remind me that giving up control can be the most delicious surrender.”
Hifumi: “I dream of drama — of power. You’re the rogue who storms my castle, the bandit who steals me away. Tie me up in silks, lay me out like a trophy, and remind me that even a queen can be undone by a single touch… if it’s your touch.”
Ren: “I want to fight you — not with anger, but with fire. Challenge every move you make until you finally hold me down, whispering that it’s pointless to resist. I want to forget why I was fighting in the first place… because what you give me is so much better.”
Lavenza: “Every moment with you is already divine. But in my fantasies… time ceases. Reality bends. I become something more — and so do you. No limits. No boundaries. Only touch, trust, and the endless exchange of power between us. I want more. Always more.”
The room is dead silent. The air is thick with breath and tension.
Akira sets down his coffee with a clink. All twelve girls are looking at him like he’s the only glass of water in a desert.
One of them is already crawling closer. Another’s lifting her nightdress. A third just moaned under her breath.
Ann: (grinning) “So… daddy… care to make some dreams come true?”
Futaba: (faintly) “Okay I’m calling it. We need to pause the AMA.”
Makoto: “Agreed— we’re not answering another question until someone does something.”
The last of the girls’ fantasies hang in the air like incense smoke — cloying, sweet, intoxicating.
Ann licks her lips.
Futaba’s leg is draped over Akira’s thigh, her fingers twitching against the hem of his briefs.
Makoto is biting her knuckle again. Haru’s cheeks are pink, her robe slipping from one shoulder. Ren’s hand has been lazily stroking Akira’s abs for the past two minutes — just enough to suggest trouble without starting it.
And Akira?
Still calm. Still composed. Still shirtless. Still surrounded.
Until he exhales, low and deep.
Akira: “…Come here.”
It’s Ann who moves first — straddling his lap with a feral grin, cupping his face and diving in. Their lips crash together — not sweet, not playful — hungry. His hands slide up her thighs, under the hem of his shirt (his shirt, still the only thing she’s wearing), and she moans into his mouth like she’s been starving.
The kiss breaks just long enough for her to pant, "I missed your mouth," before diving back in.
Kasumi is next — timid but glowing — easing in beside them, hand on his shoulder, pressing feather-light kisses to his neck and jaw until he turns to meet her lips. Her breath hitches when he deepens the kiss, and her body arches into his touch — his hand firm on her lower back, guiding her closer.
Kasumi: “I always feel… dizzy when you kiss me…”
Makoto doesn't even try to hide her blush as she leans in from behind, brushing her lips against Akira’s ear, whispering “Your voice drives me insane…"
He smirks, then tilts his head just enough for her to capture his mouth in a slower, deeper kiss — one that has her hips squirming in his lap before she even realizes it.
Haru is pressed against his other side, nibbling at his collarbone with teasing precision. She lifts his hand and kisses each knuckle, then gently guides it between her thighs — over the silk of her robe.
Haru: “Just… touch me for a little while. I promise I’ll behave... mostly.”
Ren leans in next — hand cupping Akira’s jaw, lips brushing his in a kiss that’s all dark wine and smolder. She kisses like she wants to claim him, tongue teasing, fingers sliding up into his hair. When they break apart, Ren murmurs: “You’re still not breathing properly. Good.”
Futaba, meanwhile, has straddled one of his legs, face flushed, arms around his shoulders. Her kiss is messy — desperate — like she’s trying to download his soul through his mouth.
Futaba: “You taste like coffee and sin, and I want to drown."
Yukiko doesn’t kiss him right away — instead, she presses her forehead to his, breath warm against his lips, then tilts his face up and kisses his eyelids, his temple, his jaw. Only then does she kiss him full on the mouth — slow and reverent.
Morgane grabs his tie from the coffee table — no one knows why it's there, but no one questions it — and loops it loosely around his neck before sliding in and giving him the kind of kiss that curls toes and rewrites commandments.
Hifumi slips into his lap with quiet elegance, her kiss as strategic as her battles — soft, then firm, then a sharp suck to his lower lip that has him groaning this time.
Hifumi: “You’re letting your guard down... Shall I punish you for it?”
Lavenza perches delicately in his lap, arms wrapping around his neck. Her kiss is hesitant — then sudden — a hungry press of lips that surprises even her.
Lavenza: “…I don’t want to wait anymore.”
Shiho and Ryuemi flank him last, like twin flames. Shiho grabs his jaw and takes a kiss, intense and shameless, grinding into his thigh without pretense.
Shiho: “You’re mine. Right now.”
Ryuemi kisses him next, open-mouthed, tongue sliding in with practiced confidence — then nips his lip.
Ryuemi: “And mine.”
By the end of it, Akira is breathing heavy. His chest is heaving. His lips are kiss-swollen, his boxers are a situation, and there are girls draped over every inch of him — flushed, panting, giggling, squirming, and utterly not satisfied yet.
But for now?
It’s enough.
A pause. A reset. A shared, heavy breath before the next round of chaos.
Futaba: (lying half across Akira’s lap, dizzy) “...Okay. I can think again. Maybe.”
Ann: “Speak for yourself. I need five more rounds of that.”
Ren: “Ten.”
Makoto: (quietly) “…Yes.”
Akira: (low, hoarse) “We’ll continue that later.”
Futaba: “Okay okay okay! Next question before I die of thirst. (scrolling, cheeks flushed) Okaaay, here’s one that’s definitely for Ann— “Ann, would you let the others—or Akira—grope you casually?”
Ann: (smiling like the cat that knows she’s about to be petted) “Let them? Babe, I encourage it.”
She stretches out luxuriously on the cushions, shirt riding up just enough to show the curve of her hip.
Ann: “I’ve already told them I’m pretty much free use. If one of my girls wants to cop a feel while we’re watching TV? Go ahead. If Akira wants to palm my ass while he’s pouring coffee? Please do. Hell, I expect it.”
Shiho: (teasing) She moaned the other day when I adjusted her bra strap.
Ann: It slipped, okay? I was vulnerable.
Makoto: She was giggling when I ran into her chest and apologized.
Ann: And then grabbed your hands and said "Might as well enjoy them."
Ren: You once said “these are public property now” while topless in the kitchen.
Ann: And I meant it! (winks)
Haru: You are… refreshingly shameless.
Ann: I’m proud of my body. And I love when the people I love enjoy it too…besides, have you seen the way Akira’s eyes go dark when he grabs my hips from behind?
Futaba: I have. And I needed a cold shower.
Lavenza: She is very… soft. And warm. I understand the appeal.
Ann: I’m here to be kissed, groped, held, touched, tasted, and worshipped. And if you don’t grab my boobs next time we cuddle? That’s on you.
Collective groan from half the polycule. Akira subtly adjusts his boxers. Again.
Futaba: (breathless) Okay… okay… new rule: no more Ann answers without a fan blowing on us.
Futaba: “Okay, next question is debauched and I love it. If each of us could have a lewd superpower—what would it be?”
Ann: “Oh, easy. I want the ability to trigger pleasure with just a touch. Like, brush your arm and suddenly you’re moaning. Imagine me just walking through a crowd—”
Makoto: “…Please don’t.”
Morgane: “A hypnotic purr. Like... full-body arousal just from hearing it. You hear it, and you drop to your knees." Pauses. "Actually… that might already work on some of you.”
Shiho: “I want heatwave skin. Anyone who touches me starts overheating. Like, sweating, gasping, begging-me-to-make-it-stop overheating.”
Ryuemi: “I want the power to dominate someone with just eye contact. Like a mental collar. You lock eyes with me, and your brain goes “yes mistress” immediately.”
Kasumi: (from behind a cushion) “Okay hot.”
Ren: “I want to clone myself for group play. Or tag-team Akira. Or... just two of me, making him beg.” (Smiles sweetly) “Think he’d survive it?”
Akira: (roughly) “No.”
Yukiko: “Anything I paint becomes real… for one night. Want me to paint you with wings and cuffs? Done. Want to see yourself on your knees between two of me? Also done.”
Haru: “A scent-based power. I release pheromones that drive everyone into a slow, warm haze of lust. All I have to do is smile and everyone gets… needy."
Akira: (quietly) “That might already be true.”
Futaba: “Techno-symbiosis. I plug into you digitally, and make you feel whatever I want—orgasms on command, arousal through data transfer, stimulation algorithms.” She grins. “I’d hack your body.”
Kasumi: “Lewd gravity control! I can make your clothes drop off with a finger snap. Or increase gravity right there so you can’t move unless I say so.” Her cheeks are on fire, but she’s smiling.
Lavenza: “I wish to become a dream invader. Visit you while you sleep. Shape the dream around your most private fantasies, and become everything you want… And when you wake up, you still feel everything."
Futaba: "OH that's diabolical."
Hifumi: “I want a power where each orgasm gives me stat boosts. More speed, stamina, strength… the more I’m pleasured, the stronger I become.” Glances at Akira. “Train me?”
Makoto: (blushing furiously) “I’d… like a power where my body responds to commands. If you say ‘kneel,’ I kneel. If you say ‘cum,’ I— ahem!” Buries face in her plushie. “No notes.”
Ann: (smirking) “God, we’re a bunch of perverts.”
Ren: (smirking back) “...Beautiful, imaginative perverts.”
Shiho: “We need a support group.”
Futaba: “We have one. It’s called ‘the cuddle pile.’”
Akira (calmly, deadpan): “I’m never getting out of this bed again.”
Futaba: “Ooooooh baby. Okay okay okay, here we go— ‘Are any of the girls voyeurs? And would any of them want to record a session of the polycule “enjoying” themselves?’”
A silence falls. Then a slow, collective smirk spreads across multiple faces.
Futaba: “Yes. And hell yes. I’ve got the high-end camera, soundproof setup, and encrypted cloud storage already prepared. I may or may not have recorded a session already—purely for archival and analysis purposes.” (she winks)
Makoto: “You what?!”
Futaba: “It was the night Ann rode Akira on the counter while Haru was—ANYWAY! The lighting was perfect. I regret nothing.”
Ann: (purring) “Oh yeah. I love watching. I love being watched. If someone wants to film me and Akira going at it while the rest of you watch from the couch like it’s movie night? Please. I’ll even do a little bow after.”
Lavenza: “I… confess I have also thought about this. The idea of preserving our most intense moments, of being able to watch them again, to relive the sounds and sights and emotions… Yes. I would assist in recording. Possibly direct. Possibly narrate.” She looks dead serious. “I may have storyboarded a few scenes.”
Shiho: (grinning at her drink) “You guys are dangerous.”
Ren: “I’d film. Or be filmed. Or edit. Or be the thumbnail. Honestly? I'm flexible.”
Makoto: (blushing deeply) “I… I don’t think I could watch myself— But if it were just Akira and someone else on screen… maybe…”
Haru: “If it’s for private enjoyment and everyone consents… I do think I’d enjoy rewatching… certain scenes.” (she glances at Akira with soft hunger)
Morgane: “I’ll allow it if I get a sexy lighting filter. And at least one scene with me on top, licking whipped cream off someone’s—ahem!”
Yukiko: (sipping tea) “I would like to film the morning after. Everyone tangled, soft, flushed. That kind of beauty deserves to be captured.”
Hifumi: “I wouldn’t mind being recorded. So long as I’m not in charge of sound design. Ann gets very loud.”
Ann: “You’re welcome.”
Kasumi: (hiding her face) “...I’d watch. Quietly. Maybe from the closet.”
Ryuemi: “Do I get to be the one holding the camera while I rail someone?”
Everyone nods immediately.
Akira: (smirking, arms stretched behind his head) “So I’m starring in a very exclusive, multi-angle production now?”
Futaba: “Starring? Baby, you’re the entire genre. Welcome to PhanHub.”
Ann: “Coming soon: ‘Twelve Hearts, One Daddy.’”
"Akira — genuine thoughts on each of your girls. No teasing. No distractions. Just truth."
The den is quiet now. The laptop’s still open, but the girls have stepped out — just Akira remains, sprawled lazily on the couch, wearing only his boxer briefs and a fond, slightly wistful smile. For the first time all evening, he exhales not with arousal, but with deep, warm love.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice low and honest.
Akira: “…You want the truth?” He smiles to himself. “Alright then. Let’s talk about them. My girls.
Ryuemi - She’s fire. The kind of fire that burns away weakness, not people. She's loyal in ways that scare me sometimes — like she’d bleed herself dry to protect someone she loves. But beneath that tough exterior? There’s this softness she hides even from herself. Every time she smiles when I touch her cheek or kiss her shoulder… I feel like I’ve earned something priceless.
Morgane - She’s elegance wrapped in chaos. Smart-mouthed and sharp-eyed, but… always watching over the others, even when she pretends she’s not. I love the way she brushes her fingers through someone's hair when she thinks no one's looking. She's my catgirl queen, and she makes me feel like a king.
Ann - She’s a walking temptation, sure. But she's also so much more. She’s courageous, radiant, unapologetic. She holds people together when they’re about to break. She always has room for more love, more laughter, more joy. And when she throws her arms around me and just laughs like I’m the funniest thing on Earth? I never want to let go.
Shiho - She’s all heart. Stronger than she knows, softer than she’ll admit. Every scar she carries, she’s turned into armor — not to shut people out, but to protect those around her. Shiho is grace in motion, laughter in the dark, and power that lifts others up. She’s my fighter. My survivor. My miracle.
Ren - She’s my match. My rival. My mirror. There’s no one who makes my blood race like Ren — whether it’s a case, a challenge, or a kiss. She sees me, every part of me, and loves me more for it. She pushes me, comforts me, excites me… and she’s the most dangerous woman I know. Which is probably why I’m in love with her."
Yukiko - She carries tradition like armor — and makes it look effortless. Her beauty’s not just on the outside. It's in every brushstroke, every word, every choice. She reminds me what it means to be deliberate — to create with love. Every time I see her painting, I fall in love with her all over again.
Futaba - She’s chaos incarnate. Sharp as hell. Smarter than most gods. But under all that electric energy is a girl who wants to be held at 2 AM and reminded she’s not broken. She made me laugh when I didn’t know how. She made me feel young again. And when she clings to me and says, ‘mine,’ …I am.
Kasumi - My light. Her smile makes everything stop. She’s innocence and desire, vulnerability and steel. She moves like a dream, loves with her whole heart, and always reaches for more — more joy, more trust, more love. She brings hope into every room. And when she whispers my name, I forget the rest of the world exists.
Lavenza - She’s wonder incarnate. A being older than time, yet still learning how to love like a human. She asks questions with stars in her eyes. She chooses to be with us — and every time she curls up next to me, sighs, and says ‘I love you,’ it feels like the universe is saying it too.
Hifumi - Sharp. Tactical. Refined. But when she lets her hair down and lets me in… god. She plays like she fights: for glory, for love, for the thrill. She lets herself be vulnerable around me, and that trust is everything. She's not just my queen on the board. She’s my queen, period.
Haru - She’s sunlight in the shape of a girl. She gardens the world — turning pain into beauty, cold into warmth. People underestimate her. I never do. She has a darkness in her, a depth that’s terrifying when unleashed — and it makes me want to kneel. But when she smiles and kisses my cheek like I'm hers? I want to marry her a thousand times over.
Makoto - She’s the shield. The law. The quiet strength. She doesn’t ask for love — she earns it, even when she doesn't realize it. And when she lets herself fall apart just enough to be held… it breaks me, every time. She’s discipline and devotion. And I’ll never stop proving she’s worthy of both.”
Akira leans back, breath soft, lashes low, lips tugging into a crooked, vulnerable smile.
Akira: “…They’re everything. They’re chaos and peace, thunder and silk, stars and stormclouds. And I love them. All of them. Utterly.”
Voice from behind: “...You sap.”
Akira freezes.
Slowly… he turns.
And sees all twelve girls standing just beyond the archway.
Smiling. Blushing. Glowing.
Ann: (steps forward, voice husky) “Bed. Now.”
Akira’s eyes flit to each girl in turn — the hunger in Ren’s gaze, the misty eyes of Yukiko, the way Morgane’s biting her lip, and the synchronized pulse of every anklet on their left ankles…
He just smiles. He stands.
He walks out of the room—slowly, purposefully, with a grace that makes every mouth go dry behind him—and as he disappears down the hallway…
His boxer briefs land in the doorway with a lazy flick.
Ann: (grinning) “He knows what that does to us.”
Ren: “I’m going to ride him till sunrise.”
Makoto: “…We should all ride him till sunrise.”
Futaba: (turns back, bolts to the laptop) “Wait wait wait—”
She slaps the power button. The screen flickers to black just as a deep, velvety moan echoes from down the hall—
Ann or Haru (offscreen): “God, yes…”
Futaba: (grinning) “...And that’s a wrap.”
Chapter 26: The Queen Joins The Court
Summary:
The moment everyone has been waiting for - Queen finally joins the Thieves
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
At Shujin Academy, the gentle hum of lunchtime chatter filled the air, punctuated by the occasional scrape of chairs and the clatter of chopsticks against bento boxes. Ryuemi and Shiho sat at their usual table near the window, idly picking at their lunches while Ann and Morgane chatted across from them, waiting for Akira, Haru and Kasumi to show up.
The loudspeaker crackled suddenly, cutting through the noise. "Ryuemi Sakamoto… Shiho Suzui… please report to the Student Council Office."
The four girls exchanged quick glances. Ryuemi sighed, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets as she rose to her feet. "Welp, that can't be good."
Shiho gave a small, wry smile as she gathered her things. "Think it’s about our little rooftop chat with her?"
"Probably," Ryuemi muttered, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Guess there’s only one way to find out."
Ann leaned forward, brows furrowed in concern. "Want me and Morgane to come with you?"
"Nah, we'll handle it," Ryuemi said, though there was an edge of uncertainty in her voice. "You can cover for us when the others show up."
"You got it," Morgane chimed, giving them a thumbs-up. "Good luck, yeah?"
With a final nod, Ryuemi and Shiho turned and made their way through the halls toward the Student Council Office, a knot of anticipation forming between them. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was weight to it. They both knew this was likely to be the fallout—or maybe the next step—from what they’d started.
As they reached the door, Shiho paused. "You ready for this?"
Ryuemi smirked, though her eyes were sharp. "Always."
Shiho knocked twice, then slid the door open.
"Come in," came Makoto's voice, calm but unreadable.
Ryuemi and Shiho stepped inside, bracing themselves for whatever was waiting.
The first thing Ryuemi and Shiho noticed when they stepped into the Student Council Office was that Makoto was alone. The second thing they noticed was how uncertain she looked—her usual composed facade was frayed, her expression tight and uneasy. The third thing they saw was the Calling Card, laying face up on the desk beside a thick blue folder.
Makoto rose from her chair stiffly, as if remembering only now that she needed to maintain some semblance of authority. She tried to force her face into something neutral, but failed miserably. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure if you actually would.”
Ryuemi shrugged, a half-hearted grin tugging at her lips. “Would’ve been weirder if we hadn’t.”
Shiho’s gaze flicked toward the desk. “So, what’s this about?”
Makoto gestured toward the chairs opposite her. “Please… sit.”
The two girls complied, exchanging quick, silent glances. Something about this didn’t feel like an ordinary student council matter.
Makoto sat across from them and picked up the Calling Card, her fingers brushing over its edges as if it were some delicate relic. “I’m assuming you know what this is.”
Shiho shrugged, feigning indifference. “I mean… it looks like one of the cards the Phantom Thieves left for Kamoshida, right?”
Makoto’s lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It was bitter. Tired. "Yes. The very same. An unknown group who somehow exposed an Olympic champion for the monster he really was. At least, that’s the story everyone believes now."
She slid the blue folder toward her, her fingertips lingering on its cover as if the weight of it could anchor her to this moment. "I’ve been digging. The Phantom Thieves—what they’ve done is incredible. Kamoshida. Madarame. Okumura. Togo. They’re becoming legends. People call them ‘heroes of justice.’ They’ve helped so many people.”
Her voice faltered slightly as she met their eyes. “But when you start looking closely… there’s a pattern. A timeline. Kamoshida’s fall happened right after a specific transfer student arrived at Shujin. The same student who’s always surrounded by key people connected to these cases. The same student whose inner circle seems to expand with each new calling card.”
Makoto tapped the edge of the Calling Card against the table rhythmically, steady, steady, steady. "Tell me. Did Amamiya present himself to you as some misunderstood hero? Did he recruit you? Are you his accomplices?"
Ryuemi blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait—what?”
“You think Akira’s the leader of the Phantom Thieves?” Shiho’s brows furrowed, disbelief flashing across her face.
Makoto’s grip tightened on the card. “The connections all point to him. And to you. You were there on the rooftop that day. The timing is too perfect. The calling cards started appearing right after he joined Shujin.”
Her voice softened, almost pleading. “Please. Just tell me the truth. I want to believe I’m wrong.”
Shiho crossed her arms, her pulse hammering in her ears. "If we told you… what would you do?"
Makoto hesitated. For a heartbeat, the air seemed to still.
“At first,” she admitted quietly, “I was going to report you. But now… now I just want to understand. I want to know why. Why someone would risk everything to do this.”
Her eyes drifted to the Calling Card in her hand, her thumb brushing over the inked letters. “Because deep down, I envy them. I envy the courage they have to stand up and fight.”
Ryuemi’s sharp edge softened, just a little. “Then why come at us like this? Why not just ask Akira directly?”
“Because I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I hear it from him.”
Shiho gave her a sad, knowing smile. "We all were."
Makoto’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. Her hands trembled just slightly. "So… am I right?"
Ryuemi leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Makoto… you’re not ready to hear the answer.”
Makoto’s breath hitched. “But—”
“You’re not ready,” Ryuemi said again, gently this time. “But you’re close.”
Shiho stood, pausing briefly to rest a hand on Makoto’s shoulder. “When you are… we’ll be here.”
Makoto stared at the card, her heart thudding like a warning drum against her ribs, the words ‘Phantom Thieves’ echoing in her head.
“Akira Amamiya… please report to the Student Council Room.”
The announcement rang out, brittle and uncertain, cutting through the easy hum of lunchtime chatter. Akira looked up from his half-finished lunch, his storm-grey eyes narrowing slightly. Across the cafeteria, he caught sight of Ryuemi and Shiho returning to their table, their expressions tight and conflicted.
Their eyes met his, and both girls gave him subtle, but unmistakable nods. Confirmation.
So. It had come to this.
Akira let out a slow, measured breath and rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders to shake off the weight that had settled there. Somewhere deep within him, Arsène’s voice rumbled with amusement. "On dirait que la Reine se réveille."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Akira’s mouth. Even now, even with everything they’d faced, Arsène always found a way to make things sound like a game.
He straightened his jacket, gathered his tray, and quietly excused himself from the table, feeling the eyes of his friends following him as he strode toward the exit.
When Akira stepped into the Student Council Room, he found Makoto standing near the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her posture rigid but… uncertain. The air between them was sharp, charged. On the desk lay the familiar Calling Card, next to the thick blue folder.
Makoto turned when she heard the door close, her eyes flashing with the fierce determination she’d always worn like armor. But there was something else underneath—something brittle, something cracking.
“Amamiya,” she started, voice clipped. “Let’s not waste time. I’ve been looking into you. You don’t come from money. In fact, your official records paint you as being from a middle-class background.” She took a step forward, clutching the folder. “So how do you explain your... substantial financial resources? You’re loaded, aren’t you?”
Akira’s expression didn’t change. Calm. Patient.
“Bribery,” she pressed. “Is that how you got Kamoshida to confess? You paid him off, didn’t you?”
Arsène's voice chuckled in the back of his mind. "Elle est vraiment à bout de souffle, cette Reine."
Akira offered a faint shrug. “I’m not that persuasive, Niijima.”
“Then blackmail.” Her tone sharpened, but the desperation crept in. “You must’ve found something on him. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re not some… vigilante. You’re just a manipulator.”
He tilted his head, letting the silence hang just long enough for the weight of her own words to catch up with her. He could see it—she didn’t believe what she was saying. Not really. It was a smokescreen, a last-ditch attempt to protect the structure she had built her world around.
“Makoto,” he said softly, dropping the formalities, “You know that’s not true.”
The crack was instant. Her composure faltered, her arms dropping to her sides as her breath shook. She looked at the Calling Card like it might burn her if she touched it.
“I… I thought if I could find a hole in your story, if I could prove that you were just another liar, it would make this easier.”
Her gaze met his, and for the first time, it wasn’t combative—it was searching. Begging for something to hold on to.
“All my life, I’ve believed that the law is the highest form of justice. That if you follow the rules, the right thing will always happen. That those in authority… they must be right, because they carry the weight of responsibility.”
She laughed bitterly, though it sounded more like a gasp.
“But that’s not true, is it? The law didn’t stop Kamoshida. The school didn’t stop him. Kobayakawa—” she spat the name like venom—“he asked me to investigate the Phantom Thieves. He’s scared. He wants to silence you. And now I can’t stop thinking—he must’ve known. He had to have known what Kamoshida was doing.”
Her fists clenched at her sides, trembling.
“If that’s true… what else is he hiding?”
She stepped forward, pleading now, the iron in her voice crumbling to exposed steel.
“Amamiya… no—Akira—please. I need to know. I need to understand what you’re really doing. Because if I keep following the rules, if I keep playing their game… I think I’m going to lose myself.”
Akira regarded Makoto carefully, weighing her words, weighing her heart. She wasn’t their enemy—at least, not anymore. Not someone to outmaneuver or disarm. She was standing on the edge, about to tip toward them if he reached out.
“There’s something I can show you,” he said quietly. “Something that will answer your questions. But not here.”
Makoto’s breath hitched, her body still tense like she was waiting for a trap to spring. But the look in Akira’s storm-grey eyes—steady, grounded, honest—gave her pause.
“Meet me outside the front gates after classes. We’ll take it from there.”
She hesitated, searching his face for any hint of deception, then slowly nodded.
“I’ll be there.”
Akira turned to leave, pausing at the door just long enough to glance over his shoulder.
“Oh, and Makoto?” His voice was warm but firm. “Trust your gut. It’s better than you think.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Back in the cafeteria, the energy was tense but buzzing.
“So she knows?” Ann’s eyes widened as she leaned in, her ponytail swaying with the urgency of the conversation.
“She’s got pieces of it, for sure,” Ryuemi said, arms crossed, tone carefully neutral. “Mostly circumstantial, but enough to point her our way.”
Shiho, sitting beside her, picked at her tray absently. “Makoto’s shaken. You can tell she’s fighting herself. She doesn’t want to believe it, but she can’t deny it either.”
Morgane leaned over the table, scowling. “You think she’s gonna rat us out? I still don’t trust her.”
“She won’t,” Akira’s calm voice cut in as he approached, sliding smoothly into the conversation like he’d been there all along.
The girls turned toward him immediately, their worried faces searching for answers.
“She’s starting to see the truth,” Akira continued, resting his hands in his pockets. “She just needs a little… push.”
“What kind of push?” Kasumi asked, tilting her head.
Akira’s storm-grey eyes glittered, but he didn’t elaborate. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Ann leaned back, still frowning. “You sure about this, Akira?”
“She’s not going to sell us out,” he said firmly. “I trust her instincts. And I think, deep down, she wants to be part of this. She just doesn’t know how to step away from the path she’s always followed.”
There was a pause, the table falling into contemplative silence until Haru softly broke it.
“And what’s our next move?”
Akira’s lips curled in a faint smile. “I think I’ve found another Palace.”
The girls straightened instantly, a ripple of excitement and tension moving through them.
“Who’s the target?” Ryuemi asked, her eyes narrowing in focus.
But Akira just shook his head. “Not yet. I need to confirm it first.”
Morgane let out a frustrated groan. “Seriously? You’re gonna leave us hanging like that?”
“You’ll know soon,” Akira promised, starting to turn away, the faintest glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Just be ready.”
And with that, he strolled off, leaving the girls buzzing with curiosity—and a little bit of dread—about what exactly he’d uncovered.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the front gates of Shujin Academy as Akira stood waiting, his hands buried in his pockets, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. Beside him, Ryuemi and Shiho lingered, exchanging quiet glances that betrayed a flicker of unease.
“She’s late,” Ryuemi muttered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“She’ll come,” Akira said simply, his voice calm and steady.
And sure enough, moments later, Makoto appeared, striding toward them with her usual purpose, but faltering slightly when she noticed Shiho and Ryuemi at Akira’s side. The surprise flickered across her face, but she didn’t comment on it. She stopped a few paces away, her gaze moving warily between the three of them.
Akira’s lips curled into an easy grin. “Glad you could make it.”
Makoto crossed her arms, still guarded. “I said I’d come. I want to understand.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Ryuemi and Shiho, who looked just as curious as she was. “Where are we going?”
Akira’s smile didn’t waver. Instead of answering, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“Kobayakawa… Shujin… Colosseum.”
Makoto barely had time to process the words before the Metaverse distortion triggered around them. The world rippled like liquid glass, the familiar surroundings of the school gates warping and bending, colors bleeding and twisting.
And then, with a lurch that seized her stomach, everything went sideways.
When the vertigo finally faded, Makoto found herself on her knees, panting, her palms pressed into cold, wet mud. The sharp, acrid sting of smoke burned her throat as she drew in a shaky breath. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frenetic rhythm that nearly drowned out the low thrum of distant battle.
And then she saw it—the bodies.
Faceless, broken corpses littered the ground around her. Some were clad in shredded armor, others in tattered uniforms, but all of them were stained black with ichor, their hollow wounds oozing darkness that pooled and mixed with the mud beneath her.
Makoto’s breath hitched, the iron tang of blood thick in the air. The cries of the dying, the clanging of distant steel, the crackle of gunfire—all of it swirled into a suffocating cacophony that made her head spin.
She scrambled backwards, terror gripping her as her wide eyes landed on the three figures standing silently nearby. One was draped in a hooded cloak, a bone-white, featureless mask hiding their face. Beside them, a desperada, their lower face obscured by a black bandanna, twin pistols gleaming at their sides. And the third—a blonde pirate with wild hair, wearing a bejewelled skull mask that glimmered even in the smoke-filled haze.
Makoto’s scream tore from her throat as she scrabbled away from them, boots slipping in the muck. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—what was this place? Who were these monsters?
Before she could crawl any farther, the pirate figure closed the distance in a single step and crouched in front of her. The figure’s gloved hands gently caught her shoulders.
“Koto… Koto, relax—it’s me.” The voice was familiar, soft and urgent, pulling her back from the edge of panic. “It’s Ryu… Calm down, okay? You’re safe.”
The pirate reached up and pulled off the skull mask.
Ryuemi’s brown eyes and familiar half-smile cut through Makoto’s terror like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
Makoto’s breath hitched again, but this time for a different reason. “Ryuemi…?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” Ryuemi’s voice softened. “Shiho and Akira are here too.”
Makoto’s gaze flicked toward the desperada and the hooded figure. Shiho gave her a nod, the pistols resting calmly in her hands, while the hooded figure—Akira, she realized—simply stood, arms folded, his mask gleaming, unreadable.
Makoto’s chest rose and fell in shuddering gasps as her mind struggled to catch up.
“What is this place…?” she whispered.
Ryuemi’s grip on her shoulders tightened just a little. “Welcome to Kobayakawa’s Palace.”
Makoto’s mind was reeling, the weight of the explanation Akira had just given her threatening to crush every firmly held belief she’d ever had.
Palaces. The Metaverse. Shadows. Cognitive distortions.
It sounded insane. All of it. Complete and utter bullshit. And yet… here she was, standing knee-deep in mud among the echoes of slaughter, breathing in the acrid smoke, feeling the tremors of distant explosions rattling in her bones.
This wasn’t some shared hallucination. This was real.
Her hands trembled as she gestured vaguely at the ruined battlefield around them. “So… let me get this straight. This place—this hellhole—is how Director Kobayakawa really sees the world? A warzone? And we’re… we’re somehow magically inside his mind?”
There was a faint edge of hysteria creeping into her voice, the last fraying threads of her rational worldview clinging on for dear life.
“And it was the same with Kamoshida? With Madarame? With all your other targets?”
Ryuemi snorted, a little smirk tugging at her lips. “Not every single one had a Palace, but yeah. More or less.”
She crossed her arms and tilted her head, watching Makoto with an almost teasing glint in her eye. “But that’s a story for another time. All you really need to know is… we’re the good guys. We find people like Kamoshida, like Kobayakawa—people who’ve twisted their desires so badly they’re hurting everyone around them—and we stop them.”
Ryuemi nodded toward Akira, who stood silently nearby, his bone-white mask catching the sickly battlefield light.
“Any other questions, Joker can answer.”
Makoto’s gaze flicked to Akira. His stance was casual, hands resting lightly in his pockets, but there was something sharp beneath it. Something that unsettled her.
Makoto opened her mouth, the flood of questions ready to pour out—how did they discover this? How did they even enter someone’s mind? How were they supposed to fix this? What did it mean to change someone’s heart?
But Akira’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, calm but firm. “Not here.” His eyes flicked toward the distant roar of gunfire, his posture tensing ever so slightly. “We should get out before we’re spotted. This place isn’t safe.”
Makoto blinked. “But—”
“I didn’t bring you here for a full tour.” His gaze met hers, storm-grey and unshakable. “I just wanted to show you where the rabbit hole started. I wanted you to see it with your own eyes, so you’d know I wasn’t lying.”
He stepped past her, his coat fluttering slightly in the smoke-filled air. “Now that you’ve seen it… that’s enough for today. We’re leaving.”
Ryuemi let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, unless you wanna get mauled by Shadows, we should probably bounce. They’ll be crawling over this place soon.”
Shiho gave Makoto a small, encouraging nod. “Come on. We’ll explain more once we’re out.”
Makoto hesitated, staring out at the war-torn expanse around her—this brutal landscape Kobayakawa had built inside his own mind. She swallowed thickly, then nodded.
“Okay… let’s go.”
Back in the real world, Makoto found herself following Akira through the quiet backstreets, her mind still reeling. When they reached his building and climbed the stairs to his apartment, she was expecting… well, something else. Something grander. Cleaner. Maybe a penthouse, considering the level of wealth she had uncovered in her research.
Instead, she stepped into a frugal, slightly shabby apartment—warm but plainly furnished, with mismatched furniture, old posters peeling slightly at the corners, and a collection of well-worn books stacked precariously on low shelves. It wasn’t dirty, but it was definitely lived-in. There was a certain charm to it, Makoto admitted to herself, though she was still visibly caught off guard by how normal it was.
As she sat primly on one of the lumpy couches, her hands folded in her lap, she watched as Ryuemi and Shiho immediately sprawled out on the floor like it was their second home. Ryuemi had already kicked her shoes off, stretching her legs out with a content sigh, while Shiho was scrolling through her phone, relaxed and unbothered.
Makoto’s attention shifted to Akira, who was quietly preparing drinks at the small kitchen counter. She counted the cups. Thirteen. “You always prepare that many?” she asked, curiosity slipping through her usually measured tone. Akira glanced over his shoulder with a faint grin. “Usually.”
One by one, the rest of the girls began to file in. Ann arrived with Futaba clinging to her back like a backpack, both laughing uncontrollably about something only they seemed to find funny. Haru, Hifumi, Yukiko, and Morgane followed, chatting animatedly about some new cafe they wanted to try. Kasumi and Ren trailed behind, still in their gym clothes, while Lavenza slipped in last, her golden eyes shining with happiness as she hugged Akira.
Noise and warmth filled the room in seconds, everyone naturally finding their usual spots—on the couches, the floor, the window sill. The ease with which they melted into the space made it clear this wasn’t their first gathering here.
Akira finished preparing the drinks and started handing them out one by one, moving through the crowd with practiced ease. When he reached her, he set a cup in front of her with a small grin.
“Here you go.”
Makoto gave him a cautious nod and took a polite sip—then paused in shock.
It was perfect. The exact balance of bitterness and sweetness she preferred, the precise splash of milk. She stared up at him, wide-eyed. “How… How did you make this just the way I love it?”
Akira simply grinned and tapped the side of his nose. “Barista’s nose. It’s a real thing.”
The girls burst into laughter, teasing him lightly.
“You say that like it’s not some weird superpower,” Ann grinned.
“Yeah, seriously, Akira,” Ren chimed in, “are you sure you’re not secretly a coffee diviner or something?”
Makoto found herself smiling softly, her guard slowly easing as she took another sip, the familiar flavor grounding her in this strange, new reality. For the first time since the beginning of the day, she let herself relax.
Makoto didn’t speak at first. She just sat there, hands curled around the warm mug, sipping quietly as the laughter and conversations ebbed and flowed around her.
It was… comfortable. Strange, but comfortable. The girls teased each other, swapping stories, making plans for the weekend. Futaba was animatedly showing something on her phone to Haru and Yukiko, probably some bizarre meme, judging by their mixed expressions of amusement and confusion. Ann and Ren were arguing over a new dessert place, Morgane and Kasumi were huddled together chatting softly, and Hifumi was methodically slicing an apple for no apparent reason except that she liked to keep her hands busy. Even Lavenza was perched on the couch arm, sipping cocoa filled with marshmallows with a faint, serene smile.
She didn’t try to join in, not yet. She simply watched—watched the way the girls teased each other, how Akira’s presence seemed to center the entire group without dominating it. He never raised his voice, never had to pull rank. They just naturally followed his lead, like planets caught in orbit.
And it struck her how… safe it all felt. How warm. How real.
This wasn’t some cult of personality. This wasn’t manipulation. This wasn’t blackmail or bribery.
This was a family. A strange, chaotic, beautiful family.
She let the quiet minutes pass, savoring the perfect cup of coffee, letting herself sink into the comfortable weight of the room’s energy. Finally, she lowered her cup and broke the soft lull in conversation. “Are all of you…” She let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished.
Akira didn’t miss a beat. “Yes,” he said, his voice calm, steady. “We are.”
He pointed toward Ryuemi. “Comet.”
Then to Morgane. “Vent.”
His hand drifted to Ann. “Panther.”
A nod to Shiho. “Dead-Eye.”
A glance at Ren. “Lotus.”
Futaba next. “Oracle.”
Yukiko. “Vixen.”
Hifumi. “Kirin.”
Haru. “Noir.”
Kasumi. “Aria.”
Lavenza. “Butterfly.”
Finally, he tapped his own chest. “Joker. Leader of the Phantom Thieves.” His storm-grey eyes met hers, steady and warm. “We fight for those who have no one else in their corner.”
The weight of it landed gently in Makoto’s chest, not like a burden, but like the slow realisation of something she’d been chasing all her life.
Akira’s storm-grey eyes softened, the weight of what he was revealing clear in them. "I know it's confusing."
Morgane's voice cut in sharply, her brows furrowed in frustration. "What's confusing is why you're telling her all this. What if she takes this to Kobayakawa? How can you be so trusting?"
Akira didn’t flinch. He kept his gaze locked on Makoto, his voice steady but certain. "She won’t."
There was something quietly powerful in the way he said it. "She wants to do the right thing. Don’t you, Makoto?"
The entire room seemed to still, all eyes now on her.
Makoto felt her throat tighten, but she held Akira's gaze, searching it for any sign of deception. There was none. Just… belief. Unshakeable belief.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she slowly, carefully nodded. "...Yes. I do."
Makoto sat frozen, her coffee long forgotten as Akira’s steady voice filled the room, each new piece of information falling like a hammer blow.
“Something was bothering me ever since we took down Kamoshida’s Palace,” Akira began, his tone calm but with an edge that made the air feel heavier. “There always seemed to be an echo around Shujin. Like there was something else lurking, just under the surface. Something bigger.”
He placed a thin folder on the table, sliding out several sheets of paper, each neatly clipped, each more damning than the last.
“So I did some digging. Talked to a few people. Listened to a few rumors. Nothing dangerous on their own, but when you start to connect them…”
He tapped the first sheet. “Students pitted against each other for a single scholarship spot. The administration makes them think they have a shot, but the board has already decided who gets it.”
He slid out another. “University clubs forced to compete for funding and resources, but most of that money? It’s being siphoned off. For what? We’re not sure yet.”
Makoto swallowed hard, her eyes scanning the pages as Akira continued.
“Student achievements? Only celebrated when it boosts Shujin’s image. But failures? Failures are always the student’s fault. Never the system.”
Another paper landed on the table. “Bullying cases swept under the rug. Teachers pressured to look the other way. Some even bribed to give favored students better grades.”
Akira’s hand hovered over the next page before gently laying it down. “Somebody’s been using student records to manipulate students. Forcing them into clubs, pushing them into ‘competitive’ events, setting them up for public humiliation, or using them to raise the school’s prestige—regardless of what the students actually want.”
As the pile grew, the silence deepened.
Ryuemi’s fists were clenched, her jaw tight. Shiho looked physically ill. Ann’s lip curled in disgust. Morgane’s usually cool expression was trembling with barely contained rage.
Makoto remained silent, her eyes locked on the papers. She saw herself in all of this. Her spotless record. Her praise. Her status.
And she realized how much of it had been bought with other people’s suffering. Her stomach twisted painfully as the weight of her complicity settled over her shoulders like a shroud.
A warm hand gently rested on her shoulder. Makoto blinked, looking up to see Akira’s stormy grey eyes—calm, steady, unjudging.
He spoke softly. “I couldn’t bring it up before. We had more urgent targets. And I didn’t know who the Palace Ruler was… not for sure.”
His expression hardened, though his touch remained gentle. “But when you told me who asked you to investigate us… that’s when it all clicked.”
He clapped his hands, his signature smirk sliding onto his face, cutting through the tension.
“So. Who wants to storm a Colosseum?”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Ryuemi cracked her knuckles. “Always wanted to break some skulls in an arena.”
Ann grinned. “Count me in.”
Morgane sighed but smiled. “We can’t let this go on.”
Shiho’s eyes were blazing. “Let’s tear it all down.”
One by one, the girls nodded, rallying behind their leader.
Makoto looked around at them—all so sure, so ready—and then back at Akira, who still hadn’t taken his hand off her shoulder.
“…I want to make this right,” she whispered. “I need to make this right.”
Akira’s smile softened. “Good.”
The team had shifted quickly into planning mode, the earlier tension replaced by familiar purpose.
Akira outlined the infiltration strategy, his tone calm but resolute. “We don’t know what this Palace looks like beyond the entrance. It’s new territory, and we’ve seen how quickly things can spiral when we’re caught off guard.”
His storm-grey eyes flicked up, meeting each of theirs in turn. “That’s why the infiltration team needs to be small at first. Move fast, get a lay of the land, find a Safe Room. Once we secure one, we’ll cycle the teams. I’ll take Ren, Yukiko, and Morgane. Futaba, you’re on overwatch as usual.”
Futaba saluted from the couch. “Phantom Navigator, locked and loaded!”
Akira continued, his voice steady. “The rest of you will follow behind at a distance. Once we’ve found somewhere safe, we’ll rotate teams as needed.”
There were nods of understanding all around, the plan sinking in. Then Akira turned to Ryuemi and Makoto, his gaze serious. “Ryu. Look after her.”
Ryuemi’s mouth opened, a protest already forming, but the weight of Akira’s trust settled over her like a tangible thing. She sighed heavily, running a hand through her hair. “Okay, okay. I got it.”
Makoto frowned, bristling. “I can look after myself. I’ve been training in aikido and karate since I was a kid—”
Ryuemi snorted, arms crossed. “And a fat lot of good that’ll do against Shadows. This isn’t the dojo, ‘Koto. This is their world. Our world. You don’t know the rules yet.”
Makoto’s eyes narrowed at the nickname, but she didn’t push it. Instead, she looked directly at Ryuemi, her resolve firm. “Then teach me the rules. Just don’t expect me to sit on the sidelines.”
Ryuemi snorted. “It’s not as easy as punching people until they explode into black smoke, y’know.”
Futaba grinned from her spot on the couch. “Actually, sometimes it’s exactly that.”
The room chuckled softly, tension easing just a little. Akira straightened, gathering up the papers that were still on the table. “We move tomorrow. Meet after classes.”
Makoto’s heart hammered in her chest as she trailed behind Joker, Lotus, Vent, and Vixen, with Comet and the others surrounding her like informal bodyguards. She had expected something strange—after all, Akira – Joker - hadn’t exactly been subtle about how bizarre the Metaverse was—but she hadn’t expected… this.
The corridors of the Colosseum Palace were claustrophobic, the walls jagged and unfinished like trenches hastily dug through a battlefield. Banners bearing Shujin’s insignia fluttered high overhead, their edges frayed and tattered. Spotlights crisscrossed the walkways, sweeping for intruders. Distantly, the roar of an unseen crowd thundered through the halls.
The moment the group crossed into the first major courtyard, Makoto's stomach twisted. Slithering out from the shadows came the most grotesque creature she had ever seen—something resembling a humanoid insect, with bloated segments and chittering jaws. Its eyes were hollow, but it somehow looked at her.
Makoto stumbled back, mouth going dry. "What... What on earth is that?!"
“That’s a Shadow,” Comet said, almost lazily, her hands tucked in her pockets as she watched more creatures slither into view with casual indifference. “They’re born from distorted desires, crawling around the Palaces like parasites.”
Makoto’s pulse pounded in her ears. The Shadows were snarling now, advancing on the group. Before she could even think of moving, Joker stepped forward with the languid confidence of someone strolling through a park. “Oracle?”
“Just what’s in front of you. No ambush. You’re good to go,” Oracle’s voice chirped in their comms.
“Let’s make this quick.” Joker’s tone was smooth, almost bored, but his grey eyes sharpened with a predatory glint. “Go loud.”
The Thieves didn’t hesitate. Lotus summoned Maid Marian, her Shining Arrows taking out several enemies. Vixen’s Persona, Tomoe Gozen, materialized with a flurry of ice shards, freezing the rest in place, before Vent sent her throwing disc spinning through the air and shattering them all.
Makoto watched, wide-eyed and trembling. “What on earth is that?” she asked, her voice cracking.
Comet grinned, clearly in her element, her hand resting on the pommel of her cutlass as she watched her team. “It’s called a Persona,” she said, touching her mask. “It represents our rebel spirit.”
The sound of cannon fire roared as Anne Bonney appeared behind her in a shimmering burst of flame and smoke. Makoto could only stare, heart hammering as she took in the commanding figure of the pirate queen, the ethereal smoke trailing from her coat, the confident tilt of her hat.
“…Beautiful,” she whispered, almost involuntarily.
Comet chuckled, glancing at her. “Yeah, she’s pretty bad-ass, huh?” With a casual wave, she dismissed her Persona in a puff of smoke and flame, the lingering scent of gunpowder in the air.
Ahead, Joker turned, his storm-grey eyes locking on Makoto’s. "Stick close. There’s more where that came from."
Makoto swallowed, straightened, and hurried after him, pulse still thrumming as the Phantom Thieves pressed deeper into the Colosseum.
After several more battles, the pattern became undeniable.
Makoto, despite herself, had started to adjust. The initial horror of the Shadows was giving way to an analytical focus, and she couldn’t help but observe the team’s dynamic more closely.
Time and time again, when they encountered groups of enemies, Joker would pull back.
At first, she thought it was some kind of strategy—maybe he was positioning himself to watch for reinforcements, or to direct the battle from a safer vantage point. But as the fights wore on, she noticed that he rarely gave orders.
When the others dove into the fray, Akira would simply stand back, watching with a quiet, unreadable expression. He would only move when the last of the Shadows were on the ropes—when victory was inevitable. A final strike, a well-timed finishing blow… that was when he stepped in.
But the real leadership? The tactics? The quick calls when the fight turned south? They came from the others.
Sometimes from Lotus, barking out quick, sharp commands. Sometimes from Oracle, weaving around the battlefield and relaying Shadow positions with the precision of a seasoned navigator. Sometimes from Kirin, coolly reading enemy weaknesses and calling for coordinated strikes.
Never from Joker.
Makoto found herself frowning as she filed the observation away, her mind quietly turning it over.
They call him the leader… but they’re the ones protecting him, instead of the other way around.
The thought unsettled her, because the rest of the team didn’t seem to notice. They moved around Joker like he was the sun in their sky—following his pace, his rhythm, trusting him with absolute certainty.
Makoto pressed her lips into a thin line. She didn’t say anything to Comet. Not yet. But the thought stuck, like a splinter she couldn’t dislodge.
As they pressed deeper into the Palace, the gnawing feeling in Makoto’s chest only grew.
She watched the Phantom Thieves move like they’d done this a hundred times—because they had. They swept through corridors and battlefields with confidence, bantering mid-fight, laughing in the downtime, supporting each other without hesitation. They were a well-oiled machine.
But something was wrong. The one who was supposed to be the leader—their Joker—didn’t act like one.
Makoto’s brow furrowed as her heart began to pound in her ears. She pressed her palm to her chest, trying to calm the erratic rhythm.
They’re protecting him…
They’re protecting him without even realizing it…
And he’s letting them…
A sharp voice echoed in the back of her mind, cold and insistent.
"I should be the one to lead them."
The thought jolted through her like lightning. She clenched her fists.
"I can keep them protected."
The voice wouldn’t stop.
It slipped into her head after every skirmish, every narrow escape, every reckless gamble Akira allowed.
I wouldn’t have made that call.
I would have chosen a safer path.
I would never risk them like that.
They shouldn’t have to protect him… I can protect them.
She found herself stealing glances at Comet, at Lotus, at Dead-Eye, at Panther—all of them shining, all of them fighting so fiercely for him.
They deserve someone who won’t stand back. Someone who will lead from the front.
The voice was her own, but it felt… amplified, as if something in this place was feeding it, nurturing it, twisting it.
Makoto’s eyes darted toward Akira’s back as he walked calmly ahead.
Why is someone like him their leader?
The question coiled in her mind like a serpent.
Makoto didn’t know when the words started tumbling out—maybe somewhere between the last Shadow encounter and when they finally slammed the Safe Room door behind them—but once they began, she couldn’t stop.
“You’re weak.”
The words hung in the air, venomous.
The others froze, caught off guard by the sudden shift in her tone.
“You’re weak, Akira. You hide behind your team. You stand at the back and let them do the fighting. You let them get hurt. You let them suffer. How can you call yourself a leader when they’re the ones carrying you?”
Comet and Vent immediately shot to their feet. “What the hell are you talking about?!” Comet snapped, fists clenched. “He’s saved us more times than I can count—”
Panther’s voice rose to join. “He’s the reason we’re even here, Makoto—”
“Let her talk, guys.” Akira’s quiet, steady voice cut through the protest like a blade.
The room went still.
“Let her get the poison out of her.”
Only then did they notice the subtle, writhing tendrils of purple miasma curling around Makoto’s shoulders, creeping up from her shadow like a living thing.
Vixen’s breath hitched. “Is that—?”
“It’s the Palace,” Lavenza said softly, stepping forward, her ethereal eyes somber. “It’s been feeding on her doubt. Nurturing it. Her distortion is blooming.”
At Joker’s subtle nod, Lavenza raised her hands and conjured a dome of shimmering blue energy, snapping it around Akira and Makoto, cutting them off from the others.
Makoto’s heartbeat thundered in her ears, her breathing ragged. She didn’t understand why her vision swam, why her limbs trembled, why her skin felt too tight, but the words kept pouring out.
“You don’t deserve them. You don’t deserve this team. They protect you because they don’t see it, but I do. You’re afraid to lead them. You don’t have the strength to lead anyone.”
Akira’s storm-grey eyes narrowed, his voice dropping into a low, mocking sneer.
“You think you can do better, Makoto?”
He took a slow step forward.
“You? A worthless, spineless waste of space who needs to be told what to do, what to think, where to go.”
Makoto’s breath hitched, her nails digging into her palms.
“You think you’re worthy of leading the Phantom Thieves?” He chuckled darkly. “You don’t even have a Persona.”
The miasma surged, thick and suffocating, writhing violently around Makoto as her breath came in ragged gasps. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the frantic voices beyond the barrier. The words Akira had thrown at her echoed in a vicious loop inside her skull, feeding the growing storm inside her.
You don’t even have a Persona.
You think you can lead?
You don’t even have a Persona.
Her vision blurred, tears she didn’t remember forming stinging her eyes.
“No…” she whispered, trembling, the chains of doubt coiling tighter around her heart.
The miasma snapped taut— And then exploded outward in a violent burst of purple and black.
Makoto’s scream ripped from her throat, raw and desperate. “Come to me… TORMENTA!!”
The Palace trembled.
Lightning cracked.
And the shadow within her answered.
From the smoke, a figure emerged—a desiccated shaman priestess, skeletal and gaunt, draped in tattered ceremonial robes that clung to her emaciated frame like a funeral shroud. Rusted chains wrapped tightly around her withered body, some trailing and dragging along the blood-soaked ground, others piercing her flesh—through her ribs, her shoulders, even her jaw.
Her mouth was sewn shut with delicate golden thread, and a fraying silken blindfold covered her hollow, empty eye sockets. Her hands were grotesquely oversized, skeletal claws—one bound tightly in even more chains, the other free but twitching violently as if barely able to contain its power.
Storm clouds churned endlessly around her feet and shoulders, bolts of lightning arcing intermittently across her body, but never striking her directly. It was as if the storm belonged to her—her burden, her prison, and her weapon.
Joker’s eyes flicked from the newly born Persona to Makoto herself—and something in his chest twisted.
Makoto was standing—barely—her body trembling beneath the weight of her new form. She was clad in a tattered, prison-like dress, the coarse fabric similar to historical penal garb, with the number "001" stamped boldly across her chest.
A rusted crown of thorns sat upon her brow, its barbs biting cruelly into her scalp, thin rivulets of blood tracing down her temple.
Around her neck, a heavy iron collar, from which thick chains trailed downward, disappearing into the Palace floor—anchoring her to this cruel arena.
Her wrists and ankles were bound in shackles, granting her only limited range of movement, forcing each step to be careful, deliberate.
And covering her mouth… a leather gag. A symbol of the silence imposed upon her.
Lightning crackled above them, illuminating the fierce, furious storm that now raged inside her.
Joker watched calmly, his hands in his pockets as the dome flickered with static.
Arsene’s voice rumbled in his mind. "Well played, Trickster. Shall we see what the fledgling Queen is truly capable of?"
Makoto’s storm boiled over.
Nuclear-infused lightning cracked and sizzled along the ground as she lunged forward, her bound steps heavy but relentless, Tormenta’s claws raking the air in unison with her movements.
“You’re a liar!” she snarled through gritted teeth, her voice raw with grief and fury. The purple miasma still clung to her, crackling with barely contained rage. “You act like you’re this untouchable leader—this… this perfect symbol of rebellion—”
She slashed her clawed hand forward and Tormenta’s skeletal arm lashed out, carving deep furrows into the stone floor where Joker had been a second before.
“—but all you do is hide behind the others! You let them suffer! You let them bleed for you!”
Joker sidestepped her strikes effortlessly, his breathing calm, his expression unreadable. “You think that’s the truth, huh?” His voice was quiet, laced with a sad sort of amusement. “Tell me, Makoto. If I’m so weak, why are you the one trembling?”
“Shut up!” she howled, Freila magic detonating at his feet, forcing him to leap back. “You shattered everything I believed in! You showed me that all of it—obedience, discipline, authority—it was all a lie!”
She swung again—chains snapping taut around her wrists—forcing Tormenta’s claw to whip through the air with explosive force. Akira twisted aside, the wind from her strike whipping through his hair.
“Good,” he said softly, his storm-grey eyes sharp. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all day.”
Makoto's eyes widened, and her fury deepened.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” she screamed, casting another wave of Freila blasts, sparks and debris flying as the Palace rumbled around them.
“You’re angry at me because I forced you to see the world as it is,” Joker said, his voice firm but never cruel as he danced between her assaults, moving like water. “You’re angry at yourself because you let them use you. You let them chain you.”
He parried a strike with the hilt of his tonfa, spinning away with impossible grace.
“But you’re not angry because I lied to you, Makoto. You’re angry because I didn’t.”
Her heart seized at his words. The guilt, the betrayal, the realization—it all crashed into her like a tidal wave.
“No—no! That’s not—” She stumbled, her next lightning strike faltering. “I wanted to protect people… I wanted to do the right thing—”
“And you still can,” Joker cut in, his voice low, reaching for her through the storm. “But the system you served never wanted to protect anyone. And deep down, you’ve known that for a long time.”
His words sliced deeper than any blade, peeling back her self-delusions.
The chains around her ankles cracked, fracturing slightly.
Makoto bared her teeth, pressing her attack, lightning dancing dangerously along Tormenta’s form. “Then what do you want from me?! To just give up? To admit I was wrong about everything?”
“No,” Joker said simply, parrying a strike and stepping in close, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet.
“I want you to fight with us—with your own heart, your own strength—not because someone told you to. Not because you think you have to. Because you choose to.”
Makoto faltered, her next strike sluggish, her arms trembling.
“You’re not weak, Makoto,” Akira whispered as he darted behind her. “But you’re still chained. Let me help you break them.”
CRACK.
One of the chains around her wrists shattered, the sound resonating like a bell tolling.
Makoto’s breathing hitched, her mind spiraling as memories flashed—of silent obedience, of following rules she never questioned, of standing by while students were pitted against each other, while voices were silenced.
She gritted her teeth and let out a guttural roar, Tormenta lashing out one final time.
“I DON’T NEED YOUR HELP!”
Joker’s storm-grey eyes softened as he caught her strike—not dodging this time, but stopping it with both hands. The force of the blow skidded him back, his boots scraping across the stone, but he held firm.
His voice was quiet, but it rang louder than the crackling storm.
“Yeah. You do.”
SNAP.
The final chain around her wrist broke.
Makoto gasped, her knees hitting the ground as Tormenta shimmered and receded behind her, the oppressive weight of the miasma finally lifting.
Silence. Thick, breathless silence.
Joker knelt down in front of her, his usual cocky grin gone, replaced by something far more gentle. “Told you. I was never your enemy.”
Makoto trembled, tears spilling freely now, her chest heaving as the realization, the grief, the guilt, and the relief all crashed together inside her.
She had wanted to hate him.
She couldn’t.
All she could do was weep as she felt Joker’s arms wrap around her, a silent gesture that helped quell the storm inside her. For the first time in what felt like years, the crushing weight of duty and guilt began to lift.
Instead, she felt a warmth.
It bloomed quietly in her chest, tender yet fierce, slowly chasing away the lingering cold.
And then— A voice echoed in her mind. Clear. Regal. Compassionate.
"You have walked the path they chose for you long enough."
"It is time to stand. It is time to rise. It is time to fight for justice… your justice."
Makoto’s breath caught as her trembling slowed. The warmth intensified, like the first rays of sunlight breaking through the storm clouds. "I am thou… Thou art I…"
The words resonated in her bones, settling in her soul like a crown reclaimed.
"Let us pursue true justice together."
Makoto’s red-rimmed eyes widened, her tears still falling, but her heart… finally steady.
Joker slowly stepped away from Makoto, his hand making a small gesture toward Lavenza. The Velvet Attendant nodded and lowered the glowing barrier, the blue dome dissolving into soft motes of light.
A proud, satisfied grin tugged at Akira’s lips as he rejoined the others, who were watching with wide eyes and racing hearts.
Before them, Makoto was engulfed in brilliant blue light, the telltale radiance of a true awakening.
The suffocating tatters of her prison uniform burned away, disintegrating like ash in a storm, leaving only the raw core of her being behind.
The light grew, bright and fierce like the core of a dying star, until it became almost blinding— And then, in a heartbeat, it collapsed inward, like an imploding supernova.
From the lingering glow, Makoto stepped forward.
Her new Phantom Thief attire shimmered into focus: a sleek, dark leather biker outfit accented with streaks of midnight blue. The suit clung to her with armored precision, flexible yet protective, built for speed and strength. Thick-soled biker boots crunched against the Palace floor with solid, deliberate steps.
Her fists, once bound, were now encased in spiked gloves, the perfect marriage of rebellion and justice.
Her face was partly obscured by a simple iron visor, a shield that hinted at the discipline and focus she had always valued— But now, it was on her terms.
And beside her, her Persona manifested.
A towering, automaton-like woman with a serene, porcelain face and flowing snow-white hair. She wore ornate, pristine white papal robes, subtly edged with silver filigree, and carried a long white lance adorned with blue silk ribbons fluttering like streamers in the wind.
The Persona radiated authority, but unlike Tormenta’s suffocating presence, this one felt firm but kind—A protector.
Joker crossed his arms as he watched the transformation, his storm-grey eyes warm with satisfaction. “She’s finally here…” he murmured, almost to himself.
Makoto clenched her fists, marveling at the power now humming within her. She turned to face the others, her breath steady, her heart resolved.
Makoto’s gaze flicked from Joker, to Dead-Eye, to Panther. And finally—her eyes landed on Comet.
“I… I’m—”
“Shut up.” Comet’s voice cut through Makoto’s words like a blade.
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, her expression hard but her eyes shimmering. “Just… shut up.”
Before Makoto could process it, Comet threw her arms around her, pulling her into a crushing hug.
“You moron… you utter moron… About time someone got through your thick skull…”
Makoto’s arms trembled, but then she clung to Comet just as fiercely, pressing her face against her friend’s shoulder, no longer trying to hold back the tears.
One by one, the others joined in.
Dead-Eye, Panther, Vent, Lotus, Noir, Vixen, Kirin, Oracle, Lavenza, Aria— Each girl wrapped their arms around Makoto, forming a chaotic, messy, perfect twelve-person group hug, surrounding her, grounding her, welcoming her.
Makoto could barely breathe, but for the first time, she didn’t mind. For the first time, she felt like she belonged.
Finally, after what felt like forever, they slowly began to pull apart.
Makoto wiped her eyes, her breathing still unsteady, but her heart lighter than it had been in years. When she looked up, she saw Joker, standing apart from the group. His storm-grey eyes glimmered with fondness, his ever-present smirk softened into something warmer.
As she opened her mouth to speak, Joker beat her to it.
“Welcome to the Phantom Thieves… Queen.”
Makoto blinked in surprise. “Queen? Why Queen?”
“In chess, the Queen is the most aggressive piece. Fast. Strong. It can go anywhere on the board, do anything. It’ll do anything to protect the other pieces.” His gaze softened behind his mask, knowing and proud. “Seems apt, right?”
The others let out a loud cheer, playful, supportive, excited.
Makoto’s lips tugged into a slow, genuine smile as she nodded. “I like it…”
And just like that—she was one of them.
Then, a wave of exhaustion slammed into Queen like a freight train, her legs buckling beneath her as she stumbled—straight into Joker’s waiting arms.
“Easy there. I got you.” His warm chuckle vibrated against her, and despite the sudden fatigue weighing her down, Queen felt her cheeks heat up.
“Wha… what happened to me?” she mumbled, trying to steady herself though her body protested every movement.
From behind her, Comet’s voice cut in, amused but gentle. “You just Awakened. It takes a lot out of you.”
She looked over at Joker. “Call it a day?”
Joker nodded, his tone firm but kind. “Yeah. We don’t have a deadline, and this place seems pretty massive. We’ll head back for today.”
Queen’s mouth opened, the protest ready on her tongue—but she caught herself, her eyes flicking to him. If Joker was saying something, it was probably for a good reason.
She let out a quiet breath and nodded. “Okay.”
As they stepped out of the Metaverse, the girls immediately fell into easy conversation, already making plans to head back to Leblanc for dinner, as had quickly become their tradition.
Makoto glanced at her watch—and her eyes widened. “It’s already 6:30?!” Panic started to creep into her voice. “Sae will be home at eight… she’ll be expecting dinner.” She hesitated, looking at the group with clear reluctance. “I… I need to run. Maybe I can join you tomorrow?”
Akira simply nodded, his storm-grey eyes understanding. “Of course.”
Makoto offered a brief smile before turning and walking away quickly, her footsteps light but urgent.
She’d barely gone ten steps when a familiar voice called after her.“‘Koto, wait.”
Makoto turned, surprised to see Ryuemi jogging to catch up with her. She tilted her head, confused. “Ryu?”
Ryuemi stopped in front of her, rubbing the back of her neck, looking slightly awkward. “I’ll come with you… we… we can talk.”
For a moment, Makoto just stared at her, stunned by the simple, earnest offer. Then, slowly, her expression softened. “I’d like that.”
The first few minutes of their walk were awkward. They moved in silence, the sounds of the city filling the gaps between them—cars in the distance, birds settling in the trees, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet as they cut through a quiet park. So much time had passed since they’d been close. Since they’d been able to talk freely.
Ryuemi stuffed her hands in her pockets, her eyes flicking toward Makoto now and then, as though searching for the right words. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but firm.
“Did you really believe what you were saying before?”
Makoto’s steps faltered.
She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze dropped to the path ahead as her thoughts tangled, trying to parse the mess inside her heart. When she finally spoke, her voice was small. “I don’t think I really did.”
Ryuemi looked at her, patient.
Makoto’s grip tightened around the strap of her school bag as she continued. “It was just… what I had been taught. What I’d always believed. That the law was absolute. That those in authority were never wrong. I built my whole life around that.”
Her voice cracked, but she pushed on. “What happened to you… to Shiho… to Ann… I saw it. I knew. But I convinced myself that I must have misunderstood. That I didn’t have the full picture. That the people in charge knew better than me.”
Her steps slowed to a stop. She turned to face Ryuemi, her amber eyes glistening with fresh tears.
“I’m sorry, Ryu… I’m so sorry.”
Ryuemi let out a soft breath and smiled—soft, tired, but tender. She stepped closer, gently taking Makoto’s hand in hers. “I know you are, ‘Koto.” She gave Makoto’s hand a gentle squeeze. “And I think… I think I’m finally able to forgive you.”
Makoto’s breath hitched as tears slipped down her cheeks. She launched herself into Ryuemi’s arms, hugging her fiercely.
Ryuemi didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around Makoto, holding her just as tightly. “Idiot,” she whispered, the fondness in her voice impossible to miss. “You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”
Makoto only sobbed quietly into her friend’s shoulder, her body trembling with the weight she was finally allowed to put down.
After a few minutes, the tears dried, the heaviness between them easing enough to let them keep walking. Only this time, they didn’t let go. Their hands remained entwined, fingers loosely laced together, and every so often, they’d glance at each other and giggle softly—like girls rediscovering a long-lost secret.
As they strolled under the soft amber glow of the streetlights, Makoto tilted her head, her curiosity finally surfacing. “So… Akira and the others. What’s the dynamic there, exactly? You all seem really… close.”
Ryuemi barked out a short laugh. “Close is one way to put it.” Her steps picked up in energy as she launched into a rant, her free hand waving animatedly. “Every single one of us is head over heels for him. And this idiot?.” She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief.
“I swear, it’s like the universe just decided to drop the most infuriatingly oblivious boy into our laps and then sat back with popcorn to watch the chaos. He does all this stuff for us—little things. He remembers how everyone takes their coffee. He shows up when we need him, even if we don’t say it out loud. He wins those stupid claw machines like he’s making deals with the devil—he got Haru this big carrot plushie on his first try.”
Makoto smiled softly, but there was a flicker of something else behind her eyes. She kept listening.
Ryuemi continued, completely unaware. “He’s always putting us first, always pushing us to be better, but he never asks for anything for himself. I think… I think we’re all just waiting for him to realise he doesn’t have to choose. We’ve all kinda… well, we’ve all kinda accepted that we love him, but we love each other too. And that’s okay.”
“Seems like a… complicated situation,” Makoto said carefully. “But… you’re all okay with that? Sharing him?”
Ryuemi shrugged, completely missing the subtle edge in Makoto’s tone. “Honestly? Yeah. We’ve all talked about it. We have each other, too. I never thought I’d be into girls, but… you gotta admit…” She smirked, leaning in slightly, as if sharing a delicious secret. “The others are hot as hell. It just kinda… works, you know? No one feels left out. We all just want to make each other happy.”
Makoto’s gaze drifted down to their joined hands, her thumb gently tracing over Ryuemi’s knuckles as she processed the confession.
“I see…” Her voice was light, but there was a thoughtful weight behind it. So… it’s not just about him. It’s about all of them. A found family. A web of connections where love is shared, not hoarded.
The corners of her mouth tugged into a genuine smile. “…It really does sound like a good thing.”
Ryuemi beamed and gave Makoto’s hand a little swing. “You’ll fit right in, ‘Koto.”
Makoto’s heart fluttered, and for the first time in a long time, she truly believed that might be possible.
The familiar chime of the Velvet Room’s bell echoed softly as Akira stepped into the comforting blue haze, the scent of old paper and velvet wrapping around him like a familiar cloak. Lavenza was already waiting by his side, her hands folded neatly behind her back as she gazed at the Wall of Arcanas.
Akira’s storm-grey eyes tracked over the plaques, noting the changes since his last visit.
Twelve glowing symbols. Twelve burning threads of fate.
High Priestess no longer burned crimson. In its place, a warm, golden light radiated outward, the number 4 gleaming beneath it.
Akira allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
He felt Lavenza’s quiet gaze on him, her expression serene but brimming with quiet pride. When their eyes met, they exchanged a silent nod—a wordless understanding passing between them.
Another bond healed. Another life reclaimed.
The walk had been quiet, but not uncomfortable. The warmth of their joined hands lingered between them as they approached Makoto’s apartment building, the sky above painted in soft hues of amber and violet as the evening settled in.
Makoto slowed as they reached the door, her steps hesitant. There was a weight in her chest, a trembling uncertainty that she couldn’t shake. She stopped just before the entrance, turning to face Ryuemi, her brows knitted together, lips slightly parted as if the words wouldn’t quite come.
“About what you said… about me fitting in…” Makoto’s voice was soft, almost fragile.
Ryuemi paused, giving her the space she needed, patiently waiting for her to find her voice.
Makoto’s eyes flicked away, nervous. “Do… do you think the others will allow me? I mean, after all I’ve done… all the ways I’ve hurt you all, the things I let happen. Even now, I… I still don’t know if I deserve it.”
Ryuemi’s lips curled into a tender smile. She stepped in closer, her hand reaching out to gently tilt Makoto’s chin up, coaxing her to meet her gaze.
“‘Koto…” Ryuemi’s voice dropped to a soft, coaxing whisper, her breath brushing against Makoto’s lips. “All you need to do… is make the first step.”
Makoto’s breath hitched, her wide eyes locking onto Ryuemi’s. For a heartbeat, time seemed to still—then Makoto’s eyes fluttered shut, leaning in, her trembling fingers curling into the fabric of Ryuemi’s sleeve.
The kiss was soft, uncertain, but sweet. A beginning.
When they parted, Makoto’s cheeks were dusted pink, but her expression was lighter, freer, as if a weight had finally been lifted from her.
Ryuemi grinned and gave her hand one final squeeze. “See you tomorrow, Queen.”
Makoto smiled—truly smiled—and nodded, stepping into her building as the door eased shut behind her.
It was a bright, easy afternoon, the courtyard alive with the familiar buzz of Shujin’s students. At the usual table, Ann, Haru, Morgane, Kasumi, and Shiho sat chatting animatedly, their trays already half-cleared as they waited for Ryuemi and Akira to show up.
Ann glanced around, twirling a fry between her fingers as she scanned the courtyard. “Where are those two? They’re usually not this late…”
Haru, sipping on her tea, smiled gently. “I saw Akira speaking with Professor Kawakami after lectures. They seemed pretty deep in conversation.”
Shiho smirked, resting her chin on her hand. “Ryuemi’s just running late, as usual. Probably still showering after gym training. You know how she likes to take her time.”
Kasumi giggled behind her hand. “She’ll probably barge in here in her PE kit at this rate.”
Ann sighed, though her expression softened with fondness. “Tch. Those two.”
Just then, her gaze flicked across the courtyard—and there she was. Makoto Niijima, standing awkwardly at the edge, holding her tray like it was some kind of shield. She looked toward the group, hesitated, and started to turn away.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Ann shot up from her seat and strode across the courtyard in brisk steps. She looped her arm through Makoto’s before the other girl could bolt.
“Come on, Queen,” she said with a wink, tugging her along without giving her a chance to protest. “Stop lurking like you’re still on the outside.”
Makoto blinked but didn’t resist. “I wasn’t sure if I should—”
Ann gave a mock groan. “You’re one of us now, so start acting like it.”
By the time they reached the table, the others were already grinning, as if this was the outcome they’d all been waiting for. Haru shifted to make space, and Morgane gave Makoto a welcoming pat on the back as she slid into the seat between them.
Ann flopped back into her spot between Shiho and Kasumi, then leaned forward on her elbows, resting her chin in her hands. Her eyes glimmered with mischief.
“So,” she drawled, “Ryuemi told us something interesting yesterday.”
Makoto’s stomach dropped. “Oh? What did she…?”
Shiho smirked, popping a grape into her mouth. “She told us you kissed her.”
Makoto’s eyes widened in horror. “She what?!”
“She did,” Morgane chimed in, practically purring. “And now we’ve got questions.”
“Lots of questions,” Kasumi added, her playful smile lighting up her face. “Like… does that mean you’re really joining us? Fully, I mean.”
Makoto flushed, her words caught in her throat.
That’s when Ann leaned in closer, her voice low and teasing. “Because if you are… I wanna be next in line.” She straightened and, without breaking eye contact, pulled out a small tube of lip gloss and slowly applied it to her already perfect lips, the gesture deliberate.
Makoto’s face burned hotter, a mix of panic and something else fluttering in her chest. She looked helplessly around the table as the others stifled their giggles, enjoying every second of her flustered silence.
A few minutes later, Ryuemi jogged up to the table, hair still slightly damp from her post-gym shower, a light flush on her cheeks. She slumped into her usual seat on the other side of Shiho and immediately reached for Shiho’s leftover drink without asking.
“Whew,” she exhaled, taking a long sip. “Sorry, sorry. I’m here now. What’d I miss?”
Shiho raised a brow. “You always steal my drink.”
“You always let me,” Ryuemi shot back with a grin, nudging her.
Her eyes flicked to Makoto, who still seemed just a little shell-shocked. “You okay, ’Koto? The girls started giving you a hard time yet?”
Ann practically sparkled. “Started? Oh, we’re just warming up.”
Morgane leaned over dramatically, resting her chin on Makoto’s shoulder. “We have so many questions about that kiss.”
Kasumi chimed in sweetly. “And we have a signup sheet now. Ann’s first, but, you know, no pressure.”
Haru laughed behind her hand. “Ann didn’t give her much of a choice.”
Ryuemi snorted. “Yeah, that’s pretty on brand.”
Makoto, to her credit, managed to keep her cool — but as the teasing spiraled, she began to notice something else. The way Ryuemi’s knee rested against Shiho’s under the table. The way Morgane idly played with a strand of Haru’s hair while talking. The way Kasumi gently leaned into Ann’s side, and Ann allowed it, grinning but not pulling away. The little touches. The easy affection. They weren’t just friends. They were something more, something closer. And no one seemed worried about lines or rules or labels.
Something settled in Makoto’s chest.
She looked up, meeting Ann’s eyes directly across the table. Ann paused mid-bite of a strawberry and tilted her head, curious.
Makoto’s lips curled into a sly smile, soft but firm. “The Student Council room is usually empty around now,” she said, her tone calm but charged. “If your offer still stands.”
The entire table went silent for half a beat.
Ann’s strawberry slipped from her fingers onto her tray with a soft thud.
The table erupted into wolf-whistles, playful whoops, and Morgane mock-fainting into Haru’s lap.
Ryuemi clapped her hands once. “Atta girl! That’s the spirit.”
Shiho grinned at Makoto, bumping her foot under the table. “I claim next then.”
Ann shot her a wink. “Well then, let’s go. I’ve got a lot of… student council matters to discuss with you.”
Makoto followed, her smile lingering as she trailed after Ann, the rest of the table still laughing and cheering behind them.
The walk to the Student Council room felt like it stretched for miles, though in reality, it was barely a few corridors away. And yet, every step Ann took was deliberate, a tantalizing glide that left Makoto dizzy. Ann’s hips swayed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, her high heels striking the tile floor with a sharp, echoing click-clack that syncopated perfectly with the pounding of Makoto’s heart.
Makoto had seen Ann walk countless times before, but she had never watched her like this—never truly noticed the confident arch of her back, the subtle curve of her shoulders, the soft, knowing smirk that tugged at the corners of her lips.
Ann didn't look back once. She didn't need to.
She knew Makoto was following.
By the time they reached the door to the Student Council room, Makoto’s throat was dry, her nerves humming. Ann slid the door open without a word, stepping inside and letting it glide shut behind them with a soft click. The room was as Makoto had left it that morning: tidy, silent, the faint scent of old paper and fresh coffee lingering in the air.
But now it felt different. Charged. Alive.
Ann turned to face her, leaning back against Makoto’s own desk, the light from the window framing her in a soft halo. "So, Queen…" she began, her voice teasing but with a sharp, honest edge beneath it. "Is this what you really want?"
Makoto’s chest tightened, but there was no hesitation. Not anymore. Not after everything.
She stepped forward, her gaze steady. "Yes. I want to be here. I want to be with you. With all of you. I’ve spent my whole life following rules, doing what’s expected… but this? This is my choice."
Ann’s smirk softened, her teasing fading into something warm, something fierce. "Good," she whispered, pushing off the desk and closing the gap between them in two slow, measured steps. "Because I’ve been waiting to claim you since the moment you walked up to our table."
Makoto’s breath hitched.
Then Ann’s hands cupped her face, her touch firm, sure, pulling her in as their lips met in a kiss that sent sparks racing through Makoto’s entire body. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just Ann’s undeniable claim and Makoto’s eager surrender.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frenzied. It was deliberate. Final. Sealing something that had already been quietly set in motion.
When they finally parted, Ann’s forehead rested against Makoto’s. "Welcome to the family, ‘Koto. You’re ours now."
Makoto smiled, a tremble of laughter in her breath. "I wouldn’t want it any other way."
The thirst chat pinged to life with a fresh notification. It was a photo.
Ann and Makoto, cheek to cheek, both slightly flushed. Ann's signature glittery lipgloss was unmistakably smudged, and Makoto's lips were visibly, deliciously swollen. The caption beneath the photo read: This Queen is now ours for good.
There was a beat of silence in the chat. Then, the responses flooded in:
PlunderBae:
Tch. I was first, remember? But fine. I call next proper kiss.
SiroccoFée:
Proper? Sounds like you left her with work to do. I'll make sure she knows what a real kiss feels like. 💅
BrewedObedience:
Oh my~ I was hoping you'd join us fully, Mako-chan. I can’t wait to give you a proper welcome 💋
BendMeBaby:
So happy for you, Senpai! But I fully intend to make you blush even harder next time we meet 😊
BangBangBaby:
You’re not escaping me, Koto. I’m coming for my kiss. Just you wait 😏
BlossomUndone:
How wonderful! I’ll be sure to make your heart race in my own way 💖
PixelPrincess:
So like… can I get in line? Or do I just sneak attack? Actually, sneak attack sounds fun.
QueenOfHeels:
I look forward to claiming my turn, Makoto-san. Strategy is everything, after all… ♟️
SinGlazed:
You’re one of us now. That means you get all the kisses. No exceptions 💋
ButterflyBliss:
Your addition to the collective heart is most pleasing. I shall bestow my own token of affection when we next meet 💙
Makoto stared at the flurry of messages, her face heating up, a helpless laugh slipping past her lips. "They're absolutely impossible..." she whispered, but her heart had never felt so full.
Akira’s footsteps echoed softly down the hallway as he made his way toward the cafeteria, his hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze distant. The cheerful noise from nearby lecture rooms and the idle chatter of students in the corridors hardly registered with him. His mind was elsewhere—replaying Makoto’s awakening, turning it over from every angle.
It was different.
The thought lingered, gnawing at him, until a familiar voice stirred in his mind.
"So, you're saying that there's more than one way to awaken?" Akira asked silently, his storm-grey eyes flickering with curiosity.
"Yes, my Harbinger," Satanael’s deep, rumbling voice replied, smooth as rolling thunder. "Standing against injustice is but one path. Others must overcome the shackles of fear… others still must cease their desperate escape from the Truth. It would seem that Makoto walked the latter path this time."
Akira hummed thoughtfully. "A different form of rebellion… but a rebellion all the same."
Arsène’s voice followed, laced with subtle concern. "Though her awakening was unique, what unsettles me is the Palace itself. C'était très vide... It was so empty. Just passageways and Shadows. And the fog... le brouillard was much thicker than in any Palace we’ve encountered."
Akira’s brow furrowed as he exited into the courtyard, the breeze brushing past him.
"Yeah… I didn’t pay enough attention in the moment, but you’re right. That place is foggier than usual." He exhaled slowly, his mind reaching further back. "Reminds me of that weird, thick fog we had back in Fuefuki when I was little."
There was a pause.
"Nao-nee and her friends always said it was magic. Dangerous magic." A chuckle slipped out of him. "That’s when I met Nana’s ‘big bro.’ Coolest guy I’d ever seen."
There was a shared, quiet pulse of amusement from Arsène and Satanael, their presence wrapping around him like old friends walking at his side.
"Do not dismiss the connection so easily, Harbinger." Satanael’s voice grew somber. "Fog that clouds the mind… fog that clouds the world… it is no ordinary mist."
"Perhaps we should start asking the right questions." Arsène murmured. "What lurks beneath this fog? And who truly benefits from it?"
"Yeah..." Akira’s gaze sharpened as he approached the cafeteria doors. "It’s time we look deeper."
Akira stepped into the cafeteria, the familiar hum of conversations, clinking cutlery, and occasional bursts of laughter washing over him like white noise. His storm-grey eyes scanned the room until they settled on his usual table.
The others were all chatting animatedly, the energy at the table bright and comfortable. Ann was leaning into Makoto’s personal space with a teasing grin, Haru was giggling behind her hand, and Ryuemi was smugly sipping her juice, clearly enjoying whatever teasing was happening.
It was a warm sight, one that made something in Akira’s chest settle.
When they noticed him approaching, a ripple of smiles spread through the group.
“About time you showed up!” Ann called, twirling her hair. “We were about to send a search party.”
“Let me guess,” Shiho grinned, “Kawakami needed you to help set up a presentation?”
“Something like that,” Akira replied with a crooked smile as he set his tray down and took his usual seat.
He looked around the table, making brief eye contact with each of them, before leaning forward, his elbows resting on the surface. “All right, listen up,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to pull everyone’s attention in closer. “We’re going back into the Palace this afternoon. There was no sign of the Ruler last time, so we don’t know what’s going on yet.”
There were nods and murmurs of agreement.
Akira’s storm-grey eyes flicked to Makoto, a slow, knowing grin tugging at his lips. “You’re on the frontlines this time, Queen.”
Makoto’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed in determination. She set her chopsticks down with a quiet clack. “Understood,” she said, her voice firm but tinged with anticipation. “I’ll be ready.”
Ann nudged her shoulder playfully, whispering just loud enough for the others to hear, “Try to keep up, rookie.”
Ryuemi chuckled into her drink. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”
The table buzzed with excitement and teasing as they finished their meal, the afternoon’s mission already crackling in the air around them.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Ren: PolishedPuzzle/ SinGlazed (Codename: Lotus)
Futaba: GlitchGoddess/ PixelPrincess (Codename: Oracle)
Kasumi: ScarletSway/ BendMeBaby (Codename: Aria)
Lavenza: VelvetWhisper/ ButterflyBliss
Haru: ???/ BrewedObedience (Codename: Noir)
Hifumi: ???/ QueenOfHeels (Codename: Kirin)
Makoto: ???/??? (Codename: Queen)
Chapter 27: Queen’s First March
Summary:
The Thieves explore more of Kobayakawa's Palace
Makoto joins the Thirst Chat - plans are made
A visit to Akihabara sparks sugar-fueled madness at LeBlanc
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Makoto felt the telltale tingle as her Phantom Thief attire wrapped itself around her, the soft weight of her iron visor settling perfectly in place. She flexed her gloved fingers, the spiked leather fitting snugly, and exhaled slowly as her heavy-soled boots hit the Palace’s marbled floor with a solid thunk.
Around her, the others ignited into being—threads of blue flames coiling around them as their Phantom Thief outfits manifested one after the other. Vixen’s white mask gleamed under the distant palace torches. Dead-Eye twirled a pistol, already grinning like she was ready for trouble. Kirin stretched her legs out behind her, the faint scrape of her bladed heels punctuating the moment. Joker, ever calm, simply adjusted his gloves, as if he’d been waiting for them to catch up.
"Looking sharp, Queen." Comet smirked, nudging her gently with an elbow. "Try not to trip on your first day."
"She’s got this," Panther added with a wink. "But if you panic, you can always cling to Joker."
Queen narrowed her eyes playfully. "I’ll keep that in mind."
Joker chuckled, glancing around at the team. "Alright, listen up. Front line this time—Queen, Vixen, Comet, Kirin, and me. We’ll switch teams up regularly. I want everyone working with Queen and I don’t want anyone burning out."
The others nodded easily, no questions asked.
"Let’s move out." Joker’s voice rang with quiet certainty, and the team surged forward into the mist-choked halls of the Colosseum.
Queen adjusted her mask, heart hammering with excitement and nerves. First day on the front lines… Don’t slow them down.
But as she fell into step beside them, something inside her—something fierce and unshackled—told her she wouldn’t.
The first wave of Shadows ambushed them in one of the outer corridors—twisted monstrosities, all gnashing teeth and warped limbs. Queen’s breath caught as the world seemed to slow around her. She braced herself to charge in, but then— something shifted.
A pulse of invisible energy washed over her. Her body felt lighter, her steps surer, her heartbeat steady and controlled. Strength surged through her limbs, her movements sharper, faster, almost instinctual. Even the weight of her iron visor felt like nothing.
What was that? No time to question it now.
She vaulted forward, tearing through the nearest Shadow with a flurry of rapid punches, her spiked gloves crackling with nuclear energy. Kirin was right beside her, ducking low and spinning, her bladed heels catching the enemies in precise, deadly arcs.
When the final Shadow dissolved into black mist, Queen dropped her stance, chest heaving but not from exhaustion—more from the rush, the thrill of it all.
She turned to Kirin, wiping a smear of ichor from her glove. “Did you feel that? That… boost at the start? What was that?”
Kirin smiled softly, patting Queen’s shoulder as her bangles chimed. “That’s Joker. One of his Personas has passive support skills that kick in automatically at the start of every battle. We all feel it. Strength, speed, resilience—it’s like having a shield wrapped around us.”
Queen blinked, her gaze trailing over to where Joker was calmly spinning his tonfas, seemingly untouched by the fight.
Kirin’s smile grew a little wistful. “Even when he’s not on the frontlines, even when he doesn’t lift a finger, he’s always looking out for us. That’s how he leads.”
Queen’s heart thudded, a knot of guilt and awe tightening in her chest.
The next few encounters came quickly. The Shadows in Kobayakawa’s Palace prowled the labyrinthine halls like hunting dogs—clawing, biting, relentless. But this time, Queen didn’t hesitate. She dove in alongside the others, their rhythm building with each clash.
When Vixen called out for a baton pass, Queen caught it with a grin, surging forward to deliver a brutal punch, the thunderous crack of her knuckles echoing in the corridor. “Nice handoff,” she called to Vixen, panting slightly.
“Not bad for your first day,” Vixen teased, winking as she dispatched the last Shadow with a flourish of her katana.
“Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” Queen shot back with mock indignation, a smile tugging at her lips.
It felt good—the rhythm, the teamwork, the easy banter.
Later, when Comet was pinned by a lunging Shadow, Queen’s instincts took over. She shoulder-charged the beast off her friend, motes of radiation dancing along her gloves. “You owe me a coffee,” she quipped, offering Comet a hand up.
Comet’s grin was bright. “Hey, I save you, you save me—that’s the deal. But sure, I’ll make it a large.”
Each fight flowed smoother. Each moment, Queen found herself reading the others’ movements instinctively, slipping into their strategies as if she’d always belonged here. She wasn’t just keeping up—she was thriving.
And all the while, she kept noticing Joker.
She noticed the little things now. How he always positioned himself to cover the others’ flanks. How his quick commands stitched their attacks into seamless combos. How he’d instinctively drop into a defensive stance if any of them looked cornered. How his buffs and debuffs were timed to keep the fights from spiraling out of control. How he never seemed to take the credit.
Even when the battles ended, he’d just give a quiet nod and move on. Always protecting. Always steady.
Her admiration deepened, but so did something else. Something warmer. Something she couldn’t quite name yet—but it sat heavy in her chest, persistent and insistent.
Respect. Gratitude. Affection? No… not just affection. Something more…
Queen wasn’t sure when it had started. Maybe when she first saw his quiet confidence. Maybe when he embraced her in the Safe Room. Maybe when she realized he’d been gently leading her to this truth all along.
Whatever it was, it was growing.
The next courtyard was different.
Up until now, the corridors and open spaces had been utilitarian—cold, repetitive, fog-choked passageways where Shadows prowled and battles came fast. But as the Thieves stepped into the chamber ahead, they all felt it—a shift in the air.
The courtyard was massive, ringed by iron stands like a miniature arena. Piled around the perimeter were confiscated student projects—broken science fair models, torn artwork, crumpled research papers, shredded recommendation letters.
In the center of the chamber stood a large, rusted lectern, chained and bolted into the ground. And hovering just above it—a glowing blue sigil, rotating slowly, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat.
Queen stepped forward, frowning. “What is this place?”
Joker didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes narrowed as a faint voice began to drift through the chamber—an echo, distant and scratchy, like an old recording. "Director Kobayakawa, these records are incomplete—Konichi clearly met all the requirements for this scholarship. Why was Soejima awarded instead?"
There was a pause. Then Kobayakawa’s voice—younger, but unmistakable—seeped into the air like oil in water. "Soejima's father is on the board. Konichi is… irrelevant."
Queen’s heart clenched.
The distorted voice that had asked the question continued to press in the background, insistent, dogged. "You’re gambling with futures—these are children."
Kobayakawa’s response came sharp and dismissive. "Children are stepping stones. That’s all they’ve ever been."
The echo faded.
Queen turned to Joker, the color draining from her face. “That… that was real, wasn’t it? Those weren’t just shadows—those were… memories?”
Joker gave her a grim nod. “These chambers seem to be echoes. Memories Kobayakawa can’t suppress, no matter how tightly he grips his Palace. They’re proof.”
Futaba’s voice crackled through the comms. “I’ve marked the sigil’s data structure—it’s like a vault key. Looks like we’ll need a few of these to unlock the Treasure Room.”
“Then let’s find the rest,” Joker said, already turning toward the next corridor. His gaze flicked back to Queen, his voice softening. “You okay?”
Queen straightened her shoulders and forced her breathing steady. “I will be.”
Comet’s voice chimed in, teasing. “Queen’s got a backbone now.”
“Always did,” Joker murmured, already leading them deeper into the fog.
As they moved on, Queen couldn’t shake the weight in her chest—the cold realization that she had once admired Kobayakawa. That she had helped uphold this broken system.
But now? Now, she would help tear it down.
The next chamber was quieter, its fog swirling thick and low around their feet as if the Palace itself wanted to choke off whatever memory lay here.
The group moved in cautiously, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. This space was smaller than the last—more like an office, with scattered desks and broken chairs, crushed paper strewn across the floor. The sigil hovered above an overturned filing cabinet, faintly pulsing like the one before.
Just as before, the air shimmered, and the echoes began to bleed through."Director Kobayakawa, we’ve received numerous complaints—broken promises, manipulated grades, bribery, even reports of bullying from staff members. Can you explain this pattern?"
The detective’s voice was distorted to the point of being mechanical, yet still calm but firm, his tone persistent in a way that made the Thieves pause. Kobayakawa’s response drifted through, sickly sweet, almost patronizing.
"Of course. These complaints, regrettable as they are, are likely from disgruntled students or entitled parents who didn’t get their way. We run a competitive institution. Not everyone can be a winner."
"Some of these 'losers' have records of being exemplary students. Some of the parents have provided documentation of unfair treatment."
A brief silence.
"With all due respect, Detective, children lie. Parents lie. The pressure of high expectations makes them lash out when they fail. It’s an unfortunate pattern. We simply uphold standards here."
Queen clenched her fists. He sounds so reasonable… so measured…
The next voice confirmed it, the edge of skepticism still present but now dulled. "We’ll continue to monitor the situation. But for now… you’re free to go."
The memory dissolved into static.
Futaba’s voice came through the comms. “Another sigil locked and tagged. Got it.”
Queen stared at the empty space where the echo had played, her stomach twisting. "Why did the detective back off? Why didn’t he keep pushing?"
Joker, already watching her, gave a small shrug. “Sometimes the truth isn’t enough to move people. Sometimes… people hear what they want to hear.”
Queen grit her teeth, her nails digging into her palm.
“Not this time,” she whispered, steel returning to her voice. “Not this time.”
Comet appeared beside her, a lopsided grin on her face. “That’s the spirit, Queen.”
Queen glanced around at her friends, this strange, wonderful band of misfits who did push, who did fight.
They wouldn’t back off. They wouldn’t let it go.
“Let’s find the next one.”
The next stretch of exploration was more grueling. The ringed corridors twisted like a labyrinth, each turn guarded by roaming Shadows. By the time they pushed into the third chamber, the fatigue was starting to settle in, but the momentum carried them forward.
This room was grander, a warped replica of an administrative boardroom, with a long table cracked down the middle, papers scattered like fallen leaves. At the far end, the sigil shimmered, waiting.
The air warped, and the next set of echoes began."Director Kobayakawa, we've reviewed additional testimonies. Several teachers have come forward. They confirm they were pressured into adjusting grades for specific students. Some mention direct financial incentives tied to club funding or trip approvals."
The detective’s tone was sharper now, no longer polite. There was weight behind his words. "Your denials no longer align with the evidence, Director. You’ve been skimming from the school budget. You’ve manipulated recommendations. You’ve fostered a system where bullying and abuse could thrive so long as it served your goals."
Kobayakawa’s voice cracked, scrambling to regain control. "I… I have no idea where you’re getting this. These teachers must have misremembered, or… they’re colluding to sabotage me. Perhaps they didn’t meet their performance quotas and are now deflecting blame—"
"Multiple teachers? Multiple students? Parent associations? The pattern is undeniable. The public trust in Shujin is at stake here."
Queen could almost hear Kobayakawa’s sweat hitting the floor as his voice frayed. "I—I’ve always acted in the best interest of the school! I have— I have nothing to hide!"
The detective’s response came slow and deliberate. "We’ll see."
The memory faded. Silence hung in the air until Futaba said. "Third sigil secured. This is getting spicy."
Queen’s hands curled into fists, her heart pounding. "He was so close," she breathed. "That detective… he was so close to exposing him."
"Yeah, but something happened," Panther said, her voice low, "and now that guy’s voice is stuck here, like a ghost."
Vixen crossed her arms, her fox mask tilted thoughtfully. "Whatever Kobayakawa did… it was enough to bury the whole thing. And he’s still scared it might surface."
Joker stepped forward, his eyes sharp as ever. “We’ll make sure it does.”
The team pushed deeper still, the corridors beginning to feel more suffocating, the fog clinging tighter to their skin, until they reached another sigil chamber tucked behind a grand stone gate, adorned with rusted banners of Shujin’s crest.
Futaba’s voice crackled through the comms. “I’m picking up another sigil up ahead. Same signature. Looks like another memory echo.”
The group exchanged glances and hurried forward, stepping into the next sealed chamber. The air shimmered, the sigil glowing as the next memory unfurled around them.
"He’s getting too close." Kobayakawa’s voice was sharp, panicked, more desperate than before. "I told you, I’ve been careful—but he’s persistent. He’s digging into the ‘agreement.’ If he uncovers it… it’s over."
The Phantom Thieves strained to hear the muffled response from the other side of the call, but the voice was distorted—intentionally obscured.
Kobayakawa’s panic deepened.
"No, you don’t understand. He’s too clean. He can’t be bought. I’ve already tried." There was a brief pause, and then his voice dropped, almost pleading. "Please, Junya… you have to help me. You have the resources. Please—"
Another wave of muffled speech. Kobayakawa let out a long exhale, relief flooding his voice.
"Thank you. Yes… I’ll send the money. I’ll also speak to him about securing you a seat at the table. He’s… been looking for a man of your talents, I think."
There was a faint clack as the phone was set down. And then, in a flash, Kobayakawa’s tone shifted. His next words dripped with cold calculation.
"Heh… gullible as ever. Hot-blooded fools like him make for excellent pawns. It’s convenient, really. Everyone will chase the assassin. No one will come for me."
The echo collapsed into silence. The Thieves stood there, processing what they had just heard. Makoto’s breath caught in her throat. "He had him killed," she whispered. "That detective… he wasn’t just ‘taken care of’… he was murdered."
"Looks like it," Comet said grimly, her fists clenched. Noir narrowed her eyes, her voice tight with anger. "And he made sure the blame would fall on someone else."
Queen’s mind raced, her jaw tightening. How many other people had Kobayakawa manipulated? How many lives had he destroyed just to keep his seat of power?
The Thieves pressed forward, winding their way through another mist-choked corridor when, without warning, the path was abruptly sealed off. A massive iron wall, slick with condensation and reinforced by glowing golden chains, slammed down in front of them, the rumble reverberating through the ground.
Joker clicked his tongue, stepping up to examine the structure. "Tch… figures."
Queen frowned, brushing her gloved hand across the cold surface. "It wasn’t here before. How did—?"
"It’s a cognitive lock," Lavenza said, stepping lightly toward the barrier, her hands folded behind her back as her bright yellow eyes studied the seams of the wall. "A reflection of the Palace Ruler’s unshakable belief. This particular barrier will not fall until something in Kobayakawa’s cognition changes."
Joker exhaled, leaning against the wall with a casualness that belied his irritation. "So we’re stalled until we can find something that shakes his view of the world, huh? Classic."
Makoto turned to him, brow furrowed. "What would even do that? He seems so… certain. Arrogantly so."
Joker pushed off the wall, hands sliding back into his pockets. "We’ll figure that out. We always do."
Lavenza nodded, her tone calm but final. "It would be wise to retreat for now. I recommend you reflect on what you’ve learned and seek opportunities to influence his cognition in the real world."
Joker gave a short nod and looked over his team. "Alright, everyone. We’re pulling out for today."
There were a few scattered sighs of disappointment but no objections. The team regrouped, and with a few quick taps on his phone, Akira triggered the exit sequence.
As the Metaverse dissolved around them, Makoto found herself glancing once more at the imposing wall, her resolve hardening.
We’ll tear it down. Somehow, we’ll tear it all down.
The warm, familiar scent of garlic and soy wafted through the air, accompanied by the quiet bubbling of miso soup and the rhythmic clatter of Akira’s knife against the cutting board. The gentle hum of the ceiling fan was occasionally broken by the soft chatter and laughter from the girls spread out across the living room, their plates and teacups already laid out in anticipation.
Makoto sat cross-legged between Ryuemi and Ann, leaning forward slightly as she listened to the discussion. It still felt a little surreal to her—being part of this group, sitting in this space that already felt like home.
"So," Haru said thoughtfully, brushing a stray curl behind her ear, "that detective. We know he was stubborn, that he was asking the right questions, but he just… disappeared. Do we think Kobayakawa actually…?"
"Got rid of him?" Shiho finished grimly, her brow furrowing. "Yeah, it kinda sounds that way. But who’s this ‘Junya’ guy? Someone higher up? Someone with connections?"
Morgane hugged her knees, visibly uncomfortable. "Ugh, probably a hitman. That’s what it sounded like to me. Or maybe some kind of Yakuza fixer? Either way, it’s bad news."
The room fell silent for a moment, each of them processing the weight of that possibility. Yakuza involvement wasn’t something they had dealt with before—not directly.
"Well, if the bastard did call in the Yakuza to silence that detective," Ryuemi muttered, "then we’ve got even more reason to bring him down."
Futaba, sprawled across the floor with her tablet, tapped away rapidly. "I’ll do some digging on the deep web. There’s gotta be something buried out there—records, whispers, even rumors. Something we can use."
"Careful," Akira called out from the kitchen without turning around. "We don’t know who’s watching. Keep your trail clean."
Futaba gave him a mock salute, grinning. "Please. Like I’d ever get caught."
Makoto smiled faintly as she watched them—all of them. The banter, the casual way they worked together, the implicit trust they had in one another. She still wasn’t used to it. Not entirely. But it felt… right.
Her phone buzzed on the table, and she glanced at it—a message from Sae: something’s come up, urgent trip to Odaiba. Won’t be back for the rest of the week.
Makoto’s heart fluttered, a quiet thrill at being able to stay longer. She set her phone down and looked over to Akira, who had just finished plating up the food.
"I can stay," she said softly, her voice nearly lost in the background noise. The girls cheered. Akira met her eyes across the room and gave her a small, knowing smile. "Good. Dinner’s almost ready."
Makoto’s smile widened.
The conversation lingered as they ate, the easy rhythm of friends sharing food and theories. Between bites of grilled mackerel and bowls of miso soup, the Phantom Thieves threw ideas across the table like tennis balls, bouncing from one thought to another.
"Maybe the detective’s disappearance was covered up by framing him for something," Morgane mused, swirling the last of her tea. "It wouldn’t be the first time someone disappeared under ‘suspicious’ circumstances."
Ren tapped her chopsticks against her bowl thoughtfully. "I can ask around at the precinct. Some of the old-timers might remember something—something that didn’t make it into the official reports."
Akira, leaning back in his chair, frowned slightly. "Be careful, Ren. Don’t push too hard. If you’re too obvious, it might get back to Kobayakawa, and we can’t risk that yet."
Ren gave him a lazy salute. "I’ll be subtle. Pinky promise."
Ann, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for the last few minutes, suddenly leaned forward with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "You know… we still haven’t welcomed Makoto properly."
Makoto blinked, caught off guard. "Welcomed? But I thought I already—"
"Not that kind of welcome," Ann interrupted, giggling. "There’s a tradition."
Akira groaned, though the corners of his mouth twitched with reluctant amusement. “Ann… it’s 8pm. Do you really want to trek all the way to Shibuya now?”
Ann giggled. “Of course I do! Tradition, Joker. Every new girl gets a plushie. Won by you. From the claw machines. It’s the law.”
Makoto tilted her head slightly, curiosity blooming on her face. “Wait… what?”
Ryuemi grinned. “Yeah, it’s a thing now. Akira’s got this ungodly luck with crane games. He’s won each of us a plushie—it’s kind of like an unofficial badge.”
Makoto straightened a little, her gaze flicking to Akira, her voice suddenly softer. “I… I actually do like plushies.”
Ryuemi snorted, flicking a grain of rice at her. "You love plushies, 'Koto. Especially pandas."
Makoto glanced down, embarrassed, but her small smile gave her away.
Akira was already standing, pulling on his hoodie with a soft grin. "Guess I better get moving then."
"Wait wait wait—hold up!" Futaba scrambled to her feet, grabbing her phone. "I’m coming too. This must be properly documented."
The table burst into laughter as the two of them headed out into the cool evening, the door’s soft click following them into the streets of Yongen.
With Akira and Futaba gone, the remaining girls made quick work of tidying up Leblanc. It was an unspoken ritual by now—wipe the counters, fold the blankets, straighten the cushions. They moved with practiced ease, each one subtly exchanging glances.
As Makoto finished stacking a few bowls, she turned to find Haru watching her with a glimmer of mischief in her soft brown eyes.
“You know…” Haru began, her voice almost sing-song, “I just remembered that Mako-chan still owes all of us something.”
Makoto blinked, confused. “Owes you…? What—?”
Then it hit her. She froze, her face blooming crimson. “H-here? N-now?” she stammered.
Haru didn’t answer with words. Instead, she simply crossed the room, cupped Makoto’s face in her hands, and kissed her—deep, slow, and breathtaking.
When Haru finally pulled away, Makoto could only gasp, her wide eyes hazy.
Ren was next, stepping in with a teasing wink before brushing a lingering kiss against Makoto’s lips. Then Shiho, who pressed a firm, grounding kiss to her, her smile soft as she pulled back.
Yukiko followed, her touch delicate but her kiss searingly sweet. Hifumi’s was careful, her hands briefly resting on Makoto’s shoulders as if steadying her before leaning in with surprising boldness. Kasumi’s was shy but heartfelt, her lips trembling slightly as they brushed Makoto’s, leaving her breathless.
Morgane approached with a smirk. “Told you this would happen,” she teased, before delivering a kiss that was short but electrifying. Lavenza was last in this procession, her touch feather-light, her kiss like a whispered secret.
By now, Makoto was panting softly, her lips red and tingling from the affection each of her new loves had lavished on her. She pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks, utterly overwhelmed.
Just as she thought the gauntlet was over, the door creaked open and Futaba zipped back in, her phone still in hand. “I zoomed back,” she announced breathlessly, waving her phone. “Akira’s downstairs chatting up the goth-doc lady.”
Her violet-brown eyes sparkled as she zeroed in on Makoto. “C’mere, Queenie. I want some sugar too.”
Before Makoto could react, Futaba practically launched herself across the room and kissed her soundly—playful, but laced with a touch of hunger. When she finally pulled back, she stuck her tongue out with a mischievous grin. “Mmm. Sweet like I thought.”
Ann and Ryuemi were leaning against the counter, watching the scene unfold with matching smiles.
“Welcome to the family, ‘Koto,” Ryuemi said, her voice soft with affection. “Properly, this time.”
Makoto, still breathless and dazed, could only manage a small laugh. “Y-you guys… are impossible.”
“And you love it,” Ann shot back, her grin wide.
The door creaked open again, and this time, it was Akira stepping through, a triumphant grin on his face and a massive Buchimaru-kun plushie tucked under his arm.
Makoto’s eyes widened in disbelief, her hands flying to her mouth. “Is that—? You didn’t—!”
Akira’s grin widened as he casually handed it over. “Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d fail your initiation, did you?”
Makoto gingerly took the plushie, hugging it to her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. “I—thank you,” she breathed, her voice soft but radiant with joy. “It’s perfect.”
“Caught it on the first try too,” Futaba chimed in, wagging her phone. “Got the whole thing on video.”
Ann chuckled from the couch. “Told you—he’s got ungodly claw machine luck.”
“Seriously,” Shiho chimed in. “It’s actually kind of unfair.”
Makoto lowered her head slightly, but the smile on her face was radiant. “I love it… Thank you.”
Akira shrugged, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “It’s tradition.”
[Thirst Chat: The A.A.A.S Welcomes A New Member]
BimboBerry has changed Makoto’s name to VicePresident
BimboBerry: 🎉🎉🎉 Big welcome to our newest thirsty member, QUEENIE! 🎉🎉🎉
PlunderBae: 👑 About time you joined the madness.
VicePresident: 😅 Is this really what you all call this chat? "The Thirst Chat"?
BangBangBaby: Oh, absolutely. It's where we keep track of our scientific observations. Very serious research. 🔬
PixelPrincess: 👀 Speaking of research... Queenie, you gotta be brought up to speed. Ann, you’re up.
BimboBerry: Ahem.
-
Akira is touch-starved. Like, catastrophically so.
-
Akira has a thing for cute nails and pretty feet. We’ve confirmed this through… extensive fieldwork. 💅👣
-
He’s completely oblivious to flirting.
VicePresident: ...Wait. How did you figure all this out?
BendMeBaby: He complimented my nails three days in a row and would kinda stare, but when I tried to gently bring it up, he immediately changed the subject like it was a crime.
BlossomUndone: I sat in his lap on purpose when the train was packed. He didn't even react. He just asked if I was comfortable.
BrewedObedience: I invited him to the botanical gardens, wore my cutest dress, and told him I wanted to spend more time with him... He just smiled and said, "Anytime." Completely missed it.
BangBangBaby: I literally said to his face, "I really like you, Akira." His response? "Thanks, I like you too." Dead serious.
PixelPrincess: I told him my favourite anime protagonist reminds me of him because I’m in love with him. He just nodded and said, “Great taste.”
VicePresident: ...None of you have actually told him directly that you want to be with him, though?
SiroccoFée: Well, no. But we’ve dropped very clear hints. At this point, the universe should be spelling it out for him.
ButterflyBliss: I believe he understands, but his heart is a curious fortress. He may think he must choose, and he refuses to harm any of us in doing so.
PlunderBae: Yeah, that’s exactly it. He’s the kind of idiot who would torture himself trying to pick one of us, and just… not choose at all.
PixelPrincess: 🤔 Honestly, maybe we should just all confess together? Lay it out. Full package deal. All or nothing.
BendMeBaby: Oh… That sounds… kinda nice, actually.
VicePresident: There’s something I’ve been wondering. Don’t get me wrong—I think he’s incredible, and I know what I feel is real, but… isn’t it strange that all of us are in love with him? Even those of us who barely knew him until recently?
VicePresident: And… as incredible as it is being with you all, it’s like I woke up and suddenly I’m bi and I have eleven girlfriends? I know my feelings are real—I’m sure of it. But… doesn’t it seem a little too perfect?
BangBangBaby: …Huh. I never really thought about it like that.
QueenOfHeels: I’ve been wondering the same thing, quietly. Not about my feelings—they’re absolutely genuine—but about how… inevitable it feels. Like we were always meant to end up together.
PixelPrincess: 👀 You guys are thinking Velvet Room, right?
BimboBerry: 💡It is suspicious. Like maybe we’ve all been gently nudged in this direction?
BlossomUndone: But… I’m okay with that? Even if it’s a little supernatural… it still feels right.
PlunderBae: Yeah, same. Honestly, I’m pretty grateful, because I love all of you just as much as I love Akira.
VicePresident: …Yeah. I think I’m okay with it too. It just… caught me by surprise. I’ve always been told to question things, but this? This feels worth believing in.
BimboBerry: Welcome to the team, Queenie. All in, or not at all. 😉
VicePresident: All in. 💕
BimboBerry: Okay, so I’m serious now. We should actually plan this. Group confession. All together. No escape routes.
PixelPrincess: 💥 Call it Operation: No Survivors. 💥 (Akira will be emotionally cornered. He won’t know what hit him.)
PlunderBae: I’m so in. Let’s be honest, it’s kinda hot thinking about us all just… taking him like that.
VicePresident: 😳 Can we maybe keep it a little wholesome too?
BrewedObedience: We’ll make it sweet and devastating. He won’t stand a chance.
BangBangBaby: It’s perfect. If we all do it together, he won’t feel like he has to choose. We’re just… all his.
BlossomUndone: And we’re all each other’s too. 💕
BendMeBaby: I’d like that… I don’t want to compete. I want to share.
PixelPrincess: Lavenza, you’re awfully quiet. You okay, honey?
ButterflyBliss: … I am well, but I fear the time is not yet right.
BimboBerry: Eh? Why not? We’re all ready.
ButterflyBliss: We still need to deepen our bonds with the Trickster. Our connection to him is… incomplete.
SinGlazed: Wait—bonds? Is this tied to the Arcana? Like how you sometimes call us Justice or Star or whatever?
ButterflyBliss: Correct. Each of us is tied to a Major Arcana. These bonds are not merely symbols; they are the source of the Trickster’s power and what allows him to wield the multitude of Personas.
PixelPrincess: Are you saying we’re literally powering his ability to fight? 😳
ButterflyBliss: In part, yes. Without us, the Trickster could not fully wield his strength. Without him, you could not Awaken the true depths of your hearts. And I wouldn’t even have one of my own.
VicePresident: But… what does that mean for us and this… relationship?
ButterflyBliss: The Velvet Room does not command the heart. What you feel is your own. The bonds we build, the love we share—those are ours. But there is also… destiny, woven through it all.
SinGlazed: …Is this connected to the prophecy? The Twelve Brides of Satanael that Maid Marian and Freya spoke about?
ButterflyBliss: Yes. That is the shape of the Trickster’s journey. Each of us is destined to Awaken an ultimate Persona with him—one that transcends the boundaries of self. These Personas will become pillars within him, granting him stability, comfort, and the power to fully wield Satanael, the First Rebel.
BangBangBaby: Whoa. So we’re not just girlfriends—we’re core parts of his soul?
QueenOfHeels: I… I think I’ve always felt that, in some way. That I’m supposed to stand with him.
BlossomUndone: So when you said not yet… you meant we haven’t reached that point in our bond?
ButterflyBliss: Precisely. Some among us are near. Others must still walk further.
BimboBerry: Well… sounds like we’ll have to make sure we keep spending time with him, huh? Lots of time. 😉
PlunderBae: No complaints here. It’s just a matter of time.
PixelPrincess: Operation: No Survivors is temporarily on hold. Mission will resume once bond levels reach MAX. 😎
VicePresident: Even if… this was all destiny, I still feel like I’ve chosen this. I’ve chosen all of you. And I want to choose him too.
BrewedObedience: You already did, Mako-chan. We all have. 💋
PixelPrincess: Okay Venz, give us the deets—what are the current Bond Levels? Who’s close? Who needs more 1-on-1 time with our boy? 👀
ButterflyBliss: Very well. These are our current standings:
-
Lavenza: Rank 8
-
Ann: Rank 7
-
Shiho: Rank 7
-
Ryuemi: Rank 7
-
Yukiko: Rank 7
-
Kasumi: Rank 7
-
Morgane: Rank 7
-
Ren: Rank 7
-
Futaba: Rank 7
-
Makoto: Rank 4
-
Hifumi: Rank 5
-
Haru: Rank 5
The threshold for our collective confession is Rank 9. Once all bonds have reached this point, our fates may properly intertwine.
VicePresident: I really am lagging behind, huh?
PlunderBae: You just joined, Koto. It’s expected. But it also means we get to set you up with a lot of quality time. 😏
BimboBerry: We’ll all help you catch up! And Hifumi and Haru too.
BrewedObedience: It sounds like we’ve got a proper game plan. But… I’d like some suggestions. How can I spend more time with Akira? I’m not always great at asking directly…
BendMeBaby: Ooooh, I can help! Let’s tag-team him for café dates! He loves teaching coffee and tea blends.
BlossomUndone: I could use some quiet time too. Maybe we could all take turns closing up Leblanc with him? Even just the little things like that would help.
VicePresident: I’d like to study with him, maybe train too. I think I understand how he fights now, but… I want to see more of the way he sees the world.
PlunderBae: Aww, that’s cute, ‘Koto. But don’t forget to drag him somewhere fun too. Don’t just work all the time.
QueenOfHeels: I can challenge him to another shogi match. I think he enjoys that more than he lets on. And… maybe I can teach him a few new moves.
ButterflyBliss: All sound strategies. Remember: time spent with the Trickster need not always be grand gestures. Small moments can also strengthen your bonds.
PixelPrincess: Small moments, huh? You mean like when he fixed my headphones without me asking? Or when he makes us all coffee just the way we like it?
ButterflyBliss: Exactly.
BimboBerry: Okay, so Makoto, Hifumi, and Haru will soft focus on bonding. Me, Shiho, Futaba, and Ren will keep digging on Kobayakawa and the mystery hitman.
SiroccoFée: And I’ll… supervise. 💅
BendMeBaby: Morgane, you’re literally the biggest troublemaker here. 💀
SiroccoFée: Excuse me, I am refined chaos.
VicePresident: Thank you, everyone.
… I really want to be worthy of standing beside you all. And beside him.
BimboBerry: You already are. 😘
ButterflyBliss: Once all bonds reach Rank 9, we may then prepare for our collective confession. The threads of fate will align.
PixelPrincess: Operation: Package Deal is officially underway. 🎁
JusticeDrive:
Hey…
I’ve been talking to the others.
I’d like to ask if you could help me with some combat training.
I know I can hold my own now, but I still have a lot to learn.
Also, Haru and Hifumi said they’d like to join too. They feel the same way.
Trickster:
Sounds good.
I’ll ask the rest of the team if they’re free to help out.
JusticeDrive:
Actually… I was hoping it could just be us.
We three need the most training, right?
I think we’d feel less pressure if it’s just you.
Trickster:
... That's fine with me.
Tomorrow morning.
Be at Shibuya station by 8am.
JusticeDrive:
Thank you, Akira. I’ll see you then.
Mementos – Training Session
The clang of steel and crackle of elemental skills echoed through the cavernous tunnels of Mementos. Joker watched carefully as Queen, Noir, and Kirin moved through their drills with growing precision, each battle sharpening their instincts, each victory bolstering their confidence.
“Good form, Queen. Again!” Joker called out as Queen drove her fist into the side of a Shadow, Frei energy arcing from her gloves as Johanna’s power surged through her.
Makoto panted lightly, a satisfied grin pulling at her lips. “Starting to feel like I can actually do this.”
“You can do this,” Joker confirmed, tossing her a fresh SP item to keep her energy up. “You’ve got the makings of a frontliner.”
Nearby, Kirin finished off a Shadow with a sharp kick, twirling with a dancer’s grace as she sheathed her heel-blades. “The more we fight, the more natural this feels,” she said, smoothing her hair back.
“And the more you level up,” Joker added, a teasing grin on his lips.
As they regrouped, Noir stepped forward, mischief glittering in her eyes. “Actually… I’ve been working on something,” she said, voice lilting.
Without another word, she closed her eyes and exhaled, her form engulfed in a whoosh of blue flame. When the fire dissipated, she stood before them in a sleek, high-tech stealth suit: dark-purple with sharp design lines, a diamond cut-out on her midriff, and a hood adorned with sheep-like ears. Her boots reached her knees, a metal kneepad glinting on her right leg, her gloved fingers twirling her scythe effortlessly.
Noir smirked, cocking her head. Nailed it.
Joker sighed, amused. “You’ve been practicing, Noir.”
She shrugged, playful. “Maybe a little.”
Before she could bask in her moment, another whoosh of blue flame surged behind her. Kirin emerged from the blaze, now wearing a white shirt with blue overalls tucked under a red belt, a dark blue skirt brushing her knees. Her crescent-shaped hairpin caught the light as her high-heeled boots clicked softly against the ground.
Joker crossed his arms, laughing. “And you too, Kirin?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” she admitted, a faint blush dusting her cheeks.
Queen blinked, stunned as she looked at her two teammates in thier new threads. Joker’s gaze turned to her, his storm-grey eyes glinting with encouragement.
“You want to give it a try too, Queen?” he asked, his tone inviting, not demanding.
Queen hesitated, then gave a firm nod. “Yes.”
Joker stepped closer, his voice softening. “It’s about visualizing the version of yourself you want to become—the you that fights for your justice. Feel the fire. Let it shape you.”
Queen closed her eyes. She concentrated, focusing on the strength that had been building within her since her awakening. A swirl of blue fire engulfed her, warm and alive, and when it subsided, she slowly opened her eyes.
Her outfit had changed: dark blue leather tunic, copper breastplate catching the dim light, fitted leather pants and sturdy boots that promised swift movement. A hooded cape draped her shoulders, completing the image of a battle-hardened protector.
She looked down at herself, a quiet gasp escaping her lips.
“Looks good on you, Queen,” Joker said with a proud grin.
Queen smiled, a fierce and genuine expression. “Thank you… Joker. Let’s keep going.”
As the echo of their final battle faded into silence, Joker glanced at the three girls, all visibly winded. Queen was bent over slightly, hands on her knees as sweat trickled down her temple. Kirin had dropped into a low crouch, catching her breath. Noir leaned on her scythe, smiling but clearly fatigued.
“That’s enough for today,” Joker said, his voice gentle but firm. “You’ve all improved a lot. No point pushing past exhaustion.”
Queen straightened slowly, brushing her damp bangs back from her face. “Thank you... Joker.”
He gave her a small nod, already leading them toward the exit tunnel, the glowing elevator to the surface shimmering faintly in the distance.
The lively hum of Shibuya Station soon surrounded them as they emerged back into the real world, a moment of silence settling among the group as they decompressed. That was, until—
“So…” Hifumi began, a touch too casual to be truly innocent. “Have any of you ever been to a maid café?”
Makoto blinked, looking up in surprise. “A maid café?”
Hifumi nodded, eyes forward but clearly observing. “I’ve always been curious about them. The costumes, the atmosphere… what they actually do there.”
Haru’s eyes sparkled. “You know, I’ve wondered about that too… but I’ve never dared to go to one.” She turned toward Makoto and Hifumi with a bright grin. “Shall we change that?”
Makoto turned scarlet on the spot. “I-I don’t know if I’d fit in at a place like that…”
“You’d look adorable in frills,” Haru giggled.
Makoto hid her face behind her gloved hands, mumbling, “That’s not what I meant…”
Akira chuckled under his breath, amused by the shift in topic. But as the elevator slowed to a halt, all three girls turned to him with matching expressions of anticipation—soft, hopeful, and just a little mischievous.
“…What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re coming with us, of course,” Hifumi said smoothly.
“For… research,” Haru added, perfectly straight-faced.
Makoto, still blushing, looked up at him with tentative determination. “If I’m going to do something embarrassing, I’d… feel safer if you were there.”
Akira blinked once. Then sighed. Then smiled as he pulled out his phone. “I’ll get us a booth reservation.”
The neon glow of Akihabara bathed the late morning streets in an electric hum, storefronts flashing with animated billboards and bright pop idol music. The weekend crowd bustled around them—cosplayers, tech fans, and tourists weaving between the sea of advertisements and game shops. Amidst it all, Akira walked just a half-step ahead, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, while behind him, Hifumi, Haru, and Makoto walked in a loose formation, chatting with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty.
“So,” Haru began with a gleam in her eye, “do you think they’ll let us wear the outfits too? I’ve always wanted to try something frilly and lacy, with bows and ruffles and maybe some cat ears…”
“I’d prefer something a little more refined,” Hifumi mused thoughtfully. “Perhaps a Victorian-style maid uniform. Long skirt, elegant blouse. Very shoujo manga.”
Makoto shifted awkwardly. “I don’t think I could pull off anything like that,” she murmured, fiddling with the strap of her shoulder bag.
Akira glanced back over his shoulder, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Just so we’re clear,” he said dryly, “we’re customers. We don’t get to dress up.”
There was a beat of silence.
“…Oh,” Haru said, visibly deflating.
Hifumi gave a soft, almost theatrical sigh. “That’s a shame.”
Makoto, however, visibly relaxed. “Wait, so we don’t have to dress up?” She blinked. “That’s… actually a relief.”
Akira chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. The maids work there. We just sit down and get doted on.”
Haru visibly deflated. “Aww… I was hoping for at least one lacey ribbon.”
Makoto, meanwhile, exhaled a very subtle sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing just a bit.
Then, a beat later, Hifumi’s lips curled slyly. “Doted upon?” she echoed innocently, turning her gaze to Akira with a sparkle in her eye. “Is that something you’re interested in, Akira-kun?”
Akira stumbled just slightly mid-step before recovering. He turned, eyes amused, lips quirking. “I think of myself more as the doter, rather than the dotee.”
He sent her a wink for good measure, then turned and continued walking.
All three girls stopped in place for a half second, completely blindsided.
Makoto covered her mouth, trying to suppress a squeak.
Hifumi’s composure wavered into a starry-eyed sigh.
Haru fanned herself with both hands, a helpless grin spreading across her cheeks. “Mon dieu... we’re in danger.”
They hurried to catch up.
Akira stopped in front of a quaint building nestled between a figure shop and a crane game arcade. Above the doorway, in pastel lettering surrounded by tiny hearts and sparkles, was a sign that read:
♡ Welcome Home, Master & Princess! ♡
The doors opened with a gentle chime, and a girl dressed in a frilly black-and-white maid uniform greeted them with a beaming smile. “Okaerinasaimase~! Master, Princesses! Welcome to MoeMoe Café!”
Makoto froze. Haru practically vibrated. Hifumi placed a hand to her cheek in subtle awe.
They were ushered inside into a bubblegum-pink, softly lit wonderland of plush cushions, porcelain tea sets, and heart-shaped menus. The music was bubbly and high-pitched, playing faintly under the cheerful voices of the staff.
Their maid led them to a cozy booth by the window and bowed deeply. “Your server will be with you shortly to cast a happiness spell on your omurice!”
Akira slid into the booth with the ease of someone who had endured this before. Haru and Hifumi sat opposite him, practically glued to the walls in delight, while Makoto gingerly took her seat beside him, knees pressed tightly together.
“This is…” Makoto began, at a loss for words as a maid skipped over with their menus.
“…an experience,” Hifumi finished for her, eyes shining.
The moment the maid arrived to take their order, the moe madness hit full throttle.
“Gokigenyou, Master and Princesses!” their assigned maid beamed, clasping her hands under her chin. Her name tag read Yuki-nyan, complete with cat paw prints and a tiny doodle of a heart. “Today’s special is our Magical Omelette Rice of Eternal Bonding! Would you like us to cast the Moe Moe Kyun♡ spell on it to bless your love and digestion?”
Makoto blinked. “What—what kind of spell?”
Yuki-nyan didn’t even hesitate. “You just have to do the chant with me! Everyone puts their hands like this—” She formed a heart with her fingers, “—and then we chant: ‘Moe! Moe! Kyun!’ Like you’re shooting love beams from your heart!”
Akira was already sighing into his hand. Hifumi looked entirely too composed about it, calmly folding her hands on the table as if she were about to win a championship match. Haru, meanwhile, was already practicing the heart shape with her fingers and glowing with excitement.
“I want to do it,” Haru whispered excitedly. “I must.”
“Are we… expected to do this?” Makoto asked warily, cheeks already a little red.
Yuki-nyan beamed. “Of course! Your food won’t taste nearly as good without the proper enchantment!”
“Come on,” Akira muttered, already forming the heart with his fingers. “Just get it over with or they’ll keep coming back.”
Makoto glared at him like he’d betrayed her on a battlefield. Haru and Hifumi were already mimicking the maid’s movements.
Together, the whole booth was soon awkwardly chanting under the maid’s very enthusiastic guidance:
“Moe! Moe! Kyun~!”
Makoto’s voice cracked halfway through, mortified. Haru’s was breathless with joy. Hifumi delivered hers with the deadpan poise of someone announcing checkmate. Akira said nothing, only mouth-moving, staring at the wall like he was willing himself to be somewhere else.
Yuki-nyan placed the omurice in front of Akira and drew a heart on it in ketchup.
“For my hardworking Master~ I gave you extra love power!”
Makoto was about to bury her face in her hands when Haru nudged her playfully. “See? This is so much fun! I wish I could work here for a day…”
“Absolutely not,” Akira muttered, stabbing his omurice like it had personally wronged him.
The next ten minutes were a blur of sugary drinks, tiny cupcake towers, and animated maids coming by to sing “Welcome Back!” jingles in three-part harmony any time someone returned from the bathroom. One maid even handed Haru a magical scepter straw with her drink and told her it would “amplify the kawaii within.”
Makoto, eyes wide and glass halfway to her lips, murmured, “This is the most overwhelming and absurd thing I’ve ever experienced.”
“And yet,” Hifumi said gently, sipping her parfait, “you haven’t stopped smiling.”
Makoto opened her mouth to retort… and paused. She hadn’t realized she was smiling.
Across the table, Akira met her gaze and gave her a knowing smirk. “You’re fitting in just fine, Queen.”
Then their maid returned with souvenir photo cards: a Polaroid of the four of them, complete with doodled bunny ears and glitter pen hearts, with “4-Ever Moe~!” written across the bottom.
Makoto groaned softly. “This is going to end up in the group chat, isn’t it?”
Haru was already uploading it.
The streets of Akihabara bustled with the usual flood of neon and noise, but to Akira, it was like walking behind a pack of adorable chaos.
Hifumi—Hifumi, ever the cool, collected strategist—was actually skipping. Full-on skipping down the sidewalk, one hand clasped tightly with Haru’s, who was twirling like a ballerina with every third step, her curls bouncing wildly. Both girls were still on a post-maid-café sugar high, giggling uncontrollably over who had nailed the “Moe Moe Kyun~” pose better.
“You nearly took out the parfait tower, Fumi!” Haru laughed, covering her mouth like a polite socialite, even as she doubled over in glee.
“I was ambushed, Haru-san,” Hifumi replied, trying to sound composed, but failing due to the giggle that snuck through. “That maid flung sprinkles at my face with no warning. It was a tactical assault.”
Behind them, Makoto was being dragged helplessly along, her cheeks flushed red, both from exertion and embarrassment. She clutched the hem of her blazer like it might shield her from the attention they were drawing. “Please, people are staring!”
“Oh, let them,” Haru chimed airily, spinning again and looping her arm through Makoto’s. “They’re just jealous they weren’t blessed with our ‘kawaii beam’ earlier.”
“I can’t believe we actually said that out loud,” Makoto muttered.
Behind them, Akira trudged on with the long-suffering patience of a man who had accepted his fate.
He carried all three of their bags. And a stuffed bag from the maid-themed boutique Haru had “accidentally” spotted on their way out of the café.
Why the hell did I buy 12 maid outfits? he thought grimly. And why did she already have everyone’s measurements in a monogrammed notebook?
Haru had said something about "future cosplay sleepovers."
He didn't ask questions after that. He just handed over his debit card like a defeated war general.
Now, the trio ahead of him looked like something out of an anime end-credits sequence. They were giggling, spinning, linking arms and dragging Makoto into adorable chaos she clearly didn't know how to resist anymore.
And yet… the smile on her face was radiant.
Akira couldn’t help it. He smiled too.
Now, as they finally turned the corner toward Yongen-Jaya, Akira adjusted the bags on his arms and sighed. The three girls ahead were a picture of chaos and joy, silhouetted in the evening light. Makoto had finally relaxed, even laughing as Hifumi tried to convince her to choreograph a dance for the “Phantom Moe Squad.”
He looked up and his smile faded just a fraction when Haru turned and looked back over her shoulder, eyes sparkling a little too much. Something told him this chaos had only just begun.
The warm, spicy scent of curry mingled with the rich bitterness of fresh coffee, curling through the air of a buzzing LeBlanc. The café’s dim lighting and soft jazz provided an intimate backdrop to tonight’s Couples' Night Out promo — the booths and bar stools were filled with pairs leaning close over mugs, whispering, laughing, feeding each other spoonfuls of Akira’s famous curry.
Behind the counter, Akira moved with calm precision. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms flexing with each smooth motion as he poured lattes, refilled water glasses, and plated orders. Despite the workload, he wore his usual small smile — warm and easy — as he chatted with regulars and made first-timers feel right at home.
“Two pour-overs and a mild curry. Got it,” he called over his shoulder, smoothly flipping a mug into position.
From the corner booth, Tae Takemi raised her coffee in greeting. She looked sharp as always in a tailored black jacket, her eyes framed with dark liner and casual menace.
Beside her sat a man with soft features, thin wire glasses, and long, paint-smudged fingers — Keisuke Hiraga, her husband. A part-time neurosurgeon, part-time surrealist painter, and all-around gentle soul. He nodded politely at Akira as Tae gestured him over.
“Akira,” she said with a small smirk, “this is the idiot I married. Keisuke, this is the reason I stopped being a recluse.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Keisuke said with a smile, extending his hand. “Especially that curry.”
Akira chuckled and shook it. “Hopefully I live up to the hype.”
“As if there was ever any doubt,” Tae said dryly. “He’s already got a cult.”
She nudged the small white pill bottle on the table. “Also… the new formula’s stable. I submitted my final results to the board. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Akira shook his head. “You did the work. I just lit the fuse.”
She gave him a look — unreadable, then nodding. “Still. Thanks, Akira.”
Akira smirked.
Near the bar, Professor Kawakami sat with her husband, a mild-mannered man from the literature department, sipping quietly from a cappuccino. She caught Akira’s eye and offered a warm smile. He waved discreetly before diving back into another order.
The bell over the door let out its familiar ding-ding, cutting through the warm hum of conversation and clinking glasses as Akira spun toward the sound, his usual greeting on the tip of his tongue—
—and then he froze.
His brain short-circuited.
Standing in the doorway of Leblanc were twelve girls, all dressed in coordinated maid outfits that were clearly not the modest type. Matching lace-trimmed aprons, flouncy skirts that barely reached mid-thigh, thigh-high stockings in alternating white and black, ribbons, ruffles, little caps—and of course, high heels that clicked ominously on the café's wooden floor.
And all of them looked smug as hell.
Ann was front and center, glossy lips curled into a feline smirk. “Hey there, Akira,” she purred, placing a hand on her hip and striking a casual pose that was anything but innocent. “You looked like you could use a hand or twelve. So we thought we’d lend our maid services. Presenting—” she turned slightly, gesturing with a theatrical sweep of her hand “—the LeBlanc Moe Squad!”
A wave of giggles and winks swept through the group. Ryuemi laughed like she’d just pulled the greatest prank of her life.
Lavenza gave a shy smile but held her posture with an elegant grace that made the outfit look like it belonged in a weaponized fashion show. Hifumi and Haru, pink-cheeked but proud, stood arm-in-arm. Morgane gave a dazzling wink and a “nya~!” that made someone at table 4 choke on their coffee. Kasumi twirled once, her ponytail swishing, while Ren and Shiho stood just behind her, both hiding their grins behind carefully raised hands. Makoto was blushing up a storm and hiding behind Yukiko.
Futaba, naturally, was holding her phone aloft to record the entire thing. “And here we see our noble protagonist—brain fried. FPS: 2. Processor speed: snail. Please insert recovery disk.”
Akira’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nothing.
Tae blinked slowly from her seat. “...Huh,” she said, glancing toward her husband, who raised an impressed eyebrow. “I knew your friends were cute, but this is... elaborate.”
Kawakami looked away, trying not to laugh as her husband whispered, “Are you going to join them, Becky?”
Ann leaned across the counter just enough for her chest to hover dangerously over the register. “So, boss,” she cooed. “Where do you want us?”
“...Back in hell, maybe,” Akira muttered under his breath, barely audible.
Too late. The girls were already swarming behind the counter like a pack of sugared-up fairies.
Haru reached for the teacups. “I’ll handle drinks!”
“Curry is mine!” declared Kasumi, yanking on an apron over her frilly one and tying it with a flourish.
“Hifumi and I will do the front of house!” Makoto announced, before blinking at her own enthusiasm. “Er. If that’s alright...”
“Absolutely,” Hifumi replied, linking arms with her and shooting Akira a look that was part challenge, part delight. “We’re here to serve~”
Morgane nudged Akira gently, a grin playing on her lips. “Well, go on, boss. You gonna assign us roles or just keep malfunctioning?”
Akira blinked.
Then, slowly, he placed a hand over his face... and started to laugh. Quiet at first, but warm and helpless. He straightened up, let out a breath, and fixed them all with a wry, amused smile.
“Alright. Fine. Let’s see if the LeBlanc Moe Squad can survive a Saturday night shift.”
They cheered.
The LeBlanc Moe Squad had seamlessly integrated themselves into the café—by which one could reasonably interpret "seamlessly" to mean that they had very quickly transformed the atmosphere from quiet bohemian hideaway to live-action anime cafe on performance-enhancing sugar.
Shiho and Morgane were taking orders with matching singsong voices, calling patrons “Master” and “Mistress” with such syrupy sweetness that two young office workers at table 3 had nearly choked on their espresso.
Hifumi and Yukiko, naturally graceful and precise, were gliding between tables balancing trays like seasoned professionals—except for the part where Hifumi added little hearts to every order slip and Yukiko punctuated her service with delicate bows and little “Ohoho~” laughs that were clearly not native to her speech patterns.
Kasumi, wearing cat ears on top of her maid cap (Futaba's idea), took to garnishing curry plates with mayo art shaped like little bunnies. “Cuteness is flavor, right, Senpai?” she asked innocently as Akira walked past—only to duck out of the way as Haru accidentally-on-purpose brushed against him while carrying a tray of parfaits, her smile positively cherubic.
Ann, of course, was the ringleader. She had made it her personal mission to fluster Akira at every opportunity—leaning in close, playfully fixing his collar, poking his cheek, whispering “You’re doing such a good job, Master~” with enough purr to make even the patrons giggle.
Akira didn't drop the tray he was holding, but it was a near thing.
He barely had time to recover before the true wild card revealed herself.
The bell chimed again.
“Your Supreme Becky has arrived~!”
Akira turned around just in time to see Professor Kawakami waltz into the café wearing a black-and-white maid outfit that was a little more modest than the others—but only slightly. Her glasses were perched on the tip of her nose, and her hair was tied up in two bouncy pigtails.
“Wait—what—” Akira blinked.
“My husband dared me,” she said sweetly, and jabbed a thumb at the blushing man still seated at their table. “I still fit into the uniform from my university days. What kind of maid would I be if I backed down from a challenge?”
“You were a maid in university?” Haru asked, practically glowing with curiosity as she topped off a cup of tea.
Kawakami chuckled, lifting a tray with surprising grace. “Yup. Had to pay for my tuition somehow, and the café job wasn’t cutting it.”
The girls clustered around, curious now. Even the patrons were listening in.
Kawakami’s smile turned distant for a moment. “Of course, not everyone was supportive. There was this girl—Hiromi Takase. She found out, tried to blackmail me for hush money. Said she'd ruin my career before it even started. When I refused to pay, she started spreading rumors that I was working as an escort maid.”
Makoto’s expression hardened. “That’s disgusting.”
“People like that ruin lives,” Shiho muttered.
“They do,” Kawakami agreed. Then she smiled and glanced at her husband, who lifted his teacup in a casual salute. “Luckily, I’d already met Taiki by then. He used to hire me to clean his apartment every now and then. He was kind. Listened. Believed me. His older brother was a lawyer, helped me take Hiromi to court.”
“Hell yeah,” Futaba grinned.
“We won the case. The university blacklisted her, and I graduated with my record intact. A few months later... Taiki and I started dating.”
Kawakami turned back to them with a soft smile, voice almost dreamy. “Eight years later, here we are.”
For a moment, even the energetic chaos of LeBlanc Moe Squad quieted into a reverent stillness.
Then Futaba cleared her throat. “Okay, but more importantly, does that mean there’s a Becky transformation sequence?”
Kawakami burst out laughing.
“I'll teach you it later.”
And the café promptly descended into chaos again.
The café was finally quiet.
The last couple had waved goodbye fifteen minutes ago, and the LeBlanc Moe Squad had collapsed into the nearest seats, groaning softly as their collective adrenaline faded. Akira, sleeves rolled up and apron still dusted in flour, wiped down the counter with calm efficiency, the flicker of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Twelve maids,” he muttered. “I survived twelve maids.”
“You thrived,” Ann teased from the couch, tugging off her frilly headband and shaking out her hair. “Admit it, you liked the attention.”
“I liked not having to explain to the old guys why Morgane was doing cat impressions at their table,” he deadpanned.
Morgane, sprawled across one of the armchairs with her socks halfway off, raised a paw—er, hand. “They loved it. I got the biggest tip of the night.”
“It was a ¥10 coin,” Futaba snorted, curled up beside Lavenza on the floor with her phone in her lap. “But sure, let’s go with that.”
Ren was braiding Kasumi’s hair absentmindedly while Hifumi helped Makoto undo the ribbons still tangled in her own. Haru, legs draped over Shiho’s lap, had already kicked off her heels and was sipping from a mug of tea, her expression one of pure bliss.
It was warm. Comfortable. A little chaotic, but in that familiar way that had come to define their group.
Then Akira cleared his throat, drying his hands on a towel as he stepped into the center of the room.
“Alright, squad,” he said. “We’ve had our fun. But we’ve still got a job to do.”
The shift in atmosphere was almost immediate. Laughter softened. Postures straightened.
Futaba sat up and pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’ll be trawling the Deep Web tomorrow. Looking for any records—sealed, scrubbed, or redacted—on this mystery detective or the connection between Kobayakawa and this ‘Junya’ guy. If the Yakuza were involved, there’s got to be a digital trail.”
Ren nodded. “I’ll swing by the archives. See if anything ever officially came of the investigation—or if it just mysteriously stopped. I know one of the older desk sergeants who used to run Internal Affairs. He owes me a few favours.”
Akira gave her a warning look. “Tread lightly. Ask general questions, nothing too specific. We don’t want to spook anyone.”
Ren gave him a lazy two-finger salute. “Understood, Boss.”
Makoto leaned forward, voice steady but eyes still a little wide from the chaos of the evening. “Ryuemi, Shiho and I will check the Shujin University archives tomorrow. See if anything slipped through the cracks—staff complaints, old newsletters, anything we can use to tie Kobayakawa to the scandals.”
Ryuemi nodded, tapping her chin. “We’ll also check if any teacher transfers were unusual or abrupt. That might show someone tried to speak up and got moved instead.”
“Ann, Morgane and I can try the campus angle,” Kasumi offered. “Talk to professors, assistants, maybe even former students. Rumors like this don’t vanish completely.”
“Especially if there’s gossip involved,” Morgane smirked. “We’ll just let it ‘slip’ that we’re researching corruption in school administration. No one can resist juicy scandal bait.”
Akira leaned forward slightly. “I’ll speak to Kawakami, maybe a couple of other faculty members. Subtly. If anyone was aware of shady dealings, they might finally be willing to talk.”
Everyone nodded.
“We still don’t know exactly what the Palace is hiding at the center,” Akira continued. “But whatever it is, it’s big. These memory echoes are painting a clear picture—Kobayakawa was scared, and he buried something deep. This Junya... whoever he is, he was part of that cover-up.”
They all nodded, a quiet ripple of focus running through them.
Then, Futaba raised her phone. “...But can we all agree that this photo belongs in history books?” She flipped it around to reveal a snapshot of the entire team—tired, disheveled, still half in costume, but smiling. Together.
Everyone laughed.
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Ren: PolishedPuzzle/ SinGlazed (Codename: Lotus)
Futaba: GlitchGoddess/ PixelPrincess (Codename: Oracle)
Kasumi: ScarletSway/ BendMeBaby (Codename: Aria)
Lavenza: VelvetWhisper/ ButterflyBliss
Haru: FloofyBean/ BrewedObedience (Codename: Noir)
Hifumi: PawnToPrincess/ QueenOfHeels (Codename: Kirin)
Makoto: JusticeDrive/VicePresident (Codename: Queen)
Chapter 28: The Detective And The Toad
Summary:
Makoto learns the truth about her father's passing
Ren reveals her past as a Black Mask
The Thieves discover the first thread of the Conspiracy
Akira crosses a line
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their sterile glow casting pale reflections on the rows of metallic shelves that stretched across the police archive basement. It smelled faintly of paper, metal, and something older — dust and silence.
Ren moved quietly between the rows, her leather notebook clutched in one hand, her badge on a lanyard tucked discreetly beneath her coat. She glanced around before turning down one of the less-used aisles marked ARCHIVE - CASE FILES, 19XX–20XX.
Each box was labeled in careful handwriting — year, division, case type. Ren methodically pulled down a few that matched the timeframe she was targeting: 2012–2013. She sat cross-legged on the floor, sliding folders open one by one, skimming their contents with the clinical precision.
Fraud. Assault. Missing persons. All relevant, but nothing stuck.
She was about to move to the next box when she saw it. A slim, tan folder at the very back, the label faded but legible:
Shujin Academy Corruption
– Internal Affairs Note: Archived
Date Closed: October 2013. Lead Investigator: Det. Kazuchika Niijima
The folder was thin, but there were reports — dense, printed transcripts of interviews, copies of official correspondence, several handwritten memos and notes. One page had the header “RE: Academic Corruption Inquiry – Shujin Academy.”
Ren’s eyes widened slightly. Her breath caught.
Promised recommendations never issued. Tuition fees embezzled. Students pressured to falsify grades. Bribery. Staff manipulation. Psychological coercion.
And Det. Niijima’s name was on every single report, every summary — always listed as the investigating officer. Always pursuing. Always digging.
Until it stopped.
Case Status: Closed. Officer Reassigned. No further action.
Her eyes narrowed.
No conclusion. No answers. Just silence.
Ren flipped quickly through the last few pages until she found a memo paperclipped near the back. "Concerns raised by Det. Niijima regarding 'backdoor agreements' between faculty and unnamed external benefactors. Claims unsubstantiated. Investigation terminated by administrative order. Officer reassigned to narcotics division."
Her pencil scratched across the notebook rapidly. Keywords. Names. Dates.
Then, near the back, she found something else: a phone transcript between Kobayakawa and a private number, redacted heavily — but one line was underlined in red ink.
“He’s getting too close. No, you don’t understand. He’s close to uncovering the agreement. He needs to be taken care of before that happens.”
Ren’s fingers clenched around the page. Then she grabbed her phone and sent a quick message. She slipped the folder back into the box, carefully, deliberately. She didn’t take anything — she didn’t have to. Her notes were already scrawled with leads. There was something bigger here. Something buried and ugly.
Futaba leaned back in her chair with a groan, one leg dangling over the armrest while the other tapped an erratic rhythm against the desk. Her fingers idly spun a stylus between them as she stared at her screen.
“Nothing… nothing… nothiiiiiing,” she sang under her breath in rising frustration. Her eyes darted over query results from police and government databases, forums, scrubbed financial records — all coded under her custom scripts to search for any link between “Junya” and Shujin Academy. She’d been at it for nearly two hours, and the silence was driving her up the wall.
She sighed and blew a lock of hair out of her face. “Ugh. Kobayakawa better have been doing something actually interesting, or I’m gonna lose it.”
Just as she leaned forward again, her phone buzzed.
She expected it to be a meme dump from Kasumi, or a teasing message from Ann asking for an update. But no — it was from Ren. Futaba’s brow furrowed slightly. She opened the message lazily, but her amusement melted away as she read the short, clipped contents.
“The detective was Makoto's dad — Detective Kazuchika Niijima. Transferred to Narcotics after his investigation into Kobayakawa was shut down. Killed in a hit-and-run while investigating a trafficking ring tied to the Tanaka Family. Perp never caught.”
Futaba sat up slowly, the chair creaking beneath her. A strange, hollow chill settled in her chest.
"...Kazuchika Niijima... the Tanaka Family..." she murmured, fingers already dancing across the keyboard.
She opened a new tab, punching in keywords: Junya + Tanaka + Shujin + Narcotics + Agreement
The system hesitated for a second.
Then a single result popped up.
A sealed criminal investigation file, buried beneath several layers of bureaucratic redirects and corrupt database flags. Most of the contents were redacted, but the title said enough:
Special Investigation Note: Junya Kaneshiro — Oyabun – Tanaka Family (Alleged)
Futaba’s pupils dilated. "...No. No fucking way." She grabbed her pen and scrawled the name on her sticky notepad: Junya Kaneshiro.
She leaned back, jaw slack, staring at the glowing screen.
“Every. Damn. Time,” she muttered, shaking her head in awe and frustration. “How the fuck does Akira always sniff out the bastards before the trail even warms up?”
With a sharp breath, she sat up, already preparing a file to send to the group chat.
Dust danced in thin beams of sunlight streaming through the high windows as Makoto, Ryuemi, and Shiho crouched around a long table stacked with aging file boxes. The old records room had the faint, nostalgic smell of ink and time — but the weight of what they were looking for gave it a distinctly darker air.
Makoto adjusted her gloves before opening the next box labeled "Student Transfers: 2007–2020." “Start here,” she said, voice tight with focus.
Shiho took half the stack while Ryuemi sprawled back in her chair, flipping through her pile with surprisingly fast eyes. "Damn, how did no one notice this pattern?" she muttered. “Dozens of students over the years transferring out… all to the same school?”
Makoto paused. “Let me see that.”
Ryuemi slid over a document listing several names and their transfer destinations. Makoto scanned the columns.
G. National Preparatory Academy - Odaiba. Again. And again. And again.
Makoto’s brows furrowed. “That school’s incredibly expensive… and private. These students were from average backgrounds. How were they even accepted, let alone funded?”
Shiho whistled lowly from the other end. “Guys… look at this.”
She laid out a different folder: Financial Contributions 20XX–20XX. Every few months, like clockwork — a 25 million yen donation.
Makoto's eyes widened as she aligned the dates. “These donations came in right after each transfer.”
“Same amount each time,” Ryuemi said, brow raised. “And look — same donor too.”
Tanaka Private Holdings.
The name hit Makoto like a thunderclap. Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Tanaka…”
She stood slowly, clutching the paper. “My father was investigating them before he died. He told my sister they were a shell company — a Yakuza front.”
Ryuemi’s expression hardened. “So Kobayakawa was selling students to… what exactly? Who knows what those kids were actually being sent into…”
Makoto nodded grimly. Her eyes dropped to the document again — and then her breath hitched.
"...Odaiba. That’s where my sister went. For a few years, after our father died.”
Ryuemi reached for her phone. “I'm texting Futaba. Now.”
Makoto just stood there, frozen, mind spinning. The Tanaka Family… the shell company… the prep school… Her gaze hardened with new determination. “…We need to bring this to Akira.”
The aroma of curry still lingered faintly in the air, though no one was thinking of food anymore. The Phantom Thieves were gathered in the living room, cross-legged on the floor or perched on the couch.
Futaba's laptop glowed softly as she tapped away. Ren leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed. Makoto sat still beside the kotatsu, fingers laced tightly together. Her usual calm was fraying at the edges.
Ren was the first to speak. “There’s no doubt now,” she said quietly. “The detective we keep hearing in Kobayakawa’s Palace — the one who’s arguing with him, pushing him for answers — it’s your father, Makoto. Detective Kazuchika Niijima.”
Makoto looked down, her shoulders tense.
Futaba turned from her screen. “He got too close,” she said, tone grim. “He was looking into the Tanaka Family. A Yakuza group that’s been making a killing off of drug trafficking in Tokyo and beyond. And guess what? They’ve got links to schools. Universities. Shujin included.”
She flicked through a few screens. “Kazuchika was transferred to Narcotics. Killed in a hit-and-run during an ongoing investigation. The culprit was never found.”
Her gaze shifted to Akira. “And you keep doing this psychic thing, you jerk.” She turned her monitor to show a name in bold: Junya Kaneshiro.
Akira gave a soft exhale, nodding. “I suspected as much.”
He turned his attention to Makoto, voice calm — almost gentle. “I started looking into you around the same time you started tailing us. Figured if I could understand who you were, I could find a way to reach you. I found out about your father’s death. Official reports said hit-and-run. But it never sat right with me. Cops protect their own — they would’ve flipped the city upside down for a cop killer. Unless the suspect was untouchable. That’s when I started suspecting the group he was investigating. The Tanaka Family. That’s what lead me to Kaneshiro, their new patriarch.”
He glanced at Futaba. “Guess I was right.”
Silence settled in the room. Heavy. Unspoken thoughts passed from one face to another. Then Ryuemi leaned forward, breaking it.
“Shiho, Makoto and I found something too,” she said, laying out a stack of files. “We went through Shujin’s archives and found this disturbing pattern. Dozens of students over the years transferring out… always to the same elite academy in Odaiba.”
Shiho picked up from there, her voice low. “And every single time, within a few days… Shujin receives a donation. 25 million yen.”
Makoto nodded grimly. “From Tanaka Private Holdings.”
“You think Kobayakawa was selling students to Kaneshiro?” Ryuemi asked, a bitter edge in her voice.
Akira shook his head. “Doubtful.”
He looked at Makoto again. “You said your sister went to that academy for a few years, right?”
Makoto nodded slowly. “After my father died… she stayed with his old partner, Murakami-san.”
Akira’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t sound like she ended up involved in anything criminal. So maybe it’s not that the kids were being sold to Kaneshiro…” He turned toward Futaba and Shiho. “But there’s definitely a link there.”
His gaze sharpened. “’Taba… can you cross-reference the students who transferred with anything suspicious? Changes in legal status, missing persons reports, maybe even links to Kaneshiro?”
Futaba adjusted her glasses, fingers already flying over the keyboard. “Already on it, boss.”
Everyone’s eyes were on Futaba’s screens, waiting for the next clue to load, when Akira suddenly turned his gaze toward Ren.
She was seated off to the side, unusually still, shoulders drawn tight. His sharp eyes didn’t miss the clenched fists or the slight tremble in her knee. Quietly, he caught her eye. Just a look — steady, calm, understanding. Then, a barely perceptible nod.
Ren exhaled slowly, a shudder barely masked. Then, she spoke. “I… I think I know what the link is.”
Everyone turned toward her in surprise. Futaba blinked. Even Makoto straightened. Ryuemi tilted her head, curious.
Ren shrank under the attention slightly, but Akira stood from where he sat and crossed the room, quietly placing himself beside her like a shield. Silent support. That was all she needed.
Ren looked down for a moment, then back up. “That academy in Odaiba… It’s Kirijo-owned.”
Futaba gasped. “Wait — that Kirijo?!”
Ren nodded, lips drawn into a tight line. “Yeah. That Kirijo. My… one of my foster fathers worked there. It’s a facility. A lab disguised as an elite private academy. They take in kids with ‘potential’ — and they test them. Push them. Break them, if they have to.”
She paused, glancing toward Makoto. “So… it makes sense. Kobayakawa identifies kids with the potential to awaken a Persona. Kaneshiro handles the logistics — transports them, launders the payments, and probably makes a cut himself.”
Silence again. A stunned, hollow stillness.
Ann finally broke it. Her voice was soft. “Does that mean…?”
Ren answered before she could finish. “Yeah,” she said, voice heavy. “I was tested on. Trained. Refined. Turned into a weapon.”
Her eyes were distant now, somewhere far away. “Eventually, I was inducted into a task force they called the Black Masks. I thought we were heroes. Saving the world from Shadows. Keeping civilians safe. But…”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Turns out we were just doing dirty work for a bunch of rich assholes. Culling failed test subjects. Silencing whistleblowers. Eliminating threats to their research.”
She finally turned to Akira, meeting his eyes. Her voice dropped to something softer. Something more real. “Then I met this idiot,” she said, eyes glinting, “who looked at me like I was more than a lab rat or a weapon. Who believed there was something worth saving inside me.”
Her voice caught for a second — just a second — before she steadied it. “And now I’m Lotus.”
Akira said nothing, but the way he looked at her — unflinching, warm, proud — spoke volumes.
Around them, no one dared break the silence. Even Futaba’s screens seemed to have frozen out of respect.
Then, quietly, Morgane muttered, “Holy shit.”
Ren lowered her gaze after her revelation, shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to make herself smaller. But the silence didn’t last long.
Ann slid over first, wrapping an arm gently around her. “You’re not a weapon,” she said firmly. “You’re Ren. You’re Lotus. And you’re one of us now.”
Shiho followed without hesitation, taking Ren’s hand and giving it a quiet squeeze. “Whatever they did to you... they don’t get to define you.”
Morgane, unusually soft-spoken, settled next to Ren’s other side. “You don’t owe them anything, but you’ve already given us everything. That counts for more than anything they ever did to you.”
Kasumi and Yukiko offered silent nods of support, while Futaba muttered something about “writing a virus that replaces every Kirijo database with cat memes.” That at least earned a small, wet chuckle from Ren.
Makoto stood a little off to the side, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Her gaze wasn’t pitying — it was understanding. Shared trauma in different guises.
Then Akira cleared his throat, bringing the focus back to the reason they’d gathered. “Alright,” he said softly but firmly. “We’ve connected the pieces. We know what Kobayakawa is hiding — and why he’s so desperate to cover it up.”
He glanced at Makoto, and their eyes locked for a beat. “And we know what happened to your father.”
Makoto’s expression tightened. Her fists clenched so hard her knuckles went white, nails biting into her palms. “He had Kaneshiro… take care of my father,” she muttered, voice low and sharp. “Because he got too close to the truth…”
Her whole body was tense now, vibrating with rage she could no longer bury.
Then she looked at Akira again, and this time her eyes burned. “I’m not going to forgive him.”
Akira nodded once, solemn and steady. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we go deeper.”
Director Kobayakawa jolted awake to the shrill bark of his alarm clock. He groaned, rubbing the bleariness from his eyes as he sat up, the faint taste of stale alcohol still clinging to his tongue. The morning sunlight crept in through the blinds as he made his way to the kitchen, catching the edge of the newspaper that had been slid under his door. He reached for it out of habit—only to freeze. Pinned neatly to the front page, with a black pushpin, was a card. Thick, white stock. Crimson script. Just two words, burned into his mind the moment he read them: We Know!
His breath caught. A cold sweat prickled down the back of his neck, chasing the grogginess away in an instant. His eyes flicked to the black burner phone lying silent on the side table. Slowly, cautiously, he reached for it—but stopped halfway. Hand hovering. Heart hammering. The phone was only for emergencies. Only for them. Calling now would mean admitting weakness. Admitting failure. And if they knew… then he was already as good as dead.
The Phantom Thieves stepped into the next level of the Colosseum… and were immediately struck by the stench of iron and rot.
Gone were the polished marble pillars and theatrical banners of the upper tier. This place was soaked — caked — in blood. Thick, rust-red streaks painted the walls like claw marks. Sand had been replaced by sticky mud, churned by countless feet and soaked through with gore. Shattered desks and broken chairs lay embedded in the sludge like battlefield wreckage, each marked with the insignia of various schools and universities — trophies of past "victories."
And looming overhead, just visible through the red fog, were the cheering shadows of faceless nobles, their jeers echoing down like war drums. In the center of the arena, a massive mural depicted Kobayakawa clad in emperor’s robes, one foot pressing down on a prostrate student’s back.
“Jesus,” Shiho muttered, raising her weapons. “This place…”
“It’s not just theatrical anymore,” Makoto said, her eyes hard. “It’s angry.”
Hordes of enemies descended on them — manifestations of wrath and fear, twisted into gladiator beasts with branding irons, exam papers for shields, and faces resembling crying students. The Thieves fought through them with brutal efficiency, their coordination sharpened by purpose and fury. Each Shadow that fell left behind fragments — whispers and documents — like psychic confessions.
“He said it didn’t matter what happened to me, so long as the school got the donation…”
“My parents donated millions. I was supposed to transfer to that Odaiba school... but I refused. Next thing I knew, I was accused of drug possession.”
“He said I embarrassed the school by going public... he told me to disappear before I ruined his career.”
Ann burned through another Shadow and pointed toward a crumbling balcony where a podium sat — the remains of a mock press room. Ren dashed ahead and recovered another memory crystal from the base.
As Futaba deciphered it, her eyes narrowed. “This one’s a rant. Looks like… it was Kobayakawa talking to himself? Or maybe someone he thought he could trust?”
She projected it through her Persona, and his voice filled the fog-filled air: “They think I’m expendable. Replaceable. That Shujin is a joke. But they don’t understand — I’m building something. I’ll be the Minister one day, and they’ll have to respect me. As long as I keep their secrets safe, as long as I deliver them what they want, they’ll raise me up. They promised...”
Futaba cut the feed. “He’s slipping,” she muttered. “His ego’s giving way to fear.”
Yukiko exhaled slowly, her eyes scanning the warped arena. “He doesn’t see students as people any more. Just currency.”
They pressed on, and the environment twisted further — the arena began to crumble, no longer a monument to triumph, but a paranoid fortress. Statues of students crying out in pain lined the walls, many of them clutching transfer slips or exam results. A massive scoreboard overhead glitched repeatedly, flashing phrases like ‘Future Prospects: Denied’, ‘Weakness Eliminated’, ‘Reputation Maintained’.
At the next gate, they found another chamber — Portraits of Kobayakawa hung from the walls, but each had been vandalized — spray-painted with insults like Incompetent, Fat Failure, and Obedient Lapdog. Whispers floated in the air, echoing doubt and ridicule.
“Kobayakawa’s just a mouthpiece.”
“He’s nobody without the Society.”
“How the hell did he become principal?”
Ren stood before one graffiti-scrawled wall. At the center was a chalk outline of a figure kneeling — a caricature of Kobayakawa, hands clasped to a suited man in a shadowy silhouette. Above them were painted the words: “Serve or perish. Obey and thrive.”
“This is his truth,” Akira said, stepping beside her. “He doesn’t believe in anything but survival. He sold his soul to climb the ladder, and now he’s chained to it.”
They passed through the colosseum gates as the roar of the crowd fell into eerie silence. Behind them, the arena's light dimmed — leaving only the soft drip-drip of blood echoing in their ears.
Before them loomed another grand set of doors, carved from obsidian and steel.
The doors opened with a deep groan, like the maw of a beast reluctantly yielding to intruders. The chamber was dim, lit only by narrow beams of golden light streaming through the high, cracked ceiling. A massive arena-like courtroom sprawled before them, but the stands were empty — abandoned. Dust floated in the air like ash. It was silent, save for the steady, rhythmic tick of a giant metronome near the center of the room, counting down something... inevitable.
As the Phantom Thieves stepped into the room, the metronome halted. Then the floor beneath them shimmered — and the illusion began. Kobayakawa stood in his office. The décor was different — less polished, less expensive — and he was visibly nervous, mopping sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief as two shadowed figures stood before him.
“You need to deal with the problem before it gets out of hand,” Kobayakawa rasped. “That detective — he's getting too close. He's going to blow the lid off the entire operation. My career, your networks — all of it goes up in smoke if he keeps digging.”
The first figure stepped forward, half-lit by the flickering lamplight. Junya Kaneshiro, larger than life and dripping with smug cruelty, slapped Kobayakawa across the face — not hard, but humiliatingly.
“Tch. I’ll give you the means, but you need to come out of your little ivory tower and get your hands dirty like the slimy little slug you are,” he sneered.
He grabbed Kobayakawa by the collar and leaned close. “You wanted a seat at the big boys’ table? Time to earn it… Hikigaeru.”
The disdain hit like a slap. The image of Kobayakawa trembled.
The second figure — calm, composed, dressed in a sharp black suit — spoke without looking up from a file in his hands.
“Don’t worry about the fallout,” he said, voice smooth and calculated. “I’ll deal with it.”
Makoto gasped. Her blood drained from her face. “That voice…” she whispered. “No… no, it can’t be…”
The image resolved slightly — enough to see his face in profile.
Takeshi Murakami. Her father’s old partner. The man who had taken looked after Sae in Odaiba after their father died. Her knees nearly buckled. Yukiko reached for her instinctively, steadying her.
The scene shifted. No transition. No warning. Just impact.
The alley was quiet. Dimly lit. It was raining — softly, but enough to cast the city in blurs of color.
A middle-aged man, upright and focused, strode through the scene with urgency. He looked like dozens of detectives seen in passing, but to Makoto — he was unmistakable.
Detective Kazuchika Niijima. Her father.
A white sedan’s headlights flashed in the rain.
It sped around a corner — too fast. Too precise.
Makoto screamed — “NO!”
The car hit the man at full force. There was a sickening crack. His body twisted unnaturally as it rolled over the hood and struck the pavement. The sedan didn’t stop.
It accelerated.
The illusion shattered.
Makoto stood frozen, staring at the spot where the projection had ended. Her breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. Her fists were clenched so tightly that blood ran down her palms. “It was him… It was him. Kobayakawa killed my father.”
Nobody said a word. Even Futaba looked pale.
“He murdered him… and covered it up. And Murakami helped him…” Her voice shook with rage. “All those years. He acted like he cared about Sae and me… but he knew. He knew.”
Johanna stirred inside her — barely restrained.
Akira stepped forward. His voice was low. Steady. “You don’t have to forgive him. But you don’t have to carry it alone either.”
Makoto lowered her head, fists still trembling. “Then I’ll make sure he didn’t die for nothing.”
The chamber stretched before them like a fallen throne room, grand columns cracked and crumbling, the banners above splashed in gold and black. A massive mural dominated the ceiling — a grotesque, ever-shifting portrait of Kobayakawa, each face more bloated, more twisted, more monstrous than the last. At the center of the room, glowing like a spotlight from above, was a frozen memory — suspended in jagged fragments of glass, waiting to be shattered.
The moment the Phantom Thieves stepped forward, the glass cracked — and time began again.
A sterile, concrete room. A cheap table. Two chairs. It could have been a bunker, a hideout, a backroom of some criminal den. Junya Kaneshiro sat in one of the chairs, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on his brow. A sense of wariness clung to him.
Kobayakawa stood across from him. Calm. Immaculately dressed in a tailored grey suit despite his larger frame. A gun in his hand. “You always did underestimate me,” Kobayakawa said quietly.
Kaneshiro blinked. “What is this, some kind of—”
BLAM.
The gunshot echoed like thunder in the chamber. Kaneshiro slumped forward, a hole blooming crimson through his chest. Smoke rose lazily from the barrel. No last words. No struggle. Just the end.
Kobayakawa stepped forward and gently closed Kaneshiro’s eyes with gloved fingers. “Thank you for the introduction. But your services are no longer required.”
The memory flickered — then shifted.
Earlier. A secret meeting in a luxury suite. There were no windows, only a panoramic screen displaying a digital ocean — artificial serenity.
Kobayakawa stood beside Kaneshiro, eyes wide with wonder and barely concealed greed. Across the room stood Masayoshi Shido — tall, commanding, a wolf in a politician’s skin — and beside him, a quiet man in a lab coat: Takuto Maruki.
“We believe in shaping the future through control,” Shido said, voice rich and smooth like oil. “Discipline. Obedience. No one left to their own delusions.”
Kobayakawa bowed deeply, reverently. “Whatever you need. I’ll make it happen. I have the staff. The students. The infrastructure. I can prepare the next generation — obedient, streamlined, perfect.”
Shido smirked. “Good. Because we don’t need cowards. We need soldiers.”
The illusion zoomed in as Kobayakawa wiped blood from his face and pulled something from Kaneshiro’s corpse: a small, red lacquered kagami mask — the one Kaneshiro used in his underground dealings. He puts it on with trembling hands.
“Junya Kaneshiro lives on,” he whispered. “But now… he works for me.”
The projection shattered like glass.
The Thieves stood in stunned silence. The chamber was breathing now — the walls subtly pulsing with life, as if reacting to their presence. The statues seemed to watch them.
Makoto’s voice was low. Calm. “So that’s it. Kaneshiro didn’t just pull him in. He made him… Then got used up. Discarded.”
Ryuemi scowled. “All for a damn seat at some political table…”
Akira stepped forward. “He thinks that if he controls the system — if he becomes Education Minister — he’ll finally matter. But he’s still the same little man hiding behind bigger monsters.”
He turned to the group, voice resolute. “Next chamber is the Treasure Room. Be ready.”
The final chamber of Kobayakawa’s Colosseum loomed before them like the pit of hell.
The Phantom Thieves stood at the edge of an immense arena, the air thick with smoke and scorched iron. Below them, in a vast circular pit, thousands of Shadows tore into one another—screaming, snarling, slashing—like wild beasts in a blood-soaked frenzy. Some were armed like gladiators; others moved like savage animals, lost to bloodlust. Around the edges of the arena, pale Shadows in tattered togas roared and cheered, specters of a corrupted audience forever watching.
Massive stone braziers burned with unnatural fire, casting a flickering red-gold light over the scene. The ground was slick with ichor. Everything stank of violence, spectacle, and power twisted into cruelty.
Across the chasm, high above the chaos, stood a raised marble platform—a throne set like a jewel atop the carnage. There, wrapped in a crimson toga with gold embroidery, sat Shadow Kobayakawa. Bloated, glistening with sweat and decadence, his crown of golden laurel rested crookedly atop his head. A scepter—too long, too heavy for his hand—dangled like a toy. His face was twisted into a smug grin, his eyes scanning the arena with sick satisfaction.
Flanking him were four monstrous figures—his personal guards, massive demons embodying Greed, Fear, Control, and Wrath. Each towered over him like statues made of meat and malice.
Behind the throne hung a massive, rotting banner, scrawled in Latin: VENI. VIDI. VULT.
I came. I saw. I want.
A bridge of golden light shimmered between their platform and the emperor’s dais, but it was incomplete—flickering, unstable. A test of worth, perhaps. Or an invitation.
Futaba let out a low whistle beside Akira. “So… final boss vibes, anyone?”
Ryuemi’s fists clenched. “He’s watching them die… for fun.”
Makoto’s jaw was rigid, her voice tight with fury. “This wasn’t incompetence. All the students he neglected, the ones who suffered—he did it on purpose. He let them bleed for this throne.”
Ren crossed her arms, voice cold. “He wants to be seen like this. A god-emperor ruling over chaos. But it’s just a mask for a pathetic little man.”
Shiho stared at the carnage for a long moment before whispering, “Then let’s tear the curtain down.”
Akira said nothing. He stepped forward, stopping at the edge of the platform, his gaze fixed on the emperor across the pit. The Shadows below howled and wailed, their war never-ending.
The bridge flickered again, responding faintly to his presence. “…We’ll need to send the Calling Card,” he murmured.
The others gathered around him, nodding without hesitation. The resolve between them was ironclad. This was it. The heart of the Palace. The monster’s throne. They turned to leave, the arena beginning to dissolve as the Metaverse folded back in on itself.
As soon as they emerged from the Metaverse, the silence between them broke.
“Wait… everyone.”
Ren’s voice cut through the stillness. The others turned, surprised by the weight in her tone. The young detective stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression shadowed with unease.
“I think… maybe we shouldn’t go after Kobayakawa just yet.”
Makoto stiffened. “What?” Her voice cracked like a whip, sharp with disbelief and fury. “After everything—!”
“I’m not saying he shouldn’t pay,” Ren interjected quickly, lifting her hands. “I’m saying… if we do change his heart, he’s going to start talking. About everything. The Utopian Society of the Future. Shido. The funding. The experiments. All of it.”
The name alone sent a ripple through the group. Even the ever-cynical Morgane tensed.
Ren exhaled shakily. “Shido’s not just a corrupt politician. He’s got a media machine. Friends in law enforcement. Corporate backers. If Kobayakawa talks, Shido won’t just sit back and watch it unravel. He’ll kill him. And make it look like we did it.” She glanced at Makoto, her voice softening. “And then… he’ll send the other Black Masks after us.”
A long, terrible silence followed.
Futaba fidgeted with her sleeves. Ann looked pale. Even Haru’s usual calm seemed frayed at the edges.
Ren’s gaze dropped. “I… I don’t think we’re strong enough to take them. Not yet.”
The others looked between each other, their fury and frustration simmering. Makoto’s hands were clenched into fists so tightly her knuckles were white, her breath trembling with rage. The thought of letting Kobayakawa walk—of delaying justice—made her stomach churn.
But then Akira spoke. Quiet. Measured. The calm at the center of the storm.
“So,” he said, eyes unreadable. “What do you suggest, Ren?”
She met his gaze.
“That we collapse the Palace,” he said, finishing the thought for her. “Without changing his heart?”
The question hung in the air like a blade suspended above their heads.
Ren glanced down at her feet, then back up at the others, jaw set. “Look… I could try to tip the scales a bit.”
They all turned toward her again, their attention sharpening.
“If I frame it right, I could probably drop hints to the right people,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “Say that Kobayakawa’s getting… unstable. That he called me, all panicked and incoherent, rambling about the Phantom Thieves coming for him, about how he needs more protection, more assurances.”
The words hung in the air uneasily, even before Ren continued.
“I could spin it,” she went on, “make it sound like he’s let slip a few secrets he shouldn’t have. Loose lips in Shido’s network? That’s a death sentence. The man has layers of plausible deniability built around him like armor. Heck, even we—the Black Masks—we’re not allowed to know each other’s real names. Let alone the names of the inner circle.”
She looked up at them then, her eyes darker than usual.
“If I go to Shido, or someone close to him, and tell them that Hikigaeru Kobayakawa has been running his mouth? That he used his real name while talking to me?” She paused. “That’s going to plant a seed. Doubt. Paranoia. Maybe enough to make Shido pull the trigger himself.”
The silence that followed was uneasy. No one looked at each other right away.
Ann was the first to speak. “That’s… seriously messed up.”
Yukiko frowned, folding her arms. “It’s underhanded. Cold.”
“But is it any worse than changing his heart and letting Shido execute him anyway?” Futaba muttered, tone conflicted.
Kasumi bit her lip. “It feels like we’d be handing him over. Letting them decide how he pays.”
Makoto said nothing. Her face was stone, but her fingers trembled where they clenched at her sides.
Ren didn’t try to defend herself. She just looked down again, almost ashamed. “I know it’s dirty,” she said. “It is dirty. But maybe that’s the best option we’ve got right now. We don’t need attention—we need time, if we want to unravel the entire plot. And Shido won’t tolerate a liability like Kobayakawa for long.”
It wasn’t easy to hear. No one wanted to agree with her. But they all knew, deep down, what she was saying made sense.
Through it all, Akira stood apart from the discussion, quiet and unmoving. His arms were folded loosely across his chest, his expression unreadable as his storm-grey eyes drifted from one teammate to the next. Finally, his eyes locked directly with Ren’s. His voice was calm, low, but it cut through the silence like a blade. “If Shido gives the order… who pulls the trigger?”
Ren didn’t flinch. She simply shrugged, though her shoulders were tense. “Most likely… it’ll have to be me.”
The room erupted instantly. Shocked voices rose around her—protests, denials, horror.
“Ren, no—” Makoto began.
“You can’t—!” Futaba blurted out.
But Ren raised a hand, and the others fell silent. Her voice was quiet, but firm. “No. I’m not going to murder him. I’ll just… I’ll give him a mental shutdown. By killing his Shadow.”
She swallowed hard, her throat working visibly.
“He’ll still be alive. Just… not there any more. A vegetable for the rest of his life…” The last words escaped her in a whisper, her voice small, fragile.
It hurt to say. It hurt more to mean it.
The others moved instinctively. They closed the space between them and gathered around her—Makoto and Shiho embracing her from either side, Ryuemi throwing her arms around her shoulders, Kasumi pressing her forehead against hers. Futaba, Yukiko, Haru and Morgane wrapped their arms around her in a cocoon of warmth and comfort, holding her as though they could shield her from the weight of what she’d just agreed to carry.
Ren didn’t cry. But she leaned into them with a weary kind of gratitude.
Akira watched in silence for a long moment. Then he gave a single, decisive nod.
“Call Shido,” he said. “Make sure he gives the order.”
Ann looked up, startled. “What? Akira, you can’t—?”
“I’ll handle the rest,” Akira said.
Before anyone could question him, Lavenza stepped forward. Her eyes were wide, concerned, searching his face. “Aki…” she said, voice quiet but urgent.
He met her gaze. Gently, he shook his head. “It has to be me, Lavenza.”
His tone was soft, low enough that only she could hear him. “I’m the only one here with blood on my hands,” he said. “And this will keep everyone else safe.”
For a heartbeat, Lavenza stared at him. Then, slowly, she looked away.
The silence of the Palace was deafening. Without the others, without the banter, the footsteps, the breathless tension of the team at his back, it felt colder. More oppressive. But Akira pressed forward.
The order had been given. “Eliminate him within the next twelve hours. No mistakes.”
He’d sent the girls home not long after, telling them to rest, to look after one another. It wasn’t a command—it was a request. One they all understood, even if they didn’t like it.
Now, walking the bloodstained path back toward the final chamber of the Colosseum, Akira felt every step sink into the weight of what had to be done.
A shimmer of black and crimson flickered beside him. Arsène appeared in a sweep of smoke and velvet, boots tapping the ground in stride.
“You’re sure about this, mon ami?” the Phantom asked, his voice lower than usual. “This is very unlike you.”
Akira didn’t look at him. His eyes were fixed on the glowing archway ahead—the arena where thousands of Shadows battled eternally in a pit of wrath. “Kobayakawa’s marked for death either way, Arsène. If not by us, then by Shido’s hand. And Shido won’t be clean about it.”
He exhaled through his nose. “In the last timeline, he was just a pawn Shido used to flush us out. But this time... he’s more than that. He’s willingly taken a seat at the table. He made his choices. I’m just making sure the consequences are ours to decide—not Shido’s.”
Arsène said nothing more. He didn’t agree, not openly—but he didn’t argue either.
Akira reached the final door and rested his hand against the handle of his tonfa for a moment before flinging the doors open with a sharp, echoing crack.
“Can I get a lift?” he muttered, a flicker of his usual sarcasm returning to his voice.
Arsène snorted. “Imbécile,” he muttered before stretching his massive wings wide and launching himself into the air, one arm wrapped around Akira’s torso.
Without the others by his side, Akira didn’t hold back.
There were no careful strategies, no planned formations, no backup. Just him—and the four demons that flanked the throne of the coward who thought himself an emperor. His eyes gleamed with something feral, and he didn’t even bother reaching for his mask. Arsène didn’t protest. No one did.
He wanted it this way.
The first demon lunged at him, all teeth and twisted muscle. Akira ducked low, sidestepping its blade, and drove his tonfa up beneath its chin with a sickening crunch. Another came at him from behind; he turned, caught its weapon between his tonfas, twisted, shattered its wrist, and followed through with a brutal slam into its temple.
“Ryuji,” he hissed.
The tonfa cracked down again.
“Ann.”
He drove it into the demon’s ribs.
“Yusuke.”
A spin-kick sent another flying, armor denting as it crashed into the stone wall.
“Makoto.”
He caught the fourth by the throat and slammed it to the ground.
“Haru.”
He didn’t stop. Armor split. Bone crunched. Blood—black and oily—splattered across the arena floor.
“Futaba.”
His breathing was ragged now, chest heaving as another blow shattered the last demon’s helm.
“Morgana.”
It begged, but he didn’t hear it. He only saw his team—his family. The ones he had lost.
“Goro.”
The final strike left the last of the guards twitching, unmoving, finally still.
Silence fell over the chamber.
Across the platform, the false emperor now cowered—once proud and adorned in decadent gold, Shadow Kobayakawa was now a trembling, pale wreck of a man in silk and cowardice. He stared in horror as Akira walked towards him with slow, deliberate steps, tonfas still dripping.
“W-wait... wait!” the Shadow squealed, stumbling backward. “You don’t have to—please—please, we can make a deal—”
“Transform,” Akira snarled, his voice like gravel scraped across glass.
“I—I—”
“Transform.”
The Shadow turned, tripped over his own robes, fell. Akira was on him in a heartbeat.
The tonfa slammed down with a crack, crushing Shadow Kobayakawa’s exposed knee. He screamed, writhing, clutching at the ruined joint.
Akira stood over him, unblinking, unmoved. His voice was ice.
“Fight me like a monster, Hikigaeru.”
Shadow Kobayakawa let out a guttural shriek—high and warbling—as his body twisted and stretched, swelling grotesquely as the Metaverse responded to his fear, his desperation, his wrath, giving birth to Aeshma Kobayakawa.
Metal tore through flesh. A crown of jagged halberds erupted from his back. His robes shredded into tatters as thick, oily muscles bulged outward, plated over by blackened bronze and splashes of molten iron. His face distorted into something reptilian and slack-jawed, his eyes glowing with blind fury. A dozen weapons jutted from his body—spears and cleavers, swords embedded like bones breaking through the skin. His lower half was a mass of writhing chains and wheels, dragging gouges through the bloodstained floor as he roared.
A warped voice echoed from the beast’s gullet. “You think you can judge me? I built an empire from nothing! I EARNED THIS!!”
Akira stood still, eyes calm as the demon towered above him, quaking with rage. And then, finally... he smiled.
“Good,” he whispered, reaching for his mask. “Now it’s a fair fight.”
With a sharp flourish, he summoned Arsène.
The phantom gentleman unfurled from black flame, wings wide, coat trailing in the windless air. He landed beside Akira like a silent wraith, eyes gleaming beneath the brim of his hat.
“En garde,” Arsène intoned.
And together, they moved.
Aeshma Kobayakawa swung first—massive cleavers arcing through the air—but Akira was already in motion, ducking low beneath the blow as Arsène surged forward. Eigaon exploded against the creature’s chest, shadows splashing and sizzling across the armor. A second blast followed, then Phantom’s Requiem, tearing through plate and chain with haunting precision.
Akira darted in behind the assault, tonfas whirling. He struck at weak points—gaps in the armor, seams along the limbs—breaking, battering, dismantling. His strikes weren’t elegant. They were efficient. Ruthless. Each movement was part of a deadly rhythm, perfectly timed with Arsène’s magic, their blows landing one after the other like a requiem in motion.
Left arm—shattered.
Right knee—broken.
Torso—punctured.
Face—smashed.
It went on until Aeshma Kobayakawa finally collapsed, a crumpled heap of metal, fury, and failure. Black ichor oozed from its wounds, staining the floor like tar. Its weapons were broken, its armor dented and pierced, its form twitching in the final throes of defeat.
Akira stood over it, silent.
He dismissed Arsène with a nod... and reached once more for his mask.
From a swirl of ice-edged wind and silver flame, Scáthach emerged—tall, elegant, and radiant in deadly calm.
“For Makoto,” Akira whispered, voice tight.
Scáthach lifted her glaive.
“Vorpal Blade.”
The light cut clean.
Aeshma Kobayakawa let out a keening wail as its body fractured, black light erupting from every wound. Then—disintegration. Ash. Smoke. Silence.
Akira turned to the side, catching a glimpse of the treasure—once a shimmering cloud of light—now flickering like a dying candle, until it vanished completely into the void. Nothing to claim. Nothing left.
He stared for a moment... then turned away.
He left the way he came, step by step through the ruins of the Colosseum, unbowed, his head held high, despite the carnage he’d just unleashed.
The boardroom in Azabu was deathly quiet, save for the low hum of the overhead lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the Tokyo skyline, cold and gleaming. Shido sat at the head of the long obsidian table, legs crossed, a fresh glass of amber liquid resting at his fingertips. Maruki sat across from him, posture relaxed, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
The quiet was broken by the sudden slam of the double doors as they burst open.
Kobayakawa stumbled in. He was drenched in sweat, his tie askew, his pupils blown wide with panic. His breath came in ragged gasps as he staggered forward, one trembling hand pointing directly at the men at the table.
“Y… You…” he rasped.
Then his body seized. His eyes rolled violently back into his skull, and he collapsed to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. A wet, choking sound followed as thick black fluid oozed from his nose, his ears, his eyes—until his convulsing limbs went still.
Neither man moved for several seconds.
Maruki remained seated, his expression unreadable, though a subtle arch of his brow betrayed a flicker of interest. Shido, for his part, calmly took off his sunglasses and produced a silk handkerchief. He began to clean the lenses with practiced ease. “Seems our Belladonna has finally cut her teeth,” Shido murmured, his lips curling into a wolfish smirk. “Excellent.”
Maruki exhaled through his nose. “What a waste,” he said, though there was a faint mirth tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He was a fine court jester. Amusing in his desperation, at least. But… it’s not like we need any more test subjects for now.”
Shido’s eyes gleamed behind his cleaned glasses as he slid them back into place. “I take it things are moving according to plan?”
Maruki gave a shallow nod. “We still need a few months for everything to stabilize, but yes—Phase Two will be ready in time for the elections. Then, once you’ve won…”
He trailed off.
Shido finished the sentence for him, voice low with satisfaction. “We implement the Benefactor’s plan. Fully. No more half-measures.”
The two men exchanged a look—sharp, knowing, and conspiratorial.
Akira doubled over the sink, retching violently.
The sour taste of bile clung to his tongue, and his throat burned with the force of it. When there was nothing left to bring up, he spat weakly and reached for the tap, letting the cold water run over his hands. He scrubbed furiously—his palms, his knuckles, his forearms—scratching raw at skin that no longer felt like his own. Blood had already dried beneath his nails, even though none of it was real. It hadn’t been real.
But the weight of it remained.
“I had to do it,” he whispered hoarsely. “It was the only way to keep them safe.”
The words came again, and again, and again, growing more hollow each time, less like truth and more like prayer. He splashed water onto his face and gripped the sides of the basin until his knuckles whitened. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him—eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched, hair disheveled, a thousand-mile stare behind storm-grey irises.
Still shaking, he staggered out of the bathroom and into the dim kitchenette. The bottle of plum sake sat where he’d left it, already open. He grabbed it with trembling fingers and took a swig, hissing as the alcohol scorched its way down his throat. It didn’t help.
He walked over to the window.
Tokyo shimmered beyond the glass—cold and distant, uncaring. He leaned against the frame, bottle hanging from his fingers, and stared blankly out into the night. The fight replayed in his mind, beat by beat: the crash of metal, the screams of the demon, the hiss of Scathach’s blade as it carved through shadow and flesh. The way Kobayakawa’s twisted form had crumbled to nothing… and the way the treasure had vanished, unclaimed.
Akira took another long drink.
But the memory didn’t fade. If anything, the sake only sharpened it.
His mind drifted back—farther than the fight, farther than the mission. Back to that first timeline. Back to that day. The one where everything burned.
The one where he lost everything.
He turned away from the window, his steps uneven. He collapsed onto the sofa, elbows on his knees, the bottle now half-empty and swaying in his grip. His body trembled. His chest felt hollow. The ghosts of the past pressed close, whispering in his ear.
The tears didn’t come. Not yet.
But the pain was there. Sharp. Crushing. Familiar.
He lifted the bottle again.
Then—softness.
A hand, small and gentle, settled on his arm.
Akira blinked, startled. He turned his head slowly, and found her there—Lavenza. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone was enough.
With quiet strength, she pulled him into her arms.
And finally, finally, the tears came.
Akira clung to her like a lifeline as the dam broke, silent sobs racking his frame. She held him through it all, patient and steady, offering no judgment—only warmth. And for the first time that night, Akira allowed himself to be human again.
Notes:
Just a quick heads up - I'll be taking a break from posting new chapters for the next couple of weeks, so that I can build up my buffer of chapters once again. I'm going to say that I should be back to uploading again by mid-August.
Obviously, I'll still be responding to comments and be checking the Discord :)
Chapter 29: The Trickster’s Treasures – Part 1
Summary:
We're finally back!
Let's see how Akira is doing since the last time we saw him :)Also, just as a bit of a headsup: I'll be slowing down on the uploads for a little while, so instead of it being twice a week, i'll only be uploading once a week (on Monday)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The apartment was still cloaked in the grey hush of early morning. Pale light seeped in through the curtains, illuminating the clutter: a half-eaten convenience store bento, an open bottle of plum sake lying on its side, a cold towel crumpled on the floor where it had slipped from his neck. The room smelled faintly of alcohol and sweat, a stagnant air hanging over everything. Akira sat on the edge of the sofa, bare-chested, his track pants riding low on his hips. He hadn’t slept—not really. His eyes were red-rimmed, not just from tears but from the slow, deliberate burn of memory. Over and over again, it played behind his eyes: bone breaking under tonfa, ichor spilling like oil, a name whispered with every hit.
The knock on the door didn’t register at first. Just background noise in the sea of static his brain had become. Another knock—firmer this time. Akira blinked slowly, then stood, the blanket he’d been wrapped in sliding to the floor. He padded to the door on bare feet and pulled it open.
Ren stood there like an apparition—flawless and composed in stark contrast to the wreckage behind him. She wore a pale, high-collared blouse, delicately tucked into a form-fitting black skirt that ended just below the knee. Sheer black tights, polished heels, not a single strand of hair out of place. She looked like she could walk into a boardroom and command it with a glance. And yet… there was something brittle in her eyes. A shimmer of something too heavy for her shoulders alone.
Wordlessly, Akira stepped aside. Ren entered, silent as a whisper, and closed the door behind her with a soft click. For a moment, she just stood there in the gloom, as if steeling herself against something unseen. Then, finally, she spoke.
“I got a call this morning,” she said, her voice level—measured, almost casual. “Commending me for a job well done.”
She didn’t look at him as she spoke. Her gaze hovered somewhere near the kettle, near the empty cup on the counter. Anywhere but his eyes.
Akira gave a single nod, already turning away. He flicked on the kettle. The dull, mechanical hum filled the silence like a whisper. Then, he felt her behind him. Ren stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his bare torso from behind, pressing her cheek gently between his shoulder blades. Her fingers were soft, trembling faintly. “I’m sorry, Akira,” she whispered. “I wish…”
He stiffened at her touch—just for a moment—then exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding from his frame like smoke. “It had to be done, Ren,” he said quietly. “It was the only way to keep you all safe.”
They stayed like that for a while. Her breath steadying against his skin. His heartbeat gradually slowing beneath her cheek.
Then—footsteps on the stairs.
Light, muffled, growing louder.
The others were here.
The knock at the door was softer this time. Familiar. The rhythm of people who belonged here, who had made this space their second home more than once.
Ren stepped away from Akira with a final squeeze and went to open the door.
One by one, the girls filed in.
Ann, her coat slung over one arm, offered a small smile as her eyes flicked around the apartment, taking in the clutter, the still-full kettle, the untouched cups. Ryuemi gave Akira a brief once-over, said nothing, then immediately bent down to pick up the toppled bottle of sake on the floor. Shiho followed her, quietly pulling open a window to let the morning air in. Futaba drifted in like a wisp of wind, her oversized hoodie sleeves covering her hands, and began folding the blanket that had fallen to the ground earlier, humming something soft under her breath.
No one asked questions. No one needed to.
Yukiko moved past them all with the calm precision of someone used to caring for others. She gently nudged Akira aside from the counter with a warm hand on his back, guiding him without a word to sit down on the couch. He resisted, tried to protest, but Hifumi had already joined Yukiko in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, her motions efficient as she pulled out eggs and bread and the good butter Akira always kept stocked for when the girls visited. Kasumi was at the sink already, rinsing out the old cups and replacing them with clean ones, the kettle now steaming steadily behind her.
Morgane, despite the usual dramatic flair she brought to everything, said nothing for once. She walked straight over to the futon in the corner, knelt, and began refolding it with care.
It was like watching a quiet orchestra fall into harmony—each girl moving with unspoken understanding, their gestures coordinated not by command, but by connection. By love.
Akira sat stiffly on the couch at first, unsure what to do with himself. He watched as his apartment—once heavy with silence, stale with regret—slowly began to breathe again. The windows opened to let the sun in. The sharp tang of sake replaced by the aroma of miso and toast. The emptiness filled not with noise, but presence.
They didn’t need to say it. He saw it in the way Lavenza refolded his hoodie and draped it over the arm of the sofa. In the way Haru moved through the room with calm, steady steps, checking on everyone like a quiet general. Their actions spoke their gratitude, their understanding, their devotion. This man—who had borne the weight of their world, again and again—didn’t need to carry it alone, not here. And Akira… allowed their presence to heal him, just a little.
The front door creaked open once more.
Makoto stepped in quietly, her presence like a shift in pressure rather than a sound. Her eyes swept the room—at the open windows, the soft clatter of breakfast being prepared, the faint scent of incense in the air. She barely registered any of it. Her gaze went straight to Akira. He looked up at her, tired but calm, already reading the emotion in her stiff posture, the tension in her jaw.
She stopped a few steps away, wringing her hands. Her voice was quiet. “Can I talk to you… alone?”
There was no accusation in her tone. Just something heavy. Something fragile.
Akira nodded. “Let’s take a walk.”
The park a few blocks down was quiet this early in the morning. Dew still clung to the grass. The swings swayed slightly in the breeze as if waiting for them. They walked side by side without speaking.
When they reached the playground, they took the swings without a word. The metal chains creaked softly as they settled. It was a place that belonged to childhood—innocence. But neither of them felt like children now.
Makoto finally broke the silence, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Was there really no other choice?”
Akira didn’t hesitate. He met her eyes, unflinching. “It was either him… or putting all of you at risk. I’d make the same decision every single time.”
Makoto nodded slowly. She didn’t look at him, just stared at the trees beyond the fence. The morning light caught in her lashes.
A few seconds passed before she spoke again, her voice barely more than a breath. “…Did you make it hurt?”
Akira gave a small, tired smile. “Yes.”
She turned to face him now, her expression unreadable. “Good.”
They sat in silence after that. The swings creaked with each gentle shift of weight, the breeze rustling the leaves around them. Neither of them needed to say more. Not now. They just… swung.
Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes passed.
The swings had long since stopped moving. Akira and Makoto sat in quiet companionship, watching the clouds drift across the pale morning sky. The silence was no longer heavy—just… peaceful.
Then a voice rang out. “Oi! Brooding duo!”
Akira looked up.
A procession of familiar faces was approaching—Ann, Futaba, Haru, Shiho, Ren, Kasumi, Yukiko, Ryuemi, Morgane, and Lavenza, all carrying blankets, cushions, thermoses and a massive wicker hamper between them. Someone had clearly raided Akira’s pantry. The smell of egg sandwiches, fruit, and still-warm coffee drifted over the park as they crossed the grass.
Akira blinked, surprised. Then he chuckled—quiet, but genuine.
Makoto stood with him, brushing herself off with a sigh that was part-exasperated, part-affectionate. “They serious?”
“Looks that way.”
The girls reached the clearing near the swings and got to work like a well-oiled machine, laying out blankets, opening containers, and pulling out thermoses. Kasumi passed out paper cups. Haru set down a small vase of fresh flowers she’d brought for ambiance. It was absurd. It was perfect.
“Get your butt over here, Leader!” Ryuemi called.
“Move it, noodle boy!” Futaba added, grinning.
Akira and Makoto joined the group, setting up the blankets under a cluster of trees. Hands moved without needing instructions—pillows unpacked, food arranged, drinks poured. Someone even brought a little bluetooth speaker, playing mellow acoustic guitar to fill the air.
They all sat in a loose circle, plates in hand, feet bare in the grass. The warmth of the sun started to break through the morning chill.
Between bites of a perfectly soft tamagoyaki, Ren spoke. “I got a call this morning.”
Everyone turned toward her. She didn’t raise her voice, but something in her tone cut through the background noise.
“Commending me for a job well done,” she said. “Seems like we’re in the clear—Shido doesn’t suspect a thing.”
Relief passed through the group like a collective exhale.
“But,” she added, “we should still lay low for a while.”
Akira nodded, brushing a few crumbs from his lap. “Unless something urgent comes up, we avoid any Change of Hearts for the next couple weeks. We can still scout Mementos, do some training—but no requests, not until we’re sure no one’s watching.”
There were no objections. Just murmured agreements, thoughtful nods, and another round of tea being poured.
They settled into the rhythm of shared food and easy conversation. The air was light, filled with the scent of miso and sweet pastries, and the occasional clink of chopsticks.
“Seriously though,” Morgane began, glancing over at Akira with a teasing smirk, “answering the door shirtless? What if it had been your landlord?”
“Or worse,” Shiho chimed in. “A delivery guy with a camera.”
Akira gave a faint grunt of amusement, sipping quietly from his juice. “Didn’t realise it was a crime to be tired.”
“You looked like a sleep-deprived anime character,” Ren added, her voice dry. “All that was missing was the drool.”
“I was going more for ‘tragic antihero,’” he replied evenly.
“Well,” Ann said, nudging him with her knee, “you’re lucky you’re pretty. Makes the tragic look work.”
That earned a round of chuckles. Ryuemi gave Akira a once-over. “I’m more concerned about the drinking habit than the shirtlessness. Plum sake before breakfast? Bold choice, Joker.”
“I wasn’t drinking it for the taste,” he muttered.
“That’s what people with a drinking problem say,” Futaba said, deadpan, sipping from her thermos like a judge delivering a verdict.
“But,” Yukiko added, tactfully steering things back, “you do seem a little more grounded this morning. I think the fresh air is doing you good.”
Ann beamed. “And our cooking, obviously.”
“Excuse me,” Morgane said, puffing up, “my cooking. You were just in charge of flipping pancakes.”
“Which I did perfectly, thank you very much.”
“Girls, please,” Kasumi cut in, smiling. “Let’s not forget the most important part: Ryuemi didn’t poison us with her coffee.”
“Hey!” Ryuemi looked scandalised. “I tried a new roast!”
“A new roast that tasted like regret,” Haru said sweetly. “Good thing I had a sip before we left. I made a fresh pot.”
Ryuemi crossed her arms. “Next time, I’m adding protein powder and no one gets any warning.”
Yukiko shook her head with a laugh, pulling her hair into a loose bun. “I should’ve brought my sketchpad. This whole scene would’ve made a great spread. ‘The Phantom Thieves: Domestic Edition.’”
Just then, the Shujin students’ phones all buzzed at once. A sudden ripple of tension spread across the group as they all reached for their devices.
URGENT ANNOUNCEMENT FROM SHUJIN UNIVERSITY
Effective immediately, the university will be closed
until further notice
due to unforeseen circumstances.
Additional
information will be communicated once available.
A hush fell over the group.
No one spoke for a long moment. The wind stirred the blanket corners, and somewhere in the distance, a bird called out sharply.
Akira exhaled through his nose. “We knew this was coming,” he said evenly. “With Kobayakawa suffering a mental shutdown, this was bound to happen. They need time to cover it up.”
Ren nodded. “There’ll be an investigation, maybe even media coverage. We’re better off out of sight.”
Haru looked around at the group and offered a warm smile. “Then maybe… we should just take the time to relax.”
Futaba perked up. “Relax? You mean like—sleep for 14 hours and then binge anime?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of… Destinyland,” Haru said with a twinkle in her eye. “My treat.”
A beat. And then the group erupted into overlapping chatter.
“YES—”
“Oh my god, I haven’t been there since I was a kid—”
“We need matching ears—”
“Can we go on everything?”
“Wait, do they still have the haunted mansion ride?!”
Akira leaned back slightly, letting the sound wash over him. The pain hadn't gone. The guilt hadn't vanished. But right here, in this moment, with the sun shining through the trees and his friends rallying around him, it felt… lighter.
He could live with that.
The moment they passed through the pastel-colored gates of Destinyland, Haru’s eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning.
“Boutique first!” she declared, grabbing Futaba’s and Yukiko’s hands. “Akira, be a dear and hold onto our bags, won’t you?”
Before he could protest, his arms were full of tote bags and backpacks, and the girls had vanished in a swirl of giggles and giddiness. Akira sighed, settling onto a nearby bench with the precarious pile of belongings. He spent the next half hour people-watching: a tired dad chasing a sticky toddler, an elderly couple holding hands in matching sun hats, two mascots dancing awkwardly near a popcorn cart. The familiar melody of Destinyland’s theme music looped in the background — saccharine and just a bit too cheerful.
Then he heard them coming. The unmistakable sound of giggles, heels clicking on pavement, and someone whisper-shouting “Don’t trip!”.
He looked up—and nearly dropped the bags. There they were. All twelve of them. Dressed in slight variations of the same ensemble: red polka dot dresses with puffed sleeves, bright yellow high heels, and oversized headbands adorned with comically large red bows.
Futaba had added a pair of techy sunglasses to hers. Ann’s skirt was scandalously shorter. Makoto wore hers with a kind of dignified resignation. Ren pulled it off so well it looked like designer couture.
Akira shook his head, chuckling as they struck playful poses in front of him. “You girls are impossible, you know that?”
Haru and Ann stepped forward, looping their arms through his on either side, their grins radiant.
“You love us anyway…” they sang in perfect harmony, voices bright and teasing.
Akira gave a low laugh, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “…Yeah,” he said, too soft for anyone to hear. “I really do.”
The first few hours were a whirlwind. They tackled the rollercoasters en masse, screams and cheers blending into the rattle of tracks. Akira found himself sandwiched between Futaba and Shiho on one ride, both of them whooping as they threw their hands up, while Morgane's scream cracked halfway through a loop, dissolving into laughter. Lavenza, serene and composed even during a vertical drop, exited the ride with a perfectly calm, “That was quite stimulating.”
After the rides came the stalls. Akira, sleeves rolled up and a laser focus in his storm-grey eyes, made short work of every game.
He popped balloons with perfect accuracy. Knocked over stacked cans in a single throw. Outfished the fishing-for-ducks game in record time. When he won the massive pink alpaca plush for Ren, the vendor muttered a prayer to the heavens and offered him free tokens just to go away.
“Unfair,” Makoto said flatly, eyeing the mountain of prizes piling up in Akira’s arms.
“Cheat code activated,” Ann teased, holding up her new stuffed tiger.
“He is the main character,” Futaba said solemnly.
Akira just smirked.
Eventually, the group broke into smaller trios and pairs to enjoy the park at a slower pace.
Futaba and Kasumi took Lavenza by the hand and led her into a merchandise shop filled with bright lights and collectible displays. The two girls chattered excitedly about pin designs and mascots, while Lavenza wandered the aisles with wide eyes. She hesitated at a rack of tiny, enamel pins—tiny stars, cartoon frogs, moons with faces. Futaba caught the look and quietly bought her a starter set and a canvas pin sash.
Lavenza blinked, touched it with reverence, then gave both girls a rare, radiant smile. “Thank you.”
Across the park, Ren and Ann were huddled at a sweets stall, gawking at absurdly tall parfaits and ice-cream sundaes dripping with chocolate, gold dust, and candied rose petals. Yukiko joined them, not to eat, but to quietly sketch the two of them on a napkin—Ann grinning with a spoon in her mouth, Ren dramatically pretending to faint over the price tag. She tucked the sketch into her purse with a small, satisfied smile.
Near the main avenue, Makoto and Hifumi stood with Morgane to watch the character parade. They didn’t talk much—just watched, shoulder to shoulder, as princesses and robots danced by to glittering fanfare. Morgane was quietly transfixed. Hifumi gave a small, fond smile. Makoto glanced toward Akira once, then let herself breathe in the moment, folding her arms across her chest, simply present.
At the edge of the boardwalk, Shiho and Ryuemi had already ditched their heels for sneakers. The two found a half-hidden street basketball court near the arcade zone. They joined a spontaneous 3v3 game with some teens visiting from out of town, laughter and playful trash talk echoing across the court. Haru cheered for them from a nearby bench, sipping on fresh lemonade and waving a pennant she’d picked up somewhere.
And in the background of it all, Akira drifted—checking in on each group, sharing a smile, a joke, a glance.
As twilight bathed Destinyland in hues of indigo and rose, Akira rejoined the others at the foot of the grand castle—the park’s iconic centerpiece. Somehow, he’d managed to snag a bundle of exclusive passes for the observation deck at the castle’s highest tower. None of the girls questioned it. Somehow, Akira always knew how to make things special.
They climbed the winding staircase in pairs, their laughter and teasing echoing in the narrow stone halls, until they finally stepped out into the open-air platform above. The entire park stretched below them in a sea of golden lights and fading sun. A gentle breeze ruffled their hair, and for a moment, everyone fell quiet—just taking in the view.
Then the fireworks began.
Color erupted across the sky—blues, reds, and shimmering silvers painting the clouds in streaks of joy. The group burst into delighted cheers, and the next twenty minutes were a blur of flashbulbs and laughter. They took photos—some zany, with Ann and Futaba pulling faces and Morgane striking dramatic poses; some sweet and sentimental, with Haru hugging Yukiko from behind and Kasumi twirling Lavenza like a princess.
Akira didn’t even notice the way the girls gradually circled him as the finale began—huge golden chrysanthemums lighting up the night sky with a thunderous crescendo.
One by one, they approached him.
Shiho was first, placing a simple braided bracelet into his hand. “Made it at one of the stalls,” she said with a quiet grin. “Looks a little rough... like someone else I know.”
Morgane slipped a silver coin charm into his pocket. “For luck. But, you know. You make your own.”
Futaba handed him a tiny, plush keychain shaped like a UFO. “Reminded me of you. All mysterious and cool and probably hiding lasers.”
Ren offered a small pressed flower encased in resin. “I just wanted to give you something beautiful. Like what you gave me—my freedom.”
Yukiko, blushing slightly, handed him a hand-drawn bookmark. On it, Akira stood beneath a sakura tree, surrounded by light.
Ryuemi gave him a folded origami crane. “No idea how to make these,” she said. “Kasumi did it. But it’s from me, too.”
Haru’s gift was a caramel apple, still warm, with his name swirled into the glaze. “You didn’t get to stop for one earlier.”
Makoto handed him a tiny, delicate compass pendant. “For whenever you forget which direction you’re going.”
Lavenza gave him a velvet pouch of star-shaped candies. “A small favor for my Trickster.”
Ann offered a pair of red-tinted sunglasses. “Because you’re too damn cool to be sad.”
Hifumi placed a polished black stone into his hand. “A shogi player's charm. For discipline. And resilience.”
Makoto stepped forward again. She looked him in the eye, then gently placed her hand over his.
“We just wanted you to know,” she said softly, her voice steady. “That we see you. We see how hard you work to keep us safe. No matter what it costs you.” She tightened her grip, her eyes unwavering. “Thank you... Akira.”
Before he could respond, Ann stepped in beside her. “And we want to ask you for something.”
The others leaned in, their expressions warm and hopeful.
“One day,” Ann continued. “Each of us wants one day to show you how much you mean to us. Please?”
Akira blinked, visibly caught off-guard. His fingers curled around the small trinkets in his hands. He looked around the circle—at the bright eyes, the soft smiles, the overwhelming warmth.
He hesitated, searching each face in turn. Something flickered behind his storm-grey gaze. Then… he nodded.
“Okay,” he said. His voice was quiet, but clear. “So… who’s first?”
The girls all grinned—some playful, some shy, others triumphant.
“We’ll text you the plan later,” they said in near-unison.
The girls’ group chat lit up almost as soon as everyone wass home, freshly showered, full of giddy exhaustion and sugar.
BimboBerry: 🍓🍓🍓 okay but can we please talk about today because i am STILL smiling like an idiot
PixelPrincess: YOU GUYS
I AM NEVER TAKING OFF THIS HEADBAND
(*also Lavenza totally looks like a collectible now that she has a full pin set 💙)
ButterflyBliss: I am a collectible.
(But thank you. I adore them.)
BendMeBaby: Today was magical.
I didn’t think he’d actually say yes to spending a day with each of us… after everything
SinGlazed: He looked so confused at first.
Like his brain had completely blue-screened 😭💀
BlossomUndone: I wanted to sketch that moment so badly. His expression was… so gentle. Like he couldn’t believe he deserved it.
VicePresident: He does. Every moment of it.
PlunderBae: Damn right he does.
BangBangBaby: I was honestly half-worried he’d say “no, let’s be professional” or something 😶🌫️
BimboBerry: lmao pls he literally said “Okay. So who’s first?”
ICONIC
SiroccoFée: sips tea
Obviously I should go first.
I’ve had the longest to plan.
PlunderBae: 💢 Excuse me??? I met him first!
BimboBerry: WE ALL KNOW I WAS THE FIRST TO FALL FOR HIM OK
BendMeBaby: 😳 wait what
PixelPrincess: okay okay okay before this descends into glittery war crimes—
ButterflyBliss: May I offer a piece of information?
SinGlazed: 👀
ButterflyBliss: Once each of us spends our day with him… it should be enough to reach Rank 9 in our bonds. For everyone.
VicePresident: ...Seriously?
ButterflyBliss: I do not joke about matters of the heart.
QueenOfHeels: …That means we might actually be able to tell him. All of us. Properly.
BrewedObedience: So… who does go first?
SiroccoFée: 🤺 Duel me.
BangBangBaby: Arm wrestle?
PixelPrincess: DDR battle???
BimboBerry: We’ll be here all night.
VicePresident: Maybe we just… go in order of when we joined the Thieves?
BlossomUndone: That… actually sounds fair.
BendMeBaby: I like it. It feels right. Like… telling our story.
SinGlazed: Then the schedule is:
-
Monday — Ryuemi
-
Tuesday — Morgane
-
Wednesday — Ann
-
Thursday — Shiho
-
Friday — Yukiko
-
Saturday — Futaba
-
Sunday — Kasumi
— -
Monday — Ren
-
Tuesday — Lavenza
-
Wednesday — Haru
-
Thursday — Hifumi
-
Friday — Makoto
PixelPrincess: okay no one DIES during this week or gets kidnapped or arrested or possessed by weird shadow gods got it? 😤
BimboBerry: And Saturday is reserved for planning The Grand Confession™️.
BangBangBaby: Should we call it Operation Heartbreaker?
SiroccoFée: Operation “Make Him Realize He’s Already In Love With Us”
BlossomUndone: Operation “Red Valentine” has a nice ring to it.
BrewedObedience: Operation “Hearts on Fire”? Too dramatic?
SinGlazed: Operation “Don't Mess It Up, He's Perfect, We Love Him, Oh No I'm Panicking” is my vote
ButterflyBliss: Operation “Claim His Heart”.
VicePresident: 😳…That one’s perfect.
BimboBerry: Okay then.
BimboBerry: If all goes well… we confess on Sunday. That gives us Saturday to plan our confession.
There’s a long pause. And then…
PixelPrincess: guys
PixelPrincess: we are SOOOOO gonna fall even harder
BendMeBaby: …is that even possible?
SinGlazed: oh it’s possible
SiroccoFée: very possible
VicePresident: dangerously possible
BlossomUndone: …worth it.
BangBangBaby: Absolutely worth it.
The group chat pinged to life just as Akira finished brushing his teeth. He flopped back onto his bed, still wearing his souvenir T-shirt from Destinyland, and opened the chat.
📱 Phantom Thieves Group Chat: “Just the 13 of Us”
CherryBombshell: ✨Incoming: Official Spend A Day With Akira Schedule™✨
JusticeDrive: We've finalized the order. One day with each of us. No arguments. No excuses. You're ours for the next two weeks.
FleetBooty:
Monday – Me.
Hint: Bring running shoes. 👟🔥
VentDuNord:
Tuesday – Yours truly.
Hint: Time for another lesson. 🐱🎯
CherryBombshell:
Wednesday – Get ready, Mr. Star.
Hint: You and me, making magic together. ✨💃
HeartShotHero:
Thursday – You’re with me.
Hint: I want to show you what you taught me. 🏐🌸
SakuraVeil:
Friday – Hope you don’t mind getting messy.
Hint: I want you to be there when I create my next masterpiece. 🎨🖌️
GlitchGoddess:
Saturday – ALL YOUR BASE BELONG TO ME.
Hint: Ready Player 2. 🎮🧡
ScarletSway:
Sunday – I’m up.
Hint: This is something I’ve been practicing for a while. 💃🌺
PolishedPuzzle:
Monday (2nd week) – Be there.
Hint: I need a new partner. 🍓🎭
VelvetWhisper:
Tuesday – I would be honored.
Hint: I want to show you how much I’ve grown. 🕊️📘
FloofyBean:
Wednesday – Don’t be late.
Hint: Wear gloves. 🌱🌹
PawnToPrincess:
Thursday – Your Queen awaits.
Hint: The Dragon Queen requests the counsel of the King of Thieves. ♟️🐉
JusticeDrive:
Friday – Save the date.
Hint: I followed you unseen – now I want to walk beside you. 💎📚
CherryBombshell: 😇 You ready?
Akira stareed at the screen for a long time, the corners of his lips twitching upward despite himself. He typed something—then erased it. Then typed again.
Trickster: Sounds like I’m in for a hell of a time.
VentDuNord: You say that like it’s a bad thing 😘
The light from his phone screen faded, leaving the room dim except for the glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. Akira sat on the edge of the bed, phone in one hand, the other clutching his head.
His breath was slow, deliberate. He tried to smile.
He failed.
Satanael: You’re trembling again.
Akira didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the wall across from him.
Arsène: They adore you, you know.
Akira: They don’t know the things I’ve done. The lives I couldn’t save. The ones I lost.
Satanael: You mourn ghosts who no longer exist. That is your strength—but also your curse.
Arsène: You carry every version of yourself, don’t you? Even the ones who died in silence.
Akira nodded. His fists clenched, eyes stinging.
Akira: I keep thinking… if I let myself be happy—really happy—it means I’ve forgotten them.
Satanael: It means you’ve honored them.
Arsène: You survived. That is not a betrayal. It is a triumph.
Akira: But… loving all of them? That’s not right. That’s not fair to them.
Arsène: Why? Because love must be narrow to be true? You are not a coward for loving freely.
Satanael: You are not a monster for being loved in return.
Akira closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
Arsène: They see you, Trickster. Not the mask. Just… you.
Satanael: Let them.
Akira leaned forward, elbows on knees, pressing his forehead into his hands.
"...I’m trying, guys," he whispered.
Monday - Early Morning – Inokashira Park – Ryuemi’s Day
The summer morning sun filtered through the trees in dapples of gold, the air already alive with music, laughter, and the rhythmic thud of sneakers against pavement. Balloons floated lazily above pop-up tents, volunteers handed out water bottles and pinned race bibs, and a brass band played an upbeat tune near the starting line. A large banner flapped over the entrance, impossible to miss: 🎗️ "Charity Marathon – Raise Money for Cancer Awareness!" 🎗️
Akira stood just outside the park gates, hands in his jacket pockets, lips quirking into a half-smile.
“A marathon, huh?” he muttered, amused. “Of course it’s a marathon.”
He scanned the crowd with a practiced eye, but it didn’t take long to spot her. The flash of pale, toned limbs. The glint of sun off a sleek ponytail. A familiar flash of bottle blonde.
There she was—Ryuemi.
She stood at the edge of a jogging circle, casually stretching like this was just another Tuesday for her. Her outfit clung like a second skin—black and scarlet, with breathable mesh panels and runner's stripes down the sides. Sleek, stylish, and very possibly illegal in some countries.
Akira's gaze dropped to her shoes. The same pair he’d given her months ago, when she'd casually mentioned her old pair were worn to hell.
He smiled.
Ryuemi turned mid-quad stretch, catching his eye as if she’d felt his presence. Her grin bloomed instantly.
“'Kira!” she called, hopping once to loosen her knees, then jogging toward him with a bounce in her step.
Akira raised a brow. “A marathon, really?”
“C’mon, it’s for charity!” she said, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “Plus, it’s good practice for me. Endurance, timing, pacing—it all helps my game.”
“I thought we were spending the day together,” he teased. “Not me standing on the sidelines watching you be Comet.”
She laughed. “Oh, you’re running too.”
Akira blinked. “...I’m sorry?”
Ryuemi leaned in with a wicked grin, voice low and sing-song: “I registered you last night. Bib’s under my name, and you’re my emotional support now. No backsies.”
He stared at her.
She handed him a race bib. It read: R. Sakamoto + Guest.
“Seriously?”
She winked. “You’re the one who gave me the shoes. Seemed poetic.”
Akira pinched the bridge of his nose, then smiled despite himself. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it,” she chirped, bumping hips with him. “Now c’mon. Let’s go raise some money, sweat buckets, and maybe collapse dramatically in front of the local news.”
The crowd roared as the runners surged past the halfway marker, cheers and music rising in a crescendo of color and sound. Akira kept a steady pace, weaving between fellow participants and keeping Ryuemi in his line of sight.
She was a force of nature.
Not just fast — fluid, explosive, alive. There was no hesitation in her stride, no shadows clinging to her shoulders. Her blonde ponytail danced behind her like a streamer, and her laughter rang out clear as she cheered on a group of kids trying to keep pace beside her.
Akira’s breath came out in short bursts, but a small smile lingered on his lips. This — seeing Ryuemi like this — was worth every ache in his legs. Gone was the spiky girl who had tried to not let the names affect her, but kept crying in corners when she thought no-one could see her. In her place was someone who ran not from pain, but toward joy.
And damn if that joy wasn’t infectious. She caught him watching at one point and grinned over her shoulder. “Pick it up, slowpoke! This is a race, not a brisk jog!”
He rolled his eyes and pushed forward. They finished the marathon side by side, not first — but not far off. And from the looks on their faces, they could’ve won the whole damn thing.
The race was long over. The crowd had thinned, the sun had begun its gentle descent, and the buzz of adrenaline had faded into a soothing lull.
Akira and Ryuemi walked a winding path near the lake, flanked by trees whose leaves rustled lazily in the breeze. She had swapped out her running shoes for worn-out trainers, and now strolled beside him, sipping from a bottle of Pocari Sweat, her cheeks still flushed.
They didn’t talk at first. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be broken — companionable, easy. Their shoulders brushed now and then, and Ryuemi occasionally kicked a loose pebble down the path with idle aim. Then, without warning, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and leaned into him.
“...Thank you,” she said softly.
Akira glanced at her, brow raised in quiet curiosity. She didn’t look at him. Just kept her eyes ahead. “Thank you for giving me the courage to run again. Not just today. I mean—really run. Like I used to. Like I wanted to. Without fear. Without… him hanging over me.”
The last words were barely more than a breath. Akira’s lips parted to respond, but Ryuemi moved first — standing on tiptoe, she pressed a light, warm kiss to his cheek. When she pulled back, that familiar cheeky grin returned, but her eyes were glassy. “And thank you,” she added, “for always being there for me.”
Before he could find something to say — something worthy of the moment — she had already turned and jogged ahead, calling over her shoulder: “C’mon, Leader. You owe me yakisoba!”
Tuesday – Indoor Ice Rink - Morgane’s Day
The echo of blades on ice rang sharp in the crisp air of the indoor rink. Morning sunlight filtered in through the high windows, casting long, cool rays across the gleaming surface. Children laughed, couples stumbled, and in the center of it all stood Morgane, hands on her hips and her breath misting faintly in the chill.
She wore a red and black skating dress with a flared skirt that fluttered with every shift of her weight. Beneath it, thick black leggings lined with burnt-orange shimmer traced the elegant lines of her legs. Her black hair was tucked back in two short twin-tails, and a tiny red ribbon pinned to the side matched the hint of gloss on her lips.
Her hands were clasped behind her back, but there was an unmistakable gleam of mischief in her stormy blue eyes.
Akira stepped onto the ice with caution, wobbled slightly, and began his slow, careful movements toward her. Morgane watched him approach, her nose crinkling. They skated together for a while, Morgane offering tips, correcting his posture, gently guiding him. But after a few laps, something in her expression shifted.
She stopped abruptly in the center of the rink, planting her hands on her hips. “Still pretending, huh?” she called out.
Akira blinked, straightened, and offered a sheepish smile. “Pretending?”
She glided effortlessly toward him and planted herself in front of him with a dramatic huff, crossing her arms. “Skate properly, Akira. I want to see the real you.”
For a moment, Akira hesitated — but then his smile changed. It softened, deepened. Without a word, he pushed off and let himself move.
He glided across the ice like a shadow cast in moonlight — low, smooth arcs, effortless pivots, and crisp crossovers. The kind of movement that drew attention without demanding it.
Morgane gasped, then immediately darted after him. “Tu te fous de moi?!” she hissed — but the glint in her eyes was bright and full of challenge.
Their movements shifted into an impromptu duet. She followed his lead at first, then twisted it into something of her own — spins, mirroring loops, the occasional graceful reach. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
By the time they came to a stop near the center of the rink, breathless and beaming, a small crowd had gathered along the edges, applauding lightly. Morgane offered a quick curtsy. Akira bowed. Then they laughed and skated off toward the bench.
They sat side by side, tugging off their skates, legs warm and aching beneath the cold metal seats. Morgane wiggled her toes through her socks and glanced sideways at him.
“Why pretend?” she asked quietly.
Akira looked down, letting his fingers rest on the laces. “I liked watching you get passionate about teaching me. It’s… different from your usual ice.”
She stared at him — open-mouthed — then narrowed her eyes and socked him gently on the arm. “Idiot.”
But the word came out soft, fond. She leaned into his side, resting her head against his shoulder. “Suis plus une reine de neige,” she murmured. “You and the rest of the girls thawed me out ages ago.”
Akira’s gaze dropped to the top of her head, and one of his hands instinctively came up to rest lightly on hers. “Good,” he said. “You’re a lot warmer like this.”
She snorted. “Lame.”
“…You smiled.”
“Tch. Shut up.”
But she didn’t move from his side.
After warming up with cups of vending machine hot chocolate and slipping back into their shoes, Morgane insisted — no, demanded — that Akira accompany her to a small, tucked-away cinema in Shimokitazawa. The kind of place with velvet seats that had seen better decades, dim lighting, and a hand-written marquee out front boasting: Une Nuit à Percé – Special Screening (Japanese Subs Available).
“You’ll like it,” Morgane promised as she pulled him toward the entrance. “It’s poetic. Sad. Beautiful. Like me.” She winked.
Inside, the theater was cozy and quiet. Morgane chose a pair of seats near the middle, and as the lights dimmed and the projector flickered to life, she leaned in close. Not just for warmth — though Akira was grateful for it — but to whisper occasional commentary:
“That’s maple taffy. We pour it over snow in winter. C’est sucré, mais délicieux.”
“See how they don’t look at each other directly when they argue? That’s a Quebecois thing. Eye contact means you’re ready to duel.”
“No, she didn’t say that exactly. The idiom is… ‘He’s got the nose of a pig, but the soul of a priest.’ Trust me, it makes sense if you grew up hearing it.”
Akira chuckled quietly throughout. He wasn’t sure what he enjoyed more — the film or the glow Morgane gave off while explaining it.
The air was crisp as they walked together under the faint orange wash of streetlights. Morgane’s arm occasionally brushed against his as they talked about the film — its melancholy tone, the sharp beauty of the Quebec landscape, the strange but touching relationships between its characters.
“I miss it sometimes,” Morgane said quietly. “The snow. The silence. The way everyone complains about everything, but still helps each other when it really matters.” She glanced up at him with a small smile. “You’d like it there. You’d fit right in.”
Akira gave a small hum, hands tucked in his coat pockets. “Maybe one day you can take me.”
“Maybe,” she said, her tone teasing — but her eyes were soft.
They reached her building, and for a moment, the night went still. Morgane stopped in front of the door and turned to face him.
The mischief was gone from her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet but unwavering. “For giving me a second family.”
Before Akira could form a reply, she stepped forward and hugged him — quick and tight, like she was afraid she’d lose her nerve if she lingered.
Then she pulled back, turned the key in the lock, and slipped inside.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Akira stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where she’d stood, a ghost of her warmth still lingering against his chest.
Finally, he exhaled a soft breath, turned, and began the slow walk home beneath the stars.
Wednesday – Late Morning – Harajuku - Ann’s Day
Akira adjusted the collar of his jacket as he stepped out of the taxi, squinting up at the massive industrial building Ann had sent him the address for. A converted warehouse, if the scaffolding and external rigging were anything to go by — clean but raw, modern but edgy.
He stepped inside and was immediately met with the whirl of fans, camera flashes, stylists darting around with garment bags, and a blaring speaker pumping house beats into the vast space.
And in the center of it all — Ann. Poised. Confident. Breathtaking.
She was mid-pose—one hand perched at her waist, the other lifting the edge of a flowing jacket that caught the wind just right. Her hair was tousled to intentional perfection, her lips slightly parted in that way models mastered, and her legs—goddess, those legs—elongated by black heels and confidence.
She turned. Flashed a devastating smile. Pivoted like a panther in slow motion.
Akira didn’t move.
His breath caught in his throat as he stared, spellbound. When did she become… this? She was no longer just his energetic, mischievous friend who stole fries and whipped Shadows in the face. Right now, she was every inch a star. Magnetic. Fierce. Untouchable.
And then she saw him.
“Akiiiii!” Ann squealed, dropping the pose immediately. She bounded toward him and threw her arms around his neck in a warm, unrestrained hug, nearly knocking him off balance.
“Y-yo,” he chuckled, still a bit dazed. “You’re kinda killing it over there.”
Ann beamed. “Teehee, thanks! I’m so glad you made it.” She took his hand without hesitation and dragged him toward the set. “Come on—I want you to meet someone.”
They approached a sharply-dressed man in his mid-thirties with a camera slung around his neck and tired-yet-inspired eyes. Ann gestured dramatically. “Kenji, this is the one I was telling you about. Isn’t he just perfect?”
Akira blinked. “Perfect for… what?”
Ann turned toward him, lips curling into that mischievous smile that always managed to disarm him.
“I want you to model with me,” she said sweetly. Then, clasping her hands together, she unleashed the full force of her puppy-dog eyes. “Pweeeseee?”
Akira opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I—wait… what? Me? Model?”
Ann nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! I’ve wanted to do a shoot like this forever, and with you? It’d be perfect.”
“Ann, I’m not—”
“Kenji agrees,” she interrupted, practically bouncing with excitement. “He thinks you’ve got the look. Trust me, you do. You’re tall, you’ve got that brooding thing going on, your cheekbones are unfair, and don’t even get me started on the eyes—”
“Okay, okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, hopeless. “You really want this?”
“More than anything.”
Akira exhaled, already feeling his will crumbling beneath her radiant smile. “…Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll do it.”
Ann squealed, actually jumped, and clapped her hands like a kid on her birthday. “You will?! Yay!!!”
Before Akira could change his mind, one of the assistants whisked him away with a nod and a garment rack. As he walked off, stunned, he caught a snippet of Ann and Kenji talking behind him.
“Everything,” Ann was saying confidently. “Formalwear, beachwear, urban… Let’s make it sexy.”
Akira stepped onto the set dressed in a tailored black three-piece suit, the cut precise and devastating. The vest hugged his torso like it had been stitched to memory. The suit pants fell just right over his boots. A slim black tie hung neatly from the collar—until a stylist whisked it off mid-prep and popped open the top two buttons of his shirt, baring a tease of his collarbones.
He shifted uncomfortably. “This really isn’t me...”
“Oh, but it is,” came Ann’s voice behind him.
He turned—and froze.
Ann was a vision in red.
Her dress was floor-length satin, molten in the light. Backless, with a deep cut down the sides, the fabric clung to every curve and pooled dramatically at her feet. A slit ran up one leg to her thigh, revealing impossibly long limbs with every step. Her hair had been styled in loose waves, a single strand tucked behind one ear to reveal diamond-dusted earrings.
She looked like danger, draped in elegance.
“W-wow,” Akira muttered before he could stop himself.
Ann just smirked as she closed the distance. “You clean up pretty nice yourself, Mr. Phantom Thief.”
The shoot began.
Kenji barked directions. “Face each other! Closer. Eyes locked. Good. Now hand on his chest—Akira, don’t look so startled!”
Akira tried to hold his posture, but every time Ann touched him—just her hand brushing over his lapel or tilting his chin—it sent sparks through him. She was so close, her perfume a warm, heady scent of rose and something faintly spicy. She moved like she belonged there—no, like she owned the camera. Every pose was confident, sultry, but still wrapped in her signature charm.
“Relax, Joker,” she teased between shots, her voice a low purr by his ear. “Pretend I’m a Shadow you’ve got to seduce.”
“...I don’t think that helps,” he muttered, ears pink.
“Try this,” she said, guiding his hands to her waist, pulling him closer until there wasn’t an inch between them. She arched her back, leg sliding up along his thigh, perfectly framed by the slit in her gown. “Now look at me like you’re about to steal my heart.”
He did.
And the camera loved it.
By the time they hit the final pose, Akira’s jacket and vest had been discarded. His shirt was undone, revealing defined abs and toned lines, glistening just slightly from the overhead lights. He smoldered at the lens with a look that could melt steel—equal parts intensity and restraint.
Ann was draped across him like a velvet flame—leg hooked around his, her nails grazing the plane of his chest, red lips slightly parted in mock surrender, eyes locked on his jaw like she could bite him and claim him all at once.
Click.
Kenji lowered the camera, eyes wide. “Holy hell. That’s the shot. That’s the damn cover.”
Ann peeled herself off Akira with a satisfied hum. “Told you he was perfect.”
The set had transformed once again. Gone were the soft lights and velvet shadows. Now it was neon signs, graffitied metal walls, and scaffolded catwalks — pure Tokyo street. The warehouse’s beams and ledges had been repurposed into an urban jungle, perfect for Akira’s parkour instincts.
“Alright, get me motion,” Kenji barked, gesturing to the elevated scaffolds. “I want raw energy. Power. Edge!”
Akira stood near the base of the set, now dressed in urban monochrome — layered techwear: a sleeveless zip hoodie, a dropped harness belt, fitted joggers, and high-top boots that somehow made him look even taller. A streak of red paint had been dabbed under one eye for visual punch. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a dystopian video game and onto a Vogue spread.
Then came Ann.
She strutted onto set like the streets belonged to her. Cropped leather jacket, unzipped just enough to show a sliver of midriff. Mesh top, black sports bra underneath. High-waisted cargo pants, cinched at the ankles, paired with stiletto boots she somehow moved in like sneakers. Her lips were glossed, eyes rimmed in bold black liner, hair in a high ponytail, streaked with a flash of hot pink. The effect was devastating.
Akira caught himself staring again.
“Try not to fall, spider monkey,” Ann teased, giving him a playful bump with her hip as she walked past.
He smirked. “Only if you promise not to trip over those boots.”
“Oh please,” she said, tossing her ponytail. “I was born to stomp.”
The shoot began with movement. Ann posed in front of a neon-lit wall, hands in her jacket pockets, head tilted like a queen watching her kingdom burn. Every look she gave the camera oozed cool seduction.
Akira, meanwhile, was turned loose on the scaffolding. Focus. Flow. The warehouse became his playground.
He dashed forward, vaulting a crate, then rebounded off a wall with a twist. A camera drone buzzed to life and tracked him as he slid down a railing in perfect control. Then came the trickier maneuvers: a wall spin, then a climb-up turn, followed by a cat leap from one scaffold to another. He was a blur of controlled energy—calculated, precise, powerful.
Ann watched him with an appreciative smirk, arms folded, one boot propped against a concrete block. “Damn,” she muttered. “That boy’s got moves.”
Kenji, slack-jawed, barked directions. “Ann—pose center frame! Akira—give us the final burst!”
Ann stepped to the center of the set, a square of painted concrete under a glowing overhead light. She struck a stance — strong, grounded — and then without warning, dropped into a perfect split, back straight, one hand braced on her thigh, the other held high like she was conducting the chaos around her.
Akira sprinted up a nearby ledge. Time seemed to slow.
He launched forward—
—flipping clean over Ann. Midair, he twisted in a full backflip, arms spread out like wings, knees tight.
Click.
The shutter snapped as he hung in the air above her—a dark figure suspended like a hawk in flight, while Ann glowed below in crimson, serene and deadly in the split, lips curled in satisfaction.
He landed in front of her with a thud, breath even.
Kenji exhaled like he'd been holding his lungs hostage. “That—was insanity. I want that blown up on a billboard. Shibuya Scramble. Both of you.”
Ann turned to face Akira, breathless. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”
Akira gave her a crooked grin, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You dared me without even saying anything.”
She grinned. “Guess you know me too well.”
The air was warmer now — the lights overhead softened into golden hues, mimicking sunset. Sand had been trucked in and spread across the set floor, complete with fake palm trees, a glistening pool of water, and strategically placed surfboards for props.
Ann stood off to the side, stretching a little, pretending she wasn’t watching Akira emerge from the changing area.
She failed. Her jaw almost dropped.
Akira strode into view dressed in nothing but black and crimson boardshorts, low on his hips and sinfully snug in all the right places. His lean, muscled torso glistened faintly under the light mist they’d spritzed him with for effect. Every movement made his abs ripple, and the slight sway of his hair from the wind machine just added to the absurdly unfair effect.
From the far side of the set, Ann watched him approach… and actually gulped.
“Holy hell,” she whispered to herself, nearly fanning her face with a prop palm leaf. “Who let him be this hot?”
She adjusted her top and strutted forward. She wore a tiny red bikini, the top tied halter-style behind her neck, barely containing her generous curves. The bottoms sat low on her hips, the cut designed to accentuate every line of her dancer’s legs. Over the swimsuit, she wore a mesh sarong that swayed with every step. Add in the strappy scarlet stilettos, oversized shades, and a sunhat she casually discarded mid-walk, and Ann was a walking fantasy.
They started light. Ann laying in the sand, legs crossed, head propped on one arm — Akira standing behind her with a towel over one shoulder, looking off like a Baywatch hero. They moved to action shots — her laughing as he “splashed” her near the fake pool, him tossing her a beach ball with a grin.
But it was the final pose that would sell magazines. Or stop hearts.
Ann stood facing away from the camera, one hip cocked, sunglasses perched on her nose. She held her ponytail up lazily with one hand. Her entire back was bare, her bikini strings loose, hanging untied behind her.
Akira stood just behind her, holding a bottle of sunscreen.
Kenji’s voice floated in, low and reverent. “Alright, Aki. Sunscreen shot. Go slow. Real slow.”
Akira swallowed. He stepped in.
Gently, he uncapped the bottle and squeezed a dollop into his palm. Then, he spread the lotion across her back — smooth, circular motions that made her shiver just slightly. His fingers brushed along her shoulder blades, then lower, tracing the curve of her waist.
Ann didn’t move, didn’t speak — but she slid her sunglasses down her nose just enough to peer over them. Right into the camera. Her gaze was fierce, smoldering, possessive.
He's mine, that look said.
Akira leaned in without thinking, face close to her ear. “Ann... you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured.
She just smirked, whispered back, “That’s the plan.”
Click.
Kenji stepped back, dazed. “That’s it. That’s the damn cover for summer. Holy hell, I need water.”
The lights had dimmed. The set crew was packing up, music long faded into background hums. Most of the team had dispersed, leaving behind only silence, a few echoing footsteps, and the lingering warmth of sunset-colored gels on the walls.
Akira sat on the edge of one of the platforms, towel draped over his shoulders, still a little dazed from the sheer chaos (and intimacy) of the shoot.
Ann approached quietly, now wrapped in a long robe, her hair slightly damp from the misting spray. She had removed her makeup, but she was glowing in that way people do when they've just done something that scared them a little… and loved every second of it.
She sat beside him, legs swinging lazily.
They didn’t speak at first.
“You really surprised me today,” Ann said, after a few moments.
Akira blinked, looking up. “Me?”
She smiled. “Yeah. You’re a natural. You looked incredible in every shot, you moved like you belonged there… I was seriously trying not to drool.”
That got a low laugh out of him, and the smallest smile.
“But that’s not why I wanted to do this,” she continued, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her tone shifted—quieter, more vulnerable. “This whole photoshoot… wasn’t just for fun. I planned it for you. Because of you.”
Akira tilted his head, curious.
Ann looked out over the darkening set, voice soft. “Back when all that stuff with Kamoshida was happening… I hated my body. I hated the way people looked at me. I hated that I felt… ashamed, for being pretty. Like my appearance was this weapon that could be used against me. That I was the problem.”
She glanced at him. “But then I met you.”
He stared at her, quietly listening.
“You’ve never looked at me like that. You’ve never made me feel like I had to apologize for how I look. Or that I need to act a certain way to be respected. You showed me that it was okay to enjoy being sexy. That I could be proud of it. That I didn’t owe anyone anything just because of the way I looked.” Her voice caught slightly. “You gave me my confidence back.”
She reached for his hand, gently lacing her fingers through his.
“I wanted to show you what you gave me, Akira,” she said, eyes shimmering under the fading lights. “You gave me the real Ann back. Thank you.”
Akira opened his mouth, but no words came. He wasn’t sure what to say. The weight of her gratitude, her honesty—it was overwhelming. So instead, he gave her what he could.
He nodded.
Ann smiled, then leaned in and wrapped her arms around him. She hugged him tight, head resting against his shoulder. The silence between them was warm, safe.
“You don’t know how special you are, Akira…” she murmured. “But I’ll always be here to remind you.”
Akira closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let the words settle. Let the warmth reach some part of him he didn’t even realize was cold.
Thursday – Morning Shibuya – Shiho’s Day
The morning light filtered softly through Shibuya’s towering buildings, cutting through the usual bustle and noise. The streets were just waking up. Stores were opening their shutters. The cafes smelled like fresh bread and espresso.
Akira stood at the corner by the Hachiko statue, hands in his pockets, taking in the sleepy energy of the city. A few moments later, Shiho arrived, her steps light, hair tied back in a loose ponytail, a soft smile on her face.
She waved as she approached. “Hey, sorry if I made you wait.”
“Not at all,” Akira replied, smiling. “You look… really good.”
Shiho blushed just slightly and glanced away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re sweet.”
They started off with something simple — the kind of outing that felt easy, like a favorite playlist on shuffle. Shiho led him through the backstreets of Shibuya’s quieter corners, past indie cafés and tucked-away stairwells, until they came to the music shops. Some were sleek and modern, others cramped and dusty, overflowing with CDs, vinyl, and posters from every era of rock and jazz and underground synthpop.
Shiho’s eyes lit up in a way Akira rarely saw. She bounced from bin to bin, pulling up obscure records and testing Akira on random trivia. At one point, she found a vintage poster of Buck-Tick and held it up dramatically.
Akira raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were into gothic rock.”
Shiho grinned. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
They shared a laugh. Just after 11 a.m., as they were leaving a boutique that sold vintage cassette tapes, Shiho hesitated. Then she turned to him. “Hey… can I ask a weird favor?”
Akira tilted his head. “Of course.”
She took a breath. “Would you mind coming with me for a bit? There’s something I do every Thursday morning. I thought… maybe I could share it with you.”
He nodded without hesitation. “Lead the way.”
They walked in comfortable silence for about five minutes, taking a quieter road that curved away from the crowd. Eventually, they stopped in front of a plain, gray office building. It was nondescript — just a row of windows and a narrow door with frosted glass. No one walking by would give it a second look.
Akira glanced up at the signage above the door. Tokyo Mental Health Association – Suicide Prevention Hotline
He froze, the words sinking in.
When he looked at Shiho, she was already watching him — nervous, but calm. “So… this is kind of a strange thing for us to do, but would you mind hanging out with me while I volunteer here for a few hours?”
There was a flicker of something deep in her voice. Not guilt. Not fear. Just quiet, lived strength.
Akira’s throat tightened. But his voice was steady when he spoke. “I would be honored.”
Shiho smiled — and it wasn’t the bright smile from earlier, the one she used when talking about her favorite punk albums. This one was different. Deeper. Grateful. She unlocked the door and led him in.
Waiting Area
The center was quiet — not sterile, but calm, intentionally comforting. Soft colors, framed motivational posters, a tea station in one corner. The sort of place that didn’t shout hope, but offered it gently, like a hand outstretched in the dark.
Akira sat in one of the padded chairs in the waiting area, a cup of green tea warming his hands. Through a wide glass window, he could see into the call room — small, partitioned desks, each with a headset, a notepad, and a sense of privacy.
Shiho sat at one of them, her posture relaxed but focused. Her eyes were soft, voice low and calm as she listened intently to whoever was on the other end of the line. She wasn’t pretending. She wasn’t performing. She was present.
Akira couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He watched as she nodded slowly, then offered something — a suggestion, maybe, or simply a reminder that someone was still there. The tension in her shoulders never wavered, but there was something peaceful about her. Steady. Solid.
She belonged here.
He felt a quiet ache of pride bloom in his chest.
About an hour passed before someone sat beside him — an older woman, maybe in her late fifties, dressed in a soft cardigan and long skirt, with kind eyes and a clipboard in her lap.
She looked toward the call room, then turned to Akira with a smile. “Do you know Shiho-chan?”
Akira glanced at her, then nodded politely. “Yeah. I’m… I’m a friend.”
The woman’s eyes twinkled with warmth as she looked back through the glass. “She’s one of our best,” she said softly, fondly. “Kind, patient… so very compassionate. She has a gift for helping people feel heard. For making them believe they matter, even when they’ve forgotten how to believe it themselves.”
Akira followed her gaze, watched as Shiho gently ended a call, scribbled something on a sheet, and then took a quiet breath before reaching for the next line.
“She told me once,” the woman continued, “that she wanted to pay it forward. That when she was at her lowest, someone very special gave her the strength to keep going. To believe she was worth saving.”
Akira’s hands tightened slightly around the cup.
The woman smiled again, gentle and full of something deeper than words. “She lights up whenever she talks about him. Says he’s the reason she can smile again.”
Akira’s throat tightened.
Then, finally, the woman turned fully to him. “It’s an honor to finally meet him.”
Akira froze. Eyes widening just slightly, he stared at her, lips parting in disbelief — but the woman just smiled knowingly, offering a small bow of her head. No further explanation. No praise. Just quiet recognition. The kind that said thank you.
He didn’t know what to say. So he nodded. Not out of pride. But out of something else. Gratitude. Humility. A quiet, aching understanding that maybe… just maybe… he had done something right in this world. He whispered, almost to himself. “No… the honor’s mine.”
The little ramen shop was tucked between a bookstore and a thrift boutique — nothing fancy, just wooden counters, warm smells, and a quiet booth in the back where Akira and Shiho now sat, tucked away from the world.
Shiho had insisted on treating him. Said it was part thank-you, part tradition — “emotional ramen,” she’d called it, with a teasing smile.
They sat across from each other, steam curling between them from two piping-hot bowls. Akira had already loosened his jacket. Shiho, hair still tied up from the center, was nursing a barley tea between sips of broth.
She was the one to break the silence. “I saw you. Talking to Haruka-san.”
Akira glanced up, unsurprised. “She was telling me how incredible you are. How much of an asset you’ve become.”
Shiho chuckled, ducking her head a little. Her cheeks colored just slightly — not embarrassment, but something softer. Gratefulness. “I learned from the best.”
Akira blinked, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Then she reached across the table.
Her hand wrapped around his. “You… you saved my life, Akira.”
Her voice was low but firm. No trembling. Just truth. “If you hadn’t been there that day… if you hadn’t stopped them… I don’t know if I’d even be here right now. Not in a ramen shop. Not in the volunteer room. Not anywhere.”
Akira looked down, a quiet storm behind his eyes. His jaw clenched. “Don’t…” he said, almost a whisper. “Don’t thank me, Shiho. I just… I just happened to be there at the right time.”
Shiho’s hand tightened around his. “No, Akira.”
Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “You don’t get to diminish what you did. What you did, no one else had the guts to do. You looked Kamoshida in the eye when the whole damn school was pretending nothing was wrong. You reached for me when I didn’t even think I was worth saving.”
She leaned in slightly, her gaze unwavering. “So don’t you dare cheapen that. Don’t cheapen you.”
She paused. “Don’t cheapen the strength you give me — give all of us — by pretending you don’t deserve our thanks.”
Akira was silent.
He didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
Because in Shiho’s eyes, he saw it — the truth of his impact. Not as Joker. Not as a Phantom Thief. But as Akira Amamiya. The boy who stood up when no one else would. The one who had no armor but still stepped into the fire.
Slowly, he nodded. Just once. Shiho smiled — not brightly, but deeply. Like something long buried had been seen and accepted.
Friday – Morning - Inokashira Park, under the dappled trees – Yukiko’s Day
The morning air was cool, fresh with the scent of dew and blooming lilies. Inokashira Park was still sleepy — just the occasional jogger or elderly couple passing by. Birds chirped overhead, and the trees cast gentle shadows on the soft grass.
Akira approached the clearing Yukiko had mentioned. His brows lifted slightly when he spotted her: she was already there, setting up two large easels under the shade of a cherry tree, sunlight speckling her long, wine-red skirt. A soft breeze played with her dark hair as she bent over a wooden paint box, arranging tubes of watercolours and brushes with care.
He grinned. “Are you going to give me art lessons?”
Yukiko looked up and smiled — small, warm, a little amused. “In a manner of speaking.”
She adjusted one of the easels and met his gaze fully. “Actually, I’d like you to indulge my curiosity… I wish to see myself through your eyes.”
Akira tilted his head. “Through my—?”
Then his eyes flicked to the easels. The paint. The brushes. The spare canvas. “Oh. You want me to try to draw you?”
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have to warn you, Yuki… I’m terrible at art.”
Yukiko’s smile deepened, but didn’t waver. “I honestly doubt that.”
She sat gracefully on a picnic blanket and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Paint me. However you see me. I won’t judge.”
Akira stepped back, nodded slightly. “Almost. Um… tilt your chin up a bit. There. And turn your shoulders just a little. Perfect.”
She held still, her expression serene. Her hands folded delicately in her lap, like she belonged in a museum.
Akira sat before the easel and picked up the pencil. His fingers hovered above the canvas. He inhaled once. Then began. For a long time, they didn’t speak. The world narrowed to brushstrokes and breathing. Akira wasn’t trained, but he was focused. Meticulous. He didn’t try to make it perfect — just honest. He captured her poise, her warmth, the graceful line of her neck. The gentleness that lived in her eyes even when she was teasing. The quiet fire beneath her calm.
An hour and a half later, he finally set his brush down. “I think… I’m done.”
Yukiko turned her head, but didn’t rise. “I’d like to draw you now.”
Akira blinked. “Me?”
She nodded, already standing and moving to the second easel. “Lean against the tree. Act natural.”
He chuckled. “Natural. Right.”
She gestured to a tree nearby. “Lean against that.”
He obeyed, arms loosely crossed, one foot resting against the bark. His gaze drifted past her, toward the koi pond, his posture relaxed but alert, eyes filled with distant thought.
Yukiko studied him in silence. For thirty minutes, the only sound between them was the whisper of brush against paper and the occasional hum of wind.
When she finally stopped, she didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at what she’d created. And smiled.
Yukiko nodded towards Akira’s canvas. “Let me see it.”
He hesitated for half a second — not out of embarrassment, but out of a strange vulnerability. Then, he turned the easel toward her.
It wasn’t perfect. The proportions were a little off, and the watercolours bled into one another in some places, giving the lines a blurred, dreamlike quality. But it was honest. Honest in the way only something born of feeling rather than technique could be.
Yukiko saw herself seated on the blanket — not as the world saw her, composed and aloof, but as he saw her. But what struck her most was what surrounded her.
He had painted her backlit by golden strokes — a wash of colour rising behind her like flame. Not threatening or destructive, but radiant. Rebirth. A phoenix.
Her breath caught.
Akira watched her face carefully. “Sorry it’s not… you know. Technically good.”
Yukiko didn’t speak at first. She just reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the canvas as if afraid to smudge it. “Is this… how you see me?”
Akira nodded. “Yeah. I tried to capture all of it. The strength. The softness. The way you… shine. Like someone who’s risen from her past and decided it wouldn't define her.”
Yukiko turned to him, eyes glassy but smiling. “You make me feel beautiful, Akira. Not in a superficial way. But like… I’m someone worth painting. Someone seen.”
He didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He just smiled, ears faintly pink, and looked down at the brush in his fingers. “Your turn,” he said, clearing his throat gently.
Yukiko moved to her own easel, and with a deep breath, slowly turned the canvas to face him.
It was—objectively—stunning. Her control over watercolour was masterful, every stroke deliberate and layered with nuance. But it wasn’t just her technical skill that held him frozen. It was him — or rather, the him she saw. And the him she knew.
He stood in the portrait as she’d asked: leaning casually against the wide trunk of a sakura tree, head tilted slightly, hands in his pockets. But Yukiko had painted more than just his pose. She had captured the essence of him.
The kindness in the subtle curve of his lips. The watchfulness in his posture — relaxed, yes, but ever aware, like someone prepared to spring into action at a moment’s notice. There was strength in the broad set of his shoulders, and a deep, quiet compassion in the way the background wrapped around him — soft violets and greys, gentle and sheltering.
But it was the eyes that gripped him. She hadn’t flinched from the truth there.
His storm-grey eyes were drawn with startling clarity — and within them lived a hollowed weight, a haunting. Not weakness. Not fear. But a darkness coiled and waiting, not to consume, but to protect. It made the viewer want to lean closer and take a step back — like standing beside a fire that could warm or scorch.
The juxtaposition was powerful. Frightening. Comforting. Real.
Yukiko didn’t speak at first. She simply let him take it in. But when she did, her voice was low and reverent.
“When I look at you, Akira,” she said quietly, “I’m not afraid of what the darkness could do to me.”
She reached out and gently touched the edge of the canvas. “I’m terrified of what you would do to the darkness… if anything were ever to happen to me.”
Akira looked at her — really looked at her. At the way she held his gaze, unwavering. At the fierce loyalty in her voice, her trembling sincerity.
His heart felt full and hollow at once.
He didn’t know how to reply. So he reached forward and took her hand.
Not as a thank you. But as a promise.
They sat beneath the tree, her hand still in his. The wind whispered through the park, carrying the distant laughter of children, the rustle of leaves, and the faint scent of summer rain. Akira opened his mouth, maybe to thank her. Maybe to deflect. But Yukiko beat him to it.
“Do you remember,” she began softly, “the first time you saw me at Madarame’s exhibition?”
Akira blinked. He nodded. “Yeah. You were—”
“—sitting in the corner. Pretending I was part of the furniture.” Yukiko’s voice didn’t waver, but there was a tremor just beneath her words. “You didn’t look away from me. Everyone else did. Even I did. But you didn’t.”
She looked down at their hands, fingers interlaced. “You looked at me like I mattered. And that shattered something inside me.”
Akira was silent.
“I was starving,” she continued. “Not just for food, though god, I was starving. But for kindness. For dignity. For someone to treat me like I was human. You saw that I was breaking and instead of walking away… you reached out.”
She smiled faintly. “You’ve never stopped reaching out.”
“I just—” Akira started, instinctively, trying to wave it off. “You needed help, anyone would—”
“No,” Yukiko said, her voice suddenly firmer, her hand squeezing his. “Don’t. Don’t diminish what you did for me.”
She met his eyes, steady and warm. Fierce.
“You paid my rent for a year without saying a word. You made sure I was eating. You cared when I didn’t think I deserved to be cared about.”
Her voice wavered now, just slightly.
“You saved me, Akira. You saved me from him. From the shame. From disappearing. And even after, when I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop — for you to decide I was too much, too broken — you never did. You just… stayed.”
Her lip trembled, and she exhaled shakily, blinking fast.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you. But I’m going to try. For as long as I live, I will try.”
The weight of her words hung between them.
Akira looked away, jaw tight. His breath came slow, measured — he wanted to deny it, to say he didn’t do anything special. But her expression told him not to dare.
So instead, he just whispered, “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I owe you more than I could ever put into words. But even if I didn’t…” She smiled, faint and tender. “I’d still be here. Because you’re worth standing beside, Akira. Not just for what you’ve done, but for who you are.”
She leaned forward then, resting her forehead against his for a moment. It was not a kiss. Not quite. But it was close — so close it stole the air from his lungs.
“Thank you, Akira,” she murmured. “For seeing me when I couldn’t see myself.”
Saturday – The Sakura Residence – Futaba’s Day
The den was a whirlwind of pillows, snacks, and glowing LED lights. Two monitors blazed with colour as Akira and Futaba sat cross-legged on the floor, controllers in hand, shouting over a frantic co-op game.
"LEFT, LEFT—NO, YOUR OTHER LEFT!" Futaba shrieked, flailing as their characters barely dodged an onslaught of pixelated slimes.
Akira laughed, cool as ever. “I am going left. You’re just backwards.”
“Bold of you to say that after falling into a pit for the fifth time,” Futaba huffed, sticking her tongue out. “Don’t make me pull up the death counter.”
They played through a flurry of games — a rhythm battle game with hyper-chibi characters, a split-screen cooking simulator that nearly ended in disaster, and a puzzle platformer that required near-telepathic communication. Through it all, Futaba remained animated and vibrant, gleefully roasting Akira whenever she outscored him, then celebrating their wins by throwing herself dramatically across the couch.
But the surprise wasn’t the games. It was the anime. When they took a break and switched to watching a few shows together, Akira was expecting mecha fights, psychological thrillers, or chaotic slapstick.
Instead, Futaba queued up gentle slice-of-life stories. Shows about found families, quiet friendships, healing and joy. One followed an ex-delinquent raising his orphaned niece. Another featured a girl who could see ghosts, slowly learning to connect with others. Every one of them glowed with sincerity and comfort.
“Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type,” Akira murmured partway through, glancing at her as she sniffled over a scene of a girl receiving handmade lunch from her new adoptive brother.
“I contain multitudes,” Futaba sniffed dramatically. Then, quieter, “These shows... remind me of how far I’ve come.”
Akira didn’t say anything — he just gently offered her a tissue, which she accepted with a small grin.
It was mid-afternoon now, warm light streaming in through the curtains. Akira was moving around the kitchen with practiced ease, heating leftovers and adding a few quick sides — nothing fancy, but he always made it feel like a five-star meal.
Futaba sat at the counter, swinging her legs idly as she fiddled with her phone. She was quieter now, thoughtful. “Hey, Akira?”
“Mm?” he answered, not looking up as he stirred something on the stove.
“I’ve been working on something. Well, sort of secretly. I haven’t told the others yet.”
He glanced over, raising an eyebrow.
She hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about starting a VTuber channel. Like… for real. I’ve been messing with models and rigging, wrote some scripts, even built a basic overlay.”
“That’s awesome,” Akira said, genuinely impressed. “You’ve been putting in work.”
“Yeah, but…” Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against the counter. “I’m kinda freaking out about it. What if I freeze up? What if I sound stupid? What if people hate my voice? Or what if no one watches at all?”
She looked up at him, eyes wide and searching. “I know it’s dumb, but it’s scary putting yourself out there.”
Akira turned off the burner and walked over, setting a hand gently on her head. “It’s not dumb,” he said. “It’s brave.”
Futaba’s eyes flickered. “Even for me?”
“Especially for you.” He met her gaze with calm certainty. “Futaba, you’re a genius. You’re funny, you’re real, and when you care about something, it shines. That’s what people will see. That’s what I see.”
She blinked rapidly, caught off guard by the sincerity.
“I’m proud of you,” Akira added, voice low and warm. “And I think you’re going to be amazing.”
Futaba looked away, face burning red. “S-stop saying such powerful lines, dammit,” she muttered, hugging herself. “I can’t handle that level of wholesome in my weak gamer heart.”
Akira chuckled. “Guess I’m just built different.”
“Yeah, you are,” she whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear.
After lunch, the plates were stacked neatly in the sink and the kitchen smelled faintly of soy and ginger. Futaba clapped her hands and practically dragged Akira back to the den, her eyes gleaming behind her glasses.
“Okay! Time for the big reveal,” she said, bouncing with excitement as she fired up her computer. “But be warned — she’s hot. Like Ann levels of hot.”
Akira raised a brow. “Oh?”
A splash screen lit up the monitor with shimmering teal and neon-orange, then a squid-girl avatar flickered into view. She had long, flowing tentacles for hair — styled in a cute twin-drill fashion — and large amber eyes behind chic cyber-glasses. Her outfit was a futuristic, form-fitting bodysuit with high boots and glowing runes, the physics just exaggerated enough to catch the eye. Futaba, behind her headset, looked smug.
“This,” she declared, “is Futa-Kraken. Seafoam seductress of the seven screens. She plays games, solves crimes, and haunts firewalls for fun.”
Akira gave a low whistle. “Didn’t think you’d go full kaiju-kawaii, but it works.”
Futaba grinned. “I designed every part myself. From the tentacle dynamics to the, uh… ‘bounciness.’”
He coughed. “Clearly, your engineering genius is being used for only the most noble purposes.”
Futaba beamed at that, then suddenly turned shy. “Okay, okay—now go. Out. Shoo.” She hopped up and pushed him gently toward the door. “I need to record something, and I can’t do it if you’re being all tall and distracting in the background.”
“Tall and distracting?” Akira echoed.
“Yes. Now go.”
A few minutes later, she called him back in.
The room lights had dimmed a bit, the glow of the monitor now front and center. Futaba gestured to the couch, then hit play with trembling fingers.
The video started with a cheerful jingle and Futa-Kraken waving excitedly, bubbles rising all around her as she bantered in a high, cheerful voice:
"YOOOO, it’s your girl Futa-Kraken, back from the deep net and diving into your hearts~! Today we’re gaming, gossiping, and maybe—just maybe—making questionable seafood puns. Stay tuned, suckers~!"
Akira chuckled, unable to help himself. Her delivery was unexpectedly polished — and hilarious.
But then, the tone shifted.
The screen softened, the background fading into gentle waves and pastel light. Futa-Kraken tilted her head, her voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity.
“Akira... you made me a promise before you even met me — that you’d save me from the darkness. You kept that promise. You reached into a place no one else dared to go, and pulled me out of it. But then… you made me another promise — that you’d show me the light that comes after. And you have. You taught me that it’s okay to laugh again. To trust. To live. Time after time, you keep making promises… and you’ve kept every single one. I… thank you. Thank you for giving me my life back.”
The clip ended there. The room fell into silence, except for the soft hum of the computer fans.
Futaba stood next to the couch, wringing her hands, eyes flicking to Akira and away again.
Then, softly, she asked, “Can I ask for one more promise?”
He looked up at her, still caught in the swell of emotion.
“Promise me,” she whispered, “that you’ll keep being in my life.”
For a moment, Akira couldn’t find the words. His throat tightened. His mind raced. So instead…
He nodded. Not just a simple nod — but one filled with weight and quiet determination. A vow sealed not with words, but with presence.
Futaba exhaled shakily, blinking rapidly. Then, without another word, she moved to sit beside him, leaning lightly against his shoulder. They stayed like that, in the glow of her world, in the quiet aftermath of a message that didn’t need anything more.
Sunday, Late Morning – Akihabara – Kasumi’s Day
The steady hum of the crowd pulsed around them — a mixture of tourists, otaku, and curious shoppers weaving between arcades, cafés, and stores decked with neon signs and gacha machines. Akira walked calmly beside Kasumi, who held a folded printout of a reference photo in one hand and pointed excitedly with the other.
"I'm thinking of finally doing that Kureha Nova cosplay for the charity expo," she said, her eyes scanning the storefronts. "I’ll need some deep violet silk, faux armor plating, and something that’ll pass for that glowing sword without… y’know, slicing someone in half."
Akira gave her a teasing glance. “Always a bonus.”
They ducked into a small crafts shop, and while Kasumi held up swatches to compare against her printout, she chatted about her latest gymnastics routine — a difficult sequence she was working to polish before regionals.
"But honestly?" she said as they stepped back outside, her tone dipping slightly, "I’m more worried about Sumire right now."
Akira glanced at her, letting her speak without interruption.
“She’s been… distant. Not angry, not exactly sad, just kind of—” Kasumi made a vague spiraling gesture. “Floaty? Like she’s stuck in her own head all the time.”
He nodded quietly, already piecing together the unspoken weight behind her words.
“Ever since she found out she didn’t qualify for Nationals,” Kasumi continued, “she’s been pulling away. And the worst part is… I don’t know if she’s mad at me. I don’t want her to think I’m gloating just because I made it.”
Akira slowed his steps a bit as they neared the edge of the shopping district. “She’s probably not angry with you. But it hurts to fall short, especially when someone close to you succeeds at the same thing.”
Kasumi frowned slightly. “I know… I just wish I could help. We used to talk about our dreams every night. Now I feel like I’m chasing mine alone.”
“You’re not,” Akira said firmly. “But maybe she needs some space right now to make peace with where she is — and where you are. Give her time. When she’s ready, you’ll be there.”
Kasumi glanced at him, her brown eyes soft. “You always know what to say.”
“I fake it really well.”
She laughed, a little more freely now, nudging his arm. “Thanks, Akira.”
At that, she glanced at her phone.
“Hey… I was going to keep this a surprise, but—can you come with me to the studio? There’s something I want to show you.”
Akira blinked. “Studio?”
Kasumi smiled — a mix of nerves and excitement. “Dance studio. I promise it’s not some weird detour. Just… trust me?”
He tilted his head but nodded. “Lead the way.”
12:15 PM – The Studio
The building was quiet, tucked between a closed bakery and a florist that smelled faintly of lilies. They climbed to the second floor, the old wooden steps creaking beneath their feet.
Inside, the dance studio was clean and polished — all white walls and high windows, mirrors reflecting beams of summer light. Kasumi led him down the hallway to one of the smaller practice rooms.
She paused at the door.
“I need you to wait here for a few minutes,” she said, her expression now unreadable. “And no peeking.”
Akira raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”
Kasumi smiled… but there was something nervous in her eyes. “Just wait. I’ll call you when it’s time.”
With that, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, leaving Akira alone in the hallway with nothing but his own growing curiosity.
Ten minutes passed in quiet stillness before Akira’s phone buzzed.
Kasumi: you can come in now.
He slid the phone back into his pocket and opened the door slowly.
The room was dim, lit only by a few soft lamps placed near the corners, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. Faint strains of exotic, undulating maqam-styled music drifted through the space — a rhythm born of desert winds and starry nights. A single chair sat in the center, facing what was now unmistakably a stage space.
Akira hesitated, his voice low. “…Kasumi?”
There was a pause. Then — the delicate chime of ankle bells. Soft, silken steps. And then she emerged.
Kasumi stepped into the light, barefoot, adorned in a belly dancer’s outfit: rich crimson and gold, layered veils with subtle shimmer that caught the glow with every movement. Her midriff was bare, toned and elegant from years of discipline. Her hair was tied back in a flowing braid, a few strands framing her flushed cheeks. Her eyes locked with Akira’s for a heartbeat… then the music swelled.
And she began to dance. Graceful. Controlled. Hypnotic.
Each motion flowed into the next — arms weaving through the air like ribbons, hips rolling in precise figure-eights, every step grounded in strength and elevated by beauty. Her wrists moved like wind over water, fingertips painting the air in arcs of longing and devotion.
Akira sat frozen, his breath caught in his throat.
It wasn’t just a performance. It was her. Kasumi, not hiding behind nervous energy or bubbly modesty. She moved closer, eyes never leaving his, expression unreadable — open yet distant, as if her soul was dancing ahead of her body. Her final steps slowed as the music softened, the last note fading into the hush like a sigh. She ended kneeling gracefully before him, her head bowed, her chest rising and falling with light effort.
The silence after the music was louder than any words.
Akira swallowed, throat dry. “…Kasumi…”
She lifted her head, finally allowing the tension in her limbs to relax. Her voice was soft, breathless, but steady. “I’ve been practicing that for a long time. Ever since that time we saw the street dancers.”
He blinked, confused.
“You asked me back then if there was something I wanted to do, just for me. Something selfish,” she said. “This was it.”
He shook his head slowly. “That wasn’t selfish.”
Kasumi smiled faintly. “I wanted to show you the real me — not the disciplined gymnast, not the smiley kouhai, not Sumire’s twin or a Phantom Thief. Just me. With all my dreams, fears… and feelings.”
Akira stood up without realizing it, taking a step toward her. She rose to meet him. There was a beat of silence between them — charged, vulnerable, trembling with possibility. But instead of breaking it with a confession, Kasumi simply reached into the folds of her veil and drew out a small pendant.
A delicate golden key on a red silk thread.
“I made this after one of our trips to Mementos,” she said, gently placing it in his palm. “It’s not just a symbol. It’s my way of saying… you’ve always had the key to helping me unlock the best parts of myself.”
Akira stared at it for a moment — then at her. Something deep and aching surged in his chest.
He couldn’t speak. So instead, he stepped forward and gently drew her into a hug, his arms wrapping around her waist. She sank into him immediately, forehead pressed to his shoulder, and for a long, quiet moment, they just stood there.
Monday – Early Morning – Naoto and Kanji’s Home – Ren’s Day
The soft murmur of a kettle boiling and the faint clink of mugs filled the sunlit kitchen. Akira stepped through the door with a quiet knock, greeted immediately by the warm scent of herbal tea and something vaguely cinnamon-y. Naoto, visibly in her third trimester now, was seated comfortably on the couch with her feet up, flipping through a baby care manual with the same intensity she’d once reserved for crime scene reports.
“Good timing,” Naoto said with a tired smile, looking up. “Ren’s already here.”
Akira turned — and sure enough, Ren was crouched near the kitchen cabinets, organizing tins of formula and carefully double-checking the expiration dates.
“Hey,” she greeted, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I thought you might drop by.”
Akira gave her a nod, then turned to Naoto. “You sure you’re okay until Kanji gets back?”
“I’ll be fine,” Naoto said dryly, patting her belly. “Between the two of you, I’m pretty sure I’ve been overstocked to survive a siege.”
“We love a good over-prep,” Ren teased, standing up and dusting her hands off.
Naoto gave them both a look that managed to be grateful and exasperated all at once. “Go on, then. I’ve got a nap and three prenatal podcasts lined up.”
“So,” Akira asked, adjusting the strap of his bag. “You said you need a new partner?”
Ren gave a small laugh. “Not quite. I need backup. There’s been a few abuse cases at the precinct I’ve been quietly tracking — things that never make it past the first complaint. Victims pulling reports. Witnesses recanting. Classic signs.”
Akira’s face darkened. “You checked the names?”
She nodded grimly. “Three hits. All confirmed targets. Upper floors of Mementos.” Her amber eyes flicked to him, calm but flinty. “Feel like busting some heads?”
Akira’s mouth curled into a familiar smirk. “Always.”
They quickened their pace, making for the nearest train station.
SLASH!
Arsene’s claws carved a clean arc through the thick haze, bisecting a screeching Shadow. Behind him, Lotus spun her staff with flawless precision, having just defeated the last of the smaller ones.
Three boss Shadows lunged from the corridor’s mouth.
“I’ve got left!” Lotus shouted.
“I’ll take right,” Joker replied, his voice calm, focused.
They moved like one — a dance honed in fire and fury.
Silence fell. Only the ambient drone of Mementos hummed around them now.
Lotus exhaled slowly, wiping blood from her cheek with the back of her glove. “All three down.”
Joker gave a nod. “Our job is done.”
Lotus looked at him — something fierce and soft behind her mask. “This? This is why I fight.”
Joker held her gaze for a beat. “…Me too.”
The air buzzed faintly as the warp gate pulsed in front of them, its cool blue glow casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Akira stepped forward, already reaching to summon the portal back to the surface — but then noticed that Ren had stopped walking.
She stood a few paces behind, head bowed slightly, her hands clenched at her sides.
“…Ren?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Just stared at the floor, lips pressed together like she was chewing on something too big to swallow. Then, quietly, she nodded — but the motion was stiff, unconvincing.
Akira turned to fully face her, concern flickering across his features. “You okay?”
Ren glanced up at him, her eyes troubled. “I… I never really thanked you. Did I? For everything?”
Akira’s jaw tensed. He looked away, voice rough. “There’s nothing to thank me for, Ren. I didn’t do anything special.”
There was a sudden crack of motion — the flash of blue, the shimmer of a summoned Persona — and Akira instinctively twisted, dropping low and spinning aside just as a blast of Bless magic carved through the space he’d just been in.
His tonfas were in his hands before he fully registered it. “Ren, what the fuck?!”
Across from him, Ren didn’t move to attack again. She simply stood there, Maid Marian fading behind her, expression unreadable. “…Shut up.”
Her voice wasn’t angry. It was quiet. Firm. Soft with the weight of unspoken things. “I knew you’d dodge. I needed you to look at me.”
She stepped toward him. One step. Then another. And then she was standing right in front of him, gripping the front of his harness with both hands, her gloves bright against his black leather. Her eyes searched his face, her voice trembling just slightly now.
“Stop putting yourself down, you damn idiot. What you did for me… giving me a new path, taking my burdens when I didn’t know how to carry them… getting your hands dirty so I wouldn’t have to… You don’t get to diminish any of that.”
She took a shaky breath. “You don’t get to diminish yourself.”
And with that, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his chest, eyes falling closed.
Akira froze. For a moment, he didn’t speak — didn’t breathe. His fingers relaxed around the tonfas, letting them clatter softly to the stone floor.
Slowly, he lifted a hand and placed it lightly on Ren’s back. No words passed between them. Just the hum of the portal, the echo of distant wind, and the feeling of two people holding one another together in a world that often didn’t care who was hurting.
Tuesday – 10:00 AM – Yongen-Jaya Station – Lavenza’s Day
Akira blinked as he stepped off the train platform, eyes falling on the familiar blue figure waiting just beyond the turnstiles.
Akira paused mid-step.
His breath caught slightly in his throat. She had changed again.
Lavenza stood with quiet grace, no longer the doll-like girl he’d once known. She now looked about his age — clad in a flowy blue dress that danced just above her knees, cinched at the waist with a gold-trimmed belt. Her long platinum hair shimmered in the light, curled softly at the ends, and a delicate sapphire pin held back a single lock behind one ear. There was elegance in her posture, grace in the way she held herself. Yet something bold danced in her eyes too — a flicker of challenge, of confidence. She tilted her head just slightly, and he was suddenly struck by just how much of them he saw in her.
Ann’s boldness. Yukiko’s elegance. Kasumi’s effortless grace.
But it was still unmistakably Lavenza — the girl who had once sat beside Igor in the Velvet Room, who had ventured into the world with the wonder of a child and the wisdom of eternity.
“…You’re staring,” she said softly, teasing.
Akira blinked. “I—… Sorry.”
Lavenza stepped closer, her voice gentle. “I wanted today to be special. A celebration. Of time, of growth… of you.”
Akira arched a brow. “Of me?”
She simply smiled. “You’ll see.”
11:15 AM – Inokashira Park
Their first stop was the local park — the one with the wide pond and weathered wooden benches. Lavenza led him there like it was sacred ground, guiding him to a spot near the water’s edge.
A family nearby was tossing breadcrumbs to a group of ducks, the birds honking and quacking in delight.
“I remember this place,” Lavenza said, her voice touched with nostalgia. “You brought me here the day I first set foot into the real world. I was fascinated by the ducks. I thought they were tiny, feathered Personas.”
Akira chuckled. “You said they reminded you of Margaret,” he offered.
She laughed — the sound light, musical, full of joy. “Yes. She is rather duck-like when she is angry.”
They sat in silence for a moment, just watching the water ripple. Lavenza’s expression softened. “That moment… it was the first time I truly felt what it meant to be alive. You were the one who made that possible.”
12:30 PM – Meiji Shrine
The crowds were light for a weekday, but the sacred stillness of the grounds wrapped around them. Lavenza moved slowly, soaking it all in.
“I returned here after our last visit,” she said as they reached the main offering box. “With coins. Many coins.”
Akira blinked. “Wait—don’t tell me—”
“I may have filled the entire box.” She said it calmly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“How much?”
She glanced at him, smiling slyly. “Several hundred thousand yen. Elizabeth once told me that acts of grand devotion are charming in the mortal world.”
“…You’re definitely her sister.”
1:45 PM – Café Verso, Harajuku
They sat at a corner booth, the table between them almost sagging under the weight of two towering parfaits. Fruits glistened like stained glass under the sunlight. Lavenza took a delicate bite of a mango slice, her eyes closing in delight.
“This… still remains one of the most exquisite things I have ever tasted.”
Akira chuckled. “Better than curry?”
“Far from it.” Her eyes opened again — and lingered on his. “But it wasn’t the parfait that made this moment special. It was… sharing it with you.”
Akira blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
3:00 PM – Kanda Old Bookstore District
The scent of old paper and ink clung to the air. Lavenza moved with surprising familiarity through the cramped aisles, running her fingertips along the shelves.
“This was the first place I ever felt like I could lose myself in the lives of others,” she whispered. “I read every book you recommended that day. Even the... vampire detective one.”
Akira winced playfully. “Hey, Nightshade: Blood and Justice is a cult classic.”
“It was gloriously absurd. I loved it.” She paused and looked back at him, voice quieter now. “I cherish every word of the pages I’ve read. Even now.”
4:15 PM – Club Sega Arcade
Flashing lights. Chiptune music. The smell of popcorn and prize machine plastic.
Lavenza’s eyes still lit up as they had before, drinking in the visual chaos of the arcade. She dragged Akira to play rhythm games, beat-'em-ups, even a Gun About machine (which she cleared with terrifying precision). They collapsed onto a bench nearby, each with a cold drink in hand.
“This place is loud,” she said simply, “but it’s alive. That’s what I love about it.”
Akira looked at her — truly looked. She was radiant. Not because of the beauty she now wore with effortless grace, but because of the soul behind her smile. A soul that had watched him fight, grow, and fall — and had walked beside him in every step.
Lavenza set her drink down. She turned to face him. “Today was never about revisiting memories,” she said softly. “It was about showing you how deeply you’ve shaped mine. Every laugh, every discovery, every step into this world… you were the one who made it meaningful.”
She leaned in then — eyes glowing with that same deep, unwavering light that once guided him in the Velvet Room. “I want you to know, Akira… I am not simply grateful to have known you. I am who I am… because I know you.”
Wednesday – 9:17 AM – Okumura Estate – Haru’s Day
The Okumura estate was quiet in the morning light — its vast garden dewy with the soft kiss of dawn, the air rich with the scent of roses and fresh soil. Akira stood at the gate for a moment, adjusting the strap on his bag, until the front doors opened.
Haru stepped out, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat over her auburn curls, a pair of soft gardening gloves in hand. Her usual layers had been swapped for a simple lilac blouse and pale linen overalls, dirt already smudged across the knees.
She smiled warmly. “Good morning, Akira. Ready to get your hands dirty?”
He gave a rare, easy smile. “Always.”
The morning passed in contented quiet. Akira kneeled beside Haru, gently turning over soil in one of the smaller herb plots while she tended to the row of young cabbages. Bees hummed around nearby lavender bushes, and birds chirped lazily from the treetops. With each careful motion — tugging out a weed, trimming back overgrowth, brushing dirt from his gloves — Akira’s shoulders seemed to loosen. The usual tightness behind his eyes softened.
No pressure. No masks. No fighting. Just the feel of earth between his fingers and the subtle scent of basil clinging to his gloves.
“I forgot how peaceful this could be,” he murmured eventually, brushing sweat from his brow.
Haru looked over, a bit of soil smudged on her cheek. “It’s why I never gave it up. Even after everything… the garden reminded me that life keeps growing.”
They sat beneath a vine-covered pergola at the far edge of the garden, dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. A porcelain teapot rested on the table between them, steam curling from its spout, accompanied by delicate cups and a plate of lavender shortbread.
Haru poured, slow and graceful, her fingers steady.
Akira accepted the cup with a soft “Thanks,” and took a sip. Floral. Earthy. Comforting.
For a long while, they said nothing. Just sipped, listening to the wind rustle through the trees, the buzz of bees in the wisteria overhead. Eventually, Akira leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “…Thank you,” he said quietly, cradling the warm cup in his hands. “For today.”
Haru looked at him, then smiled — soft, kind, the smile of someone who had thought deeply about this moment. “This is just my way of repaying you,” she said, setting her cup down gently. “You carry everyone’s burdens, Akira. All of ours. And you ask for nothing in return.”
She folded her hands in her lap, her voice unwavering. “Offering the man who gave me back my life one day of peace and relaxation… is the least I could do.”
Akira shifted slightly, his brow drawing together. “Haru—”
But she raised a hand and shook her head, that gentle smile still in place. “I know you find it hard to accept gratitude. It’s one of the few frustrating things about you.” Her tone was light, teasing, but there was weight behind the words.
“So I won’t say thank you.” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes never leaving his. “But I want you to know that I — like the rest of the girls — cherish you. Immensely.”
Akira didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t.
His throat worked soundlessly, and he looked away, blinking hard. The way his hands gripped the teacup, the shimmer behind his lashes — it said more than any words could.
Haru reached across the table, her hand brushing his wrist gently. “I hope you felt it today,” she said softly. “Even if just for a moment… I hope you felt safe.”
Akira swallowed and nodded once, the motion small but firm. “…I did.”
Thursday – 10:15 AM – Akihabara Station – Hifumi’s Day
Akira glanced down at the text on his phone again.
Hifumi: "Meet me by the giant gachapon machine. And wear comfortable shoes."
He scanned the crowd, trying to spot the familiar sleek black head of hair among the throng of otaku, tourists, and cosplayers. He found her leaning casually against the gachapon pillar, wearing a surprisingly casual outfit — leather jacket, high-waisted skirt, and thigh-high boots. Her lips were curled in the faintest of smirks.
“You’re on time,” she said. “Good. We’ve got a lot of nerding out to do.”
Akira blinked. “…What?”
10:37 AM – Akihabara Side Street – Hobby Shop
He wasn't sure what he had expected, but this wasn’t it.
Hifumi was animated — eyes lit up as she explained the difference between 5e and Pathfinder rule systems, gesturing at display boxes with miniature dragons and elaborate character sheets.
“I’ve been DM’ing for a few people online over the last few weeks,” she said casually, flipping through a book with spell tables. “I’m still getting the hang of it, but there’s… something deeply satisfying about planning traps and story arcs and character deaths.”
Akira gave her a dry look. “Remind me never to let you DM for me.”
She grinned. “You say that, but I already have a character in mind for you.”
Before he could ask, she grabbed his wrist. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”
11:18 AM – Baldur’s Gate 3 Pop-Up Shop
He waited outside the themed boutique as instructed. The signage above him was dark wood and faux stone, adorned with a glowing symbol of Selûne. A crowd of excited fans milled around.
Then the doors parted — and Akira’s breath caught.
Hifumi stepped out slowly, her usual elegance replaced with the gothic allure of Shadowheart.
A dark corset hugged her waist, silver embroidery gleaming like starlight. A flowing black cloak brushed the backs of her thighs, and her hair had been slicked back into a braid adorned with moonstone clasps. Leather gloves, armor-trimmed thigh straps, and yes — five-inch stilettos completed the look.
Akira blinked. “You’re gonna break an ankle.”
Hifumi raised one dark-painted brow. “Have you met me?.”
She walked toward him slowly, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement, every bit the high charisma, high intelligence half-elf cleric.
Akira cleared his throat. “So… Shadowheart, huh?”
Hifumi’s lips quirked. “Mysterious, emotionally unavailable, haunted by her past, hides affection behind sarcasm… Sound familiar?”
He gave her a deadpan look. “Are you talking about me or you?”
She didn’t answer — just looped her arm through his and said, “Come. We’re going to the café next.”
1:32 PM – Moonshot Café, Akihabara
The cozy upstairs floor of the café had been transformed into a Dungeons & Dragons haven — mismatched tables covered in maps and dice trays, LED candles flickering for ambiance, and an eager crowd settled in with bubble teas and themed pastries. But all eyes were on the center table, where Hifumi sat, commanding the room like a queen at court.
“Roll initiative!” she called, and the players at the table cheered.
Akira sat off to the side on a low couch, sipping a bitter iced coffee and watching the magic unfold. Hifumi — elegant, poised, passionate — was in her element.
She brought the story to life with rich narration and vivid emotion. Each NPC had a distinct accent or mannerism. A gruff dwarven blacksmith with a heart of gold. A melodramatic elven bard who only spoke in rhyme. A goblin merchant with suspicious deals and surprisingly profound wisdom.
The crowd laughed, gasped, leaned in. Akira watched, awestruck and quietly proud. He’d always known Hifumi had this fire in her, this ability to entrance and inspire. But to see it — unrestrained, unfiltered, and adored by everyone in the room — filled him with something he couldn't quite name. Something warm.
8 :02 PM – Moonshot Café, Closing Time
As the game wrapped up with a triumphant boss defeat and a heartfelt epilogue, the applause was deafening. Hifumi bowed, beaming. Players came up one by one, shaking her hand, thanking her for the campaign. A few lingered, gushing about their characters or asking when the next session would be.
Akira didn’t move — he simply watched. Letting her have the spotlight. And when the last guest finally filtered out, Hifumi turned her head, and their eyes met. She smiled and waved him over.
Akira stood and walked to her, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “You were incredible, Hifumi,” he said, voice low with sincerity.
She grinned, playful. “I couldn’t mess up. The King of Thieves was watching.”
Akira chuckled, about to say something witty — but the words died in his throat when Hifumi reached out and took his hand.
Then she clasped both of his hands in hers, holding them tightly, reverently. “Seriously, Akira,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering. “This... all of this… is because of you.”
He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone.
“If you hadn’t saved me,” she continued, “If you hadn’t shown me that I could be more than just a puppet, more than what my mother tried to mold me into… If you hadn’t given me my voice back…”
Her fingers squeezed his. “I owe you everything, Akira.”
Akira stared at her — and for once, didn’t try to downplay it, didn’t deflect.
He simply stepped forward and rested his forehead against hers, his voice a gentle whisper. “I’m just glad you’re shining again.”
Friday – 10:16 AM, Shinagawa Aquarium - Makoto’s Day
It was a soft, overcast morning. The kind of weather that wrapped the world in a quiet hush. Akira adjusted the strap of his bag as he waited near the ticket booth, hands in his pockets and eyes lifted toward the cloudy sky. A flock of gulls wheeled overhead.
“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” came Makoto’s voice, calm and warm.
Akira turned — and smiled. She was dressed simply: dark jeans, a white blouse, a pale blue cardigan. She had a softness to her today — a stillness that matched the day’s slow rhythm.
“You didn’t,” he replied. “I just got here.”
Makoto glanced at the line, then back at him. “Ready for a relaxing morning?”
“God, yes,” Akira muttered, and Makoto laughed — the sound unburdened, musical. She handed over the tickets she’d already bought and looped her arm gently through his. “Then let’s begin.”
Inside the Aquarium – 11:03 AM
The water whispered all around them. Soft light filtered through the massive tanks, painting the walkways in shifting hues of blue and green. Shoals of silver fish darted past coral towers. Giant rays glided like ghosts across the glass. A pair of sea turtles floated lazily, eyes half-closed.
Akira stood with his hands in his pockets, quietly watching a school of jellyfish pulsate like tiny drifting stars. Beside him, Makoto was silent too, her arms folded, her face serene.
“It’s peaceful,” he murmured.
Makoto nodded. “When I was a child, I used to come here with my father. It was one of the only places where we didn’t talk about school or the future or responsibilities.” She paused. “Just… fish.”
Akira gave a soft huff of laughter. “I get that.”
They wandered through the halls at a slow, meandering pace. They paused to admire the otters. Watched the penguins squabble and swim. Akira won her a dolphin keychain from a claw machine, which made Makoto grin with quiet amusement. When they finally sat down for a late lunch at the aquarium café, the city outside had faded from their minds — replaced with a calm that settled in Akira’s shoulders and around Makoto’s eyes.
The clatter of cutlery had faded. Their plates were empty, but neither had moved — lingering instead over mugs of coffee, the soft hum of conversation and the occasional trill of a dolphin echoing from distant tanks.
Akira sat back, fingers curled loosely around the warm porcelain, his posture relaxed in a way that had become increasingly rare. Makoto was watching him over the rim of her cup, her expression unreadable — not stern, not soft, but something in between. Measured. Intent.
Then, without warning, she leaned forward and bowed her head. “I never really said sorry, did I?” she said, voice barely above the quiet lull of the café. “For misjudging you. For the things I said. For treating you like a criminal. Like a monster. For stalking you as if you weren’t a person, just a potential threat.”
Akira blinked, startled, his hand halfway to his mouth. “Makoto…”
“I…” Her voice cracked, just a little. “I acted like I was righteous. But I was afraid. Of being wrong. Of being useless. And I took that fear out on you.”
Akira set his cup down gently and raised a hand. “It’s okay, Makoto. Really, it’s—”
“Don’t you dare say it’s nothing,” she said sharply, lifting her eyes to meet his. There was fire in them — fierce and unshed, tempered by shame but forged in sincerity.
Akira went quiet, the words dying in his throat.
“I know the others have said it to you,” Makoto continued, “but I need you to hear it from me, too.” She straightened, clasping her hands in her lap. “You’re an extraordinary man, Akira. Brave. Selfless. Kind, even when no one gave you a reason to be.”
Her next words came softer — almost a whisper. “I’m sorry it took me this long to realise it.”
There was a beat of silence between them. A silence that didn’t feel empty, but full. Akira looked at her — really looked — and something unspoken passed between them. A kind of fragile understanding. A bridge rebuilt.
Finally, he let out a slow breath, and gave a small, crooked smile. “You figured it out eventually,” he said. “That’s what counts.”
Makoto smiled back — a little teary, but proud. “Thank you… for giving me the chance to.”
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Ren: PolishedPuzzle/ SinGlazed (Codename: Lotus)
Futaba: GlitchGoddess/ PixelPrincess (Codename: Oracle)
Kasumi: ScarletSway/ BendMeBaby (Codename: Aria)
Lavenza: VelvetWhisper/ ButterflyBliss
Haru: FloofyBean/ BrewedObedience (Codename: Noir)
Hifumi: PawnToPrincess/ QueenOfHeels (Codename: Kirin)
Makoto: JusticeDrive/VicePresident (Codename: Queen)------------------------------------------------
Chapter 30: The Trickster’s Treasures – Part 2
Summary:
CONFESSION TIME!
After a series of dates, the girls have finally reached Rank 9 with Akira, and decide to confess their feelings to him.
Of course, things don't go to plan and some secrets come out.
Notes:
TW: Mentions of self-harm and suicide, mentions of child abuse (mental) and child neglect
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Thirst Chat – Operation Cl aim His Heart
Participants: BimboBerry, PlunderBae, SiroccoFée, BangBangBaby, BlossomUndone, PixelPrincess, SinGlazed, BendMeBaby, VicePresident, BrewedObedience, QueenOfHeels, ButterflyBliss
ButterflyBliss:
Good morning, everyone. I have completed the readings. All of us are at Rank 9 with Akira. The moment of truth approaches.
BimboBerry:
So we’re one step away from the endgame?? 👀🔥
VicePresident:
That puts things into perspective. This is it. No more delaying. No more second-guessing.
PlunderBae:
Time to go all in. We confess. Together.
BangBangBaby:
...Which means we need a plan.
Preferably one that doesn’t involve kidnapping him or dragging him into a Love Dungeon 🙃
PixelPrincess:
(…okay but I do have blueprints for that if we ever need them)
BendMeBaby:
Should we each write letters? Take turns?
Confessing in front of everyone might be overwhelming for him...
SinGlazed:
We’ve never hidden who we are. Why should we start now?
QueenOfHeels:
One confession may shock him.
Twelve may overwhelm him.
But twelve together? That may give him clarity. Unity can soften the blow.
BlossomUndone:
So we all do it at the same time. But where?
SiroccoFée:
Somewhere meaningful. Private, but safe.
No random parks or rooftops. I’m not freezing my butt off.
BimboBerry:
How about Destinyland again? Full circle!
VicePresident:
Too public. Too loud. Too... explosive.
PixelPrincess:
Mementos boss room??
BendMeBaby:
No.
PlunderBae:
The school roof?
SinGlazed:
That has trauma written all over it.
BlossomUndone:
What about Leblanc?
SiroccoFée:
Ooooh.
BimboBerry:
Wait — yes. YES!
We cook for him. Make it special.
He’s always feeding us. Let’s turn the tables.
BangBangBaby:
Dinner. Dessert. Then... the confessions.
ButterflyBliss:
A sacred rite. Simple. Intimate. Beautiful.
BimboBerry:
Okay okay but—clothes.
PixelPrincess:
You mean like, themed?
BimboBerry:
Uniform. If we’re standing together, hearts bare, we should be visually united.
Same outfit. Different people. Same feelings.
VicePresident:
That’s kind of... brilliant.
BrewedObedience:
What would the outfit be?
BimboBerry:
Leave it to me. I’ll make sure we slay.
Hifumi, Morgane, Haru, Ren — I’ll need you on Team Style.
BlossomUndone:
I’ll handle the decorations. Lanterns. Flowers.
I want the café to look like a dream.
PixelPrincess:
Menu squad, assemble. I’m calling dibs on dessert.
Kasumi, Shiho, Makoto — you’re with me.
BendMeBaby:
Got it! I’ll handle presentation and plating.
VicePresident:
I’ll handle drinks. No alcohol, but... something elegant.
BangBangBaby:
I know how to make fluffy tamagoyaki. I can prep that in advance.
PlunderBae:
You know he’s gonna freak out, right?
SinGlazed:
He’ll try to downplay everything. Deflect.
ButterflyBliss:
Then we don’t give him the chance.
This is not about letting him escape. It is about making him see how deeply he is loved.
BimboBerry:
Then let’s make it happen, ladies.
The Phantomettes are finally ready to strike.
It had been two of the most peaceful, surreal, and painful weeks of his life.
Each day had blurred into something strange and wonderful — shared laughter, unspoken warmth, and the eyes of someone who looked at him like he was their whole world.
Ryuemi’s fire. Morgane’s pride. Ann’s light. Shiho’s strength. Yukiko’s serenity. Futaba’s chaos. Kasumi’s grace. Ren’s devotion. Lavenza’s otherworldly tenderness. Makoto’s sincerity. Hifumi’s adoration. Haru’s gentleness.
Each of them had given him a piece of their soul. And now his heart was cracking under the weight of it.
He sat on the rooftop of his appartment, where the summer heat hadn’t yet baked the tiles. His coffee had long gone cold beside him.
Akira ran a hand through his hair and let out a slow, ragged breath. How was he supposed to choose? How was he supposed to break the hearts of twelve women he loved, each as strongly as the other? How could someone like him — broken, tainted, a walking contradiction of control and shame — even begin to deserve one of them?
He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, trying to push away the ache forming behind his eyes.
He didn’t know how to say no to people who had saved him. People who had dragged him out of solitary silence and reminded him how to feel. But if he said yes to one of them, he’d be condemning the others to heartbreak. He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.
Ping.
A private message lit up his phone. His eyes hesitated before flicking to the screen.
Ann : Hey, Akira. Everyone’s getting together for dinner at Leblanc tonight. Nothing too fancy. Just... all of us. Around 7?
His chest tightened. He knew what this was. He could feel it coming like a storm. A confession. Maybe even all of them.
He stared at the message. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He should say no. He should end it now. He should stop them from doing something they’ll regret — from throwing their hearts away on him.
He started typing. Sorry, I can’t—
He stopped. His thumb lingered over the send button. He could almost see their faces — all of them — smiling, laughing, trusting him. Believing in him.
And here he was, about to run.
No.
He couldn’t do that. They deserved his honesty. They deserved closure. Even if it meant ending the Phantom Thieves. Even if it meant breaking their hearts — and his own — he would do the right thing. His hand trembled as he erased the unfinished message.
Then, slowly, he typed a new one. I’ll be there.
He hit send. Took another breath. Shaky. Sharp. And stared at the city skyline, wondering if it would look the same after tonight.
The golden hour sun cast long shadows down the street as Akira approached Leblanc, his heart drumming a steady warbeat in his chest. He looked… sharp. More put together than he had in a long time.
The black turtleneck clung to his lean, muscular frame like it had been tailored for him. The distressed jeans, stylish but understated, were new — a quiet nod to how important this evening was. His red-and-black Vans were freshly laced, untarnished by the usual scuffs and dirt of his daily life.
Even his hair had been tamed with enough product to suggest he cared, even if the unruly strands at the crown refused to yield completely.
He stood in front of the café for a moment, staring at the door. The lights were on inside, faint and warm behind the frosted glass.
This is it, he thought. The night I shatter thirteen hearts. The night I lose them all. Again.
He reached for the door — and froze as it creaked open before he could touch it. Sojiro stood there, arms crossed, a mug in one hand. His eyes scanned Akira once, then nodded with subtle approval.
“Well,” Sojiro said, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “You clean up nice, kid.”
Akira gave him a weak smirk, adjusting his sleeves out of nervous habit. “It’s… a special night.”
Sojiro gave a knowing grunt. “Yeah. I figured.” He took a sip from his mug, then leaned back just enough to let Akira pass. “They’re inside. Been waiting for you.”
Akira glanced past him. He couldn’t see anything from the entryway. The curtains were drawn, the lights dim. The smell of spices, baking, and something faintly floral filled the air.
Sojiro clapped a hand on his shoulder as he moved to enter. “Have fun,” he said, voice low but sincere.
Akira stopped. Looked at him. The man’s eyes held no judgment. Only quiet trust. He swallowed. Nodded once. Then stepped into the café.
The air inside was warm, the smell of caramelized onions, spice-glazed root vegetables, and something sweet lingering faintly beneath it all.
Akira stepped forward slowly, his boots soft on the floorboards. The café looked… transformed.
The curtains were drawn, filtering the last light of day into a rose-gold glow. The overhead lights had been dimmed, replaced by low-burning candles nestled in glass holders along the windowsills and shelves. The usual clutter behind the counter had been tucked away, replaced with folded napkins, a gleaming teapot, and a small bouquet of crimson peonies.
Yukiko’s touch was everywhere — elegant without being ostentatious. Rich with detail, but never overwhelming. The kind of beauty that felt earned.
His eyes moved to the central booth. The table had been rearranged — elongated, draped with a black velvet runner edged in red. One seat had been placed at the head, slightly raised and facing the rest — twelve more arranged six to a side. Every plate, every piece of silverware, was perfectly aligned. Rose petals were scattered like drops of wine across the surface.
It looked like something out of a dream. Or maybe a trap.
Akira blinked. His throat was suddenly dry. “…Hello?” he called softly, almost afraid to break the silence.
For a moment, there was nothing. Then — faint, rhythmic — the unmistakable sound of high heels on wood. Twelve pairs.
Click. Click. Click.
Descending the stairs like some perfectly timed procession.
Akira turned toward the sound. His breath caught.
Descending the narrow staircase in perfect unison like a dream — or a beautifully choreographed ambush — were the twelve women who had turned his world upside down.
Ryuemi. Morgane. Ann. Shiho. Ren. Kasumi. Futaba. Yukiko. Hifumi. Haru. Makoto. Lavenza.
Every single one of them was dressed identically, yet still utterly themselves. Black dresses, each one form-hugging and flowing, with sweetheart necklines that drew the eye, and delicate red lace trim that caught the light with every step. Their hair had been styled with meticulous care, their makeup subtle but radiant. Each woman wore a single red rose pinned just above her heart.
And they were all looking at him.
He took a step back out of instinct — but the door behind him was already shut.
For a beat, no one spoke. The soft hush of breath and candle flame was the only sound.
Then Ren tilted her head. “Well… aren’t you going to say something?”
Akira opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“…I…”
But he had no words. Because all he could think was: I’m in love with all of them. And he was about to break every single one of their hearts.
The table was filled with laughter.
Warmth. Light. Joy.
The scent of Yukiko’s mushroom miso soup and Haru’s herb-crusted roasted vegetables mingled with the heavier aroma of a rich teriyaki-glazed salmon, steamed rice, and sautéed greens. Dessert trays were prepped in the back, still waiting.
And in the midst of it all…
Akira served.
Plates in hand, apron tied tight, smile fixed to his face like armor.
“You girls made dinner,” he said again, deflecting every offer to help. “Least I can do is serve it.”
He moved with easy grace, topping off water glasses, clearing used plates with a smooth flick of his fingers, making sure each person had what they wanted before they even asked.
He looked fine. He acted fine. But inside, he was disintegrating.
Each time he met one of their eyes, it stung. Each giggle, every subtle brush of their hands against his when they took their plates, every shared look across the table, every bright, affectionate smile…
It was killing him.
Because he loved them. All of them.
And they were going to tell him tonight that they loved him too.
And he was going to say no.
Because he had to. Because they were better off.
Because they had futures, and dreams, and bright paths ahead of them — paths that didn’t involve a broken boy with criminal records and nightmares carved into his ribs. A boy who had already decided, in the coldest part of his heart, that he'd walk away alone.
As dinner began to wind down, the plates cleared and wiped clean, and the last few drops of wine and juice were drained, a change settled over the table.
Subtle. Heavy. The girls exchanged glances. A small nudge here, a nod there. The giggling slowed. The playful teasing faded into silence.
Akira set the final dish down on the kitchen counter, wiping his hands on his apron. Then he heard it:
“Akira,” Makoto said softly. “Come sit down.”
He turned. They were all looking at him. Twelve beautiful, radiant girls, each one wearing the same black-and-red dress — a uniform of togetherness, of shared hearts.
He swallowed thickly.
“…We have something to say,” Ann added, voice gentle.
Akira nodded numbly, untied the apron, and walked to the head of the table. He sat down. And for the first time in as long as he could remember… he had no idea what to do next.
The silence after he sat was almost holy. No one moved at first.
Then, quietly, gently, Ryuemi rose from her seat. Her hand went to her chest, fingers trembling slightly as she unpinned the red rose from her dress. She stepped forward, her eyes never leaving his.
She placed the rose on the table in front of him. Her voice was soft but firm. “I used to think I was broken. That no one would ever really see me, the real me… But then you came along. You didn’t just see me, Akira… you believed in me. You fought for me. And now… I’m in love with you. Not the Phantom Thief. Not the rebel. You.”
She smiled, eyes shimmering. Then returned to her seat.
Morgane rose next. Her steps were light, but her shoulders stiff with emotion. “I thought I had to be fierce to be respected. That I had to keep people at arm’s length or I’d get hurt again… But you made me feel safe enough to be myself, Akira. To be soft. To be silly. To dream. I never knew I could love someone like this…”
She placed her rose next to Ryuemi’s and gave him a crooked, heartfelt smile. Her hand brushed his for half a second before she sat back down.
Then came Ann, radiant and trembling with unspoken energy. “You always stood by me. Even when I was a mess. Even when I doubted myself. You reminded me that I was strong and beautiful as I was. You’ve been my anchor… my spark. I didn’t just fall in love with you — I ran headfirst into it.”
Her rose joined the others.
Shiho stood slowly, her voice wavering at first, but finding its strength. “I always thought healing would be a lonely road. But then you walked beside me. Quietly. Without ever asking for anything. You’ve seen the ugliest parts of me and never flinched. I love you, Akira. I need you to know that.”
The fourth rose landed on the table like a heartbeat.
Then Ren stood and unpinned her rose. “I thought I had you figured out. But I was wrong. You’re so much more than I ever expected. Kind. Strong. Gentle. The way you move through pain with dignity… it’s beautiful. I love you, Akira. Utterly. Entirely.”
He couldn’t even look at her.
Kasumi rose, cheeks flushed but eyes bright. “You made me believe I was more than just someone’s shadow. You helped me become who I am. And when I dance now… I dance for you. Because I love you. And I want you to know that, no matter what happens.”
Futaba stood next, fiddling with her rose, eyes glassy behind her glasses. “You cracked my code. You looked at the disaster that was me and said, ‘Yeah, she’s worth saving.’ You made me feel things again, damn it. Real feelings. Scary ones. But also the best ones ever. So yeah… I love you. Big time.”
She shoved her rose onto the growing pile and sat down hard, covering her face.
Yukiko followed. Elegant. Quiet. “Your heart is so gentle, Akira. And it’s given me peace I never thought I’d have again. I could spend a lifetime trying to return that kindness… but tonight, I’ll start by simply saying: I love you.”
Then came Hifumi. “I tried to plan this like a match. Predict the outcome. Strategize. But… love doesn’t work that way. You taught me that. You taught me to play with my heart, not against it. I love you, Akira. Deeply.”
Haru rose, smile soft and wistful. “You helped me plant new roots… and gave me the courage to bloom. I never imagined falling in love would feel like this. Quiet. Constant. Safe. But that’s what you are to me. Safe. And I love you for it.”
Then Makoto — strong, composed Makoto — stepped forward, voice catching just once. “I misjudged you so badly when we met. And yet… you were kind to me. You forgave me. And you helped me become someone I could respect. Someone I hope you can love, too… because I already love you.”
He was shaking. His hands, his breath — all trembling under the unbearable weight of this moment.
And then… she moved.
Lavenza. Quiet. Graceful. Eternal.
She stepped up to the table and looked down at him with those ancient, tender eyes — the ones that had watched him rise, fall, suffer, heal… and love.
She laid her rose before him, the twelth and final. And then, in a voice as soft as starlight: “Trickster… no, Akira… I love you. Ever since you showed me what love meant… I have loved you. And I always will.”
Akira stared at the roses.
Twelve. Twelve girls. Twelve confessions. Twelve chances at happiness.
And he…
He didn’t deserve any of them.
His chest heaved, and a ragged breath escaped before he could stop it. “I…” he began.
And then he broke. His eyes flicked from rose to rose, from face to face, chest tight, trembling fingers pressed into his knees. Their words echoed inside him, beautiful and unbearable. His heart cracked under the weight.
“I…” he whispered. Then louder, shaking his head violently, “I can’t—!”
He stood, nearly knocking his chair back. “You shouldn’t be doing this!” His voice was shaking now, unsteady, rising like the tide. “You don’t know what I am!”
The girls froze. Lavenza took a step forward, but Akira backed away. “I’m a criminal. A liar. A delinquent with a record and no future. My own parents don’t want me. I spent months in solitary. I was locked up for something I didn’t even do, and you know what? I still wonder if maybe I deserved it anyway!”
Ryuemi took a step forward, but he backed away.
“Don’t. Just—don’t.” His breathing turned ragged. “I try to pretend. That I’m normal. That I’m not just… broken. But I am. And you all deserve someone better. Someone who doesn’t wake up screaming in the dark. Someone who doesn’t second-guess every smile.”
His eyes burned with tears, and his next words came like knives. “And worst of all… I can’t even choose. I love all of you. All of you.”
The admission hung in the air like thunder. “I’m a monster. I can’t stop loving you. Every single one of you. And you deserve someone who can choose. Someone who can give you the life you deserve.”
The girls stared, stunned — and then Ann moved.
She stepped around the table, reaching for him.
“We don’t want you to choose, Akira…”
He blinked, startled.
Ann gave him a trembling smile. “We all love you. And…” she glanced back at the others, who nodded — eyes filled with quiet, unified strength. “…We love each other as well.”
Akira staggered back like she’d struck him. “Wait… what?”
Before Ann could answer, Lavenza moved beside her, blue eyes luminous.
“You never had to choose between us, Akira,” she said with impossible softness. “We are all destined to be with you.”
That word hit like a blade.
Destined.
Akira recoiled as if struck. “Destined… to be with me? So… you don’t have a choice?”
Lavenza’s face fell. “No—Akira, that’s not what I—”
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t lie.” His fists clenched. “That is what you meant, isn’t it? That none of this is real. That you were all made to love me. That everything I’ve felt — everything you’ve said — it’s all just some… cosmic bullshit.”
Lavenza reached for him, voice trembling. “Akira, please—”
“No, Lavenza!” he roared.
The lights in the café flickered. His voice deepened, distorted — touched by a familiar, dreadful echo. The very edge of the Metaverse.
Akira’s eyes flared crimson. “THAT’S. NOT. LOVE!” he screamed. “YOU. DESERVE. BETTER!”
With a shuddering breath, he turned and ran, the café door slamming open, his footsteps pounding into the night.
“Akira!” Twelve girls shouted in unison, tearing after him.
But the moment they crossed the threshold of Leblanc—
—the world broke. Gone was the cool Tokyo night. Gone were the stars, the buildings, the city sounds.
In its place—
A Hellscape.
The ground was cracked obsidian, glowing with pulsing magma veins. The sky was a roiling vortex of blood-red clouds. Black chains twisted like serpents across the horizon. Flames licked the edges of the ruined buildings. They ran forward, instincts kicking in. Their outfits were already shimmering, shifting, responding to the call of the Metaverse. A voice screamed in the distance — Akira’s.
Yukiko turned, eyes wide. “But how—?”
Morgane whispered it aloud, eyes brimming with emotion. “Look...”
Atop a mountain of jagged bones, under a sky raining blood and screaming at the heavens, was their leader. Their Trickster.
It was Haru who finally said what none of them could. “Lavenza… what is this?”
The Velvet Attendant’s face was pale, her usually composed demeanor shattered by quiet, terrible understanding. Her eyes stayed locked on the far-off silhouette of Akira, wreathed in flame and shadow, screaming at the skies. “…We need to return to Leblanc,” she said, voice low. “Now.”
“But—!” Futaba started.
Makoto’s fists clenched. “We can’t just leave him.”
Lavenza turned to face them. Her face was etched with grief, with a sadness too ancient for any of them to fully comprehend. “Please,” she whispered. “Just for a moment. Let me explain what you’re truly walking into.”
A pause. And then, wordlessly, the girls nodded.
The café was silent now. The roses still lay scattered across the table where Akira had left them, some half-crushed underfoot. The warmth had bled out of the air. Even the flickering lights above seemed to dim as Lavenza stood in front of them, hands folded tightly before her.
She took a deep breath.
“This is not a Palace,” she said softly.
The others stared.
“There are no Keywords. No Treasure to steal. No distorted ruler to defeat.”
She looked toward the door, as if she could still feel the hellscape bleeding just beyond it.
“What we saw was purer… and far more dangerous.”
Shiho’s voice cracked. “What does that mean?”
Lavenza looked at her, then slowly swept her gaze across the room, meeting each girl’s eyes in turn.
“What we witnessed is trauma. Not just from this life, but the echoes of many. Pain and repression layered over and over, for years...” Lavenza’s voice trembled. “This world is born from Akira… From his grief, which he never was able to deal with. His soul… is unravelling.”
A hush fell over them all.
Ren spoke next, steady and sure. “So… what do we do?”
Lavenza’s expression softened, but it was no less grave. “We go after him. We make our way to his Core — the one place he’s locked even himself out of.”
She looked down.
“…Beyond that, I can’t promise what we’ll find. I’ve never seen a world like this before. Even in the Velvet Room’s endless history.”
Kasumi’s fingers curled into fists. “We’re going, no matter what’s waiting.”
“We know,” Yukiko said softly, placing a hand on her arm.
Lavenza looked at them all again. Twelve girls. Each one different. Each one in love. And all of them ready to walk into Hell for the sake of one boy. She smiled faintly. “Then let’s go.”
The door to Leblanc creaked open behind them, and one by one, the girls stepped outside to be greeted once more by a world of blood-red sky and fractured ground, where jagged spires loomed like the ribs of some long-dead titan. Buildings hung in the air upside-down, some shattered mid-collapse, frozen in time. Chunks of cognition drifted in and out of view like broken memories — a courtroom ceiling, a noose, a child’s bedroom filled with shadows that whispered and wept.
The very air pulsed with torment.
Futaba was the first to speak. “This is… Akira’s mind?”
Her voice wavered.
Makoto looked down at her gloves, frowning. Her Phantom Thief outfit shimmered around her, glitching at the edges, torn between form and formlessness. “It’s like this place can’t make up its mind whether we’re threats or not…”
“Mais non, Reine…”
Twelve heads turned instantly at the voice — familiar, rich, and tinged with sardonic charm.
Out of the mist, a tall figure in a crimson tailcoat glided towards them, coat billowing as if caught in an unseen storm. His glowing yellow eyes burned like twin lanterns beneath the brim of his grand top hat.
When he reached them, Arsène removed the hat with a flourish and bowed low, one hand crossing his chest with theatrical flair.
“Bienvenue...” he intoned, voice velvet-dark. “Welcome… to the mind of mon pote, Akira Amamiya. Pretty hellish, if I do say so myself…”
The girls collectively exhaled — tension draining just slightly.
“Arsène…” Morgane said softly, almost reverently.
Lavenza smiled faintly and dipped into a curtsy. “I suppose you’re here to guide us, monsieur?”
Arsène chuckled — a dry, haunted sound. “Ah, fée de velours, guide you I shall. After all, who better to navigate the storm than the wind that once carried it?”
Then his expression darkened, his gaze trailing toward the distant throne, shrouded in flame and smoke. His voice lost its theatrical edge.
“But first…”
He turned back to them, floating closer until he hovered in the middle of the group.
“…a promise. From all of you.”
The girls watched him silently as he slowly looked at each of them in turn.
“I have known my Trickster since his soul was barely a spark,” Arsène said, and there was such sorrow behind the words that even Futaba lowered her gaze. “I have watched him burn, bleed, laugh, shatter… and rebuild himself again and again with nothing but sheer will.”
He knelt mid-air, his cloak curling around him like smoke.
“Please save him. Not just from this world. Not just from himself. But from the truth he’s convinced himself of… that he’s unworthy of love.”
A long silence.
Then Ryuemi stepped forward first. She placed a hand to her chest and bowed her head. “I promise.”
Morgane followed. “Je le jure.”
Ann, quiet but steady. “No matter what’s waiting in there… we’ll bring him home.”
One by one, the girls stepped forward, reaffirming the same.
Until only Lavenza remained. She moved last, meeting Arsène’s gaze with deep understanding.
“I never stopped trying to reach him,” she said. “And I never will.”
Arsène smiled — small, bittersweet.
“Then come, my lovely thieves. The truth awaits. But beware… this is no ordinary dungeon.”
He turned, coat swirling. “This is Purgatory.”
And with that, he drifted forward, guiding them toward the abyss.
The hellscape warped around them — spires crumbling like sand, skies blinking out in pulses of static.
Then, without warning, everything went still.
The girls found themselves standing in a bedroom. But there was no warmth, no life. No laughter. No mess. It was pristine. Impossibly clean. Sanitized.
The walls were painted a cold grey. The single window was shuttered tight, sealed from the inside. There were no posters, no scribbles, no stuffed toys. Only row upon row of academic trophies and perfectly aligned textbooks — arranged alphabetically and by subject. A calendar on the wall listed exam dates, tutoring sessions, silent study blocks. No birthdays. No playdates.
A single bed sat in the corner. Too small. Hard edges. Military folds.
And on it — a boy.
His body was curled tightly in on itself, hands clasped around his knees. Black curls hung over his face like a curtain, hiding him from the world. His head twitched slightly with every whispered echo that bounced off the cold walls.
“You must be perfect.”
“You have no value except to make us look good.”
“Your actions reflect upon us. Therefore, you must always do what is best for us.”
“You don’t matter. We matter.”
“Make yourself useful.”
The girls looked around in horror as the voices repeated — growing louder, more mechanical, more etched into the walls. Like commandments carved into stone.
The child on the bed began to rock.
“Must be useful…” he whispered, a mantra. “Otherwise I’ll be thrown out… Must be useful to be loved… Don’t deserve love… Must be perfect… Must be…”
He looked up.
And twelve hearts shattered at once.
Storm-grey eyes met theirs — red-rimmed, wide with grief. Tiny shoulders trembling.
Akira. Six years old. Alone.
“…oh god,” Yukiko whispered, hands pressed over her mouth.
“He was just a kid…” Shiho murmured.
The scene fast-forwarded in stutters. The boy grew older — ten, twelve, fifteen. But nothing changed. The room remained unchanged. The words never stopped. Every birthday was spent in silence. Every achievement met with cold nods. Every mistake punished with silence or shame.
They watched 16-year-old Akira, dressed in his school uniform, stand by a crosswalk, eyes distant.
He didn’t look angry. Or even sad.
He just looked… done.
And then he stepped forward.
A scream ripped from Ann’s throat.
But the scene stopped — not with a car, not with blood — but with everything melting into soft blue flame.
Ashes of memory curled into the air, vanishing like burnt paper. Arsène finally turned to face them. “I awoke too late to stop it,” he said quietly, the theatre gone from his voice. “This… is how the first time ended.”
Ann’s voice was thin. “The first time…?”
Arsène extended one hand outwards — and the air around them shimmered and cracked open like shattering glass, revealing a dark hallway of twisting staircases and flickering memories.
“Come. There is more to see.”
The girls passed through the shattered doorway into another stretch of Akira’s soul. This room looked similar to the first — a boy’s bedroom again. Clean. Orderly. But different now.
A little more worn-in. A jacket slung carelessly on the back of a chair. The sharp corners of a world trying to soften. There were signs of independence. A sense of motion. Of trying.
But the warmth didn’t come from the room.
It came from him.
Akira — now around fifteen or sixteen — stood in the middle of the room, quietly bandaging his knuckles. A faint bruise bloomed on his cheekbone, but his eyes burned with something the last version of him hadn’t had:
Fight.
"Fine," he muttered as echoes of his parents rang around him again.
“You’ll never amount to anything.”
“Stop embarrassing us.”
“Why do you insist on playing the hero?”
Akira didn’t argue. He just tightened the bandage and tucked his jacket under his arm.
The scene shimmered — time fast-forwarding in jerky cuts.
Akira at a part-time job at the local 777. Helping an elderly customer count their change. Quiet. Polite.
Akira walking home under flickering streetlights. Hands in his pockets. Bag slung low.
Then—
The scene stopped.
A narrow alley. A woman shouting “Leave me alone!” as a faceless man — fuzzy, distorted — staggered after her, leering.
The girls tensed.
Akira didn’t hesitate. “Back off,” he said, stepping between them.
The man snarled. “What the hell did you say?”
A swing.
Akira dodged. The drunk stumbled.
A crack. The man went down hard — his head connecting with the kerb.
Silence.
Then: screaming.
Not from the woman.
But from the man.
"You did this! He attacked me!" he wailed, grabbing his phone. "I’m calling the cops! You’re dead, you little punk!"
The woman froze, then looked between them. Her mouth opened — then closed.
She didn’t speak.
The image blurred — and then cut to:
Handcuffs. Flashing lights. A courtroom. A gavel.
Through it all, Akira remained still. Eyes blank. Shoulders squared.
And then—
The look on his parents’ faces. Not concern. Not fear. But disappointment.
Disgust.
The last flicker of rebellion in his eyes guttered out.
Time jumped again.
A cell. Cold. Damp. Bare. Akira, alone on a cot, eyes open but empty. He stared down at his hands — wrists slashed, a straight-razor beside him.
The floor around him was stained crimson.
The girls gasped.
“No,” whispered Kasumi.
Akira didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just sat there in silence.
The image shimmered. The colour drained away.
And then—
Blue flame. The room burned into ash. All that was left was a cold breeze and the echo of the wind howling behind them.
Arsène, standing just beyond the edge of the vision, lowered his gaze. “This is when he truly gave up,” the Persona said softly. “They took his future, his name, his fire. He didn’t try to die because he was weak… he did it because he thought there was nothing left.”
No one spoke. Futaba was shaking. Shiho had her fists clenched so tightly her gloves were creaking. Ren reached out to steady Ann, who looked like she might fall.
Even Morgane was silent. Finally, Lavenza stepped forward. “This… is only the second one,” she murmured. “There are still more to face.”
Arsène nodded once.
Another memory. This one fizzled and crackled, as if resisting. The girls watched, tense, as the scene played out once more — like a loop refusing to break.
The alley. The drunk. The impact on the kerb. The courtroom.
Only this time…
The gavel did not fall in condemnation.
Instead, the judge — face hidden beneath a static blur — spoke in a low, dispassionate tone: “Per your grandfather’s request, you are hereby sentenced to probation under supervision. You will be relocated to Tokyo, where you will be placed in the care of Sojiro Sakura. One year. After that… we will reassess.”
The scene shifted to the courtroom steps. Akira’s parents stood stiffly before him, lips drawn tight. His mother shoved a bag at his chest. “You’ll be staying with your grandfather’s old friend. He’s paying enough to keep you out of our lives,” his father said. “You are no longer welcome in our home,” his mother added coldly. “Don’t bother coming back. You’re not our son anymore.”
Akira didn’t respond. He just nodded stiffly.
Not sad. Not angry. Just… quiet.
A train whistle blew.
The girls found themselves on the platform at Yongen-Jaya Station as the next scene unfolded.
Akira stepped off the train, suitcase in hand, posture tight and shoulders squared. A small envelope peeked from his coat pocket — a map hastily scribbled with directions.
He followed it through narrow streets until he reached Café Leblanc. The bell above the door rang. Sojiro Sakura, arms crossed and brow furrowed, gave the boy a long once-over. “You’re him, huh? The kid.”
He said nothing more, just turned and climbed the stairs. “Follow me. Don’t touch anything. And don’t get in my way.”
The attic. Dusty. Dimly lit. A single cot. “This’ll be your room. You start at Shujin Academy tomorrow. Don’t screw it up.” The scene froze briefly — and then blurred — melting into a new memory.
Akira watched Kamoshida’s car pull away from the curb, a feeling of dread in his stomach. Then—
“Damn pervy teacher!”
A blonde boy with a bad attitude and a busted uniform ran into view, before giving Akira the stink-eye. “You gonna tattle on me?”
Futaba squinted. “…Wait, is that—?”
But Ryuemi cut her off, voice stunned. “That’s… me.”
Everyone turned to her.
“That's me. But… a guy version of me. What the hell?”
They watched, wide-eyed, as the male Ryuemi quickly calmed down and started talking with Akira, telling him about a shortcut to school.
And then—
The castle. Stone walls. Watchtowers. Iron gates. Akira and Ryuji stumbled inside — frightened, confused. The capture. The King in speedos. Akira tearing his face off.
A black cat in a cage. “Hey! You guys… Blondie… Frizzy Hair… Let me out!”
After being questioned, the cat spoke again, its voice high and haughty. “I’m Morgana!”
Morgane blinked. “Wait. What? I’m a—? I’m a cat?!”
“Oh my god,” Ren whispered, covering her mouth to stifle laughter.
“Mais non!” Morgane cried. “Why am I a cat?!”
Futaba snorted. “You were adorable, for the record.”
The scene jumped forward.
To Shiho. To the roof. She stood on the edge — crying — her arms trembling. Her body drops.
The scene shifts again. Ann turned, her eyes lit with fire. “I’m going to destroy him,” she said.
The space stretched and distorted, as if reality itself was unraveling at the seams. The girls moved forward, still shaken by what they’d seen before — but nothing could prepare them for what came next.
They stepped into a kaleidoscope of shifting memories, the world folding in on itself like pages of a story being turned too quickly to follow. Palaces blurred by — twisted reflections of pain and ego: Kamoshida’s castle, Madarame’s gallery, Kaneshiro’s bank, Okumura’s spaceport, even the ghostly corridors of Futaba’s tomb.
And through every nightmare...
Akira was there. Reaching. Giving. Helping. Saving.
They saw him working jobs late into the night—behind the counter at Leblanc, bagging groceries at 777, running an entire beef bowl store on his own. They saw him covering teammates in battle, taking hits that weren’t meant for him—teeth, claws, spells—pushing forward, never slowing down. They saw him holding the entire Phantom Thieves together—tracking requests, helping with plans, comforting them all when the world seems too cruel.
And they saw what he got in return. Nothing.
A nod. A thank you, sometimes.
But no comfort. No warmth. No real recognition.
Just silence. Just being useful.
And then—the Casino.
Akira, cornered, turning to draw the police away from his team. They protested—but he insisted.
“Get out,” he says. “I’ll hold them off.”
He leapt from the balcony, coat billowing like wings, and the chase began.
Akira was slumped in a chair, shackled, bruised. One eye swollen shut. Blood from his nose and mouth trickled down to a growing stain on his collar. The table was littered with syringes and vials. His head lolled, his pulse barely perceptible beneath skin that looked too pale.
A faceless prosecutor entered, their face unreadable. Their gaze flicked to the syringes, to the straps on his wrists, to the flicker of life left in his eyes. They said nothing. They turned and walked out.
A few moments passed. Then another figure entered. Goro Akechi.
His smile was soft, almost gentle, as he closed the door behind him. He stepped behind Akira, placed a silenced pistol to the back of his head.
He whispered something. No malice. No fury. Just finality.
And then—
Thpp.
A burst of crimson. Akira slumped forward, eyes closed.
Dead.
This time, the memory did not blur. It burned. Blue flames consumed the scene—not with rage, but with grief.
Silence fell.
Ren stumbled away from the group, collapsing to her knees and retching violently into the shadows. Her hands shook. Her breathing came fast and shallow.
No one else spoke.
Shiho’s face had gone ashen. Morgane’s fingers were curled so tightly into her palms that they were bone white. Ann stood frozen, her eyes wide and wet. Yukiko had tears running freely down her cheeks. Ryuemi looked utterly shattered.
Futaba was the one who finally found her voice—barely more than a whisper: “They… we… just let that happen?”
Lavenza turned away, her expression unreadable. It was Arsène who spoke, his voice low and raw with sorrow. “That,” he said softly, “is how the third time ended. He bore every burden. Gave every piece of himself. Even his life. And still—he did not break. But he did not survive.”
The memories surged forward again—unrelenting, merciless.
The Phantom Thieves stood silent as the vision unfurled before them, Akira’s life playing out once more in haunting detail. They saw the cold indifference of his parents, the sharp words, the vacant stares. A house filled with silence and expectation, never warmth. A young boy learning too early that to be quiet was safer. That obedience earned survival—but never affection. They watched the now-familiar scene of that fateful night—the woman stumbling in the street, the drunken man with power in his voice and violence in his hands. Akira’s voice rang out again, firm but desperate, as he tried to protect her. The man’s sneer. The shove. The cell phone dropped. The sirens.
And then, the verdict.
A single year of probation. Exile to Tokyo. His parents’ final words: Don’t come back.
Again, Akira boarded the train. Again, he stepped through the threshold of Café Leblanc.
Scene after scene flashed past. Palace after Palace. Friend after friend. Each time, Akira reached out. And each time, he gave more of himself away.
Late nights at convenience stores. Coffee brewed at dawn. Training, reading, jobs, endless responsibilities—all managed with the quiet dignity of someone who had already learned not to expect help in return. He shouldered the burdens of everyone around him without complaint.
They saw it all. And still, the boy stood tall.
Then came the darkness. The interrogation room. The metal cuffs. The bruises. The trap that Akira had willingly walked into after Makoto had laid it out to him. He didn’t say a word about the danger, or their willingness to sacrifice him.
Akira’s voice, barely steady, recounting the truth to the woman across from him. Sae Niijima, her expression severe, eyes narrowed, mind calculating.
Makoto gasped suddenly, hand flying to her mouth. "...Sae-oneesan..."
Next to her, Haru staggered a step back, eyes wide with horror. She didn’t say anything, but Ren noticed, and stepped next to the fluffy-haired heiress, holding her reassuringly.
The memories continued, unwilling to rest.
Akira lay slumped in the interrogation room, his breaths shallow and ragged, his eyes barely able to stay open. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead painted him in pale, sterile tones—like a ghost caught between worlds. His body bore the marks of hours of torture: deep bruises, broken skin, needle marks where truth serum had been injected until he could hardly remember his own name, let alone fabricate a lie.
Still, somehow, he spoke.
His words came slowly—measured, pained, but certain. He laid out the truth to Sae Niijima with every scrap of strength he had left. Piece by piece, the puzzle fit together. His eyes never left hers, even when the pain made him grit his teeth. The Phantom Thieves. The Palaces. The threats they faced. The lies they unraveled. And the betrayal lurking in the shadows.
Sae listened.
And something in her eyes shifted—doubt, wariness, but also... trust. Tentative, but growing.
When she stood up at last, her expression had changed.
She said nothing as she left the room.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Moments later, another figure entered. His eyes gleamed with mock pity, but the malice was unmistakable. He approached the table with a calm, casual stride, as if he were greeting an old friend. A silenced pistol hung loosely in his grip.
Akira could barely move. His vision blurred as Akechi raised the gun.
There was a smile on his lips—cold, satisfied.
“Goodbye,” he said softly.
The gun fired. The sound was muted. The body slumped.
Blood pooled.
And Akechi walked out without looking back.
The vision should have ended there—but it didn’t.
The image flickered, and the illusion shattered.
It hadn’t been him.
The real Akira had been hidden—swapped out at the last moment with a cognitive double. A trick. A gamble. One that nearly hadn’t worked. He was still alive—but only just.
Badly injured, barely conscious, his real body was smuggled out of the facility through the efforts of Futaba and Sae. He was brought back to Leblanc in the dead of night, body wrapped in layers of pain and bandages.
The team had been relieved. Smiles, tears, disbelief.
But the warmth was brief.
There were no bedside vigils, no hands held through the pain. No one stayed by his side long enough to see the winces he tried to hide. They were too focused on the mission, on what came next. Gratitude, yes—but not comfort.
And Akira, as always, said nothing.
He healed quietly, as best he could.
Time passed.
Until they found themselves deep in the belly of Shido’s Palace. The boiler room, where the Phantom Thieves came face-to-face with Akechi.
Not that Goro Akechi. Not the Detective Prince.
The real one.
The one who stood before them, madness in his eyes, blood on his hands. The one who had been used. Betrayed. Twisted. And in the end, the one who chose to make a stand.
The gunfire echoed through the steel chamber, and when the smoke cleared, Akechi was gone. He had given his life to buy them time. To stop the tide from swallowing them whole.
They continued on. They faced Shido’s Shadow. Fought with everything they had. Defeated it.
And... nothing happened. Shido remained untouched in the real world. The rot ran deeper than a single man. Then came the descent. Deeper than any Palace. Past the cracks of Tokyo.
Into Mementos.
There, they saw it. The source of the distortion. The treasure at the heart of the collective unconscious.
The Holy Grail.
It pulsed with divine certainty, radiating control. Around it, thousands of imprisoned voices cried out in silent worship—pleading not for freedom, but for guidance. For subjugation.
The Thieves stood frozen before it.
The true enemy had never been Shido.
It was this.
It was them.
It was everyone.
And Akira... stood at the center, still defiant. Still ready to give everything for his family, even if they wouldn’t do the same for him.
He had been wrong. Wrong to believe they didn’t care. Wrong to think they hadn’t seen him. Wrong to think he had always been alone.
There, on that platform suspended between reality and ruin, facing a malevolent god who sought to bend the world to its will, they had all stood for him. Fought for him.
Ryuji. Makoto. Ann. Haru. Yusuke. Futaba. Morgana.
One by one, they had fallen.
He had watched it happen—unable to stop it, unable to save them. Each time one of them dropped, something inside him cracked a little more. He reached out, screamed their names, tried to crawl to them—but it was like trying to stop an avalanche with bare hands. And then, when nothing remained but silence, Akira stood alone. With no one left beside him, he reached deep—past pain, past despair, into the very core of rebellion that had once sparked when he’d stood up to a single drunk man on a quiet street.
And from that pit of defiance, he summoned him.
Satanael.
The world shattered.
A surge of unholy power lit up the void—wings unfurled, mask gleaming with rebellious fire.
And with one pull of the trigger, the Sinful Shell tore through the Grail, through the false god, through the lie that had bound humanity in chains for eons.
And then there was silence. Only the soft hiss of air, the gentle rustle of smoke.
He dropped to his knees.
The Grail was gone.
The God of Control—dead.
And so were they.
His friends. His family.
Gone.
Ashes on the wind.
The silence was louder than any scream.
His hand trembled as he reached into his coat, slowly, reverently, drawing out the pistol that had never left his side. The steel was cold against his temple—colder than the light, colder than the void.
He closed his eyes. There was nothing left. The ones who had loved him… had died for him.
There was no more mission. No more world worth saving. Only the hope that, maybe—just maybe—he’d see them again on the other side.
A single gunshot echoed through the burning world. And the memories were consumed by searing blue flame.
Silence.
The vision faded, leaving only the sound of uneven breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as the girls slowly collapsed to their knees or sat wherever they could find space. The blue flame lingered like smoke around them, crackling faintly with the weight of what they had just witnessed.
No one said anything at first.
They couldn’t.
Kasumi was the first to sob—sharp, unrestrained, and gut-wrenching—as she covered her mouth with trembling hands and doubled over. Beside her, Futaba had wrapped her arms tightly around herself, rocking back and forth as if trying to process a crashing system overload, eyes wide and unfocused behind tear-streaked lenses.
Morgane stared blankly ahead, hands in her lap, shaking so hard her teeth clattered against each other. “He was just… giving… over and over… and none of them ever really saw him.”
Yukiko let out a broken sound that wasn’t quite a scream and not quite a sob as she covered her face, tears slipping through the gaps in her fingers. “All that time… and they left him to carry everything alone…”
Shiho sat with her back against the nearest wall, hugging her knees, head bowed. “He never even hesitated to protect them. Even when it killed him.”
Ryuemi clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. She wanted to punch something. Scream. Break. Anything but sit here and realize that she had missed it. All of it. “I thought I understood pain,” she whispered. “But he… I never knew.”
Hifumi’s voice cracked like shattered porcelain. “He gave everything. And then when there was nothing left, he still tried to give more.”
Haru knelt quietly, tears running down her face, her expression frozen in something between guilt and horror. “He thinks we’d be better off without him…”
Ann sank beside her, eyes red, her voice hoarse. “All this time I thought I knew what strength looked like. But I was wrong. He was bleeding and broken and still smiling—for us.”
Ren stood in the center of them all, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding something inside from bursting out. “He thinks he’s undeserving of love because… because the world told him that over and over again. And when he did find people he cared about, he put them first until it killed him.”
No one responded for a long, agonizing moment. Then slowly, one by one, they began to speak.
“I will love him with every ounce of my soul,” Ann said, her voice trembling but resolute. “He’ll never have to doubt it again.”
“I’ll stay by his side through every pain and every silence,” Makoto whispered. “Even if he pushes me away—I’ll stay.”
“I’ll show him that his life matters,” Haru added softly, “not for what he does, but just… because he’s him.”
“I’ll protect him,” Ryuemi growled. “Even if it’s from himself.”
“I’ll remind him he doesn’t have to carry it all alone,” Yukiko said.
“I’ll never stop telling him he’s worth loving,” Futaba breathed.
“I’ll give him every part of myself if it means he knows he’s not alone,” Kasumi said through tears.
Shiho nodded slowly. “He saved me. I’ll spend the rest of my life showing him I remember.”
“I’ll fight for his happiness, even when he can’t,” said Hifumi quietly.
Morgane looked up, voice hoarse and eyes fierce. “I’ll love him like no one ever dared to. And I’ll mean it.”
Each vow rang out like a sacred oath, etched into the velvet-blue air of the room.
Then, finally, Ren spoke. Her voice was quiet but clear, like a lone bell ringing through the aftermath. “But… how? How did it change so much?”
She turned to look at Arsène and Lavenza. “The events of the last time… they weren’t that different from the others. I—I mean, Goro Akechi betrayed Akira and the Phantom Thieves both times. Shiho’s suicide attempt was the spark that created the Phantom Thieves in both timelines. The Palaces were the same. The order was the same. Even us—Ryuemi, Yukiko, Morgane and I… we were all guys in the earlier runs.”
She hesitated. “Shiho, Hifumi, Kasumi—you weren’t even Thieves.”
Her voice caught on that. “It was the same story. So why is this time so different? What changed?”
Arsène met Lavenza’s gaze, something solemn and ancient passing between them.
Then he turned toward the center of the room, and without another word, raised one clawed hand. With a low growl like grinding stone, he slashed through the air.
Reality shivered.
Space parted along his claw marks like paper being peeled back, and the blue fire that lingered in the air recoiled, then swirled inward, becoming a window. A vision. A memory.
“Let me show you,” Arsène said.
The girls turned toward the window, barely daring to breathe.
The memory began with silence—deep and deafening. It opened on Akira. His finger began to squeeze the trigger.
Then—time stopped.
The scene froze mid-movement, the muzzle of the gun hovering against his head, his eyelashes trembling mid-blink. And in the stillness came a ripple. A shimmer of blue light swept across the void—and then, three figures appeared.
The first stood at the center, short and twisted with age, dressed in a formal black suit with white gloves. His nose was impossibly long, curling downward like a hooked beak, and his eyes bulged, wild and bloodshot. He looked like a caricature from a horror story, and yet… he radiated power and kindness.
To his right stood a tall man, his presence regal and eerie. A violet butterfly wing marked the right side of his masked face, concealing one eye completely. The other was shadowed, unreadable—no iris, no pupil. He wore a sleek white blazer over a black shirt and tie, his long black hair drawn back into a ponytail. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, like a gentleman or an executioner.
And on the left sat a man in a wheelchair, his posture dignified even in frailty. His white hair was combed back, and his glasses caught the dim light with a dull gleam. A sharp red suit wrapped around his thin frame, accented by a black tie and gleaming shoes. Though he appeared old, his eyes were calm. Knowing. Deep.
The three stood over the frozen Akira.
“He deserves better,” the masked man said at last, his voice velvet-smooth but threaded with sorrow.
“I agree,” murmured the man in the wheelchair. “To keep fighting… even when the world gives you nothing back. That kind of strength deserves more than this.”
The old man chuckled—a thin sound that somehow held reverence. “To keep one’s soul intact after such cruelty, after so many betrayals… I dare say only one other was tested quite like this.”
The masked man reached into his coat. For a moment, there was only the soft rustle of fabric. Then he pulled something out—a battered silver Zippo lighter, scratched and worn by time. He held it in one gloved hand, flicked it open once—click. Then again—click.
A small flame bloomed in the air between them. “I trust you know what to do, old friend.”
The masked man offered the lighter to the long-nosed figure, who took it gently, as if accepting something sacred.
The vision faded into velvet-blue once more. Silence hung thick in the air—no one dared speak, the weight of what they'd just witnessed pressing on their chests like a stone. It was Lavenza who finally broke it. Her voice was calm, but laced with sorrow.
"My master was granted permission to reshape Akira's reality into something more favorable," she said softly, folding her hands before her. "A world in which he might find the love he so deeply craves... where he might reach the true pinnacle of his power as the Trickster. A place where he could be seen."
Her golden eyes scanned each girl. "But reality... true reality... is not so easily rewritten. The previous timelines—they happened. They’re not erased, only buried. And their scars remain. The grief. The abandonment. The betrayals. The helplessness. The sense that no matter what he does, he will always be punished for it."
Her gaze turned down for a moment. "Akira carries all of that within him. Like a poison. Like chains wrapped around his soul. And though this world gives him the chance to heal... it cannot force him to. He must choose it. But first... he must believe he's worthy of it."
The fire crackled beside them.
"He needs to be healed," Lavenza whispered, "before he can truly move forward."
The room was silent again. Until—
"...Then let's go get our man."
All eyes turned to Ryuemi. She stood tall, fire behind her eyes. “If Akira can carry all of that and still stand, then we sure as hell can help him take the next step.”
Morgane stepped beside her. “We’ve all seen it now. Every bit of it. We’re not leaving him alone in this.”
Yukiko nodded, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “No more silent suffering.”
Shiho’s voice trembled but was resolute. “We’re going to love him so loudly that he can’t ignore it.”
Futaba raised a hand, tears still wet on her cheeks. “Akira... is our person. Our protector. Our heart. He deserves to feel wanted. Needed.”
Ann clenched her jaw, voice low. “He’s saved me more times than I can count. This time… we save him.”
Kasumi’s eyes were fierce, her usual sweetness laced with iron. “Let’s help him remember who he is. What he is. Not just a leader. Not just a fighter. But someone who is loved.”
Each gave their own nods, their own promises—small gestures, fierce words, iron resolve.
The jagged bone mountain loomed like a wound against the blood-red sky, its spiraling ridges clawing toward the heavens. Cracked ribcage spires jutted from its sides, and every footstep echoed like it was trespassing into something sacred… or damned.
The girls ascended in silence, each step heavier than the last. The moment they crossed the threshold of the mountain’s base, their civilian clothes shimmered away, replaced with the shimmering snap of mask and cloth—Phantom Thief attire, summoned involuntarily.
"Looks like he sees us as a threat now," Ren muttered, her boots crunching down onto what looked like fossilized vertebrae.
She didn’t sound bitter—just resigned.
Haru shifted closer, gripping her scythe in one hand, eyes darting toward the shadows that shifted along the ridges above. “Let’s just hope he lets us talk…”
Arsène hovered just above the ground beside them. He glanced sidelong at Haru, his mask glinting faintly with starlight. “Do not fear, ma chère Noir,” he said smoothly, the ghost of a smile curling beneath his voice. “Akira will not harm you.”
The comfort in his tone made the girls pause… just before the rest of his thought landed.
“But Joker…” he said, voice low and leaden, “…I’m not so sure about.”
Silence. Not even the wind howled.
Makoto stepped forward, her fist tightening around her knuckles. “What do you mean?”
Arsène turned away, beginning to glide toward the mountain’s next ledge. He didn’t answer her directly. “You’ll see when we get there,” he said simply. “Just… remember who you’re fighting for.”
And with that, he vanished around the bend, leaving the girls to climb the bone mountain—uncertain of what awaited them at its peak.
The bone path flattened into a wide plateau of pale ivory, cracked like old porcelain. A crimson sky stretched overhead, the sun replaced by a pulsating black orb that throbbed like a dying heart.
And there—at the center of it all—they saw him.
Akira knelt in the center of a blackened crater, the remains of the stone around him charred and cracked as if seared by divine fire. His hands clutched at his skull, nails dragging through his hair, his mouth open in a raw, voiceless scream that never seemed to end.
His coat was torn, his face streaked with ash and blood and tears that would not dry.
But he wasn’t alone.
A figure. Standing tall. Still. Dressed in a tailored black ankle-length tailcoat, a high-necked dark gray waistcoat with ornate gold buttons. Cinched black pants tucked into winklepickers with tall, proud heels. Crimson gloves on his hands. And over his face, the unmistakable white birdlike domino mask—its black designs etched like sharp eyeliner, its edges curled like the wings of some nocturnal predator.
The girls froze.
“…That’s—” Kasumi’s breath hitched in her throat.
“Joker…” Ren whispered.
Joker. The one from the visions. The one who had died in that chair. Who had been betrayed. Forgotten. Abandoned. The one that had watched everything and everyone he ever loved leave or be taken from him.
Ann’s mouth opened slightly. “But... how…?”
Shiho swallowed, trembling. “That’s not Akira…”
“No,” Futaba murmured. “That’s the part of him that never stopped fighting.”
The girls approached slowly, cautiously. Each step weighed down by everything they’d seen—everything he’d endured.
“Aki…” Ryuemi called softly, almost pleading.
The masked figure’s head snapped toward her. "You shouldn't have come here," Joker rasped. His voice wasn’t natural—it crackled with static, as if strained through a broken speaker. Echoey, scratchy, layered with a dozen versions of itself.
"You should have left him," he continued, “like all the others do.”
Behind him, Akira hadn’t stopped screaming. He rocked back and forth, hands tearing at his scalp. He didn’t seem to see them. Didn’t hear them. The girls stared, horrified.
“Is… is he stuck?” Kasumi whispered.
Lavenza, stepping forward beside them, looked hollow. “No. He is fractured. One part of him cannot forgive the world… and the other cannot forgive himself.”
Joker slowly stepped toward them, lifting his chin. “You came to love him,” he said, tone unreadable. “You came to heal him.”
“Then prove it.” His hand drifted toward his mask. “Show me you’re worthy of him.”
Notes:
Akira - Trickster (Codename: Joker)
Morgane - VentDuNord/ SiroccoFée (Codename: Vent)
Ryuemi - FleetBooty/ PlunderBae (Codename: Comet)
Ann - CherryBombshell/ BimboBerry (Codename: Panther)
Shiho - HeartshotHero/ BangBangBaby (Codename: Dead-Eye)
Yukiko - SakuraVeil/BlossomUndone (Codename: Vixen)
Ren: PolishedPuzzle/ SinGlazed (Codename: Lotus)
Futaba: GlitchGoddess/ PixelPrincess (Codename: Oracle)
Kasumi: ScarletSway/ BendMeBaby (Codename: Aria)
Lavenza: VelvetWhisper/ ButterflyBliss
Haru: FloofyBean/ BrewedObedience (Codename: Noir)
Hifumi: PawnToPrincess/ QueenOfHeels (Codename: Kirin)
Makoto: JusticeDrive/VicePresident (Codename: Queen)
Chapter 31: The Fight For His Heart
Summary:
The Phantomettes face off against the manifestation of all of Akira's negative emotions.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Joker lunged forward like a bullet loosed from the chamber, his coat flaring behind him like the wings of a fallen angel. One moment he was still—and the next, he was in motion, a red blur of rage and grief. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t warn.
“Surt!” The fire giant materialized with a scream of magma and heat. A river of flame spilled toward the girls.
“Scatter!” Makoto shouted, throwing up a Makarakan. Ryuemi tackled Yukiko to the side as Futaba’s barrier flickered into place just in time to blunt the blast.
“Akira—please!” Ann cried, flipping out of the way of a burning cleave, her whip snapping out to restrain, not harm.
“Thor!” The thunder god's hammer crashed into the ground. Lightning forked through the air. Kasumi twisted mid-dash, narrowly avoiding getting hit.
“We’re not your enemy!” Ren shouted.
But Joker didn’t answer.
“Raphael. Laksmi.” Light erupted as a dual cast of Kougaon and Heat Riser surged—support magic weaponized to keep him moving faster, hitting harder.
“Sandalphon. Scathach.” Bullets and bladed storm. Haru's scythe blocked the worst of it for Shiho, but blood spilled. They were fighting defensively—still holding back. Still hoping.
He wasn't.
“Fafnir.” The monstrous dragon loomed over them, breathing poison and pain. Morgane threw her disk in a dazzling arc, cutting a path through the haze.
“You are loved!” she screamed, voice cracking.
But Joker kept coming.
“Alilat. Siegfried. Sraosha.” Now he was chaining them. Spells, swords, smites—fused together in impossible combinations, forcing the girls to split and regroup, again and again. Yukiko was hit, then Kasumi. Ren shielded them both, but was blasted aside by a charged God’s Hand.
“Akira, please!” Ann shouted. “You’re not wrong for loving all of us—we chose this!”
“You’re not a monster!” cried Shiho.
“You deserve to be held,” whispered Hifumi through clenched teeth as she rose again.
Joker didn’t speak. He just hurt.
“Chimera. Uriel.” Fangs and fire and judgment. Thunder that made the sky weep. And then silence, broken only by coughing and groans as each of them fell—one by one. Not dead. Not broken.
But spent. All except one.
Lavenza stood alone. Her small frame did not shake. Her silver-blonde hair caught the hellish light, and her golden eyes—wide with sorrow—locked with Joker’s behind that jagged white mask.
He stared at her. His breath came heavy. Furious. Confused.
She stepped forward, slowly. “Akira…” she whispered.
He didn’t respond.
“Please,” she said again, her voice cracking. “You know me. You know I would never let them hurt you.”
“…You.” His voice shook. “You kept watching. You let him break. You didn’t stop it.”
Lavenza’s hands trembled as her velvet-bound Grimoire opened before her, pages fluttering in unseen wind.
“I wept every time he cried,” she said, voice raw. “And I promised myself that when the moment came… I would save him.”
Joker staggered a half-step forward, Personas glowing at his back like apocalyptic angels. His mask cracked slightly at the corner. “I won’t let you hurt him again…”
He charged. All twelve Personas roared behind him.
Lavenza didn't move. She raised her hand to the open Grimoire. Its light blazed brighter, pages turning faster as sigils burned in the air around her. “So be it.”
Her voice was soft. But the world listened. “LUCIFER!”
The sky split. Wings as black as midnight unfurled, and behind her towered the Devil himself, proud and powerful, eyes like galaxies spiraling open.
Lucifer’s hand lifted. Joker screamed. The Personas rushed forward—
“Morning Star.” Lavenza's whisper was barely audible beneath the rising roar.
The world went white as Almighty magic collapsed the sky into the summit, an explosion of searing truth that tore through illusion, rage, and despair alike.
When the light finally died, the mountaintop was a crater of molten stone and ash. The wind howled through charred peaks, and the girls slowly pushed themselves up—bruised, battered, but alive.
At the center of the ruin stood Joker. His coat was torn and smoking, one arm dangling limply at his side. Blood trailed down his chin. The domino mask clung to his face, cracked.
No one spoke.
Then—behind him—a figure stirred.
Akira.
He rose to his feet slowly, shakily, as though waking from the deepest nightmare. His head lifted. Crimson tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting harsh lines through soot and sweat.
He took one step forward. Joker turned… and dissolved into him like mist, absorbed back into his soul. The Trickster’s silhouette rippled as power folded inward, sealing inside his trembling frame.
Akira looked up, meeting Lavenza’s eyes first. Then the others. Each girl, still catching her breath, bruised from the battle they’d fought for him. His voice, when it came, cracked like thunder behind storm clouds. “Why?”
Another step. “Why do you insist on coming after me?”
His fingers clenched. “Have I not given you enough?!” The pain behind the words lashed like a whip. “Have I not hurt enough?!”
The wind surged around him as his soul began to unravel. “You say you love me… but do you really? Is it love—” his lip curled, voice growing distorted, “—or is it because I’m useful to you all? Convenient? The perfect thief, the perfect protector, the one you know will fight for you—so you don’t have to fight for me?”
Dark sparks rippled around his feet, skittering like embers. Behind him, shadows began to rise. “Or is it… because you’re forced to?! Because some twisted god decided I was worthy of affection this time?!”
He turned back to Lavenza, his eyes ablaze with crimson fury and fear. His voice fractured into something otherworldly. “Is this all just another trick? Give me what I want… only to rip it away again when I finally believe in it?”
Lavenza stepped forward, trembling, but firm. “Akira—please… this is not his work. This is not a trap. This is real. We are real.”
But Akira wasn’t listening. He was gasping now—hyperventilating—shoulders shaking under the weight of years of betrayal, heartbreak, solitude. The tears kept flowing, smearing across his face like blood. The ground cracked beneath his feet, the mountain responding to the chaos in his heart.
Behind him… something began to stir. A Persona.
Not one the girls had ever seen before. Towering. Vast. Bound in red-hot chains that rattled with a sound like grinding bone and burning iron. A skeletal frame wrapped in black and gold armor, its face hidden behind a jagged metal helm. Wings of smoke and broken feathers extended from its back—unformed, writhing, suffering.
Its power was undeniable. So was its pain.
It didn’t roar. It didn’t speak. It grieved. As if it didn’t even want to be born. Akira stood beneath it, his voice barely a whisper now, broken and raw. “…I don’t want to hurt anymore.”
The girls stood frozen, watching the boy they loved teeter on the edge of a final, devastating collapse. Akira’s arms fell limp at his sides, his voice trembling with wrath and despair. “If this is a trick… if this is all fake… then I’ll end it all myself.”
But then something else emerged. Something far older. A low hiss slithered through the void like a curse. The chains tightened. And the second form swallowed the first whole. It reared high into the sky, its serpentine body coiling around the jagged mountain, scales black and slick as oil. Its many eyes opened along its spine, each one a blood-red sun. Spines jutted from its back like broken swords. Its mouth opened, impossibly wide, revealing layers of jagged, flesh-ripping teeth, and a darkness that seemed to devour light itself. A primal force of destruction. Of nihilism. Of eternal undoing. Akira raised his head again, crimson tears pouring freely, teeth clenched, voice shattered and raw.
“DESTROY THEM!” He howled. “APOPHIS!!!”
The shadows screamed as they engulfed Akira.
The serpent lunged, and the girls scattered, wind and debris blasting around them as its massive coils slammed into the mountaintop. Stone shattered under its weight. It struck with the wrath of something that had never known love—only devouring.
“Move!” Morgane shouted, grabbing Yukiko’s arm and yanking her to safety just as a black-scaled tail tore a gash through the rock where they'd stood.
Ryuemi and Ann flanked either side of Kasumi, shielding her from a barrage of shadowy thorns that exploded from the creature’s maw. Hifumi darted in front of Shiho with a kick that shattered a few of the shards midair, but several still hit, sending her sprawling.
Still, she rose. Still, they all did.
Even when the mountain groaned, even when the heat from Apophis’s breath began to burn the very air in their lungs—they rose.
“Akira!” Kasumi shouted, sliding beneath a gout of flame. “Remember the day we went to Destinyworld? You said that day made you feel alive again!”
“Was that a lie?” Makoto cried, slamming her fists into a rising shadow only for it to reform and knock her back. “All the moments we spent together—were they just illusions to you?!”
From behind a shattered ledge, Yukiko’s voice rang out, trembling but unbroken. “I know what it’s like to carry fire inside you, Akira! But you don't have to let it consume you!”
Ann ducked under another wave of tendrils. “You’re not alone anymore! Damn it, Akira, we love you! Isn’t that worth fighting for?!”
Futaba screamed from where she knelt beside Ren, her hands raised in a shimmering data-shield. “I never gave a damn about anyone until I met you! Don’t you dare say you don’t matter!”
But none of their words seemed to reach him.
Akira stood, barely visible in the eye of the storm, his arms limp at his sides, head tilted back like a marionette with its strings cut. Apophis’s aura pulsed around him, thick as tar. And in his expression—vacant, twisted, lost—was nothing but pain.
Or was it something else?
A presence. A pressure. Something other. Like something was smothering his ears. His heart. Drowning out the truth behind a layer of illusion.
More attacks came. A blast of screaming wind sent Haru and Makoto flying back. A lash of tail knocked Morgane from the ledge, caught only at the last second by Hifumi’s outstretched hand. Kasumi’s yoyo cracked as it deflected a bolt of shrieking black lightning that might’ve impaled Ren.
Yet still—they stood. Breathing ragged. Faces bloodied. Outfits torn. But their eyes never wavered.
Then Ren stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. “Akira…”
Her voice was not loud. It didn’t need to be. The mountain quieted for a moment.
“If hurting me is what it will take to prove that my feelings for you are real…”
She took another step. And another. “Then hurt me.”
Her arms opened wide, bare to the storm. Her knees shook. Her eyes glistened. “Hurt me as much as you need…”
Her gaze never left him, even as Apophis reared back like a tidal wave ready to crash. “I can take it.”
Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Because I’m not going anywhere!”
The serpent lunged. Jaws wide. Eyes blazing. A scream like a thousand knives filled the sky.
Ren stood, unmoving.
And then— A flash of silver-blue. A sound like a bell being struck underwater.
Apophis slammed into an invisible wall and recoiled with a roar of fury. The blow sent tremors through the peak. The serpent stumbled back, eyes wide, stunned.
There, in the dust between them, something had begun to glow.
Half-buried in the rubble, its pages fluttering against the wind—
Lavenza’s Grimoire pulsed with light.
The silence that followed was fragile—sharp around the edges, like the pause between lightning and thunder.
And then Ren’s voice echoed again, trembling but unwavering. “I love you, Akira.”
She lowered her arms—but did not retreat. Behind her, the others rose. Some limping, some with blood on their lips or bruises on their skin. All of them with open hearts. One by one, they let their weapons fall.
Morgane stepped forward first, her mask cracked at the edge, her eyes wet with defiance. “I love you, dumbass. You gave me a reason to stay. I’m not losing you now.”
Ryuemi limped beside her, shoulders squared despite the shaking of her legs. “You’re the reason I kept running. I’ll run to you, no matter how far.”
Ann, her catsuit torn and arms scraped, tossed aside her whip and stood tall. “You saw me—all of me. You made me feel beautiful again. I love you.”
Shiho’s hands trembled as she lowered her pistols, but her voice was like steel. “You were there when I wanted to disappear. I love you, Akira.”
Yukiko knelt briefly to catch her breath, then rose with quiet dignity. “You gave me fire again. Not just to fight—but to hope. I love you.”
Futaba’s goggles sparked where it had cracked, but her voice rang out clear. “You hacked into my heart, damn it! You rewrote my whole world. I love you.”
Kasumi staggered to Ren’s side, her stance steady even as her breath caught. “You saved me before you even knew me. You helped me become me. I love you.”
Hifumi brushed dust from her ruined cheongsam and met the serpent’s gaze head-on, speaking to the man trapped inside. “You respected every move I made. You made me feel like more than a pawn. I love you.”
Haru’s scythe clanged gently to the stone as she stepped forward. “You looked past my mask, saw the parts I kept hidden—even from myself. I love you.”
Makoto, bleeding from a cut across her cheek, still stood with the bearing of a queen. “You taught me to see the truth. You stood beside me. I love you.”
And then Lavenza. She stepped forward last, her voice barely louder than a whisper, but it carried like thunder in the stillness. “I was born to guide you, but I chose to love you. And I do. I love you, Akira.”
Apophis roared, lashing out again and again—but each strike was met with the same invisible force. A ripple of silver-blue barriers blossomed from where they stood, rejecting the monster with a power older than rage.
From where it lay cracked open in the dirt, Lavenza’s Grimoire pulsed once more—deep, resonant, like a heartbeat syncing with twelve others.
Then—
Pages fluttered open. The wind stilled. And out from the glowing book rose twelve luminous figures, each spectral and radiant. They floated silently, their forms half-formed—like memories called back to life.
Simultaneously, the girls gasped—not in fear, but recognition—as their Personas began to stir in response. One by one, they flared to life, rising behind their wielders like guardian spirits.
The first spirit unfurled like smoke through moonlight. She was tall and lithe, her silhouette graceful yet commanding. Her skin shimmered with a soft silver luminescence, streaked with faint violet veins of raw arcane energy. Twin orbs of indigo hovered just above her shoulders, rotating slowly in opposite directions, each etched with runes that seemed to shift and shimmer with secret knowledge. Her hair flowed like liquid moonlight, cascading down her back in ethereal waves that vanished at the tips into motes of floating starlight. A cloak of translucent black and violet seemed to ripple around her, stitched with constellations that were not of this world. Her eyes, infinitely deep, held the calm inevitability of fate itself.
She spoke—three voices melding together into a singular melody that caressed Morgane’s ears, stirring her very soul. “I am Hecate… She Who Stands at the Crossroads, and Consort of the Magician Arcana. I come to awaken the path your spirit has long awaited.”
Hecate glided forward, each step leaving a brief trail of silver light across the dirt-stained battlefield. The energy around her hummed in harmony with Morgane’s own, pulling at the threads of her Persona. Lola Belmont shimmered, her form flickering, unsure, like a candle wavering in the wind. Hecate raised a hand, and a halo of constellations spun around her fingers, arcs of violet and silver reaching toward Lola. Hecate whispered again, her voice a chime across the battlefield: “Rise… and become the choice of destiny itself.”
In a burst of blinding starlight, Lola Belmont’s form shattered into a thousand glimmering shards of energy, each spinning like a tiny galaxy. And then, as the light coalesced, she stood reborn.
The new Persona was mesmerizing: long, flowing robes of deep indigo and midnight blue, embroidered with golden stars and lunar phases. Her hair, cascading in silver and violet waves, seemed to float around her as if underwater. Her eyes were amethyst flames, luminous and knowing, and in her right hand she held a scepter tipped with a crescent moon that pulsed with psychic energy. Her left hand was open, palm glowing with a silvery aura, capable of summoning spectral disks and chains of starlight that twisted with her will.
“Arise… Circe.”
Morgane gasped, clutching the air as Circe’s presence flowed into her own being. She could feel every layer of her previous power expanding, every limitation dissolving under Hecate’s blessing. Her arms tingled with newfound strength, her mind sharp with clarity, and a thrill of exhilaration ran down her spine.
Hecate gave a final, imperceptible nod before fading back toward the Grimoire, leaving Circe’s aura glowing brightly around Morgane. "Now… walk your path, and shape the world that awaits."
As the blue glow of Circe’s awakening faded into the mist, another spirit emerged from the grimoire’s radiant pages—this one like a comet of searing gold. She was tall, muscular, and impossibly poised—her body radiating power and speed, each movement deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. Her skin was bronze, luminous under the battlefield lights, streaked with runes that burned faintly like embers. Her head bore a lioness’s features: sleek, feline, with amber eyes that glowed with a predatory intelligence, sharp canines gleaming faintly. A mane of fiery red and gold cascaded down her back, flowing like liquid flame, streaks flickering into the air as though she exhaled sparks with every breath.
Her armor was minimal yet ceremonial—bronze plates etched with swirling sigils protected her shoulders, chest, and forearms, while crimson and gold cloths billowed from her hips, catching the wind like banners on a victorious march. Twin curved blades hovered at her sides, glinting with molten energy, though they never left her. Every step she took scorched the dirt beneath her feet, leaving traces of light and smoke.
Her voice rippled through Ryuemi’s chest, a low, vibrating roar that resonated like the call of a battlefield drum: “I am Sekhmet… the Flame That Devours the Wicked, and Consort of the Chariot Arcana. I come to awaken the fury that drives your path.”
Ryuemi’s Persona, Anne Bonny, trembled under the intensity of Sekhmet’s gaze. The pirate-inspired figure flickered, her twin cutlasses blurring in and out of existence, the edges of her outfit fraying like smoke. Sekhmet stepped forward, and twin arcs of flame spiraled from her claws, enveloping Anne Bonny in a vortex of gold and crimson fire. The fire didn’t burn—it purified, reshaping and igniting latent potential.
Sekhmet’s claws touched Anne’s shoulder, and the flames surged in a blinding wave, her roar vibrating across the battlefield: “Become what you were always destined to be… the queen who commands storms and nations alike!”
The light collapsed into a single, searing point, and when it faded, Anne Bonny had been reborn.
“Come forth… Teuta of Illyria.”
Teuta was awe-inspiring: tall, athletic, with a commanding presence that exuded authority and fluid grace. Her armor shimmered in molten bronze and deep sapphire, etched with nautical motifs—waves, anchors, and the fierce talons of predatory sea birds. Her hair, now a cascading wave of black tipped with fiery gold, flowed like liquid flame over her shoulders. Her eyes glowed amber with intelligence and unshakable resolve. Her movements suggested battle before it happened, every step precise yet wild, every motion a declaration of victory.
Ryuemi felt the surge of power like a tidal wave—her senses sharpened, her body alive with energy, her heart aligned perfectly with Teuta’s unstoppable momentum. She could feel the battlefield bending around her, ready to obey her will.
Sekhmet gave a single nod, her form flickering into embers as she returned to the Grimoire, leaving Ryuemi and Teuta glowing with the force of raw, unbridled purpose. "Now… drive forward, and let nothing stand before you."
As Sekhmet’s fiery presence dissipated into the lingering smoke of the battlefield, a sudden hush fell over the air. The temperature seemed to shift, a warm, almost intoxicating current brushing past the Phantom Thieves. From the Grimoire, a soft golden light spiraled upward, coalescing into a figure so mesmerizing it seemed to bend the very air around her.
The next Consort emerged. Every inch of her radiated allure—she was taller than most, with curves that defied gravity, lithe yet powerful, a goddess sculpted from sunlight and desire. Her skin gleamed like burnished gold, warm and inviting, as if touched by the first rays of dawn. Her hair flowed long and dark, like molten obsidian tipped with strands of rose gold, cascading in waves that seemed to move of their own accord. Her eyes were molten amber, shimmering with mischief and the promise of forbidden things, framed by lashes so long they seemed to cast shadows on her high cheekbones.
Her clothing was as fluid as her energy—silken fabrics of deep crimson and violet clinging in ways that hinted at every contour beneath, swaying and flickering like liquid flame. Jewelry glimmered across her body, delicate chains and charms that sparkled with an inner light, drawing the gaze without ever feeling forced. Around her, faint petals of rose floated and drifted in slow spirals, dissolving into glittering motes that smelled faintly of exotic blooms and honey.
She tilted her head slightly toward Ann, her voice a lilting, velvety caress that reverberated through her entire body: “I am Aphrodite… Queen of Desire, and Consort of the Lovers Arcana. I come to awaken the passion and longing that drives your heart.”
Ann’s Persona, Carmen, shivered in response. Where she had been playful, nimble, and confident, her form now quivered with anticipation, as if sensing a deeper potential she had not yet explored.
Aphrodite’s hands hovered near Carmen’s shoulders, leaving trails of glittering energy that wound along the edges of her new form. A blush of warm light crept along her limbs, highlighting every curve and line, and Carmen shivered again as the sensation of pure, unrestrained confidence and allure filled her.
When the golden glow collapsed, Carmen had been reborn.
“Your true self… Ishtar.”
Ishtar was radiant and intoxicating. Her robes were a cascade of deep purples and ruby reds, woven with shimmering threads that caught the light like liquid gemstones. The fabric clung at her torso and flared in soft, teasing folds from her hips, her shoulders bare except for gilded pauldrons shaped like delicate wings. Her hair flowed like a river of night and rose, tipped with gold, floating around her in slow, sensual waves.
A single glance from Ishtar carried heat and exhilaration, a promise of pleasure and power entwined. Ann felt it surge through her veins, a potent mix of confidence, seduction, and the thrill of being seen and desired. She could feel every movement sharpened, every strike imbued with grace and daring.
Aphrodite’s form shimmered, a knowing smile curling across her lips. Her final words echoed across the battlefield, wrapping around Ann like a whisper: “Now… embrace the desire that moves hearts, and wield it without fear.”
And just like that, she faded back into the Grimoire, leaving Ann and Ishtar radiant, potent, and ready to command their place in the battle.
As the lingering warmth of Aphrodite’s golden light faded into memory, the battlefield seemed to shift again. The shadows receded, replaced by a gentle, golden radiance that sparkled like sunlight dancing on water. From the pages of Lavenza’s Grimoire, a figure emerged, gliding effortlessly, her presence like a serene festival in full bloom.
She was ethereal and radiant, the very embodiment of luck and abundance. Her skin glowed with a soft, warm light, like sunlight filtered through gold leaves, and her hair fell in long, lustrous waves of deep crimson, streaked with strands of gold and jade that shimmered as she moved. Her eyes, bright emeralds flecked with gold, radiated calm intelligence and a playful, almost mischievous joy, as if she knew all the secrets of the universe but was willing to share them only with those worthy.
She wore flowing robes of crimson and ivory, embroidered with intricate patterns of coins, flowers, and celestial motifs, the hems trailing behind her in a cascade of shimmering silk. A delicate, golden diadem rested on her forehead, set with tiny gemstones that pulsed faintly with fortune’s energy. Around her, ribbons of radiant light twisted and fluttered, carrying faint jingles and whispers of wind, as though luck itself danced with her every step.
Her voice was melodic, lilting, a soothing resonance that washed over Yukiko: “I am Kichijōten… Bringer of Fortune, Consort of the Fortune Arcana. I have come to bless your path and awaken the hidden grace within.”
Tomoe Gozen trembled in response. Her poised, icy elegance and mastery over Bufu magic felt suddenly incomplete, as if she were a brilliant blade yet to be sharpened. Kichijōten drifted closer, fingers tracing the air before her, and the golden energy spiraled around Tomoe Gozen in an intricate spiral of light and luck, touching her shoulder with a soft hum of power. “Rise… and become the light that guides destiny itself.”
When the radiance collapsed, Tomoe Gozen had transformed.
“Join us… Uzume-no-Mikoto”
Uzume-no-Mikoto was a breathtaking blend of elegance, poise, and subtle playfulness. Her robes flowed like ice and fire combined—crimson, ivory, and gold—shifting colors with every motion, embroidered with patterns of celestial symbols and lucky charms. Her hair, now a long, lustrous crimson with gold streaks, floated like a banner of fortune, and her emerald eyes sparkled with wisdom, confidence, and just a hint of mischief.
Yukiko felt it instantly—Uzume-no-Mikoto’s grace flowed into her, expanding her perception, sharpening her reflexes, and filling her with the quiet confidence of someone whose destiny had just been touched by luck and divinity.
Kichijōten gave a final, serene smile before dissolving into sparkling light, drifting back into the Grimoire, leaving Yukiko and Uzume-no-Mikoto radiant, confident, and ready to act as the Fortune Arcana’s guiding force. "Now… move with destiny’s blessing, and let fortune favor your path."
As Kichijōten’s golden shimmer faded, the battlefield dimmed. The air grew cool and hushed, the oppressive heat of battle replaced with a velvet calm. Overhead, shadows pooled, yet instead of dread, the darkness shimmered with faint silvery light, like a thousand stars hidden behind a veil. From the Grimoire’s glow emerged a figure draped in flowing argent light, the night itself taking shape.
Her skin was pale as moonstone, luminous yet soft, glowing faintly with shifting silver hues. Her long hair cascaded like liquid night, strands of black interwoven with threads of glowing pearl and faint constellations, drifting weightlessly as though under water. Her eyes were twin crescents of silver, cool but not cold, with a gentle intensity that seemed to pierce through illusions.
She wore a gown of deep midnight and pale silver, the fabric sheer in places, layered in rippling waves like the phases of the moon. Tiny, radiant stars glittered along the hems, shifting slowly with her movements. Around her wrists and ankles, bangles of polished obsidian and crystal jingled softly, chiming like distant bells. A crescent diadem crowned her forehead, its light waxing and waning with each breath she took. Behind her, a spectral full moon hung suspended, glowing brighter with every step.
Her voice was calm, velvety, yet hauntingly resonant as she whispered to Shiho: “I am Selene… Sovereign of Night, and Consort of the Moon Arcana. I come to awaken the hunter who walks by moonlight.”
Shiho’s Persona, Annie Oakley, stirred. The gun-slinger’s rugged attire flickered, her dual pistols glowing faintly with pale silver veins. Her form seemed restless, waiting for something more. Selene raised her hand, and the moon behind her flared, casting down beams of radiant silver that enveloped Annie.
Selene brushed a finger along Annie’s cheek, her touch leaving a trail of stars. “Rise, huntress of the night… and become the bow of moonlight itself.”
The silver radiance burst outward, a shockwave of stars scattering into the battlefield. When it faded, Annie Oakley was gone—reborn as:
“May your aim always be true… Artemis.”
Artemis stood tall, radiant and commanding. Her armor was a blend of ancient huntress and celestial queen: sleek silver breastplate over flowing indigo robes, trimmed with constellations that shifted with her movement. Her long white hair, streaked faintly with midnight, flowed behind her like a comet’s tail. Her eyes glowed bright silver, sharp and unyielding, brimming with lunar fire.
In her hands, Artemis wielded a great silver bow, though the string was woven of pure starlight. At her hip were a pair of silver handguns, sleek and glowing, and a quiver of moonbeam arrows. Around her shoulders, a mantle of white fur drifted as though stirred by a phantom breeze, giving her the aura of both a protector and an avenger.
Shiho’s breath caught as she felt Artemis’s presence flow into her veins. Her senses sharpened—the world slowed, the battlefield lit up in perfect clarity as if under the full moon’s gaze. Every target seemed illuminated, every weakness revealed. Artemis was Annie’s focus and daring, amplified into something divine: the huntress who never missed.
Selene smiled faintly, the crescent on her brow glowing before she dissolved back into moonlight, her words lingering like a whisper carried on the night wind: “Now… hunt beneath the moon, and let no falsehood escape your sight.”
The silver glow of Selene faded, and in its wake, the battlefield grew quiet, as though waiting for the next voice to speak. From the Grimoire, water began to ripple outward, though there was no source — shimmering streams of indigo and sapphire light trickled into the air, forming intricate patterns like calligraphy midair. The streams converged, folding together into the figure of a woman whose mere presence stilled the chaos around her.
She was statuesque, draped in flowing robes of pale blue and white that shimmered like water under moonlight, embroidered with geometric mandalas that seemed to shift when looked at too long. Her hair was a cascade of black streaked with silver, falling smoothly past her waist, with delicate ornaments of crystal and jade woven throughout. In her many hands — for four arms extended gracefully from her form — she carried emblems of wisdom: a veena made of liquid light, a glowing scroll that wrote itself endlessly, and a radiant lotus blossom dripping with silver dew. Her fourth hand extended outward, palm open, offering calm assurance.
Her face was serene yet piercing; her eyes were pale sapphire pools that saw through all veils, calm but unwavering. Around her head, a halo of translucent lotus petals drifted in slow orbits, glowing faintly with ethereal energy. Every movement she made felt intentional, measured, and inevitable — like a perfect equation revealing itself step by step.
Her voice, when it came, was a cool resonance that seemed to echo inside one’s thoughts rather than the air: “I am Saraswati… Voice of Insight, and Consort of the Priestess Arcana. I come to grant wisdom’s clarity, to awaken the spirit that seeks truth.”
Makoto’s Persona, Johanna, began to stir. The doll automoton rumbled faintly, her sleek curves glowing with faint cerulean light. But Johanna seemed to tremble, her engine purring unevenly, as if sensing she was not yet complete. Saraswati raised her scroll, and the writing upon it dissolved into radiant symbols that rained down, wrapping Johanna in bands of light.
Saraswati touched the lotus to the doll’s chest, and a pulse of indigo light spread outward, fully animating the new form. “Awaken… Morrigan.”
Morrigan’s form was striking: a tall, doll-like warrior clad in segmented armor of black steel and cobalt, every plate sleek and seamless, with glowing blue runes etched across her surface like veins of circuitry. Her limbs moved with uncanny precision, smooth yet almost too perfect, every gesture calculated. Her porcelain face was emotionless save for the faint, glowing lines that curved like a smirk across the mask, and her eyes glowed with a cold sapphire fire.
From her back extended two large, mechanical wings — segmented like clockwork, each feather an articulated shard of glowing metal. They spread wide, their edges humming faintly, capable of both flight and slicing through foes. Her twin wheel-blades floated beside her, rotating slowly like orbiting moons, ready to extend into full blades of nuclear might when needed.
Makoto gasped as Morrigan’s essence flowed into her. She felt clarity unlike anything before — her thoughts sharpened, her strategies calculated instinctively, her body synchronized with mechanical precision. It was as though every move, every strike, every word she could make was now part of a flawless equation.
Saraswati gave a final bow, her form dissolving into streams of water and light, her voice echoing in Makoto’s mind: “Now… cut through lies, and let wisdom be your rebellion.”
As Saraswati’s radiant waters dissolved back into the Grimoire, a chill of silence swept across the air — not oppressive, but veiled, like a curtain being drawn. From the pages, shadows rose, soft and deep, curling like smoke. At their center, a figure emerged, solemn yet radiant, a goddess who carried both the stillness of night and the promise of hidden truths.
She was tall and slender, her form draped in flowing robes that shimmered faintly with starlight, like the endless night sky. Her skin glowed with a warm bronze light, contrasting with the darkness of her attire, and her eyes were deep pools of lapis, luminous with unspoken knowledge. Around her head, a black headdress framed with golden trim rose like the wings of a falcon, set with a faintly glowing scarab at its center. At her wrists and throat, bands of gold and lapis gleamed faintly, etched with symbols of protection and shadow.
Behind her drifted translucent wings of shadowy energy — not feathery, but abstract and flowing, like a veil of smoke caught in a wind that no one else could feel. Every step she took left ripples of shadow and starlight, each dissolving back into nothingness. Her presence was solemn, but not heavy — she radiated the safety of someone who walked unseen, guarding what others could not.
Her voice came as a whisper layered over itself, both distant and near: “I am Nephthys… Keeper of the Veil, and Consort of the Hermit Arcana. I come to awaken the hidden light within your shadow.”
Futaba’s Persona, Necronomicon, began to stir. The UFO-shaped craft quivered in midair, its surface flickering with unstable glyphs and arcs of orange static. It pulsed faintly with light, as though restless, yearning for something more. Nephthys extended her hands, and the shadows that surrounded her rose like smoke, wrapping around Necronomicon’s frame. The ship’s harsh green glow dimmed, replaced by a cool blue-white radiance, as its surface began to expand, shift, and refold itself.
Nephthys touched her palm to the ship’s radiant surface, and her whisper deepened: “Take flight… Hypatia.”
A shockwave of light rippled out, washing over the battlefield. When it faded, Necronomicon had been reborn. Hypatia was vast, majestic, and commanding — a luminous craft that spanned the air like a floating citadel of knowledge. Her surface gleamed with silver-blue plating traced with glowing circuits of golden light, like the veins of a living machine. Across her hull shimmered shifting constellations, star-maps encoded into her very being. The central crystal eye glowed with fierce intelligence, and from her sides extended arrays of radiant wings, each feather-like shard made of pure data-light, capable of reshaping into shields, beams, or veils of camouflage.
Around her base rotated concentric rings of glyphs, glowing with the knowledge of ages — equations, runes, and constellations whirling in silent perfection. Where Necronomicon had been a strange vessel of paranoia, Hypatia was a sovereign archive, both weapon and sanctuary, a library soaring through the night sky.
Futaba gasped as her senses flooded with Hypatia’s presence. She could see beyond the battlefield — the flows of information, the hidden truths in every shadow, the potential outcomes of every action. Her body hummed with the thrill of absolute clarity, as if she had become the navigator of the universe itself.
Nephthys gave a final, solemn nod, her shadow-wings folding around her as she dissolved back into the veil of the Grimoire. Her final whisper lingered in Futaba’s mind, calm and protective: “Now… see what others cannot, and guard the world from the unseen.”
As Nephthys’s shadowy veil dissolved into silence, the battlefield shifted once more. The earth itself seemed to tremble faintly — not in fear, but as if awakening. The cracked soil softened, sprouting tendrils of green, tiny flowers blooming even amid the chaos. From the Grimoire’s light, a tall figure rose, wreathed in vines and wheat stalks, her very presence turning devastation into fertile ground.
She was radiant in an earthly, timeless way: tall and broad-shouldered, her frame draped in flowing robes of deep green and gold, patterned with vines, blossoms, and ripe grain. Her skin glowed with the rich warmth of sunlit bronze, her hair a cascade of auburn curls laced with stalks of wheat and flowering ivy, shifting like a crown of the harvest. Around her waist was a golden girdle from which hung fruits, grains, and blossoms, each shimmering faintly with vitality.
Her eyes were soft amber, glowing with compassion, but behind them lingered an unyielding will — the same force that demanded respect for nature’s cycles of life and death. Around her shoulders draped a mantle of fur and leaves, shifting like the seasons, and at her side, a sickle gleamed — both a farmer’s tool and a weapon of inevitability. Wherever she walked, the ground bloomed, vines curling protectively around her ankles before dissolving back into light.
Her voice was warm and sonorous, a mother’s lullaby carrying the weight of command: “I am Demeter… Mother of Rebirth and Consort of the Empress Arcana. I come to awaken the sovereign whose kindness feeds nations and whose fury razes empires.”
Milady, Haru’s Persona, trembled at the words. The elegant, masked noblewoman flickered, her ornate gown unraveling into threads of light, her mask trembling in her grasp. It was as if she stood on the precipice of something greater but could not cross alone.
Demeter extended her hand, and roots of radiant light spiraled outward, curling around Milady’s form. Blossoms bloomed along her form, then shattered into motes of energy, reshaping it into something grander — something both nurturing and devastating.
Demeter touched Milady’s chest with her sickle, and the Persona burst with golden light. “Show them both gentleness and wrath… Zenobia.”
When the radiance cleared, Haru’s Persona had been reborn. Zenobia towered like a warrior-queen. Her armor gleamed with mother-of-pearl sheen, its plates trimmed in gold and ivy, layered with regal silks that shifted between violet, crimson, and green. Her helm framed her face like a crown, adorned with a radiant tiara of blossoms and thorns. A cloak of living vines and roses trailed behind her, shifting in the wind as though alive.
In her hands, she bore her halberd — massive yet graceful, crowned with a crescent blade that glowed faintly with firelight. Along its edge shimmered runes of both protection and destruction. At her feet, the battlefield cracked, sprouting green shoots that shimmered with silver flame, life itself bowing to her presence.
Haru gasped as Zenobia’s essence flowed into her. She felt her compassion deepen into command, her strength tempered by grace. There was no contradiction in her — she was both the hand that nurtured and the hand that struck down without mercy.
Demeter’s warm smile lingered as she dissolved into golden motes of harvest light, her voice soft yet resonant: “Now… sow your justice, reap your future, and let none mistake your kindness for weakness.”
As Demeter’s golden harvest faded, the battlefield shifted once more. The lingering night air broke as light began to stir on the horizon. A pale glow spread across the field, painting every crack and ruin in hues of rose and gold, as if morning itself had arrived to banish despair. From the pages of the Grimoire, a luminous figure emerged, her presence gentle yet unstoppable — the herald of beginnings.
Her beauty was radiant, almost blinding, yet soft as the first light of morning. Her hair cascaded in silken waves of rose-gold and fiery orange, glowing faintly as though each strand was spun from sunrise itself. Her skin gleamed with a warm, radiant glow, kissed with dawn’s blush, and her eyes shimmered like twin horizons — gold and pink mingled together, carrying both sorrow and hope.
She was robed in a flowing gown of pale rose, white, and shimmering gold, each fold layered like the clouds at sunrise. Her mantle stretched behind her in delicate ribbons that shifted color with every movement, trailing soft motes of light. At her shoulders bloomed radiant wings, feathered but faintly translucent, glowing with soft fire as though dawn itself was about to break from within them. Around her wrists and ankles shimmered bands of aurora, refracting colors into the air like prisms.
Her voice was warm, hopeful, and resonant, carrying the weight of renewal: “I am Eos… Dawn Incarnate, and Consort of the Faith Arcana. I come to awaken the dancer who steps between shadow and light.”
Kasumi’s Persona, Terpsichore, stirred — her elegant, ballerina-like form flickering with red and white ribbons of light. The dancer’s pirouettes stuttered, her ribbons fraying as though unable to hold their form. Eos extended her hands, and beams of dawnlight poured down like curtains onto Terpsichore, wrapping her in radiant warmth. Eos then brushed Terpsichore’s cheek, and her wings unfurled wider, casting the entire battlefield in blush and gold. “Show us your light… Eurydice.”
The ribbons of light burst outward, scattering like petals, and Terpsichore emerged reborn. Eurydice was a vision of beauty, grace, and quiet strength. Her gown flowed like dawnlit mist, shimmering with shifting layers of pink, gold, and pale lavender, trailing behind her as she moved. Her long hair streamed like flame, tied in ribbons of golden thread, and her mask glowed faintly, her eyes burning with both longing and hope. Her entire form shimmered faintly translucent, like she belonged partly to another world — a reminder of her myth, caught between life and death, shadow and light.
Her weapons gleamed like instruments of both art and war: the radiant discs at her hands could be spun on their aurora cords as dancing lights, but when she snapped them forward, they blazed into burning suns, whirling to strike down her enemies with elegance and fire. Around her feet, faint blossoms of morning light bloomed with each step, leaving trails of gold across the ground.
Kasumi gasped as Eurydice’s essence flowed into her. She felt weight and lightness at once — the grief of the past that shaped her, and the radiant hope of moving forward, never again in shadow. Her dance became freer, stronger, infused with divine dawnlight.
Eos smiled, her radiance brightening before she dissolved into golden-pink motes, carried upward like the first rays of sunrise. Her voice lingered as the light faded: “Now… dance with the dawn, and bring hope even from sorrow.”
As Eos’s motes of dawnlight scattered into the air, the battlefield shifted once more. This time, the darkness above shimmered, and the heavens themselves seemed to open. Stars bloomed like blossoms in the sky, far too close and vivid, their light streaming down as if the cosmos itself leaned nearer. The Grimoire pulsed, and from its glow arose a new presence — not fiery or fierce, but calm, radiant, and infinite.
She was tall and ethereal, her form clothed in layered white and pale blue silks that flowed like water, embroidered with constellations in silver thread. Around her head radiated a crown of golden halos, concentric wheels turning slowly, each rim inscribed with prayers and sutras that shimmered like starlight. Her face was serene and gentle, her features soft and androgynous, embodying compassion beyond mortal limits.
Her many arms unfolded behind her, each graceful, each holding an offering — a lotus blossom, a wheel of law, a glowing orb, a scroll, a sword — symbols of both wisdom and mercy. From her presence spilled a gentle radiance, like moonlight on still water, soothing even amid battle. Yet in her eyes burned the distant light of stars: eternal, patient, but unyielding in truth.
Her voice was soft but carried across the field like music from the heavens: “I am Kan’non… The Wheel of Mercy, and Consort of the Star Arcana. I come to awaken the tactician whose devotion to truth is steadfast, and whose will shines like the northern star.”
Yuenu — Hifumi’s Persona — stirred, wavering as Kan’non’s starlight reached her. Her scales gleamed faintly, but cracks of light shimmered across her form, as though she had reached the limit of her vessel. Kan’non pressed one of her many hands to Yuenu’s chest, and her form burst outward in a shower of stardust, reforming, radiant, reborn.
“Shine… Astraea.”
Astraea stood tall and luminous, her entire body shimmering like a figure woven from the night sky. Her flowing robes glowed with faint constellations, alive and shifting as if the cosmos itself breathed upon her. Around her head floated a radiant crown of stars, each point glowing brighter as though recognizing her sovereignty. Her eyes blazed with pure white light, yet within them lingered infinite compassion.
Her spear, long and slender, glowed as though carved from the Milky Way itself, leaving starlight trails in the air with each motion. Around her, faint motes of light shimmered into the shapes of scales, briefly balancing, before dissolving — symbols of her role as judge, but also guardian of hope.
Hifumi gasped, clutching her chest as Astraea’s essence merged with her. She felt clarity like never before — as though every move, every strategy, every path forward was lit by the stars themselves. For the first time, she understood the union of discipline and compassion, of devotion and power.
Kan’non’s many arms slowly folded inward, her halos spinning until they vanished in motes of golden light. Her gentle smile lingered as she dissolved back into the heavens, her voice the last trace of her: “Now… shine as the star who guides others, unerring in mercy, unbending in truth.”
As Kan’non’s starlight faded into the heavens, silence fell across the battlefield. The air grew still, heavy with expectation, as though the world itself held its breath. From the Grimoire’s glow, a penultimate figure began to rise — one radiant not with warmth, nor flame, nor dawn, but with absolute clarity.
Feathers of pure white and deep black unfurled in slow, solemn arcs, forming wings that stretched from horizon to horizon. A woman stepped forward, regal and implacable, her every motion echoing with law unbreakable and truth undeniable.
Her appearance was both divine and austere. She wore robes of purest white trimmed with deep midnight blue, lined in faint golden script — hieroglyphs that shimmered like fire with each step. Across her shoulders rested a mantle of black and white feathers, each quill gleaming with divine authority. Her skin shone with a golden-brown luster, ageless and unyielding, and her eyes blazed with twin scales of light — one iris pale as the moon, the other dark as obsidian, perfectly balanced.
On her brow rested a crown of gold shaped like a feather — the Feather of Truth — gleaming with eternal brilliance. In her right hand she bore a scale, radiant and terrible, its dishes empty yet unbearably heavy with judgment. In her left hand, a sword of white flame burned, every flicker sharp as a verdict.
Her voice resounded through the air, unwavering, echoing with the clarity of law itself: “I am Maat… Arbiter of Truth, and Consort of the Justice Arcana. I come to awaken the twin flames — not divided, but as one.”
At her words, Freya and Maid Marian stirred. Ren gasped, clutching her mask as light surged between the two. She felt it too — the pull, the fusion, the truth that her justice was not halves in tension but a whole in harmony.
Maat raised her sword high, and the air split with radiant flame. She lowered her scales, and beams of black and white light streamed forth, encircling Freya and Marian.
The goddess whispered: “Together, you are more. Not two voices, but one chorus. Not divided, but indivisible.”
Freya’s spear shattered into motes of gold, Marian’s bow dissolving into emerald sparks. Their forms spiraled upward, twisting together, their light entangling, breaking, reforming. Gold and green, flame and leaf, steel and silk — until there was no seam, no border. Only one.
The explosion of light was blinding. When it cleared, a new Persona stood in their place.
Justicia.
She was magnificent — tall, armored, and radiant with balance incarnate. Her body was clad in shining silver armor trimmed with gold and green, every plate etched with runes of law and justice. Flowing from her waist trailed a long cloak of black and white feathers, lined in emerald fire, its shifting colors symbolizing harmony in duality.
Her helm was regal, crowned with a radiant plume shaped like Maat’s feather, while her mask bore twin visors: one gleaming gold, the other silver, both merging seamlessly into one face. Her eyes glowed with steady light, neither soft nor cruel, but implacably true.
In her right hand she bore a greatsword of molten gold, its edge lined with radiant scales. In her left hand, she carried a great shield wrought in silver and emerald, its face bearing the image of a feather balanced upon a blade. Around her form swirled motes of both flame and leaf, Freya and Marian’s essence made whole.
The air around Justicia thrummed with authority. Every motion radiated inevitability — the justice that comes not from vengeance, nor mercy alone, but from the balance of both.
Ren gasped as Justicia’s essence poured into her. She felt whole in a way she never had — the twin voices within her no longer pulling apart, but speaking as one. Strength and compassion, fury and grace, now indivisible within her.
Maat’s gaze lingered as she faded, her scales dispersing into radiant motes of white and black, her sword dissolving into golden fire. Her voice remained, steady and eternal: “Now… walk as the arbiter of your own truth. Let none divide you, for you are one.”
When Maat’s scales dissolved into motes of truth, the air thickened with pressure — heavier than flame, harsher than shadow, sharper than any sword. The battlefield groaned as though bowing beneath a force older than gods, a storm too vast to name.
From the Grimoire’s light erupted a final flare of crimson and gold, coalescing into a towering figure astride a great lion with burning eyes. Her silhouette was unmistakable — a warrior goddess, fierce and radiant, each step shattering the ground and reforging it beneath her.
She was terrible and beautiful all at once. Her many arms unfurled like a storm of blades, each hand carrying a different weapon — sword, trident, discus, bow, conch, thunderbolt, shield — instruments of power gifted by the gods themselves. Her armor shimmered like molten gold, each plate chased with ruby light, her form wrapped in crimson silks that billowed with impossible wind. Her hair flowed like a black river streaked with scarlet flame, and upon her brow burned a third eye, glowing with the fury of stars.
Her lion mount roared, the sound splitting the heavens, but her gaze remained fixed not upon Apophis, not upon the Thieves — but on the smallest figure among them.
Lavenza.
Her voice rang out like both war cry and lullaby, fierce and loving: “I am Durga… Wrath of the Divine, and Consort of the Arcana of Strength. I come not to awaken shadow or mask, but the soul that has long watched in silence. No longer bound, no longer fractured. Stand, child of velvet, and claim your destiny!”
Lavenza’s frame stiffened. Her gloved hands trembled, her eyes wide. For so long, she had been guide, attendant, fragment of a greater whole. Never one who chose. But now, under Durga’s gaze, she felt the chains that bound her role weaken.
She let out a small breath — almost a laugh — and closed her eyes.
And then she was consumed by the light. It was not the eruption of a battlefield. It was the blooming of potential long kept dormant. A transformation born of choice, not command.
Durga’s lion roared, her weapons flared, and the storm of divine fire closed around Lavenza, swallowing her whole.
When the brilliance died down, she stepped forward anew. No longer merely an attendant of velvet and memory. But a vision of divine femininity — strength tempered with grace.
Her features were softer, more delicate, human, as though sculpted by love itself. Her limbs were slender, her figure a perfected hourglass — not exaggerated, but elegant, timeless. Her platinum-blond hair cascaded in silken waves all the way to her hips, shimmering faintly with hues of blue and violet, like moonlight spilling across water. Her golden eyes now held a new radiance — not only wisdom, but want. A quiet, fearless desire that shimmered alongside devotion.
When she spoke, her voice carried warmth and power in equal measure: “I… am no longer only an attendant. I am Lavenza — whole, free, and mine.”
Durga’s many arms folded back into her, her weapons dissolving into flame until she stood radiant, only one hand extended in blessing. Her lion knelt, eyes blazing like suns.
The goddess’s voice lingered like thunder rolling over mountains: “Go forth, child. Bear strength not for others’ command, but your own will. You are divine in your choice, and wrathful in your love.”
And with that, Durga dissolved in a flare of crimson light, her storm passing — leaving Lavenza radiant, transformed, and at last herself.
The barrier dissolved and the Phantom Thieves stepped forward in unison, their shadows stretching long in the glare of their reborn Personas who stood behind them, wings unfurled, weapons drawn, goddesses and warriors standing like constellations come alive.
They looked up at their enemy towering over them — the Serpent God, Apophis.
His titanic coils writhed in the darkness, eclipsing the heavens. Scales glistened like obsidian oil, each etched with crawling curses that bled into the sky. His fangs dripped venom, every drop searing craters into the battlefield. His eyes glowed — two suns of ruin, promising only oblivion.
The ground split under his weight as he surged forward, laughter rolling like an earthquake. “You dare stand against me?” he hissed, voice layered with a thousand screams, a thousand doubts. “Fragile sparks… lost souls… what hope have you against the tide of the Abyss? Your Trickster crumbles, drowning in despair. Soon, he will be mine — and when his flame dies, humanity’s light will vanish forever.”
The words struck like claws scraping across their very hearts. For a moment, silence reigned.
Then—
Lavenza stepped forward. Her golden eyes blazed, unflinching, her transformed form glowing as if lit from within. When she spoke, her voice rang like a temple bell, calm and inexorable.“That is where you are wrong, Serpent. He is not broken. He is not yours. He is not alone.”
Her hand reached out behind her. And one by one, the Phantom Thieves answered. She raised her voice, and this time it rang with more than duty. It rang with love. “He is the Rebel. He is the one who denies despair. And he is ours.”
In that instant, the battlefield ignited. The Personas roared in unison, their power bursting outward in a cascade of color and fire. Silver barriers and golden halos, moonlit arrows and blazing swords, cosmic wings and radiant crowns — the air itself split beneath their combined might.
Apophis recoiled, the storm of shadows writhing back against the sheer weight of their defiance. His hiss turned to a bellow, venom spraying, curses crackling through the air. The heavens quaked as the Serpent struck, fangs plunging like mountains falling.
From the vile mists of Apophis’ shadow, the battlefield warped. The air grew colder, thicker, suffocating. Shapes slithered out of the darkness, first half-formed, then snapping into terrible clarity.
Twelve figures emerged — grotesque parodies of the Phantom Thieves.
Each one was dressed in a corrupted version of their Metaverse attire, colors inverted and designs twisted with barbs and chains. Their eyes burned with molten mockery, their smirks stretched too wide, their movements wrong — as though puppets animated by spite. Shadows dripped from their bodies like tar, seeping into the cracks of the earth.
Apophis’s laughter rolled like thunder. “Face yourselves, little Thieves. Let us see how strong your ‘bonds’ truly are… when the enemy wears your face.”
The Shadow Thieves raised their weapons. And with a roar of darkness — they lunged. The battlefield erupted into chaos.
⚔ Morgane vs. Shadow Morgane ⚔
Circe’s radiant eyes flared as she cast her magic, only to have it parried by a twisted reflection — Corrupted Lola Belmont. The shadow sneered, her hair limp and wild, her costume jagged black lace, her lips purple with venom.
“You’re nothing but a hanger-on,” Shadow Morgane spat, hurling her own disk, serrated and dripping with shadow fire. “No one really needs you. You’ll always be the outsider pretending to belong.”
Morgane snarled back, but her wrist faltered at the sting of the words.
⚔ Ryuemi vs. Shadow Ryuemi ⚔
Teuta roared, axe sparking, meeting Corrupted Anne Bonny in a crash of steel. Her shadow twin wore rusted pirate armor fused with chains, face half-hidden under a cracked skull mask.
“You only fight so hard to distract yourself,” Shadow Ryuemi hissed, locking blades with her counterpart. “Because you’re afraid you’ll never really outrun what he did to you. That you’ll always be the victim.”
Ryuemi’s breath caught — her guard slipped for an instant, her weapon nearly torn from her hand.
⚔ Ann vs. Shadow Ann ⚔
Ishtar’s fire burned bright, but Corrupted Carmen slithered through it, clad in tar-black silks that burned without being consumed.
“You just want to be adored, don’t you?” Shadow Ann purred. Her whip cracked like a serpent. “Every smile, every pose, every fight — it’s all for attention. You don’t love yourself, so you want the world to do it for you.”
Ann’s arm wavered, her smirk trembling for just a heartbeat as her Shadow twin’s words wormed their way into her mind.
⚔ Shiho vs. Shadow Shiho ⚔
Artemis nocked a moonlit arrow, loosing it — only for Corrupted Annie Oakley to catch it midair, snapping it into dust.
“You pretend to be strong,” Shadow Shiho whispered, firing back with merciless precision, “but deep down you’re terrified. You still think of yourself as broken. You’ll never believe you’re more than a victim.”
Shiho’s grip tightened on her pistols — but her finger hovered on the trigger, hesitation seeping in.
⚔ Yukiko vs. Shadow Yukiko ⚔
Uzume-no-Mikoto spun in elegant arcs of frost, clashing against Corrupted Tomoe Gozen, whose armor was cracked obsidian rimmed with sickly green light.
“You only found courage because you clung to others,” Shadow Yukiko taunted, her sword humming with jagged ice. “Alone, you’d crumble. You’re not a warrior — you’re a follower pretending to lead.”
Yukiko’s blade wavered, her breaths coming too fast.
⚔ Makoto vs. Shadow Makoto ⚔
Morrigan’s doll-like fists clashed with Corrupted Johanna — her twin in rusted steel, face hidden behind a black porcelain mask cracked down the middle.
“Justice?” Shadow Makoto laughed, the sound brittle. “You just want control. You’re afraid of being powerless, so you wrap yourself in rules and fists. Without it, you’re just a scared girl who couldn’t protect her sister.”
Makoto gritted her teeth, but her knuckles trembled.
⚔ Ren vs. Shadow Ren ⚔
Justicia raised her blade high, only to meet Corrupted Freya and Corrupted Maid Marian — both shadows circling like wolves, their weapons warped and dripping.
“You think you’ve found balance?” Shadow Freya sneered.
“You’re still split, still torn in two,” Shadow Marian hissed.
“And when he chooses… it won’t be you. You’ll always be second best.”
Ren’s sceptre quivered, her heart twisting in doubt.
⚔ Haru vs. Shadow Haru ⚔
Zenobia’s jeweled crown gleamed — until Corrupted Milady strode forth, veiled in shadows that wept blood.
“You only fight because you hate your father,” Shadow Haru hissed, her axe dripping black ichor. “You’ve never had your own will. Without your anger, you’re nothing.”
Haru’s breath hitched, her stance faltering.
⚔ Kasumi vs. Shadow Kasumi ⚔
Eurydice leapt skyward, ribbons trailing — but Corrupted Terpsichore danced with twisted grace, her ribbons barbed and strangling.
“You’re a fraud,” Shadow Kasumi mocked. “Always needing her to be in your shadow. Always pretending. You don’t even know who you are without her.”
Kasumi’s step broke — her hand clenched at her chest.
⚔ Hifumi vs. Shadow Hifumi ⚔
Astraea’s spear gleamed, only to be caught by Corrupted Yuenu — a warped, dragon-scaled phantom wreathed in shadow fire.
“Your strategies are nothing but cowardice,” Shadow Hifumi whispered, her legs striking with ruthless efficiency. “You’re afraid to commit, afraid to leap, afraid of failure. Always a game to you, because you can’t bear reality.”
Hifumi’s face paled, her defense faltering under the blows.
⚔ In the air — Futaba vs. Shadow Futaba ⚔
Above, Hypatia’s colossal craft clashed against Corrupted Necronomicon — a jagged UFO of black iron and screaming runes. Laser fire lit the sky in spirals.
Shadow Futaba’s voice crawled through her comms like static.“You’re useless without them. A shut-in, a leech, hiding behind screens. They fight while you cower. You’re nothing but a parasite clinging to heroes.”
Futaba flinched, her hacking lines fraying, Hypatia stuttering in the air.
⚔ Lavenza vs. Shadow Justine & Caroline ⚔
And at the center, Lavenza faced her own Shadows — Corrupted Justine and Caroline, masks cracked, eyes burning with cruel hunger. They danced between dozens of Personas — one moment Belial, the next Kali, then Odin — their attacks weaving in elegant, lethal arcs.
“You were never meant to be whole,” they sneered together, their voices cruel echoes. “You’re just fragments stitched together. A doll who pretends at humanity. You’ll never be real.”
Lavenza parried with Lucifer and Alice, but each strike left her breath shorter, each whisper cutting deeper.
The battlefield was chaos incarnate — light and shadow clashing, sparks and venom flying. Yet despite their ascended Personas, the Thieves found themselves faltering. Every blow landed heavy, every word whispered like poison.
And all the while, Apophis loomed, shadows streaming from his form, thickening the air, pressing on their lungs, draining their strength.
The girls staggered, their knees buckling, weapons trembling in their hands. The oppressive atmosphere bled their stamina away, their light flickering.
The serpent hissed in delight, eyes glowing hotter. “See? Even with your new masks… even with your pretty bonds… you cannot defeat yourselves. The Abyss will have you.”
The clash raged on — but every strike grew heavier, every step slower. Their breath steamed in the poisoned air, hearts weighed down by the oppressive venom of Apophis. Each whisper from the Shadow doubles rang louder, sinking into cracks they thought long sealed.
Ann staggered as Corrupted Carmen’s whip tore through the air, catching her shoulder. Shiho’s arms quivered from parrying a storm of gunfire. Futaba’s voice trembled in the comms. Even Lavenza, radiant though she was, found herself forced back by her darker twins’ flawless coordination.
The Thieves fell into a ragged circle, their radiant Personas flickering like dying lanterns. For a moment — a single, horrible moment — despair clutched them all.
Apophis’s laughter thundered like the sky tearing open. “Yes… yes! Little sparks. Fade into the dark. Break beneath your own truths.”
Ryuemi’s jaw clenched, blood on her lip. Her blade flared as Teuta surged behind her. With a snarl, she raised her hand. “Not… giving… in!” she roared — and lightning screamed from the sky.
She had aimed her Wild Thunder blast at her own shadow — but the blast swerved, arcing through the chaos. It crashed into Corrupted Lola Belmont instead. Shadow Morgane screamed, body writhing as sparks tore through her — her corrupted form twitching violently before staggering back, smoke rising.
For the first time, one of the Shadows faltered. The Thieves froze, blinking through exhaustion. A ripple of realization cut through their despair.
Makoto caught a nuclear-charged punch from her dark twin, heat burning through her arms. She grit her teeth, her eyes widening. “It’s not working because… we’re not meant to fight our own darkness,” she breathed. Her voice trembled, but carried enough to reach them all. “We’re meant to overcome each other’s.”
Ann’s eyes widened. Haru gasped. Hifumi straightened, Astraea’s blade gleaming even through her exhaustion. Her mind snapped into place like a shogi board. “Then let’s mix it up!” she shouted. “Yukiko, you take mine—I'll take yours!”
Uzume and Astraea whirled in tandem, their gazes shifting across the battlefield. The others caught on — sparks of determination flickering in their tired eyes.
Ann whipped her gaze to Shiho, fire dancing once more in her irises. “I’ll cover you!” Ryuemi growled, hefting her cutlass. “Morgane, you and me, switch!” Kasumi nodded sharply, wiping blood from her lip. “I’ll take Haru’s. Let’s throw them off balance!”
One by one, the Phantom Thieves squared their stances anew, not against their own twisted selves — but against the Shadows of their sisters-in-arms. One by one, the Shadows fell—banished in flashes of light, undone not by singular strength, but by trust. Coordination. Love.
And now, only one enemy remained. Apophis. Still looming. Still snarling. But his voice no longer echoed with certainty. “No… no. You were supposed to break… to devour each other…”
The twelve Phantom Thieves regrouped, battle-worn but united, their real Personas glowing behind them. They turned toward Apophis, their weapons raised, their eyes clear. “You wanted to drown us in ourselves,” Ann said coldly. “But you forgot one thing…”
Makoto stepped forward, lifting her fists. “We’re not who we were anymore.”
Hifumi nodded, her blade glowing with starlight. “We’re stronger together.”
And Lavenza, floating at the front, her grimoire glowing brighter than ever before, finished the thought. “And we will bring our Rebel back.”
A low, pulsing roar tore through the battlefield, shaking the air and cracking the earth. Apophis’s titanic coils smashed into the ground, sending tidal waves of corruption rippling outward. Venom poured from his fangs like rivers of acid, burning canyons into the ruined plane.
“YOU DARE DEFY THE INEVITABLE?” he thundered, his voice like a storm of knives. His eyes blazed with ruinous flame, venom dripping like black suns. “I AM THE END. I AM THE VOID. THE FIRST REBEL IS MINE!”
The Thieves braced themselves against the wave of despair — but then, twelve lights rose.
From the open pages of Lavenza’s Grimoire, the Consorts of Satanael surged forth once more. Not as visions this time, but as blazing avatars, radiant with their true might.
They spread in a circle, their voices rising like a hymn against the void:
“Then we shall tear you open, Serpent.”
“You will not bind our beloved again.”
“The Rebel will rise — and you will fall.”
Apophis lunged — but the Consorts moved first.
Hecate raised her torch, fire splitting into three paths. Silver-blue flames cut across Apophis’s body, searing through scales with crossroads fire that refused to be extinguished. Sekhmet leapt high, her mane blazing. With a roar, she brought her claws down, raking gashes across the Serpent’s head. Each strike ignited into explosions of solar fire. Aphrodite shimmered forward, her beauty weaponized into ruin. Chains of rose-gold light snapped tight around Apophis’s coils, dragging them taut, leaving him exposed.
Kichijōten whirled her ribbons of fortune, threads of golden light weaving into snaring nets. They tangled around Apophis’s jaws, halting his venomous bite. Selene drew her bow of moonlight, loosing a thousand arrows at once. Each shaft pierced shadow, embedding in his flesh like stars in the night sky. Saraswati raised her veena, strumming chords that turned into blades of water and insight. Each note struck a weak point, unraveling curses woven into his scales.
Nephthys drifted like smoke, her veil a shroud of night. With each flick of her hands, void peeled away from Apophis, shadows torn from his own skin. Demeter stamped her foot, the earth bursting into wheat and thorny vines that coiled around Apophis’s body, rooting him in place as green fire spread. Eos descended in a blaze of dawnfire, wings stretched wide. She flared brighter than the sun, her spear striking Apophis’s chest with the force of morning breaking eternal night.
Kan’non lifted her lotus wheel, sending it spinning across the Serpent’s body. The wheel cleaved shadow from flesh, carving purifying lines that bled golden light. Maat extended her scales, radiant and terrible. With each tilt, Apophis’s movements slowed, weighed down by judgment itself, every false word caught and crushed beneath balance. Durga finished the circle, her many arms blazing with weapons. With a cry that split the heavens, she struck with sword, spear, trident, and discus in unison — a hurricane of wrathful divinity.
Apophis screamed as the combined assault tore through him, his coils lashing wildly, shattering mountains and breaking sky. Venom rained, shadows wailed — but the Consorts pressed on, their voices one:
“He will not fall. He is ours.”
With a final coordinated strike, the Consorts focused all their radiance into a single point. Beams of fire, moonlight, water, judgment, fortune, dawn, and wrath fused into one.
The light struck Apophis’s belly — and for the first time, the Serpent howled in pain.
His armored hide split, flesh tearing open in a gaping wound that oozed darkness like molten tar. The wound pulsed, vast and raw, a doorway into the core of the beast.
Apophis let out a scream unlike anything heard before—a sound of unraveling, of a god’s defeat, of chains fracturing. The Thieves stood together, gasping, breathless, watching. Lavenza looked down, her grimoire now blindingly bright. “Now… it is your turn. Free him.”
The light from Lavenza’s grimoire erupted like a dying star, a shockwave of radiance that cleaved through the air and tore into the Serpent’s chest. A blur of black feathers and fire shot forward—Arsène, reborn in the heart of battle. With a cry that rang louder than steel, he plunged into the exposed cavity of Apophis’ belly.
From the abyss, a hand reached out. Shaking. Bloody. Burning with barely-contained power. Arsène caught it without hesitation. And pulled.
Out of the shadow's gut, through bile and broken chains, Akira emerged—ragged, glowing, every breath laced with pain and fury. His body trembled with repressed energy, so much it cracked the air around him. A single chain still coiled around his chest, glowing crimson.
The last seal. Akira turned, eyes wide with fear as Arsène stepped forward, one clawed hand resting on the chain. “Arsène… no,” he rasped.
The Phantom in red and black smiled—a smile that held centuries of rebellion. “Allez, mon grand… don’t make that face,” Arsène said softly, his other hand settling on Akira’s shoulder. “This is no farewell. Just a brief departure.”
Akira’s head shook violently. “But you’re part of me.”
“And I always will be. Just part of someone… bigger.”
Arsène’s grip tightened on the chain, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against Akira’s. “But for now, I must bid you adieu…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “So goodbye…”
The chain began to burn white. “And goodnight.”
With a roar of pure will, Arsène ripped the final chain apart.
Both he and Akira screamed—two voices bound together by fate—as a cataclysm of light exploded outward. The world trembled. The Thieves staggered, shielding their eyes from the brilliance. The Serpent writhed in agony.
And then—
Silence.
As the light faded, Akira stood alone in the stillness. Smoke curled from his shoulders. His coat billowed. And resting over his eyes—the old domino mask.
A smile touched his lips. “You are one big worm, aren’t you?”
Apophis howled in fury and lunged. Akira didn’t flinch. Instead, he chuckled and raised two fingers to his mask. “And I’m the early bird.”
Behind him, the air split open like glass. A rift of pure will.
From its depths stepped Satanael—more immense, more majestic, more terrible than ever before. Crowned with celestial fire, his wings cloaked in divine shadow, the rebel god towered behind his Harbinger.
Without a word, he grabbed Apophis by the throat—the Serpent shrieking, coiling, clawing—and in one smooth motion, plunged his pistol into the beast’s open maw.
Akira smiled, eyes calm. Closed them. “Bang.”
The gun fired. The shot echoed like divine judgment. Apophis convulsed… then dissolved into mist. Into screams. Into nothing.
Satanael stood still for a moment—then bowed his head. One by one, the Consorts shimmered around him, their forms dissolving like morning dew, returning to where they belonged. Back to Akira.
As Satanael faded, Akira staggered forward, scorched boots hitting scorched earth. The Thieves rushed to meet him—but he lifted a hand, just briefly. A simple gesture. He looked at each of them, eyes glassy with exhaustion. “I love you all,” he whispered.
And then—
He collapsed.
Notes:
And there we have it, the girls have finally got through to Akira, and gained their Ultimate Personas in the process.
In case people are wondering - The Compedium and the Grimoire are two seperate things in this universe. The Compedium is the Personas that Akira has/ had access to in this run. The Grimoire is the collection of ALL the Personas that Akira has ever had access to over his multiple runs (which is how Lavenza was able to pull out Lucifer and Alice)Next couple of chapters will be focusing a lot more on slice-of-life and polycule stuff.
Chapter 32: No More Running
Summary:
Akira finally stops running from his feelings and embraces the madness that comes with loving 12 incredible women
Lots of kisses and fluff
Akira gives each of the girls a piece of his soul - Shoutout to Revswagger for giving me the idea of Soul Anklets a while ago :)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunlight streamed softly through the curtains, painting faint golden lines across the duvet. The breeze outside rustled through the leaves, carrying the smell of summer rain and distant traffic. Birds chirped. Akira’s eyes fluttered open.
For a moment, he simply breathed. The ceiling above was familiar. No eerie crimson light. No battlefield of steel and black flame. No chains. No screaming. Just… peace.
And yet—
His heart still raced as the memories poured in: Apophis, writhing and hissing; the Shadow doubles, relentless and cruel; the moment Arsène smiled and whispered goodbye; the brilliance of Satanael’s return.
And then—
Them.
Ann screaming his name as she tore through her darker self.
Ryuemi holding back tears as she threw herself into the fray.
Shiho's eyes flashing with unrelenting fire.
Makoto, Futaba, Yukiko, Morgane, Hifumi, Haru, Kasumi, Lavenza, Ren—
Each one of them. Fighting for him. Bleeding for him. Standing between him and death itself.
Akira exhaled, his hands fisting the sheets.
They weren’t going anywhere. They weren’t illusions or fleeting dreams or people destined to leave. They had chosen him. And for once, he didn’t feel the urge to run.
A quiet, shaky laugh escaped him. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, blinking rapidly as the sting behind his eyes grew. Then he sat up, turning to look out the window—watching as the morning unfolded over Yongen.
It’s okay, he realized. It’s okay to love them.
And not just one of them. All of them. They weren’t fighting over him. They were fighting for him. He smiled, eyes still a little glassy, and let them drift closed.
Inside his soul—the endless twilight that housed his Personas—he found himself once more at the throne. But this time, the throne was not empty. Satanael sat relaxed and regal, his massive form slouched slightly with a kind of practiced nonchalance. Draped across his arms and shoulders, curled near his boots and perched at his back, were twelve divine figures—the Consorts, radiant and terrible in their grace.
Each one of them—his strength, his defiance, his soul—his family. Satanael looked up with a chuckle, regal and at ease. “It appears you’ve finally decided to stop running, Harbinger.”
Akira raised an eyebrow and gave him a lopsided grin. “I guess I have,” he admitted. “Not that I had much choice. I don’t think they’d let me escape even if I tried.”
At that, a ripple of laughter spread through the Consorts—light and delighted. Satanael’s shoulders shook as he laughed alongside his Harbinger, the sound like thunder and wind wrapped in velvet. “They have chosen you as you chose them,” Satanael said. “You knew this truth. But now, at last, you accept it.”
For a long moment, nothing more needed to be said. Then, smiling faintly to himself, Akira exhaled and opened his eyes. Still quiet. Still safe.
The floor was cool beneath his bare feet as Akira padded toward the bathroom. The apartment was still, save for the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft groan of the pipes as he turned on the faucet. He stared at his reflection for a moment—disheveled black hair, faint bags under his eyes, and that familiar storm-grey gaze, clearer now than it had been in a long time.
He brushed his teeth. Stretched. Dropped to the floor for his usual push-ups, then plank, then a few rounds of shadowboxing. It wasn’t much, but it felt good. Familiar. Grounding.
The shower was quick and hot. Steam clung to the mirror as he toweled off and stepped back into his room, tugging on a loose black T-shirt and joggers. Still quiet. Still peaceful.
He made his way to his kitchenette, sunbeams slanting in through the blinds. Akira moved like clockwork—grinding the beans, setting the filter, warming the cup. As the aroma of coffee filled the air, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
It was strange how normal this all felt. After Apophis. After Arsène. After everything. But maybe that was the point. He poured the coffee and took a long sip, the bitterness grounding him. Then he reached for his phone. A notification from a new group chat. Twelve unread messages. He looks at the name and laughs.
[Group Chat: Operation Claim His Heart - Successful 💖]
VicePresident: “Good morning, Akira. You slept well, right? We’ve been waiting for this moment… tonight, you’re all ours. And we are yours”
PixelPrincess: “Alert: Operation Heart Rescue successful. Tonight, we celebrate our greatest victory 😘”
BimboBerry: “Finally... I’ve been smiling all night just realizing you’ve accepted us 💕🍰”
BangBangBaby: “Stretching won’t be enough—you’ve got a whole night of love coming your way 😏”
BlossomUndone: “The stars seem brighter now. Maybe it’s just reflecting how happy I am… that you’re finally ours.”
SiroccoFée: “If my skating amazed you, wait until you see my dancing tonight. You’ll be the first one I hold close 💃”
BrewedObedience: “No need to brew your coffee yet… tonight, one mug, one heart, shared.”
PlunderBae: “Stamina check, Akira? You’re going to need it. We’ve been waiting so long to show you how much we care 😘”
BendMeBaby: “You’re awake, right? My heart’s been racing ever since I knew you accepted us~”
SinGlazed: “12 women. 1 thief. And we’ve been dreaming of this moment… finally, you’re all ours.”
QueenOfHeels: “Checkmate, Trickster. Tonight, surrender feels so good… because it’s to love 💋”
ButterflyBliss: “Rest well, Akira. Tonight, your soul shall be embraced… by those who saved you, and adore you.”
Akira stared at the screen, a warm smile spreading across his face. Coffee forgotten, he typed with a mix of awe and relief.
Trickster: “I can’t believe it… after all this time, I’m finally home. And I’ve never felt more alive.”
A sharp knock rattled the front door. Akira blinked. He hadn’t even finished his coffee yet. He padded over, cup in hand, and pulled it open. Futaba stood there, windswept and grinning like she’d just ran the entire way down the street. “Great, I made it here first,” she chirped, stepping past him into the apartment like she owned the place.
Akira raised a brow, watching her green jacket hit the floor as she strolled into his front room. “First?” he echoed, closing the door behind her. “I’m guessing the others are on their way too?”
“Uh-huh.” Futaba had her hands clasped behind her back, rocking back and forth on her heels like a schoolgirl caught sneaking cookies. Her usual manic energy was there—but underneath it, something gentler simmered. Nervous anticipation. Hope.
“We... um... we need to talk to you. All of us,” she said.
Akira took another sip of coffee, his storm-grey eyes resting on her with quiet warmth. “Figured something like that was coming.”
He tilted his head toward the kitchen. “You want some coffee while you wait?”
Futaba didn’t answer right away. She looked up at him—really looked—and something in her posture changed. She took a deep, grounding breath, shoulders rising and falling like she was steadying herself for a boss fight. Then she closed the distance between them in three quick steps.
Before Akira could react, her hands gripped the front of his shirt, and she pulled him down into a kiss—firm, certain, utterly Futaba. She stood on her toes to reach him, her lips soft and sweet and a little awkward, but full of feeling. Akira didn’t pull away. He kissed her back, instinctively steadying her by the waist.
When they finally parted, Futaba looked dazed but triumphant. “Mmmmm…” she hummed, licking her lips slightly. “That is some delicious coffee…”
Akira blinked, still holding his cup in one hand, the other lightly resting at her back. He gave her a slow, impressed smirk. “I’ll take that as a five-star review.”
Futaba beamed, her cheeks burning red as she stepped back—only to reach out and steal the mug from his hand, sipping from it herself now like it was a shared trophy. Then came another knock at the door. Futaba didn’t even flinch. She just grinned again.
Akira glanced toward the door, but it was already cracking open—Morgane had apparently let herself in. She stepped inside carrying two shopping bags, her lips already parted to say something—only to freeze mid-step when she caught sight of Futaba still in Akira’s arms. And the two of them looking very freshly kissed.
The bags dropped with a thud to the floor. “Futaba, you absolute gremlin!” Morgane barked, a hand flying to her hip. “Tabarnak! On avait un deal!”
Akira blinked. Futaba didn’t even flinch.
“Ohhh, I’m gonna kick your ass so bad,” Morgane continued, half in English, half in increasingly animated Quebecois French. “Le girl code signifie rien pour toi ou quoi?”
Futaba just wiggled deeper into Akira’s side and stuck her tongue out. “You snooze, you lose, cat girl.”
Morgane’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Je vais te griffer jusqu’à la stratosphère…”
Akira finally chuckled, setting the mug down on the table beside them and giving Futaba a gentle pat on the head. “Alright, alright,” he murmured, then turned to Morgane with that familiar slow-burning warmth in his eyes. “Viens ici, ma petite chaton…”
Morgane’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, she just stared at him—eyes wide, lips parting slightly in surprise. And then she launched herself at him. Akira caught her easily, arms strong and steady, spinning her in a slow half-circle as her legs curled instinctively around his waist.
She barely gave him time to grin before her hands cupped his face and she kissed him like a girl starved—desperate and demanding and undeniably hers. He kissed her back just as hard, one hand fisting in her thick black curls, the other holding her effortlessly as if she'd weighed nothing at all.
When they finally broke apart, Morgane was panting, flushed and victorious. She looked over Akira’s shoulder and gave Futaba a sharp grin. “That’s how you kiss someone awake, salope.”
Futaba pretended to gag theatrically. “Ugh, get a room already.” Morgane stuck her tongue out over Akira’s shoulder. “You got yours. Now let me have mine, connasse.”
Futaba gave her a mock salute, then casually flopped onto the couch like she was settling in for a show. “Don’t mind me.”
Akira laughed softly, holding Morgane close, feeling the familiar warmth of something right, something whole, wrapping itself around his heart.
Two down. And he could already hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Akira gently lowered Morgane to the couch, her fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt like she didn’t want to let go. She gave a soft sigh, cheeks glowing, before flopping beside Futaba, who handed her the coffee mug like a silent offering of truce.
The door swung open again.
Ann and Shiho stepped inside, arms full of bags—matching grins on their faces as they chatted about something unseen. But their words cut off mid-sentence the moment they looked up.
They froze. Akira stood in the center of the room, looking undeniably rumpled. His shirt hung slightly askew, his lips still faintly swollen, his hair tousled in that very specific, just-been-kissed way. On the couch, Futaba and Morgane looked flushed and disarmed, like guilty children caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
Shiho squinted suspiciously, setting her bags down with deliberate care. “Girls… what did…”
“She started it!” Morgane squeaked immediately, pointing accusingly at Futaba. “She broke code first!”
Futaba, entirely unbothered, threw a peace sign into the air. “Worth it.”
Morgane gestured helplessly. “And then Akira spoke French in that voice and I—!”
“Uh-huh.” Shiho cut her off with a wave of her hand, unimpressed by the flurry of half-excuses. She exchanged a glance with Ann.
Ann hadn’t moved. Her blue eyes were locked on Akira like he was the last dessert in a five-star pâtisserie. Slowly, her lips curled into a hungry smirk.
Shiho let out a short, incredulous breath. “Oh, what the hell…” She strode toward Akira with unshakable confidence, her gaze steady. He met her halfway.
There was no hesitation. Their lips met with an intensity that sparked through the air like a live wire—electric, yes, but grounding too. Like two people anchoring themselves to one another after months of knowing, waiting, wanting.
When they parted, Shiho was breathless and just a little dazed. She turned her head slightly, just enough to shoot Ann a look that said, What are you waiting for, girl?
Ann didn’t need a second invitation. With the sway of a predator and the gleam of mischief in her eyes, she sauntered forward. Akira’s grin spread, slow and amused, as he caught her by the waist and pulled her in close. The kiss that followed was blistering—open, raw, and laced with heat. Futaba let out a squeak. Morgane clutched a pillow to her chest. Even Shiho had to bite her lip and look away for a second. Ann finally pulled back with a pleased sigh, licking her lips as if savoring the taste. “Mmm… that’s more like it.”
Akira let out a low laugh, brushing his thumb along Ann’s jawline, eyes still warm from the kiss. But then his head turned as he heard footsteps at the door—two distinct strides, one quick and confident, the other steady and composed.
Ryuemi entered first, followed closely by Makoto. Ryuemi took one look at the room—the flushed faces, tousled hair, Akira’s loosened collar, the unmistakable heat lingering in the air—and threw her hands up.
“Seriously?” she said, exasperated. “None of you can wait ten minutes!”
Akira met her glare with a lazy, unapologetic grin and opened his arms wide. “If you want one,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever, “come get it.”
Ryuemi rolled her eyes, but her smirk betrayed her amusement. She crossed the room in a few quick strides and, without another word, kissed him. It was bold, unapologetic, and full of warmth—a kiss that said, I know you. I trust you.
When they parted, Ryuemi tapped his chest with a grin. “Now we’re even.” Then she turned to Makoto, who stood just a step behind, stiff but watching, cheeks blooming red.
Ryuemi reached out and took Makoto’s hand gently. “Your turn now, ’Koto,” she said softly, coaxing. “Tell him.”
Makoto’s breath hitched. She looked at Akira with wide eyes, then gave Ryuemi’s hand a squeeze before stepping forward. “I…” she began, voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to… pin me to the wall… please?”
The words hung in the air like a spark before a flame. Akira blinked, a little surprised—but only for a moment. Then something shifted in his expression. Not lust, not dominance, but a deep, quiet understanding. He nodded slowly, and his voice dropped into something gentle. “Over there?”
Makoto turned without a word and walked to the wall, placing herself against it, spine straight, hands curling into fists at her sides. Her heart pounded in her ears, but she didn’t look away. Akira followed. Step by step, deliberate and measured. The room seemed to hold its breath as he came to a stop in front of her, placing one hand flat against the wall beside her head. His other hand reached up, tilting her chin ever so slightly upward. His face was close now. Not demanding. Not hurried. Just present. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, and then his lips met hers.
It wasn’t rough or fast—it was tender, reverent, as if she were made of something sacred and he was the only one allowed to touch her like this. Makoto melted beneath the kiss, her shoulders relaxing as she reached up, hesitantly, to rest her hands against his chest. Around them, the others watched in quiet awe, something soft and knowing passing between their glances.
The front door creaked open again, and this time a gentle, melodic voice floated into the room. “I swear, Hifumi, if that thing gets stuck on the stairs again—”
“I told you, it has wheels. I just didn’t account for how heavy it would be with...,” came Hifumi’s dry, slightly winded reply as she wrestled a large suitcase into the entryway.
Yukiko stepped in first, lugging her signature makeup bag—a rather elegant, embroidered case nearly the size of a small toolbox—slung over one shoulder. Her eyes landed on the scene in the front room: Morgane curled into one side of the couch, Futaba perched smugly on the other, Ryuemi and Shiho relaxed nearby, Ann leaning against the wall looking positively dazed… and Makoto, still tucked beneath Akira’s arm, eyes downcast but glowing.
Yukiko came to a slow stop. Hifumi followed a beat later, pausing mid-suitcase tug. They exchanged a glance. Then, in perfect sync, they both sighed and shook their heads.
Yukiko sighed dramatically. “Of course you started without us.”
Hifumi gave a soft tsk, brushing back a lock of hair. “I told you we should’ve left earlier.”
“Ladies,” Akira said with a grin, spreading his arms again with that same irresistible charm. “You came just in time.”
Yukiko set her makeup bag on the table and sauntered over, voice smooth as lacquer. “Then don’t keep us waiting, watashi no ai.”
Akira met her halfway. Her kiss was refined, but not cold—measured, warm, and heady like the first sip of sake in winter. She hummed into it, one hand ghosting along his jawline, before pulling back with a serene smile. “Mmm. That’s better.”
Then Hifumi stepped forward, her tone softer but no less resolute. “I may not be the first…” she murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek, “but I won’t be the last either.”
Akira’s expression gentled instantly. He leaned in without hesitation, pressing his forehead to hers for a moment before kissing her deeply. Hifumi melted into it, one hand finding its way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. When they broke apart, Hifumi’s lips curved with quiet confidence, then turned to look at the doorway. “Looks like someone else has arrived.”
Ren and Haru stepped in—Ren in her usual fitted blazer and skirt combo, hair immaculate as ever; Haru in a flowing blouse and wide-legged pants, her curls bouncing with every step. But both froze the moment they saw Hifumi standing on her toes, Akira gently leaning down to meet her in a slow, lingering kiss. Ren blinked once. Haru let out a tiny, surprised hum. They exchanged a look—no words, just one of those silent, loaded conversations girls have when they know exactly what’s going on and what they plan to do next. Haru set down her handbag with elegant precision, brushing her curls back with a sweet, practiced smile. “My turn now,” she said, voice light and melodic—but there was a definite edge of hunger under the sugar.
Before Akira could even fully stand upright, Haru was already reaching up, tangling both hands in his unruly black hair and yanking him down with surprising strength. Her lips crushed against his, plush and demanding, her body pressed flush against his with no pretense of restraint. The others blinked, half-stunned at the rare sight of Haru letting go so completely. Akira responded in kind—one hand gripping her waist, the other curling behind her neck as he kissed her deeply, thoroughly. Her fingers slid back through his hair slowly as they parted, her eyes half-lidded and glowing with quiet fire.
Then Ren stepped forward, her shoes echoing softly on the wooden floor. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her eyes locked on Akira’s, fierce and raw. Her hands came up and cupped his face—not delicately, but with need, urgency, her nails grazing his jaw as she pulled him down and kissed him like she was breathing for the first time in weeks.
There was no build-up. No soft sigh. Just fire. Akira’s arms wrapped around her instinctively, grounding her as she trembled slightly against him—pressing her full weight into his chest like she was melting. Ren made a low noise in her throat as their mouths moved, like every bottled-up thought and craving and longing she'd ever had was pouring out through that single, scorching kiss.
By the time she broke away—lips red, breath short—there was silence. Every girl in the room was watching, quiet and still. Ren looked up at him with glassy eyes, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “Don’t ever pretend you don’t know what you mean to us again,” she whispered.
Akira blinked slowly. Then he smiled—something warm, open, and almost shy. “I won’t,” he murmured.
The door opened one final time with a soft chime, and the morning sunlight spilled across the floor. Kasumi stepped in first, her ponytail bouncing with each step, followed by Lavenza, her white-blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ear as she carried a smaller bag in both hands. Between them, they had enough food to feed a small army—fresh croissants, fruit, yakisoba-pan, egg sandwiches, and two thermoses of miso soup.
“Breakfast brigade reporting for duty,” Kasumi chirped, nudging the door closed with her hip.
Futaba was already hopping off the couch before the door fully shut. “Ooooh, perfect timing! Food!”
She darted over, practically snatching the bag out of Kasumi’s hand while Shiho grabbed the other with a roll of her eyes and a small grin. “We got it,” Shiho said. “You two go make out with Akira now. It’s apparently a thing.”
“Yup!” Futaba added, popping a grape into her mouth. “You guys are last, but don’t worry—his lips are still like magic. Seriously, I think I saw God.”
Kasumi flushed bright pink. “F-Futaba!”
Even Lavenza blinked at her, then looked up at Akira, expression unreadable. “Magic, you say…?”
Akira, still standing beside the couch, gave them both a sheepish but affectionate smile. “No pressure,” he said softly, his voice still a little hoarse from everything that morning had become.
Kasumi took a deep breath, then squared her shoulders. “Then I want my share of that magic.”
She walked forward, her steps light but purposeful. Akira opened his arms slightly—an unspoken invitation she met with quiet determination. She reached up, threading her hands through his hair as she kissed him softly at first... then deeper, longer. There was grace in her every movement, but also a slow-burning intensity. When she pulled back, her cheeks were crimson, but her eyes were clear. “That’s... way more effective than black coffee,” she whispered with a breathless laugh.
Then Lavenza stepped forward, calm and poised. She set the bag of pastries down gently on the nearby table, smoothed the skirt of her pale blue dress, and looked up at Akira—her gaze gentle but unwavering. “May I?” she asked.
Akira blinked, then nodded. Lavenza reached up on tiptoes and placed her hands lightly on his chest. She leaned in, brushing her lips against his in a kiss that was delicate, almost reverent—but there was nothing unsure about it. It was a promise. A quiet vow. A thread pulling taut between them that shimmered with something older and deeper than time.
When she stepped back, she looked at the girls. “I concur,” she said primly. “They are very magical.”
That earned a mix of laughter, groans, and playful teasing from the others, the atmosphere lightening again—though the air between them all was undeniably changed.
Akira stood in the center of it all, surrounded by the women who loved him. And for once... he didn’t feel haunted. He felt chosen.
The scent of warm miso, sweet bread, and fresh fruit mingled with laughter as the girls set about arranging breakfast across the coffee table and kitchen counter. Plates were passed, cups filled, napkins tossed like confetti. No one quite took a seat so much as they sprawled—on couches, armrests, cushions on the floor. Legs tangled. Shoulders bumped. Someone’s thigh pressed against someone else’s hip. The space was full, chaotic, and humming with affection.
Akira sat cross-legged on the floor near the couch, his back to it. Before him was a steaming bowl of rice and tamagoyaki, a buttered croissant resting on the edge of his plate like it wasn’t sure which culture it belonged to. Futaba had flopped beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as she chewed a mouthful of melon bread with the slow, sleepy satisfaction of a cat in the sun.
Makoto sat to his right, poised but relaxed, holding her chopsticks with precision as she picked up slices of rolled egg. Every so often, her thigh brushed his. Yukiko, behind them on the couch, had leaned forward to snag a sausage from Akira’s plate without asking, her wrist grazing his neck.
He blinked.
That wasn’t unusual, was it?
His gaze drifted around the room.
Morgane was half on Ann’s lap, curled into her side like she belonged there. Ann, one hand holding a triangle of onigiri, absentmindedly played with the ends of Morgane’s curls. Shiho sat on the floor in front of them, her head tipped back onto Ann’s knee. Haru leaned against Hifumi’s shoulder, the two quietly sharing a pear they were slicing with delicate coordination.
And every few minutes… someone touched him. Not always with intention—Yukiko’s fingers ghosting along his collar as she reached past him, Hifumi smoothing the crease of his shirt while passing a drink, Ren running her nails briefly down his spine as she walked by to sit next to Lavenza. Even Lavenza herself, quiet and composed, let her bare knee rest against his when she sat beside him on the carpet.
It wasn’t overwhelming.
But it was constant.
A hand on his back. A whisper near his neck. A knuckle tracing his wrist before pulling away.
It was them. All of them. They were always reaching for each other. They were always reaching for him. Like they had decided, somehow, that he belonged to them—and that they belonged to each other.
Then Ann spoke.
She was curled up beside Yukiko, her long legs tucked under her, eyes trained on Akira with that unreadable expression she sometimes wore—half vulnerability, half lioness.
“So, Akira…” she said, her voice light but loaded. “Like… I guess you finally get it?”
He blinked, caught off guard.
Ann gestured lazily with her hand, encompassing the entire room. The laughter. The lingering touches. The girls pressed against him and one another.
“We all love you,” she said simply. “And… we love each other too. Deeply. Equally. This isn’t just about you—it’s about us. All of us.”
Akira looked around again. At the girls he had fought beside. Cried with. Danced with. Bled with. Loved—though he hadn’t dared admit it until now.
He let out a slow breath and nodded, his eyes meeting Ann’s, then sweeping across each of them.
“I still find it hard to believe,” he said, voice low and honest, “but… yeah. I get it.”
Ann nodded, satisfied, and leaned back into the couch, her head now resting in Morgane’s lap. There was a quiet moment, the soft clinking of utensils and murmured laughter filling the room — until Ren cleared her throat delicately.
She scooted a little closer to Akira, brushing toast crumbs from her skirt before looking him dead in the eyes with a tiny, almost mischievous smile. “We want to do something special,” she said, tone light but with that commanding steadiness he’d come to know well. “So… could you go for a walk until evening?”
Akira blinked. “A walk?”
Ren’s eyes twinkled. “Until we call you.”
He glanced around the room. Every girl was suddenly very focused on their food, trying and failing to hide their smirks. Then he realized—half of them had brought bags when they arrived.
The oversized makeup kits. The duffels. Hifumi’s suitcase. The clinking of bottles and quiet, suspicious giggles from the kitchen earlier.
He stared for a moment, then let out a low laugh, shaking his head.
“You’re all ridiculous,” he said, smiling.
Ann shrugged. “Maybe. But we’re yours.”
“I guess I’m going for a walk, then,” he said.
Thirty minutes later
Akira’s lips tingled slightly. Glossy. Soft. Overwhelmingly fruit-scented. It had turned into a bit of a ritual. One by one, the girls took turns kissing him goodbye, leaving faint traces of shimmering lip gloss— Futaba had gone first, dragging him down to her level and smearing strawberry-soda gloss all over him before whispering, “Don’t you dare wipe it off.” Then Morgane with her cinnamon-red tint. Shiho with cherry. Yukiko’s was silky and clear but tasted like vanilla. Hifumi's had glitter.
Ren had used plum. Haru, rose. Kasumi’s was sweet, almost honeyed. Makoto had gone with something subtle but lingering. Ann’s had the scent of mangoes and kisses that curled your toes. Lavenza had been the last, pulling him down by his collar and pressing a gentle, reverent kiss to the corner of his mouth.
By the end of it, his lips glinted with a subtle kaleidoscope of color in the light, and his shirt had been tugged into a charmingly rumpled mess.
Morgane gave him a once-over and gave an approving nod. “He’ll do.”
“Don’t come back until we call you!” Haru sing-songed as she opened the door for him.
“We mean it,” Makoto added firmly, arms crossed but smiling.
Akira stepped outside, the morning light warm against his face. The door clicked shut behind him. He walked down the steps with a spring in his step, one hand brushing his lips thoughtfully. He could taste sugar and fruit and warmth.
He smiled to himself. Whatever they were planning, he was pretty sure it was going to be worth the wait.
The streets of Yongen buzzed softly around him as Akira strolled with no particular destination in mind. He didn’t bother pulling up his hood or keeping his head low like he used to. Not today.
There was a strange ease in his body, a looseness in his limbs that he hadn’t felt in… years, maybe. He traced it inward, down to the deep well of his soul. He could feel them—Satanael, massive and weighty, dormant but alert. And around him… warmth. A divine chorus of feminine presence. His Consorts. Their energy interlaced with Satanael’s, echoing his own, like puzzle pieces that had finally slotted into place. And in their harmony, Akira found peace.
He exhaled slowly, his boots crunching lightly along the park path as he made his way toward Inokashira. The lake shimmered under the summer light, couples and families weaving lazily through the greenery. Children laughed in the distance. Eventually, he found a shaded bench under the cherry trees and sank onto it, letting his shoulders fall and his hands rest loosely between his knees. For a moment, he just… existed.
The breeze stirred through his hair, the distant quack of the ducks comforting. And when he closed his eyes, he didn’t fight the thoughts that came. He thought of them.
Of Ann, straddling his lap in that ridiculous photo shoot, whispering, “You’ll never escape me now.”
Of Morgane’s soft gasp as he lifted her effortlessly off the ice and into his arms, her cheeks flushed with more than cold.
Of Shiho, bold and smirking, her lips tasting of cherry as she pulled away like she was proud of him for kissing her back.
He swallowed. His fingers twitched.
He thought of Makoto, breathless, her voice trembling but sure as she stood with her back to the wall. Of Yukiko’s quiet smile just before she rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to his. Of Hifumi, who blushed as she kissed him but clung to him all the same.
He thought of Haru, sweet and dangerous, tugging at his hair like she’d been waiting years to do it. Of Ren, fierce and hungry, her nails scraping along his jaw as if to mark him.
He thought of Futaba’s teasing voice—"His lips are like magic..."—and how proud she’d looked saying it in front of everyone. Of Lavenza, whose kiss had been feather-light but no less intimate, the kind of kiss that left echoes.
Akira let his head fall back against the bench. He could still feel the layers of lip gloss on his mouth, sticky and shimmering, a lingering trophy of affection.
And then his mind drifted deeper. He let himself imagine.
Ann, sprawled across his bed in black lace, that sultry smirk playing on her lips as she beckoned him closer. Morgane, purring in his ear as she pinned his wrists down, fire in her eyes. Shiho, teaching him how to breathe again between kisses that were all edge and firelight.
Makoto, flushed and panting beneath him, her shirt half-off, her hands tangled in his hair. Yukiko, elegant and devastating as she straddled his lap, whispering poetry in his ear with each roll of her hips. Hifumi, teasing him with every move, every flick of her tongue, like she was strategizing his complete undoing.
Haru, gasping his name like a prayer, her curls wild around her face. Ren, eyes locked on his, dragging her nails down his chest as if to claim him. Futaba, bouncing in his lap and laughing, making filthy jokes and moaning at the same time. Lavenza, on her knees with reverence in her eyes, looking at him like he was something sacred.
Akira's breath caught. He hadn’t let himself go there in so long. He hadn’t allowed want to bloom inside him without guilt or fear.
But now? Now he belonged to them as surely as they belonged to him. And for once in his life, he didn’t feel broken for wanting.
The sounds of Big Bang Burger faded as Akira stepped out into the sunlight, brushing a bit of sesame seed from his jacket. It wasn’t the most extravagant lunch he’d ever had, but it was familiar. Grounding.
He pulled out his phone and checked it.
Still no messages.
He smiled to himself. The silence was almost suspicious, but also strangely comforting. Whatever the girls were planning, they were doing it together. He pocketed his phone, intending to head for the train—when something shimmered in the corner of his vision.
There, just behind the alleyway beside the arcade, was a blue door. Out of place. Out of time.
He tilted his head, amused. “Well,” he murmured. “Why not?”
With a step, he slipped through the threshold.
The Velvet Room welcomed him with the scent of aged parchment and firewood. The warm glow of lanterns danced along the polished floorboards and dark velvet upholstery. A fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting flickering light over the plush rugs and wooden beams. Igor sat in his high-backed blue chair by the fire, as always. But this time, he did not rise—he simply looked upon Akira with a knowing smile as the Trickster took his seat across from him.
“You’ve come far, Trickster,” Igor said, his voice low and resonant. “Not only through trials of shadow and steel… but within your heart. You have faced the phantoms of your past—grief, guilt, shame… and you did not look away. You endured.”
Akira didn’t speak. He only nodded, quiet and resolute.
“But the path forward is not without peril.” Igor leaned forward slightly, his bulbous eyes catching the firelight. “It seems you face more than just the Demiurge this time. What exactly, I cannot say... The future is clouded, as if something—or someone—wants it so. But you will need all your strength, and that of others like you, to stand against the coming storms.”
Akira’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m ready,” he said. “Whatever it is. I won’t face it alone.”
Igor’s lips curled in a faint, mysterious smile. “No, I suppose you won’t.” The room was quiet for a beat longer, before Igor tilted his head. “But… that is not why you are here today, is it?”
Akira let out a soft chuckle, his shoulders relaxing. “Today is a day for me to celebrate, not worry,” he said. He paused, glancing at the velvet firelight dancing across the room’s golden trim. “They… they gave me their hearts and souls, Igor. I think it’s only fair that I do the same.”
Igor’s long fingers steepled beneath his nose as he leaned in, eyes gleaming with something fond and ancient. “You wish to create… a tangible expression of affection,” he murmured. “Something eternal. Symbolic. Personal.”
Akira nodded. “One for each of them. Something they can carry with them, always. Something to remind them… that they are never alone.”
Igor was quiet for a moment. His gaze drifted to the fire, as though reading the shape of flames. “There is one thing,” he said slowly. “A means by which to create such tokens. But it will require a sacrifice.”
Akira didn’t hesitate. “No sacrifice is too big for them. You know that.”
A high, warm chuckle escaped Igor’s throat. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Akira’s. “I knew you would say that… Akira.”
The sound of his name from Igor's lips felt like a kind of blessing.
“I will guide you,” Igor said, rising to his feet with slow purpose. “And together, we shall craft these Soul Items… these relics of the heart.”
He extended one long hand toward Akira. “Come. Let us begin.”
Igor’s boot tapped once against the polished floor, and the Velvet Room shifted around them. The fireplace dimmed. The bookshelves receded into mist. The entire space pulled inward toward a single circular platform now glowing faintly beneath Akira’s feet, inscribed with ancient glyphs that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
“This is the Circle of Transmutation,” Igor said solemnly, stepping just beyond the edge of the glyphs. “A sacred forge where essence and intent become creation. The making of Soul Items is, in truth, not my craft—it belongs to a close companion of mine… one whose name has long since been lost to the Sea of Souls, ninety thousand and one hundred fifty-five nights past. And yet—before his memory dissolved entirely, he entrusted me with his knowledge.”
Igor raised one long finger. Blue flame flared at its tip, tracing glowing patterns in the air like a conductor calling forth a symphony of fate.
“You may recall the process of Itemization in your last journey—offering Personas to the guillotine, the electric chair, or the gallows, to transform them into weapons or tools,” he said, his voice steady. “This is similar… but far more delicate. More personal. Here, you do not forge blades—you forge bonds.”
Akira stepped forward into the center of the circle, his feet aligned with the lines of power crisscrossing beneath him.
“For each Soul Item,” Igor continued, “you must offer a Persona aligned with the Arcana of the one you wish to gift. The more powerful the Persona… the stronger the bond it will carry.”
Akira nodded once. “I understand.”
He let out a long breath, grounding himself. Then, his voice rang through the Velvet Room—clear, commanding, reverent. “Surt… Thor… Raphael… Laksmi… Sandalphon… Scathach… Fafnir… Alilat… Siegfried… Sraosha… Chimera… Uriel.”
Akira’s words carried on the air, and the Velvet Room responded. The circle flared to life beneath his boots, the intersecting lines of power brightening into a lattice of blue fire. The twelve outer points of the sigil pulsed one by one, like heartbeats answering his summons.
The first flare ignited at his left. Out of nothingness rose a tower of flame, folding itself into form—Surt, wreathed in molten fire, his blade dripping heat that warped the air. He gave no cry, only a rumbling exhale like an active volcano awaiting command.
Opposite him, a crash of thunder split the air. The second point blazed white, arcs of lightning lashing out as a colossal figure planted his hammer into the floor with a boom that rattled Akira’s chest. Thor, eyes crackling, loomed with the raw force of storm made flesh.
The third point shimmered gold. A gentle radiance blossomed, wings unfurling in sweeping arcs as the archangel descended, every feather trailing motes of light. Raphael folded his hands, gaze soft yet piercing, a healer’s resolve encased in divine strength.
The next flare softened into a lotus bloom of light, fragrant with unseen blossoms. Draped in silken grace, Laksmi appeared with palms outstretched, her presence bringing serenity even amid the storm of power gathering in the circle.
A deep chime echoed as crystalline light rained down, condensing into armored wings. Sandalphon alighted softly, his twin blades resting across his shoulders. Though serene, his form pulsed with suppressed might, as though a prayer turned to weapon.
Then came a ripple of shadow, quick and sharp as a blade’s edge. Scathach stepped from the darkness, spear in hand, eyes alight with the poise of a warrior queen. She inclined her head toward Akira, acknowledging his call with quiet respect.
At the seventh point, the air warped, heavy and metallic. Golden scales flashed as the colossal Fafnir reared, wings flexing against invisible chains. His roar shook the rafters of the Velvet Room, sparks scattering like gemstones.
A crystalline hum followed, delicate but vast. Alilat, the living pillar, emerged in shimmering light—her body an unearthly monument, every surface reflecting the circle’s glow. She seemed at once distant and near, both statue and divinity.
The ninth point burst in silver brilliance, steel ringing as if countless swords had been drawn at once. From the glare strode Siegfried, noble knight gleaming, his blade raised in silent oath. His presence steadied the storm, lending order to chaos.
A hush fell as feathers of pure white drifted down. Sraosha descended with a quiet dignity, robes trailing across the circle, eyes closed in solemn grace. The sound of a thousand whispered prayers followed him, echoing like a chorus.
The eleventh point flared violently, stitched from shadow and flame. Chimera prowled forth, lion’s mane blazing, serpent tail snapping, goat’s eyes burning with defiance. It snarled, circling the edge of its seal, primal hunger radiating in every breath.
Finally, the last point erupted in a spear of burning light. Uriel descended, sword gleaming as though forged from the sun itself. His wings unfurled in a vast sweep, each feather edged with flame. His gaze locked on Akira—not judging, but weighing.
And then, silence.
Twelve great beings stood around him, their power pressing inward, forming a circle of gods, monsters, and legends. The air shimmered, each breath heavy with divinity.
“Close your eyes, Trickster,” Igor murmured. “Speak the name of the one you would honor first… and let your heart guide the form the item will take.”
Akira drew in a slow, reverent breath… and closed his eyes.
Akira drew in a long, reverent breath. The power of the circle pressed against him, heat and light and storm demanding direction. He let it wash through him, searching for the steady spark he knew so well. Then, softly, with all the weight of his bond behind it, he whispered—
“Morgane.”
The name rippled through the circle like a key turned in a lock. At once, Surt stirred. The fire giant’s rumble reverberated through the chamber, a sound like magma shifting in the deep earth. His colossal form blazed brighter, flames licking upward as though drawn by Akira’s intent.
Igor raised a long, gloved hand and traced a glyph in the air before him. Each stroke shimmered in golden-blue light, lines curling and intersecting until a complex seal hovered, pulsing with life. The sigil flared, and the fires of Surt were pulled toward it in a rushing tide.
The giant let out a sound between a growl and a sigh—neither rage nor pain, but release. His body dissolved into torrents of flame, threads of incandescent power that wove themselves into the spinning glyph. The light folded inward, the destructive heat softening, reshaping, refining.
Before Akira’s closed eyes, the conflagration cooled into embers, the embers into sparks, and the sparks into a delicate form. When Igor lowered his hand, the glyph collapsed into a single shining piece of jewelry: An anklet. Slender, delicate—yet thrumming with hidden force. Its chain shimmered in a burnished crimson-gold, as if forged from embers cooled by wind. Tiny charms dangled from it: a feather wrought in green jade, a flame captured in amber, a spiral etched in silver. When the anklet turned, faint currents of air stirred around it, carrying the scent of smoke and pine.
The anklet pulsed once, twice, like a heartbeat. Then, as if sensing Akira’s recognition, it settled softly into his open palm.
Igor lowered his hand, eyes glimmering with approval. “Thus is the first bond made manifest… flame reshaped by the gale, tempered by devotion. The Magician Arcana sings.”
Akira let his fingers brush the first anklet—the warmth of Morgane’s flame still lingering against his palm. Then he closed his eyes again, drawing in the thrum of the circle, letting the power guide him.
“Ryuemi.”
At once, Thor stirred. The thunder god’s eyes flashed, arcs of lightning crawling across his massive frame. He slammed Mjölnir against the ground, and the crack reverberated through the Velvet Room like a starting pistol. Electricity roared outward in concentric rings, searching for a new form.
Igor lifted his hand once more, tracing a glyph of jagged, angular lines—each stroke sparking as though carved from living lightning. The storm around Thor bent toward it, drawn into its hungry lines.
The giant roared, not in defiance but in triumph, as his form split into ribbons of lightning. They braided together, twisting around the sigil in a spiraling weave. The air crackled, the sharp ozone scent stinging Akira’s lungs.
Then the light softened, condensing, cooling into shape. The glow dimmed to reveal an anklet—sturdy but elegant, built not for fragility but endurance.
Its band was forged of gleaming silver, smooth enough to flex with every step, yet strong enough to withstand any strain. Fine etchings of storm-cloud patterns ran along its length, broken up by tiny studs shaped like lightning bolts. At its clasp, a small charm dangled: a winged shoe, faint sparks dancing at its edges.
The whole piece hummed softly with stored energy, as though every step taken while wearing it would crackle with the thrill of a sprint and the power of a storm. It was athletic, practical… yet undeniably feminine, a piece that spoke not of denying strength but embracing beauty through it.
Akira held it reverently, the chain alive in his palm. A smile tugged at him, small and fond. “…Fast, unshakable, and radiant. Just like her.”
Igor inclined his head, watching the lingering sparks fade into the Velvet Room’s glow. “You honor The Chariot’s spirit well, Trickster. The anklet will carry her forward—both the storm she commands, and the grace she is learning to reclaim.”
Akira steadied his breath, the hum of electricity still tingling in his fingertips. He let it fade, searching the rhythm of his heart until another name surfaced, soft but certain.
“Ann.”
The circle answered instantly. Raphael unfolded his wings, each feather spilling golden light that fell like petals. His hands extended in benediction, and the Velvet Room filled with a hush so tender it felt like a caress. The archangel’s gaze lingered on Akira, then lowered—accepting.
Igor’s gloved hand rose once more, tracing arcs of flowing, curved lines. Unlike the jagged power of Thor’s sigil, this glyph bloomed like a rose—spirals within spirals, intricate and graceful. As the final stroke completed, Raphael’s radiance streamed toward it, the angel dissolving into motes of soft gold and blush-pink light.
The air shimmered. Threads of light wove themselves together, delicate as spider silk, until they condensed into something smaller, finer. What remained was an anklet, impossibly delicate, as though spun from strands of sunlight itself. The chain was fine enough to seem fragile, yet it pulsed with hidden strength. Tiny heart-shaped charms, no bigger than teardrops, dangled along its length, each one filled with a faint blush of pink light that pulsed like a heartbeat. At its center hung a single rose-shaped pendant, petals crystalline and translucent, catching the Velvet Room’s blue glow and scattering it like diamonds.
It was an anklet that could belong only to the ultimate seductress—not gaudy, but alluring in its subtlety, every detail designed to draw the eye closer. It carried warmth, tenderness, and the irresistible pull of desire.
Akira held it in both hands, almost afraid his grip might break it. But the chain was strong, resilient in ways that belied its fragile appearance. A slow smile tugged at his lips. “…Delicate, yet unbreakable. Just like her.”
Igor’s voice threaded softly through the silence. “You see her not only as temptation, but as strength clothed in beauty. This anklet will bear The Lovers’s charm and her resolve in equal measure.”
Akira let Ann’s anklet rest in his palm for a moment longer, its warmth still glowing against his skin. Then he drew in another breath, steadying himself against the circle’s power. His next word came smooth and steady, like a note sung into still air:
“Yukiko.”
The circle flared in response. Lakshmi stepped forward, her serene radiance shimmering like a lotus blooming on still water. Her many arms lifted, and for a brief heartbeat the Velvet Room seemed perfumed, as though a thousand blossoms bloomed unseen. Her gaze softened, then bowed, accepting the call.
Igor lifted his hand and began to trace another glyph—this one a lattice of overlapping diamonds, each line drawn with calm precision. The finished sigil glowed with pale blue and silver, cold light that shimmered like frost catching dawn.
Lakshmi’s form began to dissolve in drifting petals that froze midair into crystalline snowflakes. They twirled gracefully into the glyph, layering one atop another until they condensed into a single point of frozen brilliance.
From that brilliance, an anklet took shape. It was slim and elegant, a chain of interlocking silver links so polished they gleamed like ice under moonlight. Along its length, tiny charms in the shape of snowflakes hung at intervals, each one a different design, no two alike. At the clasp, a small teardrop crystal dangled—clear at first glance, but with a faint shimmer of red deep within, like a hidden ember encased in frost.
The anklet gave off a faint coolness to the touch, refreshing rather than harsh, as though it carried the calm of freshly fallen snow. It was artistry made tangible: poised, precise, beautiful, but with a quiet depth beneath its surface.
Akira cradled it gently, letting its cool weight rest in his palm. His smile this time was softer, touched with quiet admiration. “…Refined. Graceful. But not fragile. Just like her.”
Igor inclined his head, voice thoughtful. “You understand The Wheel of Fortune’s balance—the elegance of ice, and the warmth hidden beneath it. This anklet shall carry both her beauty and her quiet fire.”
Akira let Yukiko’s anklet rest beside the others, its frosted gleam still shimmering faintly in the circle’s glow. He breathed in, steady and deep, centering himself once more. His next word was firm, carrying weight born of memory and care:
“Shiho.”
Sandalphon stirred at once. His crystalline wings unfolded with a quiet chime, blades resting across his shoulders. He stepped forward with serenity, his expression calm—but his power radiated like the tension in a drawn bow. When his gaze fell on Akira, it was not distant divinity, but acknowledgment, as if he too understood what it meant to endure.
Igor’s hand rose, tracing his glyph. This time, the lines formed interlocking arcs that seemed to weave over and under one another—like strands of thread binding together, like scars knitting closed. The circle glowed with both silver and rose light, an unusual duality.
Sandalphon’s form dissolved into a rain of shining fragments—shards of crystal and feathers that scattered like glass in sunlight. Some cut sharp against the air, others drifted gently as down. They spiraled into the glyph, colliding and melding, hard edges softening against one another until they condensed into a new whole.
When the light cleared, an anklet lay suspended in the air. Its band was a chain of alternating links: half razor-thin steel, gleaming and sharp-edged, the other half smooth rose-gold, curved and soft. The contrast created a rhythm, a deliberate tension between hard and gentle. Hanging from the chain was a small charm shaped like a feather—its top etched with jagged cuts, its lower half polished smooth, as though scarred yet still beautiful.
The anklet pulsed faintly with a low thrum, a reminder that even if broken, it would mend—and each time, stronger than before.
Akira reached for it, the cool metal settling into his hand. He traced one of the links, marveling at how it shifted between strength and tenderness, and his chest tightened with quiet pride. “…She bent, but never broke. This is her.”
Igor’s eyes glimmered, his voice carrying the weight of approval. “Resilience tempered by vulnerability—strength made more radiant by scars endured. You see The Moon’s true self, Trickster. This anklet will guard her, as she guards her own heart.”
Akira set Shiho’s anklet beside the others, its alternating links gleaming like battle scars worn with pride. He steadied himself, letting the circle’s rhythm rise to meet him again. His next word left his lips clear and unwavering:
“Makoto.”
Scáthach stepped forward from the shadows, her spear gleaming, her eyes steady with the poise of a warrior queen. The Velvet Room seemed to darken with her presence, every flicker of her form exuding discipline and command. Yet when her gaze turned to Akira, there was softness there too—a quiet acknowledgment, the strength of one who could also surrender when she chose.
Igor’s hand lifted, tracing a glyph of sharp, angular lines intersected by smooth curves, like a crown forged from steel and velvet. It glowed a deep violet, pulsing with restrained authority.
Scáthach gave a nod, firm and final, before her form began to unravel—threads of shadow spinning outward like silken strands, interwoven with glimmers of steel. They coiled into the glyph, the dark and the shining weaving together until a new form shimmered in the air.
The anklet that emerged was both regal and understated. Its band was wrought of dark, burnished metal, strong and unyielding, yet shaped into a graceful braid that gave it a subtle elegance. Small, geometric charms hung at intervals, resembling tiny shields and crowns, symbols of her discipline and authority. At the center dangled a single pendant in the shape of a key—delicate, almost fragile, glimmering with quiet silver light.
The key swayed gently, its presence hinting at hidden doors and quiet submission, a side of her only revealed to those she trusted completely. It was an anklet that spoke of balance: command and grace, steel and softness, queen and confidante.
Akira cupped it reverently, feeling the weight of both iron and silk in its design. His lips curved into a knowing, tender smile. “…Strong enough to lead, yet soft enough to yield. This is her truth.”
Igor’s voice followed, warm with approval. “You see both the sovereign and the soul beneath the crown. This anklet shall carry The Priestess’s power—and her willingness to entrust that power to another.”
Akira set Makoto’s anklet with the others, the key-shaped charm catching the Velvet Room’s blue glow. He took in a steadying breath, then called the next name with quiet certainty:
“Futaba.”
Fafnir stirred at once, his golden-scaled body flexing against unseen chains. Sparks and embers spilled from his wings as he reared back, letting out a low, rumbling growl that shook the air. The dragon’s eyes gleamed, protective and fierce—as if daring the world itself to try and harm what he guarded.
Igor raised his hand again, this time sketching a glyph of jagged, interlocking shapes, its pattern resembling scales laid one over the other. It pulsed with deep emerald and bright orange light, a strange combination that hummed with both menace and mischief.
Fafnir gave a final roar before dissolving—his vast wings scattering into ribbons of golden fire, his scales fracturing into glowing fragments. They poured into the glyph, layering and snapping together like pieces of armor being forged. The lines sparked and flickered like circuitry, shifting from primal fury into something sleeker, sharper, and playful.
The anklet that appeared gleamed with protective strength, yet carried Futaba’s unique flair. Its band resembled overlapping dragon scales, forged in a dark metallic green with an iridescent sheen that caught the light. Between the scales, tiny lines of orange light pulsed faintly, like data streams running through a circuit board. At the clasp hung a small charm shaped like a dragon’s eye—round, gleaming, with a mischievous glint that almost seemed alive.
The anklet radiated a sense of warding power, as though any who dared to harm her or hers would feel the dragon’s wrath—but there was also playfulness in its glowing circuitry, as if it doubled as a secret gadget waiting to be hacked into something wild.
Akira turned it in his hands, the scales catching the light in dazzling hues. His smile deepened, both proud and amused. “…Guarded, clever, and blazing. Just like her.”
Igor’s voice carried low, satisfied tones. “A shield forged not only of strength, but of wit. The Hermit hides behind walls, yet she sees everything that happens beyond them. This anklet will protect her, as surely as she protects you all.”
Akira placed Futaba’s anklet among the others, its scales glinting faintly with sparks of orange light. He breathed in, calm and steady, before speaking the next name—gentle but unyielding:
“Haru.”
Alilat stirred. The crystalline pillar pulsed with soft radiance, her form both statue and divinity, her surfaces reflecting the Velvet Room’s blue glow. She seemed distant, eternal, yet when Akira called Haru’s name, her brilliance warmed—like sunlight filtering through leaves, ancient and maternal.
Igor raised his hand, and his glyph this time curved into wide arcs and concentric circles, like ripples across still water, like rings in a tree trunk. It glowed with soft hues of jade and pearl, an earthbound elegance that shimmered with cosmic depth.
Alilat’s body began to fracture, not violently but with quiet dignity, shards of crystalline stone breaking away like petals falling in slow motion. They cascaded into the glyph, fusing with veins of light that branched like roots. The glow thickened, condensed, then folded into something smaller—gentle in shape, but heavy with strength.
When the light dimmed, an anklet hovered before Akira. Its band was wrought from interwoven strands of rose-gold and pale jade, braided like vines curling around one another. Tiny charms shaped like blossoms hung delicately along its length, each petal shimmering faintly as though dew had caught on them. At its center rested a single pendant: a polished stone orb, the color of rich earth, veined faintly with starlight that flickered whenever it moved.
It was elegant, unmistakably feminine, a piece that radiated kindness and nurturing warmth. Yet the weight of the orb carried another truth: roots that run deep can also strangle, and the earth that cradles can just as easily claim.
Akira caught it gently, letting its cool strength rest in his palm. His smile was soft, touched with admiration. “…Gentle hands that heal… and the will to bury cruelty where it belongs. This is her.”
Igor’s voice resonated like distant thunder. “You honor both The Empress’s kindness and her ferocity, Trickster. This anklet will carry the grace of a garden… and the wrath of the soil itself.”
Akira placed Haru’s anklet carefully among the others, the faint shimmer of starlit earth still glowing in its core. He breathed, steady and focused, before speaking the next name with quiet warmth:
“Kasumi.”
Siegfried stirred, his noble armor gleaming as though freshly forged. He lifted his sword in a knight’s salute, silent oath carried in every line of his bearing. For a moment, the Velvet Room seemed brighter, steadier, steadied by his faith and honor.
Igor lifted his hand again, this time tracing bold, sweeping lines that curved into arcs like the swing of a blade, then crossed with sharp strokes that anchored them—discipline layered upon grace. The glyph glowed silver and crimson, a pulse like a beating heart beneath steel.
Siegfried lowered his head in solemn acknowledgment, then dissolved into light. His armor broke apart into fragments of steel, his cape into threads of crimson silk. They swirled together into the glyph, spiraling like a dancer’s ribbon before compacting into a new form.
The anklet that emerged was both elegant and strong.
Its band was a slender braid of polished silver links, light enough to move freely yet unyielding under pressure. Along the chain were set small, ruby-like stones, each catching the light like sparks on steel. At intervals, tiny charms shaped like crossed swords and delicate ribbons alternated, weaving battle and dance into harmony. At its clasp hung a single pendant: a knight’s shield, etched with the faint outline of a dancer in mid-leap, her form both warrior and performer.
The anklet shimmered with vitality, carrying both the lightness of a gymnast’s grace and the steadfast faith of a sworn protector. It seemed to hum faintly in Akira’s palm, urging him to move, to leap, to soar.
Akira turned it gently in his fingers, a soft smile curving his lips. “…The dancer’s grace, and the knight’s vow. This is her.”
Igor’s voice followed, calm but rich with approval. “You see the balance of Faith —the innocence of her art, and the strength that blooms within it. This anklet shall carry her light, even into battle.”
Akira placed Kasumi’s anklet carefully with the others, the crimson ribbon trailing like a frozen note of music. He let the warmth of it linger, then drew in a quiet breath and spoke the next name, clear and steady:
“Hifumi.”
The air hushed. Sraosha descended slowly, robes trailing, his eyes closed as though listening to prayers only he could hear. A faint chorus of whispers surrounded him, like countless voices offering reverence in unison. He hovered just above the floor of the Velvet Room, serene and timeless.
Igor raised his hand, tracing a glyph in long, deliberate strokes. The design resembled interlocking grids, a shifting lattice of black and white squares, but with arcs of light flowing through them like threads of strategy. It glowed with alternating pulses of silver and midnight blue.
Sraosha’s form began to dissolve, his robes fluttering into ribbons of light, his feathers drifting down like captured starlight. Each feather froze midair, reshaping into clean geometric slivers, like game pieces sliding into position. They aligned neatly with the glyph, one after another, until they condensed into a single, gleaming form.
When the glow dimmed, an anklet hovered before Akira. It was elegant and eye-catching: a band of interwoven silver and onyx links, alternating like the squares of a board. Tiny charms shaped like shogi tiles hung along the chain, each inscribed with delicate golden kanji. At its center rested a single charm shaped like a rook—solid, tall, its top crowned with a small ruby that caught the light like a decisive move.
The anklet was graceful, but there was calculation in its design, every detail intentional. It radiated quiet brilliance, the beauty of foresight made into jewelry.
Akira took it gently, the cool metal smooth against his hand. His smile was thoughtful, tinged with admiration. “…Composed, brilliant… and devastating in her elegance. This is her.”
Igor’s voice flowed like calm waters, steady and approving. “An anklet befitting The Star —her beauty sharpened by her insight. In this piece lies not only charm, but strategy immortalized.”
Akira placed Hifumi’s anklet among the others, the silver-and-onyx gleam catching like a frozen game piece mid-play. His heart beat faster as he stood in the circle again, knowing who was next. He let the silence hang before whispering her name with quiet reverence:
“Lavenza.”
The circle rippled. Chimera bounded forward, its many forms twisting as though uncertain whether to pounce, roar, or take flight. Fire and frost warred in its wake, yet its eyes fixed on Akira with loyal intensity. For all its wildness, its devotion was absolute.
Igor’s hand lifted once more, but this time his glyph was unlike the others: not strict lines or elegant lattices, but playful loops and arcs that spiraled outward like a child doodling stars. It pulsed with soft blue and golden light, warm and human.
Chimera gave a final, rumbling growl before dissolving—its disparate parts unraveling into a rain of sparks, feathers, and motes of fur that shimmered as they fell. Each fragment drifted into the glyph, not neatly, but joyfully, weaving together in a mosaic of contrasts until a new form hovered in the air.
When the glow cleared, an anklet emerged. It was delicate yet radiant: a chain of alternating links—half polished silver, half soft gold—intertwined like two hands clasping. Tiny charms dangled from it in whimsical shapes: a butterfly, a star, a little bell, even a miniature key. At its center hung a single heart-shaped crystal, faintly glowing with Velvet Room blue. If one looked closely, tiny motes of starlight swirled within, like a galaxy contained in a gem.
The anklet radiated both strength and tenderness—proof of her devotion, and of her humanity growing brighter with every bond she chose.
Akira took it gently, his hand lingering on the warm crystal. His smile softened, quiet and almost vulnerable. “…Devoted. Bright. And human. This is her.”
For a moment, even Igor paused. Then he let out a low, rumbling chuckle, leaning ever so slightly forward in his chair. His tone shifted—still deep, but less theatrical, almost grandfatherly.
“Young man,” he said, voice dropping into something suspiciously close to a sigh, “she is… precious. To us, to this room, and most clearly, to you. If you so much as let her cry without cause…”
He narrowed his eyes, and the faintest glimmer of humor sparked behind them. “…I will remind you that the Velvet Room has more than one form.”
Akira blinked—then laughed softly, shaking his head. “Understood.”
Igor gave a theatrical sigh. “Ah, youth… riddled with chaos, brimming with potential, and constantly threatening to overturn centuries of tradition. You really are the Trickster.”
Akira lingered a moment on Lavenza’s anklet, still smiling faintly from Igor’s unexpected “warning.” But then he straightened, his chest tightening as he faced the last point in the circle. He knew this one carried a different weight—both hers and his.
He drew in a steady breath and spoke the final name, his voice firm, reverent, resolute.
“Ren.”
Uriel descended. Radiant wings unfurled, each feather burning with gold and scarlet fire. His blade shone like judgment itself, yet his gaze—piercing, unyielding—softened as it fell upon Akira. It was as though even an archangel acknowledged the bond he called upon now.
Igor raised his hand, tracing the final glyph. It was vast and intricate: concentric circles layered with intersecting lines, a mandala of light and flame. It glowed a searing white-gold, with edges rimmed in crimson, pulsing with divine weight.
Uriel lifted his sword, point down, and let it dissolve into motes of fire. His wings followed, feathers igniting and scattering like falling stars. Each fragment streamed into the glyph, burning brighter with every piece until the circle itself roared like a sun contained within.
When the blaze subsided, something small and delicate hovered in the air.
An anklet—yet more than that.
Its band was a chain of fine gold links, each one etched with tiny, feather-like patterns. Threaded through the gold was a line of crimson enamel, gleaming like captured flame. At intervals, small charms in the shape of wings and scales of justice hung gracefully, balanced one against the other.
At the center dangled a single pendant: a teardrop-shaped ruby, cut so perfectly it seemed to hold fire within. When it caught the light, it flared with both angelic radiance and rebellious heat, as though divinity and defiance lived side by side within it.
The anklet thrummed with solemn power—redemption, absolution, and a vow that no matter the path ahead, she would not walk it alone.
Akira reached for it with both hands, holding it as though afraid to mar its brilliance. His breath caught for a moment before a quiet, tender smile curved his lips.
“…Light and fire. Judgment and mercy. This is her.”
Igor leaned back, steepling his long fingers, his voice reverberating with finality. “And so the circle is complete. Twelve bonds, twelve souls honored… each a piece of yourself, Trickster. These anklets are no mere trinkets—they are vows, forged in power and devotion. Guard them well, as you guard the hearts that inspired them.”
The twelve anklets shimmered together in the circle, their glow weaving into a constellation of light around Akira.
As Akira stood in silence, the warm glow of the Soul Anklets reflecting in his storm-grey eyes, a familiar, immense presence stirred behind him. A ripple echoed through the room as Satanael emerged from the depths of Akira’s soul. “These Soul Anklets are impeccable, my Harbinger,” he rumbled, his voice like ancient thunder echoing across creation. “Each a vow forged in defiance of ruin, and sealed in devotion.”
He paused, then tilted his head slightly. “And yet… I feel something is lacking.”
He turned to Igor and bowed — a slow, deliberate gesture of deep respect. “With your permission, Keeper of Souls?”
Igor gave a quiet smile. His eyes twinkled with curiosity and understanding. “By all means, Lord of Rebellion. Let your will be known.”
Satanael’s massive hand extended, hovering just above the twelve anklets. A soft, radiant energy began to pulse in his palm — a fusion of celestial light and infernal fire, neither wholly good nor evil, but something beyond.
Balance. Will. Freedom.
Then, without a word, Satanael lowered his hand and covered all twelve anklets in one divine gesture. A surge of pure willpower pulsed outward — not blinding, not overwhelming. Just right. A warmth that filled Akira's lungs, danced along his spine, and stitched itself into the soul of each anklet.
Satanael’s form slowly dissolved back into light and mist, his wings folding into nothingness.
And when the light faded…
The Soul Anklets no longer merely glowed. They pulsed. As if alive. As if ready.
Igor rose slightly in his chair, peering down at them with a rare look of genuine wonder. “Fascinating…” he murmured, steepling his long fingers. “He has empowered each of these with two blessings most potent: a permanent Heat Riser, and the effect of Victory Cry.”
Akira blinked. “…Permanent?”
Igor nodded once. “Each of them will now grant the bearer unmatched strength and vitality. Their bodies and hearts will instinctively rise in moments of dire need… and they shall recover fully after every great battle.”
His eyes twinkled again. “They are not merely tokens of affection now, Trickster. They are divine relics.”
Akira’s gaze returned to the anklets — now brimming with energy, almost humming in tune with his heartbeat.
Each one was more than just a gift. Each was a vow. A shield. A flame to protect the ones he loved.
He clenched his fists softly, his resolve sharpening into something diamond-hard. “They gave me the strength to become more than what the world wanted me to be,” he whispered. “Now I’ll do the same for them.”
When Akira finally stepped out of the Velvet Room, dusk had already begun to claim the city. The last rays of sun painted the Tokyo skyline in soft pinks and molten gold, fading fast into the navy hush of evening. The door to that pocket of eternity vanished behind him with a sigh of air, and the world resumed its rhythm.
He checked his phone. One new message. From Futaba. He smirked, thumbing it open.
Futaba: 🖤Come get what’s yours, King.🖤
Akira’s smirk curled into a slow, knowing grin. He didn’t run. He didn’t need to. His stride through the crowded Shibuya Station was calm, deliberate. Every step humming with anticipation. A quiet fire blooming in his chest.
Akira’s hand lingered on the doorknob. He drew in a breath. Even through the wood, the air felt different—sweet, heavy, perfumed with something floral that curled into his lungs like smoke. He turned the knob and stepped inside.
Candlelight greeted him first. Dozens of little flames swayed across every surface, painting the room in molten gold. The scent followed—jasmine, sandalwood, heady and intoxicating.
His eyes lowered. Petals—velvet red, pale blush—strewn across the floor. They stretched out before him in a trail, leading him down the narrow hallway like a promise. Music whispered ahead, sultry jazz laced with strings, sensual and slow. Beneath it, voices carried. Soft. Feminine. A murmur of laughter, teasing, knowing.
Heat prickled at his collar. He swallowed once and rounded the corner into the living room—
And his heart stopped. They were there. All twelve of them. Ryuemi. Morgane. Ann. Shiho. Yukiko. Futaba. Kasumi. Hifumi. Haru. Makoto. Lavenza. Ren.
Each one draped in a black silk robe, short and cinched, fabric catching the candlelight as it hugged and hinted. The silk slid low at shoulders, clung to waists, parted just enough to betray lace beneath. Hair styled—curls, pins, sleek waves. Makeup perfect. Every detail deliberate. Every woman radiant.
Heels tapped softly against the floor as they shifted—straps, stilettos, blades disguised as fashion. And twelve smiles waited for him. Some shy. Some daring. Some dark with hunger.
Akira’s throat went dry. His gaze moved from one to the next, twelve pairs of eyes locking on him—twelve shades of devotion, of desire, of love.
It hit him then, like a blow to the chest. This was real.
These women—his allies, his thieves, his goddesses—had chosen him. Not as prize, nor possession, but as the one they would give themselves to. Freely. Fiercely. With trust that reached deeper than flesh.
Heat curled low in his stomach, tightening, pulsing through his veins. His breath stuttered.
The silence lingered, thick and electric. Twelve pairs of eyes locked on him, the candlelight flickering in their depths. No one moved. No one breathed.
Then—
A soft gasp broke the stillness. Lavenza stepped forward, her frame trembling with something deeper than shyness. Her gaze was fixed on him, wide and searching, as though she could see straight past his skin and into the storm beneath. “I sense something…” Her voice was hushed, reverent, almost fearful. “Something old. Powerful…”
She drew closer, candlelight catching in her hair, her golden eyes burning brighter with every step.
Her voice softened to a whisper. “Akira… what did you do?”
Akira held her gaze, feeling the weight of twelve stares shift with hers. Slowly, he slid a hand inside his coat. His fingers closed around the object resting against his chest, cool and heavy with meaning. When he drew it out, the room seemed to exhale.
An ornate jewelry box lay in his hand, its midnight-blue lacquer stamped with a golden insignia—the butterfly sigil of the Velvet Room. Its edges shimmered faintly in the candlelight, as though reality itself bent around its presence.
He opened it with care, and at once, the room fills with a soft hum of energy. Lavenza gasped audibly once more, her hands rising to cover her mouth. The other girls leaned in, drawn by the quiet magnetism of the moment.
“What…” Ann’s voice broke the hush, eyes wide with wonder.
But it was Lavenza who found the words. She stepped closer, trembling, her gaze locked on the midnight-blue box in Akira’s hand. “Soul Anklets…” she whispered, as if the name itself carried power. Her voice wavered with awe. “Physical embodiments of the soul… forged through sacrifice… given only to those most cherished by the giver…”
Her lashes fluttered, tears rising as she pressed a hand to her chest. “They are a promise. To love. To protect. To never waver.”
Her gaze lifted to Akira, and in that moment something ancient passed between them—gold and storm-grey, Attendant and Trickster, a recognition beyond words. The others turned too, their faces softening as realization bloomed. The silence that followed was no longer heavy with anticipation, but reverent, sacred.
Akira let out a quiet breath, then smiled gently. He walked to the low table at the center of the room and pulled a sturdy chair into place, setting the ornate case beside it. His hand lingered on the lid before he turned to them, his voice steady but warm. “Before we do anything else… would you all allow me to—”
He never finished.
Silk whispered. Heels clicked softly against the floor. With no hesitation, all twelve girls moved—robes swaying, eyes shining—as they formed a line behind the chair, each waiting her turn without needing to hear the rest. Akira blinked, caught between awe and amusement, before a low chuckle escaped him. He shook his head in affectionate disbelief. “Of course you will…”
Laughter rippled through them at that—soft, warm, breaking the tension into something shared, intimate, joyous. And then Lavenza, luminous and serene, stepped forward first. She sank into the chair with graceful poise, folding her hands in her lap. Her expression was calm, glowing, utterly trusting.
Akira lowered himself onto one knee before Lavenza, the hush in the room deepening as though the candles themselves held their breath. Slowly, he opened the Velvet Room case. Twelve anklets shimmered within, each glowing faintly with the essence of the bond that birthed it.
He lifted one with reverent hands—the Chimera anklet, delicate and radiant, its silver and gold links catching the light like starlight in motion.
When he looked up, Lavenza had already slipped one foot free of her heel. The shoe, dainty and velvet blue with a butterfly charm at the strap, rested neatly beside her chair. Her toes were painted the palest pearl, shimmering with a soft sheen that matched her innocence. She watched him with wide, unflinching eyes, unguarded, luminous.
Akira’s breath caught. He took her small ankle gently in his hand, warm skin trembling faintly beneath his touch. Carefully, reverently, he clasped the anklet around her, the crystal heart at its center pulsing once in recognition.
The glow spread up her leg, faint and ethereal, as if the bond itself were sealing.
For a moment, Lavenza only stared at the anklet, lips parted. Then she looked back at Akira, cheeks flushed pink. “It’s… beautiful,” she whispered, voice barely audible. Her toes flexed shyly against the floor, the pearl polish catching the light. “And now… I belong to you.”
Heat stirred in Akira’s chest at the words.
A soft giggle broke the reverence—Ann, smirking behind her hand. “Careful, Lavenza. If you wiggle your toes like that, he might lose all that composure he’s clinging to.”
Lavenza’s eyes went wide. She jerked her foot back slightly, flustered, then quickly pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I—I didn’t mean—!”
The others laughed softly, a wave of warmth breaking the silence.
Akira only smiled faintly, still kneeling, his fingers brushing the anklet once more before he withdrew his hand. His storm-grey gaze swept up to meet Lavenza’s embarrassed one. “You couldn’t mean anything wrong,” he murmured gently.
She exhaled shakily, but the glow on her face remained—bright, innocent, and radiant.
Still kneeling, Akira reached for the next anklet—the Thor piece, hammered silver links with tiny lightning-bolt etchings running along the band. It had weight to it, like a promise forged in storm and steel.
Ryuemi was already stepping forward, trying to look casual, hands shoved into the sash of her robe as if she weren’t nervous at all. But the faint pink climbing up her cheeks betrayed her. She perched on the chair with a little huff, crossing one leg over the other.
Her heels caught his eye first—sleek, sporty wedges with bright yellow accents, practical enough to run in, yet still undeniably feminine. She kicked one off with a flick, her toes flexing against the hardwood. The polish was bold—electric blue, flecked with silver glitter, like sparks captured in lacquer.
“Don’t laugh,” she muttered, noticing where his eyes lingered. “Ann and Yukiko ganged up on me to pick the color. Said it’d… you know. Pop.”
Akira didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached for her foot, steady and unhurried. Ryuemi tensed, instinctively trying to draw back—then forced herself to stay still, her breath catching.
His fingers wrapped gently around her ankle, and she stilled completely. The warmth of his touch grounded her, disarming her usual bluster. Slowly, he clasped the anklet into place, the electric hum pulsing as if in recognition of her strength.
When he looked up, his storm-grey eyes met hers directly. “You don’t need glitter, or heels, or polish to be beautiful,” he said softly, his voice carrying just for her. “But the fact you chose them tonight… it only makes you more so. Because it means you wanted to be seen.”
Ryuemi blinked, her mouth parting as the flush on her face deepened, spreading all the way to her ears. For once, she had no quip ready. Instead, she flexed her toes nervously, the glitter catching the candlelight. “Y-yeah, well… if you keep looking at me like that, I’m never running another marathon again. I’ll trip over my own damn feet.”
The others giggled, and Morgane snorted outright. But there was no mistaking the way Ryuemi’s hand drifted to the anklet, brushing it as if to reassure herself it was really there.
Akira’s lips curved faintly in a smile. “Then I’ll be there to catch you.”
Her breath hitched, and she quickly looked away, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “…cheesy bastard.”
When Ryuemi slipped back into line, Kasumi was already stepping forward, her movements fluid as a dance. She glided to the chair with a poise that made the silk of her robe whisper around her legs, then sat gracefully, spine straight, eyes shining with quiet excitement.
Her heels were simple but elegant—red satin slippers with a single strap across the arch. She slipped them off one at a time with practiced ease, the motion almost choreographed. Her toes stretched languidly, nails painted a soft rose-pink that gleamed delicately in the candlelight.
Akira drew out the Siegfried anklet— delicate yet unyielding, made for both dancer and warrior. Kasumi lifted her foot slightly, pointed and arched like a ballerina mid-pose. She held it there for him, hovering just above his palm, her cheeks faintly pink but her smile bright. “I’ve been practicing balance drills all week,” she teased lightly.
Akira cradled her ankle in his hand, steady, reverent. The warmth of her skin pulsed against his palm as he slid the anklet into place. The ruby at its center caught the light, glowing like a spark of courage. When he clasped it, Kasumi’s toes flexed ever so slightly against his wrist. A dancer’s unconscious grace—or maybe not entirely unconscious.
Akira’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and she smiled with a flicker of daring. “Oh… sorry. Reflex,” she murmured sweetly, though the playful lilt in her tone betrayed her.
Heat coiled low in his chest, but his voice stayed gentle. “If that’s what you call reflexes… then I’m starting to envy your training partner.”
Kasumi giggled softly, her blush deepening, though she didn’t pull her foot away. Instead, she let it linger for just a heartbeat longer before finally lowering it to the ground, the anklet gleaming like a medal earned.
The others watched with a mix of fondness and amusement. Futaba muttered, “Sneaky gymnast,” under her breath, drawing laughter from Ann and Haru. Kasumi giggles, covering her mouth with one hand — but there’s a flicker of pride in her eyes. She’s not the quiet, unsure girl from before. Not anymore.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For seeing me. For loving me.” She slides her foot back into her shoe slowly, almost teasingly — giving him one last peek of the anklet now resting snug around her ankle — and gets up from the seat with her back straight, every step as light as a pirouette.
Shiho pushed off the wall with a smirk, her silk robe sliding open just enough to flash the edge of ripped fishnet stockings beneath. She strode to the chair with her usual athletic swagger, but the way she gripped the armrest before sitting betrayed the flicker of nerves she carried beneath the punk-rock armor. Her boots — ankle-length leather with chunky heels and silver studs — thudded softly against the floor as she tugged them off. Beneath, her toenails gleamed black, glossy and sharp like lacquered obsidian. She flexed her toes once, almost self-consciously, before tossing her boots aside with a defiant little grin.
“Don’t stare too hard, leader,” she teased, though the flush creeping up her neck betrayed her. “I’m not as girly about this stuff as the others.”
Akira reached into the box and drew out Sandalphon’s anklet — at once soft and unbreakable, with tiny winged charms that caught the candlelight. He lowered himself to one knee, and Shiho’s smirk faltered for just a moment, her breath hitching as the ritual gravity set in.
He took her ankle in his hand, his touch gentle but sure, and fastened the anklet in place. The steel links shimmered faintly as they tightened, as though recognizing the resilience in the girl who wore them.
Akira’s gaze lifted to hers, steady. “You don’t need to be anyone but yourself, Shiho. And you’re stronger and more beautiful than you give yourself credit for.”
The words landed like a punch she hadn’t braced for. Shiho bit her lip, looking away quickly, cheeks burning. “Tch. You always know how to make a girl feel seen, huh?”
Then, in true Shiho fashion, she covered her fluster with bravado. She stretched her leg out, toes brushing against his wrist in a deliberate little nudge. Her smirk returned, sharper now, layered with challenge. “Careful down there, Akira. Keep worshipping me like that and I might start expecting pedicures too.”
The room erupted with laughter — Ann snorted so hard she nearly doubled over, while Ryuemi muttered something about “rockstar diva.”
Akira chuckled, squeezing her ankle once before lowering her foot back to the ground. “If that’s the price for keeping you smiling,” he said softly, “I’ll pay it.”
For a second, Shiho’s smirk softened into something warmer, more vulnerable. She didn’t answer, but the way her fingers drifted to her new anklet spoke volumes.
When Shiho rose, still smirking, Makoto lingered at the edge of the group for a moment. Her hands fidgeted with the sash of her robe before she finally stepped forward, her stride measured, almost formal. She stopped at the chair, then glanced at Akira — her cheeks tinged pink.
“…May I?” she asked softly, her voice low but clear.
The simple words hit him harder than expected, laced with both formality and something unspoken, something that made the air thrum. Akira inclined his head once, and only then did she lower herself into the chair, smoothing the robe neatly across her lap.
Her footwear was telling: black patent pumps, sharp and efficient, the kind you’d expect from someone who lived by structure. But as she slipped them off, a softer truth emerged. Her nails were painted a deep wine-red, glossy and lush — a color less about discipline, more about surrender.
The contradiction wasn’t lost on Akira. He retrieved Scáthach’s anklet from the case — elegant and commanding, yet slim enough to carry a whisper of vulnerability. Kneeling before her, he reached for her ankle. Makoto inhaled sharply but didn’t move away. She held herself perfectly still, spine straight, every muscle taut with restraint. Yet her toes curled against the floor, betraying the tension beneath her polished exterior.
Akira clasped the anklet into place, the steel glinting like a crown for her ankle. He lingered just a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly across her skin. When he looked up, their eyes locked — his steady, hers wide with a storm of emotion.
“You don’t need to ask my permission to be loved,” he murmured, voice soft but firm. “But if you want it… you’ll always have it.”
Her lips parted, the faintest tremble in her breath. A blush bloomed across her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she slowly flexed her toes, brushing them against his hand in a shy, almost reverent tease — her own quiet way of yielding. A ripple of warmth spread through the group. Haru smiled softly; Ann let out a dreamy sigh; Futaba snickered under her breath, “And she calls me the perv.”
Makoto flushed deeper, shooting Futaba a glare — but her hand lingered on the anklet, thumb stroking the violet stone as if to ground herself.
Yukiko moved forward like a shadow turned flame, her silk robe whispering around her as she sat in the chair, adjusting her robe just so — letting it fall from one shoulder, collarbone gleaming in the candlelight.
Her footwear was refined: slender silver heels with delicate straps that wrapped her ankles like ribbons. She unbuckled them slowly, deliberately, her movements smooth as water. When the shoes slid away, her toes flexed with dancer’s grace, nails painted a deep garnet that glowed like embers.
Akira reached for the anklet of Lakshmi — elegance incarnate, perfect for Yukiko.
As he knelt, Yukiko lifted her leg slightly, her ankle hovering above his waiting palm. Unlike Kasumi’s playful poise, there was no innocence here — only confidence. Her toes brushed lightly along his wrist before settling in his hand, the contact feather-light, purposeful.
Akira’s breath hitched, but he steadied himself, sliding the anklet into place. The silver links clasped with a cool shimmer, the gem pulsing faintly like a heartbeat encased in ice.
“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Yukiko’s lips curved in a gentle smile. “I should hope so,” she replied softly. Then, with a playful glint in her eye, she traced her toes up the side of his wrist, feather-light, before curling them against his hand. “You’ve always had such… steady hands, Akira. It’s comforting. And… a little dangerous.”
The tease was quiet, but it landed like a spark in dry tinder. Akira froze, pulse quickening, as Yukiko leaned back slightly in her chair, her expression never wavering from that serene, almost ethereal calm.
Ann let out a dramatic, jealous whine. “Ugh, Yukiko, that was way too smooth!”
Ryuemi gave a short laugh. “Yeah, she’s been waiting to pull that one out.”
Yukiko only pressed her fingertips to her lips and giggled, airy and unbothered, though her foot lingered a second longer against Akira’s hand before she let it fall back to the ground.
Futaba practically bounced into the chair, her robe swishing haphazardly as she flopped down and immediately tucked her knees up, then realized what she’d done and scrambled to sit “normally.” “Y-yeah, okay, cool, cool, no prob, let’s do this, haha…” she babbled, voice just a touch too high, clearly having overthought every possible scenario five times in a row..
Her footwear was classic Futaba: chunky and metallic, covered in chrome and LED accents like something from a cyberpunk fashion show. She peeled them off quickly, revealing toenails painted in neon circuit-board green with little glowing lines that caught the light. “I DID that,” she declared proudly, jabbing a finger at them. “Nailed it. Hah! Nailed. Get it?”
Akira chuckled softly as he drew out Fafnir’s anklet — etched with runes that pulsed faintly with protective light. Tiny scales glinted across its length, draconic and fierce, yet playful in its design. He reached for her ankle — and Futaba instantly bluescreened. Her whole body stiffened, her eyes wide as saucers, mouth opening and closing like a buffering program. “E-ERROR 404: SOCIAL COMPETENCE NOT FOUND—!!!”
Her foot twitched back on reflex, nearly kicking the anklet out of his hand. Akira caught her gaze, calm, steady, patient. He didn’t move closer, just waited. “Futaba. Breathe.”
She gulped air, hands trembling in her lap, then slowly let out a shaky exhale. “O-okay. Okay. Breathe.exe. Running.”
Only then did she let her foot rest in his hand. Akira fastened the anklet carefully, reverently, the scales gleaming as if alive. When it clasped shut, Futaba blinked down at it, awe washing over her features. “…That’s so cool,” she whispered. “It’s so… me.” Her voice dropped, barely audible. “You really made this… with your soul?”
Akira nodded once. Something shifted in her. The manic energy melted, leaving her expression raw, trembling. She lifted her hand hesitantly, then let it fall back into her lap, clutching the hem of her robe gently. “…I’ve never belonged anywhere,” she admitted, her voice breaking on the words. “But this…? You made me feel like I do. Like I’m worth something. And even when I glitch out or go turbo goblin mode, you still want me around.”
Akira’s reply was simple, steady, grounding. “Always.”
Futaba swallowed hard, eyes shimmering. Then she did something unthinkable for her — something that cost her every ounce of courage she had. She shifted her foot, her toes brushing lightly along his wrist. Then, daring herself further, she slowly traced a line up the inside of his forearm with the tip of her toe, dragging it higher, trembling but deliberate.
The entire room seemed to freeze.
Her face burned scarlet, but she didn’t stop until her toe brushed the edge of his sleeve. Only then did she jerk back, squeaking, hands flying to her face. “OH MY GOD DID I JUST—??!!”
The girls burst out laughing, half in shock, half in delight. Ryuemi wheezed, “She WENT for it!” Ann clutched her stomach, and even Yukiko covered a grin with her hand.
Akira, for his part, simply caught Futaba’s gaze through her fingers and smiled softly, warmth and pride radiating from him. “Brave,” he said simply.
Her squeal could probably be heard three blocks away.
Morgane stepped forward with her chin tilted high, every inch the poised Quebecoise lady. Her silk robe swayed as she sat, legs crossing with a snap of authority, though her flushed cheeks betrayed the storm beneath her cool exterior.
Her footwear was decadent: black stiletto heels with crimson soles, the kind meant to be noticed. She slipped them off one at a time with languid grace, revealing slender feet tipped with scarlet lacquer, sharp and gleaming like fresh roses in bloom.
“Tch. Do not stare too long, mon cher,” she huffed, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “I only painted them because Ann would not stop nagging. ‘Make it match your lipstick, Morgane!’” She mimicked Ann’s voice with theatrical exasperation, earning laughter from the line of girls.
Akira said nothing, only lifted Surt’s anklet from the case. The moment the giant’s essence touched the air, Morgane’s façade wavered. She drew in a sharp breath, her posture tightening as though bracing for impact. When Akira knelt and took her ankle in his hand, her composure shattered completely. Her eyes darted to his — storm-grey steady, reverent — and her lips parted, trembling just slightly. He clasped the anklet in place with care, the rubies flaring once as though alive.
“…Idiot,” she muttered, her voice low, thick with something unsaid. “How dare you make something so perfect for me.”
Akira’s thumb brushed gently over her skin, grounding her. His smile was soft. “Because you are worth perfect.”
The words broke her mask like glass. Her breath caught audibly — and then, with a sudden spark of boldness, she snapped her leg upward, her toes grazing deliberately along his jawline.
The room erupted in gasps and laughter. Ann’s jaw dropped, Futaba screeched, “OH MY GOD SHE WENT FULL FRENCH,” and Ryuemi doubled over, choking on her own giggles.
Morgane’s face burned crimson, but her smirk was sharp as ever. “Hmph. Consider it… payment, Joker. For daring to make me feel this way.”
Akira chuckled low, catching her foot gently before lowering it with care. His gaze lingered on her anklet, glowing like embers against her pale skin. “If that’s payment… I’ll take it gladly.”
Her eyes widened, then softened, her mask flickering between tsundere fire and raw affection. She didn’t answer — but the way her hand brushed over her anklet told the truth her lips refused to.
Haru rose gracefully, her silk robe tied in a neat bow that swayed as she moved. She carried herself with the same gentleness she always had, but there was something different in the way her heels clicked against the floor. Something deliberate.
Her shoes were exquisite: high block-heeled sandals in deep plum suede, straps wrapping her ankles like bonds. She slid them off with unhurried precision, and the room collectively noticed the contrast — her toenails painted a dark, commanding burgundy that clashed gloriously with the softness of pale skin.
When she sat in the chair, she folded her hands neatly in her lap, smiling down at Akira with warmth that was almost disarming. But as he lifted Alilat’s anklet, her smile shifted, her eyes darkening with something heavier. Akira knelt, cupping her ankle with the same care he had shown all the others. The anklet shimmered as he clasped it in place, its glow settling like starlight against her pale skin.
“Thank you, Akira,” she said softly, her tone the very essence of sincerity. But then, as his fingers lingered just a little too long, her toes flexed, curling against the inside of his wrist. Slow. Testing.
Akira’s breath caught — and that was all the invitation Haru needed. She shifted her other foot forward, the tips of her painted toes tracing lightly up his forearm, leaving invisible trails of fire against his skin.
“Haru—” his voice cracked, low, unsteady.
Her smile was still sweet as sugar, but her eyes gleamed with quiet mischief. “Mm. You’re very gentle, Akira… but I wonder how long you’ll last if I keep doing this.”
The room erupted — Futaba shrieked, Ann cackled, Morgane muttered “mon dieu,” and even Makoto flushed scarlet at Haru’s daring.
But Haru simply drew her foot back with careful poise, as though nothing had happened, folding her ankles primly together. She looked every bit the elegant lady again, except for that smile — small, coy, and utterly knowing.
Akira exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair before chuckling. “I should’ve known you’d be the dangerous one.”
Her lashes lowered just so, her voice like velvet. “Only when I want to be.”
The anklet glowed faintly, its cosmic light pulsing in time with her heartbeat — and Akira knew he’d only glimpsed the surface of what she kept hidden beneath that gentle smile.
Hifumi moved forward with regal calm, her silk robe tied neatly, her posture flawless — as though she were stepping onto a tournament stage rather than into candlelit intimacy. Her dark eyes held Akira’s with steady confidence as she sat, smoothing the robe over her thighs with precise care.
Her shoes were as strategic as everything she did: sleek black pumps with a glossy finish, sharp as a queen’s blade on a shogi board. She removed them gracefully, one heel at a time, placing them side by side with soldier’s precision.
But when the shoes were gone, her vulnerability revealed itself — slender feet, arches high, her nails painted a deep indigo tipped with tiny gold crescents, like constellations etched in lacquer.
Akira lifted Sraosha’s anklet — a piece of divine artistry, its center gem radiating a calm, ethereal light. It seemed to hum with wisdom and quiet strength. He knelt before her, taking her ankle in his hands. Hifumi’s breath caught, just faintly, but she did not look away. She tilted her chin higher, her lips curving in the faintest smirk — daring him to falter under her gaze.
When the anklet clicked into place, Akira’s thumb brushed instinctively across the bone of her ankle, tracing the line of skin there with reverence. And Hifumi shivered. Not just a flicker, but a tremor that rippled through her entire body. Her composure cracked for the briefest instant — her lips parting, her breath faltering, her toes curling in response.
Akira looked up, concerned. “Hifumi—”
But her laugh cut him off, low and throaty, a sound that sent a pulse through the room. “You don’t even realize…” she murmured, her voice like honey over steel. Her toes flexed again, brushing over his wrist — a deliberate, sensual stroke that made his pulse leap. “…How dangerous you are to me.”
Her cheeks were flushed now, her eyes gleaming with a heat that matched Haru’s but burned sharper, more direct. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice so only he could hear.
“Careful, Akira. If you keep touching me like that…” Her toes curled once more, firmer this time, her composure fraying around the edges. “…You might discover just how much I like it.”
The air snapped taut, heavier than before. Even the girls — Ann biting her lip, Yukiko fanning herself, Futaba glitching out audibly with a squeaked “WHAT THE ACTUAL—” — seemed caught in the pull of Hifumi’s seduction.
Akira steadied himself with a slow breath, his storm-grey eyes locking onto hers. “…Then I’ll remember that. For when the time is right.”
Hifumi’s smirk returned, but this time it trembled with something rawer, more dangerous. She drew her foot back slowly, deliberately, the anklet glinting like a shogi piece moved into checkmate.
“You always did know how to win, Akira.”
Ren rose with a measured grace that turned every eye toward her. The silk robe clung to her curves like smoke, her heels clicking in a rhythm that sounded less like footsteps and more like a countdown.
Her shoes were striking: sharp black stilettos with crimson straps that wrapped her ankles like shackles turned into weapons. She slid them off slowly, setting them aside with deliberate care. Barefoot, her toes gleamed with black polish edged in silver — elegant and lethal all at once.
When she sat, she crossed one leg over the other, her posture queenly, but her eyes… her eyes were knives and shadows, locking onto Akira with a heat that made the room itself seem to shrink.
Akira lifted Uriel’s anklet. It thrummed with the weight of redemption, of absolution, of faith. As he knelt before her, Ren didn’t move at first. She simply watched him, her lips curving into a smirk that held every ounce of her danger, her allure. “Careful, Akira,” she murmured, voice low and edged. “You kneel at my feet, and I might start to believe you belong there.”
The other girls stirred — Morgane scoffed “toujours dramatique,” Futaba hid behind her hands, Ann bit her lip hard enough to leave a mark — but Akira didn’t flinch. His storm-grey eyes met hers, steady, unyielding, as he reached for her ankle.
The moment his fingers closed around her, the mask faltered. Her breath hitched — quiet, sharp — and her lashes trembled. Still, she tilted her chin higher, refusing to surrender fully… but when he fastened the anklet and his thumb traced lightly along the curve of her bone, the steel in her gaze cracked.
“Akira…” His name slipped from her lips, not as a taunt, not as a challenge — but as something raw, unguarded.
He looked up, and for a heartbeat they were alone in that candlelit room. No femme fatale. No trickster. Just Ren and Akira.
“You don’t belong at my feet,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself. “…But I do belong at yours.”
Akira’s chest tightened, heat and ache colliding. His hand lingered against her skin, his voice low, reverent. “No. We belong side by side. Always.”
Her smirk returned, but this time it trembled, her dark eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears. She shifted her foot, toes brushing slowly against his wrist — not in taunt, not in command, but in trust.
“Idiot,” she breathed, voice breaking just enough to betray her. “…You make me forget how to be dangerous.”
The room was silent. Not even Futaba dared speak. And when Ren finally pulled her foot back, the anklet’s golden light blazing like judgment and mercy entwined, the air felt heavier — charged, sacred.
Ann stepped forward with a languid grace that was almost feline, her silk robe slipping just enough off one shoulder to bare the lace beneath. Her heels clicked as she crossed the room — strappy stilettos in candy-apple red, wickedly high, designed to stop hearts. When she sat, she didn’t just sit — she sprawled, crossing one long leg over the other with a slow, deliberate sway, her robe parting to reveal smooth, endless skin. With a smirk that could have launched empires, she bent forward, unfastening her heels one by one. The red lacquer on her nails matched her lips perfectly, gleaming in the candlelight.
“Been waiting all night for this,” she purred, her blue eyes locking onto Akira’s with unflinching boldness.
Akira swallowed hard as he lifted Raphael’s anklet — impossibly feminine, impossibly beautiful. It glowed like liquid desire, like the embodiment of love made flesh.
He knelt before her. And Ann… Ann leaned back in the chair, letting her robe slip further, one hand resting idly against her thigh as though she were posing for a camera. Her foot rose gracefully into his palm, her toes flexing with casual, teasing sensuality.
“Well?” she whispered, her voice a silken challenge. “Going to put it on me… or are you too distracted?”
The room held its breath. Akira’s fingers trembled as he clasped the anklet around her ankle, the rose-gold band fitting as though it had always been waiting for her. His thumb brushed her skin — reverent, trembling — and the gem pulsed in answer. Ann’s lips parted, her breath hitching just slightly… but then her smirk returned, sharper, hungrier. She dragged her toes slowly, deliberately up his forearm, over the muscle, toward his shoulder — her nails grazing him just enough to make his breath stutter.
“You like this, don’t you?” she murmured, leaning forward, her voice sultry and knowing. “Twelve girls… and you’re still shaking just from me touching you.”
Akira’s storm-grey eyes darkened, heat pooling low in his belly, his control fraying under her teasing. “…Ann.” His voice was hoarse, a warning, a plea. But Ann only smiled, wicked and radiant, tilting her head so her golden curls tumbled over one shoulder. “Relax, Akira. I’m not going to break you…” Her toes grazed his jawline now, the most daring touch yet, her anklet glittering like a brand of fire. “…Not yet, anyway.”
The girls erupted — laughter, gasps, groans of disbelief. Futaba shrieked, “OH MY GOD ANN YOU CAN’T JUST—” while Ryuemi half-covered her face, muttering, “She totally just did.”
Ann giggled, pulling her foot back at last, her expression softening as her eyes met Akira’s. “But seriously,” she whispered, all teasing gone in an instant. “Thank you. For loving every part of me — the girl, the model, the thief… the mess. All of it.”
And for the first time that night, Akira nearly lost his composure completely.
As Akira steadied himself, the room seemed to exhale with him. Candlelight shimmered against silk and skin, shadows stretching long and sensuous across the walls. The twelve stood encircling him now — black robes clinging to curves and waists, high heels poised like weapons of fate. At each left ankle, the anklets pulsed in soft unison, twelve heartbeats of light that marked them as his, as he was theirs. Their gazes held him — some hungry, some tender, some trembling with restraint — but all unwavering. All his.
Ann was the first to move, the subtle parting of her robe catching the glow, her step a deliberate sway that drew every eye to her. She stopped before him, blue eyes smoldering, and let her voice slip out low and velvet-rich. “You’ve given us your soul, baby…” Her lips curled, sensual and certain. “…and now it’s time we give you our bodies.”
A ripple passed through the circle — laughter soft and dangerous, breaths caught, smiles that burned with love and hunger both. One by one, the others echoed the promise in silence — Yukiko’s coy tilt of the chin, Morgane’s smirk faltering into raw heat, Ren’s dangerous half-smile, Lavenza’s soft trembling devotion, Haru’s knowing gleam, Futaba’s flushed defiance.
All twelve. All his. And as the anklets glowed brighter, as the circle closed around him with silk brushing silk and perfume thickening the air, Akira understood. The boy who once feared the world’s judgement had been buried. The man who now stood, surrounded by goddesses, was about to be remade. In love. In desire. In them.
The candle flames bent with the weight of what was coming.
Notes:
"The candle flames bent with the weight of what was coming."
What's coming is the smutty chapter that some of you have been asking for :)
For those who aren't really into that sort of thing, you can safely skip the entire chapter since there won't be any major plot advancements.Could you leave me a comment if you are going to skip it though? That way, I can decide whether I'm going to add more spice in future chapters, or if I should keep to the tone we've had so far.
Chapter 33: *****************The Night Of Love**********************
Summary:
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WARNING: Just a quick heads-up! As I mentioned in the last one, this chapter contains explicit content. If that's not your cup of tea, please feel free to skip as there will be no major plot advancement! The story will pick back up as normal in the next chapter. Thanks for reading!For those that do stick around - let me know what you think. Do you want to see more of this going forward, or would you rather the fic remain smut-free?
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Chapter Text
Soft candlelight flickers across the walls of the apartment, casting dancing shadows over the walls and ceiling. The air carries a faint trace of jasmine and musk. Outside, the world is still, the city quiet—held at bay by the tension and energy inside this space.
Akira stands at the centre of the room, surrounded by the twelve girls he’s bound himself to—heart, soul, and something more ineffable. They encircle him like constellations around a star, each draped in a short black silk robe that clings lightly to their forms, high heels tapping softly on the floorboards. Around each of their left ankles, their Soul Anklets glow with a faint, otherworldly light—gentle pulses of color echoing their unique bonds with him.
They are all watching him.
Then Ann steps forward, her voice soft but firm, her smile sultry and certain. "You gave us each a piece of your soul..." she says, lifting her hand to gently cup Akira’s cheek. "...so now it's our turn to fully give you our bodies."
She takes his hand. Her fingers are warm, steady. Without another word, she leads him deeper into the room. There, laid out around his futon, are soft mattresses, layered blankets, and scattered pillows—like a nest crafted not just for rest, but reverence. It’s intimate, inviting, and unmistakably theirs.
Ann gently pushes Akira down onto the center of the futon, her eyes never leaving his. Then she steps back, rejoining the circle. One by one, the girls slide their fingers to the sashes of their robes.
There’s no rush. No need for spectacle. The soft sound of silk whispering against skin fills the room as the robes come undone—revealing delicate, carefully chosen lingerie beneath. A riot of lace, silk, and color. Each piece a reflection of the girl who wears it. They stand silently for a moment—twelve goddesses of shadow and flame—inviting Akira to undress as well.
His movements are slow, deliberate. He peels away his shirt, then his pants, until only his boxers remain. Vulnerable. Exposed.
And still, they say nothing. Until the first one moves. A touch on his shoulder. A kiss at his neck. A hand laced with his.
And then they're all around him. Laughter, breath, heat, lips. Each girl claiming a moment—cheek to cheek, forehead to chest, hands in hair. Their bodies brush against his, seeking closeness, not yet possession. It's not lust that drives them—it’s reverence. Devotion. The ache of finally being allowed to touch what they’ve long treasured.
A murmur of his name from Kasumi. A soft moan from Yukiko when he cups her face. A giggle from Futaba as she accidentally knocks over a pillow. A soft gasp from Makoto when his hand brushes down her spine. The room is thick with anticipation.
And then, one by one, they begin to slide off the futon, lips brushing his skin as they retreat—until only one remains. A breath of silence. And there, beside him now, is Lavenza.
Lavenza kneels before him, bathed in soft candlelight, the hush of the room wrapping around them like a spell. Her lingerie is delicate—barely-there lace in midnight blue, ethereal and modest in a way that feels exactly like her. The silk ribbons and translucent fabric trace her figure without revealing too much, like she’s clothed in moonlight itself.
Akira sits upright on the futon, half-surrounded by the lingering warmth and lipstick stains from the others, but something shifts in the air the moment her fingertips brush his. A stillness. A pause.
She leans forward without a word, resting one hand gently over his heart. Her golden eyes meet his.
“You gave each of us a piece of your soul,” she murmurs, voice soft and solemn, “but I already had one… and you had mine.”
Akira’s breath catches.
Lavenza smiles, the kind that carries centuries of memories behind it. She raises her other hand to his cheek, stroking gently, as if to memorize every line of his face with her fingertips. Then she leans in—not rushed, not bold, just there—and presses her lips to his in a kiss that’s almost weightless.
“I’ve longed for this. Not as an attendant… but as a girl who chose you.”
Her weight shifts as she moves to straddle his lap, knees bracketing his hips, lace brushing against skin. Her hands trail down his bare shoulders, her breath catching softly as she settles into him—close, vulnerable, trembling just a little.
“Let me show you how a velvet bloom opens.”
She rests her forehead against his once more, eyes fluttering shut, and kisses him again—deeper this time, but still achingly gentle. The Soul Anklet around her ankle glows faintly, pulsing to the rhythm of something old, something eternal.
Akira's hands find their way to Lavenza's waist, tracing the curves of her hips through the sheer fabric of her lingerie. He pulls her closer, deepening the kiss as he explores her mouth with his tongue. She tastes sweet, like honey and sunshine, and he can feel her melting into him, her body pressing against his as she wraps her arms around his neck. Lavenza shivers at his touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips as his fingers graze the small of her back. She arches into him, pressing her breasts against his chest, the thin lace of her bra doing little to hide her hardening nipples. "Akira..." she breathes against his mouth, her voice barely audible. His hands slide up her spine, unclasping her bra with practiced ease.
Akira's lips trail down Lavenza's jawline, leaving a path of fire in their wake. He nips gently at her earlobe, eliciting a soft whimper from her, before moving lower to press his mouth against the pulse point at her throat. She tilts her head back, exposing more of her creamy skin to him, and he takes full advantage, kissing and licking his way down her collarbone. Lavenza places both hands firmly on Akira's chest, pushing him back onto the futon. He falls willingly, his eyes never leaving hers as she shrugs out of her bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts spill free, heavy and round, topped with dusky pink nipples that harden under his gaze. They sway gently as she moves, the soft flesh quivering slightly with her excitement.
Lavenza lets out a moan of pleasure as she feels Akira's rough, calloused hands cup her breasts, his palms rubbing against her sensitive nipples. She grinds against him, her hips rolling in slow circles, feeling the heat between her thighs grow hotter and wetter by the second. His thumbs flick over her tight buds, sending electric shocks coursing through her veins, making her gasp and arch her back. "Akira," Lavenza moans again, her voice breathy and desperate. She tosses her head back, her platinum blonde hair cascading down her shoulders like a waterfall of silk. Her breasts fill his hands perfectly, their softness yielding to his touch while her nipples remain taut peaks. " Oh god, Akira." She grips his wrists, urging him to squeeze harder, to pinch her nipples between his thumb and forefinger.
Lavenza continues to rock her hips against Akira, feeling the bulge in his boxers press insistently against her. Even through the layers of fabric separating them, she can sense the size and thickness of him, and it sends a thrill of anticipation through her. Her panties are soaked with arousal; she can feel her own wetness coating her inner thighs as she grinds down on him. Lavenza's hands tremble as they move between them, her fingers curling around the thick ridge of Akira's cock straining against his boxers. She squeezes gently, testing its length and girth through the thin cotton fabric, eliciting a low groan from deep within his chest. She gasps, her voice husky with desire as she begins to stroke him slowly, feeling his hardness throb beneath her touch.
Akira's grip tightens around Lavenza's waist, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he holds her steady. She whimpers at the sensation, her pussy clenching with need. With a wicked grin, Akira begins to roll his hips upward, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against her dripping slit. The friction is exquisite torture, sending waves of pleasure crashing through Lavenza's body. He sits up abruptly, his hands gripping Lavenza's hips tightly as he claims her mouth in a fierce kiss. Their teeth clash briefly before their tongues dance together, tangling and exploring with renewed passion. Lavenza moans into his mouth, the sound muffled by their locked lips, as she rocks against him faster, harder. With barely any effort, Akira turns them around and gently lays Lavenza flat on her back on the futon. He pauses for a moment, his grey eyes meeting hers, seeking silent permission. Lavenza nods eagerly, biting her bottom lip as she gazes up at him, her golden eyes filled with lust and trust. Encouraged, Akira hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties, feeling the damp fabric clinging to her smooth skin.
Akira slides Lavenza's panties down her legs, his knuckles grazing her smooth skin as he goes. She lifts her hips to help him, her breath coming in quick gasps. As he pulls them away, he can see how wet she is-the thin strip of fabric glistening with her juices. He brings the panties to his nose and inhales deeply, savoring the musky scent of her arousal. His eyes darken with hunger, and he lets out a low growl that sends a shiver down Lavenza's spine. He drops the panties to the floor, his gaze ravenous as it roams over her exposed body. "Fuck, you're beautiful," he rasps, his voice hoarse with need. Lavenza squirms under his intense stare, her cheeks flushed pink.
Akira lowers himself onto Lavenza, his muscular frame covering hers completely. She wraps her arms around him, pulling him close as their mouths crash together once more. Their tongues duel fiercely, tasting and exploring, while Akira's hands roam over her body, squeezing and caressing every curve. His large palms engulf her breasts, kneading the soft flesh roughly, pinching her nipples between his fingers. He breaks away from her lips, trailing kisses down her neck, sucking and nibbling at the tender flesh, marking her pale skin, claiming her as his own. She cries out, her nails digging into his back, urging him on. His mouth travels lower, tonguing her collarbone before moving to her breasts. He captures one pert nipple between his lips, swirling his tongue around it before sucking hard.
As Akira's teeth scrape lightly over Lavenza's sensitive nipple, she lets out a shuddering breath, her entire body convulsing with pleasure. The sensation of his warm, wet mouth enveloping her breast sends an electric jolt straight to her core, causing her inner muscles to clench and release rhythmically. Akira continues his exploration of her body, his lips blazing a trail down her stomach. She squirm beneath him, her breath hitching in anticipation. His tongue darts out, tasting the salty sweetness of her sweat as he laps at the dip of her belly button. Lavenza gasps, her fingers threading through his hair as she guides him lower. His lips brush against the delicate skin of her hip bone, making her jolt beneath him. He chuckles darkly, his breath hot against her flesh as he feels her body tense with need. His hands grip her hips firmly, holding her in place as he continues to tease her, refusing to give her what she craves. "A-Akira... please..." Lavenza whimpers, her voice barely audible.
Akira's mouth descends upon Lavenza's most intimate area, his hot breath fanning across her slick folds. She shudders violently, her hips jerking upwards instinctively, seeking more contact. He grins wickedly against her skin, reveling in the power he has over her body. Akira presses his lips to the smooth, hairless mound of her pussy, inhaling deeply as if drinking in her essence. His tongue flicks out, barely grazing her clit. She jerks at the sudden contact, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. Akira smiles against her pussy, his eyes flickering up to meet hers. They lock gazes as he does it again, his tongue lapping gently at her swollen bud.
Lavenza bites her lip, stifling a moan as Akira's tongue begins to move more rapidly, flicking against her clit with increasing speed and pressure. He sucks the sensitive bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it before releasing it with a pop. "Oh fuck!" she cries out, her back arching off the futon as waves of pleasure wash over her. Her body trembles violently, her muscles tensing and relaxing spasmodically as Akira continues to assault her clit with his tongue. Her breaths come in short, sharp gasps, her chest heaving as she struggles to maintain control. She grips the sheets beneath her, her knuckles white with exertion, as waves of pleasure threaten to consume her entirely.
Akira suddenly stops, his tongue ceasing its relentless assault on Lavenza's clit. She groans in frustration, her body aching with unfulfilled desire. "No! Please don't stop!" she begs, her voice hoarse with need. Akira grins wickedly, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he rises to his knees. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, slowly peeling them down his powerful thighs. Lavenza props herself up on her elbows, her golden eyes wide with anticipation as she watches Akira reveal his erection. She gasps loudly when his cock springs free, bouncing slightly from its own weight. Her eyes widen even further as she takes in the sight of him. Akira's cock is long and thick, easily 10 inches, maybe even more.
Lavenza's hand trembles slightly as she reaches out. She wraps her small fingers around its girth, marveling at the sheer size and heat radiating from it. Her thumb brushes over the velvety soft tip, smearing the pre-cum that has already formed there. A drop of moisture drips onto her stomach, leaving a glistening trail down her side. Akira positions himself back between Lavenza's spread thighs, the tip of his cock pressing against her slick entrance. He leans forward, bracing himself on his forearms as he looks down at her, their faces mere inches apart. Lavenza gazes up at him, before she nods slightly, giving him permission to proceed. "Gently, please," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
Akira's hips roll gently, pushing forward as he enters Lavenza. She is incredibly tight, her walls gripping him like a vice. He grunts softly, his jaw clenched as he fights the urge to thrust deep inside her. Instead, he moves slowly, inch by inch, allowing her body to adjust to his size. Lavenza's breath hitches as she feels Akira begin to penetrate her. Her eyelids flutter closed, her brow furrowing as she focuses on the sensation of being stretched and filled by him. Akira pauses, his cock buried halfway inside her, his grey eyes locking onto hers. Her breath comes in shallow pants, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she stares back at him, her golden eyes filled with a mix of pain and pleasure. "Okay?" he asks softly, concern etched onto his face.
Lavenza nods, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she tries to suppress a whimper. She can feel her inner walls trembling with need, eager for more of Akira's cock. Her hips twitch involuntarily, trying to pull him deeper inside her. "More," she pleads softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want all of you."
Akira leans forward, capturing Lavenza's lips in a searing kiss. She moans into his mouth, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck as she pulls him closer. He responds by rolling his hips, sliding deeper into her velvety heat. Inch by inch, he fills her completely, stretching her tight pussy around his throbbing shaft. Lavenza's nails dig into Akira's back, scoring red lines down his flesh as she pulls him deeper inside her. He groans against her mouth, swallowing her cries of pleasure as he finally seats himself fully within her welcoming depths. He holds still for a moment, allowing her to adjust to his size, his cock pulsing with need.
Akira begins to withdraw, his cock sliding through Lavenza's slick tunnel. He goes agonizingly slow, savoring the feeling of her walls clutching at him, trying desperately to keep him inside. Her hips rise off the bed, chasing after him as he pulls back until only the tip of his cock remains inside her. "Yes," Lavenza mewls, her voice breathy and desperate. "That feels so good. Give me more."
Akira obliges, slamming back into Lavenza with renewed vigor. Her back arches off the bed, a loud gasp escaping her lips as he bottoms out inside her. He sets a steady pace, his hips snapping against hers as he drives his cock deep into her willing cunt. Lavenza's legs wrap around his waist, pulling him tighter against her as she meets each of his thrusts eagerly. Her nails rake down his spine, leaving fiery trails in their wake. She bites his shoulder, muffling her cries of ecstasy as he pounds into her relentlessly. Akira grunts, the sound raw and primal as he feels Lavenza's teeth sink into his flesh.
Lavenza clings tighter to Akira, her limbs entwining around him like a vine as she surrenders herself completely to the sensations coursing through her body. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps as Akira pounds into her, her body tensing with each thrust. She can feel her orgasm building, a delicious pressure coiling low in her belly. "Akira..." she moans, her voice breathy and desperate. "Faster... please." Akira complies, his hips snapping against hers as he drives his cock deeper into her willing cunt. Lavenza's body begins to tremble wildly, her inner muscles convulsing around Akira's throbbing cock. She throws her head back, her platinum blonde hair cascading down the bed as she lets out a guttural moan. "Oh god... yes!" she cries, her hips bucking wildly against Akira's as her orgasm crashes over her like a tidal wave.
Lavenza collapses limply onto the bed, her body boneless and sated. Akira pulls out of her gently, his cock glistening with their combined juices. He lies beside her, propping himself up on one elbow as he gazes down at her flushed face. Lavenza's chest heaves with each ragged breath, her nipples still taut and pink from their lovemaking.
The room is still. Lavenza lies curled beside him, her breath slow and even, a peaceful smile lingering on her lips. Her fingers remain loosely entwined with Akira’s, like she’s reluctant to let go even in rest. There’s a glow to her—faint, like stardust on her skin—as though her very essence had settled into something fuller, more complete.
Akira brushes a hand through her silvery hair, and she sighs in contentment, nuzzling softly against his chest. But then, as if guided by an unspoken rhythm, Lavenza lifts her head and presses one last kiss over his heart. “Thank you,” she whispers, rising slowly. Her fingertips trail across his shoulder as she steps back into the circle of warmth and flickering candlelight.
Akira sits up slightly, heart still racing, breath not yet steady.
A soft shuffle draws his attention. Kasumi steps forward. Her lingerie is ballet-inspired—soft white mesh and silk with pale coral ribbon accents, echoing innocence and discipline both. A satiny garter frames one thigh, and the glow from her Soul Anklet flickers like a heartbeat.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks forward—slow, quiet steps—until she’s standing where Lavenza had been, looking down at him with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. Her lips part slightly, but the words catch in her throat.
Then she exhales a little laugh, nervous and breathless. “I thought I’d be more ready for this… but you always manage to undo me, Akira.”
Akira offers her his hand. She takes it with both of hers, holding on like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. The moment she touches him, something in her shifts—her body leans closer, hips brushing his, her voice faltering as she tries to maintain composure. “Will you let me dance for you?” she asks, cheeks flushed, voice soft and trembling. “Not as a gymnast… but as a woman in love.”
Akira nods.
Kasumi kneels in front of him, her breath catching as her hands slide to his waist, her eyes fixed on his with longing, reverence, and something molten flickering behind the innocence. She leans forward, brushing her lips against his knee, then his inner thigh, so soft he feels it like lightning.
“Then let me show you how much you mean to me…”
Akira watches, entranced, as Kasumi trails her lips up his inner thigh, her breath hot and moist on his skin, and it sends shivers of anticipation coursing through him. She moves slowly, deliberately, teasing him with her proximity to his throbbing cock. Kasumi pauses just short of his groin, her lips mere inches from his swelling balls. She looks up at him, her eyes dark with lust and love, before dragging her sharp nails lightly down the sensitive flesh of his other thigh. Akira gasps at the sensation, his hips jerking involuntarily. Kasumi smiles wickedly, clearly pleased with his reaction. She repeats her actions, trailing her lips up the same inner thigh, then dragging her nails down the other. Akira groans, his fingers curling into fists as he grips the sheets beneath him. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Kasumi grins mischievously, knowing the effect she has on him.
She leans forward, pressing her nose to his crotch and inhaling deeply, before wrapping her fingers around Akira's shaft, marveling at the hardness beneath the soft, velvety skin. She strokes him gently, feeling the pulsing heat radiating from his cock. Her thumb brushes over the sensitive tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum that has gathered there. She brings her thumb to her lips, sucking it clean with a moan. "So delicious," she whispers, licking her lips hungrily. She lowers her head, her tongue darting out to trace the vein throbbing along the underside of Akira's cock. She licks him slowly, sensually, swirling her tongue around the sensitive tip before taking him fully into her mouth. Her lips stretch wide to accommodate his girth, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks him deep. She bobs her head steadily, taking more of him with each pass until he hits the back of her throat. Kasumi gags slightly, her eyes watering as she pulls back quickly, gasping for air. She coughs gently, wiping tears from her eyes with one hand while keeping a firm grip on Akira's cock with the other. "Wow," she says, grinning despite her watery eyes. "That was... intense." Akira reaches down, cupping her cheek gently. "Are you okay?" he asks, concern etched on his face.
Kasumi nods reassuringly, giving Akira's cheek a gentle squeeze before turning her attention back to his throbbing member. She wraps both hands around the base, stroking firmly as she leans in, taking just the tip between her plump lips. Her tongue flicks out, swirling around the sensitive head, lapping up the precum that leaks steadily from the slit. She pushes herself up from her knees, her body glistening with sweat. Standing tall, she turns around gracefully, presenting her backside to Akira. With deliberate slowness, she begins to unhook the clasp of her bra, the delicate fabric falling away to reveal her flawless skin. She tosses it aside, allowing Akira to feast his eyes upon her smooth, toned back.
Kasumi's fingers hook into the waistband of her panties, and she begins to inch them down over her pert ass. She wiggles her hips seductively as the silky material slides lower, revealing more of her creamy skin. Akira's breath catches in his throat as he watches the tantalizing striptease unfold before him. Kasumi looks back over her shoulder, a coy smile playing on her lips as she continues to tease him, pushing the fabric down over the curve of her ass and down her long, toned legs. As the panties reach her ankles, she steps out of them, kicking them aside. She bends over at the waist, her hands resting on her knees, giving Akira an unobstructed view of her glistening pussy. Her lips are swollen and pink, already dripping with arousal.
Akira slides off the bed, unable to resist the temptation before him. He positions himself behind Kasumi, his hands gripping her hips possessively. She lets out a gasp as he leans forward, running his tongue up her slick slit, tasting her sweet nectar. She moans softly, arching her back to push herself against his mouth. Akira presses deeper, lapping at her folds eagerly, reveling in the taste of her desire. He lingers on her clit, flicking and circling it until she cries out. He loves hearing her sounds of pleasure, watching her squirm and writhe under his touch. But he knows what she wants, what she needs. And he plans to give it to her. He stands up behind her, his cock throbbing and aching. He rubs the head against her soaked pussy, coating himself in her juices.
Kasumi pants in anticipation, her breath coming in quick gasps as she waits for Akira to enter her. Suddenly, she finds herself lifted into the air, her vision spinning briefly before righting itself. She realizes she is upside down, held effortlessly by Akira's strong arms wrapped around her waist.
Her laughter fades into a gasp as she feels Akira's tongue swipe through her pussy once more. The sensation is electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core. She braces her hands on his thighs, knuckles turning white as she grips him tightly. Her legs instinctively wrap around his head, pulling him closer, urging him to delve deeper. "Oh god, ‘Kira," she moans, her voice husky with desire.
Akira growls into Kasumi's pussy, the vibration sending shockwaves through her body. She releases his leg with one hand, reaching down to grasp his rock-hard cock. She guides it towards her mouth, her lips parting eagerly. She flicks her tongue against the sensitive tip, tasting the salty precum that beads there, then opens wider, taking him into her mouth, sucking him deep while he laps at her glistening cunt.
Akira and Kasumi devour each other, their bodies entwined in a symphony of pleasure. Akira's tongue explores every fold of Kasumi's pussy, lapping at her juices as she writhes against him. He thrusts two fingers into her tight hole, pumping them in and out while his tongue circles her clit. Kasumi moans loudly, her hips bucking wildly as she sucks Akira's cock deeper into her mouth.
Suddenly, Akira feels Kasumi's urgent taps on his thigh and quickly responds. With a gentle ease, he lowers her back onto the futon, her hair splayed across the pillow, her breasts rising and falling rapidly with each breath. She takes a moment to regain her composure, her eyes sparkling with renewed lust. "I want you inside me, my darling," she says, her voice husky with desire. "Fill me up."
Kasumi rolls onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows as she presents her perfect round ass to Akira. She spreads her legs wide, displaying her incredible flexibility as she practically does the splits. Her pussy is completely exposed, glistening with her arousal. She arches her back, tilting her hips upward invitingly. "Come on, Senpai," she coos, looking back at him over her shoulder. "Don't keep me waiting."
Akira kneels between Kasumi's widespread thighs, his cock throbbing painfully. He grabs hold of her hips, positioning himself at her entrance. He can feel the heat radiating from her pussy, begging for his attention. He rubs the head of his cock up and down her slit, coating himself in her juices once more. He teases her opening, dipping just the tip inside before withdrawing, making her whimper with need. After a few more shallow thrusts, he presses forward, slowly sliding the head of his cock into Kasumi's tight, hot pussy. He groans at the intense sensation, feeling her walls clamp around him as he inches deeper. Kasumi cries out, her fingers digging into the futon as she pushes back against him, eager to take more.
Akira grips Kasumi's hips tighter, his knuckles turning white as he drives himself deeper into her welcoming heat. Inch by inch, he fills her, stretching her tight walls to accommodate his size. Kasumi moans loudly, her head thrown back, her long red hair cascading down her spine. "Yes, baby," she gasps. "Give it to me. Give me all of you." Akira obliges, thrusting deeper until he is buried to the hilt inside her. Kasumi arches her back, pressing her shoulders down and lifting her ass higher into the air. She reaches back with one hand, grabbing Akira's thigh and urging him deeper. "Harder," she demands, her voice breathless. "Fuck me harder." Akira complies, his grip on her hips tightening as he begins to move. He withdraws almost entirely before slamming back into her, eliciting a loud cry from Kasumi.
Akira drives deeper, faster, his hips slapping against Kasumi's ass with each powerful thrust. The room fills with the sound of their bodies coming together, the wet smack of flesh against flesh, and Kasumi's cries of pleasure. Akira grunts with exertion, his muscles straining as he pounds into her. He can feel her pussy clutching at his cock, milking him with each withdrawal. "Faster, Akira," Kasumi pleads, her voice strained with desperate need. "Make me cum. Please make me cum on your cock." Akira obeys, his pace becoming frenzied as he chases both their orgasms. He leans over Kasumi's back, reaching beneath her to grab a handful of her breast, squeezing and rolling her nipple between his fingers. She screams, the sensation pushing her closer to the edge. "That's it, that’s it!" she cries.
Akira pulls out suddenly, leaving Kasumi empty and crying out in protest. Just as the words leave her mouth, her orgasm crashes over her like a tidal wave. Her body convulses violently, her inner muscles clamping down on nothing as waves of pleasure ripple through her. A gush of liquid erupts from her pussy, spraying onto Akira's thighs and stomach, drenching him in her juices.
Akira stares in awe at the sight before him, his own cock pulsing with need as he watches Kasumi's body spasm through her powerful orgasm. He reaches down, gripping his shaft and stroking himself furiously, chasing his own release. As Kasumi begins to come down from her high, she looks back at Akira, her eyes locking onto his hand moving swiftly along his length. She half-rolls, half-collapses onto her back, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. Her skin is flushed pink, her nipples hard peaks begging for attention. She hooks her arms under her knees, gripping her ankles and spreading her legs wide, exposing her swollen, glistening pussy to Akira's hungry gaze. "Finish on me," she begs, her voice husky with desire. "Mark me with your seed."
Akira groans at the sight of Kasumi's dripping pussy, her pink flesh glistening with her juices. His cock jerks in his hand, pre-cum leaking from the tip. He strokes himself faster, his gaze locked onto hers as he nears his climax. "Cum on me, Akira," Kasumi urges, releasing one ankle to reach down and rub her clit fiercely. "Cover me with your cum."
With a roar, Akira's orgasm rips through him. Rope after rope of thick, white cum shoots from Akira's cock, painting Kasumi's stomach and tits. She moans loudly, rubbing her clit furiously as his seed coats her skin. Akira groans deeply, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm. He strokes his cock slowly, milking out every last drop until it finally stops jerking in his hand.
Kasumi runs her fingers through the sticky pool of cum on her stomach, tracing a path down her skin to her navel and beyond. She shivers at the sensation, her body still hypersensitive from the intense orgasm. She brings her fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean before licking her lips seductively. "Mmm, Akira," she purrs. "I could get used to this." She lets out a tired chuckle. “Once I’ve got my strength back.”
Kasumi rests beside him now, tucked against his chest with one hand pressed delicately over his heart. Her breathing is slow and even, her lashes fluttering gently against her cheeks. She sighs his name once—content, trusting—and Akira softly kisses her forehead before brushing a few strands of red hair from her face.
A rustle of silk behind him draws his attention. He turns—and Yukiko is there, standing quietly just beyond the edge of the futon’s light.
She doesn’t speak right away. Her eyes—deeply expressive and endlessly calm—meet his. In this moment, she seems ethereal: clad in dark plum lace and sheer silk, her Soul Anklet glowing like a snowflake caught in twilight. Her lingerie is delicate but refined—cut to flatter, not flaunt—evoking an old-world elegance that stills the breath in his throat.
When Kasumi departs from Akira’s side and she steps forward, it's with the grace of a shrine maiden and the poise of a woman who knows her own heart. “Kasumi looked radiant,” she says quietly, kneeling beside him. Her fingers brush his cheek—cool, soft, reverent. “You bring out something beautiful in each of us… but I wonder what you’ll bring out in me.”
Akira meets her gaze. She leans in, her nose brushing his, her voice little more than a murmur. “Let me find out. Slowly. Together.”
She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth—just once—before drawing back and reaching behind her to undo the silk knot at her back. The fabric slips from her shoulders like petals falling from a bloom, pooling softly around her thighs.
Her skin is glistening, warm under his fingers as she guides his hand to her hip. “Take your time,” Yukiko whispers, her lips at his ear, her breath trembling ever so slightly. “We have all night.”
His fingers trace the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, following the line of her thigh down to where it meets her knee before returning upward. Akira watches his hand move over her skin as if seeing it for the first time-the softness of it, the warmth, the subtle tremble beneath his touch. He lets his hand wander higher, cupping the firm swell of her breast, feeling its weight against his palm. Her nipple hardens under his thumb, pinking into a tight bud. Akira bends his head, circling it slowly with his tongue before drawing it gently between his teeth. Yukiko gasps, arching into him. He sucks harder, flicking the tip with his tongue until she moans low in her throat, clutching at his shoulders.
Yukiko's nails dig into his flesh as she pulls him tighter against her. "More," she pants, her voice husky with need. Akira complies eagerly, trailing kisses down her sternum, lingering at the valley between her breasts before continuing lower. His mouth closes around one taut peak while his hand teases the other, rolling and plucking it between his fingers. Yukiko takes his wrist and stops his hand from traveling further south. "Not yet." Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breath hitching in her throat as she looks into Akira's eyes. She can see the heat in them, feel the tension in his body, and knows he wants more-but so does she. And she intends to make sure they both get everything they crave tonight.
Her fingertips graze the defined ridges of his abdomen, tracing each muscle as if memorizing their shape. She explores every inch of him, learning his body by heart, committing it to memory. Her nails scrape lightly over his pecs, making him shiver with anticipation. Leaning in, she runs her tongue along the same path, tasting salt and heat on her tongue. Yukiko pushes Akira onto his back, straddling him with her knees on either side of his hips. She sits upright, running her hands through her long dark hair and shaking it loose from its ponytail. It cascades down her bare back like an inky waterfall. Then she takes hold of her breasts, squeezing them together and offering them to him. "They're yours," she says, leaning forward so that her nipples brush against his lips.
Akira's tongue darts out, licking at the sensitive peaks as they graze his mouth. Yukiko rocks her hips, rubbing herself against the hard length trapped between their bodies. She moans softly, feeling him pulse against her, hot and insistent. With a growl, Akira grabs her ass, digging his fingers into her soft flesh as he bucks up to meet her movements.
Yukiko reaches off to the side and grabs a bottle of scented oil. She pops open the cap and pours a generous amount over her chest, watching as the viscous liquid dribbles down her breasts and belly. Akira groans appreciatively, his cock twitching beneath her. She takes his hands and places them on her slick skin, guiding him to spread the oil evenly across her body, leaving no inch untouched. As his palms slide over her curves, she tilts her head back, eyes closed, savoring the sensation. The oil warms her skin, heightening every caress. When his fingers slip between her legs, she shudders, biting her lip to stifle a moan. "Yes... just like that..." She rocks against his touch, feeling her desire build with each stroke.
Yukiko rolls her hips forward, releasing Akira's cock from between them. She grinds against his shaft as she slides upwards, the oil making her slick and allowing her to easily glide over him. Her breasts rub against his chest, her stomach against his abs, her chin against his neck. He groans deeply, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him. Akira flips Yukiko onto her back, his body covering hers as he claims her mouth in a fierce kiss. Their tongues dance together, exploring each other's mouths eagerly. Akira breaks the kiss, his breath ragged as he trails kisses down her jawline to her neck. He bites down gently on the tender flesh where her shoulder meets her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
She feels him throbbing between her thighs. She takes his thick rod in her small hand, teasing the underside of his crown with her thumb. She wraps her fingers around his shaft and begins to stroke him, spreading the oil down his length. She tugs firmly, eliciting a groan from deep within his chest. "Fuck," he mutters against her skin. "You're going to make me cum too soon."
"Then don't," Yukiko says, smiling wickedly. She moves quickly, straddling Akira's legs and positioning her breasts around his thick shaft. She presses them together, trapping his cock between them, and begins to slide up and down, fucking him with her cleavage. Akira groans loudly, thrusting up into her soft mounds. "Is this what you want?" she asks, looking down at him with lust-filled eyes.
Akira growls, gripping Yukiko as he flips them over, his body hovering above hers. She squeals in delight, her laughter cut short by a sharp intake of breath as he slides down her body then hooks her legs over his shoulders, opening her wide for him. He gazes down at her glistening cunt, swollen and ready for him. "So beautiful," he murmurs, stroking himself slowly. "I'm going to fuck you nice and slow."
Yukiko arches her back, lifting her hips to grind against him. "Do it," she demands, her voice hoarse with need. "Fuck me." Akira grips his cock and drags it through her wetness, coating himself in her arousal. He teases her entrance, circling it with the head of his cock, feeling her tense beneath him. She whimpers softly, trying to impale herself on him, but he holds back, denying her what she wants most.
"Please, Akira," Yukiko begs, writhing beneath him. "Don't make me wait anymore." He smirks, loving the power he has over her in this moment. But he can't deny either of them any longer. Not when she's looking at him with such raw hunger in her eyes. Not when his cock is throbbing painfully, aching to be inside her. Not when every cell in his body is screaming for release. With a sudden jerk of her hips, Yukiko locks her ankles behind Akira's head, pulling him down forcefully as he thrusts into her. His cock sinks deep into her tight cunt, filling her completely with one swift motion. She cries out at the sudden invasion, her walls stretching to accommodate his size. "Fuck!" she exclaims, her nails digging into his back as she holds him there, impaled on his shaft. "Oh god, you're so big!"
Akira groans, his cock pulsing inside her as she clenches around him. "Jesus, you're so tight," he grits out, struggling to maintain control. He can feel her inner muscles fluttering around him, milking his shaft, begging him to move. But he stays still, buried balls-deep in her welcoming heat, letting her adjust to his size. "You okay? Do you need me to stop?" he asks, but his voice is strained. He doesn't want to stop. Not now. Not ever. She shakes her head fiercely, gasping for air. "No! Fuck me! Please, Akira, just fuck me already!" He needs no further encouragement. Gripping her thighs tightly, he begins to move, sliding out almost all the way before slamming back into her.
Yukiko's legs tremble violently, her heels digging into Akira's back as he pounds into her relentlessly. She can feel every vein, every ridge of his thick cock as it plows through her soaked channel. Her inner walls ripple around him, trying desperately to grip onto something solid amidst the storm of sensations overwhelming her body. "Akira!" she screams, her voice echoing off the walls. "Don't stop!"
Yukiko arches her back off the futon, her toes curling as she throws her head back and lets out a guttural scream. Her orgasm rips through her like a tidal wave, crashing over every nerve ending in her body. She spasms uncontrollably, her pussy clenching down on Akira's throbbing cock as waves of pleasure wash over her. "Fuck, yes!" she cries out, bucking wildly beneath him.
Akira leans down, capturing Yukiko's mouth in a fierce kiss as she rides out the waves of her climax. He swallows her cries, his tongue delving deep to taste her sweetness. She kisses him back just as fervently, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulls him closer. Their teeth clash, their breaths mingling as one. The kiss goes on and on, neither wanting to break the connection, lost in each other's embrace. Akira finally breaks the kiss, panting heavily as he gazes down at Yukiko. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen and red from their intense kissing. Her eyes are glazed over with lust, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "That was incredible," she whispers, her voice barely audible. Akira smiles down at her, brushing a strand of sweat-dampened hair away from her forehead.
Yukiko lies still against him, her breath warm where it fans across his collarbone, her fingers loosely laced with his. Her raven hair spills like ink over the pillow, and she presses a final, sleepy kiss to the curve of his shoulder before she gets up and motions for the next lover to take her place.
Akira turns his head just slightly—just enough to see a flash of motion at the corner of the futon.
It’s Futaba. She’s kneeling there, straddling a folded blanket like it’s a cushion throne, hugging her knees with her arms and watching him over the tops of her glasses. Her cheeks are glowing almost neon red.
She's trying very hard to look cool and nonchalant. It’s not working.
She’s in orange-and-black striped lingerie—cheeky, playful, clearly chosen to match her hacker motif—but there’s a clear tremble in her legs where they’re tucked beneath her. Her Soul Anklet flickers at her ankle like a loaded status bar, syncing with her heartbeat.
“…so, uh… hey.”
Akira blinks.
“I mean—hi. Hey. What’s up, Joker. I’m totally calm and chill and not about to short-circuit, okay?” Futaba says, voice high and tight. “Like, totally in control of my neural functions. Yup.”
Her eyes dart to the pile of towels and wet wipes to the side of the futon. Then they flick to Akira’s bare chest, bearing the marks of the night’s events so far.
Then back to her lap. Then back to his lap.
“…Oh god I’m gonna blow,” she whispers, ducking her head.
Akira sits up slowly, folding one arm around her waist and guiding her into his lap before she can retreat. She lets out a tiny squeak, goes stiff as a frozen hard drive—and then melts, slowly, one degree at a time, into his arms.
Her forehead rests against his collarbone. “…You’re really warm,” she mumbles, voice barely audible now. “I always thought you’d be kind of… electric. Like, static-charged or something. But you’re just… human.”
She looks up at him then, glasses slipping down her nose. “And you’re mine.”
She kisses him. It's awkward for half a second, a little messy around the edges—but then she shifts, finds his rhythm, and everything lines up. Sparks stop flying. Her nervous energy begins to quiet, and in its place, something softer blooms.
Her hand slips into his hair. “I want this,” she whispers, her body pressed tight to his. “Just… be gentle at first, okay? I’ll tell you when I’m ready for more.”
Akira nods softly, his fingers gently brushing through Futaba's hair, pushing it back from her face. "Of course," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through both of them. "Whatever you need." His hands slide down her sides, tracing the curves of her body through the soft fabric of her lingerie, eliciting a shiver from her. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to her neck, just below her ear.
Futaba gasps lightly as Akira's lips press against her neck, sending a wave of heat coursing through her body. She tilts her head back, exposing more of herself to him, inviting further exploration. Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently but insistently. "Kiss me," she demands, her voice breathless and husky with desire. "Kiss me properly." He obliges, capturing her mouth with his own, his tongue sweeping inside to tangle with hers. The kiss is fierce, passionate, filled with the pent-up lust that has been building between them for months.
Akira’s hands drift lower, cupping her ass and pulling her against him. She can feel his cock hardening between them, hot and thick, and she moans softly as he grinds it against her. He nips at her earlobe, then growls in her ear, "Do you like that?" Futaba nods eagerly, her hips moving in rhythm with his, chasing friction. Akira chuckles darkly, "Good girl. Now let's get these clothes off." Futaba breaks away from the kiss, panting heavily and reaches behind her back, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. Akira's hands cover hers, helping her undo it. He pulls the straps down her shoulders, revealing her small, pert breasts, nipples already hard and begging for attention. He leans forward, taking one into his mouth while his hand massages the other.
Futaba whimpers as Akira sucks on her nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud. Her hands grip his hair tighter, urging him on. He switches to the other breast, giving it equal attention while his hand slides down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. She gasps as he finds her slick folds, already dripping with arousal. His fingers slide easily into her pussy, curling upward to find that special spot. She cries out, bucking against his hand, her walls clenching around his digits. He pumps them in and out, fucking her with his hand while his mouth continues its assault on her tits. She tugs at his hair, desperately seeking more contact, more pressure. "Akira... please..." she pants, "take these off... touch me everywhere…"
Akira complies, his hands hooking into the waistband of Futaba's panties and sliding them down her legs. He kneels before her, peeling them off completely and tossing them aside. His hands grasp her thighs firmly, spreading her wide open for him. She gasps at the sudden exposure, feeling vulnerable yet incredibly turned on by his hungry gaze. With no warning, Akira dives in, licking a long stripe up her slit. His tongue delves deeper, probing her inner lips. He laps at her entrance greedily, savoring the taste of her arousal. She tastes sweet, musky, and utterly intoxicating. Futaba moans loudly, her hips rocking forward involuntarily. Akira grips her thighs tighter, holding her still as he feasts on her pussy. His tongue flicks against her clit, making her jerk in surprise. "Oh fuck!"
Futaba lets out a slight scream as Akira suddenly stands up, lifting her effortlessly with his strong arms wrapped around her thighs. Her back arches, pushing her pussy harder against his face. His tongue burrows deeper inside her, fucking her with rapid thrusts. She can feel the tension building within her, her orgasm coiling tightly in her core. His tongue swirls around her clit, drawing it out into a stiff peak. He sucks on it gently, then harder, matching the rhythm of his thrusting tongue. Futaba's moans turn into screams as her orgasm crashes over her, waves of pleasure rippling through her body. Her juices flow freely, coating Akira's chin and cheeks. He laps them up eagerly, drinking her down like a man possessed.
As Futaba comes down from her high, she slumps forward, her hands still gripping Akira's hair. Her breath comes out in short, ragged puffs, her body trembling slightly from the aftershocks of her orgasm. "Oh god," she moans, her voice hoarse and raw. "That was... wow." Akira pulls away gently, lowering her to the ground. He smiles up at her, his lips glistening with her juices.
Futaba whines slightly as Akira begins to lower her, not wanting to lose contact with his talented mouth. She leans in, pressing her lips against his, tasting herself on his lips. She moans softly as their tongues dance together, her arms wrapping around his neck. She feels his hands grip her ass, supporting her weight effortlessly. She wraps her legs around his waist, grinding against him shamelessly.
Futaba nibbles playfully at Akira's bottom lip, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. He groans into her mouth, his grip on her ass tightening possessively. She rocks against him, feeling his rock-hard cock trapped between them. "Mmm, someone's eager," she purrs, pulling back just enough to look into his heated gaze. "Let's do something about that, shall we?"
Futaba reaches down between them, her small hand wrapping around Akira's thick shaft. She guides it to her slick folds, rubbing the head up and down her wet slit. "Mmm, you're so big," she murmurs appreciatively. She presses the tip against her entrance, feeling it spread her open. "Hold me up like this and fuck me," she commands, her voice breathless with anticipation. Akira needs no further encouragement. He grabs hold of Futaba's ass cheeks, squeezing them firmly as he lifts her up again. He aligns himself perfectly with her dripping pussy and begins to lower her down onto his throbbing cock. The head parts her lips easily, sliding into her slick heat. They both groan in unison as she takes him inch by inch, stretching to accommodate his size.
Futaba gasps and whimpers as she feels Akira's cock penetrate her inch by inch, savoring the sensation of being stretched and filled. Her nails dig into his shoulders, drawing blood as she gasps at the intense sensation. She picks up her pace, rolling her hips in circles, grinding against him with increasing urgency. "Fuck, Akira," she pants, her breath hot against his ear. "Your cock feels so good inside me."
Futaba lifts herself up slightly, then slams back down onto Akira's cock, impaling herself fully. She repeats the motion, bouncing up and down on his shaft with abandon. Akira meets her thrusts, driving upwards into her slick pussy with powerful strokes. Their bodies slap together, the sound echoing through the room alongside their loud moans and gasps.
Futaba throws her head back, her long hair cascading down her back as she rides Akira's massive cock. "Oh fuck, yes! Right there!" she screams, her pussy clamping down on his thick shaft. Her body trembles with the force of her orgasm, her inner muscles milking his cock relentlessly. Akira roars, his hips snapping upward as he pounds into her soaked cunt. "Fu-fuck-taba!"
Akira's grip on Futaba tightens as he drives his cock into her with ferocious intensity. He can feel her pussy convulsing around him, pulling him deeper, begging for his seed. He groans loudly, his balls slapping against her ass with each thrust. "Cumming!" he roars, his body tensing as he unleashes jet after jet of hot cum deep inside her writhing cunt. Futaba screams again, her own orgasm peaking at the same time. She can feel Akira’s release coating her insides, seeping out around his still-thrusting shaft. The combination of his hot seed and her own juices drips down her thighs, creating a mess between them. But neither seems to care; they're too lost in their mutual ecstasy.
Akira holds Futaba close, their bodies slick with sweat and covered in traces of their shared passion. As her orgasmic spasms subside, his cock begins to soften inside her. With a final gentle thrust, he slips out, leaving Futaba's pussy gaping and dripping with their combined fluids. She collapses against him, her breath coming in ragged gasps, completely spent. Akira holds Futaba up effortlessly, cradling her limp form against his chest. He lays her gently on the futon, then grabs a nearby pack of wet wipes and a soft towel, tenderly cleaning the mixture of their releases from her thighs and swollen pussy lips.
Akira finishes cleaning Futaba, setting the towel aside as she reaches for him, pulling him down onto the futon beside her. She wraps her arms around his neck, tugging him into a deep, languid kiss. Their tongues dance together lazily, exploring each other's mouths without hurry or pressure. "Thank you," she breathes softly when they finally break apart. Her fingers trace patterns on his chest idly. "That was amazing."
Futaba rests with her head nestled just beneath Akira’s chin, one hand still splayed over his chest like she’s trying to memorize his heartbeat. Her breathing slows, her glasses lie forgotten on the pillow, and a sleepy little grin plays at her lips.
Akira presses a final kiss to her temple. When he looks up, Morgane is already standing nearby—arms crossed, weight shifted to one leg, her whole body taut as a bowstring. Her lipstick is smudged from earlier, her black mane mussed just enough to betray the tension in her fingers. She’s in sharp, structured lingerie—deep crimson, with bold lines and angular cutouts, just as fierce and pointed as her persona mask.
Her Soul Anklet glows dim at her ankle. Her eyes are hard to read. “…Well,” she mutters, looking off to the side. “You’ve certainly made your way around the group.”
Akira raises an eyebrow. Morgane clicks her tongue. “Ugh. That sounded way cattier than I meant. I’m not jealous, okay? Or… I mean, I am, but—not like that.”
She drags a hand through her hair. “I just—I don’t do this. I don’t let people in. Not fully. Not all the way. I’m not… I’m not soft like the others. You touch me wrong and I bite.”
Akira slowly sits up, letting Futaba gently roll away. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to.
He stands.
Takes two slow steps. And cups Morgane’s face with both hands. She flinches—just a breath—and then stops breathing altogether. Because the way he’s looking at her isn’t wary, or pitying, or careful. It’s tender. Not like she’s some vicious thing that needs taming—but like she’s someone worth waiting for.
“…Idiot,” Morgane whispers, blinking fast. “Tu vas me faire pleurer.”
He leans forward and kisses her.
And Morgane breaks. She crashes into him all at once, pulling him down with her into the futon, clutching him like the only stable thing in her world. It’s clumsy and desperate at first, all teeth and heat and whimpering breath. But the moment he touches her right—just right—her whole body shudders.
Her fingers find his. “…Okay,” she whispers into the hollow of his throat. “You win. I’m yours.”
Morgane hums, tracing the line of his jaw with her nose. "Akira... My Akira." His hands drift down to the curve of her hips, squeezing gently. She nips at his neck, tugging playfully on the skin there before soothing it with her lips. He traces circles over the lace at her hip, grazing against the bare flesh beneath. She shivers. "You know what I want," she murmurs against his ear. He grins.
Akira's fingers delve under Morgane's lingerie, tracing the line of her spine with feather-light strokes. She purrs softly, arching into his touch like a cat begging for more. He obliges, stroking her back and sides, exploring every curve and dip. His lips brush against her ear, nibbling gently on the lobe before trailing down her neck, leaving a path of hot, wet kisses in their wake. Morgane squirms under Akira's touch, her body responding to his every movement. As he continues to stroke her back and plant kisses along her neck, she lets out a soft moan, her hips grinding against his. "More," she demands, her voice husky with desire. His hands move lower, cupping her ass through the lace of her underwear. He squeezes gently, eliciting another moan from her.
Morgane wriggles in Akira's grasp, turning her body to press her round, satin-covered butt against his bare cock. She grinds against him, feeling the hardness between her cheeks. A wicked smile plays on her lips as she feels him grow even harder at her teasing. "You like that, don't you?" she purrs, looking back at him over her shoulder. Akira's hands roam greedily over Morgane's curves, finally settling on her lush breasts. He squeezes and kneads them through the satin material, teasing her nipples into stiff peaks. Morgane moans appreciatively, pushing back against him even harder. She reaches behind herself and grabs one of Akira's hands, guiding it down to her soaked pussy.
"Akira, doigte-moi," Morgane gasps, her voice thick with lust. She presses his fingertips against her throbbing clit, rubbing herself shamelessly against his hand. He obeys eagerly, circling her swollen bud while she moans and bucks her hips. With his other hand, he squeezes her breast roughly, pinching her nipple hard. She cries out, her pleasure building rapidly. "Oh god, yes, Akira! Like that!"
Morgane reaches up and threads her fingers through Akira's hair, tugging sharply as she begins to babble incoherent French into his ear. "Putain de merde, c'est si bon... ne t'arrête pas, s'il te plaît... oh mon Dieu, oui comme ça..." Her words trail off into a series of high-pitched squeals and moans as Akira's fingers work furiously against her clit, slipping lower to plunge into her dripping hole. Morgane arches her back, pressing her ass firmly against Akira's throbbing cock as her orgasm crashes over her. She screams out, her inner muscles clamping down on his fingers as waves of pleasure ripple through her body. "Ne t'arrete pas!" she cries out, her voice hoarse with desperation. "Plus fort! Plus vite!"
As Morgane's orgasm subsides, she slumps back against Akira, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. Her body trembles with the aftershocks of her release, and she lets out a soft sigh of contentment. Akira slowly pulls his fingers from her dripping pussy, and Morgane immediately grabs his wrist, bringing his hand to her mouth. She sucks her juices off his fingers, moaning softly as she tastes herself on his skin. She releases his hand from her mouth with a final, lingering lick, then turns to face him, her eyes blazing with renewed hunger. "A ton tour, mon cheri," she whispers huskily, pointing to a chair in the corner of the room. Akira rises and makes his way to the seat, his cock throbbing with anticipation. Morgane waits until Akira is seated before she begins to move towards him, her eyes locked onto his. She starts to sway her hips seductively, each step deliberate and purposeful. Slowly, she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra, letting it fall to the floor as she reveals her medium-sized, firm breasts. Her nipples are already hard and erect, begging for attention.
As Morgane approaches Akira, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slides them down her thighs, revealing her cute little landing strip. She steps out of them, kicking them aside, and continues to stalk towards him, completely naked now except for her Soul Anklet. She climbs onto his lap, straddling him, her wet pussy pressing against his rock-hard cock. "Now, my love," she purrs, grinding against him.
Morgane lifts herself slightly, reaching between them to guide Akira's cock to her entrance. She rubs the head up and down her slick folds, coating it in her juices before positioning it at her opening. Slowly, she lowers herself onto him, impaling herself inch by inch. They both groan as he fills her completely, stretching her wide. Morgane pauses for a moment, adjusting to his size, before beginning to ride him. She leans forward, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispers, "Baise-moi, bébé... fuck me hard." Akira grips her hips tightly, lifting her slightly before slamming her back down onto his cock. Morgane throws her head back, crying out in pleasure as he pounds into her relentlessly.
Morgane's inner muscles clamp down on Akira's cock, milking him as she continues to ride him. She increases the pressure of her thighs, squeezing them together to create an even tighter fit around his shaft. "Fuck, you feel so good inside me," she moans, rocking her hips back and forth. The friction sends waves of pleasure coursing through her body, making her nipples tingle and ache for attention. Akira groans deeply, feeling Morgane's inner muscles gripping him tightly as she squeezes her thighs around him. He grabs her ass cheeks, spreading them apart to allow deeper penetration. The sight of his cock sliding in and out of her soaked pussy drives him wild, and he begins to pound into her with fierce abandon. Morgane meets his thrusts with equal fervor, her hips bucking wildly as she rides him like a cowgirl.
Morgane's breath hitches as her body tenses, her second orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave. She throws her head back, screaming loud enough to make the windows rattle. Her nails dig into Akira's chest, raking down his sweat-slicked skin and leaving red welts in their wake. Her inner walls convulse around his throbbing cock, milking him with desperate need. "Oh fuck, Akira!"
Morgane collapses against Akira's chest, her body still spasming with aftershocks. He wraps his strong arms around her, holding her tightly as they both struggle to catch their breath. She can feel his heart racing, matching the frantic pace of her own. She lifts her head to look into his eyes, a wicked grin spreading across her face.
Akira stands abruptly, cradling Morgane in his powerful arms as he carries her effortlessly towards the futon. She clings to him tightly, her limbs wrapping around him like a vine. "Je t'aime," she murmurs softly into his ear, nipping at his earlobe playfully. Akira lays her down gently on the plush surface, following her down as he covers her body with his own. He trails his fingertips along her jawline, down her neck, and across her collarbone, eliciting soft shivers from her sensitive skin. His hands explore every curve and crevice of her body, memorizing each contour as if it were a precious treasure map.
Morgane is curled against Akira now, her head resting on his chest, one arm flung possessively across his stomach. Akira strokes her hair, lingering in the moment until he feels another presence near the futon.
Ryuemi. Morgane looks at her as well, before grumbling under her breath, but then gives them both a grin and a kiss before slipping away. The storm in her has quieted. In its place is a delicate peace.
She’s kneeling at the edge of the futon, chin propped on her hands, grinning at him with an expression that’s somehow both mischievous and completely earnest. Her signature energy, unfiltered and untamed, radiates from her like heatwaves.
She’s looks different in her lingerie—a midnight blue set with gold accents and playful little straps. Her choppy blonde hair is swept to one side, tousled and slightly sweaty from earlier, and the Soul Anklet on her ankle gleams like lightning captured in a loop.
“Damn,” she says with a teasing lilt. “I knew you were good, but wow. I almost feel bad for going next.”
Akira gives her a look, one brow raised.
She laughs, soft and open. “Almost. But not really.” She rises and climbs onto the mattress beside him, sitting cross-legged with her knees brushing his. “We’ve waited too damn long for this, you know? You, me, and this ridiculous slow-burn tension that’s been going on since... what? The first time I saw you in the Metaverse?”
She leans forward, fingers trailing up his arm. “You gave me strength when I needed it most. Taught me I didn’t have to carry everything alone. So…” She shifts closer, brushing her nose against his, voice dipping low. “...Let me give you something back. No games. No walls. Just me.”
Akira cups her jaw, his thumb resting on her cheekbone.
Ryuemi leans in—and the kiss is instant fire. Joyful. Playful. Needy. Her laughter spills between their mouths, full of hunger and happiness.
“You ready?” she whispers, breath warm against his skin.
Akira doesn’t answer. He pulls her down with him instead.
Ryuemi grins against his lips, already knowing the answer. She straddles him playfully and rests her hands on his shoulders, pushing gently. He resists at first, then lays back, letting her pin him beneath her. "Tickle fight," she declares, laughing as he tries to squirm away from her questing fingertips. She chases his ribs, tracing the lines of muscle along his sides before darting up to brush under his arms.
Akira bucks his hips, trying to throw her off balance, but she holds firm, giggling as he writhes beneath her. She sits upright, still straddling his waist, and plants a hand on each of his pectorals, digging her nails lightly into his skin. His eyes narrow with feigned irritation, but there's no missing the spark of desire in them. "Cheater," he growls playfully. "Oh yeah?" Ryuemi grins, leaning down until their noses touch. Akira's hands find her hips, squeezing gently as they slide up her sides. He pushes himself upward, meeting her halfway in a searing kiss. Their tongues dance together, exploring and tasting, while his fingers weave into her hair, tugging lightly at the roots. She moans softly, breaking the kiss to gasp for air. Akira uses the momentary separation to seize control, flipping Ryuemi onto her back in one swift motion. She squeaks in surprise, her eyes wide with excitement as he pins her wrists above her head. He smirks down at her, his grey eyes darkening with lust. "My turn," he murmurs, lowering his mouth to hers once more. His kiss is fierce, demanding, filled with a primal need that sets Ryuemi's body alight.
Akira's lips trail away from hers, leaving her breathless and craving more. He kisses a path down her jawline, nipping lightly at her pulse point before soothing the sting with his tongue. Ryuemi shivers beneath him, her body arching instinctively towards his touch. His free hand roams her curves, tracing the lace of her bra before cupping her breast possessively. His thumb flicks over her nipple through the lace of her bra, making her gasp. He chuckles lowly, his teeth grazing her earlobe as he speaks. "That's right, sweetheart. Show me how much you want this." His hand slides down her body, caressing her hip before moving lower still. Akira's fingers glide over her inner thigh, sending jolts of electricity coursing through her veins. He traces lazy patterns on her sensitive flesh, edging closer to her center with each pass. Ryuemi whimpers, bucking her hips in silent entreaty. She wants more; needs more. His touch is maddeningly light, teasing her relentlessly.
"Please, Akira," Ryuemi begs, her voice barely above a whisper. "Touch me." Her pleading is met with a low growl from deep within his chest. He complies, sliding two fingers through her slick folds, eliciting a moan from her parted lips. Her body squirms beneath his touch, aching for release. Akira curls his fingers inside her, finding that special spot that makes her cry out in pleasure.
Ryuemi arches her back, eyes fluttering closed as waves of pleasure crash over her. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, each exhale a soft moan that fills the room. Akira's fingers move expertly, drawing out every ounce of ecstasy from her trembling body. She can feel the pressure building, coiling tight within her core. Her hips rise to meet his touch, chasing the impending release with desperate need. As Ryuemi teeters on the brink, Akira suddenly slows his touch, dragging his fingers lazily through her wetness. She cries out in frustration, her eyes snapping open to glare at him. "Why did you stop?" she demands, her voice breathless and husky. Akira grins wickedly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Patience, love," he murmurs, his fingers resuming their earlier rhythm, slower than before but no less deliberate.
Akira brushes a strand of sweat-dampened hair away from Ryuemi's face, tucking it behind her ear. He leans down to capture her mouth in a slow, deep kiss, swallowing her frustrated groan. His tongue explores her mouth, mimicking the movements of his fingers below. The combination sends her spiraling higher, her body tensing as she chases her climax.
Akira feels Ryuemi's body tense beneath him, her inner muscles clenching around his fingers as she nears the edge of orgasm. Just as she's about to tumble over, he withdraws his hand, leaving her empty and wanting. She lets out a strangled cry of protest, her eyes flying open to stare at him in disbelief. "No!" she gasps, her hips bucking helplessly against the air. "Please, don't stop! I was so close!"
Akira's smile is devilish as he slowly begins to undress her, taking his sweet time peeling away each layer of fabric that separates his hungry gaze from her flushed skin. He starts by unhooking her bra, tossing it carelessly to the floor before leaning down to suck one hard nipple into his mouth. Ryuemi moans, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling him closer. He moves downward, kissing and nipping at her skin until he reaches the waistband of her panties. With a single swift movement, he tears them off, exposing her completely to his hungry gaze. He settles between her thighs, hooking her legs over his elbows to spread her wide. Ryuemi gasps as cool air hits her wet pussy, feeling exposed and vulnerable yet incredibly aroused.
Her cheeks flush a delicate pink, Ryuemi bites her lip as she looks up at him, feeling more womanly than ever before. Her body responds eagerly to his touch, her breasts heavy with desire, nipples aching for attention. She lifts herself off the bed and rocks her hips enticingly, rubbing her soaked pussy against his cock, coating him with her juices.
Akira groans, his cock throbbing with anticipation. He releases her legs, allowing them to wrap around his waist as he positions himself at her entrance. Ryuemi watches, breath hitching in her throat as the thick head of his cock presses against her slick folds. He rubs it up and down, coating himself in her juices before sliding it back to her opening. He leans down, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss as he slowly pushes inward, inch by inch, stretching her tight channel to accommodate his size. Ryuemi moans into his mouth, her body trembling with need as she feels him filling her completely.
He begins to move, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, slow and steady. Ryuemi's nails dig into his back, holding on tight as she matches his pace, meeting him thrust for thrust. Her moans fill the room, each one beautiful and breathless, urging him deeper. He obliges, picking up speed as her inner walls ripple around him. Sweat beads on his brow, trickling down his temples as he pounds into her relentlessly, chasing his own release while ensuring hers.
"Fuck, Akira," Ryuemi pants, her voice hoarse with desire. "More... harder..." Her eyes lock onto his, pleading silently for him to give her everything he has. A feral grin spreads across Akira's face as he obliges, pounding into her with renewed vigor. The force of his thrusts pushes her further up the bed, causing the headboard to knock against the wall in a rhythmic staccato.
The sensation of being completely filled, stretched to her limits, sends Ryuemi over the edge. She gasps, her back arching as her inner muscles clamp down on Akira's cock. Her nails rake across his shoulders, leaving red welts in their wake as she rides out her orgasm, crying out his name. Akira groans, feeling her pussy milking him, drawing him closer to his own release.
Akira tries to pull out, intending to spill his seed onto her stomach, but Ryuemi clamps down on him, her inner muscles gripping him tightly. She shakes her head vigorously, her voice breathless as she commands, "No... inside, cum inside... cum with me... ten..." She begins counting down, her voice growing louder and more insistent with each number.
Akira's eyes widen in surprise as Ryuemi continues to countdown, her voice firm despite the haze of pleasure clouding her mind. "Nine... eight... seven..." She bucks her hips up to meet his thrusts, urging him deeper. "Six... five... four..." Her inner muscles ripple around him, squeezing him tighter with each passing second. "Three... two... one…"
"Zero." As soon as the word leaves her lips, Ryuemi's body convulses beneath Akira, her orgasm crashing over her with such intensity that stars explode behind her eyelids. Her pussy spasms wildly, clamping down on Akira's cock as if trying to pull him deeper inside. The sight of her coming undone is too much for him to resist. With a roar, Akira buries himself balls-deep inside Ryuemi, his cock pulsing as he unleashes rope after rope of hot cum into her welcoming depths. Her inner walls milk him greedily, drawing forth every last drop until they both collapse, sweaty and spent, onto the tangled sheets. They lie there for several minutes, their hearts pounding in sync as they struggle to catch their breath.
As their breathing begins to return to normal, Ryuemi and Akira share a breathless smile, their faces flushed and glowing with post-orgasmic bliss. Their bodies remain entwined, still connected intimately as they bask in the aftermath of their shared pleasure. "You are incredible," Akira whispers, brushing a strand of damp hair away from Ryuemi's forehead.
Ryuemi is draped across Akira like a living flame gone soft—limbs tangled with his, her breath warm against his shoulder. She gives a sleepy hum and presses a final kiss to his collarbone before whispering, “Tagging out…” and rolling aside with a teasing wink.
Akira barely has time to blink before Shiho is there.
She doesn’t hesitate. She kneels beside him, legs tucked beneath her, her figure silhouetted by the soft light of the nearby lamp. Her lingerie is a blend of soft lace and sharp lines—deep crimson with black trim that hugs her toned frame like armor she chose to shed. The Soul Anklet glows faintly against her bare ankle, a quiet contrast to the intensity in her eyes.
“I’m not delicate, Akira.” Her voice is low, steady. “Not anymore. I’m not afraid. And I don’t want you to be either.”
She leans in close, close enough that he can see the tension in her jaw—restrained passion, not nerves. “I don’t need soft.” She places her palm flat against his chest, directly over his heart. “I need you. All of you.”
Akira studies her. There’s a storm in her gaze—not pain, but defiance. Strength. A hunger to take back everything that was stolen from her and to do it on her own terms, with the man who helped her rise.
He sits up. She straddles his lap. And just before their lips meet, she whispers one last time—
“Don’t hold back. I won’t break.”
Akira searches her eyes, seeing the truth of her words reflected back at him. He feels a surge of respect and desire for this woman who has faced such darkness and emerged stronger than ever. His hands find their way to her hips, pulling her closer as his mouth captures hers in a searing kiss. Her lips are soft yet insistent, her tongue dancing with his in a primal rhythm that sends shivers down his spine.
Akira's hands begin to explore, sliding up her thighs slowly. The skin is so smooth, so warm, and he can feel the muscles shift under his touch. Shiho moans into his mouth, grinding against him as he continues his ascent. He can feel the heat radiating from her core, and his cock twitches in anticipation. His thumbs hook into the waistband of her panties, pulling them aside gently.
Shiho breaks the kiss, her breath ragged as she looks into Akira's eyes. "Fuck me," she demands, her voice husky with lust. She lifts her hips slightly, reaching between them to grasp his thick cock. She positions him at her entrance, feeling the heat and wetness radiating from her eager pussy. With a determined look, she slams herself down onto him, impaling herself completely. She hisses through clenched teeth as she takes all of him, the sudden intrusion stretching her painfully. But instead of pulling away, she digs her nails into Akira's shoulders and begins to move, using him as leverage to ride his massive cock. The pain quickly gives way to pleasure, her body adjusting to his size as she grinds against him, chasing friction. "Harder," she gasps out, her voice hoarse with need.
Akira responds to her demand with a low growl, his hands gripping her hips tightly as he begins to meet her thrusts. He pulls her down harder onto his cock, filling her completely with each stroke. Their bodies slap together, the sound echoing through the room along with their harsh breaths and moans. Shiho throws her head back as she rides him, taking what she needs. She reaches behind her back, unclasping her bra with practiced ease. She tosses it aside, her firm breasts bouncing free. They're perfect handfuls, tipped with hard pink nipples that beg for attention. She grabs Akira's hands, guiding them to her chest. "Be rough," she moans, her voice thick with desire. "Make me feel it." Akira needs no further encouragement.
He squeezes her tits roughly, his fingers digging into her flesh as he rolls her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He tugs on them, eliciting a cry of pleasure from Shiho. She bucks against him, riding his cock faster as he continues to abuse her sensitive buds. Akira leans forward, capturing one nipple in his mouth while continuing to maul the other breast with his hand.
Shiho tangles her fingers into Akira's hair, holding his head firmly against her breast. "Bite me," she moans, throwing her head back in ecstasy. Akira complies eagerly, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh around her nipple. The sudden sensation of Akira's teeth sinking into her flesh sends a jolt of electric pleasure straight to Shiho's core. She cries out, her body tensing as waves of intense sensation wash over her. Akira continues to pound into her relentlessly, his grip on her hips bruising. Each thrust drives him deeper inside her, stretching her wide and igniting every nerve ending in her pussy.
Akira, still fully sheathed within Shiho, leans forward, pushing her backward until she falls onto the futon. He covers her body with his own, trapping her beneath him as he continues to grind against her, his cock pulsing deep inside her pussy. "Is this what you wanted?" he growls into her ear, his voice laced with raw desire. Shiho's eyes flutter closed as she moans, her body arching up to meet his. "Yes," she breathes, her voice barely audible. "This is what I needed." Akira smiles wickedly, nipping at her earlobe before trailing kisses down her neck. He rocks his hips, grinding his pelvis against her clit with each thrust. Shiho gasps, her nails digging into his back as she wraps her legs around him, urging him deeper. Shiho's breath hitches as Akira's teeth graze her collarbone, sending shivers down her spine. Her hips buck against his, desperate for more friction, more contact. Just when he thinks he might burst from the intensity, Shiho leans up and whispers in Akira's ear, "Choke me."
Akira freezes for a moment, his eyes meeting hers, searching her face for any sign of uncertainty. He sees none; only raw desire and trust shining back at him. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry as he considers her request. He knows she's been through hell and back, and he wants to make sure this is something she truly wants. "Are you sure?" he asks softly, giving her an opportunity to change her mind if she needs to. Shiho's hand reaches up to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly across his skin. "Choke me, Akira," she repeats, her voice steady and sure. "I trust you." Her eyes bore into his, leaving no room for doubt. Seeing the resolve in her gaze, Akira nods slowly, understanding passing between them. He shifts his weight, propping himself up on one arm while his free hand moves to her throat.
Shiho lets out a moan as she feels Akira's strong fingers wrap around her throat. The sensation sends a wave of excitement coursing through her veins, heightening every nerve ending in her body. She arches her back, pressing her breasts against his chest as his grip tightens ever so slightly. Akira's eyes never leave hers, gauging her reactions carefully. He can see the lust burning in her gaze, the silent plea for more. Akira tightens his grip on Shiho's throat, feeling her pulse flutter wildly against his fingertips. Her eyes widen slightly, dilated pupils swallowing the irises as she gazes up at him. "That's it," she whispers hoarsely, her voice strained by his hold. "Show me what you've got."
Akira begins to thrust again, slow and deliberate, each movement driving his cock deeper into her wet heat. His hand remains firmly wrapped around Shiho's throat, the pressure steady and controlled. He watches her intently, searching her eyes for any sign of discomfort or fear. Instead, he finds only raw desire and trust shining back at him. His grip on her throat tightens incrementally with each thrust, cutting off her air supply bit by bit. Shiho's vision begins to blur around the edges, stars bursting behind her eyelids as she focuses on the intense sensations coursing through her body. Her pussy clenches around Akira's cock, squeezing him tightly as he pounds into her mercilessly. "Yes!" she screams, her voice strangled by his hand. "Just like that!"
Shiho's body tenses suddenly, her inner muscles clamping down on Akira's cock as she reaches the precipice of ecstasy. Her hand flies up to cover his, pressing his fingers more tightly around her throat, cutting off her air supply even more. Her vision blurs completely, darkness creeping in at the edges as her world narrows down to the sensations coursing through her body. Her orgasm crashes over her like a tidal wave, her body convulsing wildly beneath him. Her back arches off the futon, pushing her tits into his chest as she thrashes and bucks against him. Akira can feel her pussy spasm around his cock, her inner walls rippling and clutching at him desperately. He groans low in his throat, the sight of her coming undone sending a surge of primal possessiveness through him.
As Shiho's orgasm subsides, her body goes limp, her limbs falling heavily to the futon. Akira immediately releases his grip on her throat, his hand gently stroking her neck as he leans down to press soft kisses to her lips. When she doesn't respond, he pulls back, concern etched on his face. "Shiho?" he murmurs, brushing a strand of sweat-dampened hair from her forehead. Her eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused.
Her voice is a little raspy as she speaks, her breath still coming in short gasps. "Thank you for loving me, just the way I am." Akira's heart swells at her words, and he gathers her close, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest. He holds her tightly, rocking her gently as she cries softly, her tears soaking into his skin. She clings to him, her fingers digging into his back as if afraid he might vanish at any moment. Her breaths come in ragged gasps, mingling with the salty taste of her tears. "Don't let go," she whispers fiercely, her voice hoarse with emotion. Akira tightens his embrace, holding her closer than ever before. Their bodies mold together, hearts beating in sync as they share this intimate moment.
Shiho finally exhales as she rests against Akira’s chest, her lips still parted, her heartbeat slowing in rhythm with his. She presses a final kiss to his shoulder—one of gratitude, not farewell—then slowly rises from the futon. Her back is straight, her steps unshaken. When she passes Hifumi, their eyes meet—lover to lover. They smile gently, fingers brushing for an instant.
Then, Hifumi steps forward. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t speak. She glides.
Her movements are precise, almost ceremonial. She’s barefoot for once—her Soul Anklet gleaming like a talisman—and her lingerie is a delicate weave of ivory silk and black lace, more revealing than anything she’s worn before. And yet, on her, it looks almost holy.
When she steps into the low candlelight, there’s a hush—like the world holds its breath.
She steps close to Akira, her eyes lowered—not out of submission, but in silent respect.
“Shall we begin our match?” she asks softly, voice like warm incense. Then she lifts her gaze to meet his. Her lips curve into the barest smile. “Though this time… I believe I’ll be the one to surrender.”
She takes his hand and gently brings it to her lips, placing a kiss to his knuckles. Her fingers trail slowly up his arm, then down his chest, mapping his body—calculated, reverent, and deliberate.
He leans in to kiss her. She tilts her head and whispers near his ear—
“Move carefully, my King. I’m yours to claim.”
Akira cups Hifumi's cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against her plump lips. She parts them slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb before taking it fully into her mouth. Her eyes remain locked on his as she sucks gently, swirling her tongue around the digit in a tantalizing preview of what's to come. Akira groans softly, his cock twitching at the sight.
Hifumi begins to bob her head slowly, sucking Akira's thumb deeper into her mouth with each downward motion. Her eyes never leave his, holding his gaze steadily as she works his digit expertly with her tongue and lips. The wet sounds of her ministrations fill the room, mingling with their heavy breaths. Simultaneously, she raises her right leg, running her bare foot up and down Akira's calf in a gentle caress. Unable to resist any longer, he reaches out and tugs at the thin straps of her lingerie, pulling them down over her shoulders. The fabric pools at her feet, leaving her naked except for her Soul Anklet.
Hifumi presses herself even closer to Akira, her leg snaking around his as she continues to tease him with both her mouth and her foot. She moans softly around his thumb, the vibrations sending shocks straight to his balls. He can feel the heat of her pussy against his thigh, the slickness of her arousal coating his skin. Akira growls low in his throat, feeling his self-control unravel. With a sudden burst of movement, he grips Hifumi by the hips and lifts her effortlessly off the ground. She gasps in surprise, releasing his thumb from her mouth as her legs instinctively wrap around his waist. Their bodies press tightly together, her bare breasts crushed against his chest, her hot core grinding against his stomach muscles.
Their mouths crash together, tongues clashing in a frenzy of pent-up desire. Akira's hands tangle in Hifumi's silky hair as he devours her mouth, swallowing her moans and whimpers. She rakes her nails down his back, urging him closer, deeper. Breaking away briefly for air, Akira trails hot, open-mouthed kisses along Hifumi's jawline and down her neck. He nips and sucks at the sensitive flesh, marking her as his own.
Akira continues his descent, kissing and licking his way down the valley between Hifumi's perfect breasts. He pays homage to each pert nipple in turn, swirling his tongue around the hardened nubs before sucking them deeply into his mouth. Hifumi arches her back, pressing her tits against his face, a low moan escaping her lips.
Akira lowers them both onto the futon and leaves a trail of fire with every flick of his tongue, continuing down Hifumi's body until he reaches her navel. He pauses here to explore the small indentation, swirling his tongue around and around, making her squirm beneath him. A soft giggle escapes her lips as she wiggles her hips, trying to urge him lower. But Akira has other plans.
Akira grins wickedly against Hifumi's belly, then begins to rain kisses down her body, tracing the curve of her hipbone with his tongue. She shivers under his touch, her breath coming in short pants as anticipation builds within her. Akira continues his journey southward, planting soft kisses along the inside of her thigh, teasing her with his closeness. He presses a tender kiss directly onto Hifumi's glistening pussy lips, feeling their softness yield to the pressure. She lets out a sharp gasp, her hips jerking upward in response. He savors the taste of her arousal, already dripping from her slit, before continuing his exploration. His lips graze over her mound, then down her left thigh, following the smooth path towards her knee.
He plants another kiss on her kneecap, eliciting a surprised giggle from Hifumi. Akira grins against her skin, enjoying the way she squirms beneath him. He runs his hands up and down her calves, massaging gently as he continues to place soft kisses all over her legs. Eventually, he makes his way to her feet, where he takes each toe into his mouth one by one, sucking them gently and making her moan with pleasure.
Akira lavishes attention on Hifumi's feet, alternating between gentle kisses and firm sucks on her toes. He nibbles on the pads of her soles, making her wriggle and moan. He slides his hands up her calves, squeezing gently as he explores every inch of her feet with his tongue. His thumbs trace circles on her arches, causing her to buck her hips involuntarily. "Oh gods, Akira... don't stop," Hifumi pleads, her voice breathless and desperate. "Please, make me cum." Her toes curl and uncurl as she tries to urge him on, but Akira remains relentless in his pace, determined to draw out her pleasure. He flicks his tongue between her toes, eliciting a sharp gasp from her lips. Then, suddenly, he grabs hold of her big toe and begins to suckle it hard, like a hungry baby.
Hifumi lets out a long, low moan as Akira's ministrations send waves of pleasure coursing through her body. She pushes her leg forward, inviting him to continue his exploration. As if sensing her need, Akira shifts position slightly, allowing Hifumi to press the sole of her right foot firmly against his crotch. Her toes massage his cock, eliciting a groan from deep within his chest. He bucks his hips slightly, pressing himself harder against her foot. She smiles seductively, using her toes to stroke him up and down, feeling him swell and harden beneath her touch. "Fuck, that feels good," Akira growls, his eyes darkening with lust. His breath hitches as Hifumi expertly maneuveres her foot, trapping his rock-hard cock between her toes. She begins to pump him up and down, the friction sending electric jolts through his body. Pre-cum leaks from his tip, coating her painted toes with a shiny layer of lubrication. Akira grunts, his hips thrusting involuntarily as she stroked him faster, her foot twisting and turning to apply maximum pressure.
Hifumi grinds her heel against Akira's cock, smirking as she feels him pulse beneath her touch. "You like that?" she whispers huskily, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "You love being jerked off by my sexy little feet, don't you?" She tightens her grip, stroking him harder and faster, her toes curling around his shaft possessively. Akira groans deeply as he lets go of Hifumi’s foot, his hips jerking as Hifumi's toes expertly manipulate his cock. "Fuck yes," he growls, his voice thick with lust. "I love it when you play with my dick like this." Hifumi grins wickedly, sliding her freed foot up Akira's thigh to tease his balls. She rolls them gently between her toes, feeling them tighten and lift in response. Akira's eyes lock onto Hifumi's as she releases his cock from the vice-like grip of her toes. She spreads her legs wide, revealing her glistening pussy to him. Reaching down with one hand, she pulls apart her engorged labia, exposing her pink, dripping hole. "Claim me now, Akira..." she moans, her voice laced with desperation and desire. Akira's cock throbs at the sight, precum leaking profusely from the tip.
Akira surges forward, positioning himself at Hifumi's entrance. With a primal grunt, he drives his hips forward, impaling her with his massive cock in one swift thrust. Hifumi cries out, her back arching as he fills her completely. Akira pauses for a moment, letting her adjust to his size, then begins to move with fierce determination. His hips piston against hers, driving his cock deep into her welcoming pussy.
Hifumi's heels dig into Akira's ass, urging him deeper as she arches higher, pushing her tits toward him. "Fuck me harder!" she demands, her voice ragged with lust. Akira obliges, slamming into her with renewed vigor. The sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the room, mingling with Hifumi's moans and Akira's grunts. Her walls clamp down on him, gripping his cock like a velvety vise. Akira groans, feeling her heat envelop him, threatening to consume him whole. He leans down, capturing one of her pert nipples in his mouth, sucking hard while his fingers pinch and roll the other between them. Hifumi screams out, her pussy spasming around his invading member. "Yes! Yes! Oh fuck, Akira... I'm gonna cum!"
Akira can feel his own orgasm building, the familiar tingling sensation spreading from his balls up through his shaft. He tries to pull out, wanting to cum all over Hifumi's gorgeous tits, but she anticipates his move. Wrapping her long, toned legs around him, she locks her ankles behind his back, her heels digging into his lower back. "Inside baby... fill me up..." she moans, pulling him deeper into her. Akira groans helplessly as Hifumi's inner muscles ripple around him, her heels urging him deeper into her molten core. He gives in to the overwhelming pleasure, slamming into her with wild abandon. Their bodies slap together furiously, sweat slicking their skin. "Cum for me, Akira," Hifumi moans, her voice husky with lust. "Fill my little pussy with your hot seed." Those words send Akira spiraling over the edge.
Akira's cock swells impossibly large, stretching Hifumi's pussy to its limits. She cries out, her nails raking down his back, leaving red welts in their wake. "Yes! Yes! Fuck, yes!" she screams, her voice echoing through the room as her orgasm crashes over her. Her pussy clamps down on Akira's cock, milking him for all he's worth. Akira roars, his hips stuttering as he unleashes his load deep inside her.
Their mouths meet in a slow, searing kiss. Akira's tongue slides against Hifumi's, their breaths mingling as they come down from their shared climax. Hifumi's legs slowly loosen around him, but Akira doesn't withdraw. Instead, he rolls his hips lazily, keeping his semi-hard cock nestled inside her warmth. Their kiss turns languid, tongues exploring softly, sensually.
Akira breaks the kiss, gazing down at Hifumi with an intensity that steals her breath. His gray eyes bore into hers, filled with raw hunger and adoration. "You are incredible," he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently against her cheek. Hifumi blushes under his intense stare, her heart fluttering wildly.
Hifumi nestles close to Akira, her body flush against his as she brushes her lips once more across his shoulder. Her voice is soft. “Checkmate.” She smiles, satisfied, before slowly retreating to rejoin the circle of girls, her every step poised and graceful.
Then Haru steps forward. Her movements are unhurried, sensual in their patience. Her lingerie is decadent—blush pink and wine red, corseted silk with sheer lace gloves still hugging her arms. Her hair, usually so pristine, tumbles freely in soft waves down her back, wild and tousled. Her eyes gleam behind half-lowered lashes.
“You’ve been very fascinating to watch, Akira-kun” she purrs, straddling his waist without waiting for permission. Her voice is rich and teasing, a low hum of mischief and anticipation. “But don’t think for a moment I didn’t plan every detail of our moment together.”
She leans down, brushing her lips over his collarbone like a taste test, her breath warm against his skin.
Then she pauses—cupping his chin between gloved fingers, holding his gaze. “I’ve fantasized about this more than I should admit.” A sly smile. “All the times I wanted to climb onto your lap and see what kind of reaction I’d get…”
Her hips roll, slow and subtle. “But now…” She leans in, her words dripping with honeyed desire and promises. “Now, it’s time to make those dreams real.”
Akira reaches for her, drawn to her like a moth to flame. But Haru is quicker; she leans back, grabbing his wrists before he can make contact. "Naughty boy," she coos, a playful lilt in her voice that belies the firm grip of her fingers around him. "I never said you could touch me." His body tenses at the restriction, muscles bunching under his sweat-slick skin as if preparing to break free from her hold. He tries to tug his wrists free, but Haru holds firm, a wicked smile spreading across her face as she watches him struggle. "Such a hungry little boy," she murmurs, shifting her hips until her wet heat presses against his throbbing length. They both groan at the contact, bodies shivering with need.
With a sudden surge of strength, Haru pushes Akira flat onto his back, the movement swift and decisive. Before he can react, she shifts her position, straddling his chest and trapping his wrists beneath her knees. The sensation of her silk-covered crotch pressing against his chin sends electric shocks through his body, making him groan deeply. Haru smirks down at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief and dominance. She grinds her covered pussy against his chin, the silk slippery from her arousal. "Serve your mistress well, and I might reward you," she whispers, her voice a sultry promise. Akira's breaths come out ragged, his chest heaving underneath her.
Haru leans forward, her breasts threatening to spill out of the corset. She uses one hand to press down on his forehead, forcing his head into the mattress as she rubs herself against his mouth, coating his lips and nose with her slick juices. "Lick it clean, my pet," she commands, her voice husky with desire. Akira's tongue darts out obediently, tasting her through the thin fabric of her panties. Haru gasps softly as Akira's tongue explores her folds through the silk barrier, finding her clit and circling it slowly. She rocks against his mouth, her breath coming faster. "Good boy," she praises, her voice strained with pleasure. "Keep going." Akira sucks gently on her nubbin, feeling her tremble above him. She tastes sweet and musky, her scent filling his nostrils. He wants more, needs more.
Haru lifts slightly, using one hand to yank her panties aside, exposing her dark, curly mound. Her pussy lips glisten with moisture, swollen and ready. She grips Akira's hair tightly, pulling him forcefully against her exposed flesh. "Lick," she orders huskily, her voice leaving no room for disobedience. Akira dives into her hairy cunt eagerly, his tongue delving deep into her hot core. He laps at her juices like a man starved, his hunger for her evident in every eager stroke. She rides his face shamelessly, her hips rolling and undulating as she chases her orgasm. "Yes... yes! Just like that!" she cries out, her fingers tightening in his hair.
Haru moans loudly, her body arching as she presses her pussy harder against Akira's face. Her thick bush scratches at his cheeks, smearing her juices all over him. "Fuck, yes!" she screams, her hips bucking wildly. She rides his face relentlessly, her thighs clamping around his ears as she grinds down on him, practically smothering him with her hot, wet cunt. Akira struggles for air, his lungs burning as he fights to breathe through the dense curtain of her pubic hair. His nose and mouth are coated in her tangy fluids, dripping down his chin and neck. With a final cry, Haru comes undone, her body convulsing violently as she grinds her soaked pussy against Akira's face, riding out her orgasm.
Haru collapses forward, her body shaking with aftershocks as she smears her cum-soaked pussy all over Akira's face. Her juices coat his features, dripping from his eyebrows to his chin, painting him with her essence. Akira's breath comes out in ragged gasps, his lungs finally able to fill with air as Haru rolls off him. He lies there, drenched in her nectar, his heart pounding and his cock throbbing painfully.
Haru traces a fingertip along Akira's jawline, collecting the mix of her cum and saliva that coats his skin. She brings her finger to her lips, sucking it clean with a satisfied sigh. "Mmm, delicious," she murmurs, watching Akira's chest rise and fall rapidly. His cock stands tall and proud, begging for attention. Haru smirks, running her hands up her sides suggestively. "Looks like someone enjoyed himself."
Haru turns and positions herself over Akira once more, facing his feet, her legs spread wide as she lowers her dripping pussy onto his mouth. Simultaneously, she grips his granite-hard cock with one hand, stroking it firmly as she leans down to swirl her tongue around its engorged tip. She tastes the precum leaking from his slit, savoring the salty flavor as she teases him mercilessly.
Haru looks over her shoulder at Akira, her eyes sparkling with lust and challenge. She strokes his cock slowly, milking another bead of precum from its tip. "Make me cum again," she says, her voice sultry and demanding, "and I might allow you to cum in my mouth." With that, she turns back around, grinding her pussy against his face as she continues to stroke him. Akira doubles his efforts, lapping eagerly at Haru's cunt while she strokes his throbbing shaft. He thrusts his tongue inside her, tasting her musky depths as he licks and sucks hungrily. His nose nudges against her clit, rubbing it in small circles as he devours her pussy like a starving beast. Haru moans loudly, her head thrown back in ecstasy as she rides his face with abandon.
"Harder," Haru demands, slamming her cunt down onto Akira's face. "Suck my clit! Eat me like you mean it!" She grips his cock tighter, pumping him furiously as she bucks her hips wildly. Her juices gush from her hole, coating Akira's chin and cheeks as he feasts on her greedy twat. He sucks her clit into his mouth, nibbling gently as his tongue flicks against the sensitive bud. Haru's body tenses suddenly, her inner walls clenching around Akira's invading tongue. "Fuuuck!" she cries out, her orgasm exploding through her like a supernova. Her hips grind furiously against his face as she rides out the waves of pleasure, her juices squirting from her spasming cunt. Akira groans into her pussy, drinking down every last drop of her sweet nectar as she trembles and shakes above him.
Haru trembles slightly as she looks back at Akira over her shoulder, her eyes glazed with post-orgasmic bliss. A wicked smile spreads across her face as she releases his cock, her hand glistening with his precum. "I changed my mind," she purrs, her voice husky with desire. "Now, you fuck me harder than the others." With that, she climbs off of him, and lays flat on her back, her legs spread wide open, revealing her glistening pussy. Her bush is matted with her honey, the dark curls sticking together from her earlier orgasms. She crooks a finger at Akira, beckoning him closer. "Come here," she commands huskily, patting the bed beside her. "C'mon Akira-kun... make me scream..." she challenges, her eyes locked onto his throbbing cock.
Akira crawls between Haru's legs, his cock poised at her entrance. He rubs the head of his dick through her slick folds, coating it in her juices before plunging balls-deep into her waiting cunt. Haru gasps loudly, her back arching as he fills her completely. "Oh god, yes!" she cries out, her nails digging into his shoulders. Akira grabs Haru's thighs, spreading her wider as he begins to pound into her with reckless abandon. Their bodies slap together wetly, their combined juices creating a squelching sound that fills the room. He drives his cock deeper and harder than ever before, stretching her tight cunt around his thick shaft. Haru screams in pleasure, her walls clutching at him desperately as he plows into her relentlessly.
Akira's pace becomes brutal, his hips snapping against Haru's thighs as he drives into her with ferocious intensity. The room fills with the lewd sounds of their coupling, the obscene noises driving Haru wild with lust. Despite her usual dominance, Haru can feel her control slipping away under the onslaught of Akira's powerful thrusts. Her breath hitches as she gasps for air, her body trembling beneath him. Haru's grip on Akira's shoulders loosens, her fingernails scraping down his back lightly. Her eyes widen as she gazes up at him, her voice barely above a whisper. "Don't stop... don't you dare stop." Her hips lift to meet each of his thrusts, urging him deeper. She bites her lower lip, trying to hold back the tide of pleasure threatening to consume her. "Please," she whimpers, her domme energy crumbling away. Her eyes roll back, her body convulsing as another wave of pleasure crashes over her. "Fill me up," she begs, her voice barely recognizable. "Cum inside me... please!" Akira leans forward, still thrusting with savage intensity, his lips brushing against her ear. "Order me to," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "And know that I let you." Haru's eyes snap open, locking onto Akira's fierce gaze.
Her pupils dilate, and with a sudden burst of strength, Haru wraps her legs around Akira's waist, locking him tightly against her. "Cum for me," she orders, her voice commanding despite her breathlessness. "Fill my cunt with your seed. Mark me as yours." Akira groans deeply, feeling his control slipping away under her command. His thrusts become erratic, his body tensing as he feels his climax building.
Akira's eyes roll back, his body shuddering as he plunges deep into Haru's welcoming cunt. "Fucckkk," he roars, his cock pulsing powerfully as he unleashes a torrent of hot, sticky cum directly into her womb. The sensation of his seed filling her sends Haru tumbling over the edge, her pussy clenching rhythmically around his throbbing member.
Akira collapses onto Haru, his body spent and slick with sweat. She wraps her arms and legs around him, holding him close as their chests heave in unison. They lie there, entangled in each other's embrace, basking in the afterglow of their intense lovemaking. Akira's softening cock twitches inside Haru, eliciting a shiver from her. Slowly, he pulls out, causing Haru to wince slightly at the sudden emptiness. Akira reaches for the wet wipes and towels nearby, gently cleaning Haru's well-fucked pussy. He takes his time, making sure to remove all traces of their shared fluids. Once satisfied, he tosses the soiled cloth aside and pulls Haru close, wrapping his strong arms around her. Haru purrs contentedly, nuzzling her face into his chest. "That was amazing," she murmurs softly, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back.
Their breathing slowly returns to normal as they lie entwined, the heat of their passion beginning to cool. Akira tilts Haru's chin up, capturing her lips in a gentle kiss. She melts into him, her mouth opening to invite his tongue inside. Their tongues dance lazily together, exploring and tasting each other thoroughly. Haru's hands roam over Akira's back, tracing the muscles that flex beneath his smooth skin.
Haru breaks the kiss, looking up at Akira with adoration shining in her eyes. "Thank you," she breathes softly, "for letting me have this..." Her words trail off as Akira chuckles warmly, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. "Love you too, Haru," he murmurs, his voice filled with genuine affection.
Haru kisses Akira one last time, lingering on his lips with a satisfied sigh before withdrawing with grace, her fingers slipping free of his as she rises to her feet. Her flushed skin glows in the low light, her smile tinged with mischief, but her eyes flick briefly to the next girl—a silent handoff between lovers.
Makoto steps forward slowly, hesitantly, as if something inside her trembles just beneath the surface. Her lingerie is deep burgundy, satin and strappy—more daring than expected, and yet perfectly fitted to the duality she wears so well. The firm tilt of her chin doesn't quite mask the vulnerable swirl in her chestnut eyes.
She kneels beside him, not touching yet. Just looking. Her breathing is shallow. “You’ve seen every side of me, haven’t you?” she murmurs. “The ‘leader’. The fighter. The responsible one…”
Her fingers rise to trace over his shoulder, then down the curve of his chest, barely grazing. “But this part… this part I’ve never shown anyone.”
She swallows, lips parted, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want to think. I don’t want to lead. I just want…”
She leans in closer, her forehead resting gently against his. “…to be yours. Just yours. Use me however you want.”
And with that, she kneels before him, her arms behind her back as she looks up at him—offering herself with a trembling exhale, a silent plea wrapped in satin surrender.
Akira stands, his body towering over hers, his cock already beginning to stir, bobbing slightly as he takes a step towards her. She watches it grow, mesmerized by its length and thickness, swallowing hard as the tip brushes lightly against her cheek. He reaches out, his fingers tangling roughly in her short hair, tilting her head back so she meets his gaze. His voice is low, almost dangerous as he says, "Limits?"
Her breath hitches as she feels his hardness press against her cheek, the heat radiating from him sending a shiver down her spine. She shakes her head slightly, her eyes locked onto his. "No," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I trust you." He grins, a wicked glint in his eye. "Good girl." With his grip still firmly on her hair, he guides her mouth to his cock, rubbing the tip along her lips.
Makoto pokes her tongue out tentatively, the pink tip brushing against the velvety smoothness of his cockhead. She moans softly, eager for more, but Akira pulls back suddenly, denying her the pleasure. His hand moves from her hair to cup her cheek, not roughly but with a firm insistence. "Not until I say so," he reminds her, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. "You'll take what I give you when I decide."
Makoto squirms under his touch, feeling the dampness between her legs growing more intense. A soft whimper escapes her lips as she presses her thighs together, trying desperately to relieve some of the building pressure. "Yes... Sir," she gasps, her body trembling with anticipation. Akira smiles darkly, enjoying her reaction, and releases his grip on her cheek. He strokes himself leisurely, watching her closely. Akira chuckles, his cock twitching as he watches her writhe. He grips her hair again, this time pulling her head back sharply, exposing her throat. "Open," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. Makoto whines needily, her mouth falling open instantly, tongue poised and waiting.
Akira spits into her open mouth, a thick glob of saliva landing heavily on her tongue. "Swallow," he orders, his grip tightening in her hair. Makoto complies eagerly, gulping down the offering, her throat working obscenely as she does so. He releases her head, running his fingertips gently across her jawline. He guides his cock into Makoto's open mouth, the warmth enveloping him as he pushes slowly inside. He grips her hair tightly, using it to control her movements. "Look at me," he growls, his hips thrusting gently, forcing her to take more of him with each stroke. Her eyes water slightly, but she holds his gaze, trusting him completely.
He slides deeper, inch by inch, until his cock hits the back of her throat. She gags slightly, but he holds her there, savoring the tightness. "Breathe through your nose," he instructs, and she relaxes marginally, adjusting to the invasion. He begins to fuck her mouth in earnest, his hips moving faster, his grip on her hair tightening. Saliva drips down her chin, coating his shaft as he slides in and out.
Akira increases the pace, his hips slapping against Makoto's face as he fucks her mouth relentlessly. He can feel her struggling to breathe around his thick cock, her muffled moans vibrating against him. Pre-cum leaks from his tip, coating her tongue as he uses her mercilessly. Just as she begins to choke, he pulls out abruptly, leaving her gasping for air, drool dripping from her swollen lips. He strokes her hair gently, praise dripping from his lips like honey. "Such a good little slut for me," he coos, his voice thick with lust and satisfaction. "You took my cock so well." He lets her catch her breath for a moment before tilting her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Now, let's see how wet you are."
Makoto moans softly as Akira's dominant words wash over her, his praise making her pussy throb with need. "May I... may I undress for you, Sir?" she asks breathlessly, her hands twitching at her sides, eager to obey. He nods, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Show me how wet you are." She quickly strips off her lingerie, tossing it aside carelessly, her body exposed to him.
Akira circles Makoto like a predator stalking its prey. He trails a single fingertip lightly over her body, barely touching her, teasing her with his proximity. She shivers under his touch, goosebumps rising on her skin despite the warmth of the room. He traces the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, lingering briefly on her bare mound. He continues his exploration, his touch becoming firmer as he cups her modest-sized tits, squeezing them roughly. He pinches her nipples, rolling them between his fingers, drawing out a sharp gasp of pleasure mixed with pain. Her hands clench at her sides, resisting the urge to reach for him. He smirks, knowing she wants to touch him, but he hasn't given her permission yet.
Makoto gasps as Akira's hand slips lower, cupping her mound possessively before sliding further down. Without warning, he plunges two fingers into her dripping cunt, eliciting a loud moan from her lips. She fights the urge to reach for him, to grab his wrist and force him to finger her harder, deeper. But she knows better than to disobey him, even though her body aches with need. Akira leans in close, his hot breath tickling her ear as he nips at her earlobe. "Such a wet little slut," he murmurs, his fingers curling inside her, stroking her G-spot expertly. She whimpers, her hips bucking involuntarily against his hand. He chuckles darkly, nibbling down her neck, sucking and biting the sensitive flesh. "Tell me how much you love being used like this."
Her mind races, her body writhing beneath his touch. "I love it! I love being your little toy!" she cries out. His teeth graze her collarbone, marking her pale skin with red welts. He curls his fingers inside her, hooking them upwards, applying just enough pressure to send jolts of electric pleasure coursing through her veins. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" she chants, her body convulsing wildly.
Makoto's entire body tenses, every muscle coiled tight as she closes her eyes, balancing precariously on the knife-edge of climax. Her breaths come in short, sharp pants, her chest heaving as she waits the release that's just within reach. Suddenly, Akira withdraws his fingers from her pulsating pussy, and she lets out a keening wail of protest. Her eyes snap open, pupils dilated with lust and desperation. She watches, entranced, as Akira brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, locking eyes with her as he sucks them clean one by one. The sight sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through her, her pussy clenching emptily around nothing. "Please," she begs, her voice hoarse with need. "Please make me cum, Sir." He smirks, clearly enjoying her torment.
Akira laughs, low and throaty, sending a shiver down Makoto's spine. "You don't get to cum yet, Makoto," he declares, shaking his head firmly. "Get on all fours for me... now." Her heart pounding, Makoto drops to her knees, turning around to present herself to him. She arches her back, sticking her ass high in the air. Akira admires the view for a moment, his cock throbbing with anticipation. He kneels behind her, running his hands over her round ass cheeks, squeezing them firmly. "You have such a perfect ass, Makoto," he groans, giving her a light smack. She squeals, jumping forward slightly before settling back into position, her pussy leaking juices down her inner thighs.
Akira raises his hand once more, bringing it down sharply on Makoto's upturned ass cheek. The sound echoes through the room, followed closely by her yelp of surprise and pleasure. He rubs away the sting, soothing her heated flesh before moving his hand lower, tracing the length of her dripping slit. Akira rubs her soaking wet pussy lips with his thumb, feeling her squirm beneath him. He leans down, whispering huskily in her ear, "Beg me, Makoto... beg me to fuck you..." She shudders violently, her breath hitching as she pleads desperately, "Oh God, please Sir! Please fuck me! I need your big cock inside me! Please!"
Akira chuckles darkly, grabbing his cock and rubbing it up and down Makoto's slick folds. He presses the head against her entrance, teasing her mercilessly. "Is this what you want, you dirty slut?" he taunts, pushing in just an inch before pulling back out. She whines pathetically, trying to impale herself on his rigid member, but he holds her hips firmly, keeping her from getting what she craves.
Makoto wails, her body trembling with desperation. "Please, Sir! Please give me your cock! I need it so bad! Fuck me, please!" She reaches back, trying to pull him into her, but he evades her grasp easily. He chuckles, low and dangerous. "Not good enough." He slaps her ass hard, leaving a bright red handprint on her supple flesh. She screams, arching her back, pushing her ass higher into the air. "Please, Master!"
Akira chuckles darkly, "So needy... I love it when you're like this, Makoto..." With a firm grip on her hips, he drives his cock deep into her waiting pussy in one brutal thrust. They both groan loudly as he bottoms out inside her, his balls slapping against her clit. He leans over her, his chest pressing against her back, his breath hot on her ear. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Akira!" Makoto screams, her body convulsing as he fills her completely. He pulls back slowly, dragging his cock along her sensitive walls, before slamming back into her hard enough to make her cry out again. He sets a punishing pace, fucking her ruthlessly, their bodies slapping together loudly. She reaches back, clutching at his thigh, urging him on with incoherent pleas and moans. "Yes! Yes! Fuck me harder! Oh god, yes!"
Akira grabs a fistful of Makoto's hair, yanking her head back sharply. She cries out in pleasure and pain as he uses his grip to control her movements, fucking her even harder from behind. Her tits bounce wildly beneath her, her body rocking back to meet each of his brutal thrusts. "That's it, you little slut," he grunts, his hips slapping against hers forcefully. "Take my cock like the whore you are."
"Fuck yes, use me!" Makoto screams, her body quivering with intense pleasure. Akira releases his grip on her hair, allowing her to drop her head forward as he continues to pound into her relentlessly. He wraps one arm around her waist, pulling her upright so that her back is pressed against his chest.
"You've been such a good girl, lasting this long for me," Akira praises, his voice husky with exertion. "Do you want to cum for me, Makoto? Do you want to feel my cock explode inside your tight little cunt?" He reaches around, rubbing her clit in quick, tight circles. She screams, her body tensing as she chases her orgasm. "Yes! Please, Sir! Let me cum! Make me cum all over your big fucking cock!"
Akira's fingers circle Makoto's swollen clit faster, matching the furious rhythm of his cock driving into her pussy. Her entire body is tense, poised on the precipice of orgasm, her muscles quivering with the effort of holding back. "Cum for me," he commands, his voice thick with lust. "Cum all over my cock like the dirty slut you are." Her world explodes in a kaleidoscope of colors as her climax crashes through her.
Makoto's body goes limp, her muscles no longer able to support her weight. She collapses onto the bed, her chest heaving as she struggles to catch her breath. Akira follows her down, his cock still buried deep inside her as he gently lays her flat on her stomach. He leans down, pressing soft kisses along her shoulder blades, his hands caressing her back tenderly.
"Shh, it's okay," Akira coos softly, running his fingers through Makoto's sweat-dampened hair. "You did so well for me." He pulls out of her slowly, eliciting a shudder from her spent body. He lies down beside her, gathering her into his arms and cradling her close to his chest. She turns her head to look up at him, her eyes glazed with post-orgasmic bliss. "Thank you..." she whispers, her voice barely audible.
Akira smiles warmly at Makoto, his gray eyes filled with tenderness. "I'm glad you trust me enough to let go," he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. She snuggles closer, resting her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His arms wrap around her protectively, holding her tightly against him. Makoto sighs contentedly, feeling safe and cherished in his embrace.
Makoto lies beside Akira, her chest still rising and falling in slow waves. Her hand lingers on his as she pulls away with one last whisper against his ear—“I love you.”
Then she rolls to the side with grace and ease, her expression softer than it’s ever been, like the weight of the world has finally been lifted from her shoulders. Ren is already there, kneeling quietly on Akira’s other side, watching him with that patient gaze that only someone who has spent a lifetime observing can hold. Her lingerie is midnight-blue and sheer at the sides, hugging her elegant frame. Her lips are glossed with breathless anticipation, but there’s no rush in her.
She reaches out, cupping his face with both hands. No words at first—just her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “You’re still holding back,” she whispers, barely audible. “You don’t need to.”
Her forehead touches his, eyes closing. In that closeness, they’re just two tired souls who’ve fought for the world and for each other. “Let me help you fall apart, Akira. Let me be the one to put you back together.”
She kisses him slowly—tender at first, then deeper, until there’s no space left between them. No ghosts, no masks, no weight of destiny. Just two rebels in love.
Akira groans into the kiss, his body responding immediately to Ren's touch. He feels her teeth graze his bottom lip, a sharp nip that sends a jolt through him. His hands move to her hips, gripping tightly as he deepens the kiss. "Ren..." he murmurs against her mouth, feeling her nails rake down his chest. He gasps as she traces the lines of his abs, her touch light and teasing.
Ren pulls away abruptly, leaving Akira breathless and wanting more. A mischievous smile plays on her lips as she stands up from the futon. He watches, confused yet aroused, as she walks towards the dresser across the room. The sway of her hips mesmerizes him, and he takes a moment to appreciate the view before realizing what she's doing. "Where are you going?" he asks, his voice hoarse with desire.
Ren looks over her shoulder, her eyes locking onto Akira's as she reaches behind herself. With a flick of her wrist, her bra unclasps, and the straps slide down her arms. Before turning around, she quickly covers her breasts with one arm, hiding them from his hungry gaze. Then, she faces him fully, crooking a finger at him in a silent invitation. "Come here," she mouths, her voice barely above a whisper.
Akira rises from the bed, his eyes never leaving hers as he approaches her slowly. Ren hops onto the dresser, sitting on its edge, her legs dangling invitingly. As Akira reaches for her, she raises her foot and presses it firmly against his chest, halting his progress. "Not so fast," she purrs, applying gentle pressure to keep him at bay.
Ren raises her foot higher, pressing the sole against Akira's chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath her touch. She slides her foot upwards, tracing the line of his jaw with her toes before pausing at his lips. She smiles sultrily as she sees his eyes darken with desire. With a playful grin, she pushes her toe into his mouth, feeling his warm breath on her skin as he begins to suckle on her big toe. Ren shudders at the sensation, her nipple hardening under her own touch. She grips her breast harder, pinching the nipple between her fingers as she pushes another toe into his mouth. "That's it," she coos, her voice thick with lust. "Suck my toes like a good boy."
Sliding her other hand between her thighs, she rubs her fingers along the thin fabric of her thong, feeling the wetness pooling beneath. Her hips buck slightly as she finds her clit, rubbing slow circles around the sensitive nub. Akira eagerly continues to suck and lick at Ren's toes, his tongue swirling around each digit as if it were her clit. He alternates between sucking gently and nibbling playfully, drawing small moans from her lips. While he worships her feet, he lets his hands roam, tracing lines up and down her inner thighs with feathery touches that leave goosebumps in their wake.
Ren pulls Akira a little closer, her heel resting on his shoulder as she parts her thighs wider for him. She's still keeping him just out of reach, denying him access to the place he truly wants to be. She bites her lip, stifling a cry of pleasure as she slips two fingers inside her soaked pussy. Her hips buck against her own hand, fucking herself slowly while Akira continues to tease her with his mouth and hands.
"Look how wet I am for you," Ren says, her voice dripping with lust as she slowly undoes the side ties of her thong. She wiggles her hips, allowing the flimsy garment to slip off and pool at her feet. Akira groans at the sight of her bare pussy, glistening with arousal. Without hesitation, Ren plunges two fingers deep inside herself, pumping them in and out while her thumb circles her clit. "You want this, don't you?"
Akira can't take it anymore. He needs to taste her, feel her, make her his. He hooks Ren's leg over his shoulder, stepping closer to the dresser until he's right between her spread thighs. She gasps at the sudden movement but doesn't resist. Instead, she pulls her fingers from her pussy, coating them in her juices, and pushes them into Akira's mouth. "Taste me," she demands, her voice husky with desire.
Akira's eyes roll back as Ren pushes her fingers into his mouth, coating his tongue with her sweet nectar. He sucks eagerly, cleaning her fingers thoroughly before releasing them with a pop. Before she can react, he leans in, capturing her mouth in a fierce kiss. Their tongues dance together, sharing her flavor as their bodies press close.
Ren breaks the kiss, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she pushes Akira back slightly. "Patience," she chides, though her voice is breathless and heavy with desire. She reaches out, trailing a fingertip down his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles as if committing them to memory. Her touch leaves fire in its wake, igniting every nerve ending beneath his skin.
Ren slides down from the dresser, her body brushing against Akira's as she sinks to her knees in front of him. Her eyes lock onto his throbbing erection, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in anticipation. She runs her nails lightly up and down his shaft, eliciting a low groan from deep within his throat. She wraps her hand around his cock, feeling the velvety softness of his skin stretched taut over the iron hardness beneath. She strokes him slowly, her grip firm yet gentle, her nails scraping lightly along his length. Pre-cum beads at his tip, and she smears it down his shaft, using it to lubricate her movements. Akira's hips buck involuntarily, chasing her touch as she continues to tease him mercilessly.
Ren leans forward, her hot breath fanning over Akira's sensitive flesh. She looks up at him, her eyes dark pools of lust, as she takes one of his balls into her mouth. He groans loudly, his head falling back as she sucks gently, rolling his orb around with her tongue. Her hand continues to stroke his shaft, nails scraping lightly along the underside. She releases his ball with a pop, her saliva coating it and making it glisten. She moves to the other, giving it the same treatment, all the while stroking him firmly. Akira's breathing grows ragged, his hands tangling in her hair. Ren relents after a few moments, kissing her way up his shaft before taking him into her mouth.
She wraps her lips around the head of Akira's cock, swirling her tongue around the sensitive tip, pulling back each time he thrusts forward, denying him the release he craves. Her hand pumps his shaft in time with her mouth, her nails digging into his flesh as she increases the pace. Akira's breath comes in ragged gasps, his hips jerking involuntarily as she teases him relentlessly. "Fuck, Ren!"
Akira's frustration mounts with each passing second, his body trembling with the effort it takes not to grab Ren by the hair and force her to take him deep into her throat. His breath comes in ragged pants, his heart pounding wildly in his chest as she continues to torment him with her expert mouth and hands. A low growl rumbles through him as he reaches for her, only to have her deftly dodge out of reach once more. "Enough," he growls, his voice laced with desperation. Ren laughs softly, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she allows herself to be pulled back towards him. But instead of returning to his cock, she trails kisses up his stomach, lingering at his navel before continuing upwards. Ren rubs herself up and down Akira's cock, the sensation driving her wild with need. She reaches up, tangling her fingers in his hair as she pulls him down for a searing kiss. Her tongue invades his mouth, exploring every inch as she continues to grind against him.
Ren breaks the kiss, a wicked smile playing on her lips as she pushes Akira backwards. He stumbles slightly, his legs hitting the edge of a nearby chair, and he sits down heavily. Ren follows him, straddling his lap in reverse cowgirl style. She grinds her soaking wet pussy against his rock-hard cock, the friction sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through both of them.
Ren reaches behind her, grasping Akira's cock and positioning it at her entrance. She teases him, rubbing the head up and down her slick folds, coating him in her juices. She arches her back, letting out a long, low moan as she impales herself fully onto Akira's cock. She rolls her hips, grinding down on him, savoring the feeling of being filled completely. She leans forward, bracing her hands on his knees as she begins to ride him, lifting her hips before slamming down hard.
Akira's hands find their way to Ren's hips, gripping tightly as he meets her thrusts with upward movements of his own. He leans forward, pressing his chest against her back as he reaches around to grab her tits. He squeezes them firmly, rolling her nipples between his fingers, eliciting a gasp from Ren. His other hand travels down her stomach, slipping between her legs to rub her clit. He presses his finger against the swollen nub, circling it in time with her movements. Ren bucks against him, crying out as waves of pleasure crash over her. "Oh god, yes! Right there, don't stop!" She rides him harder, faster, her body slamming down onto his cock with abandon.
Ren reaches back, grabbing a fistful of Akira's hair. She pulls sharply, forcing his head back as she cries out, "Pull my fucking hair!" Akira obliges, wrapping her silky locks around his wrist and tugging hard. Ren screams in pleasure, the pain only heightening her arousal. She rides him furiously, her hips slamming down onto his cock with wild abandon. Her body tenses suddenly, her inner muscles clamping down on Akira's cock as she reaches the peak of her pleasure. She throws her head back, screaming his name as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over her. Her pussy spasms violently, milking his shaft as she raises up slightly, the force of her orgasm causing her to squirt all over him.
Ren collapses forward, her body trembling with the aftermath of her powerful orgasm. She takes a moment to catch her breath, her chest heaving as she tries to regain her composure. Finally, she lifts her head and looks back at Akira over her shoulder, a sultry smile playing on her lips. Slowly, deliberately, she rises up, feeling his cock slip out of her dripping pussy. She shifts forward slightly, reaching back to grasp Akira's cock. She guides him between her ass cheeks, using her ample globes to squeeze and massage his throbbing member. The sensation of her soft, supple flesh engulfing him sends shivers down his spine. He groans loudly, his hips bucking instinctively as he presses himself against her. Ren giggles softly, looking back at him with a mischievous grin.
Ren begins to grind her ass against Akira's cock, using her cheeks to massage his shaft. She rocks back and forth, squeezing him tightly between her globes. The friction is intense, the heat of her body enveloping him as she drives him closer and closer to the edge. Akira grips her hips tightly, his knuckles white with the effort of holding back.
Ren's laughter turns into a low moan as she continues to grind against him, feeling his cock sliding between her ass cheeks. She reaches back, spreading her cheeks wider, giving him better friction. Akira can feel the tension building in his body, his breath coming in short gasps as he struggles to maintain control. Ren feels it too, her body craving more. "Cum for me, Akira," Ren demands, her voice husky with desire. "Paint my ass with that thick load." She grinds against him harder and faster, her ass cheeks squeezing his cock relentlessly. She can feel him pulsing between her cheeks, growing impossibly harder as he nears his climax. Akira groans deeply, his body tensing as he approaches the point of no return. Ren pants, feeling his cock twitch between her cheeks. She braces herself, knowing what's about to happen. With a guttural groan, Akira erupts, his thick load splattering across Ren's ass and lower back. Stream after stream of hot cum coats her skin, mixing with her sweat to create a sticky mess. Ren moans loudly, the feel of Akira's release on her skin triggering another orgasm.
The room is filled with the heavy scent of sex and the sound of their ragged breathing. Ren collapses forward, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Akira slumps back in the chair, his body shaking with exertion. They sit like this for several minutes, neither moving nor speaking, their bodies still pressed together intimately. Ren finally breaks the silence, turning to face Akira. She melts into him, her body molding to his as they share the warmth of their post-coital glow. His hands roam lazily over her skin, tracing patterns along her sides and back, enjoying the feel of her smooth, soft flesh beneath his fingertips. Ren sighs contentedly, her eyes fluttering closed as she revels in the gentle touch.
Ren rests with her head on Akira’s chest, his fingers lazily carding through her hair. Their breathing slows together in sync, a heartbeat shared, and then—gently—Ren lifts herself up with a smile that says everything. She is satisfied. She is fulfilled. She is his.
She presses one last kiss to his lips before slipping off to the side. And then—a shadow falls over Akira, who smiles as he looks up. Ann stands at the foot of the futon, one hand resting on her hip, the other gliding up the length of her thigh. Her lingerie is crimson and gold, laced in a way that leaves little to the imagination—bold, teasing, divine. A Goddess incarnate.
Her blonde hair spills over her shoulders in glossy waves. Her lips are painted the color of temptation.
“I’ve watched you give everyone a piece of yourself tonight,” she murmurs, tilting her head, eyes locked on him like a lioness who’s been waiting all night for her turn to feast. “But I’ve been patient long enough.”
She moves toward him with liquid grace, crawling onto the futon with slow, deliberate movements that make the air itself crackle. Her fingers trail up his chest.
“It’s my turn now, baby,” she purrs, bending to kiss him with heat that melts reason. “And I want it all.”
Akira's hands slide around Ann's waist, pulling her flush against his bare skin. He groans into their kiss, feeling the lace of her lingerie scratch deliciously against his chest. She grinds against him, her hips rolling in a rhythm that sets his blood on fire. The heat between them is scorching, each touch electrifying. Her lips trail down his neck, kissing and nibbling, marking him with passion. Ann continues her sensual descent, her tongue flicking out to tease Akira's nipples. He gasps at the sensation, his back arching slightly as she bites down gently, then soothes the sting with a swipe of her tongue. Her hands roam his body, tracing the lines of his muscles, making him shiver under her touch. She presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down his torso, lingering on the dips and valleys of his abdomen.
Ann's journey south halts abruptly when she reaches Akira's straining erection. His cock juts proudly from his body, thick and hard, begging for her attention. She smirks up at him, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she leans in close, her breath hot against his sensitive flesh. Her tongue darts out, painting a wet stripe across his engorged tip, eliciting a low groan from Akira. She wraps her full lips around him, taking him deep into her throat in one smooth motion. Akira's eyes roll back, his hips jerking involuntarily as she swallows him whole. She holds him there for a moment, her nose pressed against his smooth pelvis, before sliding back up slowly, her cheeks hollowing out with suction. Their eyes lock, and Ann repeats the action, fucking his mouth with his cock while maintaining eye contact.
Akira can't take the intensity any longer. He threads his fingers through Ann's silky blonde hair, gripping tightly as he begins to fuck her face in earnest. Her moan of encouragement vibrates around his shaft, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through his veins. He holds her down firmly, feeling her nose press into his pelvis as he hits the back of her throat.
Saliva drips from Ann's chin, coating Akira's balls as she gags on his massive cock. She grips his thighs, fingernails digging into his flesh as she takes everything he gives her. Tears stream down her face, smearing her mascara, but she doesn't let up. Instead, she sucks harder, bobbing faster, determined to make him come undone. Akira's grip tightens in her hair, his hips snapping forward as he loses control.
Akira feels the familiar tingling at the base of his spine, signaling his impending release. He taps Ann's head lightly, warning her of what's to come. But instead of slowing down, she redoubles her efforts, sucking him harder and faster. Her head bobs furiously, her gagging sounds echoing through the room as she takes him deeper than any of the girls before her could.
"Fuck, Ann!" Akira grits out, his hips bucking wildly as he hits the back of her throat again. "You're gonna make me... ahh, fuuuck!" His orgasm tears through him like a freight train, his cock pulsing violently as rope after rope of hot cum jets into Ann's eager mouth. She moans loudly around him, the vibrations pushing him even higher as she greedily swallows every last drop. With a final suck, Ann pulls away from Akira's softening cock, her lips popping off with an obscene sound. She looks up at him, eyes watering and makeup streaked, but a triumphant smirk on her face. Leaning down, she licks the length of his shaft slowly, cleaning every last trace of cum from his skin.
As Akira watches, Ann opens her mouth wide, showing him that she's swallowed every last drop of his seed. A single streak of cum clings to her chin, glistening in the dim light. She wipes it away with a finger and sucks it clean, her eyes never leaving his. "Mmm," she hums appreciatively, standing up. "You taste so good."
With deliberate slowness, she peels off her crimson lingerie, revealing more of her creamy skin inch by tantalizing inch. First goes the bra, her large breasts bouncing free, nipples already hardened into tight buds. Next, she shimmies out of her panties, stepping out of them with a flourish. She crawls back onto the futon, her lush body on display for Akira. Her breasts sway gently with each movement, and her pink pussy glistens with arousal. Spreading her legs wide, she exposes herself completely, her swollen clit peeking out from its hood, begging for attention. "Ravish me, baby," she whispers, her voice husky with desire.
Akira needs no further invitation. He dives between Ann's thighs, his hands grasping her legs and holding them wide apart as if opening a present. He buries his face in her glistening cunt, inhaling her musky scent deeply before attacking her with reckless abandon. His tongue lashes at her clit, circling and flickering rapidly, drawing a loud cry from Ann.
His tongue plunges into her dripping hole, tasting her sweet nectar as she bucks wildly beneath him. He slips two fingers inside her, curling them upwards to hit that magical spot. Ann's back arches off the futon, her cries filling the room as her climax builds. "Oh god, yes! Right there!"
Ann grips Akira's hair, holding his face against her throbbing pussy as she grinds shamelessly against his mouth. Her juices flow freely, coating his chin and dripping down onto the futon below. She uses his face to get herself off, riding his tongue like a wave crashing against the shore. "Yes, yes, yes!" she chants, her body tensing as her orgasm crashes over her.
Ann arches her back even more dramatically, pressing Akira's head down slightly. "My ass..." she pants, her voice breathless and desperate. "... eat my ass... please baby... I need it..." Akira growls into her pussy, his tongue continuing to lap at her folds as he slides his hands underneath her ass cheeks, squeezing them hard. He spreads her apart roughly, exposing her tight little rosebud to the cool air.
Ann gasps with anticipation, her heart pounding in her chest as Akira's thumb begins to circle her tight puckered hole. "Yes, yes," she moans, writhing beneath him, her body aching for more. Akira replaces his thumb with his tongue, flicking it lightly against her rosebud, making her shudder with delight. He pushes the tip of his tongue inside her asshole, tasting her forbidden depths, causing Ann to cry out loudly. He slowly slides a finger into her pussy, fucking her with it as he continues to feast on her rosebud. Ann thrashes about, lost in a sea of ecstasy, unable to form coherent thoughts. All she knows is the overwhelming sensations coursing through her body, the exquisite agony of being taken so thoroughly. Akira adds another finger, stretching her wider, preparing her for what comes next.
Akira curls his fingers inside Ann's pussy, scissoring them gently, causing her to buck her hips wildly. He removes his fingers and presses his mouth to her mouth, wanting to taste her again. His thumb returns to her back passage, working in small circles, teasing her relentlessly. "Cum for me," he commands, his voice rough with lust. "I want you to squirt all over my face."
Ann whimpers, her body tensing as Akira's thumb presses insistently against her asshole. "Please, please, please," she chants, her hips rocking wildly, chasing the orgasm that dances just out of reach. Akira grins wickedly, knowing exactly how close she is to the edge. He flattens his tongue, pressing it firmly against her clit, and begins to rub vigorously, pushing her right to the brink. Ann's body tenses suddenly, her muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. "Oh fffuucckkk!" she screams, her voice raw and primal. Her pussy convulses violently, clamping down on Akira's thrusting fingers as her orgasm rips through her. A torrent of warm liquid erupts from her depths, squirting out in powerful jets that coat Akira's face and chest with her sweet nectar.
As Ann comes down from her intense orgasm, she gasps for breath, her body still shuddering with aftershocks. She looks down at Akira, his face slick with her juices, his chest glistening under the dim light. Her eyes are filled with lust, a hungry smile playing on her lips. "That was incredible," she murmurs, her voice hoarse from screaming. "But I'm not done yet."
Ann pulls Akira up by his hair, crashing their mouths together in a fierce, passionate kiss. She can taste her own juices on his lips, and it sends a fresh surge of arousal through her veins. She moans into his mouth, the sound deep and throaty. "Fuck my pussy, baby," she growls against his lips. "Stretch me good." Akira needs no further encouragement.
Akira kisses Ann fiercely, his hands gripping her thighs tightly as he positions himself at her entrance. Their tongues dance together, mimicking the rhythm of what's to come. The taste of her juices mixed with his saliva creates a heady cocktail that fuels their passion. Akira breaks the kiss abruptly, his breathing ragged as he looks down into Ann's lust-filled eyes.
"I want you to pound my cunt until I scream," Ann whispers, her voice quivering with anticipation. "Make me feel every inch of your big fat cock." Akira grins wickedly, his grey eyes darkening with lust. "Your wish is my command," he growls, positioning the thick head of his cock at her dripping entrance. With one swift thrust, he impales her, filling her completely with his massive length.
Ann's eyes widen as Akira enters her, his thick cock stretching her pussy walls deliciously. "FUCK!" she exclaims, gasping for breath as he fills her completely. He bottoms out inside her, his heavy balls pressing against her ass. For a moment, they stay locked together, savoring the sensation of their union. Then, with a grunt, Akira begins to move, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into her with force.
"Akira!" Ann cries out, her nails digging into his back as he begins to piston in and out of her, their bodies slapping together wetly. "Oh god, yes! Just like that!" "Aaaannn!" Akira groans, feeling her hot cunt clamp down around him like a velvet vise. He grabs her thighs, spreading them wider, giving himself more leverage to pummel her drenched twat. His hips move faster, his cock driving deeper with each thrust.
"Harder!" Ann demands, her voice breathless but insistent. "Give me more! Fuck me harder!" Akira obliges, his hips moving like a jackhammer, driving his thick cock into her soaked pussy with brutal force. The futon shakes beneath them, the frame banging against the wall with each violent thrust. "Oh god, oh god, oh god," Ann chants, her head thrashing side to side as waves of pleasure crash over her.
Ann wraps her arms and legs tightly around Akira, holding onto him for dear life as her second orgasm crashes over her. Her pussy clamps down on his cock like a vice, her inner walls rippling and spasming around his thick shaft. "Don't stop!" she screams, her voice raw and desperate. "Keep fucking me! Keep fucking me!" Akira grunts, feeling his own release building within him.
Akira tries to pull out, but Ann clamps her pussy down on him, trapping him. "No..." she moans, her voice a mix of desperation and desire. "... Inside me... fill me up..." Her hips buck up against his, driving him impossibly deeper into her molten core. Akira groans, feeling his cock swell and pulse within her velvety grasp. He fights to maintain control, but the sensation is too much.
His resolve crumbles, and with a guttural roar, Akira unleashes his load deep inside Ann. His cock jerks violently, spraying rope after rope of thick, hot cum into her welcoming depths. "Oh fuck, yes!" Ann cries out, feeling his seed bathe her womb, marking her as his. Her pussy milking his cock greedily, drawing out every last drop. The room is filled with the sound of their ragged breaths, mingling with the scent of sweat and sex. Akira stays buried inside Ann for a long moment, his cock pulsing softly as it begins to soften. Finally, he slowly pulls out, both of them gasping at the sensation. "You ok?" Akira asks, concern etched on his face as he looks down at Ann. She smiles weakly, her body still trembling from the intensity of their coupling.
Ann rolls onto her stomach, her body still glowing with post-orgasm bliss. But she's far from sated. She lifts her ass into the air, presenting herself to Akira like an offering. "We're not done yet, stud..." she purrs, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her hands reach back and spread her cheeks wide, revealing her glistening pink folds and the tiny, puckered star of her asshole. Akira watches, transfixed, as Ann drips some of Yukiko’s oil all down her crack, then begins to play with her asshole. She dips one digit into her sopping pussy, coating it in her juices before bringing it back to her puckered starfish. He can see her shiver as she makes slow, deliberate circles around her forbidden hole, teasing herself open further. Bit by bit, her tight ring relaxes, yielding to the pressure of her probing fingertip.
She moans needily as she works her finger into her ass, pushing past the initial resistance until it slides in up to the knuckle. "Mmm, just like that," she coos, wriggling her hips invitingly. "Now come here and give me something bigger to play with." Akira doesn't hesitate. He moves behind her, kneeling between her spread legs, his semi-hard cock already stirring back to life.
Ann reaches back with both hands, grabbing Akira's thick cock and guiding it towards her waiting asshole. She rubs the head up and down her crack, coating it in her juices before pressing it against her tight little rosebud. She takes a deep breath and begins to push back, impaling herself on his rigid pole. "Ohhhh fuuuck," she moans as the thick head pops past her rim, stretching her open painfully deliciously.
Ann continues to back herself onto Akira's cock, her ass stretching wider and wider as she takes more and more of his impressive length. "Fuck, that's so big," she moans, her voice a mixture of pain and pleasure. "Fill me up, baby. Fill up my tight little ass." Akira grips her waist tightly, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he helps guide her movements. Akira groans deeply as Ann continues to work his cock into her tight asshole. "Fuck, your ass is so damn tight," he growls, his voice strained with effort as he struggles to hold back. Ann moans in ecstasy, feeling every thick inch of his cock sliding deeper into her ass. She pauses when she has about half of his length buried inside her, her body trembling with the sheer fullness.
Akira holds Ann steady, allowing her to set the pace as she adjusts to the intrusion. "Take your time, baby," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. After a few moments, Ann catches her breath and pushes back even more, taking another inch of his thick cock into her ass. She whimpers in pleasure and pain, her body trembling with the intense sensation. "That's it," Akira encourages, his grip tightening on her hips.
Her tight ring of muscle grips him like a vice, squeezing his cock as if trying to milk him dry. "Oh fuck, Akira," Ann pants, her breath hitching as she takes another inch, then another, until finally, her ass is flush against his pelvis. She lets out a shuddering sigh, feeling completely filled by his massive member. "So fucking big," she moans, her voice laced with awe and desperation.
Akira gently rocks his hips, slowly sliding his cock in and out of Ann's ass, giving her time to adapt to the immense intrusion. The motion causes his balls to swing lightly, brushing against her swollen pussy lips. Each gentle thrust elicits a low moan from Ann as she gradually acclimates to the sensation of being completely filled by Akira's massive tool. "Just like that," she whispers, her voice hoarse with desire.
Akira's patience pays off as Ann's body begins to loosen its grip on his cock, allowing him to pick up the pace. He starts to thrust a little bit faster and deeper, his hips slapping against her jiggling ass cheeks with increasing force. "Yes! Yes! Right there!" Ann cries out, her voice filled with pure ecstasy. She reaches back and spreads her ass cheeks even wider, giving Akira better access to her tight little hole.
Akira's restraint snaps as Ann begs for more, and he begins to truly fuck her ass. He grabs her hips tightly, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he starts to drive himself into her with serious intent. With each powerful thrust, his cock sinks deeper into her tight channel, stretching her wide and filling her completely. "Holy fuck!"
"Oh god, yes! Fuck my ass, baby! Fuck me hard!" Ann screams, pressing her shoulders to the floor and lifting her ass higher into the air. Her body quivers with each punishing thrust, her breasts swaying wildly beneath her as Akira pounds her relentlessly. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and passionate moans. "Your cock feels so good in my ass!"
Akira's hand comes crashing down on Ann's upturned ass cheek, the loud smack echoing through the room as he continues to plow into her tight asshole. "Fuck!" Ann yelps, more from surprise than pain, as the impact sends a wave of heat coursing through her body. Akira spanks her again, harder this time, leaving a bright red handprint on her pale flesh. "Oh god, yes! Spank me while you fuck my ass!"
Akira obliges, raining down a flurry of sharp spanks on Ann's jiggling ass cheeks as he pummels her tight asshole. The room fills with the lewd symphony of flesh meeting flesh, punctuated by Ann's desperate moans and cries of encouragement. "Harder! Spank me harder, baby! Make my ass sting!"
Ann reaches between her legs, her fingers finding her engorged clit easily amidst the slick folds of her pussy. She rubs it vigorously, matching the rhythm of Akira's thrusts as he continues to pound her ass mercilessly. "Fuck yes! Just like that!" she screams, her body tensing as an orgasm rips through her. Her pussy spasms, squirting a stream of clear fluid onto the bed below her. "Ann, I'm gonna cum," Akira grunts, his voice strained with exertion. "Cum inside me!" Ann begs, her body shaking with the force of her own climax. "Fill my tight little asshole with your hot cum! Please, baby, breed my ass!" Akira roars, his hips slamming forward one last time as he buries his cock deep within Ann's willing depths.
Akira's cock swells impossibly large inside Ann's ass, his balls pulling tight against his body as he unleashes a torrent of hot, sticky cum deep within her bowels. Rope after rope of thick, white spunk shoots from his throbbing shaft, coating her insides with his seed. Ann squeals in delight, feeling the warmth of Akira's load filling her ass, triggering yet another orgasm to rip through her body.
As Ann collapses onto the mattress, boneless and panting, Akira gently pulls out of her well-fucked ass. His softening cock slips free with a wet plop, leaving her gaping hole oozing a mixture of their combined fluids. He lies down beside her, pulling her sweaty body into his arms. They lay there in silence for several minutes, their hearts pounding in sync as they catch their breath. Akira presses a tender kiss to Ann's sweat-slicked shoulder, then sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He pads softly into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. Gently, he cleans Ann's well-used body, wiping away the evidence of their passionate encounter. He takes extra care with her sensitive areas, ensuring she is comfortable and cared for.
Ann collapses against him, breathless, her skin dewy with exertion and her lips swollen from too many kisses to count. She doesn’t move for a moment—just lays there, savoring the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek, the way his arms instinctively curl around her waist like he never wants to let go.
She lifts her head, hair tumbling around her face in a golden-red halo, and gazes down at him.
Eyes heavy with love. Hunger. Triumph. “Night’s still young, babe,” she whispers, tracing a lazy circle on his chest with one finger. Her smile is equal parts sultry and satisfied. “And we’ve got a lot more love to give you.”
As if summoned by her words, the other girls begin to stir—soft footfalls, whispers of breath, the gleam of eager eyes in the low light. One by one, they return to the futon, crawling toward Akira with grace, reverence, and desire reignited.
They surround him again. Hands find him. Lips claim him. Laughter mingles with moans as bodies press together, the room blooming with warmth, love, and want. Their rhythm starts anew, a sacred ritual of devotion and delight.
In the midst of it all, Akira feels the spark inside him pulse with light. A dark, amused voice rumbles in the back of his mind. “It’s a good thing you have me, Harbinger.” A low, indulgent chuckle from Satanael echoes within his soul, velvet-rich and deeply pleased. “So... show these incredible women how you truly feel about them.”
Chapter 34: Stories From A Past Life
Summary:
Akira tells the story of the 'other' Thieves :)
Mostly fluff, but with some hints to future events.
Chapter Text
The first thing Akira felt was warmth. The weight of it, the way it pooled over him like a second blanket—the tangle of limbs, the slow, even breaths, the faint scent of perfume still clinging to the air. For a long moment, he simply lay there, eyes closed, letting the world narrow down to the heat of soft skin pressed against his own and the gentle rise and fall of the bodies nestled around him.
Eventually, he shifted, careful not to wake anyone. A thigh slid from over his hips, a hand loosened from his chest, a sleepy murmur faded into silence as he eased himself free from the embrace of the futon’s cuddle pile.
He padded across the room on bare feet, the quiet of the morning broken only by the faint rustle of sheets. The bathroom’s soft light greeted him, and he leaned over the sink, toothbrush in hand. It was only then that he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His chest, sides, and even the faint line of his collarbone were a tapestry of hickeys, scratches, and the occasional love-bite that looked suspiciously like someone had tried to stake a claim.
A low, private chuckle escaped him as his eyes flashed crimson in the mirror. "Diarahan."
In an instant, every mark melted away, the soreness in his muscles ebbing like it had never been. The ache in his hips, the pleasant sting in his shoulders—all gone, replaced by an almost feline sense of well-being.
Still grinning, he rinsed his mouth and stepped back into the living area. The sight that greeted him made his smile soften: robes half-draped over chairs, heels kicked carelessly aside, the glimmer of satin lingerie pooled like liquid color across the floor.
He gathered each piece with deliberate care, folding the robes, setting the shoes neatly in a corner, stacking delicate slips and lace like they were treasures rather than just clothes.
Only when the space felt less like a battlefield and more like a home again did he step into the kitchenette. The scent of freshly ground beans soon filled the air as he started the coffee pot, the quiet burble of brewing a gentle counterpoint to the slow, peaceful breathing coming from the futon behind him.
The smell of coffee began to weave its way across the room, rich and warm, curling through the air like an invisible hand. Ren’s lashes fluttered first, the faintest hum escaping her as she nuzzled against the pillow. A moment later, her stormy eyes cracked open, glancing toward the kitchenette—and the man standing there in nothing but loose sweats, steam rising from the pot beside him. She smiled, slow and soft, and lifted a hand to blow him a kiss.
Shiho stirred next, stretching like a cat beneath the sheets before propping herself up on one elbow. She caught Akira’s eye over the tops of the still-sleeping bodies, lips quirking in a sly little grin as she sent her own kiss drifting his way.
Ryuemi was last of the early risers, blinking against the light and rubbing her eyes. She yawned, rising to her feet—and promptly almost tripped over Hifumi’s legs, barely catching herself with a muffled laugh. Her kiss was exaggerated, playful, thrown with a wink before she bent to snag her robe.
The three moved quietly, the futon shifting gently under their absence. Robes were shrugged on and tied loosely over bare skin, silken belts dangling half undone as they padded toward the bathroom in a line, bare feet whispering over the floor.
Ten minutes later, they reappeared—skin dewy from quick washes, hair slightly tousled, and eyes still hazy from sleep. One by one, they joined Akira at the kitchenette, sliding close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.
Ren was first, leaning in for a slow, unhurried kiss before accepting her cup. Shiho followed, brushing her lips over his in a teasing brush that lingered just long enough to make him smirk before she claimed hers. Ryuemi grinned and stole a slightly deeper kiss, her fingers brushing his waist before she took her coffee with a satisfied sigh.
The four of them stood there in the golden hush of morning, the quiet clink of mugs and the soft sound of breathing the only interruptions.
The scent of fresh coffee and the low murmur of voices finally reached the rest of the nest. A sleepy groan came from Ann as she burrowed into the blanket before reluctantly sitting up, her hair a halo of wild blonde. Morgane blinked owlishly beside her, rubbing her eyes and mumbling something incoherent as Yukiko tugged gently at her arm. Kasumi stretched with a soft sigh, while Haru yawned into her hand. Makoto pushed herself upright with a soldier’s efficiency despite the languidness in her limbs, and Futaba… simply rolled over, clutching a pillow until Hifumi poked her in the side. Lavenza was the quietest, slipping out of the tangle without a word, but the faint smile on her lips gave her away.
In minutes, the apartment was alive—bare feet padding across the floor, robes and nightgowns rustling, giggles overlapping with sleepy grumbles. Akira suddenly found himself the center of attention, kissed once, twice—then so many times he lost count. Some were quick and playful, others slow and lingering, all leaving him with that faint smirk he couldn’t quite hide.
What made him grin wider, though, was watching the girls greet each other the same way—gentle pecks on cheeks, teasing nips at shoulders, a few soft, lazy mouth-to-mouth kisses traded between them without a shred of self-consciousness. The air felt warm, almost hazy, thick with the comfortable intimacy they’d all built.
Soon, the sound of running water and the faint hum of electric toothbrushes filled the bathroom, bodies trading places in a strangely organized chaos until everyone emerged fresh-faced and slightly more awake. Moments later, they were all gathered around the low table in the living area, plates and bowls quickly filling with toast, eggs, and fruit. Mugs of coffee and tea steamed between them as they settled in—some still curled up cross-legged, others leaning on shoulders. Conversation spilled in soft waves—plans for the day, idle teasing, bits of shared laughter—and Akira found himself quietly watching, the corners of his mouth still tugged upward.
The clink of cutlery and the occasional scrape of chairs punctuated the easy flow of breakfast chatter. Haru, perched comfortably with her shoulder pressed against Ryuemi’s, delicately bit into a piece of toast before speaking.
“I’ve got a meeting with the Okumura Foods board today,” she said with that gentle calm that seemed to follow her everywhere. “It’s mostly about restructuring plans. Takakura-san has been excellent so far with his advice and experience, so I’m not too worried.”
Ryuemi leaned just slightly into her, smiling. “Sounds like you’ve got it under control.”
Under the table, Ann had her legs stretched out, idly brushing her foot against Shiho’s ankle with a playful grin. “I’ve got a meeting with my agent later,” she said, tilting her head just enough for a lock of blonde hair to fall forward. “Something about ‘the opportunity of a lifetime’ coming up.” The teasing lilt in her voice suggested she was intrigued but not entirely convinced.
Ren, methodical as ever, was slicing a ripe pear into neat halves. She handed one to Morgane with a small smile before speaking. “Nothing really exciting planned today—just going to be buried under paperwork at the station.”
A few sympathetic groans circled the table. Hifumi, sitting beside her, leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, earning a faint flush from Ren that she tried (and failed) to hide.
“I’ll be at the gym,” Kasumi chimed in between sips of tea. “Need to get in some good training time.”
“I’ll go with you,” Shiho offered without hesitation.
“Me too,” Ryuemi added, glancing between the two with a faint grin.
Kasumi’s eyes brightened. “Perfect.”
Across the table, Futaba was busy spearing a piece of pineapple. “I’m just gonna head out with Morgane and Lavenza for a bit—maybe wander, maybe shop, maybe hack a couple of vending machines.” She smirked at Akira’s raised eyebrow. “Kidding. Probably.”
Makoto cleared her throat delicately. “I’ve got to head back to the apartment. Sae’s coming home this evening, and the place needs to be spotless.”
“I’ll help,” Yukiko said instantly, her tone warm.
“Same,” Hifumi added. “It’ll go faster with three of us.”
Ann’s toes stop nudging Shiho’s under the table as she leans forward with a curious tilt of her head. "What about you, Akira? Plans for today?"
Akira wipes his fingers on a napkin before answering casually. "Checking in on Naoto this morning. She’s probably going stir-crazy, being cooped up with her big belly. I’ll see if there’s anything I can help her with."
The words conjure a collective sigh from around the table. A few of the girls glance at one another, dreamy expressions softening their faces—already picturing him tucking a blanket over Naoto’s lap, making tea, maybe rubbing her back. And, quietly, each imagines the same tenderness turned toward themselves.
Akira catches the looks immediately and smirks, his grey eyes glittering with mischief. "Relax," he says, voice low and teasing. "I’m only looking to be an uncle for now."
A ripple of laughter passes through the group—until he adds, almost offhandedly: "Besides… we don’t have the space at the moment."
The laughter dies in an instant. Every girl freezes, eyes flicking toward one another as if they’d all heard the same secret knock. Because they had. They remembered it—months ago, before the confessions, before the Soul Anklets—sprawled across Haru’s bedroom in a tangle of blankets, talking about nothing and everything. The conversation had slipped into joking yet longing territory: What if we all lived together? No walls between them, no schedules, just… them. And now here Akira was, unknowingly poking that sleeping dream with a stick.
Haru leans forward, her fingers lightly touching the rim of her coffee cup. "Akira," she says, a soft smile tugging at her lips, "you know I’m rich, right? If space is the issue, I can buy us a mansion for us all to live in together. Well, I’d need to get the board’s approval to release the funds first, but you know what I mean…"
Akira chuckles, taking a slow sip of his coffee, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before his eyes flick toward Makoto. "Or… I could do it instead."
A few of the girls blink, confused. Ann raises a brow, while Futaba snickers nervously. "Wait… what do you mean by that?" Shiho leans forward, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "Yeah… are you seriously saying…" Ryuemi trails off, clearly piecing it together but not wanting to jump too fast.
Makoto, calm but with a hint of exasperation, clears her throat. "He means exactly what it sounds like. Akira is independently wealthy—like, ridiculously wealthy." She gives a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "Trust me. He’s been careful not to flaunt it, but he could buy half of Tokyo if he wanted to."
A ripple of astonished gasps and muffled laughs spreads through the table. Futaba whistles. "No way… our Akira? Hidden billionaire Akira?!"
Akira just smirks, tilting his head slightly. “Farming Shadows in Mementos isn’t just good exercise. Turns out, it’s also very lucrative.” The table hums with soft murmurs, whispered exclamations, and sly grins as the girls start to imagine the possibilities, some more… vivid than others.
The apartment buzzed with soft morning chatter as the girls finished brushing their hair, tying ribbons, buttoning shirts, and smoothing skirts. There was a comfortable rhythm to it now—people sidestepping around each other in the kitchenette, helping with zippers, trading hair ties, and slipping on shoes without a hint of awkwardness.
One by one, they made their way to the door, and each time Akira found himself pulled in for a kiss—some quick and teasing, others lingering just long enough to promise more later. They exchanged smiles and knowing glances, the unspoken agreement about the “living together” plan simmering just under the surface.
“Tonight,” Ann reminded with a grin as she adjusted her bag strap. “We’re talking about it tonight.”
“Yeah, no wriggling out of it, Akira,” Shiho added, brushing her shoulder against his before stepping out.
He just chuckled, his storm-grey eyes sweeping over the group. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The last few kisses were shared at the doorway, warm and unhurried. Even as they split off in different directions, there was a sense of them still being connected—threads of affection tugging gently between them all.
Akira lingered for a moment, locking the door behind him. The morning sun warmed his shoulders, and for the first time in… far too long, he felt light. Not the brittle, cautious kind of happiness that could crack with one wrong step—this was solid, steady, and real.
By the time he reached the train station, the summer sun was already warming the pavement, the hum of the city wrapping around him in a comforting embrace. He boarded the train bound for Kichijoji, leaning back in his seat and watching the scenery slide past the windows.
Naoto’s place wasn’t far, but he could already imagine her mood. She was probably pacing the apartment, frustrated at being stuck indoors, her sharp mind caged in by her very pregnant state. A small laugh escaped him as the train slowed for his stop.
He stepped out into Kichijoji’s vibrant streets, weaving through the bustle until he reached Naoto’s building. With a soft knock on her door, he braced himself for whatever welcome his cousin had in store. The door swung open to reveal Kanji, looking like he’d just wrestled a bear and lost. His hair stuck up in uneven tufts, his shirt was buttoned wrong, and there was a faint smell of burnt toast wafting from somewhere behind him.
“Oh—hey, Aki… good to see you, man…” Kanji rubbed the back of his neck. “Naoto… she…”
Akira couldn’t help but laugh at the frazzled state his cousin-in-law was in, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm. “Relax, Kanji. I’m here to help. What does she need?”
Kanji perked up like a man spotting a life raft. “Seriously? You’re a lifesaver. Could you maybe… talk some sense into her? She’s been reading all these medical books and scaring herself half to death—got herself worked into a frenzy.”
Akira just nodded, stepping inside and heading straight for the living room.
Naoto was exactly where he expected—curled up in an armchair, feet propped on a cushion, a stack of pregnancy manuals beside her like a defensive wall. She looked up as he entered, and before he could even greet her, she launched into a rapid-fire list of worries about every possible complication under the sun.
“Hey, Nao-nee,” he said softly, pulling a chair closer. Then he just… listened. Letting her unload it all, he nodded here and there, offering a few words of comfort and the occasional grounded observation that gently steered her away from worst-case scenarios.
Kanji soon followed, wordlessly moving to kneel beside Naoto’s chair, slipping his hand into hers. His free hand rested protectively over her swollen belly, thumb rubbing small circles. He shot Akira a silent nod of gratitude, the tension in his shoulders easing bit by bit.
The three of them drifted into an easier conversation—last-minute babyproofing, hospital bag checklists, who to call first when labour started. Akira offered to help with any last-minute babyproofing or supply runs, half-joking about wrapping the entire apartment in bubble wrap. Naoto actually considered the suggestion for a moment, and Kanji groaned, muttering something about her not giving him ideas.
It was Naoto who eventually tilted her head, sharp eyes narrowing just slightly. “You seem lighter today, Akira. Happier. Did something happen?”
Akira hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “…So… I’m in a little bit of an odd situation.”
Her brows lifted. “Odd how?”
He let out a small breath. “I’m… in a relationship. With… twelve girls.”
Both Naoto and Kanji froze, staring at him like he’d just claimed he’d joined the circus.
“…Twelve?” Kanji repeated, eyes wide. “All at the same time?” Naoto asked, leaning forward despite herself.
Akira held up his hands in mock defense. “It’s all consensual. Everyone’s on the same page. We’re still figuring things out, but it’s… working. Somehow.”
They traded a look that spoke volumes, then began peppering him with questions—how it started, how it worked, whether there were rules. Akira answered as best he could, doing his best to make it sound less like a logistical nightmare and more like the strange, warm, genuine connection it was.
Then he made the mistake of adding, “Oh—and we’re planning to move in together soon.”
Naoto blinked. Once. Twice. Then winced slightly.
“…That might have been a Braxton Hicks,” she said, placing a hand on her belly. “Or… not.”
Kanji instantly exploded into dad-panic mode. “Is it time?! Is the baby coming?! Should I get the bag?!”
Akira sprang up too, concerned-uncle instincts kicking in. “Nao-nee, are you alright? Do you need me to call—”
Naoto rolled her eyes at both of them. “Stop being so dramatic. It’s just minor contractions. Sit down.”
Reluctantly, they obeyed, though neither looked particularly relaxed. Naoto then fixed Akira with a pointed glare. “Do not drop news bombs like that when I’m this close to my due date, Akira! Now—tell me everything.”
Kanji glanced at Akira, eyebrows raising in a good luck, man expression. Akira sighed, a helpless smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ll bring them to meet you afterwards, okay?”
Naoto hummed, considering, before finally nodding. “Acceptable.”
She leaned back against the armrest, one hand absently stroking her belly as the other propped her chin. Her lips curved into a sly smirk.
“Twelve girlfriends under one roof, hm? You do realise you’ll be outnumbered at every conceivable moment,” she said. “If you think there will be such a thing as ‘your side of the bed’, you’re sorely mistaken. And privacy? I hope you enjoy holding meetings in the bathroom.”
Akira chuckled, though there was a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I’ll manage.”
“Oh, will you?” Naoto’s tone was pure amusement now. “I imagine it will be more like survival. You’ll have to navigate moods, preferences, and scheduling… and heaven help you if you accidentally forget an anniversary—” she arched a brow “—or twelve.”
Akira opened his mouth, then closed it again, wisely choosing not to argue.
Off to the side, Kanji was still staring at him as though he’d just announced he’d tamed a dragon. He shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath, “It’s Senpai all over again…”
Akira tilted his head. “…Senpai?”
Kanji grimaced, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t worry about it. Just… you’re either the bravest guy I’ve ever met, or the craziest. Maybe both.”
Naoto smirked knowingly. “I’ll take bets on both.”
The conversation drifted into easier topics after that—small family updates, the latest from Inaba, and some light teasing at Akira’s expense. Eventually, Kanji got up, muttering something about needing to “tighten up a few things before the baby comes.”
Akira followed, rolling up his sleeves without being asked. Together they checked the crib, adjusted a few loose hinges, and reinforced the baby gate Kanji had installed at the top of the stairs. The two worked in comfortable silence for a while, broken only by Kanji’s occasional gruff “hand me that” or “hold this steady.”
In the living room, Naoto kept them company from the couch, chiming in now and then with reminders about which cabinets still needed locks or which drawers Kanji had been meaning to reorganise. Akira made a mental note to come back if they needed more help before the baby arrived.
By the time they’d finished, the sky outside had shifted to warm orange, the edges of the clouds dipped in gold. They all lingered for a few minutes, chatting quietly—Naoto recounting a particularly stubborn case she’d consulted on recently, Kanji sharing stories about the latest projects at his shop.
When Akira finally stood to leave, Naoto rose carefully to see him to the door. “Don’t forget,” she said with a pointed look, “I still expect introductions.”
“You’ll get them,” Akira promised, slipping his shoes back on.
Kanji gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, man. And, uh… good luck with all that.”
Akira chuckled, stepping out into the cooling evening air. The last rays of sunlight painted Yongen-Jaya in shades of amber as he made his way back toward his apartment, the quiet hum of the city settling into its summer night rhythm.
Akira stepped into the apartment, flicking on the lights and kicking his shoes neatly to the side. The place was quiet—eerily so compared to the lively chaos that had filled it only a few hours ago.
A quick glance at the clock told him it was edging toward dinner time. He set his bag down, shrugged out of his jacket, and rolled his shoulders. If everyone was going to be drifting in soon, it made sense to get a head start on cooking. He pulled out his phone, thumbing open the group chat.
Akira: Alright, roll call. Who’s coming back for dinner tonight?
Responses started popping in almost immediately.
Ann: Still in a meeting with my agent and “someone very important.” Won’t be back for a while!
Haru: Still in meetings too. A few more hours, at least.
Makoto: At my apartment with Sae tonight. I’ll be on the group chat, though.
Ren: Paperwork mountain. Send help. I’ll be late.
A moment later, the other half of the group chimed in almost in unison:
Shiho: On the train now.
Kasumi: Same here.
Ryuemi: Already in Yongen-Jaya. Be there soon.
Yukiko: Picking up painting supplies in Shibuya. Maybe an hour.
Hifumi: Needed to stop by the house. Leaving now. ETA: twenty minutes.
Morgane: Walking with Lavenza and Futaba. We’re almost there.
Lavenza: We have acquired snacks.
Futaba: …I have acquired good snacks.
Akira smirked at the screen, the corners of his mouth tugging up.
Akira: Got it. I’ll start dinner. Try not to trip over each other on the way in.
He set the phone aside, rolling up his sleeves again as he began pulling ingredients from the fridge—rice, fresh vegetables, some cuts of meat from the market earlier in the week. The apartment was still silent for now, but he knew that wouldn’t last. Within the hour, it would be filled with voices, footsteps, and the familiar chaotic energy of the Thieves coming together under one roof.
The sound of the front door clicking open broke the quiet, followed by the soft pad of footsteps.
“Smells like someone’s making magic,” Ryuemi’s voice called out, warm and teasing. Akira glanced over his shoulder just in time for her to slip into the kitchen. She didn’t stop at the counter—she slid right up behind him, arms looping around his waist as she pressed herself against his back. Her lips trailed over his shoulder, then up the side of his neck, peppering him with quick, affectionate kisses. He chuckled, not pausing in his steady rhythm of chopping vegetables. “Careful, Ryu… sharp knife.”
“Don’t care,” she murmured against his skin, smiling between kisses. “I get to kiss you without sharing.”
Akira’s smirk tilted into something softer. “Better make the most of it, then. You’ve got about ten minutes before the cavalry arrives.”
“Then I’d better work fast,” Ryuemi said, her grin audible in her voice before she leaned in for another series of kisses, entirely ignoring the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board.
The door opened again, this time accompanied by a flurry of chatter and the sound of crinkling plastic bags.
“Akiraaa~ we brought snacks!” Futaba’s voice carried first, followed by the patter of Morgane’s shoes and Lavenza’s quiet hum.
The three stepped inside together, their eyes immediately landing on Akira moving gracefully around the kitchen and Ryuemi perched cross-legged on the counter, flicking raisins into the air and catching them with exaggerated flair. “Perfect timing. Chef’s hard at work.” She gestured toward Akira, who was stirring something on the stove with practiced ease.
“Welcome back,” he greeted, setting the spoon aside long enough to lean over and press a kiss to each of their lips in turn. Ryuemi followed suit with playful little pecks of her own, clearly enjoying the act of claiming her “welcome-home” moment too.
The three shortstacks giggled between themselves as they made their way to the dining area, where the table was still bare. Futaba dropped her snack bags with a dramatic thunk. “Alright, mission: dinner support, commence!”
Morgane grabbed napkins and chopsticks, quickly falling into place beside Ryuemi, who hopped down to join her. “I’ll handle glasses,” Morgane said.
“And I’ll…” Futaba picked up a stack of plates and balanced them on her forearm, grinning. “...not break these. Probably.”
Meanwhile, Lavenza lingered in the kitchenette, slipping into the small space at Akira’s side. “May I assist?” she asked gently, already rolling up her sleeves.
Akira smiled at her and nodded. “Sure. You can start on the miso while I finish the stir-fry.”
The kitchen filled with the soft sounds of chopping, clinking plates, and low chatter. The domestic warmth of it all wrapped around them—like the room itself was smiling at how natural it had become.
The next knock came quick, just as Akira and Lavenza had settled into a steady rhythm at the counter.
“Delivery service!” Shiho’s voice rang as she and Kasumi stepped in, each with an armful of clinking bottles.
“Hydration squad, reporting for duty,” Kasumi added, flashing a bright grin as she carried hers straight to the small icebox tucked near the fridge. Shiho followed, carefully stacking her share inside until the drinks were nestled against the cooling packs.
“That should keep us set for the night,” Shiho said, dusting her hands. Then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, she drifted toward Akira first, brushing a kiss against his cheek, then looped her arm around Lavenza for hers, moving on through Morgane, Futaba, and Ryumi in turn.
Kasumi mirrored her, a little bashful but smiling as she did the same, earning teasing smirks and soft laughter from the others.
Just as the energy started to settle again, another knock rattled the door. This time, Hifumi stepped in, balancing a neat pastry box in her hands.
“I thought dessert would be… appropriate,” she said softly, closing the door with her foot as she slipped off her shoes. The box landed gently on the counter, and before anyone could thank her, she went through the same ritual of kisses—her calm, careful demeanor cracking just a little into a pleased smile when Ryuemi jokingly declared, “Ten out of ten technique!”
The group swelled with chatter, utensils clinking as final touches were set, and the apartment warmed with laughter.
Nearly twenty minutes later, just as the savory scent of dinner filled the room, the last arrival finally made her way in.
“Sorry I’m late,” Yukiko said with a sheepish bow, cheeks a little pink from the cool evening air. “The trains were slower than usual.”
“You made it in time for the best part,” Akira reassured her, sliding the last dish onto the table.
Yukiko added her shoes neatly to the line, then moved in for her round of welcomes, light kisses exchanged with soft chuckles.
By the time she sat, everyone had gathered around the table, chairs pulled close, plates and chopsticks ready. Akira set down the final serving spoon, gave the simmering pot one last stir, and looked up at the circle of familiar faces, all waiting expectantly.
“Itadakimasu,” he said simply, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The cheer that went up in response made the small apartment feel brighter than ever.
Plates and bowls filled quickly, chopsticks clattered, and before long the apartment hummed with the chaos of a full table.
“Oi, thief!” Ryuemi yelped, swatting playfully at Morgane as she snagged a piece of karaage from her plate.
“It’s called redistribution of wealth,” Morgane retorted loftily, popping the chicken into her mouth. “Besides, you weren’t guarding it properly.”
“Not fair,” Ryuemi pouted—only to immediately dart her chopsticks into Shiho’s plate for a piece of her egg.
“Hey!” Shiho’s glare melted into laughter, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. And you call Akira the delinquent.”
Meanwhile, Futaba had propped her tablet up against a jar of utensils, Ren’s image flickering into view. She waved a chopstick at the screen. “You’re here in spirit, paper-pusher. Say ‘ah~!’” She held a piece of takoyaki up dramatically, earning a chorus of giggles.
Ren smirked through the camera. “If only teleportation existed.”
“Not until next Palace,” Akira deadpanned, earning another round of laughter.
Kasumi leaned close to snag a piece of Shiho’s natto herself, this time with an innocent little smile. “It really does taste better, though.”
“You too?!” Shiho exclaimed, half-exasperated, half-laughing. She snapped a quick photo of the table—Ryuemi mid-pout, Morgane cackling, Akira reaching across for the soy sauce—and sent it straight into the group chat. “Dinner chaos, wish you were here 💕”
Almost instantly, Ann replied: “SO CUTE I’M DYING 😭 Someone save me from my agent!!” followed by Haru’s: “Please enjoy yourselves! I’ll join as soon as I’m free 🌸” and finally Makoto’s: “Looks like I missed a battlefield. Keep him in one piece, alright?”
Hifumi, quiet until now, lifted the dessert box slightly. “Don’t forget, we still have this waiting.”
“Motivation unlocked,” Futaba declared, spearing another bite.
Yukiko, cheeks already pink from laughter, glanced at Akira across the table. “It’s amazing how you keep this from descending into complete anarchy.”
Akira just raised a brow, chopsticks poised. “Who says I’m trying?”
That set the whole table off again, Morgane nearly snorting rice while Ryuemi leaned against Akira’s shoulder with a satisfied grin, murmuring, “This is the best kind of anarchy anyway.”
The dessert box was already open, plates dotted with colorful mochi and skewers of dango. Shiho leaned back with a pleased sigh, savoring the sweetness, while Futaba was methodically dismantling a skewer and building a “dango tower” on her plate.
Akira, meanwhile, stood in the kitchenette, pouring water over the grounds with careful precision. The rich scent of coffee began to drift through the apartment, blending with the sweetness in the air. It was Morgane who finally broke the gentle lull. She set her half-eaten mochi down, tilting her head. “So… what were they like? The other Phantom Thieves?”
The question seemed to freeze him mid-motion. Akira’s hand lingered over the kettle for a breath too long before he set it down. His storm-grey eyes lowered, the corners soft with something heavy and distant. “They…” he began, voice low, “…they were unique.”
He busied himself again—pouring, stirring, lining cups up on the counter—but the pause lingered in the air, unspoken weight pressing against everyone’s curiosity. One by one, the girls fell quiet, even Futaba’s tower abandoned.
Finally, Akira carried the first two mugs to the table, then the next pair, until only his remained. He set it down, drew out his chair, and sat with them once more. His fingers curled loosely around the mug before he lifted his gaze to the circle of expectant faces. “How much did you see in my memories?” he asked softly.
The room hushed, dessert momentarily forgotten. Ryuemi set down her mug, her expression thoughtful. “We saw flashes. A lot of them seemed to match up over two runs—same people, mostly the same events…” Her voice faltered for a beat, and she flicked a glance toward Shiho.
Shiho met her eyes, then gave a small nod. “Like me… jumping off the Shujin roof.”
The words dropped like a stone into the room. Akira’s hand tightened on his coffee cup, his whole body tensing before he forced himself to meet Shiho’s gaze. “I tried to make it to you the second time around,” he admitted, voice raw, “but I was too slow again…”
Shiho didn’t hesitate. She reached across the table, threading her fingers through his. Her grip was warm, steady, anchoring. “You did what you could, ’Kira,” she said gently. “That means everything.”
For a moment, Akira just looked at her—the pain in his eyes slowly easing into something softer. A weak, but genuine smile curved his lips. “…Thanks, Shiho.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time—just quiet, reverent. Until Morgane, with her usual bluntness, tilted her head and blurted out, “I… was a cat?”
Akira blinked—then chuckled, the sound a welcome crack in the tension. “You were more than a cat,” he said warmly, storm-grey eyes flicking to her. “You were the Hope of Humanity.”
Morgane’s brows knit together, mouth quirking. “The… hope of humanity? As a cat?”
That earned a few stifled giggles from the others. Akira only chuckled again, the warmth in his voice deeper this time. “Yeah. It’s a long story… but maybe I should start there.”
Akira let his gaze drift over each of them before lowering it to his untouched coffee. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but there was a weight behind it.
“It started before I even set foot in Tokyo. Before I even knew I was the Trickster. The Velvet Room…” He looked up briefly toward Lavenza, and she gave him a quiet nod of encouragement. “It wasn’t meant to be the way you’ve seen it in my memories. Yaldabaoth—this… false god—took control of it. He banished Igor, stripped him of his place, and split Lavenza in half. That’s how Justine and Caroline were born.”
Lavenza’s hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes lowered. Though she remained silent, a faint tension in her shoulders betrayed the memory still lived sharp within her.
“With what little power he had left, Igor created Morgana,” Akira continued, glancing at the short blue-eyed girl across from him. His tone softened. “You were made to search for me—the Trickster. The one who could challenge Yaldabaoth. But you didn’t know who you were at first, or what you were meant to be.”
Morgane’s lips parted slightly, her eyes wide. She looked down at her half-eaten mochi as though it might hold the answers, but no words came.
Akira leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Then came my own… beginning. I was sent to Tokyo after being framed. Put on probation, dumped into a new city. Honestly, I thought my life was over. But… it was there I met Ryuji.” His eyes flicked toward Ryuemi with a faint smirk. “And somehow, we managed to stumble headfirst into a Palace—Kamoshida’s Castle.”
Ryuemi gave a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Figures we’d start off getting our asses in trouble.”
“Yeah,” Akira said, chuckling softly before sobering again. “That’s where we first met Morgana. A talking cat locked up in a cage, of all things. And the moment he saw me… he just knew. I didn’t, not yet. But Morgana was the first to recognize me for who I was meant to be.”
Morgane shifted in her seat, cheeks coloring faintly at the weight of the memory, even though she hadn’t lived it. “…So that’s why you said I was more than a cat.”
“Exactly,” Akira said, his voice firm but warm. “You weren’t just a companion. You were created to guide me, to help me awaken fully. You were the hope Yaldabaoth couldn’t erase, no matter how hard he tried.”
Akira gave a faint, almost mocking smile at the memory. “That being said… Morgana wasn’t exactly… easy to get along with, in the beginning.”
Morgane raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“He was brash. Cocky. Always posturing like he knew everything about the Metaverse.” Akira leaned on one hand, his eyes distant. “And in some ways, he did. He was our guide through a world none of us understood. But it was also… a mask. A way of covering up all the doubts he carried inside.”
Ryuemi snorted. “So basically a loudmouth who thought he was hot shit?”
Akira chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it. He’d talk like he was above everyone else, especially Ryuji. He’d insult him constantly—his brains, his recklessness…”
Ryuemi grimaced. “Sounds like you had a tough time with them.”
“The two of them butted heads a lot,” Akira admitted, his tone gentling. “And honestly? It drove me crazy sometimes. The way he belittled Ryuji—” He paused, a shadow crossing his expression. “I hated it. I knew why he was doing it. He was terrified of being useless, of being left behind. But the way he lashed out at Ryu in particular… it wasn’t fair.”
Morgane tilted her head, her lips pursed. “…Sounds like me, but also not me. Like… a funhouse mirror version.”
“You’re different people, even if there are many similarities,” Akira said firmly, his storm-grey eyes locking with hers. “Back then, he couldn’t even remember what he was. He thought being human was the only way to matter. He clung to that dream, and it twisted how he treated people. But underneath it all, Morgana… he cared. He cared so much it hurt. Just like you do, Morgane.”
The table fell into a moment of quiet, broken by Shiho’s soft murmur. “…That actually sounds a lot like how we’ve all acted sometimes. Lashing out because we’re scared.”
Ryuemi folded her arms, though her lips quirked into a small grin. “Guess even in another run, I was the punching bag, huh? No wonder you were pissed on my behalf.”
Akira gave her a faint, rueful smile. “…Yeah. I always was.”
Morgane pushed her chair back, the scrape of wood against the floor drawing everyone’s eyes. Without a word, she circled the table until she reached Ryuemi, who looked up in faint surprise. Then Morgane leaned down and wrapped her arms around her. Her voice was quiet, but warm. “I know we’re both different people to those two… but still, I want you to know that I’m sorry if I’ve ever said anything hurtful to you.” She pressed her cheek briefly to Ryuemi’s shoulder. “Je t’aime, ma comète.”
Ryuemi blinked, caught off guard by the tenderness. Then she chuckled, hugging Morgane back with one arm. “…Je t’aime aussi…” she replied, her accent thick and her pronunciation so mangled it made Morgane’s eyes go wide.
The whole table broke into laughter, the tension of Akira’s story loosening instantly. Even Akira himself shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips.
Morgane pulled back, still laughing softly, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to Ryuemi’s temple. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hey, I tried,” Ryuemi shot back with a grin.
With a flick of her hair, Morgane returned to her seat, though her smile lingered as she tucked her legs beneath her. Akira took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression softening as he glanced at Morgane. He let the laughter run its course before clearing his throat.
“Y’know,” he said in a lighter tone, “Morgana and Ryuji were always at each other’s throats. It was constant—Ryuji would say something dumb, Morgana would bite back twice as hard, and I’d be stuck in the middle wondering which one was gonna explode first.”
That got a ripple of chuckles around the table. “But… there was one person Morgana was completely obsessed with.” Akira’s eyes flicked meaningfully across the table. “Ann.”
That earned louder laughter. Shiho and Kasumi covered their mouths, while Yukiko gave a knowing hum. Futaba actually leaned back in her chair, cackling.
“Oh my god,” Shiho said between giggles. “So that’s where she gets it.”
“Totally inherited,” Futaba smirked, wagging a finger at Morgane.
“Passed down like a cursed heirloom,” Hifumi added with a sly smile.
Morgane groaned, face going crimson as she buried it into her hands. “Mon dieu… je vais mourir…” she muttered darkly in French, muffled and miserable.
Akira couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. Shaking his head, he reached over, hooked an arm around her waist, and tugged her toward him. Morgane let out a startled squeak before finding herself perched sideways across his lap, still hiding her face.
“You’re fine,” he murmured, hugging her against his chest until she stopped muttering quite so venomously in French. Her shoulders were still tense, but she didn’t try to move, curling into him like she belonged there. Once she’d calmed down enough that the table’s giggles had faded into warm smiles, Akira exhaled softly and let his voice grow quieter.
“…Anyway. What really pushed us to act… was Shiho.” His storm-grey eyes drifted toward her, his hand unconsciously tightening around Morgane’s waist. “Her suicide attempt, after what Kamoshida had done to her… that was the catalyst. That’s when we knew we had to go after his heart.”
The silence hung for a beat before Hifumi shifted in her chair. She reached over and wrapped an arm gently around Shiho’s shoulders. On the other side, Lavenza quietly mirrored her, slipping close and hugging Shiho from the other side.
Shiho gave a faint shiver, caught between their warmth, and leaned into them gratefully. For a moment, her eyes stayed downcast, then she lifted them toward Akira. “That’s when Ann joined the Thieves as well, right?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
Akira nodded, his expression soft. “She rode with you in that ambulance, while Ryuji and I—along with Yuuki Mishima—went to confront Kamoshida ourselves.” His lips twisted in a wry, humorless smile. “The bastard just laughed at us. Told us we couldn’t prove anything… then casually threatened to get us expelled.”
His chuckle was quiet, though it held no mirth. “Ann… she went ballistic after she awakened in that Castle. You should have seen her…”
That drew a stir of warmth around the table. Ryuemi cracked a small grin, almost proud. Yukiko smiled softly, while Futaba leaned forward on her elbows, curious.
“After Ann awakened… things moved fast. We pushed through Kamoshida’s Castle, floor by floor, and every shadow we cut down just made us more certain—he deserved to fall. His Shadow self…” Akira’s voice dipped low. “Arrogant. Smug. He mocked us until the very end. But once we broke him down, he crumbled. Begged. Cried. And finally confessed.”
His gaze drifted toward Shiho, gentle but unflinching. “You don’t need me to say what came after. He admitted everything. And from there… the Phantom Thieves were truly born.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the table, as though each of them could feel that turning point echoing in the room. Akira gave a small, lopsided grin, the weight easing just a touch.
“And then…” he paused, deliberately dragging out the words before his mouth curved wider, “we met Yusuke.”
That grin landed squarely on Yukiko, who perked up immediately.
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes shining with curiosity. “What was he like?”
Akira’s grin softened into something fond, if exasperated. “Yusuke Kitagawa… where do I even begin? Imagine the most eccentric, starving artist stereotype you’ve ever seen—except he lived it. He spoke like he’d just walked out of a Renaissance painting, moved with dramatic flair even when pouring tea, and called Ann…”
He glanced at Yukiko, his smile widening. “…his muse. From the very first meeting.”
Yukiko let out a strangled sound, half-laugh and half-groan, while the others chuckled knowingly.
“Of course,” Akira went on, “behind all that flamboyance was something darker. Madarame—his so-called mentor—was starving him, pushing him to churn out paintings while hoarding money and credit for himself. Pretty much the same way this Madarame was treating you, Yukiko… minus the whole ‘watching’ thing.”
Yukiko’s expression faltered at the comparison, but she nodded slowly, her hands tightening on her cup.
Akira’s tone shifted into amusement again, though. “Our third meeting was… memorable. We had been trying to convince Yusuke to be honest with us about Madarame’s abuse and plagiarism, but he threatened to call the cops on us unless Ann agreed to model for him. Specifically—” he held up a finger, eyes dancing “—in the nude.”
The rest of the table erupted in shouts. Even Morgane peeked out from behind her hands to mutter in French about les garçons stupides.
Akira waited until the laughter quieted, then leaned back in his chair, his voice taking on a more thoughtful weight. “Honestly, I’m not sure how we didn’t deck him for suggesting something like that. I think… it was because we could tell he didn’t really understand what he was asking. Yusk’ was—well, he saw everything through the lens of art. To him, it wasn’t lewd, it wasn’t exploitative… it was just ‘the purity of the human form.’”
He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t make it any less uncomfortable, though. But anyway, we didn’t go through with it. At least… not then.”
The girls all leaned in a little, intrigued by the deliberate way he left it hanging. Yukiko peeked through her fingers with an exasperated groan. “Don’t you dare make it sound like—”
“Relax,” Akira chuckled, squeezing her hand as if to steady the moment. “Ann handled herself. Yusuke got his wake-up call, one way or another. And it led us straight into the truth about Madarame.”
Akira leaned forward a little, elbows resting on the table as he continued. “So here’s the thing about Madarame’s Palace—we couldn’t progress without opening a door in the real world. A door which just so happened to be in Madarame’s shack. And the only one who could get to it was Ann. Which meant…” He chuckled, his eyes glinting with repressed mirth. “…she agreed to pose for him.”
There were shocked gasps all around the table. Akira only laughed harder. “What makes it better is that later she admitted to me that she put on every single item of clothing she owned before going to see him. She basically said she looked like a marshmallow sumo.”
The table exploded with laughter. Even Shiho, who had been tense moments earlier, doubled over giggling at the mental image. When the laughter finally ebbed, Akira’s tone softened again. “But in the end, it worked. Behind that door, they found the real Sayuri—the painting Madarame had stolen and twisted for his own fame. And when Yusuke saw it, when he realized how Madarame had manipulated him and stolen his mother’s work… that’s when he finally saw the truth. That’s when he joined us. And once we took down Madarame, he stayed.”
Akira stretched, setting his cup aside. “Alright—time for a refill. Anyone else?”
A chorus of yes please rose around the table, so he moved to the counter, the familiar rhythm of grinding beans and setting the kettle on filling the lull. By the time he returned, the scent of fresh coffee chased away some of the heaviness of the earlier stories. He set down mugs within easy reach, slid one across the table toward the tablet where Ren’s face smiled back from the video call, and dropped back into his seat with his own cup.
Futaba leaned forward, her chin perched on her hands, eyes bright. “Okay, 'Kira —who joined next? After Yusuke.”
Akira went quiet. He sipped, staring into the dark swirl of his coffee for a long moment, before speaking in a lower tone. “…That would be Makoto.”
The tone of his voice drew curious looks. Hifumi tilted her head; Kasumi raised her brows slightly.
“She’d been tasked by Kobayakawa to sniff us out,” Akira continued. “So she started tailing me. Watched me like a hawk for weeks. Eventually, she overheard Ann and Ryuji talking about the Thieves, and—of course—she recorded them. Thought she’d hit the jackpot.”
Ryuemi whistled under her breath. “Classic Makoto.”
Akira’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “Yeah. She tried to blackmail us into going after Kaneshiro. But in the end… she got trapped herself. Ended up staring down the barrel of his threats with the rest of us.”
He took another sip, voice softening. “She wasn’t as bad then as she was this time around, but her tendency to jump without looking? Very much present. And she was… pretty tone-deaf to the consequences of her actions in the beginning.”
Across the table, Yukiko gave a small hum of sympathy. Ren’s voice drifted through the tablet speaker, a quiet chuckle. “That sounds like her.”
Akira leaned back, fingers loosely curled around his mug. “Thing is, Makoto wasn’t just cornered. She was furious. You could see it burning out of her. When Kaneshiro threatened to go after her sister, that was when she snapped—when she called him out for being a parasite feeding on other people’s fear. That was her Awakening. Johanna roared onto the scene, and from that point forward, she was one of us.”
He let the image linger for a moment before continuing. “The Bank itself was… something else. Kaneshiro’s warped sense of power turned the whole place into a fortress of greed. The worst of it was Piggytron—a massive steel piggybank tank he used as his trump card. We had to fight it while he cowered inside, throwing money at us like it was a weapon. It was brutal, but we pulled through.”
Yukiko’s lips pursed. “A piggybank tank? That sounds ridiculous.”
Akira chuckled. “It was. Ridiculous and terrifying. If he hadn’t been so blinded by his own greed and ego, I’m not sure we would’ve beaten him.”
The room quieted a little at that, the Thieves present remembering their own encounters with warped Shadows.
Akira swirled the coffee in his cup. “After that… things started to slow down. But that’s when Futaba got in touch with us.” He cut a sidelong look at her, and Futaba instantly ducked into her hoodie with a squeak.
“She tried to blackmail us, too,” Akira went on, smirking faintly. “Claimed she had dirt on us and would expose everything if we didn’t do what she wanted. The funny part? She didn’t even really know what she was asking for.”
“Hey!” Futaba protested from behind her sleeves, her face flushed.
“She wasn’t wrong, though,” Akira said gently, setting his mug down. “She needed help. She just… didn’t know how to ask for it.”
Ryuemi nearly choked on her coffee, thumping her chest as she wheezed. “Wait, wait—hold on. First Makoto, then Futaba? You’re telling me you guys got blackmailed twice into taking cases?”
Morgane leaned forward, grinning. “What kind of Phantom Thieves were you if you kept falling for the same trick?”
Even Yukiko was trying not to laugh, hiding her smile behind her hand. Akira lifted a hand in mock surrender, his expression deadpan but his storm-grey eyes dancing with amusement. “Actually… it happened a third time too.”
That sent the table into another round of laughter and disbelief, but Akira only sipped his coffee calmly, letting them get it out of their system. When the noise died down, his tone softened.
“Futaba wasn’t like the others, though. Her Palace wasn’t born from cruelty or greed. She wasn’t evil. Her sense of reality was just… broken. Distorted so badly by her trauma that she locked herself away inside her own mind. The Pyramid was her way of punishing herself. Guarding herself. She thought she was worthless, guilty, unworthy of life.”
He set his cup down, stood, and quietly moved around the table. Futaba blinked as he stopped before her, lowering himself to one knee so he was eye-level with her. The others fell silent, watching.
“I’ll never forget it,” Akira murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. He gently pressed his forehead against hers, his hands steadying her shoulders. Futaba froze, wide-eyed, as his words brushed against her like a warmth she hadn’t realized she was craving.
“I was proud of you then… and I’m proud of you now. You changed your cognition yourself. You faced your shadow and embraced who you really were. All you really needed,” he whispered, his voice thick with quiet certainty, “was someone to show you the light.”
Futaba’s breath hitched, her face hidden by the fall of her hair and the faintest tremble in her hands as she gripped the hem of her hoodie. The others closed in around her almost instinctively, a tide of warmth wrapping her in layers of love.
On the screen, Ren’s face was tense, her eyes glistening. She bit her lip before suddenly blurting, “I can’t take this anymore. I’m leaving the precinct—I’m coming over.” Almost at the same time, Futaba’s phone buzzed with a message from Haru in the group chat:
Haru: I’m leaving Okumura Foods’ HQ now.
Another message popped up a second later.
Ann: My meeting’s just finished, I’m heading out too.
Shiho: Both of you—come here as soon as possible. Don’t waste time.
There was a brief pause before another notification lit up the screen.
Makoto: Can one of you pick me up on the way? Sae’s gone to bed, so I can sneak out now.
The reply came instantly.
Haru: I’ll swing by for you on the way. Don’t worry.
The apartment door burst open to the sound of overlapping voices and hurried footsteps. Ren, Haru, Makoto, and Ann stepped inside together—flushed from the rush of getting there, their eyes immediately sweeping over the cozy, crowded living room.
They were met not with words, but with a flurry of kisses. Kasumi darted forward to hug Ren tightly before kissing her cheek, while Shiho threw her arms around Makoto, pulling her into a warm embrace. Morgane, cheeks pink but unapologetic, pressed a quick kiss to Haru’s lips, while Yukiko and Ryuemi doubled up on Ann—one taking her hand, the other planting a smooch on her temple. Futaba stayed put on the couch but blew an exaggerated kiss toward all four, giggling through her lingering tears. The laughter that followed melted whatever tension still clung to the air.
“Alright, alright,” Akira chuckled, raising his hands like a referee. “Everyone inside before the neighbors start thinking we’re running a host club in here.”
That earned him a few playful swats, but soon he was moving back into the kitchen, brewing another round of coffee to keep up with the growing crowd. The scent of rich beans filled the apartment as the group settled into the living area, finding cushions, couch space, or just leaning against one another where they could.
Hifumi, seated cross-legged near the low table with her chin resting thoughtfully on her hand, broke the comfortable chatter. “So… what happened after Futaba joined?” she asked curiously, her eyes flicking to Akira. “I’m guessing it was Haru?”
Akira placed a mug in front of her before sitting down himself, fingers curled around his own cup. He gave a slow nod, his storm-grey eyes briefly softening as they flicked toward Haru.
“Yeah, you’d be right,” he admitted. “But before we got to that point… Morgana left us.”
The room quieted. Everyone leaned forward a little, sensing the weight in his voice. Akira sighed, staring into the swirl of steam rising from his coffee before taking a slow sip. When he spoke again, his tone carried the weight of memory.
“When Futaba joined, she took over from Morgana as our Navigator,” he began. “And honestly… she was good. Too good. Between her guidance and the fact that we’d been training in Mementos non-stop, plus the Palaces we’d already cleared, we’d gotten a pretty solid handle on how the Metaverse worked. Morgana… well, he started to feel pretty useless.”
A few of the girls shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances.
“And Morgana being Morgana,” Akira continued, “he didn’t really know how to deal with those feelings. So he lashed out. At all of us, but especially at Ryuji.” His eyes flicked toward Ryuemi, who grimaced knowingly. “Things were said… things that cut deeper than they should have. And then he just… left. Threw a hissy fit and stormed off.”
The sigh that escaped him this time was heavier. He looked down into his coffee, thumb running along the rim of the cup.
“If I’m being totally honest, a tiny part of me was glad he had left,” he admitted quietly. “As much as I loved him, he was a nightmare to be around at that point. Ryuji… he’s the one who made me realize Morgana wasn’t angry at us, he was just scared. Scared of being left behind. Scared of not knowing what he was.”
The room went silent, the truth hanging heavy in the air. Then Akira lifted his gaze, and a small smirk tugged at his lips as his eyes found Haru.
“Anyway,” he said, his tone lightening. “One thing led to another, and we ended up running into him in a Palace.” He set his cup down and leaned back. “Along with a certain fluffy-haired heiress who called herself the Beauty Thief.”
There was a beat of silence—then laughter erupted across the room.
The laughter faded slowly, leaving Haru pink-cheeked but smiling softly as the others teased her with affectionate little jabs about “The Beauty Thief.” Akira gave her an indulgent smile before continuing.
“After that, things moved fast. Morgana came back, we all reconciled, and with Haru joining us, we were stronger than ever. Our next target was her father—Kunikazu Okumura. His Palace was a massive spaceport, filled with endless robotic workers, all programmed to break themselves for the sake of profit.” His tone grew darker as he spoke. “The whole place reeked of exploitation.”
The girls leaned forward, listening intently as Akira gave a thin, humorless smile. “We took it down in the end. But Okumura… he didn’t last much longer after that. You all know how that ended.”
Silence settled in. For a long moment, Akira just stared into the depths of his coffee, his storm-grey eyes unreadable. Then he set the cup down gently and leaned back, giving them a bittersweet smile.
“And that’s pretty much the story of the Phantom Thieves,” he said quietly. “You all saw what happened. I lost them…” His gaze swept over the faces gathered around him, each one filled with love, worry, and devotion. His smile softened, fragile but real. “…but now I have you.”
The quiet stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the heater and the occasional sip of coffee. The others shifted uneasily, as if wanting to reach for him but held back by the heaviness of his words.
Then Ren moved. Slowly, deliberately, she stood and circled the low table. No one spoke as she sank down into his lap, straddling him with her knees pressing against the sides of his thighs. For the briefest heartbeat, she just looked at him— his storm-grey eyes meeting her own dark, searching gaze—before she leaned down and captured his mouth in a deep, claiming kiss.
The others gasped softly, but Akira melted into it, one hand instinctively finding her waist. When Ren pulled back, her voice was hushed but steady, trembling only with the honesty of what she was about to say.
“I know there’s a part of the story you left out,” she murmured, her forehead resting against his. “And I understand why. I just want you to know… I’m not him. You’re safe with me.”
For a moment, Akira only stared into her eyes, seeing past the determination to the uncertainty trembling beneath it. She was strong, fearless, but there was vulnerability there too—fear of failing him, of not being enough.
Something inside him eased. He smiled softly, then cupped her face and pulled her back in, kissing her again—gentle at first, then deepening into something fierce and bruising, his way of pouring every ounce of his love and trust into her.
When he broke away, lips still brushing hers, he whispered against her mouth, “I know…”
Chapter 35: A Taste of Home
Summary:
More domestic fluff as the Thieves decide to make their dreams of moving in together a reality
Some familiar faces visit from out of town
Akira opens up some more about his past
And we get a hint at what's coming next for the Thieves
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Akira stirred awake to the pale morning light seeping through his curtains. For a moment, he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling and letting the quiet of the apartment wash over him. His body ached faintly, the kind of pleasant exhaustion that came after hours of closeness, laughter, and heat.
Memories from the night before slipped back into place like puzzle pieces. The way Ren had taken the first step, kissing him with a tenderness that had burned into something fiercer. How the others hadn’t been able to hold back after that, one by one pressing in until he was surrounded—overwhelmed—in the best way possible. It hadn’t been rushed or frantic; it had been waves of passion, each touch and kiss deepening into something more, until none of them had noticed how late the night had become.
By the time the city outside was beginning to quiet, they had all collapsed together in a tangled, laughing, breathless heap. And then, far too reluctantly, each of them had gathered themselves to go home.
Now the apartment was silent again. Empty.
Akira let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his face. A bittersweet pang tugged at his chest; already, he missed their warmth pressed up against him. But he knew they’d be back soon. After breakfast, they were all coming over to discuss something big: finally making plans for moving in together.
The thought brought a faint, incredulous smile to his lips. Sharing his space, his world, his life—no longer alone.
And then there was Ann. She had hinted last night that she had an announcement she wanted to make. Akira wasn’t sure what it was, but curiosity pricked at the back of his mind. Whatever it was, she’d looked nervous. Excited, too, but nervous.
Rolling onto his side, Akira stared at the empty half of the futon where one of the girls had curled against him only hours ago. He let himself breathe in the memory a moment longer before finally sitting up. Today was going to be important.
The toothbrush moved absently in his mouth, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the mirror but seeing more than just his reflection. The taste of mint was sharp and grounding, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere—back to the warmth of last night, forward to the weight of today. He rinsed, spat, and leaned over the sink, bracing his hands against the porcelain.
For the first time in years, the future didn’t look lonely. And that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
He brewed coffee next, the familiar hiss and drip of Leblanc’s beans filling the silence of his apartment. The rich aroma curled around him, and for a brief moment, he let it calm him. One sip. Another. His pulse steadied, but only slightly.
Because then came the real task.
Dragging his laptop onto the low table, he opened a dozen tabs of real estate listings, each promising spacious homes that seemed laughably inadequate once he considered the reality. Thirteen people. Thirteen lives. Bedrooms, bathrooms, enough space for everyone to live without tripping over one another. A place big enough to be a home, but not so impersonal it felt like a dorm.
Akira sighed through his nose, grabbed a marker, and wheeled his whiteboard to the center of the living space. Soon the board was covered in notes, arrows, and frantic lists:
-
Bedrooms (13, less if shared?)
-
Bathrooms (at least 6??)
-
Kitchen size / multiple ovens??
-
Furniture costs / moving costs
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Neighborhood safety / commute to Shujin + Kosei
By the time he leaned back, running his fingers through his already-messy hair, he looked like a man trying to plot a war campaign rather than house-hunting. He muttered under his breath, marker tapping against the board.
“Okay, if three of them share rooms, that cuts down the bedroom count, but then… bathrooms… no, no, that’s a disaster waiting to happen…”
The apartment door opened with a soft knock and click, and the sound of voices filtered in. Laughter, chatter, the familiar energy of the girls returning to him. And so it was that the Phantomettes stepped into the sight of their leader standing in front of a whiteboard covered in chaotic scribbles, running his hand through his hair like a stressed executive.
Ryuemi blinked. “Uh… what exactly are we walking into here?”
Ann was the first to move. With a little shake of her head and that mischievous grin of hers, she strode right up to him and plucked the marker neatly from his fingers.
“Kisses and breakfast first,” she said firmly, “planning later.”
“Mmhm,” Akira hummed distractedly, still staring at the board like it held the secrets of the universe. “But if we don’t factor in the square footage—”
Ann rolled her eyes and, with no hesitation, reached up, caught him by the collar, and tugged his head down. Her lips pressed against his in a firm, grounding kiss that stole the muttering right out of his mouth.
Akira froze for half a heartbeat, startled, before instinct caught up. His eyes softened, his hands found her waist, and he kissed her back properly—slow, warm, full of the kind of reassurance neither of them had to put into words.
When they finally pulled apart, Ann was grinning, cheeks faintly pink. Akira glanced past her at the rest of the girls clustered in the doorway—Haru with a hand politely over her mouth to hide her smile, Ren biting her lip to suppress a laugh, Futaba whispering a quick “called it,” while Makoto’s arms were crossed, but her eyes were sparkling.
Akira scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry, everyone…”
Akira had barely gotten the words out before the dam broke.
Ann yelped as Morgane tackled her from the side to steal her place against Akira’s lips, only to be shoved aside by Shiho, who leaned in for her turn. Ryuemi laughed as she tugged his head down and kissed his cheek, while Futaba scrambled onto the couch behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck to plant a quick smooch on his temple. Kasumi wasn’t far behind, flustering herself as she pressed a shy kiss against his jaw before darting away with pink cheeks. Yukiko hovered for a second, then slipped in with a soft but lingering kiss that had Akira’s breath hitching.
Ren caught his face with both hands, kissing him deep enough to leave his head spinning again, only to have Haru gently bump her aside with a teasing smile and a kiss that tasted like honey tea. Makoto followed suit, firm and deliberate, and then Hifumi’s graceful touch came, a brush of lips that carried both reverence and quiet fire.
Even Lavenza joined, clambering into his lap with the unshakable certainty of someone who knew she belonged there, pressing a kiss against his forehead that was both innocent and profound.
By the time the whirlwind of affection subsided, Akira was breathless, hair even messier than usual, surrounded on all sides by laughter, giggles, and teasing remarks.
“Okay, okay,” he said, throwing his hands up with a grin. “I get it. Point taken.”
Breakfast was a blur of chatter, stolen bites, and cups of coffee passed around like currency. The atmosphere was noisy and warm, the kind of chaos that left Akira’s heart aching in the best way.
Once plates were cleared, though, everyone drifted back into the living space. Akira found himself plopped on the couch like a king surrounded by his council, with Makoto on one side and Haru on the other—both armed with notebooks, pens, and an expression of serene determination.
“Alright,” Makoto said, glancing around at the gathered girls. “We should probably start by setting our minimum requirements. Thirteen people in one house isn’t exactly small-scale planning.”
“Bedrooms first,” Haru added gently, her pen already poised. “That seems the most obvious place to begin.”
Futaba raised her hand immediately. “And bathrooms! Multiple bathrooms. If you think I’m waiting in line behind eleven girls every morning, you’ve got another thing coming.”
That earned a chorus of laughter and nods, with Ren dramatically fanning herself. “Yeah, imagine me trying to get ready for work while Ann’s still hogging the mirror—”
“I do not hog the mirror!” Ann shot back, crossing her arms.
“Yes you do,” Ryuemi and Shiho said in unison.
Makoto clicked her pen, her “student council president mode” firmly on. “Thirteen people means we’ll need at minimum seven bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms, and maybe two spares for guests or storage. And obviously a large kitchen and dining area.”
Haru nodded and jotted it down. “Something with space for all of us to actually sit down together. Preferably somewhere with lots of natural light.”
It was all very reasonable. For about five seconds.
“Gaming room!” Futaba shouted, already sprawled across the couch like she was defending her territory. “Big one. With proper rig setups, VR space, and, like, triple monitors for each station.”
“Dance studio,” Kasumi added, smiling sweetly as if that wasn’t another entire room. “With mirrors and bars for practice.”
Ren cleared her throat softly, fingers laced in her lap. “A library would be nice. Shelving for reference texts, reading nooks, maybe some beanbags—”
“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Haru cut in, her eyes glowing. “And if possible, I’d like a greenhouse. Plus a big garden for growing herbs and vegetables.”
“An art atelier,” Yukiko piped up with quiet firmness, cheeks pink but her expression determined. “Somewhere I can paint without worrying about mess. With skylights, if possible.”
“I want a soundproof room,” Shiho said, deadpan. Then her lips curled into a grin. “For my drumming. Definitely only drumming.”
That earned a wave of laughter, with Futaba muttering, “Yeah, sure, only drumming.”
“Ice rink.” Morgane lifted her chin proudly, eyes sparkling. “Indoor. Regulation size. Oh, and a movie theatre. With a popcorn machine.”
“Several walk-in closets,” Ann declared immediately, flipping her hair. “And a proper modelling studio, with backdrops and lighting rigs.”
“Walk-in closets?” Futaba sat up like a shot. “Hell yeah! Gotta have a place to keep all my cosplays.”
Kasumi nodded eagerly. “Same here!”
“And I’ll need space for my shoes,” Hifumi added calmly, which somehow made it even funnier.
“That means a sewing room too,” Futaba said, bouncing in her seat. “Costumes don’t make themselves!”
Kasumi clapped her hands. “Yes! Somewhere with good light and storage for fabrics and threads!”
Makoto was scribbling faster and faster, looking slightly overwhelmed, while Haru’s list was turning into two pages. Akira, for his part, was just sitting back, watching his girlfriends argue like he was the head of some council of chaos.
By the time everyone had chimed in, it sounded less like a house and more like a palace. “Alright,” Makoto finally said, scanning the notes. “By my count, we’re currently at… twenty-nine rooms. Not including the basics.”
“Thirty-one if we count the stables,” Haru murmured. Everyone turned to stare at her. She smiled serenely. “For the ponies.”
Before the squabbling could escalate any further, a soft hand raised in the air.
“Why,” Lavenza asked, her voice calm as a still pond, “do we need so many bedrooms?”
The room quieted.
She tilted her head, eyes innocent and serene. “Won’t we all just end up mostly in the same bed? We could save space by having a single bedroom with a giant bed that we can all fit in… right?”
The silence that followed was almost comical. Twelve pairs of eyes slowly shifted toward Akira, who blinked rapidly, then coughed into his hand, his face already heating.
Ann was the first to break. “Okay but—she’s right.”
Shiho raised an eyebrow. “One giant cuddle pile every night?”
“...I don’t see the problem,” Morgane said flatly, though her cheeks betrayed her.
Kasumi buried her face in her hands. Futaba looked like she was calculating bed dimensions in her head. Makoto had gone red all the way to her ears.
Haru just smiled dreamily. “Oh, that does sound cozy.”
Akira ran a hand down his face, trying to fight down a laugh. “You do realize this conversation started with seven bedrooms and ended with one bed the size of a small gymnasium, right?”
“Progress,” Futaba declared smugly.
After some careful discussion, the first compromise was struck — one enormous master bedroom instead of seven smaller ones. It was Lavenza’s serene suggestion that planted the seed, but Makoto’s quick calculations really made it click.
“For us to all fit,” she said, scribbling on the board, “the bed would need to be at least… six meters wide.”
The girls blinked.
“...That’s like three king-size beds pushed together,” Ren murmured, halfway between impressed and scandalized.
Akira, meanwhile, rubbed the back of his neck, a spark of amusement in his storm-grey eyes. “Guess I’ll just have to build it myself.”
That got a chorus of laughter and a few playful cheers.
Next came the bathroom debate — which spiraled into a twenty-minute back-and-forth over logistics before finally landing on a communal design: one massive space with multiple showers and vanities.
Shiho crossed her arms, lips pursed. “I don’t care how efficient it is, I’m not giving up on a tub. A big one. Big enough for all of us.”
Akira caught her eye and gave her a small grin. “Then I’ll build that too.”
Her cheeks colored, but she nodded in satisfaction.
From there, everything went surprisingly smoothly. A large kitchen and dining area were non-negotiable. They agreed on a greenhouse and big garden for Haru, a multi-purpose creative studio that could flex between cosplay, sewing, and art for Kasumi, Futaba, Hifumi, and Yukiko, and a combined entertainment lounge that doubled as Futaba’s gaming hub and Morgane’s movie theater dream. And a combined three rooms worth of closet space.
By the time they were done, the chaos had cooled into warm excitement. Their “30-room mansion” fantasy had condensed into a realistic but still dreamy 10-room house with a big garden, communal heart, and enough space for each of their passions.
Haru closed her notebook with a soft, determined smile. “I’ll start contacting real estate agents. Between Akira and myself — and with a little negotiation — I think we can afford something that matches this vision.”
The whole group nodded, buzzing with energy, already imagining what their shared future would look like.
The planning session wound down naturally, the buzz of excitement leaving the room warm and alive. Akira stood, stretching, then rolled his sleeves back.
“I’ll throw together some lunch. You guys earned it.”
That got a cheer from a few corners of the group, Futaba immediately flopping onto the couch like she’d just run a marathon. “Yes, chef~.”
It didn’t take long before the smell of stir-fried noodles and vegetables filled the air, mingling with the soft chatter of the girls. Akira set the food out on the low table in the living space, and soon enough they were sprawled around it, chopsticks clinking, conversation casual.
Halfway through, Akira glanced at Futaba and Makoto. “Hey. Have you two told Sojiro and Sae about… this plan yet?”
Futaba shrugged, slurping her noodles before answering. “I haven’t told Dad everything. Just that I’m planning to move in with the girls so I can be around people my own age. He was a little skeptical, but…” She smiled faintly, eyes soft. “…he seemed happy enough with the idea.”
Makoto, sitting cross-legged beside him, shook her head. “Sae nee-san’s moving to Odaiba for work for the rest of the year. She’d already left by the time I woke up this morning. If she calls, I’ll tell her.”
Kasumi tilted her head at that. “That’s a funny coincidence. My parents and Sumire are moving to Odaiba as well — Sumire’s going to have specialist treatment for her legs.”
She fiddled with her chopsticks, then added quietly, “I found out a few days ago, actually.”
For a beat, the group went thoughtful. Ren, across the table, looked at both Kasumi and Makoto with an almost imperceptible furrow in her brow, her wine-red eyes curious. But she didn’t say anything — just pushed a carrot slice around her bowl before taking another bite.
Lunch wound down in its usual cozy chaos, bowls scraped clean, conversation trailing into little laughs and side-chats. Morgane and Kasumi quickly gathered up the plates, moving in an almost practiced sync, while Hifumi and Makoto rolled up their sleeves and claimed dish duty without a word. Across the room, Ann, Shiho, Ryuemi, and Yukiko bustled about, fluffing cushions and folding throws, while Futaba and Haru worked together to corral the scattered magazines and stray controllers.
The apartment, always warm with their presence, started to look almost orderly again by the time Akira’s phone buzzed.
He glanced down at the screen, his heart skipping when he saw the name. Stepping into the hall, he picked up quickly.
“Nao-nee, is everything ok? Is it time?”
A light chuckle came through the speaker. “Relax, Aki, it’s not time yet. I do have a question, though. Do you have your driver’s license?”
The tension in his chest eased, replaced with curiosity. “Yeah. Why?”
“I need a favor.” Naoto’s tone was calm, businesslike, but with a small smile threaded in. “There are some people coming over from Fuefuki…”
Akira’s lips twitched into a grin — already having an idea who she meant.
“Would you be able to take Kanji’s van and pick them up from the train station?”
“Oh, absolutely, Nao-nee. What time do they arrive?”
“In four hours. That should be plenty of time for you to get here and then go, right?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Good boy. See you soon.”
The call clicked off, and Akira slipped his phone back into his pocket, still smiling faintly. He barely had time to savor the thought before a sudden eruption of squeals came from the living space.
Adrenaline spiking, he bolted towards the sound -
Akira skidded into the living room half-expecting danger—only to find the girls clustered together, squealing like fireworks going off. His storm-grey eyes darted between them, then settled on Ann, who was trying and failing to suppress a grin.
“What’s going on?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
Ann tossed her hair with a dramatic flair, then smirked. “I just told them my news— I’m going to be in a music video. For Risette’s new single. You know— THE Risette.”
The room exploded again in shrieks and claps, Ann herself bouncing up and down on the spot until her voice cracked into another squeal. Akira blinked, then broke into a warm smile, stepping forward to hug her tightly. “I’m really proud of you, Ann… that’s awesome.”
Ann let out a muffled squeal into his chest, squeezing him back so hard he could feel her heart hammering. “She’s the best, Akira, and being in this video is such an honor for me. I just wish I could have met her, you know?”
Akira hummed, pressing his chin lightly against her hair. “Hey, it’s a foot in the door, right? Maybe next time?”
Ann leaned back enough to beam up at him, nodding so fast her ponytail swished. “Yeah! Maybe next time!” She squealed again, almost bouncing out of his arms as the other girls surged in to wrap her up in a giddy tangle of hugs and kisses.
Akira chuckled, carefully extricating himself from the cuddle puddle with a wry smile. “Alright, you all keep celebrating… I need to head to the station to pick up some of Nao-nee’s visitors. Back soon, ok?”
The evening crowds swelled through Shibuya Station, spilling in every direction like restless waves. Akira stood near the boarding gates, hands tucked into his pockets, storm-grey eyes scanning every disembarking passenger.
At first, the flow was just strangers. Then, a few faces began to stand out.
A pretty girl, around his age, with shoulder-length brown hair and gentle brown eyes, stepped onto the platform. Her hand was linked with that of a striking young man with blond hair and bright, sparkling blue eyes. The boy’s look was impossible to ignore: tailored black pants, a fitted shirt, and an oversized rose pinned to his chest like a statement.
Behind them followed a much taller figure—late twenties, silver-haired, sharp-featured, carrying himself with the kind of confidence that drew attention without trying. His arm was protectively wrapped around the waist of his companion: a stunning woman, her deep copper hair catching the station lights. Her outfit was modest, but the wide sunhat and pink-tinted sunglasses lent her an aura of deliberate mystery.
Akira’s heart skipped. Then he lifted his hand in a wave.
The brown-haired girl’s eyes locked onto his, and in an instant her entire face lit up with recognition. She let go of her companion’s hand without hesitation and bolted through the crowd, laughter bubbling from her lips.
“Akkkkkkiiiiiii!”
Akira’s arms opened instinctively, catching her as she threw herself into his chest. He spun her once, her laughter ringing out clear above the station din, then set her back on her feet, holding her at arm’s length so he can look at her properly.
“Hey, Nana-chan…” His smile softened, the warmth in his tone carrying years of friendship. “Long time no see.”
Nanako Dojima darted forward, her small fists balled up. Thwack. Her knuckles landed squarely against his chest.
Akira winced, rubbing the sore spot. “Ow… what was that for?”
“Baka…” Nanako puffed out her cheeks, voice wobbling somewhere between scolding and relief. “Three years without a word and that’s all you can say?”
Then the pout melted, and she practically threw herself into him, wrapping her arms tight around his torso. “I missed you, you big dummy…”
Akira let out a soft chuckle and hugged her back, the weight of nostalgia pressing against his ribs far more warmly than her little punch had. When they pulled apart, his storm-grey eyes drifted to the boy beside her. He arched a brow. “Teddie… don’t you own any other outfits?”
The blonde grinned, striking a pose like a model despite the stares it earned from passing commuters. “Why mess with perfection, right? My darling Nana-chan loves me like this, so…”
Nanako’s cheeks colored pink. “T-Teddie…” she muttered, though the way her fingers tangled with his sleeve betrayed her affection.
Akira couldn’t help it—he barked out a laugh. “Some things never change.” He reached out, and Teddie enveloped him in a bear hug that nearly lifted him off the ground.
The next presence was quieter, steadier. Akira straightened slightly when his eyes met the tall silver-haired man watching the exchange with a small, knowing smile.
“Narukami-sensei,” Akira said with a respectful nod. “It’s good to see you again.”
Yu laughed softly and extended a hand. “There’s no need to be so formal, Akira-kun. You can call me by my first name.”
Akira clasped his hand firmly, shaking once. His mouth quirked in a wry half-smile. “No promises there…”
And then the last figure stepped forward, auburn hair bobbing with each playful stride. For a moment, Akira blinked—then gave her the biggest, cheekiest smile he could muster. “Almost didn’t recognize you, Riri-chan,” he teased, eyes narrowing with mischief. “You look like a sentient mushroom.”
Rise Kujikawa gasped, hands flying to her oversized hat and flowy jacket. “A mushroom!?” she cried, mock horror plastered across her face. But within seconds her act broke into a bubbling laugh, and she all but launched herself at him.
“It’s good to see you too, fluffball,” Rise murmured against his shoulder, squeezing him tightly before stepping back with a grin.
Akira chuckled softly, though the sound caught in his chest. Rise had always been the loudest, brightest spark in the group, but what mattered most was how she’d treated him when he was small and invisible—how she’d made him feel seen, when no one else cared to look.
And now, standing in the middle of Shibuya Station, Akira realized just how much these people had meant to him. They weren’t just old friends—they were the only ones who’d ever shown him real warmth, long before the Phantom Thieves, long before he’d even believed he could have a place in the world.
Akira blinked hard as the laughter died down, then quickly brushed a thumb against the corner of his eye before anyone noticed. He bent to grab a couple of suitcases, slinging one over each shoulder with practiced ease.
“Come on,” he said, voice steady again. “Let’s get you all settled before Tokyo eats you alive.”
They followed him out through the station, weaving past commuters until they reached the parking area where a black rental van waited. The luggage went into the back, and soon everyone was piling inside—Nanako and Teddie chattering in the middle row, Rise sliding in beside them, while Yu calmly claimed the passenger seat.
Akira adjusted the rearview mirror, clipped his seatbelt, and glanced sideways. “Everyone good?”
“Hotel first,” Rise said brightly, already tapping away at her phone. She leaned forward between the seats, auburn hair brushing against Akira’s shoulder as she held up the screen. “Here—Shinjuku. Just a quick check-in and a freshen-up before we head to Naoto and Kanji’s place.”
“Got it.” Akira typed the location into the GPS and pulled out into the flow of traffic.
The van quickly filled with noise—Rise’s cheerful commentary about Tokyo’s “vibe,” Nanako peppering Akira with questions, Teddie mispronouncing half the station names they passed. Yu, as always, sat quietly, his presence grounding the chaos.
“So,” Nanako piped up after a few minutes, leaning forward over the back of Akira’s seat. “You’ve been here for months now… what’s it been like? Really?”
Akira chuckled softly, eyes flicking to the mirrors as he merged. “Busy. Loud. Always moving. You have to fight for breathing space sometimes.”
“Ugh, sounds exhausting,” Rise groaned, though her grin betrayed her excitement.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Teddie said, wagging a finger. “Akira’s probably been living the glamorous Tokyo high life. Clubs! Fashion! Beautiful women—”
Nanako smacked him in the arm. “Don’t say stuff like that, Teddie!”
Akira coughed into his hand, amused, but didn’t comment. “Mostly it’s been… school. Part-time work. Making friends here and there. I help out at this little café sometimes—quiet place, good coffee. Tokyo’s fast, but… you find pockets where you can breathe.”
Rise tilted her head, watching him curiously. “So you’ve been making a life here. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised—you always did land on your feet.”
Akira smiled faintly but said nothing. He kept the recounting safe, neat—leaving out calling cards, Palaces, masked rebellions in another world. No mention of the family he’d found in the Phantom Thieves, or the tangle of love that now bound him to so many hearts.
Instead, he told them about the mundane: odd jobs that paid for meals, the chaos of rush hour, the food stalls he’d discovered in back alleys, how much he hated the smell of the Yamanote Line at midnight. Each story drew laughter, gasps, or teasing remarks, and the van quickly filled with the warmth of shared voices.
The check-in went smoothly—too smoothly, given the group’s history with chaos. Rise handled the desk with practiced charm, her smile enough to disarm even the most harried receptionist, and within minutes keycards were in hand.
Two rooms.
Rise dangled hers between two fingers, turning to Yu with a teasing grin. “Looks like we’re together, as always.”
Yu inclined his head, though his eyes flicked toward the second keycard—meant for Nanako and Teddie. His brow furrowed slightly. “Those two… in one room?”
Rise caught it immediately. “Yu.” Her voice carried the same warmth it always had when she was grounding him. “They’re not kids anymore. They can handle themselves.”
Nanako groaned, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “Big bro, seriously? I’m eighteen! You don’t need to hover.”
Yu’s sternness cracked at that, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “…Sorry, Nanako. Old habits die hard.”
That got a laugh out of everyone—Rise’s bubbling giggle, Teddie’s full-bodied cackle, and Nanako’s fond sigh. Even Akira felt his chest loosen, warmth threading through him at the sight. Some things really hadn’t changed.
They made their way upstairs, luggage in tow, and soon enough Yu and Rise disappeared into their room with a quick wave. Akira lingered in the hall, half-turning back toward the elevator. “I’ll wait in the lobby—”
“Come hang out with us, Aki.”
Nanako’s voice stopped him. She stood in the doorway of the other room, keycard still in her hand, smiling gently. “We won’t be long.”
Akira hesitated, then shrugged with an almost-smile. “Sure. Why not.”
Inside, the room was a simple setup—one bed, a small table, a view of the city skyline just outside the window. Teddie flopped dramatically onto the bed, bouncing like a kid, while Nanako shook her head and set her bag neatly in a corner of the room.
Akira leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching them with quiet amusement. It was almost surreal—like stepping into a pocket of the past, except everything was tilted, older, sharper. Nanako was grown now. Teddie was still Teddie. And he… well, he wasn’t that lost boy anymore.
Still, when Nanako looked over at him with that same warm smile she’d always had, he couldn’t help but feel like nothing had changed at all.
Nanako bent over her overnight bag down, her hands fussing with the zipper a little too long before she turned to face him. Her expression softened, though there was a weight in her eyes that hadn’t been there when she was a child.
“You know,” she began quietly, “I worried about you the whole time you were in juvie.”
Akira froze where he leaned against the wall.
Nanako’s hands curled at her sides. “Why didn’t you ever write to me, Aki? Not even once?”
The silence stretched, heavy. Finally, Akira exhaled, his shoulders sagging. “…Because I didn’t want you dragged down with me.” His voice was steady, but low. “If people knew you were close to me—friends with a criminal—you’d have been treated like trash. Same with everyone else that… that mattered to me. So I stayed away.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes downcast. “The only person I spoke to was Chie, since she was a guard there. And even then, I made sure to keep my distance. I… I felt it was the right thing to do.”
Nanako swallowed, blinking fast as her eyes grew glassy. She stepped closer, shaking her head slowly. “I get it… I don’t like it, but I get it.”
The air was heavy, thick with words left unspoken—until a loud, exaggerated sob shattered it. “Waaah! My little bro, keeping all his pain bottled up!” Teddie wailed, throwing himself across the bed like a tragic actor in a melodrama. “The heartbreak, the noble sacrifice, the tears—so beautiful, so tragic! I can’t bear it!”
Nanako and Akira both turned toward him. For a moment, silence hung in the air. Then they looked at each other. And burst out laughing.
Nanako swiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, giggling uncontrollably. Akira’s chest shook with quiet laughter, the tension bleeding out of him with every breath.
Teddie sniffled loudly, peeking at them through his fingers. “…Hey, don’t laugh at my pain!”
That only made them laugh harder.
The laughter faded into softer chuckles, and for a moment it was just the three of them, the room warm with old familiarity. Akira rubbed the back of his neck, his smile faint but lingering. Then his expression shifted, serious in a way Nanako and Teddie weren’t used to seeing.
“…I’ve got a confession to make.”
Nanako blinked, instantly alert. Teddie sat up, clutching a pillow like it was a prop in a stage play.
“Aki?” Nanako asked carefully.
Akira hesitated, then drew in a deep breath. “So… I did lie. About not meeting anyone here in Tokyo.”
The two perked up immediately, leaning forward in unison.
“Thing is,” Akira continued, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket, “I’ve met… several someones.”
“Several?” Teddie echoed, his blue eyes widening. “How many is several?”
Nanako crossed her arms, staring him down like she used to when they were kids and he’d stolen the last cookie. “Aki. How many?”
Akira gulped. His mouth went dry. “…Twelve.”
The word hung in the air like a thunderclap.
“TWELVE?!” Nanako’s screech could have shattered glass. She shot up from the bed, pointing a trembling finger at him. “AKIRA AMAMIYA! WHAT DO YOU MEAN TWELVE?!”
Teddie flopped backward, clutching his chest as if struck by lightning. “Oh, the scandal! Our little Aki has become a legendary playboy!”
The noise was enough to summon the cavalry—within seconds, the door burst open and Yu strode in, Rise right behind him.
“What’s happening? Nanako, are you alright?” Yu demanded, eyes sharp and scanning the room.
Nanako whirled on him, her finger darting toward Akira like an accusation in a courtroom. “Big bro—he’s got twelve girlfriends!”
Yu’s expression froze. Slowly, his gaze slid toward Akira.
Rise slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god. He really did it…”
Akira cringed, shoulders hunching slightly under the weight of all their stares. “…I can explain.”
“EXPLAIN WHAT?!” Nanako shrieked, her voice climbing an octave. “HOW DO YOU EVEN HAVE TIME FOR TWELVE?!”
Teddie sat up suddenly, starry-eyed. “Twelve! That’s like… one for each month of the year!” He gasped, clutching Nanako’s arm. “Nana-chan, he’s living the ultimate dream! He’s like… like a romantic superhero!”
Nanako smacked him with a pillow without breaking eye contact with Akira. “Don’t you dare encourage him!”
Akira sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “…This is gonna take a while.”
Nanako was still glaring at him, arms crossed tight. Teddie, meanwhile, had gone fully starry-eyed, muttering “Twelve…” under his breath like he’d just heard a prophecy. Rise had plopped onto the edge of the bed, grinning way too much for Akira’s comfort.
Akira rubbed the back of his neck. “…Alright. Let me explain before Nanako strangles me.”
“You’d better,” Nanako huffed.
He took another breath, steadying himself. “It wasn’t something I planned. Honestly, I fought against it for a long time. I kept meeting these incredible women… each of them helped me in ways I didn’t think I deserved. They understood me. Accepted me. And… somehow, they all came to care about me. And each other.”
He glanced at the floor, then back at Nanako’s watery eyes. “I tried to keep walls up. I didn’t think I was allowed to have happiness like that. But they kept breaking down those walls, together. Until finally… I agreed to give it a try. And… it’s the best decision I ever made.”
For a moment, the room was quiet. Even Nanako’s anger seemed to soften, her mouth pressing into a conflicted line. Teddie sniffled loudly.
Rise’s smile widened until she couldn’t contain herself. She tilted her head toward her husband. “…Sounds familiar, doesn’t it, Yu?”
Akira blinked, startled. His storm-grey eyes darted to Yu, who was already chuckling.
“Yeah,” Yu admitted easily. “Although I stopped at four. You, Ai, Yukiko, and Marie are all I need.” His amber eyes softened with quiet warmth as he looked at Rise, then back at Akira. “I can’t imagine what being in a relationship with twelve girls would be like.”
Akira stared at him, utterly blindsided. “…Wait. You—?!”
Rise winked at him. “What can I say? He’s got that quiet charisma that just pulls you in. Runs in the family, apparently.”
Akira groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This family is unbelievable.”
Yu smirked faintly, then leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “So. Have you introduced them to Naoto and Kanji yet?”
Akira froze. “…Not exactly.”
Yu raised a brow. “Why not?”
“I promised I’d wait until after her delivery.” Akira sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want her trying to kill me when she realizes that one of my girlfriends is her partner, Ren.”
There was a heartbeat of stunned silence.
Then all at once—Nanako burst out laughing despite herself, Teddie howled in dramatic delight, Rise practically fell sideways onto Yu’s shoulder cackling, and even Yu let out a rare, honest laugh.
The laughter finally petered out, though Teddie was still dabbing his eyes dramatically with a tissue. Yu leaned back in his chair, amusement lingering in his eyes.
When Akira finally caught his breath, he noticed Nanako and Rise staring at him. Their eyes were suspiciously alike in that moment—big, soft, and way too sweet.
He gulped. “…What?”
In eerie unison, both of them leaned closer, voices chiming together. “We want to meet them.”
Akira blinked. Once. Twice. Then sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “…Of course you do.”
Nanako’s smile grew. Rise’s was positively wicked.
But then a spark of mischief flickered in Akira’s storm-grey eyes. His lips curved into a sly grin. “Actually… I can arrange that. Right now. On one condition.”
Rise cocked her head, curious. “Condition?”
He smirked. “You’ll see.”
A moment later, Akira was perched on the edge of the hotel bed, phone in hand. He tapped the screen and raised it to his ear. The call connected almost immediately.
“’Kira!” Ann’s voice rang out, bright and concerned. The blonde’s face filled the screen, wide blue eyes searching. “Is everything okay?”
Akira’s features softened instantly, that fond smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, babe… yeah, everything’s fine. Just at the hotel with Nao-nee’s friends.”
Ann blinked, suspicious. “…Okay? And?”
“Actually,” Akira said, eyes twinkling, “I’ve got a little surprise for you. I’d like you to meet one of my ‘sisters.’”
Before Ann could respond, Akira tilted the phone slightly. Rise leaned into frame beside him, beaming ear-to-ear, idol-bright and unmistakable.
There was a pause. A silence so sharp you could’ve heard a pin drop.
Then—
“WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
The shout was so loud Teddie actually fell off his chair with a squeal, and Yu winced as if his eardrums had been pierced. Nanako covered her mouth to hide her giggles.
Rise, meanwhile, just waved sweetly at the camera. “Hi! I’ve heard so much about you~”
Ann’s face was frozen in absolute, wide-eyed shock, her jaw working soundlessly before she practically screeched again.
“YOU—YOU—HOW COULD YOU JUST—YOU DIDN’T—RISE KUJIKAWA? THE RISE KUJIKAWA?! AND YOU’RE SITTING THERE LIKE IT’S NO BIG DEAL?!”
Akira pinched the bridge of his nose, trying—and failing—to hide his grin. “Ann—”
“NO! Don’t you ‘Ann’ me, mister! You kept this from me?! From us?! I’ve bought every single one of her albums, I still have the stage costume I wore to her comeback concert, I—oh my god, she’s RIGHT THERE.”
She abruptly switched gears, turning to the screen with starstruck eyes. “I—I—I love your work! You’re an inspiration to so many of us, you’re like the example, and your dancing is just—ohmygod I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you—”
Rise clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling. “Aww, you’re sweet! And you’re even prettier than Akira said—”
Ann squealed, covering her face. “He talked about me—” Then she spun back to Akira, half-shouting, half-gushing. “You didn’t TELL me your ‘sister’ was Rise Kujikawa! Do you have any idea how many times I’ve practiced your choreography in my room?!”
Akira smirked and leaned toward Rise. “Funny thing—Ann’s actually one of the models who got picked to be in your new music video.”
Rise’s jaw dropped, then she squealed, bouncing in place. “Wait, really?! Oh my god, that’s perfect! We’ll get to work together!”
Ann promptly screamed into her pillow offscreen, her voice muffled but still very audible.
By now the noise had attracted attention. Futaba suddenly shoved into frame on Ann’s side, eyes wide behind her glasses. “Wait—WAIT A SEC—” Her gaze flicked to Nanako, who had leaned into view beside Rise, trying not to laugh. Futaba pointed at her with a trembling finger.
“You—you’re—YOU’RE JUNES’ BUG! The VTuber! I’ve watched your streams for years!”
Kasumi poked her head in next to Futaba, eyes wide and sparkling. “She’s right! You’re really Junes’ Bug! Oh my gosh, you did that collab with Rink0 last month—I loved it!”
Nanako turned beet red, hiding behind her hands. “Wh-what?! You two watch me?!”
The three of them shrieked at the same time, Futaba and Kasumi vibrating with excitement while Nanako practically melted into the bedsheets beside Rise.
Soon enough, the whole call devolved into overlapping chaos. Morgane popped in demanding to know if Akira had any other “idol-tier sisters” hiding somewhere. Yukiko tried to bow through the phone. Hifumi asked Nanako about her streaming schedule. Shiho, Ren, Haru, Makoto—all voices layered over each other until the room was a storm of excitement, laughter, and questions.
Through it all, Akira just sat there, pinching the bridge of his nose again with the smallest smile tugging at his lips.
Finally, he raised his voice, calm but firm. “Alright, alright, that’s enough. We’ll have more time to talk later. For now, I need to get Yu, Nanako, Teddie, and Rise over to Naoto and Kanji’s place before Naoto strangles me.”
There was a round of protests, pouts, and promises to talk later, but Akira managed to end the call. He set his phone down, exhaling as if he’d just weathered a hurricane.
Across from him, Rise was practically glowing, Nanako’s cheeks were pink, and Yu just gave him a long, knowing look that said everything without a single word.
Teddie, sprawled dramatically across the bed, sighed. “And I didn’t even get introduced! Where’s the justice?!”
The dive over to Naoto and Kanji’s was nothing but teasing. Rise kept humming love songs under her breath. Nanako leaned over the backrest, gently poking Akira’s cheek with a sing-song “Aki’s got a girlfriend~.” Even Yu, the usually stoic one, allowed himself the faintest smirk that said he was definitely enjoying watching Akira squirm.
By the time they reached the Tatsumi residence, Akira looked like he was considering making a break for it.
Naoto opened the door, Kanji behind her holding a half-finished plushie. Both blinked at the sight of the group. “You’re late,” Naoto said, though her voice softened almost immediately. “Was there a delay?”
Rise beamed. “Sort of! We had the cutest little group call with Akira’s friends. You should’ve seen them all—so excited, so sweet—”
Kanji tilted his head. “Wait, you actually saw them?”
Naoto’s expression shifted, subtle but telling: a small pout tugging at her lips before she quickly schooled it away. “Ah. I see. I suppose it was… lively.”
Akira caught the look and stepped forward, voice quiet but firm. “Naoto. You don’t need all that kind of chaos right now. Trust me, you’re better off spared from the circus.”
Naoto’s eyes softened. She gave a small nod. “Fair point.”
And that’s when Teddie chose his moment. He stretched his arms overhead, grinning far too wide.
“But Akira-kun,” he sang, “you said the real reason was because you didn’t want Naoto-chan to know you’re dating her partner, right?”
The silence that followed was instant and absolute.
Nanako’s hands flew to her mouth. Rise’s jaw dropped. Yu actually blinked. Kanji froze like a deer in headlights. Teddie grinned like he’d just pulled the funniest prank in the world.
Naoto, very slowly, turned her head toward Akira. “...Is that true, Aki? Are you dating Ren-chan?”
Akira’s eyes widened. He made a sound halfway between a cough and a choke. Then, in one swift motion, he scooped up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and bolted for the door.
“’Kaybye—it’s late—need to go—see you later—Teddie you’re dead you dumb bear—I’ll call you later Nana—do me a favour and smother him—kaybyeeeeeeeee—”
The door slammed behind him. Silence hung for a beat longer.
Then Rise doubled over laughing, Nanako squeaked out a mortified “ohmygod,” and Teddie puffed up proudly. “What? I just told the truth!”
Yu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, while Naoto was still staring at the door, cheeks tinged pink. Kanji muttered, “…holy crap, he actually ran for it.”
Odaiba
The hum of fluorescent lights filled the sterile lab complex, their cold glow reflecting off glass-paneled walls and polished tile floors. At the heart of the building, within a large corner office, a young woman sat hunched over a wide desk. Her long brown hair was tied loosely at her shoulders, and her olive-green eyes flitted quickly across the stacks of scattered documents. Each folder bore a stark black label in block lettering—A.o.T, H.F., T.o.K.—the culmination of months of research. Her fingers trembled with restrained excitement as she highlighted notes in the margins, connecting threads only she could see.
The hiss of the office door sliding open drew her gaze upward. Three men entered, their presence heavy enough to fill the room.
Masayoshi Shido, crisp and calculating, adjusted his tie as stepped through the door. Beside him stood Takuto Maruki, his mild smile and gentle posture clashing with the steely look in his eyes. But it was the third figure who commanded the most authority—an older man, heavyset yet imposing, clad in a flawless five-piece black suit beneath a pristine white overcoat. His gaze was sharp, his presence regal.
The researcher immediately rose and bowed low. “Shido-sama… Maruki-sama… Kirijo-sama…” she intoned. “I have located several potential pulse points. If my projections are correct… we can proceed with Stage Two of the plan.”
Shido and Maruki both turned toward the elder Kirijo. Kouetsu Kirijo’s lips curved into a thin, satisfied smile. “Excellent work, Ichinose-chan,” he said smoothly. “And what of the other matter we discussed?”
Kuon Ichinose lowered her head again, her voice reverent. “Of course… I would be honoured to serve as a Vessel.”
The three men exchanged approving nods.
Maruki stepped forward, his tone gentle but his eyes alight with conviction. “Excellent… no time like the present, my dear. I’ll have Ikutski prepare a chamber for you.”
Meanwhile, Shido pulled his phone from his pocket, already dialing. “Put me through to Sasaki,” he ordered coolly, pacing toward the window.
Behind him, Kouetsu Kirijo folded his hands behind his back, his gaze fixed on the shadowed city skyline beyond the glass. “At last,” he murmured. “The threads begin to weave together.”
Akira froze in the doorway, staring at Ann’s expression—wide-eyed, lips pressed into a trembling line, nostrils flaring like she was ready to explode.
“Ann… wait…” he tried, scanning for an escape route. No luck. They’d boxed him in. His girlfriends were everywhere—on the floor, on the couch, leaning against the counters—closing in on him like predators.
And then, all at once, they grinned.
“I can’t believe you know Rise freaking Kujikawa!!!” Ann squealed, grabbing his arm and dragging him to the sofa with surprising strength. “How?! When?! Tell me everything!”
“Yeah, and spill about Nanako!!!” Futaba added, pouncing onto his lap before anyone else could even think about claiming it. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, eyes sparkling.
Akira let out a long-suffering chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright… guess I owe you guys an explanation.”
The room went quiet, all of them leaning in. He took a breath, eyes softening as old memories stirred.
“As you already know, I wasn’t exactly the most… wanted kid. My parents only cared when it suited them—or when I brought home another award they could brag about. Most adults treated me the same. Never really stuck in one place long enough to make friends, either. Until…” his lips curved faintly, almost wistful, “we ended up in Fuefuki, where my grandfather lives. He was… the first person who actually paid attention to me.”
Morgane’s sharp eyes softened; Shiho and Yukiko exchanged small, sad glances.
“And then, when Nao-nee came to stay that one year…” Akira’s storm-grey gaze grew warmer, “she sort of took me under her wing. She didn’t have many friends, either, but somehow she clicked with Narukami-senpai. Through him, she met Kanji and Rise. And since Narukami- senpai’s little cousin, Nanako, was always around, I… I bonded with her too. We stayed close, even after the older kids graduated and left Fuefuki.”
Kasumi smiled softly. “That’s… really sweet.”
“They’d come back every summer,” Akira continued, “and we’d play together, catch up… it felt like, for once, I had a place where I belonged.” His voice dropped, a tinge of guilt creeping in. “But then, when I was sixteen, I got arrested. Sent to juvie for three years.”
Everyone quieted at that, their expressions shifting—hurt for him, anger at the injustice.
Akira’s hand absently brushed Futaba’s hair as if grounding himself. “Nana-chan, she’d write me every week. Every single week. I never replied. I thought… it’d be better for her not to be dragged down by me. Her dad’s a detective—last thing she needed was to be tied to some convict.”
The silence was heavy, but not suffocating—more like understanding. Ann’s throat worked as she tried to speak, then gave up and just hugged his other arm tighter. Morgane reached out, touching his hand gently. Futaba, though, huffed against his chest. “Idiot…” her voice was muffled, but firm. “Don’t you dare say she’d be better off without you. You’re not poison. You’re you.”
Akira chuckled softly at Futaba’s words, brushing a hand through her hair as she snuggled against him. “Yeah… maybe you’re right, Futaba. Guess I didn’t realize how much it meant, having someone like Nana-chan keep reaching out even when I tried to push her away.” His storm-grey eyes softened. “She probably saved me more than she’ll ever know.”
The room grew quiet for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them. Then Akira cleared his throat and glanced toward Haru, eager to shift things to something a little brighter. “Speaking of the future… Haru, were you able to talk to those real estate agents?”
Haru’s gentle smile warmed the room as she reached into her satchel and set several neat folders onto the floor between them. “I did. I thought it might be nice if we all looked together. I’ve narrowed it down to properties with enough space for… well, all of us.” Her cheeks colored slightly at that.
That broke the heaviness, and soon everyone had shuffled down to the carpet, flipping through glossy photos and printouts. Ann cooed over a chic downtown penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows. Yukiko gravitated toward a traditional Japanese-style house with a garden and koi pond. Futaba sprawled across Akira’s lap, holding one folder upside-down as she declared, “This one has the best internet speeds, so it wins.” Ryuemi rolled her eyes but still leaned in to point out how close one listing was to a popular running trail.
Makoto and Ren immediately began comparing commute times and public transit accessibility. Haru patiently noted the pros and cons of each with practiced thoroughness, while Hifumi looked on thoughtfully, occasionally murmuring about tranquility and balance. Even Lavenza, quiet as she often was, surprised them by suggesting which spaces would be best for "group strategy sessions." And through it all, Akira sat at the center of the storm, quietly amused and profoundly moved. The boy who once had no home at all was now surrounded by twelve voices, debating and dreaming of a future where they could live together.
Notes:
Since I know some people are going to ask, here's the relationship breakdown for the Investigation Team:
Naoto and Kanji are married (obviously)
Yu is officially married to Rise, but Ai, Marie and Yukiko are also part of the loving relationship.
Nanako and Teddie have been dating for a couple of years now (much to Dojima and Yu's dismay)
Chie and Yosuke have been engaged for the past eight years, but don't seem to be in a hurry to actually tie the knot.
And Dojima did eventually get re-married to one of Yasogami High's most renowned teachers (I wonder who that might be, lol)
Chapter 36: Rise’s Big Favour
Summary:
The Phantom Thieves move into their new home
A new member joins the family
Rise asks a big favour
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The next few days blurred together in a rush of laughter, teasing, and more than a little chaos. Naoto wasted no time once she caught Ren alone. Her usual cool composure sharpened as she crossed her arms. “So it’s true then? You’re dating my cousin?”
Ren hesitated, glancing aside before nodding. “...Yes. I am. We all are.” Her voice was steady, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. For a moment, Naoto simply studied her, lips pressed in a thin line. Then she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Of all the reckless decisions Aki could make…” But when Ren shifted uncomfortably, Naoto’s expression softened. “You’ve made him happier than I’ve seen him in years. Just… don’t break him, Ren-chan.”
Ren managed a small smile. “I won’t.”
Meanwhile, Ann finally had the chance to meet Rise Kujikawa in person—and promptly broke down into a flailing, tearful fangirl mess. “Oh my GOD it’s really you!! I can’t believe this—I’ve listened to all your songs, Rise-senpai! I—I—” Ann’s voice cracked as she grabbed Shiho’s arm for support. “She’s even prettier in real life, what do I do—!?”
Rise blinked before laughing warmly. “You’re adorable, Ann-chan. Working with you is going to be SOOO much fun.” The rest of the polycule had to stifle their laughter as Ann buried her face in her hands, sobbing, “I’ve peaked, this is it, this is my peak!!”
Futaba and Kasumi found themselves glued to Nanako’s side. The three bonded instantly over games, streaming, and shared experiences of growing up in unusual circumstances. Nanako leaned over Futaba’s laptop, giving her rapid-fire advice on algorithms and thumbnails. “Trust me, if you want traction, you’ve gotta time your streams around when your target audience is online. And don’t be afraid of collabs—when you’re ready, I’ll stream with you.” Futaba practically lit up like a Christmas tree, hugging Nanako tight. Kasumi giggled. “Looks like you’ve got yourself the best mentor possible, Futaba.”
The rest of the days were filled with house tours—dozens of them. Shiho and Ryuemi argued playfully over gym space. Ann, of course, prioritized big windows for “perfect selfie lighting,” earning groans from the others. Yukiko fell in love with an apartment that had a sunroom perfect for her art, while Futaba insisted on checking if every place had fiber internet.
There were heated debates over wall colors, sofa shapes, and how many gaming setups Futaba actually needed (“Four!” “One.”). But, it wasn’t until Haru’s real estate agent brought them to a sprawling property on the outskirts of Akasaka that they knew. The house stood serene, with a wide garden, spacious interiors, and enough space for each of them to claim their own corners of sanctuary. Close enough to shops, train lines, and their schools —but far enough from prying neighbors. Ann wiggled her eyebrows meaningfully as she declared, “No noise complaints, no limits.” The room immediately erupted into groans and laughter.
By the end of the week, the decision was made. Akira, calm as ever, quietly transferred the money to one of Haru’s many accounts, brushing off her protests to let her at least pay half of it. “It’s for all of us,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
Move-in day dawned bright and clear, and the new house in Akasaka was immediately thrown into glorious, chaotic disarray. The moving vans lined the curb, each one crammed to bursting with the sheer volume of possessions the girls had deemed essential. Ann’s wardrobes alone could have filled an entire apartment; rack after rack of dresses, coats, shoes, accessories, and boxes of cosmetics seemed endless. She stood at the top of the driveway directing the movers like a general, shrieking in horror when one of them tried to stack a box of designer heels on its side. Futaba, meanwhile, had somehow amassed a collection of electronics, game consoles, figurines, and custom PC rigs that could have rivaled a small tech start-up. Every time a mover lugged in another monitor or carefully bubble-wrapped figurine, she darted over to inspect it with a hawk’s eye, hissing at anyone who dared to mishandle her precious limited-edition figurines. Yukiko’s supplies filled crate after crate—sketchpads, canvases, easels, paints, charcoals, and frames stacked like a mini art gallery waiting to spring into life. Makoto and Ren’s boxes were deceptively heavy, filled to the brim with academic texts, detective case files, psychology journals, and crime novels. A few movers groaned aloud when they realized just how dense a single “book box” could get. Kasumi sheepishly admitted to having more than one closet’s worth of cosplay outfits, fabric bolts, wigs, props, and makeup cases.
The house quickly became a maze of cardboard towers and plastic-wrapped furniture, each girl claiming corners and debating fiercely about where things should go. Haru, bless her, kept smiling serenely as she supervised deliveries of her own stuff—more modest than the others but still substantial, with her collection of tea sets, gardening tools, and boxes of rare tea leaves. Shiho’s guitars and rock memorabilia took up surprisingly little space, while Hifumi’s shogi boards and trophy case earned a few impressed whistles, as did her countless boxes of shoes. Lavenza’s things were surprisingly light but odd: journals, charms, and carefully wrapped artifacts from the Velvet Room that Igor had permitted her to keep. Morgane’s art deco posters and piles of vinyl records added another layer of personality to the growing sprawl.
Amid all this came the revelation that floored them most: Akira’s entire life fit neatly into a single medium-sized suitcase. When he wheeled it casually into the foyer and set it down beside Ann’s skyscraper of crates, everyone stopped dead. There was a collective blink, followed by a chorus of incredulous voices. “That’s it?” Ann nearly shrieked, gesturing to the suitcase like it was a crime against humanity. Futaba crawled over and unzipped it, convinced there had to be some trick, only to find neatly folded stacks of black and grey clothes, a couple pairs of shoes, and a battered notebook. Shiho muttered, half to herself, “Boys really are weird…” while Ren crossed her arms and shook her head in disbelief. Haru giggled politely, covering her mouth, and Makoto frowned in that way she did when she was equal parts concerned and exasperated. “Akira,” she said carefully, “you do realize you’re supposed to live here with us, right? Not just crash for a weekend?” Akira only shrugged with that infuriatingly calm smile of his, as though having one suitcase against their combined avalanche of belongings was the most natural thing in the world. The girls all groaned, rolled their eyes, and immediately began conspiring to “expand his wardrobe,” already talking over each other about who was taking him shopping first.
The heart of the house was already beginning to take shape by the time the movers left and the Phantom Thieves were left to their own devices. The sheer size of the shared bedroom was staggering—half a floor’s worth of polished hardwood, softened by plush rugs and the sunlight streaming through wide windows. At its center lay the project that only Akira could tackle: the thirteen-person bed. Its base was a custom-built lattice of interlocking frames, headboards, and reinforced panels, all waiting to be pieced together like some absurdly oversized puzzle. Akira knelt in the middle of it, sleeves rolled up, screwdriver clenched between his teeth as he worked a bolt into place. Lavenza crouched opposite him, holding a section steady with surprising strength, her pale hair falling into her eyes as she muttered precise instructions. Ryuemi, meanwhile, sat cross-legged on the floor with a hammer in one hand, mostly pretending she knew what she was doing but actually serving as comic relief. Every so often she’d lean back, grin, and say, “I’m moral support,” before being handed something heavy by Akira and realizing—too late—that she was expected to actually help. Despite the grumbling and the occasional clang of a dropped bolt, the three of them worked in an easy rhythm, laughter echoing between the beams of what would soon be the most ridiculous, cozy bed in Tokyo.
Elsewhere, the house was alive with a different kind of chaos. Ann had claimed the kitchen first, tossing open cupboards and shoving groceries into place with a dramatic flair. Hifumi had joined her, dutifully trying to stack neatly while Ann scattered bags of chips and boxes of sweets across the counters. Somewhere between arranging the tea shelf and sliding miso paste into the fridge, Ann leaned in with that catlike smirk of hers and pulled Hifumi into a kiss. The groceries were entirely forgotten as the two of them pressed together against the refrigerator, Hifumi’s cheeks burning red as Ann teased her about being “a very dedicated helper.” It took Shiho walking in with a carton of milk and groaning “Seriously? We need space in the fridge, not PDA!” to break them apart—though Ann just laughed, unrepentant, and winked at her.
Upstairs, the so-called “art room” had already turned into a tangle of half-unpacked supplies. Yukiko’s canvases leaned precariously against the wall while Morgane wrestled with the instructions for a shelving unit that had far too many screws for anyone’s liking. At first, they worked in tandem—Yukiko holding the frame steady, Morgane twisting in bolts with a determined scowl. But before long, the frustration melted into soft laughter, then into Yukiko stepping closer, guiding Morgane’s hands with her own. One shared glance later and the shelving unit stood abandoned as Yukiko pulled Morgane into her arms, their lips meeting in a kiss both tender and hungry. By the time Kasumi peeked in with a box of fabric, she found the two of them leaning against the wall, breathless and flushed, the shelving frame still missing two legs. She backed out silently with a grin, muttering to herself, “Guess that’s… uh, progress?”
The whole house seemed to pulse with this rhythm—boxes half-emptied, furniture half-assembled, laughter mingling with stolen kisses. Futaba had already barricaded a corner of the living room with her monitors and was ranting at anyone who came too close, though Kasumi managed to coax her into helping set up the router with promises of a new anime watch party. Makoto and Ren had staked claim on a corner study, organizing their mountain of books with the kind of grim focus usually reserved for battle plans. Haru floated gracefully between everyone, carrying trays of iced tea, smiling sweetly at the chaos, and occasionally teasing Akira when she found him tightening yet another bolt in silence. By the time the sun dipped low outside the wide windows, the house was still far from orderly, but it already felt lived in: a place filled with warmth, clutter, affection, and the kind of laughter that meant it would never, ever be quiet again.
The evening settled over the new house with the kind of calm that only comes after a day of chaos. Akira, who had spent hours hammering, drilling, and slotting together furniture with quiet determination, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he surveyed the massive, custom-built bed that now dominated their shared bedroom. Thirteen people would be able to fit on that bed without so much as brushing shoulders if they wanted — though he knew from experience that wasn’t likely to happen.
Stretching his shoulders, he started to make his way toward the kitchen. Dinner. At least I can take care of that much for them… He barely made it two steps before a delicate hand pressed firmly to his chest. Ann, hair tied up in a messy bun, arched a perfectly sculpted brow at him. “Nope. You’ve been building furniture all day, Joker. Sit. Rest. You’re not lifting another finger tonight.”
Lavenza, standing just behind Ann, nodded gravely in agreement, her hands folded primly. “Indeed. The Trickster must conserve his strength. Allow others to carry the burden for once.”
Akira chuckled under his breath, but shook his head. “It’s fine, really. Cooking isn’t work for me.”
Before he could elaborate, the two of them exchanged a glance and then, with mischievous coordination, shoved him back toward the bed. Akira stumbled, laughing, and landed on the mattress with a soft bounce. “Hey!” he protested, half-hearted.
Ann smirked and perched herself right on his lap, crossing her arms. “You’re not moving unless I say so.”
Lavenza, entirely serious, followed suit and settled primly on his legs just above his knees. “Consider this an enforced rest period, Inmate.” she said cheekily.
“Unbelievable,” Akira muttered, though the crooked grin tugging at his lips betrayed him. “This is mutiny.”
Ann leaned down until her nose brushed his. “Call it… care,” she teased.
Cut to fifteen minutes later—the living room was quieter, the girls having drifted toward the kitchen in small clusters, the sound of clattering dishes and soft chatter carrying through the halls. Shiho padded into the bedroom with the intention of retrieving the trio, only to stop dead at the sight before her. Akira was sprawled across the bed, his head pillowed in Ann’s lap, fast asleep. His lips parted slightly, his breath steady, the faintest trace of exhaustion finally slipping free now that no one was asking anything of him.
Ann looked up at Shiho with the softest of smiles, one hand absently carding through his dark hair. She didn’t speak, but her eyes said everything: he needs this.
Shiho’s heart twisted warmly, and she padded closer, kneeling at the side of the bed with the careful reverence of someone approaching sacred ground. Lavenza met her gaze and gave a tiny nod, then gently helped shift Akira’s head from Ann’s lap to a pillow without stirring him. The three of them moved with the kind of silent coordination born from deep affection, managing to settle him comfortably beneath the blanket.
Each girl lingered for a moment. Ann leaned down first, pressing a featherlight kiss to his lips. Shiho followed, tender and sure, whispering against his mouth, “Sleep well.” Lavenza, ever solemn, cupped his cheek and pressed her kiss last—soft, almost reverent.
They stood there a moment, three shadows haloed by the golden lamplight, before Shiho broke the spell with a gentle whisper. “Let him sleep for now. I’ll save his plate for later.”
And with that, they left him in peace, slipping out of the room and closing the door behind them, the sound of their footsteps fading into the hum of laughter and the clink of dishes from the kitchen.
The kitchen glowed with the warm light of pendant lamps, the scent of curry rice and miso soup still lingering in the air. The girls lounged around the long dining table, plates pushed aside, mugs of tea and juice in hand. Ann was dramatically rolling up the sleeve of her shirt to reveal a faint bruise on her forearm.
“See this?” she declared, pointing at the mark like it was a battle wound. “From carrying one of my clothing racks upstairs. I think I deserve hazard pay.”
Ryuemi, perched cross-legged on her chair, snorted. “Hazard pay? I’m the one who nearly got buried alive under Futaba’s towers of manga.”
“Hey!” Futaba shot back, cheeks puffing out indignantly. “Those are precious archives, not towers of doom!”
“Precious archives that nearly crushed you too when you dropped the middle stack,” Morgane teased, smirking as she gently traced a finger over a little nick on her palm. “Meanwhile, I earned this beauty from Yukiko’s easel deciding it wanted to be a guillotine.”
Yukiko flushed crimson, laughing sheepishly. “I-I told you I didn’t mean for it to fall! At least it didn’t snap. And besides—” her voice softened as she leaned against Morgane’s shoulder, “—we got it set up in the art room together.”
That brought a chorus of awws around the table, and Haru clapped her hands together with a bright smile. “Well, I think once the bruises fade, we’ll only remember the joy of today. Just think: soon we’ll have the reading room organized, the art room flourishing, and the kitchen stocked with everything we need. Oh, and the garden—don’t forget the garden.”
“Ohhh yes,” Kasumi chimed in, bouncing in her seat. “I already called dibs on helping decorate the workout space, though. I’ll make sure we’ve got everything from mats to resistance bands.”
Makoto chuckled warmly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “And I suppose I’ll handle organizing the bookshelves. Unless Ren decides to fight me for it.”
“Please,” Ren deadpanned, resting her chin on her hand. “You color-code; I alphabetize. We’d have to call in a mediator.”
The table rippled with laughter, a bubbling chorus of warmth and happiness. For a brief moment, it was just them—their new home, their plans, their shared joy at finally, finally being together under one roof.
Then Akira’s phone buzzed and trilled from the kitchen counter.
Hifumi, closest to it, glanced over with mild curiosity. “It’s Kanji-san,” she murmured, sliding it up and answering. “Hello?”
The line exploded with frantic babble. Kanji’s voice was jagged with panic: “It’s happening—too soon—damn it, the bags—someone call the—Naoto’s—ah, hell, the water broke—come quick—!” In the background came the sounds of movement, clattering, voices shouting instructions.
Hifumi froze, her eyes widening as the words pieced themselves together in her mind. Slowly, she pulled the phone from her ear and turned to the others, her voice low and steady despite the racing of her heart.
“Someone wake up Akira,” she said firmly, looking each of them in the eye. “Naoto-san is going into labour.”
The room fell into stunned silence. Then chairs scraped, hearts leapt, and the entire polycule erupted into motion.
The maternity wing waiting room was alive with a restless buzz—shoes tapping against the polished linoleum, vending machine cans hissing open, muffled nurses’ footsteps coming and going beyond the double doors. Their group had claimed almost an entire corner, the sheer number of them spilling across two benches and a cluster of chairs pulled together.
Kasumi’s gaze wandered over the pastel-painted walls, the stack of outdated magazines, the other anxious families hunched in silence. She leaned closer to Futaba, lowering her voice. “Can you imagine if it were one of us in there?”
Futaba hugged her knees against her chest, wide-eyed, a little pale under the fluorescent lights. “Y-Yeah…” she breathed, almost rattled by the thought. But then her sharp eyes flicked toward the opposite side of the room, where Akira was pacing like a caged panther—back and forth, fingers flexing at his sides, storm-grey eyes constantly darting to the delivery doors.
A sly grin spread across Futaba’s face. She tipped her head toward Kasumi, but pitched her whisper just loud enough to carry. “...Imagine if it were all of us at the same time.”
Kasumi nearly choked on her tea. “F-Futaba!” she squeaked, her face turning crimson.
Across the room, Akira stopped dead mid-step. His eyes snapped wide, his shoulders stiffened, and for a split second, every neuron in his brain seemed to short-circuit.
He turned to them slowly, like a man facing an executioner. His mouth opened—then closed again. He tried once more, but only a strangled sound came out. What followed was half-cough, half-choke, and maybe a prayer for death. The girls burst into muffled laughter, Ryuemi actually burying her face in her hands to stifle her cackle. Morgane leaned over, grinning wickedly. “Oh, Akira, you should see your face…”
Even Makoto, usually the calm one, was fighting a smirk behind her hand. Akira, meanwhile, just rubbed his temples, muttering something between a groan and a growl, as if willing his brain to reboot.
And at that exact moment, the delivery doors swung open, and a nurse called out brightly. “Family of Naoto Tatsumi-Shirogane?”
The laughter stopped in an instant. All eyes snapped to the nurse. The weight of the moment settled again—joy and nerves colliding in the pit of their stomachs as they turned to Kanji, who walked forward and followed the nurse through the swinging doors. The minutes stretched long, each one punctuated by the squeak of Akira’s pacing shoes and the soft chatter of the others trying to distract themselves.
Finally, ten minutes later, the doors pushed open again. Kanji stood there, looking… different. His broad frame seemed both heavier and lighter at once—like he was carrying the weight of the world, but his grin gave him away. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his voice cracked despite the gruffness.
“Aki…” he said, jerking his chin toward the corridor. “Naoto’s asking for you.”
Akira froze, chest tightening. He gave a shaky nod and followed Kanji quietly down the hall, every step echoing.
Inside the room, the world softened. Naoto lay propped up against the bed pillows, hair damp and clinging to her temples, her pale face glowing with exhaustion and something more radiant—something eternal. She looked up at the two men and gave them a tired, bright smile. Then her gaze fell to the small bundle in her arms, swaddled in pale blankets.
Kanji moved first, crossing the room to lean down and kiss his wife’s forehead, whispering something Akira couldn’t hear as he fussed over both mother and child. Akira, meanwhile, hesitated. His steps slowed as he drew closer, reverent, as if he were approaching a miracle.
Naoto tilted her head, her eyes kind. “Come meet your niece, Aki…”
Akira’s breath caught as he finally looked down. The tiny girl lay still and quiet, her tiny chest rising and falling, her features impossibly delicate. His lips trembled into a smile, and he felt tears well unbidden in his storm-grey eyes.
“She’s… perfect, Nao-nee…” he whispered.
Naoto’s smile softened even more, and she glanced at Kanji, who straightened and nodded firmly.
“We’d like you to name her, Akira.”
Akira’s head snapped up, eyes wide in shock. “M-Me?”
Naoto and Kanji both nodded again, serious. “We talked about it,” Naoto said gently. “And we both agree… you should be the one.”
The weight of their words sank into him, shaking him more than any battle, more than any Palace. His chest constricted, but in the best way—like his heart was too full to hold everything inside. He took a deep, trembling breath, then looked back down at the baby.
“Tsubasa…” he whispered at last. His hand hovered near her, almost afraid to touch. “May she soar to the greatest heights, free to explore and experience life on her own terms.”
Naoto’s eyes glistened as Kanji wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The baby stirred softly at the sound of her name, as if acknowledging the blessing.
The news spread quickly through the waiting room, and one by one, the family and friends filed into Naoto’s room. Ann came in with Shiho. Ann leaned over Naoto’s shoulder, her blond curls spilling forward as she cooed softly. “She’s gorgeous. Look at those little cheeks!” Shiho laughed quietly, brushing a finger against her lips as if restraining herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ann this close to tears over anything that wasn’t Akira.” Ann stuck out her tongue, but her eyes were suspiciously shiny as she carefully stroked the baby’s blanket.
Morgane slipped in next, Yukiko close behind. The two of them clasped hands as they approached the bed, grinning. “Oh my god, she’s so small…” Morgane whispered, crouching to get a better look. “Like a porcelain doll,” Yukiko breathed. The baby gave the tiniest yawn, and both girls gasped at once, squeezing each other’s hands like it was the most magical thing they’d ever seen.
Ryuemi entered next, guiding Futaba by the elbow. Futaba froze at the sight of the bundle, blinking rapidly. “She’s so tiny… I… I thought babies cried a lot?” “She will,” Ryuemi teased gently, leaning down to peer closer. “But not right now. Right now she’s perfect.” Futaba pressed her hands together, her expression flickering between overwhelmed and enchanted. “She’s like… level 100 adorableness… unbeatable stats already.”
Kasumi and Hifumi followed after. Kasumi clasped her hands beneath her chin, practically glowing. “She’s like… like holding the start of spring in your arms.” Hifumi nodded solemnly, leaning down just enough to glimpse the sleeping girl. “So fragile… and yet, infinite possibilities. Akira chose well.”
Makoto slipped in with Haru at her side. Makoto knelt first, her usually firm expression gentled into awe. “She’s… breathtaking. Naoto-san, congratulations.” Haru clasped her hands near her heart, tilting her head. “Her name means wings, doesn’t it? How fitting. She already looks like she could fly away into the stars.”
Lavenza and Ren were last of the Thieves. Lavenza padded forward silently, her steps deliberate, her expression softened by warmth that contrasted with her usual calmness. She bowed her head to Naoto. “The bonds of family are precious. This child carries with her the blessings of both her parents… and now her uncle, too. Treasure her well.”
“She’s so small…” Ren whispered, voice breaking. “So… pure. Untouched by the world’s lies. I…” Her hand hovered over Tsubasa’s little fist, then retreated slightly, unsure.
Naoto, smiling knowingly, tilted the baby just a little toward her. “She’s stronger than she looks. Go on.”
Ren hesitated — then gently, ever so carefully, brushed her fingertip against Tsubasa’s tiny hand. The baby curled her fingers around Ren’s with surprising strength. Ren gasped softly, her expression shifting into wonder. “...She chose me,” she whispered.
Kanji, still fussing proudly, grinned. “Heh. She’s got good instincts, latching onto you like that. Guess she knows family when she sees it.”
And then came the Inaba family. Yu was first, smiling gently, the quiet weight of his gaze somehow making the moment even more profound. “Congratulations,” he said simply, his voice thick. He lingered only a second, but the pride in his eyes spoke volumes.
Rise bounced in right after, barely restraining her excitement. “Ohhh my god, she’s adorable! Kanji, Naoto—you two made the cutest baby alive. Look at her tiny nose!” Her squeal made Kanji flush, but Naoto only laughed softly, indulgent.
Nanako came in next, shyly holding a little plush she’d picked out from the hospital gift shop. “Um… this is for her. So she has a friend right away.” She laid it gently at the edge of the bassinet. Naoto’s eyes grew misty, and Kanji had to sniff hard and look away.
Teddie popped in last, wearing his best attempt at “serious mode.” “So this is the little cub, huh? She’s un-bear-ably cute!” He dabbed at the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief. “I’ll be her coolest uncle-bear! Mark my words!”
Eventually, the nurse peeked in and gave Naoto a knowing look. She was pale with fatigue, but her smile lingered, the baby’s breathing steady against her chest.
One by one, everyone filed out, offering last congratulations, promises to visit tomorrow, and quiet goodbyes to the sleeping Tsubasa. Kanji remained at her side, fingers entwined with Naoto’s, the room finally peaceful again. Naoto sighed, resting her head back against the pillows. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?”
Kanji kissed her temple, voice soft and choked. “Yeah. Perfect.”
The clink of glasses and low hum of chatter filled the smoky bar, but at a table in the far corner, the atmosphere was very different. Six hooded figures sat in silence, the cheap neon light of a beer sign glinting off porcelain masks. Five of them were identical—smooth white, each marked with a single design on the left cheek: a crown etched above a zodiac sigil.
Taurus. Gemini. Scorpio. Aquarius. Pisces.
The sixth was different. Their mask was a deep, polished crimson, the same crown motif (minus the zodiac symbol) carved into its surface but sharper, more regal. A leader among conspirators.
Their voice carried low and steady, a whisper that nonetheless seemed to command the entire table.
Red Mask: “The time is now, my friends. The Siren will soon be on the move. All of our preparations lead to this moment.”
The five masked followers nodded slowly, their movements precise and disciplined, as though rehearsed.
Red Mask: “Watch from the shadows. Let no one hinder her path. And above all…” The masked head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing behind porcelain. “…do not allow the ones they call the Phantom Thieves to interfere.”
A murmur passed through the group, the white-masked figures exchanging subtle glances but never daring to speak.
Red Mask: “Remember your roles. Remember what is at stake. Soon… the world will hear her song.”
Glasses were raised silently, a ritual toast to something only they understood.
The office radiated prestige and polish, a shrine to music industry triumphs. Golden plaques gleamed under soft track lighting, commemorating million-selling records. Framed concert photographs dominated the far wall—each one capturing the same vibrant face at different stages of her career, smiling beneath stage lights, arms outstretched toward adoring fans.
The door opened.
Kyoka Ochimizu stepped inside with the measured grace of someone used to commanding rooms. Her black and white suit cut a sharp silhouette, the gold flower pin gleaming like a badge of office. A sleek phone was pressed to her ear, her voice low and cool. Her wavy black hair, streaked with white at the temple, framed a face that was striking in its poise.
Behind her came a younger woman, casually dressed but immediately recognizable. Kanami Mashita—once the bubbly lead of Kanamin’s Kitchen, now the idol-turned-soloist whose posters still plastered half of Tokyo. The pink streaks in her hair gave her a playful spark against the serene professionalism of her manager. She smiled politely as Kyoka, without breaking stride in her call, motioned her toward the plush sofa tucked into the corner of the office.
Kyoka paced slowly, listening. Her expression shifted once—brows tightening slightly, lips pressing together—but she said nothing until the unseen voice had finished. Then: “I suppose that will have to do...”
The weight of her tone hung in the room before she tapped the phone and set it face-down on the glass coffee table. With a soft exhale, she crossed to sit opposite Kanami, her gaze briefly drawn to the wall of photographs before locking back onto her client. “So… it looks like there’s been a change in plans.”
Kanami tilted her head, her fingers lightly tugging at one of the pink streaks in her hair, a tell that she was already bracing herself. “…What kind of change?”
Kyoka exhaled quietly, setting her phone aside as she rose from her chair and crossed the space to sit beside Kanami on the sofa. The shift in posture softened her presence, her voice gentler now. “A close friend of Rise-san has just had a baby. She’ll be delaying her start on the tour.”
Kanami’s shoulders slumped, disappointment flickering across her face before she caught herself. Rise wasn’t just a colleague—she was one of the very few people in the industry Kanami truly considered a friend. The thought of stepping onto those massive stages without her for the first stretch left her with a pang of loneliness.
Kyoka noticed. She always noticed. Her expression softened as she reached out, brushing a reassuring hand against Kanami’s arm. “She wanted me to tell you she’s very sorry… and that she’ll find a way to make it up to you.”
Kanami nodded faintly, lips pursing as she toyed with a lock of hair. “So… where does that leave us? Are we cancelling the tour?”
Kyoka shook her head firmly, the practiced decisiveness of a manager who’d anticipated that question. “No. Sasaki-san, Inoe-san, and I have arranged a new schedule. Your dates remain unchanged—three nights nights in each city: Sendai, Sapporo, Okinawa, Kyoto, Osaka, Nagoya.”
Kanami’s brow furrowed as she listened, but her manager continued smoothly. “Rise-san will join us for one co-headline in each city, then stay behind to perform her two solo shows while we move forward to the next stop. The only alteration will be at the very end—we’ll delay the Tokyo shows by a few days so all three can be co-headlines. You and Rise, together on stage.”
Kanami’s lips finally curved upward into a small but genuine smile. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. “So I’ll still get to share the stage with her… once in each city?”
Kyoka inclined her head with a faint smile of her own. “Exactly. A compromise, but one that still gives both of you the spotlight you deserve.”
Kanami exhaled, shoulders easing as her smile grew brighter. It wasn’t ideal—but it was something to hold onto.
Rise sat at the counter of Leblanc, her chin resting in her palm as she watched Akira move effortlessly through the cramped kitchen space. There was a rhythm to him now, a quiet confidence as he stirred curry and poured coffee with the kind of grace that came from hours of practice. She took another sip of her own cup, letting the rich flavor linger on her tongue. “You’ve gotten really good at this, fluffball… I’d say you’ve even surpassed Yu.”
Akira chuckled softly, setting down a plate for a waiting customer. “Careful. If Narukami-senpai hears you say that, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Before Rise could tease him further, the bell over the door chimed. In tumbled the rest of the Phantom Thieves, still chatting animatedly with each other as they crowded into the café. Their voices rose in greeting the moment they spotted her.
Ann: “Rise-chan! You’re here!”
Kasumi: “Good morning!”
Morgane: “Oh wow, how do you look this good so early?”
Futaba, however, marched straight up to Akira with all the dramatics of a commander demanding tribute. “Pucker up, lover boy. I demand compensation in kisses for making me come here at this ungodly hour.”
Akira laughed, leaning down obediently so she could plant a kiss on him. “Blame Ri-Ri… she’s the one who wanted you here.”
The words left his mouth before he realized how they sounded. Three pairs of eyes—Ann, Ren, and Haru—narrowed at him instantly. He froze, throat bobbing. “N-not to say I didn’t want you here too…”
A few chuckles broke out among the girls as he tried to recover, but they let him off the hook with affectionate eye-rolls. One by one, he handed out their coffees and pastries, kissing each girlfriend in turn—something that had become natural for him by now, if not always smooth.
Soon, the group settled into their usual chatter, squeezing around the tables in the cozy café. Rise looked at them fondly—this warm chaos of a family that Akira had built for himself. It suited him so well.
Once the laughter and sipping had quieted down a little, Makoto leaned forward, her sharp eyes soft but focused. “So… Rise-san. Why did you want to see us? Is everything okay?”
Rise set down her cup, the smile never leaving her lips, but her tone shifting just slightly—still light, but tinged with seriousness. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. But… there is something important I wanted to ask you all about.”
Rise took a slow breath, brushing a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear as she looked at the group gathered around the table. “So… you probably know that I’m about to start my co-headline tour with Kanamin.”
She didn’t even get to finish before Ann practically bounced in her seat. “I know! I already bought tickets for the Tokyo shows!”
Kasumi nodded eagerly, pulling up her phone like she was about to show proof of purchase. “Same here—I didn’t even hesitate!”
Futaba leaned halfway across the table, her grin sharp. “Day one pre-order, baby. Front row, no less.”
Even Haru, normally more reserved, giggled softly into her coffee cup. “It’s true. We’ve all been looking forward to it for weeks now.”
Rise’s smile softened into something warmer, touched. “You guys…” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then sighed. “Thing is, there’s a slight complication. I was supposed to hit the road with Kanami right away, but after Naoto had her baby I couldn’t just leave. Which means… well, Kasumi and I were supposed to be sharing road crew. And now, with me starting late, I’m kind of… in a bind.”
Akira, already sensing where this was going, leaned on the counter with a smirk. “Let me guess… you want us to be your road crew?”
Rise gave him a sheepish little grin and nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble! I’ll make sure you’re all properly compensated, I promise. But it would mean being on the road for about a month…”
He glanced at his girlfriends. No hesitation—every one of them looked thrilled at the idea. Futaba was practically vibrating in her seat, Ann and Ren already clasping hands in excitement, Kasumi’s eyes sparkling, Haru trying to suppress a very unladylike squeal.
Akira shrugged, grinning at Rise. “I mean, sure. Sounds like an adventure to me.”
The café erupted with squeals, laughter, and clapping. Rise covered her mouth with both hands, eyes shining. “Really? You’ll do it? That’s—That’s amazing!” She hurried to her bag, pulling out a neatly folded itinerary and handing it to Akira. “Here—this is the schedule. I’ll talk to Inoe-san about arranging a bus for you guys.”
She stood and gave them all a little bow, beaming. “Seriously, thank you all so much. You have no idea how much this helps.”
Futaba was already chanting, “Road trip! Road trip! Road trip!” until even Akira was laughing.
The bell over the café door jingled as Rise departed, still buzzing with gratitude and excitement. For a few beats, the Thieves sat in silence, the handwritten itinerary on the counter between them like it was some kind of treasure map.
Futaba couldn’t resist. She snatched it up and unfolded it with a dramatic flourish. “Alright, fellow roadies, let’s see what adventures await!” Her eyes skimmed the sheet, and she immediately opened her laptop with a quick clack of keys. “Sendai, Sapporo, Okinawa, Kyoto, Osaka, Nagoya, and finally back to Tokyo… We’re basically gonna see half of Japan in a month!”
Ann leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “Oh my god, Kyoto! I haven’t been since middle school—shopping, temples, tea houses… we’re so going.”
Kasumi clapped her hands together. “And Okinawa! Beaches! We’ll get to swim together!”
That set Futaba off, her typing growing even more frantic as she pulled up maps, restaurants, and “Top Ten Hidden Gems” lists for each city. “Okay, okay—listen to this. In Sendai, there’s this cat island just a ferry ride away. Must-visit. In Sapporo? Snow crab ramen, baby. Kyoto has hidden shrines tourists usually skip. Osaka’s street food scene is legendary. Nagoya has this wild science museum with a planetarium the size of—” She flung her hands wide. “The freakin’ sky!”
The chatter built into overlapping squeals, plans, and daydreams until Makoto cleared her throat gently, tapping the counter with her knuckles. “All of this sounds wonderful. But before we get ahead of ourselves, we’ll need to work out a driving rotation.”
That brought the table to a hush, followed by a collective turn toward Akira, who sighed and raised a brow. “You’re all looking at me like I’m already the default chauffeur.”
“You are,” Morgane teased with a grin, flipping her ponytail.
Makoto pulled the itinerary closer. “Kasumi, Morgane, Futaba, and Lavenza are automatically out since they don’t have licenses.”
“Hey!” Lavenza’s indignant little pout was immediate, her arms crossing. “I usually drive the Velvet Express, you know.”
That earned a round of chuckles. Yukiko, who’d been quiet until now, wrapped an arm around the little blonde and pulled her gently into her lap. “There, there. It’s not quite the same thing.”
Lavenza grumbled into Yukiko’s shoulder, though her blush betrayed how much she secretly liked the comfort.
“I can help!” Haru chimed brightly, raising her hand like an eager student. “I just got my license recently.”
There was a beat of silence, then both Hifumi and Makoto paled in unison.
Hifumi: “…That’s very kind, babe, but perhaps…”
Makoto: “…you might be better suited to other duties. Like… snacks. And cooking.”
Ann bit her lip to stifle a laugh as Haru blinked, her smile faltering for only a second before she nodded graciously. “I see. Well… I do enjoy snacks. And cooking.”
Futaba snickered. “Translation: they don’t wanna die on the highway.”
Akira snorted into his coffee while Haru huffed softly, puffing out her cheeks in mock offense.
The conversation picked back up once Haru accepted her “snack captain” role with a dignified nod. Makoto took control again, jotting down names on the back of the itinerary.
“Alright. For driving duty: Akira, myself, Ren, Ryuemi, and Shiho. Ann and Hifumi, you’ll be our backup drivers in case of emergencies.”
Ann perked up. “Finally, something glamorous! Back-up wheel goddess at your service.”
Shiho smirked. “You mean backup chauffeur.”
Ryuemi flexed one arm with a playful grin. “Don’t worry, I got the stamina for long hauls. Count on me.”
“Good,” Makoto said firmly, underlining their names. “We’ll rotate every four to five hours so no one burns out. Safety first.”
With that settled, Futaba spun her laptop around to show them a growing document she’d already titled “PhanTour 20XX: Must-See & Must-Eat.” The list was almost comically long.
“Okay! So far we’ve got: Cat Island in Sendai, ramen alley in Sapporo, Kyoto tea ceremony, Osaka street food crawl, Nagoya science museum, Okinawa beach day, and, oh! A haunted inn in Kyoto that everyone says is cursed. We’re definitely staying there one night.”
Kasumi squeaked. “H-haunted?!”
“Yes!” Futaba grinned wickedly. “Ghosts are romantic.”
“Only for you,” Morgane muttered, rolling her eyes.
Ren, meanwhile, scribbled her own note: ‘Kyoto dessert tour’. Ann leaned over and circled it enthusiastically. “Yes, sweets are non-negotiable.”
Yukiko smiled softly, writing ‘art museums’ and ‘local craft shops’. Shiho added ‘record shop visits’, while Haru chimed in with ‘farmers’ markets’. Hifumi wrote neatly: ‘local board game shops’.
By the time they were done, the single itinerary sheet was covered in scribbles, doodles, and arrows pointing everywhere.
Ann leaned back, stretching her arms over her head. “Okay, but before any of this happens, we need a full day for shopping and packing. Outfits, cosmetics, swimsuits, accessories… It’s essential.”
All the girls nodded in unison, murmuring agreement.
Akira blinked, then shrugged. “I mean… I’ve got everything I need. Packing’ll take me thirty minutes, tops.”
The café fell utterly silent. Then, twelve pairs of eyes turned on him in unison, narrowing with the exact same expression of judgment.
“…What?” Akira asked warily.
“You,” Ann said flatly, pointing at him like a prosecutor. “Are not getting away with that. Thirty minutes? For a month-long tour?”
“Boys are so weird,” Futaba groaned dramatically, flopping onto the counter.
Haru shook her head in mock despair. “Akira-kun, we’re going to fix this.”
Yukiko sighed, though her smile betrayed her amusement. “You’ll thank us later.”
Akira put his hands up in surrender, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Guess I walked right into that one…”
The girls broke into laughter, already arguing over who got to pick out his “tour wardrobe,” while Akira leaned against the counter with the air of a man resigned to his fate.
The next morning, Shibuya was alive with the hum of chatter, neon signs, and summer energy. Right in the middle of it all, the Phantom Thieves were in their own storm of activity — though Akira would’ve called it something closer to a trap.
Ann, Ren, Haru, Morgane, and Yukiko had seized the day with frightening precision. Each had their own list of shops to hit, and together they formed an unstoppable unit of fashion-forward enthusiasm. The rest of the group? Dragged mercilessly in their wake.
Akira had tried, multiple times, to slink away down an alley or blend into the crowd, but each attempt ended the same. Sometimes Ann hooked her arm through his, sometimes Ren slid up behind him to whisper “nice try, dummy,” and sometimes Morgane simply appeared in front of him with her hands on her hips and a glare sharp enough to stop a Shadow in its tracks.
“You’re not ditching us,” she declared. “Now hold still, this will look amazing on you.”
Within an hour, the group had devolved into a system: girls piled clothes into Akira’s arms, shoved him into a changing booth, and then formed a semicircle to pass judgment once he emerged. Sometimes they clapped, sometimes they “tsk’ed,” and sometimes—like when Morgane picked out a sleeveless vest that hugged him just right—they all went utterly silent before exploding into squeals.
“W-wait, turn around again!” Haru chirped, covering her cheeks as they turned pink.
Yukiko fanned herself with the price tag. “This is… yes. Absolutely yes.”
Akira groaned, but inside his mind, Satanael’s low chuckle echoed. “Paraded like a prize stallion, carrying the burdens of twelve women—your soul is tested in ways the Velvet Room could never have foreseen. Endure, Trickster. Endure.”
Akira muttered under his breath, “You’re not the one carrying the bags.”
By noon, Akira was staggering under enough bags to supply a small boutique. Shirts, jackets, dresses, accessories — every store they entered added more to his growing burden. He muttered something about feeling like a Sherpa on a mountain climb.
“You could always summon me, Harbinger,” Satanael rumbled inside his mind, voice dripping with mirth. “I have carried heavier burdens than shopping bags.”
Akira smirked faintly as he discreetly let a trickle of Persona power bolster his strength, adjusting the mountain of bags without breaking stride. “Somehow, I think you’re enjoying this too much.”
“Beyond words,” Satanael chuckled. “It is a delight to serve our queens, is it not?”
The only reprieve Akira got all day was when the girls suddenly turned on him outside a swimwear shop.
“You wait here,” Ann ordered.
“Excuse me?” he asked, raising a brow.
“No boys allowed.” Futaba wagged a finger. “This is classified material.”
“We’ll surprise you in Okinawa,” Haru added sweetly, steering him away from the entrance.
Ren grinned mischievously. “You’ll thank us later.”
Before Akira could protest, they had already vanished inside with the others. The doors swung shut, leaving him outside on the bench, surrounded by shopping bags like some beleaguered pack animal.
He sighed, leaning back with a faint, rueful smile. “I’m going to regret this trip, aren’t I?”
“No,” Satanael replied, amusement dripping from every syllable. “You are going to regret not having a second set of arms.”
When the girls emerged some time later, flushed and laughing with secretive smiles, Akira knew better than to ask. Judging by the way Morgane smirked at him, and the way Ann winked, whatever they’d chosen was going to destroy him in Okinawa. And if he was being totally honest, he was already counting the days.
Twenty minutes after they got home, it was already pure bedlam.
Akira stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, storm-grey eyes darting around at the whirlwind of women that was his polycule. Bags, clothes, makeup kits, snacks, books, chargers, and inexplicable piles of… things… were everywhere. He wasn’t sure if they were packing for a month-long tour, a war, or possibly the end of civilization. “You do realize we’re only gone for a month, right?” he asked, watching Ann, Ren, and Haru argue over which hairdryers counted as “essential.”
Ren rolled her eyes, tossing a lacy camisole into her bag with a smirk. “Some of us like looking good, Aki.”
Ann leaned in, brushing a kiss against Akira’s jaw as she patted his cheek. “And you’ll thank us when the photos are developed.”
Before he could reply, Futaba popped up beside him like a gremlin, clutching an armful of tangled cords and at least three game consoles. “A month. On the road. You think I can survive without my full set-up? Amateur.” She grinned impishly before standing on tiptoes and planting a quick kiss on his lips, then scampering away with her loot.
Kasumi followed close behind, carrying what looked suspiciously like a replica of a Bayonetta costume and wig. She gave him a sweet smile as she passed, brushing her fingers over his arm. “It’s not just cosplay… it’s also practice material. Besides, don’t you like me in character?” she teased, leaning close enough to murmur in his ear before darting off, cheeks pink.
Makoto, meanwhile, was trying to restore order. “All right, everyone—keep outfits to reasonable quantities, rotate electronics if we need to, and remember that the bus isn’t infinite storage space—” She was interrupted when Ryuemi came up behind her and looped an arm around her waist, stealing a slow kiss on her cheek. “’Koto, you’re so cute when you go all bossy. Wanna help me pack my running gear?” Makoto flushed but didn’t exactly say no.
In the corner, Yukiko was struggling to fit all her sketchbooks into a single bag. Morgane leaned over her shoulder, wrapping arms around her waist from behind. “Just bring two. You’ll end up drawing me most of the time anyway,” she whispered before pulling Yukiko into a kiss that left them both laughing breathlessly.
Akira scrubbed a hand down his face, only to yelp when Hifumi slid up beside him with a mischievous smile. “I only packed the essentials,” she said innocently—though the ‘essentials’ apparently included a small suitcase full of shoes and a whole stack of boardgames. She kissed him lightly on the lips, then smirked. “Though if you’d prefer I leave the boardgames behind, I can always… improvise with you instead.”
“Spicier every day, you guys,” Akira muttered, half exasperated, half flustered.
“Don’t act so shocked, darling.” Haru chimed in, brushing past him with a tray of snacks she’d whipped up in the middle of packing. She leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then casually fed a piece of candied fruit to Ren, who was sprawled across the sofa. The two of them exchanged a look that promised plenty of mischief.
Lavenza, determined not to be left out, sat primly on the armrest of Akira’s chair before pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “I will travel lightly, Akira,” she assured him with a serene smile—though moments later she produced a surprisingly large stack of books from seemingly nowhere. Akira groaned.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the living room looked like a festival of open suitcases, half-zipped bags, scattered snacks, and a trail of clothes no one claimed ownership of. The girls, however, looked radiant—laughing, teasing, stealing kisses from each other or from Akira at every opportunity.
Akira, still perched on the edge of the sofa with his lone suitcase, shook his head slowly. “Twelve girlfriends, one month, one bus,” he muttered under his breath. “This can only end in disaster.”
Shiho’s voice called out from the other room: “I heard that! And you love it, don’t even pretend otherwise!”
Akira sighed, but a smile tugged at his lips. Yeah. He really did.
By some miracle (and the sheer willpower of twelve determined women), the chaos finally burned itself out. Suitcases were zipped, neatly stacked in the spare corner of the living room, and the battlefield of clothes, books, and electronics had been cleared away.
The girls collapsed one by one onto the sofas, cushions, and even the floor, groaning and laughing in equal measure. Morgane flopped dramatically across Yukiko’s lap, declaring she was “done with existence.” Futaba was curled in a ball with her phone, declaring victory for “Team Gremlin” after packing an entire portable streaming setup. Ann was fanning herself with an empty shopping bag, sighing about how exhausting it was to be fabulous.
Akira sat cross-legged on the carpet, looking suspiciously chipper now despite having been used as a pack mule all day. His storm-grey eyes gleamed as he surveyed the exhausted polycule with the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“What?” Ren asked, narrowing her eyes. “Why do you look like you’ve just pulled off a Palace infiltration?”
Akira stretched lazily, then leaned back on his hands. “Because I have. My master plan worked perfectly.”
“…Master plan?” Makoto’s voice carried that dangerous edge that made the others perk up, sensing incoming chaos.
Akira tilted his head, letting the silence drag for maximum effect before dropping the bomb. “We don’t leave for another two days.”
The room went dead quiet.
Then—
“WHAT?!”
The explosion of voices nearly shook the windows. Futaba dropped her phone. Ann sat bolt upright, staring at him like he’d sprouted horns. Haru clapped a hand over her mouth, caught between scandalized shock and uncontrollable laughter.
“You—you tricked us?” Hifumi’s voice was disbelieving, her usual calm shattered.
“Yep.” Akira’s grin widened. “If I hadn’t, half of you would still be frantically trying to pack the morning of. This way, everything’s ready, no last-minute panic, no forgotten essentials. Two days early, right on schedule.”
“YOU EVIL NOODLE!” Futaba shouted, then promptly tackled him in mock outrage, pounding weakly at his chest while laughing. “You made me stress-pack like my life depended on it!”
Ann joined in, swatting him with a throw pillow. “You could’ve told us, you jerk!”
But even as they ranted, Akira could see it—the grudging admiration, the amusement beneath the mock fury. Lavenza, of all people, was the first to betray herself, pressing her fingers to her lips and giggling. “An elegant stratagem, befitting of the Trickster. We never saw it coming.”
Ren sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, but there was a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Sometimes I forget you really do deserve that ‘master thief’ title.”
But it was Haru who summed up the mood best—soft chuckles bubbling out as she clasped her hands in front of her. “I suppose this is why he’s our leader. Always thinking ahead.”
The room dissolved into equal parts groans and laughter, pillows flying at Akira from every direction. He just stood there, ducking and weaving with that maddening grin, Satanael’s smug chuckle echoing in the back of his mind.
Eventually, the storm of thrown pillows subsided. The girls slumped back into cushions and couches, giggling and groaning in equal measure. Akira, still grinning like the smug trickster he was, reached into his bag and pulled out a neatly folded sheaf of papers.
“Alright, alright. Jokes aside—here’s the real itinerary.”
Makoto instantly sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Why am I not surprised you even came up with a fake one in the first place?” She sighed, reaching into her own bag and pulling out her ever-present notebook. “Fine. Let’s go over it properly.”
“Tokyo → Okinawa → Kyoto → Osaka → Nagoya → Sendai → Sapporo → back to Tokyo…” she read aloud, her brows already knitting into ‘serious planner mode.’ “Let’s review driving times, rest stops, and possible sightseeing locations on the way.”
The others leaned in as Akira crouched beside her, pointing out a few highlights. “I spoke to Rise earlier—she’ll have the RV delivered to us tomorrow morning. And,” he added, unable to keep the sly note out of his voice, “I already pre-booked the ferry tickets between Kagoshima and Okinawa.”
“Efficient as always,” Yukiko said warmly, while Futaba was already typing notes into her laptop.
But Shiho, who had been double-checking the dates, suddenly frowned. “…‘Kira, why are we starting the trip a day early? The ferry crossing only takes a day. According to this schedule, we’d get to Okinawa before Rise-san and her group.”
The room quieted. All eyes turned to Akira, who leaned back on his heels, storm-grey eyes gleaming with just the faintest edge of mischief. “…Because,” he said slowly, “I thought a full day at the beach without any distractions would be fun.”
There was a beat of silence—then chaos again. Ann let out a squeal and practically launched across the couch. “Oh my god, you planned a secret beach day just for us?!”
Ren covered her mouth, cheeks pink but eyes sparkling. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”
Morgane groaned, though the tips of her ears burned red. “You’re impossible.”
Futaba nearly tackled him, planting a noisy kiss on his cheek. “You absolute genius! I take back every bad thing I said about your evil plans!”
Akira just shrugged, playing it cool despite the warmth rising to his ears as twelve pairs of eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and affection. “What can I say? Thought you all deserved it.”
Makoto pinched the bridge of her nose, though there was no hiding the faint curve of her lips. “...Fine. I’ll allow it. But only because it’s actually a sound idea.”
Akira leaned back into the cushions, smug and content as the chatter broke out all over again. Satanael’s laughter rumbled deep inside his mind, pleased as ever with his Harbinger’s endless schemes.
Notes:
I never realised this until researching for this chapter, but the route the Thieves take in Strikers actually makes very little sense geographically. That's why I altered it a little so that we have a south-to-north loop that cuts out a most of the back-tracking.
Chapter 37: Phantoms Hit the Road
Summary:
The start of the Phantom Roadtrip
Usual level of shenanigans with some hints of what's to come**Shout out to PA2 for their invaluable contributions in shaping the upcoming arc :) **
Chapter Text
The morning of their departure dawned bright and warm, the hum of cicadas accompanying the steady rumble of a massive vehicle pulling up outside their new home. The Phantom Thieves spilled out onto the front steps in varying states of wakefulness, blinking in disbelief as a gleaming silver-and-red giant rolled to a stop at the curb. It was less an RV and more a luxury liner on wheels—forty-five feet of sleek, customized tour bus, wide enough to feel like a small apartment and tall enough to make Futaba declare, “It’s thicc!” before anyone else could comment. The exterior gleamed with bold streaks of red and silver, the flanks emblazoned with promotional artwork for Rise and Kanami’s tour.
The delivery driver handed Akira the keys, muttered a polite farewell, and left them alone with their new temporary home. For a moment, there was silence as the girls took it in… then the squeals began.
“Eeeee—this is so cool!” Ann was already bouncing on her toes.
Ren darted inside first, quickly followed by Kasumi and Morgane, their voices echoing back down the steps as they gasped over each new feature. Haru clasped her hands together in sheer delight, while Yukiko laughed softly at Futaba’s near-religious reverence for the rows of electrical outlets and high-speed internet hookup. The interior was every bit as impressive as the outside promised: a roomy cockpit with wide leather seats, neatly arranged double bunks down one side of the hall, and not one but three full bathrooms—something that immediately had Morgane muttering a heartfelt “thank God” under her breath. Toward the back, a spacious rec room was lined with plush sofas, a wall-mounted TV, and enough empty shelves for books, games, and art supplies. The kitchenette gleamed with well-stocked cabinets and a fridge already filled courtesy of Rise’s advance planning.
While the others darted from one section to the next, laughing and calling dibs on bunks, Akira methodically began loading their carefully stacked suitcases into the undercarriage storage. He worked with quiet focus, occasionally smirking at the sounds of chaos and discovery inside. By the time he stepped back into the bus, brushing his hands on his jeans, the girls were gathered around the kitchenette table, chatter spilling everywhere. A quick breakfast later—mostly pastries and fruit grabbed in their excitement—Akira finally slipped into the driver’s seat, adjusting mirrors and testing the wheel with practiced ease.
Makoto was already there beside him, seatbelt clicked, notebook in her lap. She tapped the map app on her tablet and looked over. “So, it’ll take us about seven hours to get to Himeji. Just in time for an early dinner.”
Akira’s lips curved into a grin as he started the engine. “Perfect. We can stretch our legs, have a walk around the castle before bed.”
That earned another round of delighted cheers from behind them, the voices of twelve girlfriends blending into one joyful chorus as the great silver bus rumbled to life, ready to carry them into the first leg of their summer adventure.
The big silver-and-red bus rumbled out of Tokyo just after breakfast, its engine humming steadily beneath them. The first hour was a blur of skyscrapers thinning into suburbs, then suburbs giving way to long stretches of countryside. The farther they got from the city, the more the scenery opened up—green rice fields shimmering under the sun, distant hills rolling into view, clusters of old farmhouses tucked along winding streams.
Inside, though, the Thieves made enough noise to drown out the countryside.
“Shotgun is mine tomorrow, don’t even try it!” Futaba announced from the rec space, sprawled upside down on the sofa with her tablet balanced above her face. “Makoto hogging the front row like a boss lady isn’t fair.”
Makoto didn’t look up from her tablet. “I’m literally navigating, Futaba.”
“Uh-huh, excuses~.” Futaba smirked.
“That’s it, no snacks for you.”
“Treason!”
The back half of the bus erupted in laughter.
Ann and Ren had somehow commandeered the sound system, flipping through playlists until they settled on bright, poppy road-trip songs. Kasumi clapped along, while Ryuemi tried to coax Morgane into singing harmony. Morgane scowled, turned her face toward the window… then muttered a soft, tuneful line that made everyone pause and grin.
“Caught you,” Ann teased, nudging her.
Meanwhile, Haru had turned one of the countertops into a tea station. She carefully poured cups for Yukiko and Hifumi, who were seated opposite each other with a deck of cards between them. Hifumi was teaching Yukiko a variation on speed, her voice patient, her laugh lilting when the artist groaned at yet another loss.
Shiho, who had claimed the bunk closest to the rec area, leaned against the wall flipping through a magazine until Akira wandered back during a pit stop. She gave him a sly smile, tugging him down beside her to point out swimsuit spreads and whispering, “You’re in so much trouble when you see ours.”
“Should I be worried?” he deadpanned.
“Yes,” three different voices chorused from across the bus.
By the third hour, the energy had shifted into cozy chaos. The girls rotated between naps and chatter—Kasumi curled up like a cat with her head on Ann’s shoulder, while Yukiko eventually dozed off in Haru’s lap. Futaba stretched across the floor with her laptop plugged into the nearest outlet, giving live updates on upcoming rest stops, “important” roadside attractions, and the best places to detour for melon bread.
The scenery outside changed with them—past Nagoya, low green hills replaced flat stretches of farmland, and by mid-afternoon, the bus climbed through gentle ridges thick with trees. At one point, Makoto pointed out Himeji Castle in the distance, its white walls glinting against the blue sky, drawing a chorus of oohs and ahhs.
When evening began to settle, Ann stirred awake from her bunk, blonde hair mussed from her nap. She stretched, yawned, then propped herself up with a mischievous grin. “Okay, important question… what are we having for dinner?”
That single question lit a fire.
Within seconds, the bus was alive with overlapping voices. Ryuemi was already championing ramen, Kasumi meekly suggested seafood before Futaba cut in with a dramatic “Pizza or bust!” Hifumi raised the possibility of a traditional set meal, which immediately sparked Morgane to grumble about wanting something “less fussy.” Haru chimed in sweetly for curry, only for Ann to wave her arms. “Nooo, I want something greasy—like karaage or burgers!”
“Ugh, Ann,” Makoto groaned, “we’re in Himeji. At least try something local.”
“Yeah,” Yukiko added, perking up, “Himeji oden is famous. We have to try it.”
“Counterpoint,” Futaba said, lifting a finger like a professor. “There’s a place three blocks from the castle that serves parfaits the size of my head.”
That set off another volley of bickering and laughter—half the group demanding something savory, the other half already picturing dessert, with Akira rolling his eyes good-naturedly from the driver’s seat as Makoto tried in vain to mediate.
By the time the bus finally rolled into Himeji, the air inside was warm with laughter, stomachs growling, and the kind of noisy chaos that only came from twelve women trying to decide where to eat.
Dinner turned into yet another example of Akira’s uncanny ability to herd chaos into harmony. The moment they stepped into a bustling izakaya near the castle, the arguments started again—Ann already pointing at fried karaage on the menu, Yukiko insisting they order oden, Futaba chanting “Par-fait! Par-fait!” under her breath. Instead of letting it spiral, Akira calmly asked the waiter for an assortment of small plates—grilled skewers, karaage, local Himeji oden, bowls of udon, even a stack of burgers from the bar menu—and declared, “We’ll just do it family style.”
The grumbles dissolved instantly into laughter. Soon the table was crowded with platters, chopsticks darting between dishes as everyone sampled everything. Ann clapped her hands when the karaage arrived, Hifumi quietly savored a perfectly soft oden egg, and Haru happily declared the curry croquettes “almost as good as Leblanc’s.” Futaba, cheeks puffed out with a skewer of grilled chicken, raised her drink dramatically. “To our first night on tour!” The toast echoed around the table, warm and bright.
By the time they rolled out of the izakaya, bellies full and spirits high, the summer night had settled comfortably around Himeji. The castle loomed ahead, glowing softly beneath its evening illuminations, its white walls almost ethereal against the darkening sky.
Naturally, they broke into little groups as they wandered the grounds. Futaba latched onto Kasumi, pointing out little details of the castle’s architecture she’d pulled from a late-night wiki dive. Yukiko and Morgane strolled hand-in-hand toward the gardens, the former enthusing about the way the moonlight made the grounds look like a living painting. Makoto, Haru, and Hifumi fell into easy conversation about travel logistics, while Shiho looped an arm around Ryuemi, laughing at one of her terrible puns.
Akira, as always, found himself drifting from group to group without effort. One moment he was teasing Haru about how much oden she had stolen earlier, the next he was letting Yukiko tug him over to admire the lotus pond. Each girl pulled him into her orbit in small, natural ways, and he gave himself freely to all of them, moving through the evening like a quiet anchor among stars.
Ann and Ren found themselves tucked on a bench near the moat, an enormous parfait between them, piled high with ice cream, fruit, and wafers. They kept trading bites, laughing when whipped cream ended up smeared on Ren’s nose. “Futaba wasn’t kidding,” Ann chuckled between spoonfuls, “this thing is the size of our heads.” Akira passed by just in time to catch them both with whipped cream on their noses, shaking his head fondly as Ann tried to lick hers off while Ren burst out laughing.
By the time the night wound down, the Thieves had seen the castle from every angle, eaten their fill (again), and shared a hundred tiny moments between them. The castle lights dimmed, but the glow of their laughter lingered as they headed back to the RV—full, content, and already eager for the next day’s adventure.
By the time they made their way back to the RV, everyone was yawning and stretching, pleasantly full and happy from the evening. Ryuemi was the first to flop dramatically onto one of the lower bunks, arms spread wide like she was claiming territory. “Mine!” she declared, only to yelp as Shiho poked her in the ribs and climbed onto the mattress beside her.
It didn’t take long for the “bunk wars” to begin. Futaba instantly claimed the top bunk over Kasumi, citing “prime surveillance advantage,” while Morgane declared she needed to be next to Yukiko or she’d never sleep. Hifumi politely asked if she could bunk near a window “for a clearer mind,” only for Ren to sass, “Yeah, right, we all know you just want good lighting for your morning selfies.”
Then came the real argument: who got Akira.
“Obviously he’s with me,” Ann said, crossing her arms.
“Excuse you?” Ren raised a brow. “I think—”
Makoto cleared her throat. “Actually, I think it would be most logical for him to—”
Within minutes, the entire rec space had devolved into a chorus of “he should bunk with me” and “no, with me!” Akira, meanwhile, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching with thinly veiled amusement. Finally, he raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Alright, alright. Since no one can agree,” he said with a smirk, “I’ll make it simple. I’ll sleep in the rec room tonight.”
A chorus of groans and pouts met his declaration. “Unfair!” Ann huffed, stamping her foot. “You can’t just escape like that!”
“Fine,” Futaba said, narrowing her eyes mischievously. “If you’re going to cheat us all out of a cuddle partner, then at least… compensation.”
“Compensation?” Akira asked warily.
She grinned. “Special goodnight kiss.”
The words seemed to strike a chord, because suddenly all twelve of the girls were crowding him at once. One after another, they leaned in—soft lips brushing his, slow and lingering, until the whole thing devolved into giggles, whispered teases, and then an all-out impromptu make-out session right there in the rec room. Hands tangled in hair, arms circled waists, stolen kisses crisscrossed between them all, a chaotic swirl of affection and warmth.
By the time they finally pulled apart, hair was mussed, lipstick smudged, and Akira was half-dazed, half-smug, grinning like the cat who’d caught twelve canaries.
One by one, the girls paired off and slipped away toward their bunks—Ann tugging Hifumi by the hand, Morgane leaning into Yukiko’s side, Futaba clambering up to the top bunk behind Kasumi while whispering something that made the gymnast squeak. Shiho and Ryuemi claimed a lower bunk together, while Makoto and Haru lingered in the kitchenette, their laughter soft as they disappeared behind the curtain. Lavenza paired up with Ren, both of them sharing a secret smile. Akira stretched out on the plush sofa of the rec room, still buzzing from the kisses, pulling a blanket over himself. The RV lights dimmed, replaced by the low hum of the engine and the quiet shuffle of bodies settling in. Then it started—soft pants, muffled sighs, the occasional moan slipping from behind curtains and bunks.
Akira closed his eyes, a wide grin spreading across his face as he let the sounds of his ridiculous, wonderful family lull him to sleep.
The smell of sizzling eggs and buttered toast wafted through the RV long before anyone stirred. Akira stood in the kitchenette, spatula in hand, working the frying pan with the kind of quiet focus that had carried him through Palace kitchens and Leblanc’s counter alike. The soft hum of the engine was the only other sound—until the first groggy footsteps padded down the aisle.
Futaba emerged first, drowning in an oversized T-shirt that barely reached mid-thigh, her hair sticking up in wild tufts. She squinted at Akira, then perked up instantly when she saw the stack of pancakes he was piling onto a plate.
“You’re a lifesaver, babe,” she mumbled, slumping into the booth.
“Sleep well?” Akira asked, voice smooth and knowing.
Futaba choked on her orange juice as Ann staggered out next, yawning, her silk camisole askew on one shoulder. She caught Akira’s smirk and rolled her eyes.
“Oh, don’t give me that look. You had your chance, lover boy. You blew it.” She winked, sliding into the seat beside Futaba and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
That was enough to draw more movement—Shiho and Ryuemi shuffled out, both looking flushed and distinctly “wobbly,” earning a cheeky raised brow from Akira. Kasumi, pink-faced and fiddling nervously with her braid, trailed after them. Morgane and Yukiko came arm-in-arm, giggling over some private joke, while Haru appeared serene as ever, though she did pause to adjust her nightgown with a sheepish smile when Akira caught her eye.
“Had fun last night?” he asked lightly, setting down another plate. The chorus of blushes, glares, and embarrassed coughs he got in return made him grin.
Then came the dagger. Lavenza, neat as ever despite her rumpled pajamas, slid into the booth with her teacup and said, perfectly serious:
“My night with Ren was… educational.”
For a heartbeat, silence hung over the table. Then chaos. Ann spat her coffee. Futaba wheezed. Makoto buried her face in her hands. Ren herself nearly fell off the bench laughing, cheeks blazing red. Even Akira doubled over the counter, trying and failing to contain his snort.
Breakfast became a blur of chatter and teasing after that—plates of pancakes, eggs, curry bread, and bowls of fruit passed around as the RV filled with laughter. When the last dishes were cleared and everyone had changed into day clothes, Akira slid back into the driver’s seat with a satisfied sigh. Makoto settled in beside him, map and notes at the ready.
“Alright,” she said, tapping the page. “It’s about a ten-hour drive down to Kagoshima, give or take stops. We’ll board the ferry for Okinawa tomorrow morning.”
Akira adjusted the mirrors, glanced back at the girls sprawled in the bunks and lounge with their books, games, and chatter, then started the engine. “Let’s make it a good one.”
The RV rolled back onto the highway, the skyline giving way to open countryside, the road stretching ahead toward the sea.
The road to Kagoshima stretched long and lazy, sunlight spilling across the RV’s wide windshield as the Thieves settled into another day of travel. The drive took eight, almost nine hours in total, winding south past rolling green hills, wide plains, and glimpses of the glittering coastline. Inside, the atmosphere was cozy chaos — Futaba sprawled across the rec room couch, Switch in hand while Kasumi leaned over her shoulder giving increasingly loud “suggestions,” Ann and Hifumi flipping through fashion magazines and pointing out styles they wanted to try, Morgane sketching quick caricatures of everyone only to have Yukiko peer over and add delicate brushstrokes to “improve” them.
In the kitchenette, Haru kept busy with snacks, offering everyone slices of satsuma oranges she’d picked up at a roadside stand. Shiho and Ryuemi dozed together in a top bunk, heads tipped against one another, while Lavenza made herself the self-appointed “bunk monitor,” gently scolding anyone who tried to crawl up for a nap without taking their shoes off first.
By the time the RV rumbled into Kagoshima in the late afternoon, the chatter had mellowed into a warm hum. Akira parked at the ferry terminal, stretching as he slid out of the driver’s seat. “Made it,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Just need to sort out the ferry tickets and schedule for tomorrow morning.”
The others tumbled out gratefully, stretching limbs stiff from the long drive. The air smelled faintly of salt and volcanic ash, Sakurajima looming like a sleeping giant across the water. Almost immediately, the polycule splintered into smaller groups — Ann tugging Kasumi toward a row of souvenir shops, Futaba and Morgane darting off with cameras to get seaside photos, Haru suggesting a stop at a nearby tea shop with Hifumi, while Shiho and Yukiko wandered off arm-in-arm toward the waterfront promenade.
Makoto lingered, while Ren leaned casually against the RV. “We’ll stay,” Makoto said, already pulling out her notebook. “You’ll need a hand with the paperwork, right?”
Akira gave her a grateful smile. “Knew I could count on you.”
The three of them headed into the terminal together, Makoto smoothing out the logistics with practiced efficiency while Ren handled the finer points of scheduling with the ferry staff. Akira mostly stood by, amused at how naturally the two slipped into “responsible adult mode,” until finally everything was arranged — tickets in hand, departure time locked for tomorrow morning.
When they stepped back outside, the sun was dipping low, painting the bay in streaks of gold and crimson. Ren stretched with a satisfied sigh. “Job well done. Now… walk?”
“Walk,” Akira agreed, tucking his hands into his pockets. Makoto adjusted her bag strap and fell into step beside them.
The three drifted along the shoreline, breeze ruffling their hair, conversation light and meandering. They talked about nothing and everything — about the scenery, about their ridiculous house already feeling like “home,” about what tomorrow might bring. At one point, Makoto brushed her hand against Akira’s, cheeks pink but eyes steady; on his other side, Ren smirked knowingly and looped her arm through his. He chuckled softly, letting himself be tugged between them, the sound of their laughter blending with the evening waves.
They wandered until the promenade gave way to a quieter stretch of beach, the tide rolling in gentle waves across the darkening sand. Without a word, Akira kicked off his shoes and padded down toward the water’s edge. Ren and Makoto followed, leaving three pairs of trainers in the sand as they waded ankle-deep into the bay. The sea was cool, the kind of refreshing bite that made you shiver, but the fading sun painted the water gold, and the view was worth every goosebump.
Ren slipped close, looping her arm through Akira’s and leaning her head against his shoulder. On the other side, Makoto did the same, more tentative but no less genuine. The three of them stood like that, letting the waves lap around their toes as the sky burned orange and violet.
“You know,” Ren murmured, her voice barely audible over the wash of the tide, “it’s strange how well we all fit together.”
Akira hummed in agreement, a quiet sound that made both girls smile.
Makoto’s grip tightened slightly on his arm. “Do you think this can last, though? Us… this…” Her voice trembled with the unspoken weight of the question.
Akira turned his head, brushing his lips against the top of hers. “We’ll make it work, ’Koto. Whatever comes our way, we face it together.”
She pressed into his side, clinging a little harder. “Promise?”
His arm slid around her, pulling her close until she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Always.”
Then he turned, catching Ren’s watery smile. Tears shone in her eyes despite the curve of her lips, and Akira leaned down to press a gentle kiss against her forehead. “Always,” he repeated, the word carrying just as much weight the second time.
For a while, they simply stood there in silence, three figures framed by the setting sun, the world narrowed down to the warmth of each other’s presence.
The spell broke when Makoto’s stomach gave a loud, undeniable rumble. She flushed scarlet. Ren dissolved into giggles, and even Akira had to bite back a laugh. The solemn moment melted into easy laughter, the tide foaming around their ankles as the evening settled into something simple, soft, and real.
By the time the three of them returned from their beachside detour, the rest of the group had already claimed a long table at a harbourside restaurant. Lanterns strung above cast a warm glow across bowls of steaming ramen, sizzling platters of yakitori, and freshly caught fish still crackling on iron plates. The air was rich with spice and sea breeze, laughter rising louder than the waves.
Ann was waving her chopsticks dramatically as Futaba tried to steal a piece of karaage off her plate, while Hifumi carefully dished up sashimi with the same precision she used to place a shogi piece. Haru was already sipping tea like a serene queen in the middle of it all, and Shiho had half the table in stitches recounting some disaster from a training camp she’d once attended.
Akira slipped back into his seat, Ren and Makoto settling on either side of him. The conversation flowed as naturally as the tide: Morgane teased Ryuemi about her appetite, Kasumi gushed about how excited she was for Okinawa, and Lavenza leaned into Yukiko’s side, showing the artist a sketch she had done and looking smugly pleased about the praise she was recieving. It was noisy, uncoordinated, and absolutely perfect.
Somewhere between dessert menus and second rounds of drinks, the topic shifted to the ferry cabins.
“Okay, so,” Makoto said, taking out her notebook as though this were some sort of tactical operation, “there are six doubles and one single. We’ll need to decide pairings.”
Immediately, chaos.
“I’m calling dibs on Ren!” Ann declared, raising her hand.
“Oi, no fair—Ren agreed to be my snuggle partner tonight, remember?” Futaba shot back, half-serious, half-pouting.
Haru smiled serenely. “I wouldn’t mind rooming with anyone… as long as they don’t snore.” She gave a very pointed look at Ryuemi, who bristled.
“I do not snore!” Ryuemi barked, only for Shiho to lean back with an evil grin. “You absolutely do.”
The back-and-forth built until finally, Akira cleared his throat. “I’ll be taking the single cabin.”
Every conversation cut off at once. Twelve pairs of eyes swung toward him.
“…Excuse me?” Morgane asked, flat as a whip crack.
“Yeah,” Akira continued calmly, sipping his tea like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb, “that way no one feels left out. Seems fairest.”
It took exactly three seconds before the protests erupted.
“When do we get to cuddle with you, then?” Ann groaned.
“But babe, that’s not fair…” Haru added, pouting in a way that was far too effective for her own good.
“Unacceptable,” Yukiko said primly, slamming her chopsticks down. “You’re not wriggling out of this one, Akira.”
Kasumi clasped her hands together, looking genuinely wounded. “You’ll make us all so lonely…”
Even Lavenza joined in, her voice calm but her words sharp. “I refuse to accept a verdict where our Trickster avoids proper companionship.”
Akira’s only response was to lean back with that maddeningly smug grin that made every one of them want to either kiss him or throttle him. Maybe both.
The RV was quiet when they returned from dinner, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Akira was just reaching for the light switch in the rec room when Futaba darted past him, throwing herself onto the couch like a queen claiming her throne. She tugged at the hem of her oversized sleep T-shirt—one Akira recognized instantly as one he’d “misplaced” weeks ago.
“Since you insist on not sharing a cabin with one of us tomorrow night,” she declared, pointing dramatically at him, “you have to spend tonight with all of us to make up for it.”
Akira opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat as one by one, the others filed in, already changed into their nightwear. Silken camisoles, baggy tees, cotton shorts—every girl was dressed differently, but all had the same mischievous gleam in their eyes. They drifted toward the couches in waves, filling every seat until Akira found himself inevitably squeezed into the center like the world’s most besieged pillow.
The laughter and teasing hadn’t even settled before Hifumi, elegant even in a simple long nightdress, slipped off her slippers and placed her bare feet gently in his lap. Without a word, she produced a small bottle of lotion from her pocket and set it on his thigh.
Akira stared at it, then at her. “You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?”
Hifumi’s lips curved in that serene, knowing smile she wore whenever she was five steps ahead in shogi. “A good strategist prepares for every outcome.”
The room erupted in laughter, and even Akira couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re incorrigible.” Still, he poured some lotion into his hands and began working it into her arches, his thumbs drawing tiny gasps from Hifumi as the tension melted from her legs.
“Oooh, look at lover-boy go,” Morgane purred from his left, propping her chin in her hands. “I call next.”
“Excuse me?!” Ann huffed from the other side. “Back of the line, Morgane-chan. I always call dibs.”
Ren smirked, crossing her arms. “As if either of you has seniority here. We all know who’s the most patient with his magic hands.”
“That’s not fair, you’re biased,” Shiho shot back with a grin.
“Biased? Absolutely,” Ren replied sweetly.
Hifumi flushed under the attention, pulling the hem of her nightdress lower with one hand even as her toes curled in Akira’s lap. Futaba leaned forward with a foxlike grin. “See, this is why I said he had to spend the night with all of us. We’re clearly going to need a rotation schedule.”
The teasing spiraled from there—Ryuemi joking about writing out time slots on sticky notes, Kasumi shyly suggesting that maybe they should make a line like at an amusement park, and Haru, ever serene, proposing they could simply “share his attention equally,” which somehow earned the loudest groans of protest.
Through it all, Akira just kept massaging Hifumi’s feet, that faint grin tugging at the corner of his lips as Satanael’s amused chuckle and the coos from the Consorts echoed faintly at the back of his mind.
The laughter rolled on, but eventually Hifumi sighed contentedly and slipped her feet from Akira’s lap. “Thank you… I may have underestimated just how relaxing that would be.”
Kasumi, cheeks pink but eyes hopeful, slid into the spot. “Um… if it’s not too much trouble, could I…?”
Akira chuckled softly and reached for the lotion again. “Not too much trouble at all.” His hands moved with practiced ease, and Kasumi nearly melted, whispering a soft, “Oh wow…” that had Ann elbowing Ren with a smirk.
Meanwhile, Futaba had crept closer, a hairbrush in hand, Lavenza hovering at her side with the kind of patient dignity only she could manage while still pouting slightly. “Oi, pack mule,” Futaba teased, dropping into his lap sideways and shaking out her fiery mane. “Do me next. Brush duty.”
Akira rolled his eyes, but there was no missing the fond smile tugging at his lips as he took the brush. He worked through the tangles gently, smoothing Futaba’s hair until it gleamed. By the time he started braiding, she was purring like a cat. Lavenza sat primly on his other side, her waterfall of platinum-blonde hair waiting its turn. “And me,” she insisted, handing him a ribbon. “If my sister can look dignified with braids, then so can I.”
Soon enough, both gremlin and Velvet attendant sat showing off neat braids, Futaba’s crooked with personality, Lavenza’s perfectly even, as if the strands themselves had obeyed Akira’s touch.
Shiho stretched her arms overhead with a groan. “Alright, Captain. Shoulders.”
“Mine too,” Ryuemi added with a grin, rolling her neck.
“And mine as well,” Haru chimed sweetly, though she was already halfway melting into the cushions.
Akira obliged, moving between them with steady pressure, his hands coaxing knots from tense muscles. Shiho sighed in relief, Ryuemi let out a laugh that sounded more like a growl, and Haru’s serene hum was almost musical.
Then Morgane stuck her leg out across his lap. “Lotion. Don’t forget the legs.”
Yukiko, already sliding her leggings up to the knee, chimed in, “Me too.”
Makoto followed suit, though her cheeks burned red as she muttered, “If you’re doing theirs, it’s only fair…”
Akira laughed under his breath and set to work, his hands smoothing lotion over soft skin as each of them squirmed under the ticklish touch and tried not to let the small shivers show.
By the time he reached Ann and Ren, both girls were already leaning over him.
“My lower back,” Ann demanded, arching a brow.
“Mine first,” Ren shot back, smirking. “I’ve had a knot there for days.”
“Copycat,” Ann muttered, but both of them gasped and melted nearly in unison when Akira’s thumbs dug into the base of their spines. Blissful sighs filled the room—followed by a pair of utterly shameless moans that made the rest of the polycule dissolve into laughter.
One by one, each girl leaned in to give Akira a tender kiss once he finished. Cheeks, temples, lips—gentle tokens of affection, each one unique but filled with the same warmth. They sprawled lazily across couches and cushions, legs tangled and heads resting against shoulders, the night sounds outside grounding them in a moment of peace.
It was Futaba who finally broke the quiet, lifting her head with a sly grin. “Sooo…” she drawled, eyes glinting with mischief. “Alright, listen up, my beautiful degenerates. New rule for tonight: we’re playing Who Is Most Likely To — Polycule Edition.”
Akira groaned. “That sounds dangerous already.”
“Exactly,” Morgane purred, draping herself across Yukiko’s lap like a smug cat.
Kasumi tilted her head. “Um… how do we play?”
“It’s simple,” Futaba explained, eyes glittering. “I’ll say a scenario, and everyone points at who they think is most likely to do it. Majority wins, and if you are the majority pick, you have to fess up or give us a little… demonstration.”
Ren smirked. “You’ve thought this through.”
“Hours of planning,” Futaba declared proudly, then spun around dramatically to face the group. “Okay! First round: who is most likely to… eat all the snacks before we’ve even left Tokyo?”
Every hand pointed at Futaba.
She gasped, clutching her chest. “Traitors!”
“Considering you already ate half the gummy stash…” Makoto said dryly, earning a round of laughter.
“Fine, fine!” Futaba conceded. “I admit guilt. Next! Who is most likely to get us kicked out of a hotel for making too much noise?”
Half the group pointed at Ryuemi, the other half at Ann.
“Oi!” Ryuemi barked, though her grin was sharp. “That’s slander.”
Ann winked. “I’ll take the blame if it means we’re having fun.”
Akira muttered, “Fun isn’t the word I’d use…” only to get pelted with a pillow from Ann.
The game rolled on, the laughter growing louder as the prompts got cheekier.
“Who is most likely to get arrested for streaking?” drew a unanimous point at Ren, who crossed her arms and smirked proudly.
“Who is most likely to fall asleep mid-date?” pointed straight at Shiho, who flushed red and stammered, “I-I was tired, okay?”
“Who is most likely to get caught making out in a supply closet?” had Yukiko and Morgane tangled up in giggles, both blushing furiously while the others whistled.
By the time Futaba cackled out, “Okay okay okay—who is most likely to seduce the entire polycule in one night?” all fingers turned to Akira.
He sputtered. “What—”
Twelve pairs of eyes glittered at him in wicked unison.
“…Yeah, okay, fair,” he finally muttered, ears going scarlet as the room dissolved into howls of laughter.
The warmth of the game began to shift as the questions leaned closer to the heart. The laughter softened into teasing whispers and shared looks.
“Who is most likely to give the best kisses?”
Hands scattered, but Ann and Ren both got the majority. To prove it, they leaned in, cupped Akira’s cheeks, and pressed slow, deliberate kisses to his lips that left the room buzzing.
“Who is most likely to tease until someone begs for mercy?”
Haru arched a brow as nearly everyone pointed at her, then leaned down to whisper something in Makoto’s ear that had the other girl’s cheeks burning crimson.
“Who is most likely to…” Futaba hesitated this time, then grinned devilishly. “…fall in love so hard they’d do anything to protect the rest of us?”
This time, no one laughed. Every finger pointed at Akira. He blinked, stunned by the unanimity, until Shiho squeezed his hand. “Don’t bother denying it,” she said softly. “We already know.”
The room went quiet—not heavy, but warm, charged with the glow of love, desire, and the unspoken understanding between them all.
Futaba, sensing the shift, smirked and leaned against him. “Okay, last one for tonight.” Her voice was softer, lower. “Who is most likely to make this game… a lot more interesting?”
Every hand slowly lifted, this time pointing at themselves. The laughter that followed was hushed and breathless, lingering in the air like a spark waiting to catch, and it was Ann who leaned forward first, eyes lidded and lips curved in a slow, sultry smile.
“Well then…” she murmured, sliding closer until her thigh brushed Akira’s. “Guess we should… prove it, huh?”
Shiho, sitting on his other side, gave a little laugh that dissolved as she boldly reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his and squeezing tight. “Don’t think you’re escaping this time, Akira…” she whispered, her voice trembling with heat.
Akira swallowed hard, caught between their twin gazes—Ann’s fiery and teasing, Shiho’s soft but smoldering. He didn’t get a chance to answer. Around him, the room shifted like a tide turning.
Yukiko had looped her arms around Makoto’s neck, pulling her down into a kiss that was hesitant for half a heartbeat before deepening into something hot and hungry. Haru leaned back against the cushions with a mischievous little smile, tugging Ryuemi with her. The delinquent smirked, one hand bracing the armrest, the other brushing Haru’s cheek as she bent down to claim her lips.
Across the room, Ren and Morgane were already tangled together, Ren’s hand sliding over Morgane’s waist as their mouths met in a kiss sharp enough to draw a gasp. Futaba had snatched up the nearest pillow and tossed it at Lavenza, who startled before dissolving into a quiet laugh. Futaba grinned and promptly pulled her into her lap, twining their fingers and nuzzling her cheek before kissing her with playful abandon.
And in the far corner, Kasumi and Hifumi leaned into one another at the same moment, their foreheads brushing before Kasumi, cheeks pink, whispered something that made Hifumi chuckle low. Then their lips met, slow and deliberate, and Kasumi melted into the embrace.
Akira barely had time to register all of it before Ann cupped his jaw and kissed him—soft at first, then deepening until his head spun. Shiho tugged his other hand, guiding him into her arms as well, and the world around him blurred into nothing but the warmth of them, the taste of them, the sound of breath hitching and lips parting.
It was a tangle of warmth and intimacy, of soft sighs and affectionate touches. Everywhere Akira looked, there was someone he loved, wrapped up in someone else they loved, the room buzzing with the heady comfort of shared closeness. The air grew heavier, sweeter. Giggles gave way to sighs, sighs to gasps, until the rec room was filled with the breathless sounds of twelve women and one man giving in to the pull of one another.
The faint chime of his phone alarm stirred Akira from sleep. He groaned softly, shifting against the warmth pressing into every inch of him. The first thing he noticed was weight—the kind that pinned him in place, warm and soft and utterly unrelenting.
When his eyes cracked open, he was greeted by the sight of Ann, tangled around him like a koala. Her golden hair was a disheveled halo across his shoulder, and the thin tank she’d worn to bed had ridden up enough to make him painfully aware of how little she was actually wearing. She murmured something in her sleep and nuzzled closer, her leg hitched firmly over his hip.
On the other side, Ren lay sprawled across his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. She was equally underdressed, her dark hair mussed from sleep, lips parted slightly as she snored the faintest little sound. One of her hands had curled into the fabric of his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go.
Akira tilted his head up as far as he could and blinked at the scene around him.
Morgane was tucked against Yukiko, their foreheads pressed together. Shiho had one arm thrown over Ryuemi, who in turn had Haru nestled at her side. Makoto and Hifumi were back-to-back, their hands still lightly linked even in sleep. Futaba was curled like a cat against Lavenza, who had her small arms wrapped protectively around her. Kasumi had her cheek pillowed against Hifumi’s thigh, peaceful as ever.
The entire rec room looked like some surreal tangle of limbs and blankets, soft breaths and messy hair, as though the polycule had fused into a single, sprawling knot of intimacy.
For a moment, Akira just lay there, smiling faintly despite his stiff shoulders. This—this warmth, this ridiculous pile of them—was worth more than any treasure the Metaverse had ever coughed up.
Then his phone buzzed again in his hand, snapping him back. He angled it up, squinting at the screen.
7:15 AM.
His eyes widened. They needed to be on the ferry by 8. Which gave them… maybe forty-five minutes.
“…Oh, shit.”
Very gently, he shifted under Ren, trying not to wake her too abruptly. She stirred anyway, blinking blearily up at him. “Mmm… morning?” she mumbled, voice husky from sleep.
“Morning,” Akira whispered back, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “We’ve got forty-five minutes to make the ferry. Time to wake the others.”
Ren groaned softly and flopped against him again. “Five more minutes…”
Ann’s grip on his side only tightened, her voice muffled against his skin. “Nooo… don’t make me get up…”
Akira chuckled under his breath, resigned. “Looks like this is gonna take some effort.”
He leaned down, brushing a kiss to Ren’s forehead, then gently nudged her upright. At the same time, he started poking Ann’s shoulder, murmuring her name until she blinked up at him with bleary eyes and a pout.
“C’mon, girls,” he said softly, his voice both coaxing and amused. “If we miss that ferry, we’re stranded here for the day. And something tells me none of you want to give up Beach day...”
That was enough to start the ripple effect. Makoto blinked awake next, followed by Yukiko, then Haru, and soon the room was full of groggy groans, protests, and muffled laughter as Akira patiently went around, waking each of them with a touch, a quiet word, or, in Morgane’s case, a quick tug on her blanket. One by one, his girls came back to life, stretching, yawning, untangling themselves from the human knot they’d created overnight.
The rec room dissolved into cheerful chaos the moment everyone realized just how little time they had. Blankets were thrown aside, sleepy limbs untangled, and the RV became a flurry of hairbrushes, clothes, and shouted questions.
“Where’s my other sock?!” Ryuemi yelped, hopping on one foot while trying to tug her running shoes on.
“You mean the one Kasumi’s sitting on?” Futaba snorted from the kitchenette, tugging an oversized hoodie over her head.
Ann emerged from the bunks looking both scandalized and amused, holding up her shirt. “Okay, but I can’t find my bra. It’s gone. Completely gone.”
Makoto froze mid-buttoning her blouse, eyes wide. “Gone? Ann, you can’t just—”
Ann smirked, tossing her hair as she slid her shirt on without it. “Guess I’ll just have to go natural today. Oops.”
The sudden attention from Ren, Morgane, and Yukiko was immediate, three pairs of eyes snapping toward her chest with varying degrees of discretion. Ann laughed. “Ohhh, someone’s enjoying the view.”
Akira pinched the bridge of his nose, half-grinning despite himself. “You’re going to kill me one of these days, Takamaki.”
Meanwhile, Morgane spun in front of the mirror in the tiniest sundress imaginable, the hemline barely brushing her thighs. “My legs are feeling extra glam today,” she declared proudly, striking a pose. “Why hide the goods?”
“Because we’re going on a ferry, not a runway!” Makoto groaned, already red in the face.
“That’s a runway over the water,” Futaba muttered under her breath, earning a round of snickers.
Across the room, Yukiko and Haru tried to wrangle each other’s hair into something presentable, Shiho was stuffing snacks into her backpack (“insurance,” she claimed), and Lavenza was calmly sipping tea in her pajamas as though none of this applied to her. Akira, caught between amusement and exasperation, moved like a conductor among his orchestra, nudging, teasing, and herding his chaotic girlfriends toward readiness. He tied off Futaba’s messy braid when she whined her arms were tired, zipped Morgane’s sundress up with a resigned sigh, and pressed Ann’s forgotten ferry pass into her hand just before she could sprint out without it.
“Honestly,” he said with a wry smile as he ushered the last of them out the door, “it’s like trying to lead a circus.”
Ren looped her arm through his with a cheeky grin. “But you love this circus.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
By some miracle, they made it to the port with minutes to spare, bags thumped into place and tickets handed over just as the boarding horn sounded. The polycule stumbled into the departure lounge in a swirl of laughter and lingering touches, leaning into each other against the sea breeze.
Akira exhaled, finally allowing himself a grin as the ferry pulled away from the dock. Somehow, against all odds, they’d made it.
The first few hours of the ferry ride were nothing short of bedlam. The polycule spilled across the deck like they owned it—Futaba immediately claiming a corner with her Switch and a pile of snacks, Shiho stretching like she was about to break into warm-ups, and Morgane leaning over the railing to declare dramatically that she was “the mistress of the sea breeze.”
Ann and Ren found the gift shop within ten minutes, returning with matching oversized sunhats and yet another giant parfait to share, which naturally devolved into an argument over who got the last spoonful.
Meanwhile, Kasumi and Haru wandered off toward the observation lounge, Haru’s soft laugh carrying as Kasumi explained her new gymnastics routine. Yukiko trailed after them, sketchbook in hand, quietly capturing the shapes of her girlfriends leaning into one another.
Makoto tried—valiantly—to organize everyone into a “structured” group game, which lasted about three rounds before Ryuemi accused Morgane of cheating and a pillow from the cabin mysteriously entered the equation.
Akira, for his part, drifted easily between them all. He joined Futaba in a few rounds of Mario Kart (and beat her spectacularly), teased Ann and Ren about their parfait war before stealing the last bite himself, leaned against the railing with Shiho as she recounted old volleyball memories, and helped Morgane untangle her hair when the wind tied it into knots.
When things slowed, he ducked into a quieter corner, phone in hand. Naoto’s voice was tired but warm through the speaker, and the faint sound of the baby cooing in the background made Akira’s chest ache with tenderness. He listened, asked after both mother and child, and promised to bring something back from Okinawa that the little one could “gnaw on safely.”
Afterward, he shot off a quick call to Rise, confirming where the two groups would rendezvous and trading a few playful barbs about whose tour bus was more luxurious. (“Yours may have a world-famous pop idol on board,” Akira teased, “but ours has Futaba’s snack hoard.”)
The afternoon rolled into lazy quiet. Some napped in the cabins, others sprawled across couches in the lounge, lulled by the rocking waves. Yukiko sketched in her notebook, Lavenza perched at her side like a small, sharp-eyed shadow. Futaba curled up against Akira’s shoulder with her Switch in hand, occasionally rubbing against him for “moral support” whenever a boss fight got too intense.
Evening brought them all back together. Dinner in the ferry cafeteria became another round of laughter and inside jokes, Ann somehow managing to get curry on her shirt, Yukiko snorting tea when Haru cracked a surprisingly sharp pun, and Ren attempting to arm wrestle Ryuemi to disastrous results.
By nightfall, the polycule had drifted to the deck again, wrapped in a kind of warm peace. The ocean stretched endless under the stars, the salty breeze tousling hair and softening voices. They huddled close in small knots — Ann leaning against Ren, Haru with her head on Ryuemi’s shoulder, Shiho resting her chin on Akira’s arm. No one needed to fill the silence; the closeness spoke louder than words. When at last they split off to their cabins, it wasn’t with reluctance, but with the easy comfort of knowing the morning would bring them together again.
The Okinawan sun greeted them like a warm embrace when they finally rolled off the ferry and back into their RV. The salty air and brilliant turquoise of the water just beyond the port made everyone practically buzz with excitement.
“Alright, lover boy,” Futaba said the moment she plopped onto the nearest sofa, tugging at her sun hat. “Which hotel is lucky enough to host this circus tonight?”
Akira flicked a glance at Haru, who was sliding into the navigator’s seat beside him instead of Makoto. Their shared smile was subtle, but enough to set off a ripple of suspicion through the cabin.
“Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” Akira said smoothly, starting the engine.
“Eh?” Futaba squinted, leaning forward suspiciously. “What’s with the mysterious tone? And why is Haru in the front seat? What are you plotting?”
“Nothing at all,” Haru sang sweetly, folding her hands in her lap, though her sparkling eyes betrayed her.
The shift didn’t go unnoticed. Makoto frowned from the aisle, Yukiko raised an eyebrow, and Morgane leaned suspiciously close to Ann to whisper, “They’re hiding something.”
The RV rolled through Okinawa’s sun-drenched streets, past hotels ranging from sleek towers to cozy beachside inns. Each time they passed another, the collective confusion in the back seats grew.
“Uh… aren’t we supposed to, y’know, stop?” Ryuemi asked, peering over Akira’s shoulder.
“Maybe they’re lost,” Shiho deadpanned, earning a smack on the arm from Ann.
“No way,” Kasumi piped up, eyes narrowing playfully. “Akira always knows exactly what he’s doing.”
The others broke into knowing laughter — and a few muttered, “Yeah, that’s the problem…”
Morgane was groaning dramatically against Yukiko’s shoulder. “If we end up in some dinky business hotel after this suspense, I swear I’ll throw him overboard retroactively.”
It was Futaba who spotted it first. Her eyes went wide as she pressed against the glass. “Wait… wait, wait, WAIT. That sign— Nishihara Kira Kira Beach?!” She whipped around to stare at Haru. “Didn’t you say you had a private villa there?!”
Haru’s giggle was almost mischievous as she tucked a curl behind her ear. “Mmm. Yes, I do…”
The cheer that erupted nearly blew the roof off the RV. Ann and Ren squealed in stereo. Shiho and Ryuemi high-fived so hard it stung. Kasumi clapped her hands, beaming, while Hifumi let out a delighted laugh. Lavenza simply tilted her head and said, “I look forward to experiencing this.”
Akira winced at the sheer volume of excitement bouncing around the bus, but the small, smug smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. Mission “Spoil My Girls Rotten” was proceeding exactly as planned.
The RV crunched up the gravel drive, the ocean breeze rolling in warm and salty as the villa came into view — sprawling white walls and wide terraces, glass windows glinting in the sunlight. A palm-fringed path led straight down to the private stretch of Nishihara Kira Kira Beach, where the waves sparkled like liquid crystal.
The moment the doors opened, the girls spilled out in a riot of energy.
“Oh my god!” Ann squealed, sprinting ahead. “It’s like… a five-star resort just for us!”
“Correction,” Futaba said, already pulling out her phone to snap pictures, “it’s better than a resort. No tourists.”
Haru, perfectly composed despite the squeals around her, smiled warmly. “I’m glad you like it. This place hasn’t used it in years, but it’s been kept updated with the latest amenities.”
That proved to be an understatement. As they darted from room to room, the girls discovered an infinity pool overlooking the sea, an enormous kitchen with dual ovens and a stocked wine cooler, rainfall showers with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the beach, and even a media room complete with plush recliners and surround sound.
Akira stayed behind long enough to unload the mountain of luggage from the RV, only to find the girls trickling back, faces glowing with mischief. They eyed him, then each other, then huddled together in a hushed — and increasingly heated — whisper-battle.
Finally, Ann and Haru emerged as the victors.
“We’ve decided!” Ann declared, planting her hands on her hips. “No one gets dibs on the master suite. Or the guest rooms. Or anything else.”
Haru folded her arms, her smile serene but her tone iron-clad. “Instead, we’ll make a nest in the front room. That way, everyone is together.”
Both of them turned their gazes to Akira in perfect unison — sharp, expectant, daring him to protest. He blinked, then raised his hands in mock-surrender, a grin tugging at his lips. “Hey, if that’s what you girls want, I’m not going to disagree. Just… do your thing.”
“Smart boy,” Ren purred, slipping out of the group like a cat on the hunt. She pressed close to Akira, her mahogany eyes glinting as her manicured nails traced slowly down the side of his throat.
A shiver chased up his spine despite himself.
“Very smart boy,” Morgane added with a smirk, leaning over Ren’s shoulder as if to box him in.
From the corner, Ryuemi snorted. “Oh boy. Here we go…”
The villa’s wide, sunlit entryway filled with the mix of laughter, teasing, and just enough lingering tension to make Akira rub the back of his neck — equal parts exasperated and very, very amused.
“Alright,” Akira said at last, clapping his hands once to get the whirlwind of voices and energy focused on him. “You girls start unpacking, claim some blankets, argue about pillow colors—whatever this ‘nest’ is going to turn into.” His grey eyes softened as he glanced at each of them in turn. “I need to head back into the city center for a bit. Pick up a few things, and… meet with Kanami’s road crew. Make sure everything’s squared away before Rise joins up with us.”
A chorus of groans rose immediately. “You’re ditching us already?” Ann pouted, hands on her hips.
“You’re supposed to be on vacation with us, Akiraaa,” Futaba whined from her perch on the back of the sofa, hair falling into her face as she sulked dramatically.
Even Yukiko gave a plaintive little sigh. “We just got here…”
Akira chuckled, shaking his head as if he’d expected no less. “I’ll try not to be too long. But don’t wait up for me if I’m not back by bedtime, okay?”
Ren arched a brow, her lips curving with wicked promise. “Bold of you to assume we’d let you off that easy if you’re late.”
That earned a ripple of laughter, and Akira leaned down, pressing quick kisses across the circle of his girlfriends — Ann tugging him closer for one that lingered a little longer, Haru brushing her lips feather-light against his cheek, Morgane stealing one with a mischievous hum, Lavenza determined as she rose on tiptoes to meet him, Futaba squeaking when he kissed the tip of her nose instead. By the time he straightened, his ears were faintly pink, but his grin hadn’t faltered.
“Good luck,” Shiho teased. “We’ll try not to get started before you get back.”
“That’s not a promise,” Kasumi said innocently, already hugging a pillow to her chest.
Akira only chuckled again, shaking his head with affectionate exasperation. He scooped his keys off the counter, then opened the villa’s wide glass door, sunlight spilling golden across his figure.
“Be good,” he called over his shoulder.
“Never!” Futaba shouted immediately.
The door clicked shut behind him, and moments later the low purr of the rental car echoed down the drive as he headed toward the city, leaving behind the faint sound of twelve women already bickering over blankets and room layout.
The bass thumped like a second heartbeat, vibrating through the floor and pressing into lungs. The air itself seemed thick — too heavy, almost liquid, with the way the lights smeared in trails of color if one stared too long. Laughter and chatter bled into the music, distorted, half-muffled, like listening to voices underwater.
At the center of it all sat a table. Two figures.
One was cloaked in shadow, the hood pulled low to obscure their features. A white porcelain mask gleamed in the flickering light, the etching of the Gemini zodiac symbol catching gold for a moment before the glare swallowed it again. Their voice, when it came, was soft but strangely warped, as if the sound had traveled too far before reaching the ear.
“She’ll be here in a minute.” The mask tilted toward the stage. “The Siren… singing the truth you need to hear.”
The other figure looked every inch the respectable patron — tailored suit, tasteful jewelry, hair slicked back with meticulous care. But the detail that unsettled, that snared attention and held it, was his eyes. They glowed faintly, golden-yellow, the way a predator’s might in the dark. He said nothing, only inclined his head, lips curving faintly in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
The music built toward a fever pitch, the crowd beginning to chant, to call, a hungry undercurrent in their voices. The stage lights dimmed, then cut out entirely. And in the thick silence that followed, every eye turned toward the stage. The lights pulsed once, twice, then a single golden beam split the stage. A reverent hush fell over the crowd, as though every breath had been drawn in and held. Then, she stepped into the light.
The Siren.
Radiant in hues of sunset orange and golden yellow, her gown seemed to shimmer like flame with every subtle movement. Her long rainbow-coloured hair tumbled down her back in waves, catching the spotlight with an almost halo-like glow. A delicate pink mask veiled her eyes and upper face, softening her features while making her presence feel all the more untouchable.
She did not announce herself. She simply began to sing. The first note was velvet — rich, smoky, seductive, sliding into the ears and coiling around the soul. The crowd leaned forward as one, enthralled. She sang of beauty in pleasure, of touch without love, of laughter without meaning. She painted companionship as something disposable, easily bought, easily discarded. A balm for loneliness. A salve for pain. A fleeting joy that demanded no truth, no vulnerability, no risk.
And as she sang, the effect became visible.
The man with the golden eyes stiffened. His chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, his lips parting as though each note drew something out of him. His eyes shimmered brighter, feverish, molten gold spilling at the edges. His outline wavered like a mirage, his form flickering between substance and shadow.
Across the table, the porcelain mask tilted, its wearer chuckling low, distorted.
“That’s it, Yamano-san,” the voice murmured, a purr of satisfaction. “Let the truth sink in. Let it inhabit every fiber of your being.”
Onstage, the Siren’s song curled toward its final refrain — sultry, lingering, almost cruel in its promise of endless escape. She held the last note like a spell, then let it fade into silence.
The club erupted. Applause thundered, wild and rapturous.
She bowed once, gracefully, then glided offstage, her form vanishing into the wings like a dream that never wanted to be woken from.
At the table, Yamano-san was trembling, his hands gripping the edge of the wood as though to steady himself. Sweat clung to his temples, his glowing eyes wide, frantic, and alight with new hunger.
The porcelain-masked figure leaned closer. “Excellent,” they said softly, almost reverently. “You are now ready to rule over the Kingdom of Gratification.”
The evening hum of Kokusai-dōri wrapped around Akira as he wove through the flow of tourists and locals, shopping bags digging into the crook of his arm. Neon signs flashed above, a kaleidoscope of color and sound, each one competing for attention.
He shifted the bags, catching a glimpse of several massive billboards that dominated the street. All of them bore the same face — a slickly-dressed man with a perfect smile, hair swept immaculately back. The bold lettering announced:
“The Hitoshi Yamano Show – Teaching Japan To Have Fun, Okinawa Style!”
A crowd clustered around one of the displays, chatting excitedly about the premiere, speculating about guests, and praising Yamano’s “charisma.” Akira frowned slightly. The image of Yamano’s smile lingered with him a little too long.
He shook his head and kept moving. As he passed the sliding glass doors of a brightly-lit arcade, a strange pulse shot through him. His vision rippled, colors bending and stretching like heat-haze. He stumbled, steadying himself against a railing.
“Wha… that felt weird…” he muttered under his breath.
“I felt it too,” came Satanael’s low rumble, resonating from the depths of his soul. “Like the call of the Metaverse… but different.”
Akira froze mid-step, storm-grey eyes narrowing as he scanned the street. His senses were sharp, tuned to danger — but the pulse did not return. The crowds moved on obliviously, laughter and music filling the air.
“Should I be worried?” he asked quietly.
Satanael didn’t answer at once. Instead, there was a long, contemplative hum, a vibration that thrummed in Akira’s chest. Finally: “…Perhaps. Or perhaps it is merely the echo of an older tale.”
Akira sighed, adjusting his bags. “Guess I’ll just keep my eyes open. Anyway, better head back before Futaba blows up my phone.”
“That would be most unfortunate, Harbinger,” Satanael rumbled, amusement flickering through his tone. “The Hermit is not known for her patience.”
The comment was punctuated by a sharp smack! — Akira winced and chuckled as he felt the faint psychic echo of a cuff to the back of Satanael’s head.
“Looks like you annoyed yours, big guy.”
From somewhere deep within, Nephthys’s dry voice drifted through, scolding but fond. Satanael growled, low and begrudging, while Akira only grinned wider, shaking his head as he started back down the street toward the rental car.
Chapter 38: *****************Sun, Sand And A Whole Lotta Love****************
Summary:
WARNING: CONTAINS SMUT!
Beach Day!!!!!
The Phantomettes spend the day trying to break Akira ;)
Things get very spicyFor those looking to avoid the lemons - stop reading here:
Ann only smirked, tugging him forward with deliberate slowness, her voice barely more than a purr. “Time to get rewarded, babe.”
Chapter Text
The smell of sizzling batter and fresh coffee filled the villa’s kitchen, the morning sunlight spilling in golden ribbons across the counters. Akira stood at the stove, hair still a little mussed from sleep, flipping pancakes with practiced ease.
One by one, the girls emerged from the giant nest of blankets in the living room, blinking groggily like cats crawling out of a sunbeam. Ann stretched with a soft yawn, arms lifting high over her head. Her tiny cami top rode up with the movement, exposing the taut, flawless line of her midriff. Akira caught the sight out of the corner of his eye — and immediately had to swallow hard, redirecting his focus back to the frying pan.
“What time did you get in last night?” Ann asked, her voice still husky with sleep.
“A little before midnight,” Akira replied smoothly, though the faint flush on his cheeks betrayed him. He flipped a pancake with a clean motion, hiding behind the sizzle. “You were all asleep, and I didn’t have the heart to wake any of you up.”
Ann hummed, narrowing her eyes like she wasn’t entirely convinced. Then, with that signature mix of boldness and mischief, she strode across the kitchen, rose onto her toes, and pulled him down by the collar for a kiss.
“You’d better not be planning to go anywhere else today, mister…” she murmured against his mouth, her lips brushing his as though sealing the promise.
Akira’s storm-grey eyes softened. He leaned close, whispering back, “Just outside. With the rest of you.”
“Good.” Ann gave a satisfied little hum — only to blink in surprise when Akira added in a mock-serious tone: “Now go brush your teeth.”
Her laugh rang out, light and bright, as she turned to go, only to gasp theatrically when Akira’s hand landed with a sharp smack against her thong-clad butt. She spun to face him, mock outrage in her wide blue eyes, though her grin betrayed her.
“Akira…” she drawled, voice low and teasing, wriggling her butt. “Do it again…”
The kitchen erupted in snickers and playful groans from the others, some of whom were now very awake indeed.
Ann was still giggling as she slid into a chair, rubbing the spot on her hip where Akira had smacked her. “Seriously, though, you’ve created a monster,” she teased, pointing at him with her fork.
“She already was a monster,” Morgane quipped at Yukiko, her oversized sleep-shirt hanging dangerously off one shoulder as she leaned against the counter. “Now she just less reason to hide it.”
“Jealous, Morgane?” Ann shot back, smirking.
“Of that?” Morgane gestured vaguely toward Ann’s butt. “Please. My legs are the main event. You saw them yesterday in the sundress.”
“You mean the piece of fabric that pretended to be a sundress?” Akira cut in, deadpan, as he set another stack of pancakes on the table.
“Oooh, he noticed,” Morgane purred, batting her lashes as the other girls burst out laughing.
Futaba shuffled in next, drowning in a T-shirt that looked suspiciously like one of Akira’s old ones. She dropped into the seat beside him, eyes glinting. “You realize you’ve doomed yourself, right? Twelve girls, one boyfriend. You’re basically the raid boss of this villa.”
Akira ruffled her messy hair with one hand while sliding her a plate with the other. “You’re the one who picked a support class, Futaba. Don’t come crying when the boss fights back.”
That earned a round of “ooooohs” and a pillow from Shiho, who had just emerged, tousled and gorgeous. She lobbed it across the room at Akira’s head. He caught it one-handed without looking, then smirked at her.
“Nice aim,” he said. “But not nice enough.”
Shiho narrowed her eyes, fighting a smile. “Don’t tempt me to get the Nerf guns.”
Ryuemi snorted into her juice. “As if you need an excuse.”
By the time everyone had gathered, the kitchen was a cacophony of overlapping voices, bursts of laughter, and the scrape of chairs. Yukiko delicately buttered toast only for Haru to lean across her and whisper something scandalous that had her covering her face with her hands. Kasumi and Hifumi had claimed the same seat, practically draped over each other as they fed Akira bites between teasing comments. Ren and Makoto flanked him on either side like bodyguards, though the way they leaned against him suggested they were enjoying the position far too much. Lavenza kept finding excuses to move one of the other girls so that she could get closer to Akira. When Makoto asked Akira how his meeting with Kanamin's road crew had gone last night, he simply replied that he'd tell them more about it afterwards.
At one point, Ann leaned forward, hair swinging over her shoulders. “So, Joker,” she purred, using his codename just to see the way he stiffened, “who’s your favorite this morning?”
“Whichever one of you clears the table,” Akira shot back instantly, grinning as the group erupted into scandalized groans and laughter.
Despite the teasing, they made short work of breakfast, the last of the pancakes disappearing almost faster than Akira could make them. Plates were stacked, crumbs brushed away, and juice glasses drained. The kitchen, once a battlefield of flirtation, was restored to something resembling order.
Akira wiped his hands on a dish towel and leaned against the counter, surveying the scene. “Alright,” he said with mock formality. “I’ll go set up the deck chairs, umbrellas, and the grill. You girls can come out when you’re ready.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, like a perfectly rehearsed choir, all twelve of them burst into chuckles — low, knowing, mischievous.
Akira raised an eyebrow. “…What?”
“Nothing,” Lavenza sang, her voice lilting as she exchanged a glance with Ren.
“Absolutely nothing,” Futaba echoed with a devilish grin.
Ann leaned back in her chair, smirk curving wickedly. “Oh, you’ll see…”
Akira straightened up from where he’d just wedged the last umbrella into the sand, brushing off his hands and checking over the setup. Sun loungers, neatly aligned in two rows. Coolers tucked under the shade, already stocked with bottled water, juices, sodas, and more indulgent options. The grill gleamed, waiting for the feast later. He nodded, satisfied.
The villa door creaked open behind him.
He turned, already grinning, ready to call out—only for the words to die in his throat.
Twelve silhouettes stepped out of the shade and onto the sand, sunlight catching on bare skin and glossy hair. They fanned out like something out of a dream, each one unique, each one dazzling, and all of them striding toward him with confidence that could melt steel.
Lavenza was first, delicate yet regal in a deep navy high-neck one-piece. Silver accents shimmered like moonlight, sheer side panels offering the faintest glimpse of her pale skin. Subtle cutouts traced her ribs like careful brushstrokes, elegant rather than scandalous, while the low V in the back made her look taller, more mature. She carried herself like a goddess who had chosen modesty, knowing it only made her more alluring.
Kasumi bounced in her white athletic bikini, pastel pink accents and mesh inserts keeping it sweet and sporty. The racerback top hugged her firmly, while the high-cut bottoms lengthened her toned dancer’s legs. Tiny bows at her hips added just enough charm to contrast the athletic cut. She gave Akira a playful wave, ponytail swinging, the embodiment of "innocence with intent."
Makoto’s royal blue bandeau bikini struck a balance between power and grace. The structured top lifted her with understated elegance, a halter strap offering support that emphasized her curves. The bottoms were modest but cheeky, tiny golden clasps gleaming at the hips like medals. She moved with quiet confidence, every step measured, her sharp eyes flicking to Akira just long enough to make his pulse spike.
Yukiko trailed behind, her black off-shoulder bikini almost theatrical in design. The asymmetric draping and icy-blue trim gave it a hint of drama, while the high-waist cheeky bottoms—complete with a slit at the thigh—made her legs seem endless. Her porcelain skin contrasted sharply with the dark fabric, and when she laughed, it was like she’d just stepped out of a painting.
Ryuemi practically sparkled in her sunny yellow triangle bikini. Mint-green ruffles danced with each movement, playful bows tied at her hips. The slightly high-cut bottoms showed off her runner’s legs, all long lines and muscle. She beamed at Akira, raising her arms above her head in a carefree stretch, as if daring him to look away.
Shiho’s silver-and-black strappy bikini was all sharp edges and danger. Leather-look accents hugged her body, metallic studs gleaming, the crisscrossing straps across her midriff both concealing and revealing at once. The cheeky cut made no apologies. When she caught Akira staring, her smirk was pure predator.
Hifumi followed, a vision of retro temptation in her red polka-dot bikini. The sweetheart neckline gave her an irresistible push-up effect, while the high-waisted bottoms with playful ruffles clung to her hourglass figure. The cut of her legs gave her surprising length, and she wore it all with the demure smile of someone who knew she was anything but.
Futaba was chaos incarnate in neon green, orange, and electric blue. Bold geometric patterns collided across her bikini, straps and cutouts creating a puzzle of skin and fabric. A tiny detachable skirt swung from her hips, teasing more than it covered. Her grin was wicked, hair tied up in twin messy buns. She was a firecracker on legs, and she knew Akira’s eyes kept drifting back to her.
Haru’s deep violet monokini was sophistication incarnate. A plunging neckline dipped scandalously low, cinched at her waist with golden clasps. Side cutouts flattered her curves, the dramatic back baring smooth skin. She moved with elegant slowness, every step like the sway of a cat. When she caught Akira’s eye, she tilted her head, her smile promising mischief later.
Morgane prowled in dark green and black, her bikini a latticework of strappy crisscrosses and chain accents. Sheer panels gave teasing glimpses of skin, the high-leg cut accentuating her lean thighs. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger, giving Akira a smirk that was all challenge: try not to stare, I dare you.
Ren was unapologetic heat in fuchsia. Her bikini was barely there—strings wrapping around her torso, cheeky triangle bottoms tied high at the hips, halter top plunging nearly to her sternum. It wasn’t just daring, it was reckless, and she carried it like armor, every movement deliberate, her lips curved in the faintest, knowing smirk.
And then there was Ann. Her bright red micro bikini was chaos distilled. Cutouts everywhere—at her hips, over her ribs, a bold keyhole at her chest. Gold ring accents caught the sunlight as if drawing Akira’s gaze on purpose. The thong back was merciless, showing off every curve of her model’s figure. She walked like she owned the beach, hair bouncing in waves, her lips curved in a teasing smile.
Akira’s jaw actually dropped. “Twelve out of ten,” he croaked before he could stop himself.
The girls burst into laughter, their voices mixing with the crash of the waves.
“You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe,” Shiho teased, tossing her hair back with a smirk.
“Should we resuscitate him?” Makoto added, just a little too innocently.
Ren’s lips curved into a dangerous smile. “I volunteer as tribute.”
Akira dragged a hand down his face, trying—and failing—to regain his composure as they finally reached him, the group closing in like predators who’d just spotted their favorite prey.
“Just so we’re clear,” Futaba sing-songed as she dropped her beach bag onto a lounger, “your job today is grilling food, pouring drinks, and staring at us appreciatively.”
“Pretty sure I was already doing the last one,” Akira muttered, earning another round of chuckles.
Ann leaned close, her voice low and sultry, red fabric barely containing her as she pressed against his side. “Good boy. Now keep it up…”
Akira could only grin helplessly as twelve radiant goddesses claimed the beach around him.
It started innocently enough.
“Akira-kun,” Haru sang sweetly, already stretching out on her lounger, violet monokini scandalously low in the back. “Would you mind applying some sunscreen for me?”
Her tone left no room for refusal.
“Of course,” Akira said easily, kneeling beside her with the bottle in hand. He squeezed some lotion into his palms, rubbed them together, and pressed them against her back. Smooth skin, warm from the sun. So far, so good.
Then Haru made a sound.
A throaty little hum of approval, soft and indulgent. “Mmm… lower, please… oh, just like that…”
Akira’s hands nearly froze. He forced himself to keep going, jaw tight, while Haru all but melted beneath his touch, her satisfied noises getting more… suggestive by the second.
He pulled back with a relieved sigh when he finished—only to find Ren lounging on her side, propped up on one elbow, smirking like the devil herself.
“My turn,” she purred, patting the space in front of her.
Akira groaned.
Ren made it worse. So much worse. Every time his hands grazed her shoulders or the curve of her waist, she sighed dramatically, back arching ever so slightly. By the time he finished, she looked like a painting of decadent temptation, and he was half-ready to dive headfirst into the ocean to cool off.
But then—
“Akiraaaa~!” Futaba waved from her towel, already rolling over onto her stomach. “C’mon, gremlin needs coverage too!”
She was wriggling so much it was hard to even get the lotion on evenly, and she giggled every time his hands brushed against her sides.
No sooner had he pulled away than Lavenza was standing primly with her bottle in hand, eyes bright. “It is my turn, Trickster. Please be thorough.”
She said it with such innocent formality that he thought maybe—maybe—this would be safe. Until she let out a dainty little gasp when his thumb brushed near her ribs.
And then came Hifumi. Graceful, serene, head tilted back as though she were meditating on the beach. Every time his hands slid down her arms or across her shoulder blades, she whispered a soft “ah…” that was definitely not helping his composure.
Then Morgane, who leaned back against him deliberately, smirking when she felt him stiffen. “Harder, Joker. Don’t be shy.”
Shiho, who insisted on “every inch of coverage” while shooting him sly little smiles over her shoulder.
Ryuemi, who squeaked and laughed every time his hands dipped too close to the edge of her bikini ties, cheeks pink but eyes sparkling.
Yukiko, serene at first, but sighing in such a way that would have turned a few heads on a more public beach.
Makoto, biting her lip and murmuring thanks every time he adjusted his pressure.
Kasumi, shy but secretly delighted, her cheeks flushed to the tips of her ears.
And then… Ann. She stretched out languidly, her micro bikini leaving almost nothing to the imagination, and cast him a smile over her shoulder that was pure sin.
“Take your time, okay? Don’t miss any spots,” she purred. “I burn easy.”
Akira steeled himself, started applying sunscreen—and nearly lost it.
Ann moaned. Actually moaned. Long, drawn-out, decadent noises that had every single person in the polycule staring at her in disbelief.
“Ann…” Makoto hissed, scandalized.
“What?” Ann replied innocently, though she didn’t stop. “It feels good…”
By the time Akira finished, his hands were trembling slightly, his face flushed, and his self-control hanging by a thread. He collapsed onto his own lounger, dragging a hand over his face while the girls laughed, teased, and congratulated each other on their teamwork.
“That was cruel,” he muttered.
“Cruel?” Futaba grinned impishly. “Nah, that was just round one.”
Akira staggered back, running a hand through his hair and muttering under his breath. “Satanael, help me…”
You are on your own, Harbinger, came the dry rumble inside his mind.
Akira had just finished Ann and was about to retreat to the safety of deck chairs when Ryuemi suddenly slid in front of him, arms crossed under her chest.
“Not so fast, leader,” she said with a cocky grin. “You’ve been touching everyone else. It’s only fair we return the favor.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“I should be first,” Yukiko said smoothly, already uncapping a bottle. “I’m the most experienced at massage techniques. It would be… efficient.”
“Efficient, my ass,” Futaba snorted. “I call dibs! He’s my Player One!”
Ann leaned back on her towel, smirking. “No, no, no. If anyone’s going to make Akira squirm, it should be me. Fair’s fair.”
“Excuse me,” Hifumi interjected, serene as ever but with an unmistakable gleam in her eye. “Precision is required. You would all be far too… chaotic.”
Morgane crossed her arms with mock indignation. “Oh, like you wouldn’t go straight for his weak spots.”
“Maybe we should all just take turns,” Kasumi said sweetly.
Akira blinked. “…Wait, what?”
Ren pushed him flat onto his stomach with a shove of alarming authority. “Relax, love. We’ll take very good care of you.”
The first touch was deceptively normal—cool lotion spread across his shoulders. But then nails. Ren’s nails. Long and perfect, raking ever so lightly down his spine in a way that made his whole body jolt.
He bit his lip. Stay calm. Stoic. Unbothered. It’s just sunscreen.
“Mm,” Ren purred above him, “ten out of ten muscle tone. No wonder you can carry all of us at once.”
Ann followed, dragging her nails in lazy spirals across his shoulder blades. “You’re so tense, Akiraaa… Are we making you nervous?”
Hifumi’s hands were feather-light, every press deliberate, like she was moving a shogi piece. “Precision,” she murmured. “Focus.”
Lavenza traced delicate circles along his lower back, whispering, “You must not falter, Trickster.” Her tone was innocent, but the tremor in her voice told him she was enjoying this too much.
Futaba, of course, went straight for chaos, doodling crude shapes with sunscreen before rubbing them in with surprising tenderness. “There. Now you’re branded as ours.”
By the time Makoto leaned down to breathe against his ear, purring, “So warm, Akira-kun… You smell divine,” he was already quivering.
He gripped the edges of the lounger like his life depended on it. Every pass of nails, every brush of fingers left him trembling. His carefully constructed composure cracked with each sigh or murmur above him, until finally, when Yukiko smirked and dragged her nails up his sides, his breath hitched audibly.
The girls all heard it. Like predators catching the first stumble of prey, they descended in laughter, smug smiles, and wicked whispers.
Akira rolled onto his back, face flushed, chest heaving. “...You’re trying to kill me.”
“Kill you?” Ann leaned down, lips hovering just above his. “Oh no, Akira. We’re just… playing.”
Haru’s smirk was razor-sharp. “And you’ll wait until we’re done.”
“Patience, love,” Ren added, brushing a thumb along his jaw. “Good things come to those who endure.”
Twelve pairs of eyes glittered down at him, unified in wicked delight. Akira swallowed hard, every nerve in his body screaming. This is hell. This is heaven. I’m doomed.
The girls took off toward the water in a riot of splashing and laughter, sunscreen gleaming on their skin in the morning sun. Akira followed, carrying himself with as much composure as he could manage after the gauntlet they’d just put him through.
The first cool rush of the ocean against his legs was a blessing. He waded deeper alongside Ren, Makoto, Ryuemi, and Shiho, the five of them soon striking out with strong strokes, cutting further from shore until the shallows gave way to rolling swells. Ren darted ahead like a bright fuchsia fish, challenging him to keep up. Makoto and Shiho paced each other evenly, turning it into a contest of endurance, while Ryuemi tried—and failed—not to get distracted by dunking Akira under whenever he slowed.
Back closer to the beach, things were a little less… competitive. Haru and Hifumi drifted lazily in the shallows, occasionally linking hands so the waves wouldn’t tug them apart. Ann floated on her back, bikini clinging to her curves like a scandal, eyes closed and lips parted in a blissful smile. Kasumi swam little arcs around them, popping up with wet hair plastered to her cheeks, her laughter ringing across the water like bells.
On the sand, Yukiko sat perched cross-legged on a towel, sketchpad already open. Her pencil glided quickly, capturing the scene before her—the curve of Ann’s arching torso, the chaos of Ryuemi shoving Shiho into a wave, the glint of sunlight along Akira’s shoulders as he pushed wet hair from his eyes. Every now and then she tilted her head, biting her lip in concentration before shading in another line.
Not far away, Futaba and Lavenza had taken it upon themselves to start a “shell expedition.” Futaba marched up and down the tide line, her skirt dripping as she bent down, shouting “jackpot!” every time she spotted something colorful half-buried in sand. Lavenza followed with a little woven basket, every movement precise and careful, her expression serene but her eyes bright with the thrill of collecting.
Every so often, Futaba would scamper back toward Yukiko, holding up her latest find like a child demanding praise. “Look at this spiral one! It’s like… an ocean hacker code!” Yukiko would smile softly, promise to sketch it later, and Futaba would dash away again.
Back in the deeper water, Akira found himself dogpiled. Ren clung to his back like an octopus, Shiho grabbed his arm to drag him under, and Ryuemi swam circles around him like a shark waiting to strike.
“You guys are relentless,” he sputtered, shaking Ren off only for her to cling tighter.
“Don’t fight it, Akira,” she whispered in his ear, water dripping from her lips. “Resistance is futile.”
Makoto rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “You’re all acting like children.”
Then Shiho splashed her again, hard, and Makoto’s composure snapped. “Alright, that’s it—!” She lunged at Shiho, the two vanishing under the waves in a blur of limbs.
Akira barely had time to shake Ren off his back before a new wave of laughter carried across the water. Ann, Haru, and Hifumi waded out from the shallows, their hair slick with seawater and sunlight glinting off bare skin.
“Oh, so this is where the fun is,” Ann purred, flicking water at him with a smirk. She dove forward, the splash drenching Akira’s chest as she surfaced in front of him, arms curling around his neck. “Miss me, babe?”
Before he could answer, Haru came up from behind, sliding her hands boldly over his ribs and pressing close. “He looks a little outnumbered already…” she said sweetly, her breath warm against his ear.
“He’ll survive.” Ann’s nails trailed lazily over his shoulders, leaving tingling lines on his wet skin.
Hifumi, blushing furiously but determined, swam to his side and took his free arm. “You should never leave your defenses so open in battle,” she murmured. Her body pressed lightly against his, her fingers curling around his wrist — but her grip lingered longer than any sparring technique would demand.
Akira sucked in a sharp breath as Ren shifted on his back, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “You’re mine, you know,” she whispered against his temple, her voice low and honeyed. “But I don’t mind sharing…”
He nearly lost his balance as Ann slipped lower in the water, her hands smoothing down his chest under the pretense of steadying herself. Haru’s palms flattened against his stomach, her fingers brushing lower before darting away, playful and merciless.
“Girls—” Akira tried, but the protest broke into a strangled groan when Shiho hooked her arm over his shoulder, slick skin sliding against his back. Makoto and Ryuemi joined the swarm, splashing and laughing as if it was still innocent fun — but their touches lingered too long, fingers drifting where they shouldn’t, breath ghosting over his throat.
He was drowning — not in the sea, but in them. Multiple pairs of hands, playful and purposeful, finding every weakness in his resolve. His body betrayed him, heat rising, his pulse hammering as if he’d just swum miles.
“Careful,” Hifumi whispered, cheeks scarlet as she leaned in closer. “You look like you’re about to break formation…”
Akira grit his teeth, barely holding on. “You’re all… evil.”
The girls laughed, a chorus of sweet, wicked amusement. And just when he thought one of them might finally push him over the edge — Ann pressed one last kiss against his jaw, Haru’s hands slipped free, Ren unwrapped her legs, and all at once they pulled back, leaving him swaying in the water, throbbing with need and utterly abandoned.
Ann winked, swimming back toward shore like a very satisfied mermaid. “Come on, girls. Let’s leave our poor boyfriend to cool off…”
Akira stayed where he was as the girls swam away, his body taut with need, the saltwater doing nothing to soothe the fire in his veins. He ducked beneath the waves once, twice, holding his breath and counting seconds, trying to will his body back under control.
By the time he emerged, hair plastered to his forehead and chest heaving, he felt mostly composed again—except for one very obvious problem that refused to be tamed.
The second he waded back toward shore, the giggles started. Ann pressed her hands to her mouth, eyes sparkling with wicked triumph. Futaba nudged Lavenza and whispered something that made them both snort. Ren didn’t even try to hide her smirk; she lounged against Morgane, clearly savoring the view. Haru gave him the sweetest smile imaginable, which only made the flush rise hotter in his cheeks.
Akira sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re all impossible.”
“Mm, but we’re your impossible,” Haru teased, blowing him a kiss.
He shook his head, grabbing his towel and throwing it over his shoulders. “Fine. If you’re done torturing me for the moment, who’s ready for lunch?”
A chorus of cheers answered, and just like that, the flirty chaos shifted into eager motion. Futaba and Lavenza dashed ahead to pull out plates and utensils. Yukiko carefully retrieved her sketchpad from the sand and joined Makoto in arranging the table. Morgane and Ryuemi lugged the cooler closer, while Hifumi and Kasumi ferried condiments from the villa.
Ann and Ren draped themselves over each other dramatically, claiming they were “taste-testers only,” until Shiho and Haru dragged them along to carry platters of side dishes.
Akira took his rightful place behind the grill, flipping sizzling cuts of meat and skewers, the rich scent of char and spices quickly filling the air. Every so often, one of the girls would come by to “check” on him—Ann brushing her hair back with a coy grin, Ren trailing a single nail over his arm, Futaba leaning in close just to snag a sample.
Lunch was lively, loud, and full of clinking glasses and overlapping conversations. Between mouthfuls of perfectly grilled skewers and stolen bites of fruit, the polycule bantered easily, slipping from teasing to tenderness without missing a beat. Akira found himself grinning despite everything, his earlier torment softened by the way their laughter wrapped around him like sunlight.
The post-lunch lull came easily. Plates were pushed aside, and the polycule sprawled across loungers and towels under the umbrellas. The sound of waves and the hiss of cicadas filled the space between soft conversations. Makoto leaned back against Akira’s chest, eyes half-lidded, while Ren stretched out beside them, her hand lazily tracing patterns along his thigh. Haru fed slices of fresh pineapple to a delighted Futaba, who insisted she didn’t like “rabbit food” before opening her mouth obediently. Lavenza sat primly on the edge of her chair, but the tiny smile curving her lips betrayed her contentment.
It might have lasted all afternoon—if not for Ryuemi suddenly bouncing to her feet, clapping her hands. “Alright, enough lounging. Who’s up for beach volleyball?”
Shiho sat up, brushing crumbs of sand from her stomach. Her eyes gleamed. “Oh, you’re on.”
Groans and cheers broke out in equal measure as everyone scrambled up, stretching and dusting off sand. The debate over teams was loud and chaotic, with Futaba insisting on being commentator and Haru volunteering for scorekeeping. Yukiko, sipping from her water bottle, was declared referee by unanimous decree.
Eventually, after much back-and-forth (and a little “persuasive pouting” from certain members), the teams were settled: Shiho, Hifumi, Makoto, Morgane, and Akira were on one team. Ryuemi, Kasumi, Ann, Lavenza, and Ren made up the opposing side. Futaba marched to the middle of the sand, hands cupped around her mouth. “Ladies, gentleman, and Akira—welcome to the battle of the century! Prepare for spikes, sass, and probably a scandal or two!”
Haru rang a little dinner bell she’d conjured from who-knew-where. “Match… start!”
The game erupted with laughter and squeals. Ann and Ren immediately leaned into their “weaponized wardrobe malfunction” strategy—Ren diving for the ball only for a strap to “slip loose,” Ann bending forward dramatically in her barely-there bikini, both of them shooting Akira sultry looks when he inevitably flushed.
Not that the others were innocent. Morgane “accidentally” brushed against Akira’s side when they both lunged for the ball, her smirk daring him to call her out. Hifumi’s stretches between volleys were way too deliberate. Kasumi squeaked whenever Akira spiked near her, cheeks pink, though her wide grin gave away her enjoyment.
Shiho played fiercely, her toned body moving with sharp precision, though even she couldn’t resist smacking Akira’s butt in mock congratulations after a good save. Makoto tried valiantly to keep things above board, but the way she flushed whenever Akira’s hands brushed hers during a pass told its own story.
Meanwhile, Futaba’s commentary grew more outrageous by the minute:
“Ren with the dive—and oh no, another strap betrayal! What a tragedy!”
“Ann’s got the ball! Look at that form! Look at that thong! Akira, are you even still breathing?”
“Shiho spikes it! Akira blocks! Morgane collides—was that a grope? VAR check, Yukiko?”
Yukiko, deadpan as always, simply raised her flag. “Play on.”
The game had long since stopped being about points. Every serve was met with dramatic dives, every spike followed by laughter, and every “accidental brush” seemed more deliberate than the last. Akira managed to keep a straight face—mostly—but he was fighting a losing battle against twelve different brands of chaos.
It finally unraveled when Ann and Ren decided to go for a double-team dive, only to crash spectacularly into Akira’s side. He stumbled backward, catching both girls with surprising grace… only to be bowled over by Shiho’s overzealous spike attempt a second later.
That was all the opening the others needed.
“Dogpile on the leader!” Ryuemi shouted gleefully.
Haru, Kasumi, Makoto, Morgane, and Hifumi lunged in next, laughing as they piled onto the tangle of limbs. Yukiko sighed, set down her referee’s flag with mock solemnity, and dove in after them. Even Lavenza, with serene dignity, joined the mess, perching herself neatly on top of Haru’s back.
At the very bottom, Akira wheezed, half-buried under sand and giggling girlfriends. “You know… I think I liked volleyball better when it was just about the ball—”
“Victory achieved!” Futaba announced, sprinting in from the sideline. Without hesitation, she climbed up the heap of wriggling bodies and planted herself triumphantly on the very top. “Bow before your queen!”
“You weren’t even playing!” Kasumi laughed, squirming under Makoto’s arm.
“Details, details.” Futaba flicked her hair dramatically. “I am the winner because I said so.”
The pile dissolved into shrieks of laughter, mock protests, and another round of tickle attacks that left everyone breathless and sandy.
From there, the afternoon became a blur of playful chaos—splash fights in the shallows, stolen kisses beneath umbrellas, attempts at building sandcastles that inevitably collapsed when someone “accidentally” kicked them over.
As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, the energy softened. Towels and loungers became gathering spots again. Golden light bathed the beach, turning hair into halos and skin into molten bronze. The laughter quieted to murmurs and the occasional sigh of contentment as they all leaned into one another, watching the waves roll in.
The last of the light clung stubbornly to the horizon as the group finally started to wind down. Towels were shaken free of sand, beach chairs folded, and the remnants of their chaotic game stuffed haphazardly back into bags. Even now, the laughter hadn’t fully faded—just softened, worn warm and comfortable by the setting sun.
“Alright,” Makoto said, brushing sand from her legs as she hefted a bag over her shoulder. “Let’s head back. If we want dinner at a reasonable time, we’d better get moving.”
The villa’s lights flickered invitingly in the distance as they made their way up the sandy path. By the time they set everything down inside, the air was already buzzing again—not with volleyball bravado this time, but something quieter, heavier with anticipation.
Ann stretched, her ponytail swinging as she glanced toward the hall. “We should rinse off before dinner,” she said casually, her smile hiding a glint of mischief. “Sand and salt everywhere.”
“Good call,” Shiho agreed, tugging lightly at her sandy tank top. “I feel like half the beach is stuck to me.”
One by one, the girls began drifting indoors towards the large, luxurious bathroom—the kind that came with a villa meant for indulgence. Yukiko slipped her hair free from its tie. Kasumi hummed as she padded across the floor barefoot. Even Futaba, muttering something about “systematic sand infiltration,” trailed after the others.
Akira bent to pick up a stray beach towel, only to feel a gentle tug at his hand.
Ann. She leaned close, her perfume still tinged with salt air and sun lotion, her lips brushing just against his ear as she whispered, “You know… it’s big enough to fit us all.”
For the final time that day, Akira’s composure cracked. His storm-grey eyes widened, just slightly, betraying the flash of surprise—and the rush of heat that followed. Ann only smirked, tugging him forward with deliberate slowness, her voice barely more than a purr. “Time to get rewarded, babe.”
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The bathroom filled with steam almost instantly. The shower’s wide rainfall head hissed to life, water pattering against tile, carrying away the salt, sand, and hours of tension.
Akira barely had time to register the warmth before hands and laughter closed in around him.
Ann tugged at his wrist, guiding him beneath the spray. “There,” she said softly, her blue eyes glinting. “Right where you belong.”
Ren slid in behind him, pressing close enough that he felt the heat of her body even through the water. Her nails grazed his shoulder blades in a line that sent his muscles shivering. “Relax,” she murmured, her voice a velvet promise. “We’ve been waiting for this just as much as you.”
The others crowded in, a flurry of limbs and smiles, shampoo bottles being passed around with mock seriousness before being set aside entirely in favor of touches that lingered, lips that teased.
Kasumi pressed herself against Ann’s side, laughter spilling into a kiss that was equal parts hungry and sweet. Ann slid a hand down Kasumi’s back, tugging at the hem of her bikini bottoms until Kasumi gasped against her lips. “Don’t be shy,” Ann teased, her tongue brushing lightly over Kasumi’s lower lip before slipping deeper. Kasumi whimpered and arched closer, her hands clutching at Ann’s waist as if to steady herself against the flood of sensation.
Hifumi tilted her head, letting Makoto run soapy hands down her arms in long, reverent strokes. “You’re thorough,” Hifumi teased, but her voice broke when Makoto’s fingers slid beneath the swell of her breasts, slick and deliberate. Hifumi shivered under the touch, her own hands finding Makoto’s hips. Makoto leaned in, kissing her deeply, their bodies pressed tight together, water cascading over their curves.
Ryuemi and Shiho cornered Akira first, water slicking their hair to their cheeks as they pressed against him from either side. Shiho’s lips brushed his jawline while Ryuemi’s hands explored his chest with playful insistence. Shiho’s tongue traced up to his ear, whispering, “You’ve been so patient…” before biting softly at his lobe. Ryuemi slid lower, her nails scraping gently down his abs, fingers hovering at the edge of his swim trunks before slipping inside. Akira groaned, his hands gripping their waists as if to anchor himself.
Haru and Yukiko drew each other close beneath the water, one pale hand tangled in russet curls, the other tracing the line of a spine with deliberate care. Haru nipped at Yukiko’s lip before soothing it with her tongue, her thigh sliding between Yukiko’s legs. Yukiko’s usually composed face melted into pure want as Haru rocked against her, the two of them moaning into each other’s mouths.
Futaba and Lavenza, mischievous as ever, teamed up—sliding hands down Akira’s back in tandem, giggling when his body tensed helplessly. “See?” Futaba teased, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing the side of his neck, “all those times we said we’d break him? Mission accomplished.” Lavenza, her expression unreadably serene, stroked lower, her palm cupping him firmly through his trunks until Akira’s hips jerked forward. Futaba laughed breathlessly, grinding herself against his thigh as Lavenza’s hand slid into his waistband to stroke him directly.
Ann, never one to be outdone, pulled Kasumi along with her as she approached. “Move over,” she purred, pressing her breasts against Akira’s chest, Kasumi blushing furiously but following her lead. Ann captured Akira’s mouth in a fierce kiss, her tongue claiming his, while Kasumi shyly kissed at his collarbone, her fingers tracing trembling patterns down his stomach until she brushed against Lavenza’s hand and gasped.
Steam still hung thick in the air when Akira suddenly straightened. He didn’t say a word at first — just turned toward the door and walked out of the bathroom, water still dripping down his body. The girls exchanged confused looks, their flushed faces mirroring the same question: Had they pushed him too far?
But then he paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. His storm-grey eyes burned with naked desire, his voice a low growl that made every one of them shiver. “We need more space.”
That single command flipped the atmosphere from playful indulgence to raw hunger. Ann let out a breathless laugh, tugging Ren by the hand. “Oh, I’m so in…” she whispered, already moving. Ren smirked, fire in her eyes, and the two of them followed Akira into the villa’s front room.
By the time the others arrived, the sight that greeted them was enough to rob the air from their lungs. Ann and Ren were already on their knees before him, dripping hair clinging to bare shoulders, lips parted with anticipation. Their gazes never left Akira’s body as he stood over them, looming like a dark god finally claiming what had always been his.
Ann looked up first, voice husky with reverence. “You’ve been patient with us all day…” Her hands smoothed over his thighs as she licked her lips. “Let us return the favor.”
Ren leaned in close beside her, nails digging teasingly into his skin as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Together.”
Akira groaned softly as twin sets of fingers traced the length of his legs. He felt the heat radiating from both women, their breaths warm against his skin. Ren's grip on his shaft was firm yet gentle, her strokes slow and deliberate. She gazed up at him through lowered lashes, her mouth curling into a sultry smile. "So big," she murmured appreciatively. "And all ours." Ann mirrored Ren's grin, mischief dancing in her eyes. She reached between Akira's legs, cupping his heavy sac gently. Her touch was feather-light at first, her fingertips barely grazing him. Then, she curled her fingers around him, massaging softly. As Akira moaned, she let her nails drag lightly along the sensitive flesh, eliciting another shudder from him.
Ren's eyes flicked up to meet Akira's gaze, holding it for a charged moment before she slowly leaned forward. Her pink tongue peeked out, wetting her lips once more before she swirled it around the head of his cock. Akira's hips jerked involuntarily as Ren took him fully into her mouth, sucking gently and humming softly in pleasure. At the same time, Ann began licking up the underside of Akira's shaft, her tongue tracing patterns along his veined length. She moaned softly as she tasted him, the vibrations sending shivers through Akira's body. He groaned loudly, tangling his fingers in their hair as they worked together to drive him wild. Behind them, the rest of the harem gathered, watching with hungry eyes.
Morgane approached first, her blue eyes filled with lust and admiration. She knelt behind Ann, pressing herself against the other woman's back, her arms wrapping around Ann's waist. She kissed the side of Ann's neck tenderly as she placed her hands over Ann's, guiding her movements on Akira's balls. Beside them, Ryuemi crouched, placing a soft kiss on Ren's cheek before turning her attention to Akira.
Ann slowly pulled away from Akira, her lips glistening with saliva and pre-cum. She turned towards Morgane, her eyes locked onto the ravenette's full, pouty lips. A wicked grin spread across Ann's face as she pressed herself against Morgane, their mouths meeting in a fierce, hungry kiss. Their tongues clashed passionately, exploring each other's mouths with fervent abandon. She gasped as Morgane nipped at her lower lip, then soothed the sting with a slow swipe of her tongue. The Quebecqouise's hands roamed over Ann's body, squeezing and kneading her curves possessively. With a sudden surge of strength, Morgane flipped Ann onto her back, settling atop her and pinning her wrists above her head. Their mouths crashed together again, teeth clashing as their passion intensified.
As Morgane trailed kisses down Ann's neck, she could feel the other woman's pulse quicken beneath her lips. She smiled softly against Ann's skin, her breath hot and teasing as she moved lower, nibbling gently at her collarbone. Ann gasped and arched her back, pressing herself more firmly against Morgane, who continued her exploration, her lips and tongue leaving a wet path across Ann's chest.
Shiho knelt beside Morgane, her dark eyes gleaming with excitement. She leaned in close, her breath mingling with Morgane's as they both focused on Ann's heaving breasts. Shiho's hands cupped one mound while Morgane did the same to the other, their thumbs brushing over Ann's stiff nipples simultaneously. Ann bucked her hips, a guttural moan escaping her throat as the two women sucked her nipples into their mouths.
Morgane and Shiho exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between them. They began to suck harder, their mouths working in tandem to pull on Ann's nipples. Ann cried out, her body writhing beneath them as waves of pleasure coursed through her. "Harder..." she begged, her voice hoarse with desire.
Kasumi's tongue flicked out, tasting the sweet nectar that dripped from Futaba's folds. She moaned softly, savoring the flavor as she lapped at the other woman's delicate petals. Futaba shivered, her hips jerking slightly at the contact. Encouraged, Kasumi slid her hands under Futaba's ass, gripping tightly as she brought her face closer, devouring Futaba's sex with eager enthusiasm.
Futaba moaned, glancing up at Hifumi, who sat astride her face, grinding herself against Futaba's willing mouth. Hifumi's head was thrown back in ecstasy, loud moans spilling from her lips. Futaba's hips buckled, pushing herself harder against Kasumi's face as she felt Hifumi's juices coat her chin.
Hifumi's breathing grew ragged as she ground harder against Futaba's face, chasing her release. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Lavenza standing nearby, her platinum hair cascading over her shoulders, her golden eyes locked on Hifumi intently.
Lavenza's hand was pressed between her thighs, rubbing herself, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming in soft pants as she watched the three women pleasuring each other. Hifumi met Lavenza's gaze, a wicked grin spreading across her face. She crooked her finger at Lavenza, beckoning her closer. "Come here, love," she purred, her voice thick with desire. "Join us."
Lavenza hesitated, then stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest as Hifumi reached out for her, pulling her into a searing kiss. Lips parted eagerly, tongues dancing together as they explored each other's mouths. When they broke apart, both women were breathless. Hifumi grinned at Lavenza, her thumb tracing the other woman's swollen bottom lip. "What do you want, love?"
Lavenza bit her lip nervously, her eyes flickering briefly to the others in the room before returning to the former shogi prodigy's intense gaze. "I-I want..." she stammered softly, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red. She hesitated, then whispered, "I want to taste you." Hifumi's eyes darkened with desire, and she slowly peeled herself away from Futaba's face, her body trembling with anticipation. She lay down on her back beside Futaba, propping herself up on one elbow. With her free hand, she grasped her ankle and pulled her leg wide, opening herself completely. Her dark eyes locked onto Lavenza's, holding her gaze steadily as she awaited the blonde woman's next move.
"Come here, love," Hifumi said softly. "Taste me." Lavenza hesitantly crawled towards Hifumi, her eyes fixed on the beautiful brunette sprawled out before her. She knelt between her spread legs, taking in the sight of Hifumi's glistening folds. Lavenza leaned forward, her tongue tentatively flicking out to brush against Hifumi's heated flesh. Hifumi gasped, her back arching slightly at the contact. "Yes, love," she moaned, encouraging Lavenza further. Her hips rolled upwards, meeting the smaller woman's eager mouth. Hifumi's free hand found its way to Lavenza's long hair, threading through it gently as she encouraged the blonde woman to explore her. Lavenza's tongue delved deeper, finding Hifumi's hidden pearl and circling it eagerly. Hifumi moaned louder, her hips bucking wildly as waves of pleasure washed over her. "That's it, love," she gasped, her breath coming in ragged pants. "Just like that."
Lavenza's moans joined Hifumi's, vibrating against her wetness as she picked up the pace. The room filled with an erotic symphony of sighs and gasps as Futaba and Kasumi scissored beside them, their bodies slick with sweat as they rubbed their pussies together. Futaba's head was thrown back, her moans deep and guttural as she gripped the gymnast's hips tightly.
Futaba's eyes met Hifumi's, a mischievous sparkle in her gaze. "Scissor with her," Futaba whispered, a playful challenge in her voice. "Let's all cum together..." Hifumi grinned widely, her dark eyes glittering with excitement. She pulled Lavenza up, their bodies sliding together smoothly as she pressed her lips to Lavenza's ear. "Did you hear that, love?" Hifumi murmured huskily. "She wants us to play."
Hifumi rolled onto her side, facing Lavenza. Their legs intertwined effortlessly, creating a delicate dance of limbs as they settled into position. Hifumi's hand rested on Lavenza's hip, guiding her movements as they mirrored Futaba and Kasumi's rhythmic scissoring. Moans and gasps filled the air as their bodies moved in unison.
The tempo shifted, accelerating like a heartbeat during a sprint. Hifumi and Lavenza's bodies rubbed together faster, their wetness coating each other's thighs as they scissored eagerly. Futaba and Kasumi matched their rhythm, their movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. Wet sounds filled the air, mixing with moans and gasps as the four women chased their collective orgasm.
Hifumi's breath hitched as she felt Lavenza's hardening nub press against her own clit, the friction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through her body. She moaned softly, her hips bucking involuntarily as she leaned forward to meet Lavenza's hungry mouth with her own. Their tongues danced together, exploring each other's mouths eagerly as they writhed against one another. Futaba and Kasumi, meanwhile, were lost in their own world of passion.
There was a chorus of cries and moans as the four women reached their peak. Futaba came first, her body tensing as she ground against Kasumi, her orgasm washing over her in waves. The sight pushed Kasumi over the edge, her own climax rippling through her as she cried out. The other pair followed closely behind, Hifumi’s hips bucking wildly against Lavenza as they came undone together. As the final tremors of their orgasms subsided, the four women collapsed into a sated heap, their bodies entwined in a sweaty, breathless tangle. Hifumi and Lavenza shared a lingering kiss, their lips brushing tenderly against each other as they basked in the afterglow of their passion. Beside them, Futaba and Kasumi exchanged soft smiles, their fingers intertwining as they nuzzled close together.
As they caught their breath, the four women lifted their heads to survey the rest of the room. Their gazes landed on Makoto, who was on all fours, her round ass thrust high in the air. Behind her, Haru stood, hand raised as she delivered a firm smack to Makoto's cheek. Makoto yelped playfully, looking back at Haru with lust-filled eyes. "Again," she begged, wiggling her hips enticingly.
Haru obliged, her dominant nature shining through as she delivered another sharp smack to Makoto's upturned bottom. The sound echoed through the room, mingling with the moans and sighs of pleasure from the other couples. "You know what happens to naughty girls, don't you?" Haru purred, her voice low and commanding. Makoto whimpered softly, nodding eagerly as she wiggled her hips enticingly.
Yukiko and Ryuemi, positioned nearby, had been locked in a passionate embrace since the group activities started. Now, they were in a 69 position, their naked bodies intertwined on the plush sheets and bedding of the nest. Yukiko's long black hair cascaded down her back as she trailed kisses along Ryuemi's inner thigh, teasing her with gentle nibbles. Ryuemi responded by wrapping her arms around Yukiko's hips, drawing her closer.
Ryuemi plunged her tongue into Yukiko's sopping wet pussy, moaning softly as she tasted her lover's sweet nectar. At the same time, Yukiko's tongue and fingers delved deep inside Ryuemi, bringing her own pleasure to new heights. The two women moved in perfect sync, their bodies pressing together as they devoured each other.
A loud moan interrupted the various scenes playing out across the room. All eyes turned to see Ren pressed against the wall, her hands braced against the cool surface as Akira drove into her from behind. Her long dark hair cascaded down her back, framing her flushed face as she threw her head back, crying out in ecstasy.
Akira's grip on Ren's hips tightened as he deepened his thrusts, his muscles flexing with each powerful movement. Ren's breasts brushed against the wall, the rough surface teasing her sensitive nipples. She pushed back against him, matching his rhythm as their bodies slapped together in a primal dance. Akira leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back as he whispered husky words of encouragement in her ear.
Ren let out a scream as her orgasm tore through her, her body convulsing with the force of it. Akira held her steady, his strong arms wrapped around her waist as she rode out the waves of pleasure crashing over her. As her breathing returned to normal, Akira slowly slid out of her, his shaft glistening with her juices. He carried her towards the sofa, where she collapsed softly, her body limp and sated.
Morgane, already sprawled comfortably on the sofa, smiled softly as she took in Ren's flushed cheeks and glazed eyes. "Come here, love," she said gently, patting the cushion beside her. Akira carefully lowered Ren onto the sofa, helping her settle against Morgane's warm body, who wrapped her arm around Ren's shoulders, pulling her close. Ren sighed contentedly, leaning into Morgane's touch as Akira stepped back, giving them space. Morgane pressed a soft kiss to Ren's temple, feeling her relax even further into the embrace. Akira smiled down at them, his heart swelling with affection for these two incredible women who had become such an important part of his life.
He turned away from the cozy scene on the sofa, his gaze sweeping across the room until it landed on Makoto. She was still on all fours, her ass red and rosy from Haru's enthusiastic spanking. Akira's smile widened as he exchanged a knowing glance with Haru, seeing the spark of mischief in her eyes. He approached the pair, his steps purposeful yet light. "Having fun, kitten?" Akira asked, his voice low and teasing.
Makoto shivered slightly at Akira's words, glancing back at him with eager anticipation. Haru giggled, a wicked gleam in her eye as she watched Akira approach. Leaning down, she whispered something filthy and demeaning in Makoto's ear, causing the submissive woman to blush deeply and bite her lip in excitement. "Yes, Mistress," Makoto breathed, her voice barely audible.
Makoto wagged her ass enticingly, looking over her shoulder at Akira with lust-filled eyes. "Mistress Haru says I should let you use me as you see fit," she purred, her voice dripping with desire. Akira laughed softly, his cock throbbing at the sight before him. He knelt behind Makoto, running his hands over her reddened cheeks, squeezing gently. "And what do you think about that, kitten?"
Makoto shuddered at Akira's touch, her breath hitching in her throat as she felt the heat of his arousal press against her slick folds. "I want you to treat me like an object..." she moaned softly, her voice trembling with need. "... use me however you please, I'm ready..." Akira groaned at her words, his cock twitching against her entrance.
Makoto whispered pleadingly, "Please, Akira. Please take me. Use my body for your pleasure." Akira growled softly, positioning himself at her entrance. He leaned forward, trailing kisses up her spine as he began to push into her tight warmth. Makoto gasped, arching her back to accommodate him, her nails digging into the rug beneath her. "Yes," she hissed, pushing back against him, urging him deeper.
"Fill her up, Akira. Make her feel every inch of you," Haru whispered encouragingly, her hand stroking gently down Makoto's back as Akira began to move within her. Akira groaned, his hips rolling forward as he sank deeper into Makoto's welcoming heat. His hands gripped her hips tightly, holding her steady as he set a slow, deliberate pace, wanting to savor every sensation.
Makoto let out a low moan as Akira began to fuck her, his cock filling her completely with each thrust. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the air, mixing with the moans and groans of pleasure from the others in the room. Haru giggled again, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she laid down in front of Makoto, spreading her legs wide. Her bush was wet and glistening, begging for a touch.
Haru reached forward, her fingers tangling in Makoto's hair as she pulled her forward. "Lick," she ordered sharply, grinding Makoto's face against her swollen sex. Makoto eagerly complied, her tongue darting out to taste Haru's juices. She lapped at Haru's folds, moaning softly as the flavors exploded on her tongue.
Haru's breath hitched as Makoto's tongue expertly circled her clit. Akira continued to pound into Makoto from behind, his grip tightening on her hips as he neared his climax. Haru noticed the change in Akira's movements, sensing he was on the edge. With a wicked grin, she commanded, "Akira, pull out." Akira frowned slightly, confusion flickering across his face.
Haru's smirk widened as she pushed Makoto's face away from her throbbing pussy. "Don't finish in her... Finish in me," she commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. Makoto whined softly, clearly disappointed, but did not protest. Akira grinned widely, understanding Haru's intentions perfectly. He withdrew from Makoto's gripping heat, his cock slick and glistening with her arousal.
Haru guided Akira toward her, wrapping her legs around his waist as he positioned himself at her entrance. She let out a loud moan as he entered her, his thickness stretching her deliciously. Her fingers dug into his back, urging him on as he began to pound into her hard and fast. Their bodies moved together in perfect harmony, sweat mingling with their shared arousal.
As Akira drove into Haru with relentless fervor, the room filled with the sounds of their passion - moans, gasps, and the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh. Their breaths came in ragged syncopation, hearts pounding in unison as they chased the peak of their ecstasy. Akira's muscles tensed, his body coiled tight like a spring, poised to release its pent-up energy. With a final, powerful thrust, Akira buried himself fully inside Haru, letting out a primal roar as he erupted, pumping his hot seed deep into her welcoming depths. Haru cried out, her back arching as her own orgasm crashed over her, waves of pleasure radiating outward from her core. Akira collapsed atop her, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath.
After a minute or two, Akira slowly slipped out of Haru, feeling her inner walls clutch at him one last time as if reluctant to let go. He rolled off to the side, collapsing onto the plush carpet beside her, his chest rising and falling rapidly with exertion. Haru lay there for a moment, catching her breath, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. Then, turning her head towards Makoto, she issued her command.
"Clean us up now... use your slutty mouth," Haru said. There was a hint of playfulness in her voice, but also an undeniable authority. Makoto hesitated for a moment, a mixture of emotions playing across her face. She looked at Akira, who was watching her with intense eyes, and then back at Haru, whose gaze was commanding yet tender. Slowly, she nodded, accepting her role in this erotic dance.
Makoto crawled forward on her hands and knees, her eyes locked on the glistening evidence of their passion. She started with Haru, tentatively licking at the sensitive folds, tasting the mixture of her arousal and Akira's essence. Haru sighed contentedly, her fingers threading through Makoto's hair, guiding her movements.
Lavenza approached gracefully, her bare feet padding softly on the carpet. She knelt beside Akira, her long hair cascading over one shoulder as she leaned down. "I will clean Akira," she said softly, yet decisively. Akira looked at her, his eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction and lust. He nodded, sighing deeply as he felt her warm, wet mouth envelop him, her tongue swirling around his sensitive tip. She took him deeper, her head bobbing gently as she sucked him clean. Akira moaned softly, his hand coming up to tangle in her hair, not guiding her so much as just enjoying the sensation of being close to her. Meanwhile, Haru's fingers tightened in Makoto's hair, pressing her closer as she murmured, "That's right, little slut. Clean me good."
Lavenza's ministrations were expert and gentle, her soft lips and teasing tongue coaxing life back into Akira's spent member. She could feel him growing thicker and harder under her touch, and a small smile played on her lips as she heard his breathing become more ragged. When he was fully erect once more, she released him with a soft 'pop,' looking up at him with a sultry gleam in her eye. She rose up on her knees, straddling Akira's hips. She reached down between them, taking his length in her hand and positioning it at her entrance. With a slow, deliberate movement, she lowered herself onto him, taking him deep inside her with a soft sigh of pleasure. Akira groaned, his hands coming up to grasp her waist, helping to guide her movements as she began to ride him.
Lavenza began to move with a slow, intimate rhythm, her hips rolling sensually against Akira's. Each downward motion brought a soft gasp from her lips, her eyes fluttering closed as she reveled in the feeling of him filling her completely. Akira matched her pace, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing gently over her nipples.
Lavenza gasped softly as she felt another presence behind her, hands gently caressing her back. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Futaba grinning at her, her eyes bright with desire. Leaning back, Lavenza pulled Futaba into a deep kiss, their tongues dancing together as they explored each other's mouths.
Ryuemi watched the scene unfolding before her, her own desires stirring within her. She moved closer, her lithe form pressing against Akira's side as she whispered in his ear, "May I?" At his eager nod, she swung one leg over his head, straddling him as she lowered herself onto his waiting mouth.
Akira's tongue darted out, flicking lightly over Ryuemi's clit. She shuddered above him, her breath hitching in anticipation. He teased her mercilessly, alternating between gentle laps and playful nibbles, never quite giving her the pressure she craved, until she couldn't take the teasing anymore; she needed more. Ryuemi ground her hips down onto Akira's mouth, demanding more pressure. He complied with a smile, sucking her clit into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she rode his face, chasing her release.
Futaba, not wanting to be left out, pressed herself against Lavenza's back, her hands roaming freely over Lavenza's body. She kissed Lavenza's neck, her teeth grazing the delicate skin. Lavenza shivered, her movements becoming more urgent as she rode Akira faster. Futaba reached around, finding Lavenza's clit and rubbing it in small circles, making Lavenza cry out. She threw her head back, resting it on Futaba's shoulder as she ground harder against Akira, seeking more friction. The room echoed with the sound of their passion, moans and cries intermingling with the slapping of flesh against flesh.
Lavenza's body tensed, her inner muscles clenching around Akira as her orgasm washed over her. "Akiral!" she screamed, her nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. As her tremors subsided, she slid off Akira, leaving a trail of moisture on his shaft. Futaba wasted no time, positioning herself above Akira and sinking down onto his cock.
Akira groaned as Futaba enveloped him, her warmth gripping him tightly. He bucked his hips upward, driving himself deeper into her as she began to ride him. Ryuemi, still trembling from her own release, moved down Akira's body, kissing and nipping at his skin as she went. She positioned herself between Akira and Futaba, her tongue finding Futaba's clit as she began to lap at it.
Akira's world exploded in a kaleidoscope of sensations as Futaba rode him hard, her body slick with sweat and her breath coming in short gasps. Ryuemi's tongue worked magic on Futaba's clit, drawing whimpers and moans from both of them. Akira reached up, cupping Futaba's breasts, his thumbs circling her stiffened nipples. Futaba leaned into his touch, grinding down on him with abandon.
As Ryuemi continued to lick and suck on Futaba's clit, she suddenly felt a cool draft against her bottom. Two hands gently squeezed and spread her cheeks apart, exposing her most private area. A wet fingertip began to trace slow circles around her puckered hole, making Ryuemi shudder with a mix of apprehension and excitement. Shiho and Ann exchanged a glance, both feeling a thrill at the sight before them. They had been watching the others for a while, their bodies responding to the heated display. Now, seeing Ryuemi exposed like this, they knew they couldn't resist joining in. Shiho leaned down, replacing her finger with her tongue, swirling it around Ryuemi's tight bud. Ryuemi gasped, arching her back as she pushed against Shiho's mouth.
Shiho pulled away, a wicked smile playing on her lips as she gave Ryuemi's cheek a light slap. Ann quickly took her place, dipping her head low to press her mouth against Ryuemi's tight rosebud. "Does that feel good, babe?" she cooed, her voice husky with desire. Ryuemi pushed back eagerly, craving more of the sensation.
Ann's tongue probed gently, teasing Ryuemi's tight opening. Ryuemi moaned against Futaba's mound, the vibrations causing Futaba to cry out as her own orgasm built. Akira grunted, his hips bucking wildly as he neared his own peak.
Futaba felt the first spasms signally Akira's impending release hit her inner walls, and with a final cry, she slid off his cock, joining the others gathered around him. Ryuemi, Shiho, and Ann pressed close, their faces mere inches from the tip of his throbbing member. "Cum for us," Ryuemi purred, her eyes locked on his as she pumped his slick manhood. "Cover our faces with your seed." Akira groaned, his body tensing as he gave in to the demand.
The first rope of Akira's release shot forth, landing squarely on Ryuemi's upturned face. She gasped, surprised but pleased by the warm splash coating her cheek. Shiho and Ann joined in, their tongues darting out to catch what they could of his offering. Futaba, not wanting to miss out, pressed her face close to Akira's cock, feeling its heat against her skin as it pulsed with each powerful jet.
Ann giggled as a particularly strong spurt caught her directly on the lips, and she playfully licked it away. Shiho, meanwhile, wrapped her hand around Akira's shaft, stroking him gently as he continued to pulse. Ryuemi leaned in, her tongue flicking out to taste the salty essence that coated her face, her eyes locked on Akira's with a look of pure desire.
Akira panted, his body shuddering with the intensity of his release. The four girls surrounding him began to lick and kiss the cum from each other's faces, sharing the salty sweetness between them. Their tongues danced together, tasting and teasing as they cleaned one another. Akira watched, mesmerized by the sight, his breath slowly returning to normal.
"Our turn now, sweetheart." Akira turned his head towards the sultry voice. Standing before him were Yukiko, Hifumi, and Kasumi, their eyes gleaming with hunger and desire. He smiled, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he drank in the sight of them. Yukiko stepped forward first, her long black hair cascading down her back as she knelt beside Akira.
Yukiko grasped Akira's cock firmly, her slender fingers cool against his warmth. She leaned down, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss as she stroked him gently, coaxing him back to hardness. "I want you to take me slowly," she whispered against his lips, her breath hot and enticing. Akira groaned softly, his hips lifting to meet her touch.
Yukiko eased herself down onto the plush bedding, her body stretching out gracefully beneath Akira. Her hand continued to stroke him gently, coaxing life back into his length. With her free hand, she traced lazy patterns along her body, pausing to cup her breast briefly before sliding lower, teasing her inner thigh. Her voice was soft and sultry as she spoke, "Come here, my love... I need you inside me."
Akira leaned down, his lips brushing against Yukiko's ear as he whispered her name, "Yukiko." His voice was husky with desire, sending shivers down her spine. She sighed softly, her grip tightening on his cock as she guided him towards her entrance. He sank into her slowly, inch by delicious inch, until he was fully sheathed within her warmth. Yukiko gazed up at Akira, her dark eyes filled with warmth and affection. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as she arched into his thrusts. "That's it... slow and deep... take your time," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Akira complied, moving leisurely within her, savoring the feel of her body enveloping him.
Kasumi and Hifumi knelt beside them, their hands exploring each other's bodies as they watched Akira move within Yukiko. Kasumi leaned in, her lips brushing against Yukiko's as she whispered, "Let us help you." Her hand trailed down Yukiko's stomach, slipping between her thighs to find the bundle of nerves hidden there.
Hifumi shifted behind Akira, pressing her ample curves against his back. Her breasts flattened against his muscles as she rubbed herself against him, eliciting a low groan from Akira. Her nails traced light patterns down his spine, making him shudder with pleasure. She leaned in close, her breath hot on his ear as she whispered encouragingly, "That's it, darling... make her feel it."
Hifumi trailed her fingertips down Akira's jawline, turning his head gently so she could claim his mouth in a passionate kiss. Her tongue darted out, teasing the seam of his lips until he opened for her, allowing her to explore his mouth with slow, sensual strokes. Meanwhile, Kasumi's fingers danced over Yukiko's sensitive flesh, circling and pressing rhythmically, coaxing soft cries from her throat. Hifumi nipped lightly at Akira's lower lip, drawing a low growl from deep in his chest. She smirked against his mouth, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she pulled back slightly. "Don't stop, my love," she murmured, her voice like velvet. Akira obeyed, resuming his slow, deliberate thrusts into Yukiko's welcoming heat.
Kasumi slipped in front of Akira, her petite frame fitting perfectly against his larger one. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a tender kiss. Behind him, Hifumi released a soft sigh as she moved away from Akira, settling instead beside Yukiko. Leaning down, she captured Yukiko's lips in a searing kiss, their tongues dancing together as Akira continued to move slowly within her.
As Akira and Kasumi kissed, he could feel Yukiko's inner walls beginning to flutter around him, signaling her impending release. With a final thrust, he buried himself deeply within her, grinding his pelvis against hers as she cried out softly. Yukiko trembled beneath Akira, her body convulsing gently as waves of pleasure washed over her. Soft whimpers escaped her lips, muffled by Hifumi's insistent kiss. Her legs shook, wrapping tightly around Akira's waist as she held him deep inside her, riding out the gentle storm that threatened to consume her. Her fingers dug into Hifumi's hair, pulling her closer as she moaned softly into her mouth.
Akira slowly pulled out of Yukiko, leaving her panting and flushed. He turned his attention to Kasumi, deepening their kiss as he pressed himself against her. She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Me next?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Akira nodded, unable to resist her charms.
Kasumi pushed gently against Akira's chest, urging him to sit back on his heels. Once he was settled, she climbed onto his lap, straddling him with her lithe legs. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a fierce kiss as she nipped playfully at his jaw. "Pick me up," she murmured against his skin, her voice husky with desire. Akira obliged, standing smoothly and cradling Kasumi in his strong arms.
Kasumi grinned wickedly as Akira lifted her effortlessly, her arms snaking around his neck for support. She reached down, gripping his thick shaft firmly and positioning him at her slick entrance. Slowly, she began to descend, her hips rolling sensually as she took him inch by delicious inch. Akira let out a low groan as Kasumi's tight, wet heat enveloped him. Her movements were fluid and graceful, her body undulating in his arms as she worked more of him inside her. He held her steady, letting her set the pace even as he yearned to drive upwards into her welcoming body. When she had taken all of him, Kasumi paused, her forehead resting against Akira's as she caught her breath.
Kasumi looked up at Akira, her eyes filled with lust and desire. "Wreck me, babe," she panted breathlessly, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "Don't put me down until I cum all over you." Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as she ground against him, her hips rotating seductively. Akira's grin was wolfish as he claimed Kasumi's mouth in a fierce, demanding kiss. His hands gripped her ass possessively, holding her up effortlessly as he began to move. He withdrew slowly, almost completely exiting her before slamming back home with force. Kasumi gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss as she threw her head back. Her body jolted with each powerful thrust, her tight channel gripping him like a vice.
The room echoed with the sounds of Kasumi's moans and Akira's primal groans, a symphony of raw desire playing out between them. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, sweat-slicked skin sliding against each other as Akira drove into Kasumi relentlessly. Despite her earlier request for roughness, he tempered his thrusts, ensuring not to hurt her delicate form. Kasumi clung to Akira, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as he continued to pound into her. Her nails dug into his shoulders, holding on for dear life as the pressure built within her. Suddenly, her body tensed, her inner muscles clamping down on Akira's length as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. She threw her head back, crying out loudly as her climax ripped through her.
Her juices flooded out of her, coating Akira's pelvis and dripping down his thighs. Kasumi bit down on his shoulder, muffling her scream as she rode out the intense waves of ecstasy coursing through her. Akira held her tightly, his thrusts slowing but not stopping as he felt her body convulse around him. When her orgasm finally subsided, Kasumi collapsed against him, her breath coming in short pants.
Akira gently lowered Kasumi to the floor, her legs shaking slightly as she tried to regain her footing. He steadied her with a firm grip on her waist, ensuring she was stable before releasing her. As he turned away, Hifumi reached out and grabbed his hand, tugging him back towards her. She gave him a sultry smile, her eyes dark with desire as she pulled him down for a scorching kiss.
Hifumi's eyes sparkled with amusement as she broke the kiss, a playful smirk curving her lips. "Seems someone got distracted," she teased, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on Akira's chest. "I thought perhaps you'd forgotten about me." Akira chuckled, his thumb brushing gently against Hifumi's cheek. "How could I ever forget you?" he murmured, his voice husky with emotion.
Akira leaned in, capturing Hifumi's lips once again, pouring all his longing and affection into the kiss. Their mouths moved together in perfect harmony, tongues dancing and exploring as if rediscovering each other after a long absence. Hands roamed freely, tracing familiar paths across heated skin, reacquainting themselves with beloved curves and contours.
When they finally parted, both were breathless, their hearts pounding wildly in their chests. Hifumi's eyes glinted mischievously as she placed her palms against Akira's chest, gently pushing him backwards. He went willingly, allowing her to guide him until his back met the plush carpet. She stood over him, her figure silhouetted against the dim light filtering through the window.
Her foot pressed lightly against his chest, her toes wiggling enticingly as she trailed them down his abdomen, following the happy trail leading southward. Akira's breath hitched as she teased the sensitive skin just above his hipbone, his cock twitching eagerly at the prospect of what was to come.
Hifumi's eyes never left Akira's as she raised her leg, her slender foot hovering tantalizingly close to his throbbing erection. With a teasing smile, she lowered her foot, pressing it gently against his shaft. She trailed her toes up and down its length, feeling it pulse and twitch beneath her touch. Akira groaned softly, his hips jerking involuntarily as electric sensations shot through him.
Hifumi paused, her toes lingering on the tip of Akira's cock. She slowly traced her foot back up his body, dragging it along his abs and chest before bringing it to his face. She pressed her toes against his lips, her eyes smoldering with desire. "Open," she commanded huskily. Akira complied, parting his lips to allow her access.
Hifumi slid her big toe past Akira's lips, a soft moan escaping her throat as she felt his hot breath wash over her skin. She braced herself against his chest, her hands trailing down her own body as she watched him eagerly take her toe into his mouth. Akira swirled his tongue around the digit, tasting the faint saltiness of her sweat. He sucked gently, applying just enough pressure to make Hifumi squirm above him. Her hands cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples as she writhed above Akira. She fed him another toe, her breath hitching as he lavished it with attention. His hands found her hips, gripping them tightly as he devoured her feet, moaning around her toes as if starved. Hifumi's head fell back, her hair cascading down her spine as pleasure coursed through her veins.
Hifumi's moans grew louder as Akira continued his fervent adoration of her foot, his tongue swirling around each toe, his lips sucking gently. She shuddered above him, her entire body trembling with pleasure. Unable to resist the overwhelming sensations, she slid one hand between her legs, her fingertips finding her aching bud.
Hifumi pulled her foot from Akira's mouth, her breath ragged and her body trembling with anticipation. She lowered herself onto the floor beside him, her eyes locked onto his as she spread her legs invitingly. "Now," she commanded softly, her voice thick with desire. "Claim me like you claimed the others."
Akira needed no further encouragement. He rolled atop Hifumi, settling between her welcoming thighs. He propped himself up on his forearms, gazing down at her beautiful face. Her eyes shone brightly with lust and love, her lips parted as she panted softly. Akira positioned himself at her entrance, feeling the heat radiating from her core. With a single, smooth thrust, he buried himself deep inside her, eliciting a low moan from both of them.
Hifumi's back arched as Akira filled her, her inner walls clenching around his thickness. "Yes," she breathed, her hands reaching up to grasp his shoulders, pulling him closer. Akira began to move, withdrawing slowly before sliding back in, setting a steady rhythm that had Hifumi moaning softly beneath him. Akira's pace quickened, his hips moving faster as he chased his release. Hifumi wrapped her legs around him, urging him deeper with each thrust. Their bodies were slick with sweat, sliding against each other as they moved together in perfect harmony. Akira leaned down, capturing Hifumi's lips in a fierce kiss, swallowing her moans as their pleasure built higher and higher.
Ann and Ren approached Akira silently, their naked forms glistening in the soft light. They draped themselves over Akira's back, their hands immediately beginning to explore his muscular frame. Ann's fingers traced the lines of his shoulders and arms, while Ren's nails lightly scratched down his spine, eliciting a shiver from both Akira and Hifumi.
Meanwhile, Morgane, Futaba, and Haru gathered around Hifumi, their touches gentle yet insistent. Morgane cradled Hifumi's head in her lap, running her fingers through Hifumi's silken hair as she whispered words of encouragement. Futaba and Haru knelt on either side of Hifumi, their hands roaming over her body, paying special attention to her heaving breasts.
Lavenza, Shiho, Makoto, Kasumi, Yukiko, and Ryuemi gravitated towards the growing circle of lovers, drawn by the intoxicating scent of arousal and the symphony of pleasured moans. Lavenza knelt behind Morgane, her arms wrapping around Morgane's waist as she nuzzled her neck. Shiho settled between Futaba and Haru, her fingers intertwining with theirs as they explored Hifumi's body together.
Makoto and Kasumi positioned themselves on either side of Akira, their hands joining Ann's and Ren's in roaming over his taut muscles. Their combined touch sent shivers racing through his body. Akira's grip tightened on Hifumi's hips, his movements becoming more forceful as he plunged deeper into her welcoming depths.
Hifumi's cries reached a fever pitch as Akira drove into her relentlessly. Her body tensed, her inner walls clamping down on his length as she screamed her release. Waves of pleasure crashed over her, leaving her limp and gasping for breath. Akira withdrew from her, his cock glistening with their combined arousal. Shiho, who had been watching intently, wasted no time in taking Hifumi's place. She straddled Akira, her dark hair cascading down her back as she guided him into her eager body. A soft sigh escaped her lips as he filled her, her hands resting on his chest for balance. Akira's hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he began to move within her.
As Shiho rode Akira, the rest of the harem circled around them, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they watched the couple move together. Lips brushed against shoulders, teeth nibbled on earlobes, and hands wandered freely across bare skin. Eyes gleamed with desire as they took in the erotic display before them, each woman envying the one currently impaled on Akira's cock.
Shiho's pace quickened, her body undulating atop Akira's as she chased her own release. The others watched, entranced, their hands roaming over each other's bodies in mimicry of the primal dance unfolding before them. Shiho threw her head back, crying out sharply as her orgasm tore through her. She collapsed forward onto Akira's chest, panting heavily.
Futaba gently eased Shiho aside, her eyes never leaving Akira's. She straddled him, feeling his hardness press against her entrance. With a slow, deliberate motion, she sank down onto him, taking him fully inside her. Akira groaned, his hands grasping Futaba's thighs as she began to ride him. Morgane's breath hitched as she watched Futaba ride Akira, her hips rolling sensually as she took her pleasure from him. Morgane couldn't wait any longer; she needed to feel Akira inside her too. Once Futaba reached her climax, Morgane gently pushed her aside and positioned herself over Akira. She looked into his eyes as she slowly impaled herself on his rigid shaft, feeling him fill her completely.
Morgane's breath was warm against Akira's ear as she leaned in close, her voice barely audible over the chorus of heavy breathing and soft moans surrounding them. "I need you, Akira," she whispered urgently, her hips already beginning to rock against him. "Need you so badly." Her lips brushed against his neck, planting tender kisses along his jawline before finding his mouth. Akira's hands tightened on Morgane's thighs, his fingers pressing into her soft flesh as he held her steady. His hips bucked upwards, meeting her desperate thrusts as they moved together in a frenzy of need. Their kisses were hungry, teeth clashing and tongues dancing as they poured all their passion into each other. Akira's grip shifted, his hands roaming over Morgane's curves, pulling her flush against him.
Morgane's breath caught as she felt Akira throb inside her. She clenched her thighs around him, trapping him deeply within her. Her body trembled with anticipation, her heart pounding wildly against her chest. She broke away from their kiss, her gaze locking onto his as she whispered, "Cum for me, Akira. Cum deep inside me."
Akira's grip on Morgane's thighs tightened as he gave into her command. He let out a low groan of pleasure, his body tensing as he released his seed deep inside her. His forehead rested against hers, their eyes locked as they shared this intimate moment. Morgane could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against her chest, mirroring the rapid beat of her own heart.
The room was filled with the soft, contented sounds of post-coital bliss. Akira and Morgane remained entwined, their bodies still pressed intimately together, basking in the afterglow of their passionate union. The air was thick with the scent of their lovemaking, mingling with the sweet aroma of perfumed candles flickering nearby. Akira lay back, panting slightly, surrounded by the soft, naked forms of his lovers. Their bodies pressed against him, offering comfort and warmth in the aftermath of their shared passion. He could feel their hearts beating against his chest, their breath hot on his skin. As he drifted in the haze of satisfaction, he felt a new sensation stir him-a warm, wet heat enveloping his cock.
He looked down to find Ren and Ann kneeling between his spread legs, their heads tilted together as they licked and sucked his semi-hard cock back to life. He moaned softly, his fingers tangling in their hair as they worked him expertly with their mouths.
Ren and Ann exchanged a teasing grin, their eyes sparkling with mischief. They paused their ministrations, looking up at Akira with playful expressions. "You still have one left for us, right?" Ren asked, her tongue darting out to lick her lips suggestively. Ann nodded in agreement, her hand gently stroking Akira's shaft as she awaited his response.
Akira let out a huff of fond exasperation. "You two are insatiable..." But his words were belied by the grin spreading across his face. "Good thing I am too..." Ren and Ann squealed in delight, their faces lighting up with excitement as Akira rose to his feet, his hands reaching down to help them stand.
Akira led Ren and Ann to the spacious sofa, his hands lingering on their hips as he guided them. Once they reached it, he turned them both to face him, his palms cupping their cheeks as he drew them into a searing kiss. Their lips melded together, tongues dancing in a tangled rhythm as Akira's hands roamed down their backs, tracing the curves of their spines before settling on their firm asses.
He broke the kiss and stepped back, his eyes scanning their beautiful bodies. He gently pressed Ren onto the couch until she was lying on her back, her dark hair fanning out around her head. Then he turned to Ann, helping her climb atop Ren, their breasts pressing together. Their lips met in another passionate embrace as Akira took a moment to admire the sight before him.
Akira stepped closer, his body pressing against Ann's as he positioned himself between their spread legs. He could feel the heat radiating from their cores, beckoning him. Ren arched her back, pressing her breasts more firmly against Ann's, a soft moan escaping her lips as she felt Akira's hardness probe her entrance.
Akira placed his hands on Ann's hips, steadying himself as he slid his cock into Ren's slick folds. Ren gasped, her back arching further as she felt him fill her. Ann moaned, grinding her pussy against Ren's clit as she watched Akira enter her lover. Akira set a slow, deliberate pace, savoring the sensation of being inside Ren while enjoying the view of Ann riding Ren's body. He bit his lip, trying to hold back the overwhelming urge to plunge deeper, to chase his own release. Instead, he focused on maintaining control, relishing the exquisite feel of Ren beneath him and Ann above her. He wanted to draw this out, to make it last for as long as possible.
Akira gently withdrew from Ren, his cock glistening with her arousal, then repositioned himself behind Ann, his hands gripping her hips as he guided his length into her welcoming heat. Ren arched her back, pressing her clit against Ann's pussy, seeking friction as Akira began to move. The three of them found a rhythm, their bodies moving in sync as they chased their pleasure together.
The room filled with the symphony of their shared pleasure, a chorus of moans and gasps echoing off the walls. Akira's hips moved with increasing urgency, his cock slipping easily between Ren and Ann's wet folds. Each thrust sent waves of ecstasy rippling through their connected bodies, their breaths growing ragged as they neared the edge.
As Akira continued to alternate between Ren and Ann, the intensity of their coupling grew. With each thrust, he felt himself becoming more attuned to their needs, adjusting his pace and pressure to bring them closer to the brink. Their bodies writhed together, sweat-slicked skin pressing against each other as they sought fulfillment.
Suddenly, Akira found himself gently pushed backwards onto the plush sofa, his lovers working in tandem to position him comfortably. Ren and Ann exchanged a wicked smile as they knelt between his spread legs, their hands cupping their breasts as they pressed them together around Akira's straining cock. "Go on, babe," Ren purred, her voice husky with desire. "Cum for us. Paint our tits white."
Akira groaned, his head falling back against the cushions as he surrendered to the decadent sensation of Ren and Ann's soft mounds enveloping his shaft. He could feel their nipples grazing his sensitive skin, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through his veins. Their combined scent enveloped him, an intoxicating mix of jasmine and vanilla that made his senses reel. Akira's hips bucked involuntarily as he reached the point of no return. With a guttural groan, he came undone, his cock pulsing powerfully between the soft pillows of Ren and Ann's cleavage. Thick ropes of sticky cum erupted from his tip, coating their eager skin with his essence. Both women gasped and moaned as they felt the hot liquid splatter across their breasts, marking them as his.
Akira chuckled deeply, his chest rumbling with laughter as he looked down at Ren and Ann, their faces flushed and their bodies marked with his spend. "Well, you certainly got what you wished for," he said, shaking his head with a grin. Ren giggled, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at him. "I think we did, didn't we?" Ann nodded in agreement, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Definitely."
Akira helped Ren and Ann to their feet, his strong arms wrapping around their waists as he steadied them. He leaned down, capturing first Ren's lips in a tender kiss, then Ann's, tasting the saltiness of their sweat on his tongue. "Let me clean you up," he murmured against their skin. He slipped away briefly, heading to the bathroom. He returned moments later with two damp face towels, their coolness contrasting with the warmth of their skin. Gently, he began to wipe away the evidence of their passion, his touch tender and caring. Ren sighed contentedly as Akira cleaned her, his fingers lingering on her breasts, eliciting small shivers of pleasure.
Once both women were cleaned up, Akira tossed the towels aside and led them back to the other members of the polycule, their naked bodies entwined in various states of post-coital bliss. Akira settled onto the plush bedding on the floor, pulling Ren and Ann down beside him. The girls snuggled close, their limbs intertwining as they cuddled against Akira's broad chest. Ann pressed one final kiss to Akira’s temple and whispered, “See? We told you it would be worth the wait.”
Chapter 39: A Lullaby For The Libertines
Summary:
The Phantom Thieves start their summer job as roadies
Obviously, things don't go quite as planned :)
Chapter Text
The villa was still. Curtains drawn against the early Okinawan sun painted the room in a muted glow, soft gold spilling across the sprawl of futons and blankets that had become their nest. Akira stirred first, as always. His storm-grey eyes blinked open, adjusting to the light before settling on the tangle of limbs around him. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Ann was curled against his side, hair falling across her cheek, lips parted in quiet sleep. Ren’s arm draped loosely across his stomach, her long nails still faintly pressing into his skin as if she refused to let go even in her dreams. Futaba and Lavenza were tucked together like kittens at the edge of the futon pile, while Haru had somehow wound up sprawled diagonally, one hand resting over Yukiko’s waist.
Everywhere he looked, there was warmth. Trust. The kind of closeness he never thought he’d deserve. A smile tugged at his lips, small and private. Yesterday was chaos… but it was ours. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it. Moving carefully, he eased himself out of the nest. A sleepy murmur from Shiho made him pause, but when she only nuzzled into Ryuemi’s shoulder and went still again, he padded silently across the room.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and Akira let out a slow breath. He caught sight of himself in the mirror — hair sticking up at odd angles, faint marks along his collarbone that made his cheeks flush — then shook his head with a quiet chuckle. He brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, and straightened up. Another day waited for them. Another day he’d get to cook breakfast, tease his girlfriends, and hold together this beautiful, ridiculous family they’d made.
The villa smelled of coffee, butter, and grilled spam musubi by the time everyone gathered at the long dining table. Sunlight streamed through the sliding glass doors, the ocean sparkling just beyond. The polycule lounged in various states of beachy morning wear — oversized shirts, tied-up tanks, shorts — all moving easily around each other.
On the TV, Kanami Mashita lit up the stage, her voice soaring over a sea of glowsticks. The recording from last night’s concert played on loop, and every so often one of the girls would point something out: the timing of the dancers, the shimmer of the lights, the way Kanami’s smile seemed to brighten the entire stadium.
“She’s amazing,” Kasumi said softly, cheeks pink with admiration. “Her energy doesn’t dip for even a second.”
Ann smirked, stabbing at her fruit salad. “Sounds like someone else I know.” She shot Akira a sideways glance, and the table erupted in chuckles. Akira only rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He let them chatter a little longer before clearing his throat, tapping the edge of his mug.
“Alright, team. Since we’ve got a few hours before Rise’s bus gets in, let me run through today’s plan.” He slipped a folded sheet from his pocket, smoothing it on the table. Immediately, the girls straightened, eyes attentive.
“The idea is for us to assist the crew today so we can pick up the slack once they leave after the show. We’re not expected to do any of the heavy lifting — it’s more about managing things backstage.”
“Futaba, Shiho, Ryuemi… you’re on lighting and sound. Futaba, that means don’t reprogram the stage lights into a laser show.”
Futaba grinned, saluting with her chopsticks. “No promises, boss-man.”
“Ann, Kasumi, Haru… you’ll be working with Doy-san, Kanami’s stage coach and dance coordinator. I’m guessing backup dancer support, maybe stage formations.”
Ann sat up straighter, eyes sparkling. “So basically, we get to dance?”
Kasumi’s smile was more reserved but no less excited. “I’ll do my best to keep up.”
“And Haru,” Akira added with a pointed look, “no bribing dancers with macaroons.”
She only gave a sly smile in return.
“Lavenza, Yukiko, Morgane, you’re with Kurosu-san in wardrobe. Guy’s a walking fashion plate, so… I imagine you’ll have fun.”
Morgane raised an eyebrow, smirking. “A stylish man, huh? Maybe I’ll pick up a few tips.”
“Makoto, Ren, Hifumi, you’ll be assisting Sasaki-san and Inoe-san with coordinating everything backstage. Probably the busiest job, so I’ll check in on you most often.”
Ren leaned back, linking her arms behind her head. “Bring it. I’ll keep them in line.”
“And finally…” Akira folded the list neatly and slipped it back into his pocket. “I’ll be floating around wherever I’m needed. Think of me as… backup support.”
The table broke into chatter again, everyone tossing comments and teases back and forth. Ann leaned her head against Akira’s shoulder with a sly grin. “You know, Mister Leader, you make this whole ‘bossing us around’ thing look very good.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Morgane sighed, though her smirk betrayed her amusement. Akira only shook his head, smiling as he finished his tea. “Eat up, girls. We’ve got a long day ahead.”
Hitoshi Yamano stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, the city of Naha sprawling beneath him. The bright banners of Heartfelt Connections fluttered from the Okinawa Cellular Stadium in the distance, colorful and bold against the steel and glass skyline. The cheers of fans and the pulse of excitement almost seemed to carry on the wind, though he kept his gaze fixed and unblinking, lips curling into a faint scoff.
“Heartfelt Connections…” he muttered, voice low and edged with disdain. “What a farce. The heart doesn’t seek connection. It doesn’t seek understanding. It craves gratification. Relief. Distraction. All this searching for deeper meaning—” his hand flicked dismissively against the glass, “—it only leads to more pain.”
Behind him, three figures lingered in the shadows, their presence heavy despite their silence.
The first stepped forward slightly, the etched symbol of Aquarius gleaming faintly on the porcelain mask. Their voice, distorted and layered as though two or three people spoke at once, drifted through the room. “It is as you say, Yamano-san. Which is why you have been granted the power to bring this truth to the surface within your Kingdom.”
The second figure shifted, the Taurus emblem glinting as they inclined their head. “Use this power well. Make the masses see what they have always longed for. Collect the Desire for Gratification.”
The last of them leaned forward into the sliver of light, the curve of Pisces etched deep into their mask. With slow, deliberate motion, they placed an ornate urn upon the polished surface of Yamano’s desk. Its black ceramic was inlaid with shimmering veins of gold, and faint wisps of light seemed to pulse within. “Place the Desires within this container,” they intoned. “It will keep them safe until the time comes.”
Yamano’s gaze lingered on the urn, the reflection of its glow flickering in his sharp eyes. Slowly, reverently, he reached forward and took hold of it. His hands did not tremble, but there was a tightness to his jaw as he weighed its presence. When he finally looked up, the shadows behind him were empty. The three masked figures had vanished without a sound, leaving only silence and the faint hum of the city below.
Yamano exhaled once, low and steady, then turned back toward the stadium. He cradled the urn in both hands, his lips pulling into a thin, knowing smile. “They’ll see soon enough. Desire isn’t to be shamed or hidden away. It’s the only truth left worth clinging to.”
The morning sun was high overhead when the Thieves arrived at Okinawa Cellular Stadium. The backstage area was already alive with movement—crew members hauling equipment, technicians testing soundboards, dancers stretching in warm-ups, and stagehands darting around with clipboards and headsets. The air buzzed with energy, anticipation, and the faint thrum of music being tested through the massive speakers.
Akira lingered a moment to make sure everyone found their assigned places before the group naturally broke apart.
Ann, Kasumi, and Haru found themselves greeted by a whirlwind of color and cheer in the form of Junko Doy, Kanami’s stage coach and dance coordinator. Her hair was streaked with a playful mix of red and gold, and she wore a patterned scarf that fluttered with her every movement.
“Ah! So these are the lovely helpers!” Junko exclaimed, her voice a warm drawl touched by the cadence of New Orleans. “Half the crew warned me not to work y’all too hard, but I don’t listen to silly rules.” She winked, her smile infectious.
Ann lit up almost instantly. “Wait—your accent! You’re half-American, too?”
Junko’s grin widened. “New Orleans born and raised, darlin’, at least till I was ten. Then it was Tokyo or bust. But the music, the festivals, the food—it all stuck with me. You?”
“L.A., but I grew up mostly here,” Ann admitted, her tone brightening with the rare joy of meeting someone who understood the duality of her upbringing.
Kasumi and Haru were quickly drawn in, laughing as Junko clapped her hands and pulled them into a circle. “Perfect! We’ll be tighter than Mardi Gras beads by the time the dancers are ready. Energy, rhythm, sparkle—backups don’t just follow the star, they frame her. Y’all are gonna help me make ‘em shine.”
The three girls exchanged smiles, already caught up in her exuberance.
Meanwhile, Yukiko, Morgane, and Lavenza were ushered into the wardrobe department, where they were greeted by Shigeru Kurosu. Draped in layers of black silk and glittering accessories, Shigeru radiated confidence and charisma, their voice lilting with an elegant cadence that seemed to defy categorization.
“Darlings,” they said with a theatrical bow, “welcome to my sanctuary. Here, there are no men, no women—only beauty. Labels are cages, and I prefer wings.” Their androgynous smile sparkled as they gestured to racks of costumes and makeup stations.
Morgane’s eyes widened, practically glittering themselves. “You’re amazing.”
Yukiko nodded, her admiration plain. “Your designs are stunning… it’s like every piece tells a story.”
Shigeru laughed, clearly pleased. “Art is about transformation, my dear. And tonight, Kanamin and Rise will be transformed into goddesses before their adoring fans’ eyes.”
Lavenza, quieter than the others, trailed her fingers along a row of sequined dresses. Though she said nothing at first, her thoughtful expression didn’t escape Shigeru’s gaze. “Don’t be shy, little one,” they cooed gently. “Every stitch has a soul. You’ll see.”
At the same time, Makoto, Ren, and Hifumi met with Sho Sasaki and Minoru Inoe near a bank of equipment cases.
Sho Sasaki was impossible to miss—broad-shouldered and towering, with a thick beard and a booming laugh. He wore a pressed button-down shirt despite the humid Okinawan heat, and his clipboard looked tiny in his massive hands. Beside him stood Minoru Inoe, lean and sharp in a tailored suit, his glasses perched neatly on his nose.
“Welcome, ladies,” Sasaki said warmly, his voice like rolling thunder. “We’ve got a lot of moving parts today. Dancers, sound crew, stagehands, lighting—you name it. Our job is making sure they’re all working in sync.”
Inoe adjusted his glasses, his tone precise and efficient. “Kanami and Rise are both professionals, but even pros falter if the support structure isn’t airtight. You’ll shadow us today, help ensure communication flows smoothly between departments. Every detail matters.”
Makoto straightened immediately, every bit the model student. “We’ll give it everything we have.”
Ren raised a brow. “So basically… we’re the glue holding everything together?”
Inoe gave a small, approving nod. “Exactly. If we do our jobs right, the performers shine, and no one even notices us. That is the art of management.”
Hifumi inclined her head respectfully. “Like the silent hand behind the queens.”
Sasaki laughed. “I like this one. She gets it.”
Akira kept true to his word, drifting between the different teams like a quiet shadow. With Junko and the dancers, he helped carry bottled water and laughed when Ann tried to teach Haru and Kasumi a few of her old modeling stretches. Over in wardrobe, he held a rack steady as Shigeru draped Morgane and Yukiko with accessories, earning delighted approval from the flamboyant stylist. And with Makoto, Ren, and Hifumi, he fetched schedule printouts, smoothing over a minor miscommunication between lighting and sound techs before it became an actual problem.
It wasn’t glamorous work, but it gave him a chance to see how easily the girls blended in, how quickly they made themselves part of the backstage heartbeat. He couldn’t have been prouder.
The buzz in the air changed when the main stars arrived. Rise Kujikawa swept in with her usual flair, oversized sunglasses perched on her head, greeting crew members by name as though she’d known them all for years. Beside her, Kanami Mashita waved cheerfully, her pink jacket almost glowing under the fluorescents. Behind them trailed Yu Narukami, calm and collected as always, hands in his pockets, eyes quietly sweeping the scene like he was cataloging every detail.
“Kanami, Rise—over here!” Junko sang out, drawing them into the whirlwind of final preparations. Rise gave Akira a quick nod of recognition, while Kanami grinned and waved enthusiastically. Yu’s gaze lingered on Akira a moment longer, a silent acknowledgment passing between them before he followed the girls.
The hours melted away in a rush of rehearsals, fittings, and final sound checks. By the time the sun began to dip low, painting the sky in streaks of orange, the venue thrummed with anticipation.
An hour before showtime, a hush fell over the backstage corridor as Hitoshi Yamano arrived. The TV anchor cut an imposing figure in his tailored suit, his smile sharp as he exchanged polite greetings with staff. The laminated badge around his neck marked him as the MC of the night, but there was something about his presence that set teeth on edge. He offered the barest of courtesies before vanishing into his trailer, the door shutting firmly behind him.
At the opposite end of the venue, Akira paused mid-step, a cold prickle racing down his spine. His hand brushed instinctively against his chest.
“There’s that feeling again…” he murmured under his breath, brows knitting.
The answer came like a rumble of thunder in his mind, deep and resonant.
“Be on your guard, Akira…” Satanael’s voice warned. “The storm is closer than it seems.”
Akira exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as the echo of unease lingered in his gut. Something was coming—he just didn’t know what.
Akira pushed the unease down, throwing himself back into motion as the final pre-show scramble hit its peak. Clothes racks rattled as Shigeru wheeled them into place. Junko shouted counts while the backup dancers ran through last-minute choreography. Sho Sasaki barked orders to crew members, his booming laugh cutting through the frenzy.
Akira caught glimpses of his girlfriends moving like seasoned pros—Ann and Kasumi mirroring stretches with the dancers, Makoto calmly ticking boxes on a clipboard as if she’d been stage-managing her whole life, Yukiko and Morgane balancing garment bags twice their size without breaking a sweat. Even Futaba, her tablet balanced in one hand, was relaying lighting cues to Shiho and Ryuemi like she’d been born to it.
For a fleeting moment, Akira allowed himself a smile.
His smile faltered when he caught sight of Yu slipping quietly toward the rear exit. No one else seemed to notice—Rise was mid-laugh with Kanami, Junko was clapping encouragement, and Sasaki had launched into another booming story.
Akira frowned, watching the silver-haired young man disappear through the door with the same deliberate calm he always carried. For a heartbeat, he debated following. But Yu was… Yu. He wouldn’t leave unless it were something important. With a small shake of his head, Akira turned back to the bustle of backstage life. The unease in his gut didn’t fade.
The stadium lights dimmed for the third time that evening, plunging the crowd into expectant darkness. A hush fell, broken only by the occasional murmur of excitement from the fans. Then a spotlight struck the center of the stage, and Hitoshi Yamano appeared, cradling something in his arms. From where Akira stood, it looked like a small urn.
“Good evening, everyone!” Yamano’s voice rang out, projecting over the speakers and carrying across the stadium. “Thank you all for joining us tonight. You’re about to witness a very special performance!”
He gestured toward the stage wings, a dramatic flourish that made the crowd cheer. “It is my absolute pleasure to introduce two extraordinary stars—please welcome, the knockout Kanamin, and the radiant Risette!”
From opposite sides of the stage, Kanami and Rise emerged to the roar of applause. Their energy was infectious, and the stadium seemed to vibrate with excitement. Without missing a beat, the two idols launched into their first duet—a bright, high-tempo number brimming with synchronized choreography and sparkling smiles.
Akira watched from the side of the stage, leaning lightly against a railing, and felt some of the tension he had been carrying melt away. The music, the cheering, the sheer joy radiating from the performers—it was a moment of pure spectacle. He found himself letting out a quiet sigh, allowing himself to relax just a little.
The crowd was clearly enraptured. Lights pulsed in time with the music, strobes highlighting Kanami’s fiery auburn hair and Risette’s elegant presence. Fans waved glow sticks, shouted lyrics, and clapped along, fully swept up in the performance.
The stadium roared as Yamano strutted onto the stage again, still clutching the urn lightly to his chest. The spotlights caught on its surface, making the carved designs shimmer.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the host spread his arms wide, grin sharp under the glare of the lights. “Wasn’t that spectacular? Our beloved stars, Kanamin and Risette, giving us everything their hearts have to offer!”
The audience thundered with approval, waves of cheers rolling across the stadium. Kanami and Rise bowed deeply before retreating to catch their breath. Yamano didn’t step aside. Instead, he stroked the urn almost lovingly, his voice dipping into a tone far more deliberate than the usual upbeat host patter.
“But you see…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “The heart doesn’t truly yearn for connection. Connection is fleeting. Empty. What the heart craves… is gratification.”
At first, the crowd only laughed nervously, assuming it was some kind of bit. But then the urn pulsed—bright, unnatural light spilling between Yamano’s fingers.
“The sweetness of indulgence. The thrill of satisfaction. The ecstasy of the moment!” His voice grew louder, reverberating unnaturally across the sound system. “This is the truth buried in every heart. The only truth worth seeking!”
The urn glowed brighter and brighter until the whole arena seemed to hum with its energy. The air thickened, as though the oxygen itself were becoming syrup. Akira blinked, his head swimming. The cheers around him warped—no longer voices, but shrieking, distorted echoes of themselves. He spun toward the crowd and froze.
The fans’ eyes glowed, sickly yellow and neon pink, and their movements slowed like frames stuttering in a broken reel. Yet their cheering grew impossibly louder, shaking the stands.
“What the hell—?” Akira started, only for the world to suddenly lurch.
A surge of power erupted from the urn like a shockwave, slamming into him with brutal force. He gasped as his feet left the ground, his body flung back several feet before crashing hard against the barricade. The sound cut from his ears, replaced by the dull roar of blood rushing in his head.
Somewhere in the blur, Satanael’s voice thundered low and steady in his mind. “It begins.”
Akira groaned, forcing himself upright, palm pressed to the ground to steady himself. His ears still rang from the blast, but as the haze cleared, his breath caught.
In the distance stretched a sprawling, lurid cityscape that seemed to shimmer like a mirage. Neon lights flashed from every direction—love hotels glowing in pinks and purples, gaudy casinos with spinning signs, endless rows of nightclubs and strip joints. An arcade marquee blared in harsh reds and blues, the music distorted and unsettling. The air carried a strange, muffled hum, as though they were submerged underwater. A sheen rolled across every surface, liquid and unreal, distorting shapes as though he were gazing through glass at the bottom of a tank. However, where he stood was a different story. Cracked roads, abandoned and crumbling buildings, burnt out car husks. It looked like the aftermath of a bombing.
His storm-grey eyes narrowed. “…What is this place?” he muttered under his breath, directing the question inward.
Satanael’s deep rumble answered, grim and measured. “I do not know. This is not the Metaverse you are accustomed to. The distortion is… alien. But the intent behind it feels the same.”
Akira turned slowly, scanning the alien cityscape. “And the others? Do you sense them?”
A pause, then the deep growl again. “Yes. Faintly. Scattered across this realm… but they are alive. Not harmed—yet.”
Relief washed through Akira, and he exhaled slowly. “Good. Then I’d better go find them. We’ll figure out what the hell is going on once we’re together.”
He took his first step forward—
FWOOSH.
Blue flames erupted around him, engulfing his body in an instant. They burned bright, crackling with power, but licked against his skin without pain. His clothes shimmered, the familiar heat of his Phantom Thief attire wrapping around him like an old friend.
Akira adjusted his gloves, exhaling through his nose. “Welp,” he muttered dryly, brushing a spark off his sleeve, “guess this place is hostile.”
“It seems so, Harbinger,” Satanael rumbled, grim amusement in his tone. “And hostility means Shadows are not far behind.”
Akira narrowed his eyes at the distorted streets stretching ahead, feeling the weight of unseen eyes watching him from every corner. His grip flexed around the handles of his tonfas.
“Better move fast…”
Akira moved cautiously through the warped streets, his footsteps echoing strangely against the destroyed pavement. The city was alive in ways he didn’t like—shadows flickering just out of sight, whispers curling at the edges of his hearing. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of movement—a woman-shaped silhouette lingering outside a run-down love hotel, a hulking mass reflected in a casino’s shattered glass doors. Shadows. They followed, always watching, but never striking.
For now.
That would’ve been enough to put most people on edge. But what really had Akira grinding his teeth was the noise in his own head.
“She needs you. She’s in danger—go to her first.”
“No, no, no, Harbinger—my ward is alone! You must hurry!”
“You will not forsake mine. She—”
“Quiet, all of you. He must—”
It was twelve voices at once, the goddesses clamoring over one another, demanding he go to their charge immediately. Akira stopped dead in the middle of the distorted street, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Alright,” he said firmly, his voice sharp enough to cut through their chorus. “Listen. I’m worried about them too. But they’re not helpless. They’re big girls. They can handle themselves until I get there.”
The voices quieted, some reluctant, others chastened. The oppressive weight of them pressing in on his skull lifted, leaving only a tense silence.
“Thank you,” Akira muttered, rolling his shoulders. “Now, let’s try this again. Who feels closest?”
For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, Hecate’s voice coiled low and serpentine in his mind. “I can sense Morgane… a bit north of here.”
Almost immediately, two others spoke.
Kichijōten, warm and serene: “Yukiko is also near that direction. I feel her clearly.”
Durga, sharp and commanding: “And Lavenza. The girl-child is north as well. She waits.”
Akira exhaled slowly, a touch of relief threading into the sound. “Good. That makes this easy.” He turned his gaze north, the distorted neon glow spilling like firelight down the street.
“I’ll pick them up first,” he said, his voice steady now, focus sharpening. “Then we’ll look for the others.”
Somewhere in the shimmer of the warped city, a neon sign buzzed and went dark, plunging a whole stretch of street into shadow. Akira set his jaw. And started running.
Akira moved like a shadow across the warped cityscape. Hecate’s voice whispered sharp directions in his mind—“Left here, climb this wall, leap across the roof—faster, Harbinger, faster.”
He obeyed without hesitation, his body flowing through the distorted red-light district like water. He vaulted neon signs, sprinted along warped rooftops, and slid down rain-slick fire escapes, the entire world bent and unreal beneath his feet. It almost felt like parkour through a dream, except the sweat burning his skin was all too real.
Then he heard it. The clash of steel. The rush of magic. The guttural shrieks of Shadows in frenzy.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Akira muttered grimly, vaulting over a final wall.
He landed in a crouch and froze. Ahead, in the glow of a broken casino sign, three familiar figures stood back to back, surrounded by a tide of writhing Shadows.
Yukiko, her katana gleaming with icy fire, Uzume-no-Mikoto shimmering behind her. Morgane, her disk spinning in a blur while Circe provided cutting gales. And Lavenza, Grimoire floating in front of her, flanked by Alice and Lucifer.
The three of them fought hard, but Akira could see it—the ragged breathing, the faltering movements, the growing sluggishness of each strike. They weren’t going to last much longer.
His blood ran cold as a pack of Shadows surged forward. “Not happening,” he snarled.
He launched himself into the fray, roaring as his mask flared and shattered. “Satanael!”
The First Rebel erupted behind him in a blaze of dark fire, revolver already blazing. But to Akira’s shock, two more figures materialized alongside him. Hecate, cloaked in shadows, her torches spitting green-black fire. Durga, radiant and terrible, her many arms bearing weapons that gleamed like starlight.
Akira barely had time to process it before the battle swallowed him whole. The Shadows came in waves. Fire and ice, claws and fangs, blasts of corrupted magic. Akira wove between them, Satanael’s gun and Almighty magic tearing holes through their ranks. Hecate’s flames snared the ones that tried to slip past, burning them to ash. Durga cleaved through others with blade and spear, her war cry shaking the street.
“Akira!” Morgane shouted, relief breaking through the strain in her voice.
But then—
Lavenza cried out, struck square in the chest by a surge of Bufudyne magic. She staggered, falling to one knee, her frame wracked with cold.
“Lavenza!” Akira’s heart lurched. He tore through the nearest Shadows, every strike vicious and unrelenting, Satanael’s revolver booming like thunder. He felt a surge of flame wash over him, before his rage carried him further into battle.
The fight blurred into chaos—fast, furious, and vicious. Shadows screamed and dissolved under blade, bullet, fire, and spell. Each time Akira paused, Hecate’s shadow wrapped him, or Durga’s blade struck first. Yukiko and Morgane rallied at his side, forcing the horde back inch by inch.
Finally, at last, silence fell. The last Shadow shrieked, burned, and shattered, its remnants dissolving into the warped air. Akira stood heaving for breath, tonfas coated in ichor, his hands trembling from the surge of adrenaline. Satanael, Hecate, and Durga lingered for a moment, blazing like titans in the dark, before fading into the ether.
The warped street was wrecked, glowing faintly from fire and ice. And in the center of it all, Yukiko and Morgane knelt beside Lavenza, who was struggling weakly to rise. Akira skidded across the ruined pavement, dropping to his knees beside them.
“Are you okay?!” His hands moved frantically, checking Yukiko’s arms, Morgane’s shoulders, and finally cupping Lavenza’s cheek. The little Velvet attendant’s skin was cold to the touch, her breath shallow.
“Dammit…” Akira’s mask cracked again, summoning a flare of golden light. “Kichijōten—Salvation!”
The radiant goddess manifested above him, petals of pure light cascading down like blossoms in a spring wind. The warmth flowed through the three girls, mending wounds, banishing frostbite, and soothing the strain from their bodies. Color returned to Lavenza’s cheeks; Morgane straightened with a relieved sigh; Yukiko flexed her fingers, the pain ebbing away.
Akira exhaled in relief—then blinked. “…Wait. What are you girls wearing?”
The three glanced at one another, then at themselves, as if only now realizing their new appearances. Morgane tilted her head, the hood of her robe shifting with the motion. She was wrapped in black and green fabric, a flowing robe that clung at the waist before flaring out, with slitted sides that revealed glimpses of her mesh leggings and boots beneath. The hood shadowed her face in a mysterious half-darkness, but her arms were bare, the fabric cut to allow freedom of movement. Gold trim traced the edges of the robe like embers sparking in the night.
Yukiko’s outfit was a flowing crimson-and-white shrine dancer’s ensemble, the fabric sheer in places, layered with long trailing sashes that moved like fire when she turned. Her fan gleamed brighter than before, runes etched into its metal ribs. Despite the elegance, the look was undeniably bolder—less maiden, more goddess.
And Lavenza now stood in a velvet-blue Lolita-inspired dress. The skirt flared elegantly, layered with lace and ribbon, while corset-lacing along the bodice gave her a regal silhouette. Long stockings and heeled boots peeked from beneath the hem, while her gloves gleamed with silver embroidery. A small crown-like headpiece rested on her hair, giving her an ethereal, otherworldly poise.
Morgane’s gaze lingered on him longer than he expected. She tilted her head, hood shadowing her smirk. “You know, Akira… you might want to take a look at yourself too.”
“…What?” He frowned, following her eyes downward. And froze.
The tactical gear and faceless mask were now gone. In their place, he wore a commanding, almost regal ensemble that radiated authority and danger.
A long coat of deep obsidian stretched to mid-calf, fitted across the chest and flaring dramatically at the waist. Silver filigree etched along the shoulders and cuffs caught the light, twisting like arcane sigils. The high collar framed his face sharply, reminiscent of Arsène—but twisted, more daring, more audacious.
His half-mask now bore sleek, curved extensions over the brow, black with streaks of crimson that caught the light like sparks. It made his storm-grey eyes gleam with intensity, almost predatory. Leather gloves with subtle crimson seams gripped his fingers, and his boots were polished, tall, and adorned with faint silver chains that chimed lightly as he moved.
A faint, almost imperceptible aura pulsed from him, like Satanael’s influence weaving through his form—a silent proclamation that this Akira was no longer just a thief… he was a king among rebels.
He tugged at the coat’s tails and flexed his hands. “…Wow. Definitely… different.”
Yukiko’s gaze was sharp, approving. “You look… unstoppable.”
Morgane quirked an eyebrow. “Unstoppable and way too distracting.”
Lavenza’s voice was calm, reverent. “Your new form is a reflection of your will, your rebellion… and your bond with all of us. It is magnificent.”
Akira barely had time to take in the weight of his new attire before another voice pressed into his mind.
“West…” Sekhmet’s growl rumbled like a lion in his chest. “I sense Ryuemi.”
“Futaba as well…” came Nephthys’s whisper, cool and silken, like desert wind through a tomb.
Akira’s gaze snapped to the twisted horizon. Without hesitation, he turned to Yukiko, Lavenza, and Morgane.
“Ryuemi and Futaba are west of us,” he said firmly, the command in his voice brooking no argument. “I’ll go first and clear a path. Follow me—and be careful.”
For a heartbeat, the tension of battle and the weight of the unknown eased as he stepped closer to them. Yukiko’s eyes widened as he cupped her chin, pressing a firm, grounding kiss to her lips. Lavenza gave the softest gasp when he leaned down to her next, her blue skirts brushing his coat as she melted into the fleeting contact. Morgane tried to smirk through it, but her hood shadowed the faint flush that spread across her cheeks when his mouth met hers.
“Stay close,” Akira murmured, his storm-grey eyes smoldering with determination. “We’re getting everyone back.”
Before any of them could reply, he pivoted sharply and sprinted into the warped city streets, coat flaring like wings behind him. The three women lingered for a moment, breathless, before exchanging determined nods and moving to follow at a careful distance.
The Shadows were learning. Their movements no longer hesitant or curious—they slithered and lunged at Akira from the alleys and rooftops, testing his reactions, snapping at his heels. But they were still too slow. Too uncoordinated.
Akira moved like a ghost through the distorted streets, vaulting over crumbling neon signs and ricocheting off walls, his new coat trailing like fire. A blast of Agi scorched the pavement behind him, but he spun in midair, calling Satanael forth in a ripple of dark flame. The demon’s revolver barked once, a single cursed bullet splitting into six, each one drilling into a shadow’s mask. The pack dissolved in bursts of oily mist, clearing the path ahead.
Akira landed, breathing hard but steady. Then he turned the next corner— and froze.
The street beyond looked like a battlefield torn straight from some fevered nightmare. Shadows swarmed in endless waves, clawing over wrecked cars and broken signage. Above them, Hypatia hovered like an alien war god, Futaba ensconced within its glowing cockpit. The spacecraft rained lances of emerald laserfire into the horde, each shot carving smoking craters into the asphalt.
“Who the hell thought it was a good idea to give her actual firepower…?” Akira muttered under his breath, ducking as a blast from Hypatia’s cannon turned a cluster of Shadows into glassy slag.
Not far away, Ryuemi stood defiant in the storm of light and chaos, her hair plastered to her face with sweat. Teuta of Illyria loomed behind her, an armored queen crackling with electricity. Bolts of Ziodyne ripped across the battlefield, vaporizing lines of Shadows in arcs of blinding light.
But as Akira scanned the chaos, his stomach twisted. No sign of Shiho. “Later,” he growled to himself. “No time. Need to save these two first.”
He surged forward, summoning Satanael in a blaze of blue fire. This time, Sekhmet and Nephthys strode out beside the First Rebel—Sekhmet a prowling lioness of flame and fury, Nephthys an ethereal, shrouded queen, shadows coiling like living silk around her form.
The Shadows reeled as the three titans unleashed their wrath. Satanael’s bullets punched through clusters of them, Sekhmet tore through lines with claws of fire, and Nephthys’s whisper became a curse that turned Shadows to dust.
Akira fought like a man possessed, twin tonfas carving through masks as he drove a wedge toward Ryuemi and Futaba.
Halfway through the melee, a chorus of familiar voices rang out.
“Akira!”
He glanced back in time to see Yukiko, Morgane, and Lavenza charge into the fray, Personas blazing at their sides. The battlefield shifted instantly, the tide turning.
The combined might of seven Thieves and their godlike Personas made short work of the remaining horde. Within minutes, the last Shadow dissolved into black mist, the sound of its death-rattle fading into silence.
Akira straightened, panting. He cast a quick look toward his girls—still standing, still fierce—and finally allowed himself a ragged breath of relief.
Futaba let out a whoop as Hypatia’s cockpit hissed open, and then she practically launched herself into the air. She landed squarely against Akira’s chest, arms flinging around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist.
“Did you see that?! Did you see that?!” she cackled, bouncing in his arms. “Best fighter pilot in the galaxy! The New Hope! Move over, Luke Skywalker, Oracle’s got the joystick now!”
Akira staggered but caught her, laughing as he hugged her close. “You nearly fried me three times over.”
“Collateral damage,” Futaba smirked, pulling back just enough for him to notice the dramatic shift in her attire—a cross between the flowing toga of an ancient oracle and the sleek plating of a futuristic flight suit. White fabric draped over her shoulders and hips, etched with glowing circuits, while bands of gleaming alloy hugged her arms and waist. A transparent visor crowned her forehead like a circlet, alive with shifting runes.
“Damn, Taba…” Akira murmured, shifting her weight to one hip as if she were light as a feather. “You look incredible.”
“Don’t I always?” she quipped, winking through her visor.
Before he reply, Ryuemi sauntered over, brushing sweat and grime from her cheek. She smirked at the sight of Akira holding Futaba on his hip like an unruly gremlin.
“Careful, babe. Carry her like that and she’ll never let you put her down.”
Akira extended his free arm and Ryuemi slipped into his embrace. Her attire too had shifted—gone was the cheeky ship wench flair. Now she stood tall, cloaked in layered fabrics of crimson and deep sea blue, embroidered with golden waves and storm motifs. A jeweled tiara gleamed in her hair, and a long, fur-lined coat trailed behind her like a banner. Every inch of her radiated power and command—less thief, more Queen of Pirates.
For a brief, fragile moment, laughter eased the tension. Then Akira’s expression sobered.
“Wait. Where’s Shiho? Wasn’t she with you?”
Ryuemi’s smirk faltered, her jaw tightening. She nodded toward a pile of collapsed concrete and twisted rebar. “She… still hasn’t woken up. Looks like she hit her head hard. Taba’s tried healing her, but…”
Akira gently lowered Futaba to the ground and strode to the rubble, heart pounding in his ears.
There, half-buried in dust and shadow, lay Shiho. She hadn’t transformed—her normal clothes were tattered, her forehead split by a jagged gash, swelling creeping across one side of her face. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, but mercifully, steadily.
Akira knelt beside her, brushing debris from her hair with trembling hands. His throat tightened.
“Kichijōten,” he whispered, summoning the goddess of fortune. Golden light cascaded over Shiho’s body, warmth pooling like sunlight after a storm.
For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened. Then her eyelids flickered. A tiny, pained groan escaped her lips. Akira let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, then crouched by her side, brushing a lock of hair from her bruised face. For a moment, he simply looked at her—Shiho, who had fought so hard to stand tall after being broken once before. Now here she was again, battered but unbowed, waiting for her light to return. He bent forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.
“Time to wake up, sleepyhead…”
“Mmmm…” came her drowsy reply, but instead of pulling away, she deepened the kiss, fingers twitching against his chest as if clinging to him. When she finally opened her eyes, blue flames surged around her body, a bonfire of transformation that made the rubble quake.
When the blaze receded, Shiho now wore a sleek silver-and-black bodysuit, etched with subtle crescent patterns that gleamed faintly with each movement. A short half-cape of midnight fabric hung from one shoulder, shifting like shadow with the wind. Strapped to her thigh was a quiver bristling with silver-fletched arrows. In her hands, a composite bow curved like the crescent moon itself, its string shimmering with pale lunar light. A silver diadem, delicate but regal, rested against her brow, catching the glow of her storm-grey eyes now sharp with resolve.
Akira couldn’t help but grin, offering his hand. “Looks like Dead-Eye’s back with us.”
She took it, steady and sure, letting him pull her to her feet. The other girls didn’t hesitate—they rushed in, surrounding Shiho with laughter and relieved tears, wrapping her in a chorus of hugs.
No sooner had Shiho steadied herself than a fresh wave of resonance shivered through Akira’s skull.
Saraswati’s clear, flowing voice. “South-east. Makoto needs you”
Kan’non’s warm compassion. “Hifumi cries out for you.”
Maat’s cool judgment. “Hurry, lest the balance tip. Find Ren”
Akira straightened, jaw tightening. There was no time to bask in victories. He turned to Futaba.
“Think you can fit the girls in Hypatia with you?”
Futaba gave an exaggerated shrug, a cheeky grin spreading across her face. “It’ll be a bit of a squash, but I don’t think any of us will mind.”
That drew a laugh out of him despite the tension. “Figures.”
He dashed forward, boots pounding against the cracked ground, cape snapping like a banner behind him. Hypatia lifted off just a moment later, its sleek hull gleaming as it surged into the air, the sound of Futaba’s delighted whoops echoing in his ears as the craft banked low to follow his lead.
Having Hypatia trailing him overhead turned the shattered cityscape into something almost manageable. Shadows swarmed from alleyways and clawed up from the cracked asphalt, but most never made it past the crossfire of blazing green lasers scything down from above.
Unfortunately, Hypatia’s pilot was still Futaba.
Akira vaulted over a jagged slab of concrete as a beam scorched far too close to his heels. “Remind me to teach her how to aim…” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“How dare you slander her!” Nephthys’s voice rang sharp and scandalized in his mind, like a mother hen defending her chick.
Akira only smirked faintly. “Relax, she’s improving…” He ducked as another laser bolt flew inches above his head. “…sort of.”
The cacophony of combat grew louder as he pressed forward—metal shrieking, explosions rattling the air, voices raised in defiance. He could feel the heat of Personas clashing just beyond the next stretch of rubble.
“Hang on…” Akira hissed, his off hand rising to his mask instinctively. “Sukukaja.”
The spell raced over his body, sharpening every nerve, making the world tilt into clarity. His legs coiled with new power, and then he was moving—faster, sharper, the ground vanishing beneath his boots. “We’re coming…”
He rounded the last bend, heart hammering. The street ahead blazed like a warzone. Against the crumbling facade of what once looked like a pachinko parlor, three figures stood back-to-back, their Personas towering above them in furious defiance.
Morrigan unleashed wave after wave of Freidyne explosions, the spectral blasts tearing Shadow ranks apart—yet the void seemed to fill just as quickly, more screeching beasts clawing over the rubble. Makoto was a storm in motion, fists wrapped in crackling energy, smashing Shadows to pulp whenever they slipped past the curtain of fire.
Beside her, Justicia raised her colossal sword high, radiant Kougaon arcs cleaving the battlefield in sweeping lines of holy devastation. Ren darted between those light blasts, her staff a blur as she smashed anything foolish enough to get close, twirling with the grace of a duelist even as sweat beaded her brow.
And above them, Astraea hovered, her eyes glowing like twin suns as meteors of Agidyne flame and Kougaon light rained down in staggering bursts. Every strike landed with clinical precision, covering Hifumi as her bladed heels slashed through foes that dared to break the perimeter.
But it wasn’t enough. For every Shadow that fell, two more clawed their way from the darkness, their shrieks echoing like a hive swarming to devour. The trio of girls were holding the line by willpower alone, the wall at their backs starting to crumble under the sheer numbers pressing in.
Akira didn’t hesitate.
From the rear of the horde, he surged forward—blue fire erupting around him as Satanael materialized with a thunderous roar, his gun already blasting Shadows into chunks of smoke. Beside him, Maat’s wings unfurled in a storm of judgment, golden chains of law binding dozens at once, while Kan’non’s serene, terrible light swept across the battlefield, annihilating anything in her path.
The Shadows broke, panicked shrieks ripping through the swarm as their vanguard was obliterated. Akira carved through like a living storm, his tonfas a blur of steel and rebellion. Each strike cracked bone and tore masks away, his path cutting straight for the three women cornered at the wall.
“Hang on!” he shouted, voice carrying even over the din of battle.
Ren’s head snapped up, hope flashing in her eyes. Makoto gritted her teeth, redoubling her assault. Hifumi’s lips curled into the barest of smiles even as her roundhouse kick split another Shadow’s neck.
And then, with a roar of engines and Futaba’s triumphant “Incoming, losers!” Hypatia swept low, strafing the enemy horde with beams of scorching light. Behind her, Yukiko’s Uzume-no-Mikoto, Ryuemi’s Teuta of Illyria, Morgane’s Circe, Shiho’s Artemis, and Lavenza’s velvet storm of magic descended like an avalanche.
The tide turned instantly. Shadows that moments ago pressed like an endless wave now shrieked in fear, caught between two fronts of fury and fire. One by one, they were cut down, until the street was littered only with the fading ash of their remains.
Silence, broken only by the hissing of Hypatia’s cooling engines and the ragged breaths of the fighters, settled over the ruined street.
Akira didn’t waste a heartbeat. He vaulted the broken ground and rushed to the trio pressed against the wall, his storm-grey eyes scanning them for wounds.
“Ren—Makoto—Hifumi—” His voice cracked with the weight of fear, relief, and desperate need.
Makoto was the first he reached, still panting from the relentless melee. He seized her hands, tugging her forward, his eyes flicking over the bronze armor plates that now gleamed faintly in the half-light. They covered her shoulders, torso, and forearms like the regalia of some ancient knight, the royal-blue bodysuit beneath moving with her like a second skin.
She blinked at him, as though surprised by his urgency. “Akira, I’m fine—”
He didn’t let her finish. He cupped her cheek, pressed his forehead to hers for a breath, then claimed her lips in a firm kiss. Makoto stiffened in surprise, then melted against him, the steel in her posture softening into warmth. When he finally drew back, her face was flushed crimson.
“You scared me,” he whispered, thumb brushing the line of her jaw.
“…You were late,” she muttered, trying to hide the tremor in her smile.
He chuckled, then moved to Hifumi, who stood tall but trembling ever so slightly, her breath shallow from overexertion. His eyes widened at the sight of her new attire— a black and scarlet silk cheongsam, slit scandalously high at both sides, embroidered with sweeping gold dragons that coiled across her body. The dress clung like it was meant for a duelist, its sleeves trailing just enough to accent her movements. Her heels were taller, slenderer now — but the gleam along their edges promised they were no less lethal. She radiated elegance and danger, every inch the queen of the shogi board turned warrior.
“A warrior queen…” he murmured, tracing one embroidered dragon with his eyes.
Hifumi lowered her lashes, her voice soft but steady. “A proper general must always stand tall for her lord.”
He smiled at the familiar phrasing, then leaned in, brushing his lips over hers with reverence rather than urgency. She kissed him back without hesitation, her hand curling over his chest, lingering there as if to assure herself he was real.
Finally, his gaze found Ren.
She was radiant. No longer simply a magical girl, she now stood resplendent in a flowing gown of white silk that shimmered like starlight. Golden accents traced across the bodice, and a lotus emblem gleamed at her collarbone. Her hair was bound in twin bunches, jeweled ribbons catching the fractured light of the cityscape, giving her the appearance of a queen descended from the heavens.
Akira stared, momentarily robbed of words. “Ren…” he breathed, his chest tightening.
She smiled faintly, soft and regal all at once. “Do I look ridiculous?”
He shook his head hard, stepping forward and cradling her face in his hands. “You look divine.”
He kissed her, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that made the rest of the nightmare fall away. When they parted, her lashes fluttered, her lips curved in a tremulous smile that was more girl than queen.
The warmth of the moment still lingered on Akira’s lips when the sudden clamor of voices tore through his skull.
“East!” Aphrodite’s sultry tone rang first, impatient and demanding.
“Hurry, Akira, they’re waiting!” came Eos, bright and urgent, almost like a sunrise breaking through cloud.
“You cannot leave them to wither… go now, eastward,” Demeter’s earthy voice rumbled like distant thunder.
Akira hissed softly, pressing his fingers against his temple. “Alright, alright—I hear you.”
He lifted his head and scanned the warped cityscape. In the near distance, the great shimmering dome of watery light pulsed like the beating of a giant heart, ripples distorting the skyline. He realized with a sinking feeling that his path had almost carried him in a wide circle around it.
“They’re that way,” he said aloud, pointing east, his storm-grey eyes flicking to the distorted horizon. Then he looked at back at the girls. He hated the thought, but…
“We should split up.”
Futaba groaned immediately, still half-draped over Morgane. “Ughhh, I hate when people say that.”
Akira’s expression softened, but his voice carried no room for argument. “It’ll be faster. Makoto, Shiho, Ryuemi—you’re with me.” He glanced to each of them in turn, steady and reassuring. “We’ll head east, pick up Ann, Kasumi and Haru.”
Then he turned to Futaba, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. “Taba, I need you to take the others and figure out what that dome is. It’s too important to ignore. And… see if you can find a way out of this place.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait, you’re putting me in charge of them?”
Akira smirked, even in this hellscape. “You’ve got the biggest brain in the room. Who else am I gonna trust?”
For a second, Futaba froze—then her grin broke wide, cheeks pink. “Heh… damn right.” She hopped back into Hypatia, pumping her fist. “Alright, you heard the boss, ladies. Let’s figure out what this trippy aquarium bubble thing is all about!”
Makoto, Shiho, and Ryuemi gathered at Akira’s side, weapons at the ready, their faces taut with determination. Akira gave one last look to his other girlfriends—his family—then turned eastward, storm-grey eyes blazing. “Let’s move.”
Akira sprinted through the warped avenues, boots pounding against the wet, rippling ground. The neon haze swirled like watercolors bleeding in a storm, and above it all, the voices battered at his mind.
“Faster—this way!” Aphrodite urged, her honeyed tone dripping with need.
“Dawn waits for no one, Akira! Push harder!” Eos cried, a beacon of relentless urgency.
“Don’t leave them untended, child. They need you,” Demeter added, a voice like the weight of soil and roots.
But even as they pulled, others tugged back.
“Slow down.” Saraswati’s tone was steady, calm but firm.
“Don’t you dare forget Ryuemi is behind you.” Sekhmet’s growl snapped through like a whip crack.
“Shiho’s life is as precious as any others.” Selene’s silver whisper carried quiet warning.
The voices overlapped, rising and crashing over one another, until a third wave surged—bristling, insistent, resentful.
And as if that weren’t enough, others chimed in, sharp as arrows: “Why split us at all? Foolish!” “He should have kept us together—” “Too dangerous—” “Reckless—”
Akira hissed, clutching the edge of his mask, his storm-grey eyes flashing with strain. Too many voices. Too many directions. He couldn’t—
Then it hit.
A single rumble, deep and resonant, shuddered through his skull like the toll of a cathedral bell.
“SILENCE… ALL OF YOU.”
The word wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. Its weight crushed every other sound to ash.
The Consorts froze, their myriad tones snuffed out in an instant. Even Aphrodite swallowed her protest. Even Sekhmet stilled her claws.
Satanael’s voice rolled through the silence like thunder crawling across the horizon.
“My Consorts. My loves. Be quiet.”
The air itself seemed to vibrate with the Rebel King’s command, heavy yet tender, loving yet absolute.
“My Harbinger knows what he is doing. His love, his care, his trust for your charges is as strong as my own feelings for you. But he cannot function if you claw at him from every side, pulling him in different directions, clucking like base chickens…”
The words echoed, blunt and almost amused in their rebuke, but carrying a sacred authority none dared challenge. Akira let out a slow breath, the tightness in his chest loosening. Thanks, he thought inwardly.
He felt Satanael’s answering smile, warm and fierce, like embers banked deep in his soul.
“Go, Akira. Bring the last of your Queens home.”
Akira straightened, storm-grey eyes blazing once more. He turned back just enough to see Makoto, Shiho, and Ryuemi following close behind, their faces tight with determination.
“All right,” he said softly, tonfas flashing into his hands. “Let’s finish this.”
The four sprinted down a cracked boulevard, the warped neon flickering like fireflies drowned beneath water. The muffled thunder of battle grew louder with every step—booming detonations, the hiss of searing magic, the screech of Shadows being torn apart.
“Up ahead!” Makoto called, her hand tightening around her knuckle-dusters.
They rounded a half-collapsed arcade, and the scene opened before them—pure carnage.
Ann stood tall at the center, eyes blazing, Ishtar towering behind her like a goddess of fire and desire. Lava geysers burst from ruptured pavement with every sweep of the goddess’s hand, swallowing entire waves of Shadows in molten annihilation. Ann’s laugh—breathy and wild—carried across the battlefield.
Kasumi spun like a dancer in a storm, ribbons of brilliant light streaming from her hands. Eurydice floated at her side, every flick of her harp unleashing new radiance. Ribbons lashed through the air, ensnaring Shadows before constricting tight and bursting them apart in showers of sparks. Kasumi’s every step was graceful, merciless, and dazzling.
And then there was Haru. Her scythe gleamed slick with ichor, her movements measured, deliberate. Zenobia flanked her, blade singing with each strike. Haru’s expression was serene—almost tender—as she reaped her enemies like stalks of grain. A sadistic yet gentle smile played across her lips, the contradiction chilling and beautiful all at once.
Akira stopped short, a low laugh bubbling out despite the chaos. He spun his tonfa once, then charged forward into the fray, Satanael, Eos and Demeter bursting into manifestation behind him.
“Looks like we didn’t even need to rush,” he called over the roar, lips quirking into a grin. “Those three don’t look like damsels in distress to me.”
His words echoed in his mind, drawing a chorus of groaning rebukes—
“You dare jest while my flame burns—” Aphrodite huffed.
“Mocking our urgency? Insolent boy—” Demeter scolded.
“If dawn were yours to squander—!” Eos flared, indignant.
Satanael’s chuckle rolled over them, amused and indulgent. “Let him laugh. The battlefield is his throne, and they are his crown. Be proud, not jealous.”
Akira only grinned wider as he slammed into the nearest Shadow, his tonfas cracking form and fire. With the others crashing in beside him, the tide shifted fast.
The Shadows didn’t stand a chance. Between Ann’s firestorms, Kasumi’s searing light, Haru’s merciless scythe, and Akira’s strike at their core, the battlefield was reduced to steaming ichor and drifting ash in mere minutes. The last monster gave a broken screech before it, too, collapsed into nothing.
Silence, save for the hiss of cooling stone.
Haru was the first to step forward, brushing blood off her scythe’s haft. Her royal purple cavalier’s uniform caught the fragmented light of the environment, a tapestry of silk, velvet, and brocade. The justacorps was tailored perfectly to accentuate her lithe form, the golden embroidery along the cuffs and collar catching faint glimmers of blue from the watery sheen around them. The breeches hugged her legs elegantly, while her boots rose to mid-calf with polished brass buckles.
“Akira…” Haru’s voice was soft, warm, as if the carnage had been nothing more than a morning stroll. She barely had time to breathe before Akira swept her close, brushing his lips against hers, murmuring, “Magnificent as always. And this outfit—royalty suits you, Haru.”
Her cheeks flushed deeper than the purple brocade of her justacorps, and she let out a demure laugh.
Kasumi approached next, her new street dancer-inspired ensemble a swirl of dawn colors — gold, red, orange, and yellow. The layered fabrics moved fluidly with her steps, almost like flames licking at her limbs. She wore fitted trousers with vibrant patchwork panels, a cropped vest embroidered in gold thread, and her wrists adorned with silk ribbons that fluttered like wings. Her top was intricately laced, showing just a hint of midriff, combining practicality with flair.
“Kasumi…” Akira whispered, his hand reaching instinctively. He kissed her tenderly, just enough to set her glowing brighter than her ribbons. “Brilliant. Radiant. You’re the morning itself.”
Kasumi ducked her head, smiling, fingers clutching the hem of her dancer’s dress. “You always know what to say…”
Akira turned then, intending to move to the last of his reunited goddesses—
—and froze.
Ann walked toward him through the settling smoke, hips swaying with unconcerned grace, her eyes burning gold with Ishtar’s lingering power. The catsuit was gone. In its place was a robe of scarlet and pink, flowing silk cut scandalously low across her chest, slits high at her thighs, the fabric clinging where it should and baring where it shouldn’t. Bangles chimed at her wrists and ankles, and every step was a promise, every breath an invitation.
Akira’s brain simply blue-screened.
Ann tilted her head, lips curving into a smile that was equal parts teasing and divine. “Well?” she purred, drawing a hand down her bare hip, letting the robe shift even more dangerously. “Do I pass inspection, leader?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing.
Satanael’s laugh thundered through his mind. “Ahhh, struck dumb at last. Even you cannot quip when the Goddess of Love bares her full splendor.”
Aphrodite’s voice was smug, triumphant. “At least he has the sense to worship properly.”
Demeter grumbled something about “shameless displays,” Eos sputtered indignantly about “indecency at dawn,” but none of it registered. Akira could only stare as Ann came closer, smile wicked, her beauty burning brighter than fire.
Ann stopped just short of him, her golden gaze sweeping over his stunned expression. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned forward until her lips hovered by his ear. “…Speechless?” she teased, her voice a sultry whisper. Before he could stammer out a response, she tilted his chin down with two fingers and claimed her kiss herself—slow, lingering, utterly confident. The scent of roses and fire clung to him when she finally drew back, leaving him wide-eyed and red to the tips of his ears.
Ryuemi snorted outright. “Blue-screened by a pretty face. Classic.”
Akira rubbed the back of his neck, bashful grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “Alright, alright, pile it on… I deserved that one.”
Ann smirked, folding her arms under her chest, looking entirely too satisfied. But the levity in Akira’s expression faded as he glanced toward the shimmering dome in the distance. The Consorts were quiet now, but he still felt the weight of their urgency pressing against his chest.
The ruined labyrinth was silent as Akira’s team approached the dome. The others were already waiting there — Futaba poking at the watery dome with Lavenza at her side, the rest of the girls gathered in a protective ring around the pair.
“Finally!” Futaba whooped as Akira and the girls approached, pointing dramatically toward an archway half-swallowed by rubble. Between the twisted stone, a thin ripple shimmered, almost invisible unless one stared directly at it. “There’s our exit — stealth portal, totally anime-style. Took some serious grid-hacking to spot.”
Akira’s storm-grey eyes swept across the group. The fatigue of hours in that nightmare realm weighed on them, but the way they smiled was reassuring. He exhaled and gave a short nod. “Alright. First priority is getting out of here. We’ll regroup once we’re safe.”
Without hesitation, they filed through the shimmer — one after another vanishing into the thin veil of light. Akira was the last to step through.
The crushing darkness and endless rubble blinked away in an instant, replaced by blinding stage lights and the roar of a crowd. They were back at the concert.
The girls froze in disbelief as color, music, and cheers washed over them. Up on stage, Risette and Kanamin hadn’t missed a beat; fans were screaming, glowsticks waving. The world looked… utterly unchanged.
Futaba checked her phone, her jaw dropping. “No way… we were gone for hours. But here? It’s only been fifteen minutes.”
Akira steadied himself, scanning the packed arena, his leader’s mask slipping effortlessly back into place. His voice dropped to a firm murmur. “Act natural. Smile, cheer, do whatever you have to… but keep your eyes peeled for Yamano.”
The Phantom Thieves blended back into the sea of fans, the thrum of bass rattling through their bones, the surreal dissonance of normality pressing in on them. The concert went on without a hitch, every note and dance move unfolding perfectly — yet beneath it all, the tension coiled like a drawn bowstring.
Chapter 40: Lullaby For The Libertines – Part 2
Summary:
Akira has a heart-to-heart with his Personas, and learns a truth about himself.
The Desire for Gratification goes out of control in Okinawa.And what's going on with Yu and Rise?
Chapter Text
The RV was parked in a quiet corner of the venue’s lot, its curtains drawn against the neon glow of the city. Inside, the Phantom Thieves crowded around the small table, the air thick with the weight of what they had just endured.
Futaba sat cross-legged in front of her laptop, wires and devices sprawled around her like a digital shrine. Her goggles were pushed up on her forehead, her expression unusually serious. “So, first thing’s first — it’s not a Palace,” she announced, fingers tapping a sharp rhythm on her keyboard. “There’s no distorted heart propping that place up. The readings… they’re different. Honestly, it feels more like the Purgatory we pulled Akira out of.”
“Except less chaotic,” Lavenza murmured from her seat beside the window. She was perched neatly, hands folded in her lap, her tone soft but firm. “The only reason we were able to enter Akira’s Purgatory at all was because of our connection to him. Otherwise, it would have been impossible.”
Morgane, curled up on the RV’s bench seat, raised her head, her mismatched eyes sharp. “Less chaotic? That place seemed pretty chaotic to me.”
“That is because it has not finished forming yet,” Lavenza explained softly. “It is… incomplete. It requires more power — more emotion — to stabilize.”
The group fell quiet, the thought hanging heavy in the air.
Then Shiho, who had been sitting near the window with her arms loosely folded, spoke up. “Wait. Didn’t Yamano say something about… gratification? Right before everything blew up and we ended up there?”
A ripple of recognition went around the group.
“Yes,” Haru said slowly, pressing a hand to her chin as she recalled it. “And that urn he was holding started glowing while he spoke…”
“Yeah, and then people started getting all glowy-eyed and weird,” Ryuemi added, wrinkling her nose. “Total horror-movie vibes. It was freaky.”
“Okay, so…” Futaba snapped her fingers, her eyes alight with manic energy despite the dark circles forming under them. “What if the urn’s like… a battery? Yamano feeds it emotions — gratification, desire, whatever — and it powers up his little shadow-world until it finishes cooking?”
“Or maybe it’s cursed,” Kasumi said softly, pulling her knees to her chest. “Something ancient that he’s stumbled on. He could be channeling energy without even knowing what he’s unleashed.”
Ren leaned back, stretching until her spine popped. “Or he knows exactly what he’s doing. Maybe the urn is his equivalent of a Palace’s treasure — but externalized. Something he uses to make other people fuel his world for him.”
“Or…” Morgane’s voice was muffled by the pillow she had pulled over her head. “…it’s just a fancy clay pot and we all inhaled glitter gas and tripped balls.”
That got a weak laugh out of the group, but it died down quickly.
“I was watching him,” Makoto said finally, serious as ever. “His movements were deliberate. The timing too perfect to be coincidence. Whatever that urn is, Yamano’s using it with intent. And that makes him dangerous.”
A hush fell again, the only sound Futaba’s laptop humming in her lap.
Akira finally leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His storm-grey eyes swept over the group — every one of them bone-tired, fraying at the edges. “We don’t have enough information yet,” he said, voice calm but firm. “And we’re all exhausted. Let’s revisit this in the morning, after we’ve had time to sleep and clear our heads.”
For a moment, no one argued. Then, one by one, the girls nodded.
“Fine…” Futaba muttered, closing her laptop with a snap and sliding off the bench.
The team began to pair off naturally — Morgane with Yukiko, Ann with Shiho, Futaba dragging Kasumi by the hand, Ryuemi giving Lavenza a piggyback, Haru and Hifumi following Makoto and Ren — murmured good nights floating in the air.
Akira stood last, stretching his sore muscles before heading for the rec room. He didn’t get any protests this time — only a line of tired but tender kisses pressed to his lips as each girl passed him. By the time he sank down onto the couch, the RV had gone quiet save for the soft murmur of the AC.
Akira lay stretched out on the couch, one arm folded under his head, the other draped over his stomach. The RV was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the generator outside. His storm-grey eyes traced the ceiling for a long moment before he let them drift shut. Slowly, deliberately, he reached inward — toward that deep, private place where his soul and his Personas intertwined.
When he opened them again, he stood in a cavernous hall of obsidian and firelight. The throne room of the Rebel Lord. Starlight bled through cracks in the high vaulted ceiling, bathing the chamber in cold brilliance. At the far end, Satanael sat like a monolith upon his throne, wings folded and burning eyes fixed on him.
At his feet, arranged in a half-circle, sat the twelve Consorts. Their radiance dimmed, heads bowed, they looked less like goddesses and more like chastened wives.
Akira let out a breath and raked a hand through his hair as he walked forward. His bare feet made no sound on the marble floor. “So…” he said quietly, his gaze flicking from one goddess to the next. “I guess we need to talk about what just happened.”
He stopped a few paces short of them, running his hand through his hair. “Why were you all acting that way? Pulling me in twelve different directions at once, like you thought I couldn’t make a decision on my own?”
A ripple of shame seemed to pass through the Consorts, though none answered immediately. Satanael’s low, rumbling breath filled the silence.
Finally, Kichijōten rose to her feet, her golden aura dimmer than usual. “We… feared for them. For our girls. In the chaos, instinct took over. Each of us tried to guide you to the one we are bound to. We… forgot ourselves.”
Durga looked up then, her fiery eyes flashing. “And we doubted you. Even for a heartbeat — it was unforgivable.”
Akira’s frown softened, though his tone stayed level. “You think I don’t worry too? That I wasn’t afraid I’d lose one of them in there? But if you all start yelling at once, I can’t hear anything. I can’t think.”
Selene bowed her head, her silver hair spilling forward like moonlight. “We were selfish in our devotion. We did not act as one, but as rivals clamoring for attention. It is not worthy of you, Harbinger.”
One by one, the others murmured agreement, some quietly, some bitterly, their divine poise stripped away to reveal something rawer. Akira lowered his hand from his face, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the goddesses one by one. Their radiance flickered faintly, not unlike candlelight in a draft. The weight of their earlier words lingered in his chest — fear, desperation, devotion…
He drew in a slow breath. “No,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That’s not all of it.”
Twelve pairs of divine eyes turned up toward him. Akira took a step closer, voice steadier now. “There’s something else going on here.” His gaze swept the semicircle of Consorts, his tone softening as he spoke. “You all represent my connection to the girls. Which means…” He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, “…you’re not really separate from me at all, are you?”
Silence hung heavy in the chamber. None of them moved to deny it.
Akira’s brow furrowed as understanding started to click into place. “…It’s me,” he said quietly, hand pressed against his chest. “You acted that way because I feel like I should have a way of prioritizing one over the others. Like I’m waiting for them to fight for first place.”
Aphrodite lifted her chin, golden eyes shimmering with an ache that wasn’t quite hers alone. “The fear that love must be rationed… it bleeds from you, Harbinger. We only reflected it.”
Kichijōten’s hands folded tightly in her lap. “You expect jealousy, so you braced for it — through us.”
Akira swallowed hard, the realization sinking deeper. “All this time, I’ve been waiting for the moment they’d start resenting each other,” he whispered. “But that’s just me projecting. They’ve already proven me wrong over and over, haven’t they?”
The Consorts stayed quiet, watching him. Even Satanael, looming above, remained silent now, his scarlet eyes gleaming as though measuring whether Akira would reach the truth on his own. Akira stayed kneeling before them, the firelight from Satanael’s throne casting long, golden shadows across the marble floor. For a moment, he simply breathed — slow, steady, grounding himself in the stillness.
“…You’re right,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’ve been thinking about love like it’s a scale — something I have to balance, measure, keep fair. Like if I show one of them too much affection, I’ll make the others feel forgotten.” His lips twisted faintly, more at himself than anything. “But that’s not how this works, is it?”
Aphrodite’s expression softened, eyes glowing like sunrise. “Love is not arithmetic, Harbinger. It is abundance.”
Akira smiled faintly at that, nodding. “Yeah. It’s not about giving each of them equal parts. It’s about giving all of them my heart — because they’re all part of it.” He placed a hand over his chest. “They know how I feel. They’ve seen it, felt it. I don’t have to prove it every day like it’s a test.”
He lifted his head, eyes shining with resolve. “From now on, I’m not going to waste energy trying to be ‘fair’ or afraid of hurting someone’s feelings before they’ve even said anything. I trust them — all of them — to come to me if something’s wrong. And I trust myself to listen.”
Eos leaned forward, her golden hair shimmering like dawn’s first light. “And if jealousy arises, it will not be a fracture… but a chance for truth.”
Akira nodded, a deep calm settling into his shoulders. “Exactly. We’ll work through things as they come. Together. That’s what makes us strong — not perfection, but trust.”
He rose slowly to his feet, gaze sweeping over the Consorts, each of whom now met his eyes with warmth rather than worry. “You’re all reflections of that love — my love for them, their love for me, and the love they share with each other. I see that now.” His voice deepened with quiet certainty. “I don’t need to choose. I don’t want to choose. What we have… it’s enough. We’re enough.”
A serene hush fell over the chamber. The goddesses bowed their heads, their divine forms gleaming brighter, softer — as though his acceptance had freed them too.
Satanael’s massive form stirred behind them, crimson wings unfurling slightly. His voice rumbled like distant thunder, resonant with pride. “You understand now, my Harbinger. Love born from rebellion is not bound by chains or fear. It is choice… renewed, every day.”
Akira turned, meeting the great demon’s gaze. “Then I choose them. All of them. And I trust that they choose me — and each other — just the same.”
A pulse of light rippled outward from him, brushing over each Consort in turn. They glowed brighter, their voices a gentle chorus of warmth and devotion echoing back through his soul.
Akira smiled — genuinely, peacefully. “Thank you… all of you. I think I finally get it.”
The throne room shimmered, light wrapping around him like a soft embrace. As his consciousness began to return to the waking world, the last thing he heard was Satanael’s approving whisper: “Then go, Harbinger. Love freely… and lead without fear.”
Akira’s eyes fluttered open to soft morning light spilling in through the curtains. For a moment, he simply lay there, the lingering warmth of Satanael’s words and the Consorts’ presence still humming in his chest. He felt lighter. Not empty — but whole, as though a knot inside him had finally been undone.
A small smile touched his lips as he slipped out of bed without waking the others. Moving quietly, he padded to the kitchen, tying back his hair as he set to work. The familiar motions of chopping vegetables, stirring rice, and tending to the grill grounded him in the ordinary — yet every action seemed touched with a new calm. He wasn’t trying to do anything for anyone, or prove anything. He was just… caring for them, because he wanted to.
One by one, the girls began to drift in, still warm with sleep. Ann, hair mussed from the pillow, leaned down and kissed his cheek before mumbling, “Mornin’, chef.” Shiho followed with a soft smile and a brush of her lips against his temple. Morgane slid onto the counter beside him, stealing a tiny kiss and then a piece of tamagoyaki when she thought he wasn’t looking. Even Futaba, bleary-eyed and wrapped in her hoodie, shuffled in to press a quick kiss against his arm before collapsing into a chair.
Each one gave him that little morning ritual of affection without comment, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. And Akira, instead of tensing with the old worry of was that fair? did I give back enough? just smiled — bashful, but unburdened — and let himself accept it.
Breakfast was lively, full of teasing, small complaints about who hogged the covers, and the kind of laughter that only came from people comfortable with one another. When they’d finished, they tidied up together, the whole process seamless in its domesticity.
Soon, they gathered in the rec room, settling onto couches and cushions in a loose circle. Akira waited until the last of the chatter quieted down before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His storm-grey eyes swept over them all, calm but steady.
“So…” he began, voice carrying the quiet weight of someone ready to move forward, “let’s recap what we know.”
Makoto tapped her pen against her notebook, the pages already filled with neat, efficient bullet points. She looked up, meeting the others’ eyes before she began. “First — what we experienced last night isn’t a Palace. According to Futaba and Lavenza, there’s no distorted heart anchoring it, and the structure itself feels unstable — almost incomplete.”
Futaba nodded, cross-legged beside her laptop. “More like… digital scaffolding waiting for the rest of the code to load. Creepy metaphysical version, though.”
Makoto continued, “Second — Lavenza theorizes it’s a sort of proto-realm, similar to Akira’s Purgatory, but less personal. It’s chaotic because it hasn’t fully formed yet.”
Lavenza inclined her head. “Yes. It lacks the emotional weight necessary for completion — but someone is trying to give it shape.”
“Which brings us to the third point,” Makoto said, eyes narrowing slightly. “The urn Yamano was holding. When it glowed, he spoke of gratification, and the people around him began to display trance-like behaviour. That may be a key trigger — either for feeding energy into the realm or influencing people in this one.”
She set her pen down and exhaled softly, frustration tugging at her brow. A moment of silence settled over the group. Akira leaned back slightly, rubbing his chin, storm-grey eyes distant in thought.
“So,” he murmured, “we need to investigate that other side further — figure out how it connects to what’s happening here. We also need to confirm whether this… unfinished world is affecting reality, and what Yamano’s urn is really doing.”
He looked up, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. “And we have to balance that with the concert. Kanami’s group is heading to Kyoto today, and we’re meant to follow in two days — so we don’t have a lot of time.”
The room waited for his next move — a familiar rhythm by now. When Akira finally straightened, his voice carried quiet authority, firm but warm.
“One team goes in: myself, Lavenza, Ryuemi, and Hifumi. We’ll explore the other side, map the terrain, and see if there’s a core forming.”
Ryuemi gave a short nod, already cracking her knuckles in anticipation. Hifumi simply inclined her head, calm and composed, while Lavenza folded her hands primly at her chest.
“Ren, Shiho, Morgane, Haru,” Akira continued, “you’ll stay in the city. Walk the streets, visit the plazas and shopping districts — anywhere with crowds. Observe how people are acting. Look for patterns: changes in mood, erratic behaviour, anything that seems off. Even subtle shifts could be clues.”
The four exchanged glances and nodded, already slipping into mission mode.
Finally, Akira turned to the last group — Makoto, Ann, Kasumi, Yukiko, and Futaba. “You five hold the fort at the venue. We don’t want to worry Ri-Ri, but we need to make sure that nothing bad will happen during the concert tonight. ‘Taba — see if you can work your magic and dig up anything on Yamano while you’re at it.”
Futaba gave a salute, opening her laptop. “Consider him digitally undressed.”
Ann elbowed her with a smirk. “Ew, please don’t phrase it like that.”
Akira allowed a small smile before his expression settled into resolve. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and not much time. Let’s move.”
The world rippled around them as they stepped through the shimmering veil — and when it stilled, the barren wasteland from before was gone. In its place rose a gleaming city of neon and glass, drenched in gold and crimson light. Towering spires shaped like dice and champagne flutes loomed above endless boulevards, while gaudy signs flashed temptations in every direction: PLEASURE. LUXURY. WIN IT ALL.
And all of it sat beneath a great translucent dome — shimmering like liquid glass — that curved over the skyline and mirrored the reflections of water lapping at its outer edge. It was as though the city floated in the heart of a drowned world.
Akira took a slow breath, letting the scent of smoke, perfume, and ozone settle over him. Then his lips quirked into a sardonic half-smile. “Welcome to a paradise of sin,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders as black flame curled up his arms. In a single breath, the familiar weight of his Thieves’ coat settled onto him, mask sealing over his eyes.
He turned to the others. Comet’s fur coat shimmered with sparks of blue, her jeweled skull mask glinting and refracting the light. Kirin’s bladed heels clicked against the cracked marble road, her cheongsam gleaming under the lights. Papillon summoned her Grimoire, its pages fluttering in the non-existent breeze.
“Code names only,” Akira said quietly, voice crisp and authoritative. “Until we know the rules, we treat it like a Palace.”
“Roger that, Joker,” Comet replied, scanning the nearest rooftops. Kirin inclined her head, serene. “We should avoid drawing attention — until we know whose paradise this is.” Papillon smiled faintly. “And what kind of sin they’re peddling.”
“Eyes open. Stay sharp.”
The four moved out, keeping to the shadows that clung to the base of the glittering towers. The street ahead was lined with opulent casinos and theatres, each promising some new delight — but the deeper they ventured, the more cracks began to show.
A dancer with blank eyes twirled endlessly behind glass, her movements mechanical. Croupiers dealt cards to tables of mannequins. A man in a tuxedo laughed as gold coins spilled from his hands — but when one rolled close, it melted into black sludge.
The air itself hummed with temptation, thick and heavy, like a whisper pressing against their minds: Indulge. Surrender. Forget.
They slipped down the central boulevard, weaving between marble statues and flickering signs, their senses on high alert for any sign of the realm’s ruler — or the Shadows that surely patrolled this gilded labyrinth.
They moved cautiously through the neon labyrinth, boots whispering against polished marble streets that gleamed like a casino floor. The deeper they ventured, the more the city’s voice grew insistent — seductive — in its promises.
Why wait?
Take what you want.
Love is fleeting — enjoy it before it rots.
Billboards flashed these mantras in dazzling gold script, intercut with images of lovers entwined, gamblers laughing, and revelers throwing coins into the air. Every alley whispered indulgence. Every doorway pulsed with false warmth.
Papillon’s brow furrowed as she looked around. “It’s all the same message…” she murmured. “Pleasure without consequence.”
Comet’s mask gleamed under the light of another sign — a smiling couple dissolving into static the moment they kissed. “And no lasting connections,” she added grimly. “It’s all hollow.”
A shrill laugh cut through the air as a group of Shadows slithered from the glowing entryway of a club. They wore the faces of croupiers and dancers — masks frozen in grins, eyes burning gold.
“Let’s clear them fast,” Joker ordered.
The fight was swift. Weapon strikes and magic bursts scattered the Shadows like confetti. But for every one that vanished, more appeared at the fringes — drawn by some unseen magnet.
They pressed onward, only to find the same pattern repeating. A glittering promenade lined with fountains of champagne; walls plastered with holosigns screaming No strings. No pain. Just bliss.
Another wave of Shadows — this time in tuxedos, wielding decks of razor-sharp cards — surged from the doorways.
Kirin sent them flying with a sweep of her leg, Astrae’s light spears clearing the rest. But as the echoes of the battle faded, Joker could already hear footsteps gathering again.
“Joker,” Comet warned, scanning their flanks. “They’re coming faster than we can handle.”
Joker cursed softly. “Fall back. We need breathing room.”
They retreated down a side street — only to emerge into another plaza drenched in pink light and the endless refrain: Touch, taste, forget.
Another swarm waited there, shadows twisting into seductive forms — hosts with hollow eyes, dancers dripping liquid gold from their hands.
“Dammit.” Joker parried a blow, then backflipped to land beside Kirin. “We’re going in circles.”
Papillon exhaled sharply as she summoned Alice to blast away a group of Shadows. “Every path leads us deeper into temptation — then drowns us in it.”
“Which means this isn’t just a city,” Joker realized aloud, eyes narrowing. “It’s a lure. The entire place is built to trap us in indulgence — to bury us in distractions.”
Comet sliced through a nearby Shadow with her cutlass, breathing heavily. “So how do we break the loop?”
“Not sure yet…” Joker glanced up at the nearest tower — its windows flashing the words You deserve it now. “But if this place thrives on giving instant satisfaction, then taking things slow might be the key.”
He sheathed his tonfas as the last Shadow dissolved into nothingness. “For now, we regroup. We find high ground — somewhere quiet — and think. Charging forward is just feeding the system.”
The others nodded, and together they slipped back into the shadows, letting the neon world pulse and hum beyond while they caught their breath — the siren call of gratification still whispering from every direction.
At first, Okinawa seemed its usual lively self. The late-morning sun shimmered over the coastline, catching on storefront glass and bright banners. Tourists milled about with cameras, children tugged on their parents’ sleeves for ice cream, and the salty breeze carried the scent of yakisoba from a street vendor’s cart.
Ren stretched her arms above her head, her sequinned top glinting faintly in the light. “Looks normal enough,” she murmured. “Almost too normal.”
Shiho tilted her head, sharp eyes scanning the crowd. “Look closer.”
It didn’t take long before the differences started surfacing. A long line curled outside one of the casinos, stretching down the block. The people waiting weren’t chatting or idly scrolling their phones — they looked hungry. Impatient. One man checked his watch every few seconds, muttering curses. A woman at the back of the line was bouncing on her heels, craning her neck to see if the doors would open faster.
Across the street, a love hotel flaunted neon signs that blinked in time with a steady throb, Rooms Available, No Waiting. It was barely noon, yet couples streamed in, hands grasping each other almost desperately.
“Love hotels this busy at this hour?” Haru whispered, adjusting her sunglasses. “That’s… unsettling.”
Morgane scowled, her blue eyes narrowing. “Unsettling, but not surprising. Instant gratification.” She gestured sharply toward the nearby arcade. “Look.”
Inside, teenagers crowded the machines, their eyes feverish. Two boys were shoving each other, fists clenched, yelling about who had “hogged the cabinet too long.” A claw machine drew a gaggle of onlookers who jeered every time the claw missed, the tension around them palpable.
And then there were the advertisements.
Billboards that hadn’t been there yesterday now towered over the sidewalks. A smiling hostess holding a champagne glass: Why wait for happiness when it’s right here? A lottery ad blinking in bold red: Scratch. Win. Love. Now. Even a soft drink machine bore a new slogan in glowing font: Quench your thirst instantly.
The four girls stood in the midst of it all, a growing weight in their chests.
“It’s like… reality’s being rewritten,” Shiho murmured, fists clenching at her sides. “People are chasing satisfaction like it’s oxygen.”
Ren’s eyes darkened as she scanned the street around her. “I dread to think what Akira’s group must be seeing on the other side.”
Morgane crossed her arms. “So Yamano’s poison is already leaking through. And if it’s spreading this fast—”
“Then time isn’t on our side,” Haru finished softly, her usual smile nowhere in sight.
They shared a look — solemn, uneasy. Around them, the neon world of Okinawa seemed brighter, harsher, more demanding than it had ever been before.
Back at the concert venue, the atmosphere was humming with energy — a little too much energy. Staff members rushed past in every direction, arms full of cables and clipboards, shouting instructions over each other. Performers checked their outfits in mirrors, reapplying makeup with trembling hands, muttering under their breath about being “perfect,” “irresistible,” “the best.”
Ann, Kasumi, Yukiko, Futaba, and Makoto exchanged wary glances as they stood near the back hallway, watching the flurry of activity.
“Everyone’s… really going at it today,” Kasumi murmured, tugging absently at her fringe.
“Yeah,” Makoto agreed, her eyes narrowed as she watches the chaos unfold around them. “This is more than just pre-show nerves. Their focus is manic.”
One makeup artist was applying lipstick with shaking fingers, murmuring to herself: If I make her beautiful enough, everyone will love me… they’ll see how good I am…
Ann frowned. “This feels eerie. Like how things got crazy last night — just less obvious.”
Before they could speculate further, a familiar voice called out cheerfully: “Ann-chan! Girls! You made it!”
Rise bounded over, radiant as ever, waving brightly. Her usual spark was in full force — warm, genuine, untainted. She was wearing her stage outfit, a shimmering gold-and-rose ensemble that glittered under the overhead lights.
“Rise!” Ann smiled, relieved to see at least someone acting normal. “Hey — you doing okay? Everyone seems kind of… keyed up.”
Rise tilted her head, looking around. “Yeah, it’s wild today, huh? But that’s showbiz — everyone wants to be perfect!” She gave a carefree laugh, brushing her hair back.
Yukiko stepped forward gently. “Where’s Yu-senpai? Shouldn’t he be around?”
The question made Rise falter. For a heartbeat, her smile wavered. “Ah… Yu’s just… busy. That’s the way he is. Always helping someone out somewhere.”
Ann narrowed her eyes slightly. “Rise…”
But Rise quickly turned back toward the stage, voice a little too bright. “Anyway! I should go check on Inoe-san. You girls have stuff to do as well, right?”
Before they could press further, she slipped away into the bustle, her curls bouncing as she disappeared backstage.
Makoto crossed her arms. “That was evasive.”
“Yeah,” Futaba muttered, pushing up her glasses. “And suspicious. Hypatia isn’t picking up any major weird readings, but if Yu’s missing and Rise is dodging questions…”
Ann’s eyes hardened. “You think he’s involved somehow? Rise too?”
Kasumi bit her lip. “Do we split up? Try to look for him?”
Makoto shook her head. “Not yet. We need to stick to our roles. If something’s influencing this area like we suspect, we can’t risk losing each other too.”
Ann sighed, folding her arms as she glanced around as the early trickle of fans began growing larger. “Alright. But we keep our eyes open.”
From their vantage point atop a twisted glass tower, the distorted world sprawled out before them — a glittering, vice-soaked labyrinth encased beneath the shimmering dome of water. Neon signs pulsed with promises of pleasure and indulgence, the streets below choked with throngs of Shadows — dealers in sequined suits, hosts with hollow smiles, strippers with eyes like cracked gems, all moving in endless, looping patrols.
Joker crouched at the edge, storm-grey eyes scanning the terrain. “That plaza in the center… everything feeds into it.” He pointed toward the heart of the city — a grand circular stage bathed in pink light, surrounded by towering columns shaped like hands reaching skyward. “That’s probably the core of this place. If we want answers, they’ll be there.”
Kirin stepped up beside him, her sharp gaze flicking between the avenues. “Three main routes. All heavily guarded. The crossfire would be hell, and there’s nowhere to hide. Stealth’s not an option.” Her eyes narrowed, mind already racing. “If we create diversions along the three routes, we could split their attention.”
Papillon crossed her arms, her golden eyes thoughtful. “Three paths, three diversions.”
But Joker shook his head immediately. “Too risky with just the four of us. If even one of us gets overwhelmed, it’s over.” He scanned the horizon again, frowning as something caught his eye — a river of glowing pink energy snaking down from the shimmering sky, flowing into the central plaza like a waterfall of light. “What about that? Anyone got a read?”
Before anyone could answer, Papillon’s eyes widened, her tone turning soft and reverent. “Desires…”
Joker turned to her. “Desires? Like—”
She nodded slowly. “Human desires. Flowing freely from their hearts into this realm. Someone — or something — is collecting them. To what end, I cannot say.”
A chill settled in Joker’s chest. “So this place is feeding off them.”
Comet folded her arms, frowning. “Which means the longer this goes on, the stronger it’ll get.”
Joker nodded grimly. “Then we’ll need backup before we hit that core. We regroup with the others, plan this properly.”
Papillon gave a nod and closed her eyes, tracing a sigil into the air. A soft shimmer opened nearby — a barely visible portal flickering between worlds.
As the others prepared to step through, Joker cast one last glance across the city… and froze.
Down below, in the shadows of a love hotel, stood a lone figure — tall, broad-shouldered, with hair that caught the light. Even at this distance, Joker could feel the weight of his gaze — calm, piercing, familiar.
He blinked. And the figure was gone.
“…Joker?” Kirin’s voice broke through the silence.
He straightened, masking the flicker of unease in his eyes. “Nothing. Let’s move.”
With that, the team stepped through the portal, the warped skyline fading behind them as they crossed back into reality.
They gathered in a quiet corner of the backstage loading bay — the only place in the venue untouched by the restless energy humming through the crowd. The faint thrum of music and chatter leaked through the walls, but here, away from the glaring lights and pulsing speakers, the Phantom Thieves could think.
Akira leaned back against a stack of sound equipment, arms crossed, his expression grim. “The distortion’s already formed a full-scale city on the other side,” he began. “A neon sprawl built around a central plaza — everything feeds toward it. Shadows everywhere, all chasing one thing: pleasure. Gambling, indulgence, lust. It’s all they know.”
Ren folded her arms, her sharp eyes flicking between the others. “That tracks with what we’ve been seeing out here.” She exchanged a glance with Shiho and Morgane. “People are acting… off. It’s subtle, but there’s this restless energy everywhere. The arcades are packed, folks are fighting over machines, even love hotels are full in broad daylight. Everyone’s chasing something to make them feel good — fast.”
Makoto nodded slowly, a frown creasing her brow. “That same intensity has crept into the venue, too. The staff are working themselves to the bone, fans are wound up tighter than I’ve ever seen, and small conflicts keep sparking among the crowd. The only one unaffected seems to be Rise… but when Ann asked about Yu-san, she dodged the question.”
Haru rested a hand to her chin thoughtfully. “It’s as if the whole island is caught in a loop — consuming, craving, never satisfied.”
Shiho frowned. “It’s like a hunger that can’t be filled.”
A hush fell over the group. Akira straightened, his storm-grey eyes narrowing. “So it’s the Desire for Gratification that’s fueling the other side.” He glanced around the circle. “It’s drawing energy from people’s hearts, feeding off their craving for the next high — whether it’s a win, a thrill, or attention.”
Ryuemi crossed her arms. “And the longer it runs, the more warped things will get.”
Ren nodded grimly. “Then if we don’t act soon, this entire place could fall into distortion.”
Akira exhaled, pushing off the wall. “We still don’t know why this is happening…” His voice was steady, but the tension in his eyes betrayed his concern. “But given what we’ve seen so far, it’s not good.”
The Phantom Thieves stepped through the shimmering portal, the air around them rippling like the surface of a dream. One by one, their Thieves’ attire flared into being, masks settling into place as they emerged onto the other side — but as their eyes adjusted, murmurs of confusion rippled through the group.
“This… isn’t the same place we saw earlier,” Papillon breathed, her eyes darting around.
Where once there had been three broad streets leading toward the glowing central plaza, now six radiated outward like spokes of a wheel, each lined with gaudy casinos, clubs, and pleasure dens. The pink river of desire still poured down from the sky, but it was brighter, thicker — pulsing with a rhythm like a heartbeat. And everywhere, the streets swarmed with Shadows.
Comet let out a low whistle, spinning her cutlass idly in her hands. “Guess it’s too much to ask to have things be easy for once.”
Makoto said, eyes darting across the landscape. “Six paths… and all of them heavily guarded.”
Akira narrowed his eyes, stepping forward. “No choice but to test one.”
They chose a path at random and pushed forward, cutting down Shadows in coordinated bursts of magic and steel. For a while, progress felt possible — until they reached a wall of shimmering energy that stretched across the street, humming with the same pink hue as the river above.
Comet and Vixen slashed at it, Vent hurled her chakram, and Queen and Kirin’s precise strikes sent cracks spidering across its surface — but the barrier held firm.
“Tch.” Joker stepped back, frustration simmering beneath his mask. “Alright. Fall back. We’ll try another.”
The Thieves turned and sprinted toward the next boulevard. Same approach, same resistance — and again, a barrier of light rose before them, humming with mocking finality. They tried a third path, then a fourth. Each time, the same result: the way forward sealed by unbreakable force.
Breathing hard, the group retreated to their entry point, the six boulevards glittering before them like a cruel labyrinth. For a moment, no one spoke. The distorted city seemed to breathe around them — lights pulsing in slow rhythm, as though the world itself was alive and watching.
Then Oracle raised her visor, eyes wide behind the glow of her lenses. “…It’s adapting to us,” she said slowly, voice edged with awe and dread. “Almost like a living being. It’s not just reacting to our presence — it’s learning.”
Akira’s gaze swept across the horizon, jaw tightening. “Which means whatever’s at the center… it knows we’re coming.”
A ripple passed through the neon air, like a mirage shifting in heat. The Shadows around them froze, then parted like obedient subjects before a king. From the glowing streets, a figure emerged — tall, broad-shouldered, and resplendent in opulent robes that shimmered in iridescent hues of violet, gold, and crimson. His attire was an impossible blend of medieval regality and Roman splendor, jewels glinting across his chestplate, silken drapery flowing like liquid wine.
Upon his horned brow rested a great wreath of grapevines and roses, heavy with fruit. In his arms, he cradled a massive cornucopia — overflowing with wine, fruit, gemstones, gold coins, and steaming plates of delicacies that seemed to renew themselves endlessly. The air grew thick with the scent of honey, myrrh, and spiced wine.
When he spoke, his voice carried a languid authority — a tone soaked in decadence and divine self-assurance. “This is my Kingdom… of course I knew you were coming.”
The Thieves tensed, weapons raised, but Joker merely tilted his head, mask glinting under the neon glow. The figure’s lips curved into a smile, indulgent and unhurried. “I am Bacchus — Ruler of Gratification. Sovereign of Pleasure. Collector of all Desires that spring from longing hearts. Tell me, Phantom Thieves… have you come to deliver your Desires unto me?”
A few of the girls exchanged uneasy glances. Joker’s response was a smirk — sharp, irreverent. He spun his tonfas once, stepping forward.
“Bacchus, huh?” he drawled. “Guess that explains the…” He gestured lazily toward the god’s gleaming, curling horns, which were unmistakably — and intentionally — suggestive. “…overcompensating.”
Behind him, Noir stifled a laugh, Panther let out a soft snort, and even Aria covered a smile behind her hand. But Joker never looked away from the Ruler.
Bacchus only sighed, a serene smile never leaving his lips. “Mock me if you wish, Thief of Hearts. But there is no denying the truth. Gratification is the truest Desire of humanity — the root of all longing, all ambition, all joy. Mortals strive, suffer, and weep — all to taste fleeting pleasure. It is not sin, but truth. And it is my role to collect them all.”
Joker’s expression hardened, the glimmer of rebellion igniting in his storm-grey eyes. He dropped into a battle stance, tonfas gleaming with crackling energy. “And it’s my job to steal them back.”
He lunged — swift as a shadow, weapons flashing — and slashed through Bacchus’s form, aiming straight for his gut. But the strike met no resistance. Bacchus shimmered like smoke in moonlight, his image rippling and dispersing as Joker’s tonfas passed straight through him.
A gentle sigh drifted on the air. “How quaint. You would raise your hand to a god… Yet you do not understand the game you are playing.”
The illusion reformed a few paces away, smiling with that same serene omniscience. Around them, the world pulsed — neon light flaring, the six boulevards rearranging subtly, like veins shifting under living skin.
Bacchus lifted the cornucopia high, and from its mouth spilled ribbons of golden light that wound through the city, flowing into the barriers on each boulevard. “Allow me to enlighten you.”
And with that, his form dissolved into a cascade of glittering petals, vanishing into the air.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned — the team standing amidst the glowing streets, the scent of wine still lingering. And then, it happened. All around them, the streets began to warp, the lights pulsing faster — seductive whispers threading through the air like a siren’s song. The ground lurched violently beneath their feet. Cracks of golden light split through the pavement, and the neon towers around them twisted, bending in impossible shapes as though the city itself were being melted and reforged. The air rippled with heat and perfume, thick with the scent of honey and wine.
“Everyone, brace yourselves!” Joker shouted, planting his feet as the world convulsed around them.
The pleasure-palace city folded in on itself like a mirage — the grand casinos and boulevards dissolving into streams of liquid gold that flowed downward, merging into a vast, gleaming sea. From its depths rose a shape — titanic, luminous, and breathing with an eerie pulse.
A colossal clamshell, iridescent and shimmering like mother-of-pearl, unfurled before them. Its inner surface glowed with the same pink-gold light as the river of Desire, streams of that energy pouring into its open maw. The sound of a thousand whispers echoed from within, voices sighing with pleasure, longing, and surrender.
The Thieves stood frozen, awe and revulsion warring in their eyes.
“W-what the hell is that thing?” Dead-Eye muttered, shielding her face from the blinding glow.
Oracle’s visor flashed rapidly as she scanned. “It’s… it’s like a conduit — the center point where all those Desires are flowing. Whatever’s inside… that’s where the distortion’s anchored.”
Then came Bacchus’s voice — echoing across the rippling expanse, rich and silken, dripping with amusement. “The time for trifles has passed. My kingdom welcomes those who would seek true gratification — and my Throne Room awaits in the depths of the Shen, where all Desires converge.”
The word “Shen” rolled off his tongue like a chant, reverberating in their minds with an almost divine finality. “I do hope,” the voice purred, mocking yet serene, “that you will all make it… though few mortals have the strength to resist the pleasure that awaits them below.”
A low rumble shuddered through the ground again. Beneath the massive clamshell, the sea of light began to spiral, forming a glowing whirlpool — a maw drawing the river of Desires into its depths.
Joker clenched his fists, his coat billowing in the rising wind. “Guess we found our way forward,” he said grimly.
Lotus’s gaze was fixed on the glowing shell, her voice quiet. “Or our way down.”
The team exchanged glances — resolve hardening, even as the seductive pull of the light tugged at their hearts. “Stay sharp,” Joker said, stepping forward toward the glowing spiral. “He wants us to give in.” He looked back, eyes blazing. “So let’s do the opposite.”
Together, the Phantom Thieves leapt into the vortex — swallowed by light and madness.
What had begun as an eager crowd had transformed into a restless sea.
Hours before the concert was even scheduled to start, the plaza outside the Okinawa Cellular Stadium Naha pulsed with energy — not excitement, but hunger. Voices rose in impatient waves:
“Start the show already!”
“What’s the holdup?”
“Come on, we came for a good time!”
The air grew heavy, oppressive, charged with a strange static. People jostled each other in line, small shoves turning to curses, curses to blows. A man slammed another into a barricade over a spilled drink. Two women clawed at each other, shouting about who’d been waiting longer.
And yet, scattered through the chaos were scenes even stranger — couples pressed together in dark corners, heedless of the world around them; strangers exchanging touches and kisses with glazed, blissful smiles; laughter, moans, arguments blending into a single feverish hum.
Security scrambled to contain the unrest, but the energy was spreading, contagious — a frenzy of wanting.
Far above, in a glass-walled high-rise overlooking the venue, Hitoshi Yamano leaned against the window, a soft smile curving his lips.
“Magnificent,” he murmured, fingers stroking the surface of his urn as it thrummed in rhythm with the crowd’s emotions. “So eager to indulge… so desperate to take without restraint. You see it too, don’t you?”
The urn pulsed brighter, as if answering his whispered “This is only the beginning…”
Backstage, Rise stood just beyond the curtain, watching the monitors that displayed the swelling crowd. Her usual sparkle had dimmed; worry creased her brow.
Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. She could feel it — that same strange pulse, like a second heartbeat under her skin, trying to pull her into its rhythm. Her eyes lingered on the sea of restless faces beyond the stage. “Yu…” she whispered, gripping her headset tightly. “Where are you? I need you.”
The moment the Thieves stepped through the shell’s threshold, the world broke. Down wasn’t down anymore. Up wasn’t up. The descent into the Shen felt less like walking and more like being caught in a whirlpool of shifting light and sound. Buildings bent sideways and melted into neon rivers. Pavement rippled like water beneath their boots. Voices whispered from every direction — seductive, pleading, demanding — sometimes sounding like loved ones, sometimes like strangers.
“Don’t you want more?”
“Just take it. Take it all.”
“It feels so good… why stop?”
Each Thief stumbled under the barrage. Kirin’s blade heels skittered across what looked like glass but bled crimson underfoot. Vent nearly toppled into a pit of spinning roulette wheels that howled like wind. Noir gritted her teeth, her scythe cleaving through a sudden mob of Shadows dressed as laughing hosts who clawed at her arms.
Every few steps, new ambushes exploded from the distortion — Shadows in tuxedos and gowns, grotesque in their exaggeration, lurching out of broken slot machines or peeling themselves from walls of champagne bottles.
The Thieves fought, regrouped, pressed forward again, only to be scattered by another shift — another pull in a different direction.
Panther gasped, clutching her head as the lights strobed brighter. “It’s like it’s trying to drag us apart—!”
“Stay with me!” Dead-Eye barked, firing moonlit arrows into a pack of Shadows creeping too close. “Don’t let the noise get in your head!”
Still, it was chaos — too much chaos.
Finally, Joker skidded to a halt atop a staircase that curled like a serpent into the abyss below. He thrust out a hand, stopping the others. His voice cut sharp through the kaleidoscope.
“Enough.” The command stilled the group. The Shadows hissed from the edges of the distortion but dared not approach.
Joker’s grey eyes swept across the team, steady despite the madness swirling around them. “We can’t keep bumbling our way through like this. We need a plan, or this place will tear us apart before we ever reach Bacchus.”
The words grounded them, a tether in the storm. One by one, the Thieves caught their breath, eyes turning to him for direction. Joker’s gaze snapped first to Oracle. “Can you map this place?”
She shook her head, tugging her visor down as though it might block the kaleidoscope bleeding into her eyes. “Too much noise. It’s all overlapping signals. I can’t tell where the walls end and the monsters start.”
Queen’s gauntleted fist clenched at her side. “Everything is chaotic, constantly shifting. We need a way to strip this place down to its core—to break the illusions somehow.”
For a moment, there was only the hum of the kaleidoscopic void around them. Then—
“Wait… that’s it.”
Vixen’s head snapped up, eyes flashing in the shifting light. She straightened, scanning the area before pointing vaguely ahead of herself. “Break the illusions.”
The others turned to her, confused but listening.
“Panther, Kirin—you both wield fire, right?” Vixen said, voice firm, controlled. She turned, pointing next at Aria, Dead-Eye, and Lotus. “And you three… light magic.”
A heartbeat passed. Then Joker’s lips curved into a grin as realization dawned. “Of course… Fire to burn away the fog. Light to expose the truth.”
He turned toward the five Phantomettes, his tone sharpening into command. “If you all unleash your strongest attacks at the same time, we might just be able to burn this whole illusion down to its bones.”
Vent gave a wolfish grin, spinning her throwing disc so it caught the light. “Then I’ll give it some air—let’s make this firestorm sing.”
Joker nodded once, stepping back to give them room. “All right. On my mark—focus everything you’ve got on the heart of the distortion.”
The Thieves formed a loose circle, their Personas materializing in brilliant flashes — Ishtar, Artemis, Eurydice, Astraea, Justicia — their power flaring and pulsing in time like a living heartbeat.
The air thickened, the air around them writhing like wounded serpents as the five raised their hands to their masks in unison.
“Blazing Hell!”
“Shining Arrows!”
“Rapture!”
“Ragnarok!”
“Divine Decree!”
Vent touched her mask as well, shouting, “Circe - fan the flames! Panta Rhei”
A storm of fire and holy light erupted from the circle, converging in a blinding column that roared into the sky. The Shen screamed — the illusions burning away, the kaleidoscope fracturing, colors bleeding away like spilled ink.
When the brilliance faded, the ground beneath their feet felt solid again. The disorienting swirl was gone — replaced by a vast, spiraling path plunging deep into the heart of the clam-shell’s core, the river of Desire flowing steadily toward it.
Joker exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “Good work, everyone. Now… we see what’s really waiting for us down there.”
The descent was easier now, but no less harrowing. With the illusions stripped away, the labyrinthine Shen resolved into something far more solid — and far more hostile. The Shadows no longer lurked in ambush; they attacked in relentless waves, snarling and snapping as though enraged that their trickery had been destroyed. But without illusions to hide behind, they were little more than rabid beasts. The Thieves cut through them in a coordinated rhythm — blades flashing, spells igniting the darkness.
Even so, the path seemed endless — a spiraling descent, the walls pulsing with liquid light, as if they were walking deeper into the veins of a living creature. The further they went, the heavier the air became.
And then — they reached it. The bottom of the Shen. A vast circular chamber, silent and empty save for a shimmering barrier that stretched across the far end like a sheet of rippling glass. Beyond it, they could faintly see a radiant chamber, golden light flickering like candle flames.
Joker approached first, testing it with his gloved hand. A harsh crackle of energy lashed back, forcing him to jerk away with a hiss. Queen slammed her fists against it, while Dead-Eye fired round after round into its surface. Panther blasted it with fire; Aria tried light. Noir’s scythe, Vixen’s ice, Comet’s lightning. Papillion and Joker even tried combining Satanael and Lucifer’s might. Each attack was swallowed whole, leaving the barrier unmarked.
Minutes passed. Then tens of minutes. At last, Joker let out a low growl of frustration, raking his fingers through his messy black hair. He began pacing tight circles, storm-grey eyes darting like a caged wolf. “What are we missing here? Think… think…”
The girls watched him in silence, sweat and irritation mounting in equal measure. Oracle, crouched with her visor flickering, suddenly slapped her knees and let out a whine. “Ugh, and what is with the creepy voices? They’re everywhere!”
Everyone froze. Joker straightened sharply, his gaze locking on her. “…Voices?”
They all went quiet, straining their ears. From the walls, from the river, from the barrier itself, the whispers bled through the silence.
“Connection is worthless… connection is pain… Connection is worthless… connection is pain…”
Queen’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That sounds like Yamano.”
Noir crossed her arms, frowning. “You don’t suppose this is tied to his heart somehow… a wound he never healed?”
Joker turned to Oracle. “Anything from your scan?”
Oracle hesitated, shifting uneasily. “I ran a few tracers on him before we jumped in… but the data stream wasn’t done compiling. We left before the script finished running. I haven’t seen his full background yet.”
The voices continued their mantra, soft but relentless, echoing in the chamber’s hollow silence.
Joker exhaled sharply through his nose, then nodded. “Then we’re missing context — and without it, we’re just guessing. We’re not going to get anywhere bashing our heads against a brick wall.”
He turned, coat flaring behind him. “Everyone, fall back. We regroup in the real world. Oracle — finish that trace. We’ll need every scrap of intel before we try again.”
The others nodded, one by one. As the portal shimmered open behind them, Joker cast one last glance at the barrier — the whispers still echoing: “Connection is pain…”
He clenched his fist. Then we’ll find the reason you think that way… and tear it out by the roots.
Light flared around them as they stepped back into the real world — and instantly, the shift hit them like a tidal wave.
The air was heavy, not with magic this time, but with noise — shouting, chanting, frustrated cries. The plaza outside the concert venue seethed like a living thing.
Crowds pressed against barricades, their faces twisted with impatience. Some were yelling at staff, others were chanting for the show to start, their voices blending into a feverish roar. The air was thick with anticipation curdled into anger.
Akira’s eyes flicked down to his watch. “Four hours early…” he muttered, frowning. “Things are spiraling.”
Across the plaza, they could see security struggling to hold the line, arguments breaking out, a few scuffles flaring into full-on fights. And here and there, clusters of people tangled together in strange, intimate embraces — kissing, groping, laughing wildly, as if shame no longer existed.
“Gratification running rampant,” murmured Ren grimly.
“Yeah,” Kasumi replied, glancing around uneasily. “It’s like the whole city’s about to snap.”
“Then we keep it from snapping,” Akira said, already moving.
They pushed through a side door and into the backstage area — only to find chaos there too.
Crew members rushed around in blind panic, shouting into headsets, waving clipboards, arguing about schedules that no longer made sense. Equipment was being set up, torn down, and set up again, all out of sync.
“This isn’t good,” Shiho muttered, watching a stagehand drop a stack of lighting gels with a clatter.
Makoto stepped forward, voice steady and commanding. “Let’s handle the immediate situation first. We stabilize things here, then we focus on Yamano and the Kingdom.”
Akira nodded, the gears in his mind turning. “Good call. Split up.”
He glanced at each of them in turn. “Stick with your assigned groups. Keep people calm, grounded. If you see anyone losing control, intervene.”
His gaze flicked toward the stage doors. “I’ll check on Ri-Ri first, make sure she’s okay — then I’ll see where I can help.”
Futaba saluted with a wry smile. “Got it, boss.”
Makoto nodded firmly, already turning to direct Hifumi and Ren toward the logistics crew. “Let’s move.”
As they scattered through the chaos, Akira took a deep breath and pushed toward the dressing rooms, the sound of distant shouting echoing behind him. If things are this bad now… what happens when the concert actually starts?
Akira made his way toward Rise’s trailer, the noise of the restless crowd a dull roar in the distance. He lifted his hand to knock— and froze. A sharp prickle ran down the back of his neck, the kind that always meant something more than instinct.
“Akira… wait.” Satanael’s voice rumbled through his mind, low and commanding. “I sense a great power behind that door. A being like myself… but also not. I felt the same presence within the Kingdom of Gratification.”
Akira hesitated, hand still raised mid-knock. “You’re sure?” he murmured under his breath.
“Not completely,” Satanael admitted. “It feels familiar… yet alien. I urge caution.”
Akira nodded slowly, pressing his ear against the door. Muffled voices. He could just make out a few words through the wood— “Shadows… rising… plan… success… watch…”
His eyes widened. Yu’s voice.
He stepped back, heart thudding. “Yu-senpai… knows about Shadows?” he whispered, mind racing. “And a plan? Does that mean he’s involved in all this?”
The thought hit like a sucker punch. Yu Narukami — the man he looked up to, the perfect senpai — tangled up in whatever madness was consuming Okinawa? No… that couldn’t be right.
“Now is not the time to panic, Harbinger.” Satanael’s growl cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Do not jump to conclusions without proof.”
Akira drew a slow breath, centering himself. Satanael was right — now wasn’t the time. There were more pressing matters. He straightened, knocking lightly on the door. “Ri-Ri? You in there?”
There was a brief pause before Rise’s cheerful voice called back, “Come in!”
Akira schooled his expression into something casual, stepping inside with his usual easy grin. Rise sat on a vanity stool, half-dressed in her performance outfit, curling iron discarded on the counter beside her. Yu stood nearby, arms folded, the sharpness of his gaze only barely hidden behind his casual smile.
“Akira!” Rise’s face lit up, genuine warmth cutting through the frazzled energy in the room. “I was wondering when you’d drop by. Things are… crazy, huh?”
“Crazy’s one word for it,” Akira said with an easy grin, though his eyes lingered on Yu. The man’s words from a moment ago still echoed in his head, brittle and hollow. “Out there’s basically a riot waiting to happen.”
Rise winced. “I figured as much. The noise is so loud it’s practically rattling the walls in here.”
“Which is why I was hoping,” Akira said carefully, tilting his head toward her, “you might be able to calm them down somehow. A word, a message, something only you can do. They’re not going to listen to stagehands or security. But they’ll listen to you, Ri-Ri.”
Rise’s lips pressed together as she thought, her usual playful spark dimming to something more serious. “I could send a livestream, maybe? Tell them the concert’s still on schedule, ask them to chill… but…” Her eyes darted to Yu, uncertainty flickering across her face.
Yu finally spoke, his tone even but heavy, like a weight pressing down on the room. “That could help. But it might not be enough.”
Akira’s gaze snapped toward him. “You think they won’t listen to Rise?”
Yu’s eyes narrowed — not in hostility, but in something unreadable, deep and searching. “They will listen. But they might want more. We may need to start the concert early anyway to give them the gratification they need.” His words were calm, but they resonated in Akira’s chest, almost like Satanael’s growl had earlier.
Rise glanced between the two of them, worry creeping into her smile. “Yu…”
Akira’s storm-grey eyes lingered on Yu’s face for just a second too long before he forced himself to chuckle and break the tension. “Well, whatever the case, let’s at least try. A Rise livestream beats nothing, right?”
Rise perked up again, nodding eagerly. “You’re right. I’ll set it up. I’ll make it fun, cheerful, reassuring. That’s my specialty.” She stood, pulling her phone from the counter, her energy suddenly filling the room like sunlight.
Yu didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t even look at the phone. He kept his gaze on Akira, eyes calm but unreadable, as though weighing him in silence.
Satanael’s voice rumbled at the back of Akira’s mind again. “There is more to him than he allows. Tread carefully, Harbinger.”
Akira forced his grin wider, even as unease curled in his stomach. “I’ll leave you to it, Ri-Ri. Break a leg with the pep talk.”
“Got it!” Rise chirped, already scrolling through her phone.
He nodded, backing toward the door. But as he turned the handle, his eyes flicked once more toward Yu. For a fleeting instant, the air shimmered around the older man — a ripple of something vast and familiar. And then it was gone.
Akira stepped out into the hallway, jaw tightening. “Yu-senpai… just what are you?”
Akira leaned against a backstage pillar, eyes fixed on the giant monitor streaming Rise’s live broadcast. The camera framed her perfectly — the glow of stage lights haloing her hair, her smile soft and serene.
“Hey everyone~!” Rise’s voice rang out, sweet as honey and clear as crystal. “I know you’re all excited! I’m excited too — but the concert isn’t ready just yet. So, I need you all to take a deep breath with me, okay? In… and out…”
Her tone carried an almost musical rhythm, lilting and warm. The crowd — thousands of restless, impatient fans — began to follow along instinctively. Chants quieted. Shouts faded. Even from the monitor’s feed, Akira could see the tension bleeding out of their shoulders as they breathed in sync with her.
“That’s it~” Rise cooed. “Everything’s going to be perfect. You’ve waited this long, right? So just hold on a little longer… for me.”
A ripple swept through the masses. The restless energy that had been brewing like a storm only minutes ago… simply evaporated. No more shouting. No more shoving. Just smiling faces, people chatting and laughing, as though nothing had happened.
Akira’s eyes narrowed.
Even backstage, the effect was immediate. Crew members who had been darting about in panic now moved with steady purpose, their earlier frenzy gone as though it had never been.
It was calm. Peaceful. Too peaceful.
“That…” Akira murmured under his breath, straightening slowly, “…was not normal.”
He replayed Rise’s words in his mind — the gentle cadence, the glimmer in her eyes that had almost seemed to glow under the lights. It wasn’t just charisma. It felt like… power. The same kind of power he’d felt behind her door. The same resonance that had brushed against Satanael’s senses.
His hand clenched at his side. Was Rise even aware of what she’d just done? Or was someone — something — using her voice as a conduit?
For a fleeting moment, he considered calling the others. Makoto, Futaba, Queen — someone had to know what was going on. But then he exhaled slowly, shaking his head.
No… not yet. Not until I’m sure.
If he sounded the alarm too early, it could cause panic — and right now, the last thing they needed was more chaos.
“I’ll tell them once I know more…” he muttered, eyes still fixed on Rise’s smiling face.
But even as the crowd applauded her message, Akira couldn’t shake the chill that crawled down his spine. Because behind that smile… behind the warmth and light… he swore he saw a flicker of something else.
The Phantom Thieves regrouped near a quiet corner behind the stage — a rare pocket of calm in the bustle of activity.
“Can you believe that?!” Ann burst out, her eyes sparkling. “Rise-chan just… talked and the whole crowd chilled out like magic! She’s so amazing… I don’t know how she did it, but— ohmigod, soooo cool!!!”
The others exchanged amused glances, letting Ann ride out her enthusiasm. Even Makoto cracked a small smile at the model’s animated gestures. Akira, though, stayed quiet for a moment, watching Ann’s excitement with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He finally straightened. “You all okay?”
A chorus of nods followed. Even Ryuemi, still bouncing slightly on her heels from adrenaline, offered a thumbs-up.
“Good.” Akira turned to where Futaba was hunched over her laptop, the glow from the screen reflecting in her glasses. “Any luck?”
Futaba groaned, still focused on her screen. “Define luck. I’ve got, like, twenty million hits here. Yamano’s a walking headline machine — top charts, awards, talk shows, scandals, rumored flings in three different countries…” She glanced up at him with a half-lidded look. “What even am I looking for?”
The group fell silent, thinking. It was Ren who finally spoke, arms crossed, tone contemplative. “He said it himself — ‘Connection leads only to betrayal.’ That’s not something you say lightly.”
Haru nodded, her expression soft. “It could be a relationship that ended badly. Maybe… he was betrayed by someone close to him?”
“Or,” Yukiko added thoughtfully, “perhaps he saw it happen around him. A failed marriage… parents who couldn’t stay together?”
“Or he caused it,” Shiho murmured, arms crossed. “Guilt can twist someone’s worldview, too.”
Akira tapped a finger against his thigh, considering each possibility. Then he looked at Futaba. “Search for anything along those lines — breakups, family drama, betrayals, rumors of infidelity. Focus on the emotional fallout, not the headlines.”
“Got it,” Futaba said, already typing at rapid-fire speed. “That should trim this mess down.”
As her fingers flew across the keyboard, she glanced up again. “So… what now, ‘Kira?”
Akira let a smirk tug at the corner of his lips, though his eyes still held that calculating glint. “Now? We stick to the plan.” He jerked his chin toward the stage, where stagehands were setting up the speakers and musical instruments. “Show must go on, right?”
Makoto gave a brisk nod. “We’ll get back to our teams then.”
“Have fun, but keep your eyes peeled,” Akira said, giving each girl a kiss as they departed. Once everyone had left, he cast one last glance toward the stage — where Rise’s voice would soon be heard by the fans chanting her name.
It should have been reassuring. Instead, it only made the unease in his chest tighten a little more.
The house lights dimmed. A hush rippled through the crowd — a living, breathing wave of anticipation. Then, with a flash of golden light and a pulse of bass that shook the air, the stage erupted into brilliance.
“RISETTE!!!” the announcer’s voice boomed.
The crowd roared.
Rise burst onto the stage in a cascade of glitter and lights, her voice smooth as silk and burning with confidence. Every note soared, every move landed perfectly with the music — she didn’t just perform, she commanded the stage.
Behind her, Ann, Haru, and Kasumi strutted across the spotlight like they were born there, their synchronized choreography sharp and fluid. Ann’s energy electrified the audience, Haru’s grace gave the routine an almost balletic flair, and Kasumi spun and leaped with radiant joy — dawn incarnate in motion.
Backstage, Yukiko and Morgane worked like clockwork, assisting Lavenza as she handled the costume changes with supernatural precision. Glittering sequins, feathers, and ribbons flowed like water in their hands. They had Rise and her dancers redressed and ready to go in mere seconds between sets, each look more dazzling than the last.
“Five seconds!” Morgane called, snapping the last clasp into place on Rise’s outfit.
“Perfect,” Lavenza murmured, smoothing the final ribbon as the pop idol dashed back toward the stage.
Meanwhile, in the control booth, Futaba’s fingers flew across the console. The soundboard responded like a living thing under her touch, lights and beats syncing perfectly with Rise’s rhythm. Patterns of color danced across the stage, pulsing to the melody.
“Holy— you programmed that in real time?” one of the senior engineers gaped. Futaba grinned behind her headset. “Who do you think you’re dealing with? Ali Baba doesn’t do half-measures.”
Beside her, Shiho managed the spotlight with sniper-like precision, never missing a cue, while Ryuemi adjusted the stage fog and pyrotechnics with gleeful confidence.
Out on the floor, Makoto and Ren were the unseen conductors behind the curtain, coordinating cues with Inoe, Rise’s manager, ensuring every prop, dancer, and staff member was in the right place at the right second.
“Stage left ready for Set B,” Makoto murmured into her headset. “Lighting sequence queued,” Ren added smoothly.
Inoe looked between them, eyes wide. “I’ve never seen a concert run this smoothly in my entire career.”
And through it all, Akira drifted like a ghost — silent, steady, always where he was needed. One moment tightening a cable, the next carrying a box, then helping a flustered staffer find their headset. To anyone else, he was just another hand on deck — but his sharp storm-grey eyes were constantly scanning the crowd, the rafters, the wings.
Every cheer, every flash of light, every pulse of bass — he took it all in. No Shadows, no distortions, no strange auras. But that lingering tension in his chest refused to fade.
Out on stage, Rise raised her microphone high, her voice ringing out like a clarion call: “Let’s light up the night, Okinawa! This is for every dreamer who refuses to give up!”
The crowd erupted again, their energy pure and bright. For a moment, Akira allowed himself to smile. The Phantom Thieves had faced Palaces, gods, and monsters. Tonight, they were conquering a different battlefield — and they were winning beautifully.
Still… as he looked out over the sea of faces, part of him couldn’t help but wonder if the calm would last.
The final chord echoed through the arena like a heartbeat, the crowd roaring one last time before the lights dimmed to black. For a moment, the energy was almost tangible — a wave of joy, catharsis, and awe that rolled over the thousands gathered.
And then, slowly, it began to settle. The cheers softened to murmurs, the stomping to shuffling feet. When the house lights rose, the fans filed out — still buzzing from the incredible show, but calmer now, grounded. Whatever strange distortion had gripped them seemed to have abated.
Backstage, Akira stood by the curtain, headset dangling from his neck, watching the stagehands begin cleanup. He exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing for the first time that night. Crisis averted?
The flap of the curtain drew his attention — Rise stumbled through, her usually radiant face pale and glazed, sweat clinging to her temples. She swayed, her knees buckling slightly.
“Rise—” Akira started forward—
—but Yu was already there, moving with quiet urgency. He caught her effortlessly, one arm around her shoulders, the other steadying her waist.
“Good job, babe,” he murmured softly, voice low and warm against her ear. “You did amazing. Let’s get you to bed now, alright?”
Rise blinked dazedly, then nodded, leaning into him with a tired little hum. “Mm… okay… but don’t let me fall…”
“You won’t,” Yu said with a faint chuckle — and then, to the surprise of everyone watching, he bent down and swept her clean off her feet.
Rise squeaked, her face going crimson as Yu adjusted his grip, cradling her bridal-style. She buried her face against his chest in embarrassment, but didn’t protest.
The sight drew a quiet laugh from Akira — warm and genuine. “Guess that’s one way to make an exit.”
Yu just smiled over his shoulder. “You’ll understand when it’s your turn.” Then he disappeared down the hallway, Rise held close in his arms.
Silence hung for a heartbeat.
Akira turned… and froze. Twelve pairs of eyes — each shining, dreamy, and suspiciously melty — were fixed on the departing couple. Ann clasped her hands over her chest, whispering, “That’s so romantic…”
Kasumi sighed wistfully. “He just scooped her up… like a knight carrying his princess…”
Even Makoto, ever composed, had a faint pink dusting her cheeks.
Then, slowly, in perfect unison, all twelve pairs of eyes shifted to Akira.
He blinked. “…Oh no.”
The girls didn’t say a word — they didn’t have to. The implication was loud enough. A trickle of sweat ran down his spine as he raised his hands in surrender, backing up a step. “I’ve only got one pair of arms, you know…” he muttered.
That set off a wave of teasing laughter and banter, the girls chattering among themselves while Akira could only sigh — helpless, flustered, and secretly amused.
The RV rumbled up the gravel driveway, headlights cutting through the trees as it pulled into Haru’s villa. The moment the engine died, twelve exhausted girls practically spilled out the door, their movements sluggish, their yawns unrestrained.
“Shower. Bed. Blanket burrito,” Shiho mumbled, dragging her feet.
“Cuddle puddle,” Ann echoed dreamily, leaning against Ren’s shoulder.
“Food, then death,” Morgane added, rubbing her eyes.
But before they could scatter to showers or the nearest soft surface, Akira’s voice cut through the night. Calm, steady, and unyielding. “Hold up.”
Akira stood there, one hand on the doorframe, his storm-grey eyes sharp despite the fatigue lining his face. “I know you’re all tired,” he said gently, “but we need to deal with Yamano tomorrow. We don’t have the full picture yet.”
Groans echoed in unison — the weary chorus of twelve women who knew he was right but still hated it.
Futaba threw her hands up dramatically. “Ugggh, fine, fine!” she huffed, marching toward the living room with her laptop clutched to her chest. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Leader.”
The others followed in varying states of sleepiness, collapsing onto sofas and beanbags as Akira guided them inside. The living room was cozy and warm, lit by a soft amber glow of the mood lighting Haru had set to automatic. Blankets were already draped over couches, waiting.
Akira barely had time to sit before Futaba pounced — quite literally. She shoved him back into the sofa with a small oof and plopped herself on his lap, legs curled to one side as she wriggled around until she was perfectly comfy.
Akira blinked, cheeks tinting faintly. “You know there’s an entire couch right next to us, right?”
Futaba grinned up at him impishly. “Yep. But this one’s premium seating.” She flipped open her laptop with a flourish. “Now, time for tonight’s trauma special.”
The girls leaned in, curiosity overriding their exhaustion.
Futaba typed rapidly, screens flashing across the monitor. “Alright. Triple whammy incoming. First up — his folks. Ten-year on-again-off-again circus before they finally got hitched. Didn’t even last three years before the whole thing exploded.”
Ren winced. “That sounds… familiar.”
“Yup. Divorce was ugly. Custody battle from hell. Our boy Yamano got passed around like a bad group project,” Futaba continued, eyes narrowing. “To make things worse, both parents jumped into new relationships faster than you can say rebound. So, guess what he grew up seeing? Nothing but love that fails.”
The room quieted. Even Ann’s sleepy eyes sharpened with sympathy.
Futaba scrolled down. “Fast forward fifteen years. He’s engaged. Seems like things are going great… Buuuut guess who couldn’t keep it in his pants?” Futaba tapped the screen pointedly. “He cheated. She found out. She…” her voice softened slightly, “…she ended her life over it.”
Kasumi gasped softly. Morgane looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Futaba’s voice was sombre as she continued. “Yamano spiraled. Heartbroken, confused, angry. He didn’t get why she did it. Checked himself into therapy. Claims it changed his whole outlook.” She frowned, tapping the last entry. “But… no details. No records of the clinic, no name of the therapist. Just… vague mentions of a ‘revelation’ and a ‘new truth.’”
Akira leaned forward slightly, one hand on Futaba’s knee. “A truth like… connection only leads to betrayal.”
Futaba nodded grimly. “Bingo.”
Makoto folded her arms, her expression troubled. “So, the seeds of his despair were planted long before the fiancée’s death. That was just the breaking point.”
Haru nodded slowly. “It’s almost like… he convinced himself any kind of connection is poison.”
Ann frowned. “That’s awful…”
Akira let the silence linger a moment, the weight of the story settling over them like a heavy blanket. Then he exhaled, voice quiet but firm. “Tomorrow, we’ll confront it. This isn’t just about saving him — it’s about freeing him from the lie he’s been living.”
The girls nodded one by one, the resolve in the room hardening despite their exhaustion.
Then Futaba yawned, snapping the tension. “Okay, now that we’ve had our nightly dose of trauma… can we please go crash? Preferably in a cuddle puddle?”
Akira chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist as she sagged against him. “Yeah… you’ve earned it.”
The others giggled softly, gathering their blankets as the group migrated toward the massive sectional couch, curling together under shared warmth and sleepy smiles.
Tomorrow would bring another descent into the shadows. But tonight… they had each other.
Chapter 41: “Connection Leads to Betrayal”
Summary:
The Phantom Thieves show Bacchus the strength of true connections :)
Kouetsu Kirijo sees his plans bearing its first fruit
Chapter Text
The stadium was silent at dawn.
Faint shafts of morning light slanted through the high windows of Okinawa Cellular Stadium Naha, painting pale gold across the empty seats. Every sound echoed — the distant hum of lights, the soft rustle of banners hanging above the stage, and the slow, deliberate tap... tap... tap... of approaching footsteps.
Hitoshi Yamano walked alone through the concrete corridors, his tailored coat brushing softly against the walls. In his arms, he cradled the glowing urn, the same eerie light flickering across his face like a dying flame. His eyes were distant — not the sharp, charismatic gaze of the star the world adored, but the hollow stare of a man long past salvation. “One more night…” His voice echoed through the corridor, quiet but resolute. “One more night, and my Kingdom will be complete. All connection will be eradicated… and I will be proven correct.”
His footsteps carried him out into the open field of the stadium — the vastness swallowing him whole. He stopped at the center of the stage, staring out at the empty stands, as if seeing the faces of thousands already there. The urn pulsed again, faintly, in rhythm with his heartbeat. “I keep telling everyone… there’s no such thing as real connection. Only momentary gratification.” His voice wavered, almost pleading — to himself, to the world, to a ghost. “I told her… but she didn’t believe me. She said… true gratification comes from being connected to people.” He swallowed hard. “But then she left.”
A single tear traced a slow path down his cheek, catching the morning light like glass. “She left…” His voice cracked. “She left…”
The silence that followed was deafening. Then, a low chuckle echoed behind him — rich, resonant, and dripping with disdain. “And good riddance…”
Yamano turned his head slightly. There, flickering into existence like a mirage in the shimmering light, stood Bacchus — towering, resplendent, and terrible. Draped in ornate robes of crimson and gold, his eyes gleamed like molten wine, lips curled into a cruel smile. The spectral god tilted his head, regarding Yamano with indulgent pity. “She betrayed you, Hitoshi. Just like they all do. Connection is betrayal.” His voice coiled through the air like smoke, heavy with temptation. “You know this.”
Yamano stared into Bacchus’s eyes for a long, agonizing moment… then nodded. “Yes… I know.”
He lifted the urn high above his head, its glow intensifying until it bathed the entire stadium in ethereal light.
“Then it’s time,” Bacchus murmured. “Time to show them the truth.”
Yamano’s voice was calm — almost serene. “Time to prove it.”
The urn flared like a rising sun. And across Okinawa, a pulse rippled through the air — unseen, unheard, yet undeniable. In the city streets, in quiet homes and still-sleeping bedrooms, people stirred from their dreams with the same whispering thought in their minds: “Gratification… I need… gratification.”
The morning light filtered softly through the curtains of the villa, painting warm stripes across the sleeping forms scattered around the cozy living room. The silence was peaceful — too peaceful.
Until Lavenza suddenly bolted upright. Her breath hitched, her small frame trembling as one hand clutched her chest. A faint glow shimmered around her fingertips before fading, leaving behind only the haunted look in her eyes. “No… something… vast…” she whispered, voice barely above a breath. “The balance… it’s shifting.”
Beside her, Akira stirred. His storm-grey eyes blinked open, sharpening instantly as he took in Lavenza’s trembling form. Without a word, he sat up and opened his arms.
She didn’t hesitate. Lavenza collapsed into his chest, clinging to him tightly as though seeking an anchor against a storm only she could feel. Akira wrapped his arms around her, one hand stroking her silken hair in slow, steady motions. “I felt it too…” he murmured, his voice low and steady despite the dread curling in his gut. “Let’s wake the others.”
Within minutes, the villa’s peaceful quiet was gone — replaced by the rustle of blankets and sleepy murmurs as the Phantom Thieves gathered, still half-drowsy but instantly alert at the grim look on Akira’s face.
Futaba rubbed her eyes, yawning, before flipping open her laptop. Fingers flew across the keys as she scanned the feeds. “Okay… local news looks clean… for now,” she mumbled, eyes narrowing. “But social media’s another story.”
She spun the screen around. Post after post scrolled by — people proclaiming connection is a lie, pleasure is all that matters, love is a trap. Hashtags like #JustGratify, #NoStrings, and #PleasureOverPain were trending, climbing by the second.
“These posts weren’t here last night,” Futaba said, her voice tight. “Someone’s seeding the idea — and it’s catching fast.”
Akira’s jaw clenched. He stood, crossing his arms, eyes scanning each of his teammates and lovers – living proof of the strength of real connections. “It’s spreading faster than I thought,” he said quietly. “We need to move… now.”
The Kingdom of Gratification shimmered like a fever dream — illusions rippling and folding upon themselves in endless kaleidoscopes of light and sound. Desire flowed through the air like mist, whispering promises of indulgence and pleasure to any who dared walk its streets.
And yet… one figure strode through it all, untouched.
He walked with measured steps down the spiraling staircase of the Shen, where the light bent and the walls breathed with longing. His black combat suit gleamed faintly in the ambient glow, matte plates flexing with quiet precision. Across his left shoulder, stark white letters read: SI:4
A visor framed his face — thick gray lenses etched with SMPTE color bars along the sides, flickering faintly like static. In his right hand, a katana hummed with caged electricity, the air around it crackling and warping from the contained storm.
The man didn’t flinch as an illusion of gold coins rained from above, or when ghostly figures reached out, begging for attention and affection. Each hallucination splintered and faded the moment it neared him, as though some unseen power rejected the Kingdom’s attempts to seduce him. “Still can’t believe it…” he muttered under his breath, voice low and rough with disbelief. His eyes, hidden behind the visor, swept over the swirling depths below. “Are you sure about this?”
He tilted his head slightly, pausing mid-step. Silence filled the air — yet his expression shifted, as though someone had whispered in his ear.
A quiet sigh escaped him. “You’re right,” he said at last, rolling his shoulders as the lightning around his blade flared brighter for a heartbeat. “We need more details before we jump to a conclusion.”
With that, he resumed his descent — step after deliberate step into the depths of the Shen, as if seeing the truth in the swirling illusions.
The air around the Kingdom of Gratification felt different this time—less like a dazzling carnival of indulgence and more like the suffocating stillness before a storm. The lights burned brighter than before, almost too bright, throwing harsh shadows across the marble plaza. The streets were deserted; no Shadows swarmed out to meet them, no cries of temptation echoed from the gilded towers.
It was too quiet.
Akira slowed his pace as they approached the entrance to the Shen’s winding staircase, his storm-grey eyes narrowing. He halted at the first step, tilting his head slightly like a hunter listening for prey.
He’s here… The thought slipped through his mind like a blade’s whisper.
Deep within him, Satanael rumbled, voice like thunder in the abyss. “Indeed… but I do not sense hostility from him, or from the power he holds. He is watching, perhaps weighing. Remain vigilant, Trickster… but do not forget your main quarry.”
Akira exhaled slowly, sending a quiet pulse of gratitude back to his Persona. Then he straightened, letting his gaze sweep across the women gathered behind him—each waiting, steady, ready.
“We go in,” he said firmly, his voice carrying just enough warmth to cut through the tension. “Handle Yamano, and get out. Same as always. Eyes open, no reckless moves. Cover each other.”
For a moment, he gazed at his team in stoic silence—then he softened, allowing a crooked smile to tug at his lips. “…Let’s show him what a true connection can do.”
One by one, the girls nodded, weapons shifting in hand, masks gleaming beneath the stark light. With Akira in the lead, the Phantom Thieves began their descent into the spiraling depths of the Shen, the Kingdom waiting below like a hungry maw.
The spiral descent was silent. Too silent. Their footsteps echoed softly against the crystalline stairs, the light from the walls pulsing faintly like the slow beat of a heart. No Shadows stirred. No voices whispered temptation. Only the sound of their breathing, and the faint hum of power thrumming beneath the surface.
Even Oracle, usually quick to chatter or joke, kept her lips pressed tight. Her scanner showed no readings—no movement, no distortions. Just emptiness. “Still nothing…” she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else. “It’s like the whole place is… holding its breath.”
The others exchanged uneasy glances. Lotus tightened her grip on her staff. Queen scanned the corners with sharp, wary eyes. Even Vixen, serene as ever, flexed her fingers around her weapon’s hilt.
At last, they reached the bottom. The wide inner chamber loomed before them, the same one that had barred their path the previous day—its walls shaped like the sealed halves of a massive clamshell, etched with glowing sigils. Only now, the sigils glowed a deep crimson.
With a grinding rumble, the walls began to unfurl, petal-like, revealing the shadowed sanctum beyond. The sound reverberated through the chamber, low and mocking—like laughter. The Thieves instantly raised their weapons. Joker’s hand flicked upward—a silent signal. They formed up, pairs and trios watching each flank.
The opening yawned wide, darkness spilling out in waves that seemed to pulse with unseen emotion—longing, hunger, need. Joker’s voice was steady, low. “Go. Stay sharp.”
One by one, the girls crossed the threshold, each glancing over her shoulder as she passed through, the air growing heavier with every step. When the last of them disappeared inside, Joker lingered for a moment. He cast one final sweep across the chamber behind them—his senses stretched thin, every instinct on edge.
Nothing. No footsteps. No presence. Just the echo of his own heartbeat and the distant hum of the Kingdom. “…Alright,” he murmured, then stepped through after them.
As he crossed the threshold, the clam-shell wall closed silently behind him—sealing them inside.
The final echo of Joker’s footsteps faded as the clam-shell door sealed shut behind him, the seams glowing faintly before dimming back to stillness.
From the shadows at the edge of the chamber, the figure from before emerged. He approached the sealed wall in silence, one gloved hand rising to trace the smooth seam where the door had closed. The surface felt warm—alive, almost.
“So…” he murmured, voice low and thoughtful, “…it only opens for those it chooses.” His fingers lingered, the faint hum of energy resonating beneath his touch. “Does that mean they’re on the same side?”
He paused, tilting his head slightly—listening to a voice only he could hear. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “You’re right… she does have the same aura… but it feels different. More… human.” His eyes narrowed behind the visor. “Perhaps there’s more to this than I realize…”
He stepped back, studying the wall one last time, before letting out a slow sigh.
“Alright then,” he said quietly, slipping his katana back into its sheath. From a pocket at his side, he produced a small crystalline object, its surface etched with runic lines that pulsed faintly in time with the Kingdom’s heartbeat.
“I’ll see how this plays out first…” he mused. His fingers closed around the crystal, and with a sharp crack, it shattered in his hand—light spilling through the cracks of his fingers before swallowing his form whole. In the next instant, he was gone—vanishing into the ether, leaving only silence behind.
As soon as the last Phantom Thief crossed the threshold, the clam-shell door sealed shut behind them with a resonant thoom, echoing through the chamber like a heartbeat. The air grew heavy.
Without warning, a pink mist began to curl across the floor, rising in languid, sinuous coils. It shimmered faintly, sweet-smelling and cloying, slipping into every corner, every breath. The Thieves stiffened as the mist crept over their bodies—then gasped as visions began to bloom before their eyes.
Panther saw herself bathed in golden light, adoring fans chanting her name as cameras flashed from every angle. Comet stood atop a podium, medals glinting on her chest, a crowd roaring her name. Oracle gazed upon screens filled with code she’d written, the world hailing her as a genius. Noir walked through endless fields of flowers with no one to question her choices. Vent saw herself dining with royalty, a sought-after guru for all things elegence. Dead-Eye felt the weight of her trauma lifted, crowds cheering her as she scored the winning point to win volleyball gold. Aria flew across a stage under the lights of the Olympic Games, the ultimate gymnast, adored by all. Queen stood at a grand podium, the nation bowing to her leadership. Lotus’s blade cut through all deception, her every action lauded as heroic truth. Vixen painted across the sky itself, her art worshipped as divine. Kirin sat on a throne of shogi champions, her name immortalized in legend. Papillion, finally free from her duty, lived a simple, human life with no burden to bear.
And Joker—he saw it all. Power, glory, adoration, the world itself kneeling before him. No chains, no expectations, no pain. Only endless, gratifying freedom.
The voices slithered in like silk, whispering sweetly into their ears.
“Connections bind you… hold you back…”
“They betray you… leave you…”
“Why suffer for others when you could have everything you desire?”
“Abandon them… take what is yours…”
The whispers grew louder, insistent, seeping into every thought, every breath. Some of the Thieves wavered, stepping back, eyes glazing with longing. But then—one voice cut through. “No,” Panther hissed, her whip cracking through the fog like a firestorm. “I want connection. I need my friends. I’m not giving that up for some fake fantasy!”
Comet snarled, her voice raw. “I know what it’s like to be abandoned… but I also know what it means to be believed in! I won’t throw that away!”
Oracle grit her teeth, forcing the screens in her vision to shatter one by one. “If I’m not connected to my family—my real family—what’s even the point of all this?”
One by one, the others echoed their defiance—each voice cutting through the haze. Noir’s calm resolve, Vixen’s gentle strength, Dead-Eye’s fierce courage, Aria’s bright conviction, Queen’s unwavering leadership, Lotus’s quiet determination, Vent’s pride in herself and belief in her bonds, Kirin’s faith in her path, Papillion’s newfound humanity.
And at their center, Joker, his voice like a spark in the gloom: “We’ve seen what life without connection looks like. It’s empty. Cold. I won’t let your lies take that from us. Our bonds are our strength—and with them, we’ll tear down your illusion!”
The mist shrieked, recoiling as their hearts blazed with light—threads of crimson and gold weaving between them, intertwining, burning away the false visions.
When the haze finally cleared, the Thieves stood together once more, weapons drawn, eyes bright with resolve. And from the far side of the chamber, a booming laugh echoed—a sound dripping with mirth and madness. “So… you’ve chosen your chains willingly.”
From the rising mist, a massive silhouette emerged—muscular, clothed in opulent finery threaded with gold and crimson, a crown of grape leaves resting upon his brow. In one hand he held a goblet of dark wine, swirling endlessly though he never drank; in the other, a shattered heart, glowing faintly with a sickly rose light. Behind him floated a giant clam, its surface etched with writhing glyphs that pulsed faintly with corrupted energy. From its open mouth poured the pink mist that had filled the chamber, twisting perception and thought alike.
Then, with a deep, grinding groan, the clamshell slowly closed. The flow of mist ceased, and what lingered in the air thinned and dissipated, revealing the true form of the inner sanctum—a perverse parody of paradise.
Endless banquet tables stretched into the distance, heaped with decadent feasts that never diminished, goblets overflowing with wine. Silken couches lay scattered among fountains of honey and gold. And everywhere, spectral figures lounged in blissful stupor—faces slack, eyes hollow, lost in illusions of pleasure. It was a heaven emptied of meaning, where every desire was sated, yet nothing truly fulfilled.
The figure stepped forward, his heavy tread echoing across marble floors inlaid with images of revelry and ruin. His voice rolled through the chamber like a deep bell, rich with sorrow and scorn. “We meet once more, thieves. You stand before Bacchus, the Lord of Empty Pleasures… born from the broken heart of Hitoshi Yamano.”
He raised the shattered heart in his hand, letting its light spill across the chamber. “Once, he too believed in love. He also sought connection, despite knowing the truth. He even pledged himself to one who promised eternity. But when his desire strayed—when his mortal weakness betrayed her—she chose oblivion over forgiveness.”
His voice darkened, rumbling with bitterness. “And when the news reached him, when he realized that his own actions had taken her from the world… what did he feel? Not love. Not grief. Only understanding.”
Bacchus spread his arms, the goblet tilting, crimson wine spilling across the marble like blood. “It was in that moment I was born—from the ashes of his heart, from his pain, from his truth. That connection is suffering. That to care is to invite betrayal. That only gratification endures.”
He gestured around the chamber, to the hollow revelers and endless feasts. “Here, all are equal. All are fulfilled. No one aches for love, no one bleeds for loss. There is no betrayal here—because there is no connection.”
His eyes gleamed as he looked down upon the Thieves, his smile a cruel mirror of pity and pride. “You cling to your fragile bonds, your fleeting comforts… but tell me, what happens when they shatter? When the ones you trust turn from you? Will you still claim that connection is your strength?”
He extended his hand, the goblet shimmering like a dark star. “Abandon your illusions. Join me, and you shall never feel pain again. Only pleasure. Only peace.”
The last word hung in the air, sweet and poisonous. The Thieves stood their ground, the light of their shared resolve flickering but unbroken beneath his gaze.
Joker stepped forward, his boots echoing against the marble floor, the dim pink light casting sharp shadows across his face. His eyes, though weary, burned with conviction. “You’re wrong.”
The single phrase cut through the chamber like steel. Bacchus’s smile faltered, his brow furrowing in faint amusement. “Wrong? You, who stand in the ruins of humanity’s heart, dare—”
Joker raised a hand, silencing him. “I’ve been betrayed. I’ve been abandoned. I’ve lost people I cared about. I know what pain feels like. I know what it’s like to think connection’s just a lie.”
He clenched a fist over his chest, voice steady but fierce. “But every time I started to fall… they were there.”
He turned, gesturing to his right—toward Panther, whose eyes glistened with emotion. “Panther, who refused to let despair define her, who stood back up and fought for justice when the world told her to stay silent.”
He nodded toward Dead-Eye, standing strong at Panther’s side. “Dead-Eye, who faced the darkest depths of her soul, and came out shining brighter than anyone I know.”
He shifted to Queen, her hands curled into determined fists. “Queen, who bore the weight of leadership, of duty, but still chose to trust—to believe in people instead of power.”
His gaze swept across Oracle, perched on her toes, her eyes fierce behind her visor. “Oracle, who once hid from the world… but now fights to protect it, because she found a family who loves her.”
He pointed to Noir, calm and resolute. “Noir, who turned grief into hope, who learned to fight not out of hate, but out of love.”
Vixen, hands clasped, nodded softly as his gaze found her. “Vixen, who chose freedom over expectation—who showed me that to be true to yourself is the greatest gift you can give to others.”
He turned to Aria, her expression proud, radiant. “Aria, who faced her own shadow and embraced who she truly is… and in doing so, taught me that self-acceptance is the root of all connection.”
He looked to Kirin, calm and poised, her mask glinting faintly. “Kirin, who turned strategy into art and found beauty not in winning alone—but in fighting beside those she trusts.”
To Lotus, standing tall and unwavering. “Lotus, who opened her heart even after it was broken, who showed me that trust is worth the risk.”
Comet, with her fire and unflinching courage, gave him a confident grin. “Comet, who fights every battle head-on, not because she’s fearless—but because she refuses to let fear define her.”
Then Vent, arms crossed, trying not to blush under his gaze. “Vent, who always pretends to be tough… but whose heart is bigger than she’ll ever admit.”
And finally, Papillion, luminous beside him, her hands clasped together. “And Papillion… who crossed the boundaries of her very existence just to walk beside me.”
He looked back to Bacchus, voice low, powerful, every word crackling with truth. “They all followed me into hell. They’ve seen me at my worst—when I was broken, when I doubted everything—and they still chose to stay.”
He spread his arms, his coat flaring like wings. “That’s connection. That’s love. It’s not always easy. It’s not always perfect. But it’s real.”
He leveled his tonfas, his eyes hard as steel. “And I’ll take the pain, the heartbreak, and the loss—because they’re proof that what we have is worth fighting for.”
Behind him, the girls raised their weapons, their voices ringing out as one: “We’ll show you what real connection looks like!”
Bacchus’s serene mask cracked, anger flickering in his eyes as the chamber trembled. “Then come, children of delusion! Let us see if your fragile bonds can withstand the weight of truth!”
The twisted paradise shuddered, the clam behind him splitting open as waves of pink light flooded the sanctum.
Joker stepped forward, his voice a rallying cry: “Phantom Thieves—it’s showtime!”
The ground quaked as Bacchus raised his shattered goblet high. “If you claim to fight for connection, then let me show you the futility of your struggle!”
Behind him, the Shen stirred. The massive clamshell split open with a grinding shriek, its inner surface gleaming like polished pearl, engraved with twisting glyphs that pulsed in a sickly pink light. A wave of mist rolled out, thick with intoxicating sweetness, and the air shimmered with whispers. “Pleasure… fulfillment… abandon your pain… abandon each other…”
The Phantom Thieves staggered slightly under the psychic assault, but rallied fast.
“We’ve dealt with illusions before!” Queen barked, fists glowing with nuclear light.
“Focus fire on the glyphs!” Joker commanded, slashing forward.
The Thieves surged into battle. But the Shen was relentless. Its shell gleamed, shrugging off most attacks with a ripple of psychic energy, its pearlescent plates knitting back together each time they cracked.
Then came its counterattack—waves of pink psionic energy and illusionary mirages, twisting the air into visions of unending pleasure and hollow love. The Thieves gritted their teeth, hearts pounding, clinging to the memories of each other’s hands pulling them back from the brink. “Stay sharp!” Joker shouted. “It’s trying to break us apart!”
For a while, they held the line—dodging, defending, retaliating where they could.
Then, disaster struck. A sudden flash of blinding violet—the Shen’s eye-glyph focused directly on Oracle. Before she could deploy her shield, a ripple of energy slammed into her chest. Her eyes went wide.
“Oracle!” Vixen cried.
Oracle stumbled backward, clutching her head. The air around her shimmered with glitching lights, like corrupted code. Her voice broke into static. “Con…nect…ion…false… all of it false… pleasure is real…!”
Hypatia screamed to life behind her, its cannons humming with energy.
“Oh no…” Queen gasped. “She’s targeting us!”
A torrent of laser fire erupted across the battlefield, forcing the Thieves to scatter. Explosions ripped through the marble floor, searing arcs of plasma cutting through the air. “Oracle! Snap out of it!” Joker yelled, diving behind cover as a blast scorched the spot he’d been standing in.
But Oracle didn’t answer—her eyes glowed a faint pink, locked in the Shen’s illusion. “All connection… brings pain…” she murmured, voice mechanical. “Erase… everything…”
Aria grimaced, dodging another cannon strike. “We can’t attack her—she’s one of us!”
Queen clenched her teeth. “Then we need to break the spell—fast!”
The Shen loomed behind its puppet, psychic mist coiling like chains around Oracle’s form. Its voice oozed through the chamber: “Even your precious bonds cannot withstand the bliss of surrender…”
Joker tightened his grip on his tonfas, eyes burning with resolve. “Watch me prove you wrong.”
He turned to the others, shouting above the chaos: “Cover me! I’m bringing her back!”
The girls nodded, spreading out in formation—blocking the Shen’s Psiodyne blasts, deflecting illusions, intercepting stray lasers—buying Joker the seconds he needed to reach Oracle.
He dashed through the haze, ducking under a beam, and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her gently. “Futaba! Look at me!”
Her eyes flickered, torn between pink and brown. “They… left me… everyone always leaves…” she whispered.
Joker pulled her into a tight hug, pressing his forehead against hers. “Not me,” he said fiercely. “Not us. You found us. We found you. You’re part of this family—and we’re never letting you go.”
For a heartbeat, everything stilled. Then—
A crackle of green light surged from Hypatia, the illusion fracturing like shattered glass. “A-Akira…?”
“Yeah,” he smiled, eyes soft but steady. “Welcome back, Oracle.”
Behind them, the Shen screeched, psychic tendrils flailing as its control shattered. “Now!” Queen roared. “Hit it while it’s exposed!”
The Thieves unleashed a coordinated strike, their combined power slamming into the Shen’s open maw, blasting through its protective aura for the first time. The clamshell recoiled, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. “That’s for messing with our Navigator!” Panther shouted.
The Shen reeled, cracks spiderwebbing across its pearlescent shell, each fracture glowing with sickly pink light. It staggered backward, screeching as it unleashed another barrage of psychic waves and illusionary mirages. But the Thieves were ready this time. Each strike widened the fractures until the whole clam shuddered violently, its healing glyphs flickering.
“Almost got it!” Panther shouted, fire wreathing her whip as she lashed it across the cracked surface.
“Keep pushing!” Joker called. “We can bring it down!”
The Shen wailed, its shell splitting open with a deafening screech. For a fleeting instant, victory seemed within reach.
Then—
BOOM.
The explosion hit like a tidal wave. The Thieves were hurled back, shields flickering, feet skidding across marble. The ground trembled, the air rippling with divine force. When the glare faded, a figure stood at the center—Bacchus, resplendent once more, holding aloft a gleaming Cornucopia, overflowing with illusory treasures and phantom fruits. His eyes burned like twin suns.
“Impressive…” His voice rolled like thunder, half praise, half mockery. “To resist the Shen’s delights… you mortals are far more stubborn than I thought.” He stepped forward, the Cornucopia spilling streams of radiant energy that danced like serpents across the air. “But your defiance is meaningless. You fight against your own nature—against the very truth of desire. You will fail, as all mortals do.”
He spread his arms, the shattered Shen rising behind him, drawn into his aura like mist into a storm. “You claim that connection gives you strength… but in truth, it makes you weak. It binds you to pain, to fear, to loss. Let me free you from that burden.”
The Cornucopia flared. The Shen’s cracked shell split apart, fragments orbiting Bacchus like jeweled satellites. With a roar that shook the chamber, he raised his goblet and drank deeply. “Now… behold the union of indulgence and illusion!”
A column of light engulfed him. The sanctum shook. The Shen screamed as it dissolved into swirling mist, its fractured shell snapping shut one final time before melting into Bacchus’s form. His body twisted and expanded, bones cracking, muscles bulging grotesquely. From his torso erupted chitinous plates of shell, while his legs warped into powerful, goat-like limbs ending in jagged hooves. Two monstrous crab claws unfurled from his back, dripping with psychic venom. His face, still crowned with grape leaves, stretched into a sneering mask, eyes burning with pink fire. The Cornucopia embedded into his arm, transforming into a massive cannon, leaking energy with every breath.
The transformation ended with a shockwave, sending cracks through the floor as the Lord of Empty Pleasures stood reborn—a monstrous hybrid of decadence and despair. “Behold my perfected form,” Bacchus boomed, his voice layered with echoes. “A god beyond restraint—free from shame, from loyalty, from pain. Can you say the same, Phantom Thieves?”
The Thieves scrambled to their feet, shaken but unbroken. Panther let out a whistle, eyeing his new form. “Wow… crab claws and goat hooves? That’s… a fashion choice.”
Dead-Eye snorted, aiming her bow. “Let’s crack this shell for good.”
Joker twirled his tonfas, eyes glinting with resolve. “Let’s show this drunken crustacean what happens when you underestimate us.”
The girls smirked, rallying at his side. The air thrummed as their Personas re-manifested in full force.
The chamber quaked beneath the weight of Bacchus’s monstrous form, the air thick with indulgent perfume and divine heat. The Lord of Empty Pleasures bellowed, his voice reverberating off the marble walls like a hymn to excess, as he swung his massive claw through the mist—its edge trailing gold-tinged light.
The Phantom Thieves scattered, their movements a seamless dance of instinct and trust. Panther rolled beneath a strike, fire bursting from her form as she countered with a roaring Agidyne, only for the flames to spiral uselessly into Bacchus’s gleaming armor. The energy sank into his body, making his muscles swell, his laughter booming louder. “Yes! Feed me your passion! All devotion turns to indulgence!”
Queen darted in, her fists glowing with nuclear light as she landed a blow that cracked a section of shell—only for it to knit itself together seconds later, gold flowing like liquid metal across the wound. “He’s absorbing everything we throw at him!” she shouted.
Dead-Eye shot a glare over her shoulder. “So what, we just stand here and let him talk us to death?!”
“No,” Joker replied, eyes narrowing behind his mask. “We stay mobile. Don’t let him pin us down.”
Bacchus roared again, slamming the Cornucopia Cannon into the ground. A wave of pink energy exploded outward, bathing the chamber in light. The Thieves staggered, gasping as visions flooded their minds—crowds chanting their names, piles of gold at their feet, lovers whispering adoration into their ears. The mist pressed in close, warm and cloying, promising everything they ever wanted. “Why fight?” Bacchus’s voice came from everywhere at once. “Why cling to fragile bonds when pleasure is eternal?”
Aria faltered, clutching her head as the illusion of a cheering crowd called her name. Lotus stumbled, tears welling in her eyes at the sight of a phantom family welcoming her home. But then—Queen’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding: “Don’t listen! He’s twisting what we want—what we already have with each other!”
Her Persona burst to life behind her, a surge of nuclear light scattering the illusions like smoke. One by one, the others shook off the visions, rallying around Joker, who stood firm at the center, Satanael’s wings unfurled behind him like a shadowed banner. “You think we fight because we’re empty?” Joker said, voice cold as steel. “You’ll never understand—our bonds aren’t chains. They’re the reason we stand!”
With renewed strength, the Thieves dove back into the fray—Panther’s flames, Vent’s gales, Queen’s detonations, Kirin’s radiant arcs—each strike synchronized, each movement flowing like clockwork. They darted between Bacchus’s swipes, drawing his fury but never his aim, their teamwork weaving a pattern he couldn’t unravel.
And yet… with every blow, his laughter deepened. His aura thickened, shimmering gold and pink. Every attack they landed fed his gluttony. Every evasion stoked his wrath. “Yes… struggle! Struggle against inevitability!” he howled, stomping the ground. The shockwave rippled outward, cracking the marble, scattering the Thieves again. “You cannot harm that which consumes all!”
They regrouped, panting, the air shimmering with heat. Sweat glistened on Panther’s brow; Queen’s armor was scorched and cracked; even Joker’s breath came heavier now. They could keep dodging, but they were running out of time.
Then Bacchus raised the Cornucopia Cannon high, and the chamber darkened as its maw began to glow with divine energy. Golden runes circled him, forming a radiant sigil. “Enough play. Now you will taste true indulgence!”
A barrier of swirling light erupted around him, cutting him off from their attacks. The Thieves’ spells splashed harmlessly against the shimmering surface as he stood within, laughter echoing like a drunken god. The cannon hummed, brighter and brighter, building to a crescendo that made the very air tremble.
Futaba’s voice crackled through the comms, strained with urgency. “That’s bad—like Almighty-level bad! He’s channeling everything he absorbed into one shot!”
Joker clenched his fists, eyes darting across the battlefield, calculating. They couldn’t break through by brute force. They needed a plan—and fast.
The golden light swelled, casting long shadows across their faces as Bacchus’s laughter rose to a fever pitch. “Witness the truth, Phantom Thieves! All joy ends in excess—and excess devours all!”
The golden brilliance of the Cornucopia Cannon reached its peak—then erupted.
The blast ripped across the chamber like a divine tidal wave, tearing through the marble floor, obliterating the mist, and painting the air in shimmering gold. The Phantom Thieves could only brace themselves, instincts screaming—
Until Joker stepped forward. “SATANAEL!”
His voice echoed like a command from the abyss. Shadows spiraled up around him, coalescing into the towering form of Satanael, whose wings unfurled like a stormfront, bracing himself. The blast struck, shaking the entire sanctum with the sound of crashing thunder.
The light engulfed them—then cleared. Joker stood at the epicenter, smoke curling from his coat, his knees buckling but unbroken. Satanael shimmered behind him, fading into motes of darkness. Across his cheek ran a line of blood; his breath came ragged; but his eyes burned with defiance. “Is… that all you’ve got?” he rasped.
The girls cried out, rushing to him. Vent was the first to reach him, her hands glowing with soothing emerald light as she pressed them against his chest. Vixen knelt beside her, whispering a prayer as ribbons of gentle flame wrapped around him. Papillon summoned a cascade of radiant feathers, while Oracle stretched out her palm, holographic runes spinning around her fingertips. Together, waves of healing energy washed over him—mending burns, steadying his breath, pulling him back from the edge.
Across the chamber, Bacchus threw back his head and laughed, the Cornucopia spinning lazily in his claw. “Glorious! Even after tasting paradise, you cling to your fragile pain! Why fight what will only break you in the end?”
Joker wiped the blood from his lip and glared up at the glowing barrier that shielded Bacchus. “We need to bring down that fucking barrier…” he growled, forcing himself upright. “Oracle, tell me you’ve got something for me.”
Oracle’s visor flashed, data scrolling rapidly. Her jaw tightened. “Only way is to overload it. Hit it with everything we’ve got—fast—before he can charge another shot. If we pour enough energy into it, it might collapse under its own weight…”
“Might?” Panther asked, incredulous.
Oracle shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what his limit is. But we don’t have time to find out the safe way.”
Joker chuckled lowly, his voice hoarse but steady. “Then we’ll do it the Phantom Thief way.”
He reached into his coat, pulling out a crystalline Soma, its surface glowing with divine light. He crushed it in his hand—shards dissolving into shimmering vapor that spread like a wave through the team.
Instantly, the exhaustion melted away. Muscles steadied. Minds sharpened. The sting of wounds faded beneath renewed strength.
Joker cracked his neck, his smirk returning. “You heard her. We hit it hard, we hit it fast—and we don’t stop until that barrier shatters.”
He extended a hand, Satanael’s dark aura flickering faintly around him. “Show him what connection can really do.”
“Let’s end this!” he roared. In perfect sync, the Phantom Thieves surged forward, their Personas bursting into existence one after another in a cascade of light and power. The chamber convulsed under the onslaught. The barrier blazed, its surface rippling violently as if straining to contain the flood of energy.
Oracle’s visor burned bright green within Hypatia’s cockpit, data streaming at impossible speeds. “Sixty percent—sixty-five—seventy—!”
The dome flared, then steadied. A deafening hum filled the air. “It’s holding!” she shouted.
Bacchus threw back his head and laughed, his voice a rumbling mockery. “Is that all your vaunted ‘connection’ amounts to? Pretty lights and wasted effort?”
He raised the Cornucopia Cannon, its mouth yawning open like the maw of a hell. “Allow me to remind you what true power looks like!”
The cannon fired. A colossal wave of Almighty energy burst forth—blinding, unstoppable.
But Oracle was faster. “Aegis Wall—deploy!”
Her Persona flared to life, a vast hexagonal barrier snapping into place before the team. The blast struck, thunder and light filling the sanctum—but the wall held, shimmering furiously as cracks spidered across its surface. When the light faded, the Thieves stood, battered but unbroken.
Oracle gasped, clutching her temple. “We’re at seventy percent! We need to hit him harder—or he’ll just outlast us!”
Joker gritted his teeth. “Then we go again.”
They regrouped, drawing deep breaths, channeling their strength. A second wave of power ignited—stronger, sharper, more synchronized. Flame and frost, light and storm—every element crashed upon Bacchus’s dome again, the barrier flashing violently. The glyphs etched into its surface began to warp and distort, the strain evident even through the divine glow.
Oracle’s visor flared. “Seventy-five—seventy-eight—eighty!”
The barrier shook violently, fissures glowing white-hot—but still it endured. And then came another blast from the Cornucopia Cannon, scattering the Thieves despite Oracle, Queen and Joker’s best efforts to shield everyone.
Bacchus smirked, utterly unbothered, swirling wine lazily in his chalice. “Charming effort. Truly. But you are ants clawing at Olympus.”
Joker snarled as he got to his feet. “We’ll see about that.”
He reached into his coat again, pulling out another Soma. The crystal pulsed once before he crushed it in his fist, divine light radiating outward and sweeping through the team. Once more, golden warmth poured over the Thieves, filling their lungs, restoring their bodies, flooding them with the strength to stand again.
Joker turned to the girls, his eyes blazing behind his mask. “We’re close. One more push—everything you’ve got!”
The Thieves nodded, flames of determination burning in every gaze.
Bacchus leaned back, still smiling as the Cornucopia began to glow again, energy gathering like a sun in his hands. “Let us see, then, if mortal bonds can outshine godhood.”
The Thieves moved as one.
Wind screamed first—Circe’s Fury of the Anemoi burst forth as Vent’s Persona summoned a hurricane of emerald gales, four cyclones converging into a howling tempest that cracked the air like thunder.
Lightning tore through the storm next—Teuta’s Tempestas conjured a raging squall of violet bolts, spearing down in relentless arcs that shattered the ground and rippled against the golden dome.
From Panther’s stance, a blazing sigil unfurled—Ishtar’s Flames of Passion cascaded upward in a pillar of crimson fire, shaped like wings that fanned across the barrier’s surface, leaving molten cracks in their wake.
Vixen followed, her Persona’s touch like winter’s breath—Uzume-no-Mikoto’s Caress of the Yuki-onna coated the barrier in a crystalline frost, ice blooming like flowers before shattering in dazzling prisms.
Above, Artemis’s Lycaea’s Bite unleashed forty-two radiant arrows of light, each streaking across the sky to hammer the dome in rhythm, like the heartbeat of a god.
Then came the scales of justice—Justicia’s Final Judgement, a blinding spiral of light and shadow entwining as one, bursting upon the barrier in a double helix of annihilation.
From Queen’s side, Morrigan’s Flight of the Badb sent flocks of spectral ravens, screeching as they dove, each one detonating in surges of viridian nuclear flame.
Zenobia’s Blessings of Atargatis surged next—waves of psychic force like crashing tides, exploding into ripples of coral light.
Astraea’s Constellation Collapse followed, a miniature cosmos descending, stars bursting in fire and sanctity as they struck the barrier in a celestial storm.
Eurydice’s Dancing Strings traced ribbons of luminescence across the air, each beam weaving through the others before slamming down like divine spears, their impact singing like a chorus.
Oracle rose above the chaos, her visor blazing. “Let’s see you handle this! Hypatia—Cyril’s Zealots!” Her drone cannons spun and discharged nine blasts, each a different color—gale green, infernal red, thunder violet, glacial blue, nuclear gold, psychic pink, sacred white, abyssal black, and one of pure shimmering nothingness. The multicolored explosions rippled across the dome like a rainbow of destruction.
Papillon’s Grimoire flared open. “Lucifer—Alice—lend me your power!” Twin forms manifested: Lucifer, wings of shadowed starlight, raised a hand and loosed Morning Star, a sphere of pure, roaring divinity that vaporized the ground beneath it; Alice giggled sweetly, whispering Die For Me!, demented teddie bears with dynamite strapped to their backs appearing out of thin air to explode against Bacchus’s barrier.
And at the center of it all, Joker stood unmoving, coat billowing in the storm. Satanael towered behind him, eyes blazing, revolver of fate in hand. “This ends now…” Joker whispered. “Lament of the Damned!”
Satanael raised his gun and fired. The bullet shattered into a tri-colored inferno—Almighty white, sacred gold, and abyssal violet—each wave folding over the last in a cataclysmic crescendo. The world itself seemed to tremble.
The combined assault struck Bacchus’s barrier with the force of creation. Golden light fractured and warped, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface as the god within howled, voice breaking into disbelief.
Oracle’s eyes widened, her interface flickering from orange to red. “Barrier integrity—overload! Overload! 120%—it’s gonna—!”
The shield shattered like glass, a shockwave tearing through the air as Bacchus staggered backward, roaring in fury, his radiant armor flickering wildly.
Joker raised his gun again, eyes burning with resolve. “Now—while he’s open!”
The Thieves, eyes blazing with renewed power, looked to Joker, who smirked. “Ravage him...”
Vent’s throwing disc slashed in a blur of wind, carving shimmering gashes across Bacchus’s chest. Comet followed, her cutlass crackling with lightning, each strike detonating in explosions of sparks that shattered pieces of the god’s golden armor.
Panther spun through the air with a dancer’s grace, her whip snapping out in coils of flame, wrapping around the Cornucopia Cannon before she tore it free in a burst of molten fire. Vixen streaked in next, her katana slicing in a blizzard of ice, carving deep lines into his shining plates until they cracked and fell away in shards.
Dead-Eye leapt high, composite bow glowing with Artemis’s blessing. She unleashed a storm of arrows like falling starlight, each one exploding against Bacchus’s body, forcing the god to howl and stumble backward. Lotus dove in beneath, staff blazing white and black, smashing through the gaps in his armor, each stroke leaving wounds that bled both light and shadow.
Queen slammed her fists into his ribs, nuclear blasts detonating with every strike, fracturing the god’s frame. Noir followed with a scythe swing so massive it hurled Bacchus across the battlefield, his body crunching against the stone, leaving cracks spiderwebbing outward.
Kirin raised her foot high, Astraea’s constellation blazing around her as she plunged the bladed heel into his thigh, bursting it apart with a surge of celestial fire and sanctity. Aria’s strings of light wrapped around his neck, dragging him to his knees as beams lanced downward, carving into his flesh.
Finally, Joker strode through the chaos, tonfas gleaming with a promise of pain for daring to hurt his girls. He dove right in, bringing his weapons down in a vicious arc. The impact was cataclysmic. Bacchus screamed as the last pieces of his radiant shell shattered. His divine form cracked apart, light bleeding away as chunks of armor fell to the ground and dissolved into nothing. His flesh twisted and ripped beneath the onslaught, his godly bulk crumbling with every strike from the Thieves.
One final howl tore from his throat as his entire body disintegrated in a storm of sparks and shadows. When the light cleared, all that remained was a trembling figure on his knees—Shadow Yamano, stripped bare of divinity, naked and broken, his voice a pitiful rasp. “P-please… please…”
The blinds were drawn, the lights dimmed. Only the faint hum of the city seeped in through the cracks. Yamano sat slumped behind his desk, eyes unfocused, his face hollow. His fingers clenched tightly around the glowing urn in his lap. The TV host looked nothing like the man who had built his empire on charm and deception. He was a husk, staring blankly at nothing, lips trembling as though whispering apologies to ghosts who would never answer.
Then— The air rippled. A shiver passed through the room, and shadows deepened unnaturally.
From the far corner, a figure emerged—tall, draped in tattered black robes that seemed to drink in the light. A bone-white mask hid its face, featureless save for the faintest hint of a smile carved into the surface. Its steps made no sound as it approached, the air growing colder with each movement.
“Ssssssuch a wassssste…” the figure hissed, its voice echoing like a thousand whispers layered into one. Long, skeletal fingers reached down and effortlessly plucked the urn from Yamano’s unresisting hands. He barely stirred—his eyes still glassy, his spirit already half gone.
In place of the urn, the figure pressed a golden goblet into his palm. The cup shimmered faintly, filled with a dark, viscous liquid that glowed faintly red in the dim light.
The masked being leaned close, its breath icy. “Drink… and let the pain ssssleep…”
Before Yamano could speak, the figure dissolved into the shadows, fading like smoke into the walls, leaving behind only the chill and the cup in his hands. Yamano stared at the goblet. For a long, hollow moment, he hesitated—then slowly raised it to his lips.
The liquid slid down his throat, bitter and heavy as blood. His eyes fluttered shut. And as his grip loosened, the goblet slipped from his hand, rolling silently across the floor.
Shadow Yamano’s outline flickered like a dying ember, his features twisting in fear and regret before dissolving into motes of pale light. The silence that followed was deafening—no earth-shaking tremors, no collapsing walls, no cascading waves of distortion like the Thieves had come to expect.
For a long moment, they stood frozen, weapons half-lowered, waiting for the inevitable collapse that never came.
“…Nothing?” Panther whispered, glancing around. The pink mist that had once suffused the Kingdom was gone, leaving behind a still, muted glow that felt strangely hollow.
Joker scanned the horizon. The twisted architecture of the Kingdom of Gratification stood eerily still, frozen mid-motion—as though time itself had paused. The opulent towers of false pleasure, the grand avenues lined with marble statues, all remained… intact.
“This is weird…” Oracle muttered, her visor flickering as streams of data scrolled across it. “The distortion’s gone—completely. But the Kingdom’s… stable? It shouldn’t be. Without the core desire sustaining it, it should be unraveling.”
Vixen frowned, tightening her grip on her weapon. “Then what’s holding it together?”
Papillon said nothing. She stood a little apart from the others, her expression distant, contemplative—as though she could sense something just beyond their reach.
One by one, the others exchanged uneasy glances.
Finally, Joker sighed softly and rolled his shoulders, forcing a small, steadying smile. “We’ll figure it out later.” His gaze turned toward the stairs leading upward. “For now, let’s see how things are in the real world before we start speculating.”
With that, he started forward, the others falling in behind him. The echo of their footsteps was the only sound in the vast, silent Kingdom—an empty paradise left standing, its purpose gone.
The Thieves stepped through the portal back into the familiar hum of Okinawa Cellular Stadium Naha. The oppressive, suffocating energy that had clung to the streets and arenas for the past two nights had dissipated entirely. People flowed through the streets in excitement, buzzing for Risette’s concert, but there were no frenzied gestures, no compulsive obsession—just fans, eager and alive with normal anticipation.
Akira let out a slow breath, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease for the first time since this whole thing started. He cast a quick glance at the Thieves, each moving into their respective tasks with focused efficiency. Makoto, Ren, and Hifumi navigated backstage corridors with clipboards in hand, orchestrating logistics and scheduling. Futaba, Ryuemi, and Shiho plugged into the soundboards and lighting rigs like seasoned professionals, their fingers flying over controls, programming intricate sequences. Lavenza, Yukiko, and Morgane flitted between racks of costumes, making sure every outfit fit perfectly, every fold and seam in place. Meanwhile, Ann, Kasumi, and Haru coordinated with the choreography team, ensuring every backup dance cue was flawless.
Akira moved among them, eyes scanning the crowd, the backstage, the stage itself. Every so often, his gaze drifted toward the shadows, searching for Yu—but the man was nowhere in sight. A faint frown tugged at his lips, though he told himself there was no need for worry yet; the day seemed… stable.
Hours passed, and the bustle of preparations continued uninterrupted. The crowd’s excitement grew steadily, but without the manic energy that had defined the last two nights. Akira felt a sense of calm settle over him, allowing himself a small smile as he watched the organized chaos of the venue.
The concert began, a flurry of lights and music, with Risette commanding the stage and the Thieves executing their roles flawlessly. The performance was electric, but measured—no sudden spikes of dangerous energy, no whispers of desire warping the audience’s minds.
Then came intermission. From the stage entrance, Hitoshi Yamano appeared, walking into the spotlight with the same polished confidence he always had, although he looked a little pale and shaky. Akira’s brow furrowed. He had expected something—an echo of the last nights’ horrors, a declaration of empty desire, an attempt to manipulate the audience—but Yamano behaved entirely normally. There was no mention of connections being futile, no preaching of gratification over human bonds. He smiled, waved politely to the audience, and engaged in light banter with the crew, a picture of professionalism.
Throughout the remainder of the concert, Akira’s eyes never left Yamano. Every gesture, every word, every movement was scrutinized, but nothing seemed amiss. No subtle manipulation, no hidden malice—just a man hosting a concert with practiced skill. Akira leaned against a railing, allowing himself a slow breath, though unease lingered in the back of his mind. Nothing was happening—yet the calm didn’t entirely feel like relief. It felt deliberate, like a pause before the next storm.
The laboratory was cold, sterile, and humming with low-level machinery. In the center of the room, a massive tank stood like a monolith, tubes and wires snaking into a man suspended in viscous liquid. His chest rose and fell slowly, the faint shimmer of the fluid masking the details of his face. Scientists bustled around, checking readings, adjusting monitors, and muttering technical jargon that bounced off the steel walls.
Masayoshi Shido leaned against one console, his expression unreadable, while Takuto Maruki and Kouetsu Kirijo observed the proceedings with practiced calm. The room’s tense silence shifted as a figure in a hazmat suit entered, carrying a glowing urn that pulsed with a soft pink light.
The hazmat-suited figure handed the urn to a waiting scientist, who hesitated only a moment before glancing at Kirijo. The nod from Kirijo was subtle but decisive. Carefully, the scientist slid the urn into one of the chambers built into the tank. Tubes extended automatically, connecting the urn’s contents to the liquid surrounding the figure inside.
At a console, the same scientist pressed a series of buttons. The urn shattered, and a surge of pink energy surged into the tank. The room was bathed in blinding light, reflections bouncing wildly off the walls and instruments. The suspended figure’s form glowed faintly, then seemed to shift as the energy merged with him.
Minutes passed. The light dimmed, leaving the laboratory illuminated only by the soft hum of the machines. Slowly, Ichiryusai Madarame stirred within the tank, his eyes fluttering open.
Kouetsu Kirijo stepped forward, a measured smile spreading across his face. “Welcome… Mikuratana-no-Kami… It is good to see you again,” he said, his voice controlled, as the newly awakened presence floated silently in the tank.
Chapter 42: To Kyoto
Summary:
The Thieves head back to Kagoshima for the next leg of their journey.
Igor gets a few visitors and gives them all cryptic advice (what else is new?)
A new Kingdom is formed...
Notes:
What's this? Two chapters in one day?!
Since we're so close to 25k hits, I figured I should give you all a little extra ;)
Chapter Text
The club pulsed with a strange, hypnotic rhythm — a slow thump of bass threaded with haunting choral vocals that seemed to echo from nowhere and everywhere at once. Smoke coiled lazily through the dim light, the scent of incense and spilt wine heavy in the air. At the center of the room sat a round table of dark marble, its surface gleaming like oil under the crimson lights. Five figures occupied it — each clad in black robes, each face hidden behind a white porcelain mask. They waited in silence.
After a moment, the air shimmered, and a sixth figure appeared — robed in red, wearing a crimson mask whose surface caught the dim light like liquid fire. The music seemed to falter for a heartbeat as he took his seat at the head of the table. The Red Mask regarded the others in turn, his voice smooth yet coldly resonant. “Satisfactory. We have obtained sufficient Desire to awaken Mikuratana-no-Kami. However…” He paused, fingers tapping lightly on the table’s surface. “…he is not at full power.”
The figure with the Gemini mask inclined their head. “We failed to properly account for the ones called the Phantom Thieves,” they admitted, their tone calm but tinged with unease. “We… miscalculated.”
For a long moment, silence reigned — then, the Red Mask gave a low, mirthless chuckle. “Fear not. A single mistake does not undo all your hard work.” He leaned back slightly, the crimson glow from his mask reflecting off the marble. “However… I suggest not repeating it.”
A ripple of tension spread through the gathered figures. Then the Red Mask added, almost idly — though his words carried the weight of a decree: “I require them all at full power.”
Before anyone could question him, the Red Mask rose from his seat. The air around him warped, colors bleeding into black until his form dissolved entirely, fading from existence as if swallowed by the shadows. The remaining five figures sat in uneasy silence, glancing at one another through the dim haze. The music picked up again — low, mournful, and echoing like a requiem. None of them spoke a word.
The morning sun hung low over Okinawa, its light soft and golden, glinting off the glass panels of Okinawa Cellular Stadium Naha. The air still carried traces of last night’s energy — the echo of cheering fans, the rhythm of bass, the faint scent of fireworks — but now, everything felt… empty.
Akira walked slowly along the quiet path leading to the stadium gates, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes distant. “This place feels different now that the concerts are over, huh?” he mused inwardly.
“Indeed,” came Satanael’s deep rumble from somewhere in the back of his mind. “It seems peaceful. I imagine the Kingdom of Gratification has already collapsed.”
Akira gave a small shrug. “Only one way to find out.”
He scanned the area — no security, no lingering fans, no one paying attention. He slipped into a shaded alcove between two storage sheds, crouched down, and pulled out his phone. With a quick tap, the Metaverse Navigator came to life, pulsing faintly with crimson light.
“Alright… let’s see.”
He selected Kingdom of Gratification from his list. The air around him shimmered, and in a blink, the world inverted.
The scent of salt and sun vanished, replaced by the faint hum of energy and something… indescribable. Akira found himself standing in a space that defied form — a place that was not a place. Everything shimmered like liquid glass; colors bled into one another, hues shifting too fast for the eye to follow. Geometric shapes floated lazily through the void before dissolving into vapor, only to reassemble again elsewhere.
It was mesmerizing… and utterly nauseating.
Akira staggered, clutching his stomach. “Ugh… what—what is this…?”
“The essence of the Metaverse,” Satanael’s voice rumbled, slow and reverent. “Pure possibility — unshaped, unbound. The raw foundation of cognition itself. You are gazing into creation before thought gives it form.”
Akira squeezed his eyes shut, the churning motion of the place making his balance spin. “Yeah, well, it’s making me dizzy as hell…”
With a sharp exhale, he triggered his phone again, and the real world snapped back into focus.
He stumbled, bracing himself against a nearby railing, heart pounding as he gulped down air. The solid ground beneath his feet felt almost alien after that impossible space.
“What was that…” he muttered, straightening slowly and rubbing his temples.
Satanael’s low voice came again, softer this time. “A glimpse behind the curtain, Harbinger. The Kingdom is gone… only the foundation remains.”
Akira exhaled shakily, forcing his nerves to settle. “Well, looks like that answers the question.”
He glanced up at the empty stadium one last time — the morning light glinting off its still structure, the silence strangely comforting — and allowed a small, satisfied smile to curve his lips. “Alright… let’s head back.”
A couple of hours later, the Okinawa skyline had faded into the distance, replaced by the bustle of the ferry terminal. The Phantom Thieves stood together on the pier, the sea breeze tugging at their hair and clothes as the great white ferry loomed ahead, preparing for departure back to Kagoshima.
Akira stretched his arms above his head, the salty air filling his lungs. “Feels weird to be heading back already,” he said, glancing at the others.
“Yeah, but at least we wrapped things up here,” Ann replied, adjusting her sunhat. “And hey, we earned a break after all that.”
“‘Break’?” Ryuemi groaned dramatically. “We barely slept last night thanks to Futaba’s karaoke marathon.”
“That was team bonding, thank you very much!” Futaba shot back, puffing her cheeks.
The banter continued as they boarded, laughter carrying over the wind. Once aboard, the group began discussing the sleeping arrangements. It wasn’t long before Ann crossed her arms and declared, “Okay, this time Akira isn’t getting his own room. No more lone-wolf act!”
“Yeah,” Morgane agreed with a grin. “You’re one of us, leader. You’re sharing, whether you like it or not.”
Akira raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? And how exactly are you going to decide that?”
Shiho grinned mischievously. “Rock-paper-scissors tournament.”
He blinked. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly serious,” Ren added in mock solemnity, tying her hair back like a martial artist preparing for battle.
Before he could protest, the girls had already formed a loose circle on the deck, excitement bubbling in the air. Futaba started a countdown app on her phone — “For fairness,” she insisted — while Haru and Yukiko stood off to the side as referees.
“Ready… set… go!”
Hands shot up, shouts of triumph and groans of defeat following in quick succession. Ann beat Kasumi, Morgane took down Futaba, Ryuemi lost to Ren in the first round, and Shiho knocked out Makoto with a smug grin. It was chaotic, loud, and entirely ridiculous — and Akira couldn’t stop smiling.
Round after round, the circle shrank until only Lavenza remained opposite Ann in the final. The two blondes stared at each other like Wild West gunslingers.
Ann narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think I’ll go easy just because you’re cute.”
“I would not expect you to,” Lavenza replied evenly, lifting her delicate hand.
“Alright! Rock, paper, scissors—!”
Ann threw rock. Lavenza, paper.
A hush fell for half a heartbeat before an explosion of groans and laughter erupted around them.
“NO WAY!” Morgane wailed. “How does she always win?!”
“I demand a rematch!” Futaba cried, though she was already laughing too hard to mean it.
Lavenza simply inclined her head, the faintest smile curving her lips. “It appears Fate has spoken.”
Akira chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as everyone else bemoaned their loss. “Well… guess that settles it.”
Lavenza turned to him, expression soft but proud. “It seems I will be accompanying you tonight, Trickster. I trust that is acceptable?”
He met her gaze, warmth tugging at his smile. “Yeah. I think I can live with that.”
Dinner that evening was a relatively quiet affair. After a long day of travel and laughter, no one was in the mood for the bustling ferry dining room, so the Thieves opted to grab a few plates each and retreat to the aft deck, where the sun was slowly dipping into the horizon. The sky was painted in streaks of gold and violet, the ocean shimmering like liquid fire beneath it.
They spread out a few blankets, their little makeshift picnic catching the faint scent of salt and grilled fish from the galley below. Conversation ebbed and flowed — soft laughter, idle teasing, and the gentle clink of chopsticks against plastic plates.
Akira sat with his back against the railing, flipping open his phone to check their itinerary. “Alright,” he began, scanning through the notes. “We should reach Kagoshima around this time tomorrow. We’ll spend the night there, then head to Hiroshima the next day — about six hours on the road. After that, we’ve got a five-hour drive to Kyoto, where we’ll settle in.”
He looked up at the group, a small grin tugging at his lips. “And the three days after that are concert days.”
“Three days of chaos, you mean,” Futaba muttered, nibbling on a piece of karaage.
Akira chuckled. “Hopefully not. With any luck, we won’t have to deal with more craziness like Okinawa.”
Shiho and Ryuemi groaned in unison, both leaning back dramatically. “You just had to say it, didn’t you?” Shiho sighed.
“Way to jinx us, Leader,” Ryuemi added, pointing her chopsticks accusingly at him.
Akira only laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, I take it back. No craziness.”
Makoto shook her head, smiling faintly. “I think at this point, even saying that is a curse.”
“Then we’ll just enjoy the calm while it lasts,” Haru said softly, glancing out at the glowing sea.
For a while, no one spoke. The only sounds were the hum of the ship’s engines and the rhythmic crash of waves against the hull.
The club was packed once more, its atmosphere thicker and heavier than before — the air practically vibrated with anticipation. The eerie mix of thumping bass and ethereal, operatic vocals rolled through the space like a heartbeat, each note resonating through the opulent walls.
At the central table sat the Gemini-masked figure, their porcelain mask gleaming faintly beneath the low amber lights. Seated across from them was a stern-looking older woman, her silver hair drawn back in a tight bun, her navy business suit immaculate, her posture sharp as a blade.
“I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Shinbun-san,” Gemini Mask purred, their voice soft but layered — as though multiple tones spoke in perfect synchrony. “Few are those who have the courage to heed the Siren’s call.”
Shinbun turned her gaze toward the masked figure. Her sickly-yellow eyes gleamed, filled with something fierce — not fear, but conviction. “I have always believed painful truth must be kept buried,” she replied, her voice steady. “Blissful ignorance is preferable to painful clarity.”
Gemini Mask tilted their head, the faintest hum of approval escaping them. “Then you will find what you seek, I am sure of it.”
As they spoke, the lights dimmed, shadows slithering up the walls like living things. The murmuring crowd surrounding the central floor began to grow restless — expectant — as if they knew what was about to happen.
And then, from behind the shimmering crimson curtains, the Siren emerged.
She was radiant — dressed in a gown that shimmered with hues of gold and orange, the fabric moving like flame. A pink mask adorned her face, and her rainbow-colored hair caught every glint of light, scattering it in dazzling patterns across the room. When she stepped into the spotlight, silence fell like a spell.
Then she began to sing. The melody was haunting, at once beautiful and tragic — a song woven from kind lies and hidden truths, from the ache of secrets too painful to be shared. Her voice was honey and glass, sweet yet cutting, and every note seemed to reverberate deep within the soul.
Shinbun gasped, one hand flying to her temple. The light in her strange yellow eyes began to blaze brighter, her breathing growing ragged. Each verse struck her like a hammer blow of revelation — hiding the truth to spare people’s pain is the greatest gift one can give.
Beside her, Gemini Mask chuckled softly. The sound came not from their lips but from everywhere — a chorus of whispers coiling through the air around Shinbun’s head.
“Excellent…” they murmured, their voice echoing like a ripple across glass. “Let yourself be swept up in her words. Let her show you the need for illusions.”
The Siren’s song swelled — shimmering, irresistible — and Shinbun’s eyes widened, pupils dilating until only golden light remained.
Gemini Mask leaned closer, their tone now a reverent whisper that slithered through the melody. “The Kingdom of Hidden Facades awaits its Ruler, Saeko Shinbun. You are that Ruler.”
As the Siren’s final note hung trembling in the air, Shinbun exhaled — a long, trembling breath — and a faint, pink glow began to rise from her chest. The crowd erupted into ecstatic cheers, while Gemini Mask only sat back, folding their hands, their voice murmuring in satisfaction: “Another Kingdom rises.”
The ferry rocked gently against the calm night waves, its engines a steady hum beneath the soft ocean breeze. After dinner, the Thieves had all drifted off to their cabins two by two — soft laughter echoing faintly down the hallways as goodnights were exchanged and doors clicked shut.
Inside his own cabin, Akira sat at the edge of the bed, Lavenza nestled comfortably in his lap. The former Velvet Room resident was quiet, her eyes half-lidded as he ran a brush through her silky, flaxen locks with slow, reverent strokes. Each movement seemed to soothe her — the rhythm steady, familiar, intimate. When he finished, Lavenza took the brush from his hand, turning it delicately in her fingers before placing it back in its small velvet pouch. Then, without a word, she crawled up beside him on the narrow bed, curling against his chest with a quiet sigh.
Akira shifted slightly, looping an arm around her shoulders, his hand tracing lazy circles along her upper back. Her body was warm and soft against his — a comforting presence in the muted glow of the cabin’s lamplight. But after a few moments, he noticed the faraway look in her eyes. Her brow was faintly furrowed, her usual serenity shadowed by unease. “What’s the matter, little butterfly?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You seem worried.”
Lavenza inhaled softly, then burrowed deeper into the crook of his neck, her breath warm against his skin. “Something has been bothering me,” she said at last, her voice a fragile thread in the quiet. “About your friend, Yu…”
Akira’s hand stilled for a moment before resuming its gentle rhythm along her back. “Yu?” he echoed, tone calm but edged with quiet vigilance.
She nodded, her fingers absently toying with the fabric of his shirt. “He… looks at me funny.”
“Funny how?” Akira asked, the softness in his tone giving way to something more protective — a subtle tightening in his grip.
“Not in the way humans do when they are merely curious. It’s different. It feels… like recognition.” Lavenza whispered.
“Recognition?” Akira echoed, frowning.
“Yes.” Her voice trembled slightly now, though it wasn’t fear — more like confusion. “As though he knows me. Not as one of your lovers. But as what I truly am.” She hesitated, the next words barely audible. “He knows that I am not… fully human.”
Akira opened his eyes fully then, meeting her gaze as she lifted her head slightly. The ship creaked faintly, waves lapping against its hull like distant heartbeats. His hand found hers and squeezed gently. “You think he knows about the Velvet Room?”
Lavenza nodded against his shoulder. “He must. But I do not yet understand how. His aura is unlike any mortal’s — it hums with power, but it is… bound. Locked behind walls even I cannot see through.”
Akira hummed low in his throat, his mind already spinning through possibilities. “Maybe I should pay Igor a visit,” he murmured after a pause. “See what he knows. Once we reach Kagoshima.”
Lavenza seemed to relax a little at that. She reached up, her cool fingers brushing along his jawline, guiding his gaze back to hers. Then, with a soft flutter of breath, she leaned up and pressed her lips against his — a tender kiss, light as starlight. “That’s a good idea,” she said when they parted, her voice hushed but sure. “But for now…” She rested her head against his chest once more, eyes drifting closed as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled her ears. “…let’s just rest.”
Akira didn’t answer, only let his eyes close again as Lavenza’s breathing evened out against his chest. The night outside remained still and peaceful, but in his mind, one thought refused to rest: Yu Narukami was definitely hiding something.
The ferry’s horn bellowed low and long as it pulled into the Kagoshima harbor, the setting sun painting the water in molten orange and violet. After days of travel, the Thieves gathered their bags and supplies, chatting idly as the gangplank clanged down.
“Land!” Futaba cheered, punching the air. “Sweet, solid land that doesn’t rock!”
“You’ll miss it when we’re stuck in the RV again,” Ryuemi teased, nudging her as they made their way down the ramp.
Akira just chuckled, his hands in his pockets, grey eyes calm but content. The group looked a little road-worn, but the air felt lighter here — no trace of that creeping wrongness that had plagued Okinawa. Kagoshima’s warm, sulfur-tinged breeze carried the promise of quiet rest.
After refueling the RV and picking up extra supplies, Morgane stretched luxuriously. “We deserve a proper soak after all that,” she said. “There’s an onsen just a few blocks up the hill.”
That was all the convincing anyone needed.
The hot spring was tucked between two cedar-covered slopes, its wooden façade glowing softly under the lanterns. Steam curled lazily through the air as the Thieves split up — men to one side, women to the other.
Akira was halfway through tying his towel when a familiar pair of voices called out from the entrance to the women’s baths.
“Hey, Akiraaa~” Ann’s sing-song voice drifted over the partition, immediately followed by Futaba’s giggle.
“Yeah, Joker! The water’s way better over here!” Futaba chimed in. “You could sneak in — we’ll keep it our little secret~”
There was a pause, then the sound of a splash.
“Futaba!” Makoto yelped. “You can’t just—”
“What? I’m just saying the truth! Who wouldn’t want a cute guy like him joining us?”
The sound of collective groans — and laughter — rippled through the girls’ side, while Akira just sighed, amusement flickering across his face.
“Tempting offer,” he called back mildly, “but I think I’d rather live to see tomorrow.”
“Coward!” Futaba teased.
“Smart,” came Yukiko’s dry response.
The rest of the soak passed in peace — or as much peace as you could expect from this lot.
Dinner that night was held at a cozy izakaya overlooking the waterfront. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting golden light over their table. The air buzzed with warmth and laughter — Shiho trying to out-eat Ryuemi, Ann feeding Morgane grilled yakitori between giggles, Futaba arguing with Kasumi about which idol anime had the better soundtrack. Ren and Makoto were deep in conversation about their next concert’s security logistics, while Yukiko and Haru discussed the delicate flavor profile of the local shōchū.
Amidst the chaos, Akira leaned back in his seat, quietly soaking it all in — the laughter, the warmth, the tiny moments of joy that made all the battles worth it. Ann caught his gaze and smiled softly, her eyes reflecting the lanternlight. Futaba raised her glass toward him in mock salute. “To our fearless leader,” she said, grinning. “And to no crazy Palaces for at least a week!”
“Hear, hear!” came the chorus.
After dinner, the group split up — some heading to the RV, others wandering the evening streets.
Akira excused himself, hands in his pockets as he walked down the quiet, lamplit road. Kagoshima’s night air was cool and fragrant with sea salt and smoke. He passed a shuttered teahouse, a stray cat weaving between his feet, before finally stopping in front of an alleyway where a faint, blue glow pulsed at the far end.
It shimmered — unseen by any ordinary eye — like moonlight caught in water.
Akira’s expression shifted, his easy calm giving way to quiet focus. He took a slow breath, then stepped forward.
The Velvet Room’s blue haze still clung faintly to Yu Narukami’s coat as he stepped out into the quiet night. The ethereal bell chime marking the door’s closure echoed once—then was gone, leaving only the soft whisper of the wind and the low hum of city life in the distance.
Yu exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Igor had always been enigmatic, yes—but tonight had been infuriating. Every carefully phrased question, every attempt to pry for context, had been met with the same calm, unreadable response: “The Trickster shall provide.”
He ran a hand through his silver hair, sighing. “The Trickster? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The voice that answered him was not his own, yet it resonated deep within his soul—a sound like metal striking glass, smooth and ancient. “Perhaps the masked figure we observed in Okinawa,” it murmured, patient and curious.
Yu’s brows furrowed. He could still picture that shadowy form that had lead others like them during the battles in Okinawa—a presence that had felt familiar yet utterly alien. “Maybe,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But I can’t shake this feeling… like I know them. Like they’re right there, just out of reach.”
“And that,” the voice replied, half-amused, half-concerned, “is what troubles me most. Whoever they are, they’re preventing me from manifesting. That takes more than raw power—it takes control. They must be very powerful indeed.”
Yu stopped walking, his reflection rippling in the darkened window of a closed café. His eyes searched the mirrored glass as if trying to see past his own face.
“Powerful enough to suppress you,” he murmured. “That narrows it down to… what, gods? Demons? Velvet Room attendants?”
The voice hummed low in thought. “Or someone who bridges the gap between all three.”
Yu’s expression tightened. His instincts—a sixth sense honed over years of supernatural conflict—twisted uncomfortably. “Someone like the Trickster, huh…” he said under his breath.
He walked again, boots clicking softly against the cobblestones, eyes half-lidded as he turned the puzzle over and over in his mind. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Marie—her distracted glances during video call, her sudden melancholy, the faint shiver that Ai and Yukiko had reported she seemed to have developed lately.
“I wonder if he’s connected to that too,” Yu mused aloud. “Marie’s been acting… off. Like she’s feeling something the rest of us can’t.”
“The threads are weaving tighter,” the voice murmured. “But they are not yet one tapestry. Be patient.”
Yu huffed quietly, though there was no real annoyance in it—just weary acceptance. “Yeah, patience. Easy for you to say.”
He looked up at the night sky. The stars were faint beneath the city lights, but he could still make out a few constellations—Orion, Scorpio, Gemini—shimmering like secrets waiting to be uncovered.
“The Trickster shall provide,” he repeated softly. “Guess I’ll just have to wait and see what that really means.”
And with that, Yu Narukami turned down the quiet road leading back toward the palace on wheels he was sharing with Rise—his silver hair gleaming faintly under the streetlights, his reflection swallowed once more by the shadows at his back.
The next morning dawned bright and golden over Kagoshima Bay, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and sun-warmed stone. The RV rumbled to life in the parking lot, its engine purring as the Phantom Thieves began their familiar morning dance of packing, checking, and playful chaos.
Ann was chasing Morgane around with a hairbrush, Kasumi was performing impossible stretches beside the open door, and Ryuemi was dramatically insisting that she’d make breakfast for everyone next time (to which Makoto quietly reminded her that the last time involved an almost-exploded microwave).
Akira leaned against the driver’s seat door, watching it all unfold with that half-smile of fond exasperation. “You’d think we’d have a system by now.”
Makoto slipped into the passenger seat beside him, her movements neat and efficient as she adjusted the navigation tablet. “We do,” she said mildly, shooting him a sidelong glance. “You’re just the only one who doesn’t enforce it.”
Akira chuckled and started the engine. “And ruin the fun? Not a chance.”
They pulled out of Kagoshima just after ten, setting off on the long six-hour journey north toward Hiroshima. The atmosphere inside quickly settled into the kind of loving chaos only the Phantom Thieves could manage.
Ann and Shiho were debating which playlist fit the mood—Ann insisting on energetic J-pop, Shiho voting for something chill—while Ryuemi, half-dozing, kept accidentally leaning against Kasumi, who didn’t seem to mind at all. Haru had taken over the kitchenette, handing out homemade sandwiches and mugs of tea to anyone who wandered past.
Futaba sat on the couch with her laptop, streaming a classic anime for the group, which somehow devolved into a debate between Morgane and Yukiko about which character’s tragic backstory hit hardest.
Somewhere around noon, Makoto suggested they take a rest stop at a scenic overlook halfway between Kagoshima and Hiroshima. Akira pulled the RV into the parking area, cutting the engine as the Thieves piled out to stretch their legs. The view was stunning—a valley carpeted in greenery, dotted with villages and rivers glinting in the sun.
“Ugh, finally!” Futaba groaned, stretching her arms to the sky. “I was about to fuse with the sofa.”
Haru giggled softly. “We can’t have that. Then who would hack for us?”
While the others spread out to explore or snap photos, Akira leaned against the RV, savoring the breeze. That peace didn’t last long—Yukiko and Hifumi approached with identical smiles that made him immediately suspicious.
“You’ve been driving for hours, Akira,” Yukiko said sweetly.
“You should rest,” Hifumi added, stepping just a little closer, her hands clasped behind her back. “Let one of us take over for a while.”
Akira raised an eyebrow. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”
Yukiko’s lips curved in a knowing smirk. “Of course not. We just care about your well-being.”
Hifumi’s gaze was more direct. “Besides… I’ve been wanting to test my skills behind the wheel. Strategically speaking.”
Makoto, who had wandered over mid-conversation, gave Akira a look. “They’re right, you know. You deserve a break.”
Akira sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine, fine. But if we crash—”
“We won’t,” Hifumi assured him, already sliding into the driver’s seat with Yukiko beside her.
The next few hours were, surprisingly, smooth. Hifumi drove with calm precision, while Yukiko handled directions and conversation. The rest of the team lounged comfortably, chatting, laughing, and occasionally singing along to whatever song came on next.
By the time they rolled into Hiroshima that evening, the sky was painted in shades of crimson and violet. The city lights glittered like distant stars as they found a quiet spot near the river to park the RV for the night.
As the group spilled out once again, stretching and yawning, the air carried a quiet warmth—a sense of family, of shared rhythm.
Akira leaned against the railing, watching the sunset reflect across the water. Lavenza slipped beside him, her hand finding his without a word.
“Another day down,” he murmured.
She nodded, her soft smile matching the fading glow of the sky. “And many more ahead.”
Dinner in the RV had the usual cozy chaos that followed the Thieves wherever they went. Plates clinked, laughter filled the small space, and the smell of curry and freshly toasted bread hung warmly in the air. Futaba had commandeered the music, bouncing between lo-fi and idol remixes, while Ryuemi and Ann competed to see who could make Shiho laugh harder mid-bite. By the time they’d cleared the table, the sky outside had gone indigo, the hum of the nearby river faint through the open windows. Haru leaned back with a contented sigh. “We’re right by the water, aren’t we? A walk might be nice after all that food.”
“I second that,” Ren said, standing and stretching her arms above her head. “It’d be a shame not to enjoy the evening.”
That sparked a small flurry of movement—some of the group stayed behind to handle dishes or simply collapse into their bunks, while Akira, Ren, Lavenza, Haru, Ann, Shiho, and Ryuemi decided to go. The night air was cool and fragrant, carrying the faint scent of the river and city lights reflecting off its surface like liquid glass. As they walked, the group gradually drifted apart into smaller clusters, conversation and laughter thinning into comfortable silence. Ren and Haru wandered toward a cluster of lanterns, drawn by a street musician’s tune. Ann, Shiho, and Ryuemi strolled further down the promenade, talking softly between themselves.
That left Akira and Lavenza. They found a quiet bench near the water’s edge, where the ripples shimmered with moonlight. Lavenza sat close beside him, her head finding its usual place against his shoulder. For a while, neither spoke; the soft rhythm of the current and the distant murmur of traffic were enough.
Then, Akira broke the silence, his voice low. “So… I went to see Igor.”
Lavenza tilted her head slightly, her eyes reflecting the blue light of the river.
“As you can imagine,” he continued with a faint, wry smile, “he was pretty cryptic. Wouldn’t give me a straight answer when I asked about Yu-senpai. Instead, he said something about Chaos being unleashed, and that the Rebel will need to join forces with the Seeker to free the Messiah.”
He looked down at her then, and noticed how she’d gone still—her body tense against his side. “That mean anything to you, babe?” he asked gently, his thumb brushing along her arm.
Lavenza was quiet for several moments. The silence stretched between them until she finally nodded, her voice soft, almost trembling. “Not all of it,” she admitted. “But… the Seeker was the guest that Margaret attended to. And the Messiah could mean either Elizabeth’s or Theodore’s guests. Probably even both.”
Her gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the river met the darkened skyline. “I don’t know the details of the journeys of other guests, only that each journey was completed. But if whatever Chaos is being unleashed now requires four guests of the Velvet Room…”
She trailed off, shuddering faintly. Akira felt it and tightened his arm around her, grounding her against his warmth.
“I dread to think what this means,” she whispered.
Akira’s hand came up to stroke her hair, his expression soft but serious. “Then we’ll find out together,” he murmured. “Whatever’s coming, we’ll face it. Starting with finding the Seeker.”
Lavenza looked up at him then, and though her smile was small, it was steady. “I suppose we will need to keep our eyes open for them,” she said, and nestled closer, the rippling reflection of starlight dancing across her eyes.
The gentle murmur of the river filled the quiet night as Haru and Ren walked hand in hand, their steps slow, unhurried. The air smelled faintly of the rain that had fallen earlier, fresh and cool against their skin. Lanterns from a nearby festival bobbed gently along the water, their golden reflections breaking and reforming with every ripple.
They stopped near a railing where the world seemed to hush around them. For a while, neither spoke—content in the rhythm of each other’s breathing, the shared warmth between their fingers. Then Ren’s voice, soft but deliberate, broke the silence.
“There’s been something playing on your mind, hasn’t there, babe?” she said, her gaze still on the lanterns. “About Makoto’s sister?”
Haru stiffened almost imperceptibly, her fingers tightening around Ren’s. “I…” she began, but the rest caught in her throat. “I’m right, aren’t I?” she said eventually, the faint light painting amber over her curls. “About Sae being part of the same organisation you used to be in…” she whispered, the words trembling slightly.
Ren finally gave a small shrug, the motion weary rather than casual. “It fits,” she said. “But the question is—what do we do with the information?” She turned then, meeting Haru’s worried gaze, her own expression calm but conflicted. “Do we tell Makoto?”
Haru hesitated. Then, slowly, she shook her head. “No… Mako-chan would be devastated if she knew. We can’t do that to her.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “Besides… it’s not like we’re being targeted by them. Sugimura hasn’t tried to contact me since, you know…” Her voice softened on the last words, “…since my father’s arrest.”
Ren’s eyes flickered in understanding. “He was ordered to let it go,” she said quietly. “That pushing things with Okumura Foods would backfire on Shido.”
That earned a faint, wistful smile from Haru. She stepped closer, their joined hands pressing between them. “Then let’s just keep this whole thing quiet for now, okay?” she said, her voice gentler now. “If it ends up becoming important, we’ll tell everyone.”
Ren nodded after a beat, reaching up to brush a stray curl from Haru’s cheek. “Alright,” she murmured. “But if it does come up… I’ll be the one to break it to Makoto. You shouldn’t have to carry that weight.”
Haru leaned into her touch, her eyes glimmering with both gratitude and sorrow. “Thank you,” she whispered.
They stood there for a while longer, fingers intertwined, watching the lanterns drift downstream—small, fragile lights floating toward the unknown, just like them.
The drive from Hiroshima to Kyoto was calm and bright, sunlight spilling across the road as the RV hummed along the highway. Conversation came and went in bursts—Futaba joking about “racking up frequent driver miles,” Ann teasing Ryuemi about her pit-stop snack habits, and Makoto occasionally reminding everyone to buckle up whenever the laughter got too rowdy.
By the time the RV rolled into Kyoto around lunchtime, the city was alive with the usual bustle—temple bells in the distance, the scent of street food wafting through open windows, and the rhythmic chatter of tourists mixing with the locals’ calm energy.
Akira stretched as he stepped out of the RV, the long drive barely seeming to faze him. “Alright,” he said, pulling out his phone and checking the group’s schedule, “Rise and her team aren’t getting in until tomorrow morning, so today’s a free day. Do whatever you want—just stay in touch.”
Futaba was already halfway out the door, tablet in hand. “You don’t have to tell me twice!” she called. “There’s a ramen shop around here that’s supposed to be legendary!”
Haru giggled softly. “Then I suppose we know where she’s headed,” she said, glancing at Ryuemi and Shiho. “Care to make it a food stall tour, girls?”
“You had me at ‘food,’” Ryuemi grinned, throwing an arm around Shiho, who smiled and nodded in agreement.
Makoto, meanwhile, was checking her map with Yukiko and Hifumi leaning over her shoulder. “There are a few temples nearby that have historical significance,” Yukiko said, her tone excited but reverent. “I think it would be nice to pay them a visit.”
Hifumi gave a small nod. “A day of reflection sounds lovely. Count me in.”
Makoto smiled faintly. “Then it’s decided.”
Across the group, Ann clapped her hands together. “Perfect! Because Ren and Morgane—you’re coming shopping with me!”
Morgane sighed dramatically. “If I’m going to suffer, I at least expect crepes.”
“You’ll get two,” Ann promised, laughing as she tugged them along.
Amid all the cheerful planning, Lavenza stood a little apart, her golden eyes distant but calm. When Akira glanced at her, she offered him a gentle smile. “I’ll join the others later,” she said softly. “But first, I must visit the Velvet Room.”
Akira nodded, meeting her gaze with quiet understanding. “Alright. Be careful.”
“I always am,” she said with a faint, teasing lilt that made him chuckle.
As the girls dispersed—each group heading off in their chosen direction—Akira slung his bag over his shoulder. “Guess I’ll go check in with Kanamin’s crew,” he said casually. “Let them know we’re here in case they need extra hands, get a sense for what the crowds have been like, that sort of thing. After that, I’ll come find you guys.”
“Try not to get trapped in any craziness,” Morgane called from down the street.
Akira waved over his shoulder, smirking. “No promises.”
The street was quiet—eerily so. A thin golden haze shimmered in the air like heat on pavement, casting everything in a soft, honeyed glow. People shuffled along in slow procession, their movements synchronized, their murmurs soft and monotonous. Each one wore a heavy gold cloak that gleamed faintly under the false light, their faces hidden behind masks painted with placid smiles.
“Peace is better than pain…” one whispered to another, voice trembling but content.
“Truth only hurts because it lies…” another replied, their tone like a lullaby.
“Don’t question. Just be happy…” a third murmured, clutching their hands together as though in prayer.
Their words blended into a hypnotic chorus that echoed faintly against the buildings, an unsettling harmony of forced serenity and buried fear. The air itself seemed thick with it—this golden calm that felt less like peace and more like suffocation.
High above, on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, a lone figure watched.
He was tall and whip-thin, the kind of lean that came from discipline rather than deprivation. His bright red hair caught the gold light and turned it copper, and the jagged scars across his face pulsed faintly with a cold blue glow—just like his eyes. Those same eyes, sharp and calculating, traced the streets below with visible disdain.
Twin katanas rested sheathed across his back, their handles worn from long use. His black and olive-green tactical gear looked almost militaristic, scuffed and patched in places that spoke of survival rather than fashion. On his shoulder, etched in silver, were the unmistakable letters: SI-8.
He exhaled slowly, the sound cutting through the still air like a sigh of irritation. “Tsk…” His voice was low, edged with cynicism. “Damn bastard was right…”
His gaze narrowed as he took in the smiling masks, the false tranquility, the whispered mantras that tried to smother the very concept of doubt. “…this place stinks of Father’s bullshit.”
He reached up and adjusted the strap on one of his sword sheaths, the faint clink of metal the only sound that didn’t belong in this golden dreamscape. Then he stepped off the edge of the roof—falling soundlessly into the glow below.
The blue light parted like mist as Lavenza stepped through, her shoes clicking softly against the polished floor of the Velvet Room. The shift was instant—one moment the ethereal shimmer of the threshold surrounded her, the next she was standing amid the serene blue glow of that timeless space. The air was warm and comforting, carrying faint notes of old parchment and velvet.
Across from her, Igor sat in his familiar high-backed chair beside the ever-burning fireplace. His long nose cast a gentle shadow against his features, but his eyes—bright and kind despite their depth—were lit with unmistakable joy.
“Lavenza, my dear… it is good to see you.” His voice, thin and reedy as always, carried a warmth that filled the quiet room.
Lavenza’s face softened into a smile as she curtsied gracefully. “I’m glad to see you too, Master. I hope you’re not too lonely with us all gone.”
Igor laughed—a low, musical sound that echoed gently through the chamber. “We can speak of my loneliness some other time, my child.” He motioned toward her with a long, delicate hand. “For now, however, I sense you have questions.”
Lavenza hesitated for only a heartbeat before stepping closer, the faint rustle of her skirt brushing against the carpet. “I just have one question, Master Igor…” she said softly, eyes bright yet uncertain. “Should I be worried about Yu Narukami?”
For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Then Igor’s lips curved upward in a knowing smile as he steepled his long, spindly fingers beneath his chin.
“That,” he said at last, “is a clever question, Lavenza… so it deserves a clever answer.”
He leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching on his bulbous eyes. “You should not be worried.”
The ambiguity of the statement lingered in the air, heavy yet oddly comforting. Lavenza frowned faintly, a dozen more questions dancing on her tongue—but she knew better than to press him further.
Instead, she simply smiled, stepping forward to place a delicate kiss on Igor’s cheek, like a beloved granddaughter bidding her favorite grandfather farewell.
“I understand, Master. Thank you.”
And with that, she turned and walked toward the glowing door, her golden hair catching the light of the fireplace one last time before she vanished into the ether once more.
Saeko Shinbun sat alone in her darkened office, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city outside and the low, amber hue of a desk lamp. The silence was oppressive—thick enough to feel like a presence all its own. She lifted her cup of Kyoto sake to her lips, the smooth liquid doing little to soothe the weight pressing against her chest.
With a quiet sigh, she reached for the top drawer of her desk and slid it open. Her fingers trembled as they found what she sought—a photograph, worn and dog-eared, its corners soft from years of handling. She set it gently before her, the faces frozen in time smiling up at her from a world that no longer existed.
For a long moment, she just stared. Her breath hitched once, then again, and tears welled in her sharp eyes. They slipped down her cheeks silently, one after another, tracing glistening paths to her chin.
She wiped them away with a shaky hand, then folded the photograph carefully and returned it to the drawer. The click of the drawer closing sounded far too final.
Pouring herself another cup of sake, she stared out into the shadowed skyline beyond her window. The city lights shimmered like distant stars, blurring through the sheen of her tears.
Her voice, when it came, was small—fragile and trembling, like something breaking. “If only I hadn’t told her the truth…” she whispered. “All this could have been avoided…”
A faint pink glow flickered at the edge of the room, unnoticed at first—then grew brighter, filling the office with a soft, sickly light. Saeko’s hand paused midair, the sake sloshing in her cup.
Then, as the light consumed the shadows, she lifted her head. Her eyes now glowed a vivid, unnatural pink, and the grief that had been etched into her face melted away into something eerily serene. Slowly, she began to rock back and forth in her chair, her expression placid, her voice distant and dreamlike. “Lying doesn’t hurt,” she murmured, a smile spreading across her face. “The truth does…”
Outside, the city lights flickered once—then dimmed, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Chapter 43: A Ballad For The Wilful Blind
Summary:
The Thieves explore a Kingdom made of gold
Rise experiences a blast from the past
Sho makes a new 'friend'
Chapter Text
The morning sun over Kyoto was pale and cool, filtering through thin clouds as the Phantom Thieves arrived at Kyoto Muse, the historic concert hall humming with activity. Both Kanami’s and the rest of Rise’s road crews were already bustling around, a symphony of movement and chatter blending with the rhythmic thrum of bass tests echoing from within the building. It didn’t take long for the team to split into their respective roles—by now, it was becoming second nature. Makoto, Ren, and Hifumi made their way toward the logistics group, where they were greeted by Sasaki and Inoe with big smiles. “Good timing, you three. We’ve got a delivery truck stuck in the wrong loading bay and a few missing stage components. Let’s put those problem-solving skills to use, yeah?”
Ren saluted with a grin, and Hifumi nodded politely, already scanning the area with calm precision. Makoto rolled up her sleeves, clearly in her element—organized chaos was her domain.
Meanwhile, Haru, Ann, and Kasumi joined the choreography crew who were going through a pretty complicated looking routine. “Ah! Right on time girls,” Junko said brightly, hands clasped. “ We’re finalizing the backup set for ‘True Feelings,’ so I need your energy high and your timing sharp.”
Ann grinned. “Oh, we can handle high energy.” Kasumi laughed softly, stretching alongside Haru, giving Junko a confident nod.
At the same time, Morgane, Yukiko, and Lavenza were welcomed into the colorful whirlwind of Shigeru Kurosu. The androgynous stylist swept toward them with a delighted gasp, silver nails flashing under the overhead lights. “Ahh, my muses have arrived! Come, come! I have palettes, fabrics, and dreams to discuss!” Shigeru’s enthusiasm was contagious, and soon, laughter echoed from their corner as Morgane offered her sharp wit to match Shigeru’s flamboyant energy, Yukiko complimented their artistry, and Lavenza—curious and eager—absorbed every detail like a sponge.
Elsewhere, Futaba, Ryuemi, and Shiho were already scaling lighting rigs and sorting sound cables alongside the tech crew. The head engineer, a burly man with a mohawk and a perpetual grin, handed Futaba a tablet. “Futaba-chan, take a look at this—Rise’s sync program keeps lagging between track three and four.”
Futaba’s eyes sparkled. “Heh, child’s play.”
Ryuemi elbowed Shiho. “You get the feeling we’ll be hauling amps while she rewrites the system again?”
Shiho sighed, smiling faintly. “Probably. But hey, at least she’s having fun.”
Throughout it all, Akira drifted between teams, lending a hand wherever needed. He carried equipment, fetched spare cables, reviewed schedules, even helped the catering crew haul in crates of water bottles. His quiet efficiency and calm authority made him both invisible and essential—someone everyone instinctively trusted to have things under control. By the time the clock struck noon, the initial wave of chaos had settled into rhythm. Akira took the opportunity to grab a bottle of water, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple as he surveyed the busy grounds. Everything was running smoothly—almost too smoothly. Still, he couldn’t shake the slight unease prickling at the back of his mind.
“Never trust a calm before a storm, huh?” he muttered under his breath.
With a faint smirk, he pocketed his phone and began walking toward the far end of the parking lot, where Rise’s tour bus gleamed under the noonday sun like a polished ruby. He’d checked on almost everyone else—it was time to see how Rise and Yu were doing. As he approached, the faint hum of conversation reached his ears. He lifted a hand, knocking once on the sleek metal door.
“Ri-ri, it’s Akira,” he called casually. “Mind if I come in?”
The door swung open to reveal Rise, her auburn hair tied loosely back and her casual clothes—denim shorts and a cropped hoodie—contrasting with the pristine luxury of the tour bus behind her. Her expression softened immediately when she saw Akira.
“Akira! Hey, come on in,” she said brightly, stepping aside.
Inside, Kanami was sprawled comfortably on one of the couches, legs tucked under her as she picked through a bowl of raisins with the exaggerated precision of someone trying not to think too hard. “Yo, fluffy,” she greeted with a lazy grin, giving him a two-finger salute. “Welcome to our humble mobile kingdom.”
Akira chuckled, returning the gesture. “Nice to see you too, Kanami. You settling in okay?”
“Mm-hmm. Raisins are mid, but they keep me from stress-eating all the cookies,” she said, popping another one in her mouth.
Akira smiled faintly, then turned to Rise. “Just thought I’d check in before things get crazy. Is there anything you need?”
Rise tilted her head, eyes gleaming mischievously. “Aw, how sweet. But are you sure you have room on your schedule for another girl’s needs? You’ve already got twelve on your hands. Pretty soon, you’ll need a secretary just to keep track.”
Kanami snorted, nearly choking on her raisin. “Oh, he definitely would.”
Akira took the teasing with a grin, feigning a thoughtful expression. “Maybe I’ll start taking applications. Though I’m guessing Morgane would veto all of them.”
Rise laughed, the tension in her shoulders briefly melting away. But when Akira gently asked, “Where’s Yu?” her smile faltered.
The silence that followed was telling. Rise glanced at the floor, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her jacket. “He… had to rush back to Fuefuki,” she said softly. “Apparently Marie’s really sick. Yukiko and Ai were freaking out, so he rented a car as soon as we got back from Kagoshima.”
Kanami, who’d been pretending to be absorbed in her raisins, froze mid-bite. Without a word, she set the bowl aside and moved closer, slipping an arm around Rise’s shoulders. “Hey. She’ll be okay,” she said softly.
Rise leaned into the hug, her usual brightness dimming. “I know. It’s just… Marie—she’s not exactly good at taking care of herself either.”
Akira crossed the short distance between them, resting a steady hand on Rise’s shoulder. His voice was calm but warm, the kind of tone that carried quiet reassurance. “Marie-san will be fine, Ri-ri,” he said gently. “She’s a tough cookie. She’s made it through worse.”
Rise blinked, the innocent statement catching her off guard for a second—then she smiled, watery but sincere. “Yeah… she has.”
Kanami tightened her hold briefly before letting go. “And Yu’s with her now. Trust me, he’s not going to let anything happen to her.”
Rise nodded, drawing in a breath. “Thanks, guys. Guess I needed to hear that.”
Akira gave her shoulder a final, supportive squeeze before stepping back, his eyes glancing around the sleek interior of the bus. “You sure you don’t need me to help with anything?”
Rise managed a small smirk. “You mean before your twelve girlfriends start wondering where you went?”
Akira chuckled, hands slipping into his pockets. “They’ll survive. You know how it is—they keep each other entertained.”
That drew a soft laugh from both girls, easing the heaviness in the air. Rise exhaled, visibly lighter now. “Thanks, you two. The last couple of days have been really tough. It’s good to know I don’t have to put a brave face on for some people.”
Akira met her gaze, his own soft with quiet assurance. “That’s what we’re here for.”
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp beside the bed and the flickering light from the rain outside. Marie lay tangled in the sheets, her face pale, sweat beading on her brow as she tossed and turned, lost in some fevered nightmare. Her lips moved restlessly, her voice coming out in broken whimpers that made the air feel heavy. The air around her seemed to ripple faintly—an echo of the power sleeping within her soul.
“Forest… trees… fog… creeping… back…”
Each fragmented word made Yu’s stomach twist tighter. He sat at her bedside, one hand clutching hers, the other gently pressing a damp cloth to her forehead.
“Marie… it’s okay,” he murmured softly, his voice low and steady despite the tension in his jaw. “You’re safe, I’m right here…”
But his words didn’t reach her. Her body jerked, her breath hitched—trapped somewhere far away.
Yu swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay calm, even as dread pooled in his chest. He looked up—and met the eyes of the two women standing across from him. Yukiko Amagi stood rigid, hands clasped in front of her mouth, her usually serene composure shattered by the fear in her dark eyes. Beside her, Ai Ebihara’s makeup was streaked from tears, her expression flickering between anger and helplessness.
“Yu…” Yukiko’s voice trembled. “She’s getting worse. We should call someone—”
“We can’t,” Yu interrupted quietly, shaking his head. His voice was thick with exhaustion, and something else—grim understanding. “I already spoke to Igor.”
That name alone made Yukiko flinch. Ai blinked, her voice breaking. “That creepy long-nosed guy? You—what did he say?”
Yu hesitated, his eyes dropping to Marie’s face. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek, his thumb lingering there for a moment before he finally answered.
“He said… all we can do right now is keep her comfortable. And wait.”
“Wait?” Yukiko echoed, her voice hollow. “For how long?”
Yu looked up at her—his expression unreadable, but his eyes full of quiet despair. “Three days.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and uncertain. Ai looked away, swiping at her eyes. “Three days… and if she doesn’t wake up?”
Yu’s jaw clenched. “She will.”
But even as he said it, his eyes flicked to Marie again—her restless form, her faint whimpers, the unnatural heat radiating from her skin. The quiet certainty he tried to project cracked for just a moment, and both Yukiko and Ai saw it.
Outside, the wind rustled through the trees—soft, but in it there was something… wrong. A whisper beneath the breeze, almost like the sigh of fog creeping across the floodplains once again.
The room had been buzzing with polite chatter and the faint hum of camera equipment — the sort of energy that came with media mixers and press junkets. Risette and Kanamin sat side by side at the long conference table, perfectly poised beneath the soft studio lighting. Their managers hovered discreetly at the edges of the room, while reporters from Kyoto TV, En Stage!, and a half-dozen lifestyle and entertainment magazines jostled for their chance to ask a question.
For the most part, it was business as usual. “How have you both been handling the travel so far?” one reporter asked, voice bright.
Rise smiled, practiced but genuine. “It’s definitely been a whirlwind, but we’ve got an amazing team helping us stay on track — and honestly, Kanamin-chan keeps my energy up whenever we talk.”
Kanami laughed lightly beside her, flashing her trademark grin. “And the ghost of Risette-senpai’s disapproving voice keeps me from falling asleep on stage,” she teased, earning a ripple of laughter from the crowd.
Another reporter raised his hand. “Could you comment on the schedule change? There’s been some confusion among fans about why you aren’t performing all your shows together.”
Rise nodded smoothly, folding her hands on the table. “There was an unforeseen event that delayed my part of the tour,” she explained. “So our management teams worked together to create a schedule that still allowed both of us to reach our fans. It’s not ideal, but it’s the best solution we could find.”
Kanami added warmly, “We both would’ve loved to do every show side by side, but this setup actually lets us support each other better — and it’s giving fans a different kind of experience. I’d say it’s working out better than expected.”
A few more questions followed—harmless fluff about costume changes, setlists, and fan interactions. Both idols handled them with the same charm and practiced ease, even managing to sneak in jokes that had the room laughing again.
Then, as the final question wrapped up, one of the sponsors at the table—a silver-haired woman in an immaculate cream suit—raised a manicured hand. In her arms, she clutched an ornate golden urn, its surface etched with strange, looping symbols.
Her voice was smooth, lilting—almost musical. “That’s all we have time for now,” she said, her gaze sweeping across the room. “Kanamin and Risette will now… give us the opportunity to forget the harshness of reality.”
The hum of conversation faltered. Several reporters blinked, unsure if they’d heard correctly.
And then—
The urn began to glow, its golden surface radiating soft waves of pink and gold light that rippled outward like water disturbed by a stone.
Rise’s breath hitched. Kanamin’s smile froze. Around them, the crowd’s expressions shifted one by one into dreamy, empty smiles. Cameras clattered to the floor. Pens stilled mid-note. Saeko Shinbun’s grin widened, her voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo in every ear at once. “The Kingdom of Hidden Facades welcomes you…”
Akira stood in the shadows near the back of the packed Kyoto Muse, his arms folded as the crowd erupted in cheers for the long-awaited duet. The roar of excitement rolled through the air like thunder, but beneath it—beneath the glitter and the light—something felt off.
He felt it first as a low hum in his chest, then saw it: faint waves of pink and gold light bleeding out from the stage rigging, rolling through the crowd like fog. It shimmered across faces, eyes going glassy, smiles growing too wide, too serene.
And then Risette and Kanamin stepped onto the stage.
Both wore gentle, distant smiles—ones Akira had never seen on them before. When the first notes left their lips, the music was hauntingly beautiful, but wrong. The melody wound through the room like perfume, thick and suffocating.
“♪Lie to me sweetly… the truth only burns…♪”
Every word seemed to pull at reality’s seams. The air itself shivered. Akira felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “...No way,” he muttered. His storm-grey eyes narrowed. Within seconds, his walkie-talkie buzzed softly—Makoto’s voice, tight and low. “Akira, you’re seeing this too, right?”
“Yeah,” he replied, already moving toward the wings. “Get everyone backstage, now.”
By the time the second verse began, the Phantom Thieves were huddled together behind a stack of lighting crates, their faces lit by the rosy glow filtering through the curtains. The sound of the audience’s synchronized humming was unnerving—like a choir possessed.
Lavenza, calm but visibly unsettled, stepped forward and closed her eyes. The air around her shimmered faintly blue as she focused. For a few seconds, the only sound was the echo of the song and the pounding of bass through the stage floor.
Finally, her eyes snapped open, glowing faintly. “I found it,” she breathed. “The Kingdom’s entrance—it’s right behind the stage.”
Akira’s expression hardened instantly. “Alright,” he said, voice low but firm. “We’re not letting this spread.”
His gaze swept over his teammates—each one nodding in silent readiness. Then, with that familiar, dangerous grin—the kind that made even shadows hold their breath—he whispered: “Showtime.”
The Phantom Thieves stepped out of the swirling distortion and into a place that shimmered like a fever dream. A gold-paved boulevard stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with tall, mirror-smooth buildings that glittered under an artificial sun. The trees lining the sidewalks were metallic, their leaves catching the light like sequins. Even the air itself carried a faint shimmer, like dust made of crushed gems.
Dead-Eye gave a low whistle, her bow resting lazily against her shoulder. “Damn… guess someone’s been listening to Huntrix on loop.”
Panther blinked, then smirked. Lotus grinned beside her, catching on to the blonde’s thoughts instantly. Together, they began to hum and sing under their breath, their voices blending mischievously: ‘♪I'm done hidin', now I'm shinin' like I'm born to be♪~♪We dreamin' hard, we came so far, now I'll believe♪’
Joker sighed, the sound half amusement, half resignation. “You two are incorrigible,” he muttered, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed his fondness.
Then his expression sharpened. “We’re sitting ducks out here. Let’s find cover before we attract attention.”
Queen gestured toward a narrow alley between two shimmering buildings. “There—let’s move.”
The team darted across the boulevard, footsteps clinking faintly on the golden pavement, until they were swallowed by shadow. The alleyway was cooler, quieter, and the golden glow dimmed to a softer hue. Joker turned, surveying his teammates as they regrouped.
“Alright,” he said, his tone taking on its usual measured authority. “This place looks fully formed, unlike Okinawa’s Kingdom of Gratification. That means it’s stable—and probably older.”
Papillon shook her head, her wings flickering faintly in the gloom. “I doubt it’s been here long. I would’ve felt its resonance as soon as we got to Kyoto.”
Joker nodded thoughtfully. “Fair enough. Which means whoever’s behind this is getting better at building these worlds. Fast.” His eyes hardened. “That’s… not a comforting thought.”
Kirin crossed her arms. “Then we shouldn’t waste time. I suggest we split up and explore. We’ll learn more that way.”
“Agreed.” Joker’s voice carried the calm assurance of someone used to command. “Kirin, you take Vent and Comet—head east. Queen, take Noir and Aria, head west. Lotus, take Vixen and Panther north. Oracle—eyes in the sky. Take Papillon and Dead-Eye with you, keep us updated.”
Comet tilted her head. “What about you?”
Joker’s grin turned sly, the kind that promised trouble and brilliance in equal measure. “Me?” He reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek, mechanical device, strapping it to his forearm.
“Looks like I’m heading…” He lifted his arm, aimed toward the glimmering skyline, and fired.
A grappling hook shot upward with a sharp thwip! and caught on the edge of a nearby balcony. Joker looked back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming behind the mask. “...up, up, up.”
With a click of his wrist, he launched skyward, disappearing into the golden haze above as the others let out groans at his antics, before splitting off into their assigned directions.
High above the golden metropolis, Hypatia glided soundlessly through the shimmering air currents. The airship’s sleek, silver-blue hull reflected the endless gold of the city below, cutting a quiet path through the light.
Inside the cockpit, Oracle sat cross-legged in her chair, fingers dancing across holographic controls as her eyes flicked from one scanning feed to another. The steady hum of Hypatia’s engines mixed with her cheerful voice as she sang under her breath“♪ Children of the Sun, see your time has just begun… searching for your way through adventures every day… ♪”
Dead-Eye, who was sitting behind Oracle and idly fiddling with one of her silver arrows, raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to be?”
Oracle whipped her head around, scandalized. “You’re telling me you don’t feel like we’re in the Golden Condor flying over El Dorado right now?”
Dead-Eye blinked. “The what?”
Oracle gasped dramatically, nearly knocking her headset askew. “Wait—you’ve never seen Mysterious Cities of Gold?!”
Dead-Eye shook her head slowly. Papillion looked between the two of them, confused.
Oracle slapped her forehead dramatically. “No way… no freakin’ way… Babe, sweetie, precious love of my life, we need to fix this. That show was peak education! Lost civilizations! Weird alchemy tech! Kids piloting a solar-powered bird plane! Peak!”
Dead-Eye chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You’re such a nerd, Oracle.”
Before Oracle could launch into another rant, Joker’s voice came through the comms, smooth and teasing.“Tell her about it later, Tao. How are things looking from up there?”
Oracle snickered, instantly shifting back into mission mode. “If I’m Tao, does that make you Mendoza? Because I’m not taking orders unless you’ve got the mustache, boss.”
Joker’s dry tone came back a second later: “Noted. Report, Oracle.”
Oracle huffed playfully but her eyes turned sharp as she focused on the displays. “Alright, alright—here’s what I’ve got. The city’s split down the middle into two vertical halves, like someone drew a line through it. Perfect symmetry. Both halves are centered around massive gold structures—one on each side. The one on the left looks like a—uh—massive dollhouse. Whole damn thing’s shaped like a mansion, with gold furniture and statues the size of buses. The one on the right…” She frowned, zooming in. “Looks like a broadcast station. Tons of antennas, satellite dishes—some of them pointed inward for some reason. Oh, and…” She squinted, adjusting the zoom further. “There’s a giant statue on top of it. A woman. She’s… crying.”
Oracle adjusted the zoom again, the holographic feed stabilizing to show a hauntingly beautiful sight—a golden woman, larger than life, kneeling in front of the broadcast tower, hands cupped to her face as though weeping. Streams of molten gold flowed endlessly from her eyes, collecting in shallow pools below.
Oracle tilted her head, the glow from her monitor reflecting off her goggles. “Looks like the tears are gold too. And they’re running down her cheeks into those basins—maybe that’s what feeds the city in some way?”
Dead-Eye glanced at her. “So the city runs on tears?”
Joker’s voice cut in. “You could be onto something there, Dead-Eye, but I don’t think it’s that simple. Anything else?”
Oracle chewed her lip. “Nothing overt yet, but there’s a weird energy signature linking both structures—like two hearts sharing the same pulse. If we want to understand this place, we’re gonna need to visit both.”
Papillon gave a thoughtful hum. “Dual domains, dual desires. That does sound like it could get complicated”
“Yeah,” Dead-Eye muttered, scanning the horizon. “Let’s just hope this one doesn’t have another clam monster.”
Papillion made a face. “Please don’t jinx it.”
Through the comms, Joker’s voice came again, quieter now, contemplative. “Good work, Oracle. Keep monitoring. Let’s find somewhere where we can all regroup.”
“Roger that, Mendoza,” Oracle said with a cheeky salute, before spinning her chair toward the pilot console again.
Papillon rolled her eyes but smiled softly as she looked out over the glittering skyline. “You really are impossible, Futaba.”
Oracle grinned, unbothered. “And yet, you love me for it.”
The Phantom Thieves regrouped in the shadow of a massive golden fountain shaped like a sunburst — one of the few places that offered even a sliver of privacy. The light from the molten gold streets reflected off their masks, making them all shimmer faintly, like living statues.
Joker was the first to break the silence. “Alright. Everyone’s back in one piece. Let’s go over what we’ve found.”
The group exchanged glances — fatigue, confusion, and unease flickering across their faces.
Queen folded her arms. “It’s… strange. Everywhere we went, it was the same thing — people in gold robes and masks. No Shadows, no guards, no monsters. Just those… things.”
Panther shuddered. “They were creepy, too. Just walking in perfect lines, smiling like mannequins.”
“They weren’t just walking,” Aria added quietly, glancing toward the street. “They were chanting. Over and over.”
Kirin nodded. “Yeah, we heard that too — something about ‘beautiful lies’ and ‘painful truths.’ Like they were trying to convince themselves.”
Comet crossed her arms. “They also kept saying it’s better to be happy than to know the truth. Over and over. Like some kind of… mantra.”
Joker’s eyes narrowed. “So they’re aware they’re lying to themselves. But they choose to keep doing it.”
“Exactly,” Queen said. “But that’s not the weirdest part.” She gestured toward Noir and Aria. “We managed to get close to that giant dollhouse on the west side. There were… children. All gold, just like everything else. I counted fifteen, but Noir swears there were twenty-one, and Aria insists nineteen.”
Lotus frowned, arms crossed. “That lines up with something Vixen noticed earlier.” She turned toward the artist, who was perched on a nearby golden planter, her katana resting on her knees.
Vixen looked up, nodding slowly. “When Oracle mentioned the weeping woman statue, it reminded me of something. She looks a lot like paintings of Niobe.”
Panther tilted her head. “Niobe?”
Vent leaned against a nearby lamp post—also, of course, gold—and took over the explanation. “Greek myth. Niobe was a queen who bragged that she was better than the goddess Leto because she had more children. Leto only had two—Apollo and Artemis. In her arrogance, Niobe mocked the goddess, so Leto sent her kids to punish her.”
Vixen nodded, her voice soft but steady. “They killed all of Niobe’s children—or most of them, depending on the version. No one agrees on how many there were. Some say six, some twelve, others up to twenty-four. But the idea’s always the same: equal numbers of boys and girls. Niobe was left alone, turned to stone by grief, her tears flowing forever.”
There was a brief silence as the weight of the myth settled over the group.
Lotus broke it. “It doesn’t line up perfectly with what Queen, Noir, and Aria saw — but it’s close enough to not be coincidence.”
Kirin frowned. “So the crying woman statue could be a representation of this Kingdom’s ruler — a Niobe-like figure, mourning her lost children?”
“Or denying that she ever lost them,” Queen said grimly. “Pretending they’re still alive. Beautiful lies instead of painful truths.”
Panther spoke softly. “And if that’s the case… then this entire city might be built around her delusion.”
The team fell silent again. The distant chant of the gold-masked figures drifted faintly through the golden alleys, echoing through the still air: “It’s better to smile… than to see the truth…”
Joker glanced toward the horizon — where the two great structures rose, gleaming like false gods. “Then I think we know what this place represents,” he murmured. “A kingdom that worships denial.”
He turned back to the others, eyes sharp beneath his mask. “We’ll need to dig deeper. But stay sharp — something about this place feels too still.”
Noir looked uneasy. “Yeah… It’s like the calm before the storm.”
Joker nodded once. “Exactly.”
The music thrummed through the Kyoto Muse like a living thing — soft and golden at first, then swelling into a hypnotic rhythm that wrapped itself around every ear, every heart. The crowd swayed, eyes glazed, smiles blissful and empty. On stage, Risette and Kanamin sang in perfect harmony, their voices laced with an unnatural sweetness.
But inside Rise Kujikawa, there was no sweetness. There was war.
Her body moved gracefully, her lips forming the words of the song — "♪ Lie to me, lie to me, tell me it’s all okay...♪ " — but her mind screamed beneath the surface. Something’s wrong. This isn’t me.
It felt like being dragged underwater. Every time she tried to resist, another wave of pressure pushed her down — smooth, suffocating, golden. The warmth of the lights above wasn’t comforting; it was oppressive. Every note she sang made the compulsion tighten around her like a silk noose.
This… this feeling…
It wasn’t the first time she’d known it.
She remembered fog — thick, heavy, clinging to her skin like guilt. Fuefuki. That suffocating silence, that whisper of “Isn’t it easier not to see?” She remembered the voice of the goddess who had ruled over that illusion. “Humans long for the fog. They beg for the comfort of ignorance.”
And now that same fog — gilded this time, shimmering with false warmth — clouded her thoughts again. Her breath hitched between lines. Her voice cracked, just once, and Kanamin turned slightly, concern flickering for a heartbeat before fading back into that too-perfect smile.
Rise’s mind raced. I can’t reach Kouzeon. She’s there — I can feel her — but something’s blocking me…
The golden haze pulsed again, and she felt her will slip. No… not again... I won’t let this happen again!
Her nails bit into her palm, and she could feel the cold edges of her microphone trembling in her grip. The lyrics spilled from her throat, tears following soon after. They rolled down her cheeks like glass beads, sparkling under the stage lights. The crowd cheered, thinking it part of the performance.
Then she saw him. At the back of the venue, standing perfectly still amid the sea of swaying bodies — a tall, scarred man with crimson hair, his glowing eyes locked on her. There was something primal in his gaze, something that cut through the golden illusion like a blade. He raised his hand slowly, holding up a small vial filled with a murky liquid. And then — without hesitation — he crushed it.
The sound was almost lost under the music, but Rise felt it. A shockwave rippled through the air, unseen but undeniable. The pressure in her skull cracked like a shattering mirror, and for the first time since the song began, she could breathe.
The fog in her mind thinned. The gold fractured.
“Rise.” Kouzeon’s voice echoed in her soul, clear and fierce — a clarion call breaking through chains of deceit. “Keep singing my dear. You must not let them know you have broken free.”
Rise gasped — and in that instant, the compulsion shattered. The song faltered just slightly, just enough for Kanamin to glance over, confusion flickering in her eyes. Rise blinked, dazed, scanning the audience again. He was gone. Vanished as if he had never been there. Only the faint smell of ozone lingered in the air, sharp and out of place amid the perfume and sweat.
Rise’s lips trembled. Her voice cracked again — but this time, it was hers.
The two Phantom Thief teams fanned out across the shining, empty streets, their footsteps echoing faintly against the metallic hum that seemed to pulse from the gold beneath their feet. Joker’s team (made up of Oracle, Panther, Lotus, Kirin and himself) stood before the golden broadcast station, its façade gleaming like molten sunlight. Every surface, every antenna, every satellite dish gleamed with the same hypnotic perfection. Yet when they approached, an unseen force stopped them — a transparent barrier that distorted the air like heat haze.
“Team Dollhouse, report.”
Queen’s voice came through first, crisp and authoritative. “We’ve scouted the perimeter. The whole thing’s encased in a golden barrier — solid and uniform. No seams, no energy fluctuations. It’s like someone shrink-wrapped the entire structure in light.”
Noir’s voice followed. “It’s beautiful… in a kind of trapped nightmare way,” she said thoughtfully. “Almost like a doll sealed in her display case.”
“Creepy,” Comet muttered. “You’d think a golden dollhouse would look inviting, but this thing gives me the chills.”
Papillion’s voice came through, calm and clinical. “There’s definitely some kind of frequency resonance going on here,” she murmured. “The light’s acting as a containment field — but it’s not being generated locally. It’s drawing power from somewhere else.”
“Copy that,” Joker said. “Let me guess — here at the broadcast station?”
“Doesn’t seem that way,” Papillon replied, her tone grim. “I sense the energy from here is being sent your way, but the source of the energy that powers this shield is unknown.”
Oracle’s voice chimed in from behind Joker. “Whatever’s running this place, it’s rooted in the broadcast tower though — the antennas are humming with enough output to fry a small city block. So it could still be from here.”
“Then we cut the signal,” Joker said simply. “If we can breach the station, we might weaken everything else.”
Queen’s voice filtered in, crisp and analytical. “We’ll hold position near the doll house until you give the word. Whatever you do, make it fast — the chanting here is starting to get seriously on my nerves.”
Joker looked up at the towering Niobe statue, its gilded tears glinting in the artificial sunlight. The sorrowful face loomed above them all, watching, weeping, eternal.
He smirked faintly beneath his mask and turned back toward Oracle. “Feeling a little trigger-happy?”
Oracle froze for half a second — then the grin that spread across her face was feral. “Trigger-happy?” she echoed, her voice dropping into that mischievous, gremlin tone the others knew all too well. “Boss, please… say the word.”
Joker chuckled. “Want to make statue go boom?”
Oracle clasped her hands together in mock reverence, then rubbed them like a cartoon villain. “Want to make statue go boom?” she repeated gleefully. “I live for this!”
Before anyone could stop her, she swiped at her visor, summoning her Persona in a blinding flash of emerald code. “Hypatia, sweetheart, mama’s got a job for you!”
A shimmering green portal opened overhead with a hum of power, and the sleek shape of Hypatia descended from the light. The cockpit canopy slid open, and Oracle leapt up into the pilot’s seat, laughing like a demented goblin as the engines flared to life.
“Alright, my lovely bird of science,” she purred, adjusting her visor. “Let’s see if we can’t make Niobe cry a little harder.”
With that, Hypatia soared skyward — wings slicing through the golden haze — and Oracle angled her descent toward the statue’s gleaming crown.
The other Thieves below could only watch as the green streak of light cut through the Kingdom’s shimmering sky… and the sound of Oracle’s maniacal laughter echoed between the gilded towers.
Oracle slumped down onto a golden curb, chin in hand, glaring up at the colossal Niobe statue that gleamed smugly in the distance. The thing didn’t even have a scratch. Not a chip. Not a single dent.
“Hypatia’s full salvo didn’t even tickle it!” she grumbled, puffing her cheeks out as her holographic interface flickered off. “Who gave it permission to be that solid?!! It’s not fair!!!”
Panther patted her on the shoulder with mock sympathy. “Aww, poor Oracle. The shiny lady statue beat you up.”
Oracle threw her a dramatic glare. “Shut it Blondie… You try aiming while getting flashbanged by Midas’ fever dream!”
Joker sighed — a long-suffering, but fond sigh — as he rubbed his temple. “Okay… so the brute force approach clearly doesn’t work.” He looked up at the unblemished statue, its eternally weeping golden eyes glinting in the haze. “Which means there’s some sort of key, trigger, or puzzle we’re missing.”
Lotus, who’d been crouched near the barrier, stood and brushed off her skirt. “So where do we start?” she asked, crossing her arms.
Joker glanced at her, a teasing glint in his storm-grey eyes. “You’re the detective here, babe. What do you suggest?”
Lotus chuckled quietly, then sighed, tapping a finger against her chin as she began to pace. “Let’s go over what we know. The city worships the idea of lies being beautiful — that ignorance is bliss. The people, the architecture, even the air itself echoes that denial. But the question is — who’s enforcing it?”
Papillion folded her arms. “The Ruler. Whoever created this Kingdom.”
“Right,” Lotus nodded. “And what truth are they trying to hide?”
She looked over at the statue again, her voice softening slightly. “Given that we’ve got a giant Niobe as the centerpiece, I’d say motherhood and grief are the themes here. We can safely assume the Ruler’s female, and there’s a child — or children — involved. The question is whether she’s grieving them… or denying that they ever died.”
Oracle’s scowl softened into curiosity. “So… this whole place is one giant gold-plated coping mechanism?”
“Essentially,” Lotus said. “A gilded lie to keep the pain away.”
Aria frowned thoughtfully. “That would explain the chants about truth and lies. It’s all self-soothing delusion. They want to forget.”
As the group absorbed that, Queen approached, her analytical gaze flicking between the statue and the others. “If that’s the case, we might need context from the real world. In Okinawa, the timing was flexible — time inside and outside didn’t line up perfectly. We can probably afford a few trips back and forth before things escalate.”
Joker nodded slowly, his expression turning pensive. “Yeah… and since this place ties into the concert, there might be something we missed backstage. Something or someone linked to the Ruler.”
He looked at each of the Thieves in turn — their faces glowing faintly in the gold haze, ready but cautious. Then he straightened, his leader’s calm settling over the group like a switch flipping.
“Alright. We regroup in the real world, gather intel, and come back once we know what we’re dealing with.”
Oracle puffed her cheeks again, still sulking. “Can I at least blow something up on the way out?”
Queen gave her a patient smile. “You can blow up some takeout on the way back to the RV.”
That finally earned a snort from the hacker. “Deal. Let’s move out, Thieves.”
And as the team gathered around Joker, the air shimmered with blue light — the faint hum of the Metaverse gate pulling them home, leaving the silent golden streets and their weeping goddess behind.
The blue shimmer of the Metaverse faded like mist, and the Phantom Thieves found themselves back where they had started — just behind the stage of Kyoto Muse, a heavy bassline vibrating through the floor. The lights from the stage painted the hallway in shifting rainbow hues.
Akira blinked as his vision readjusted, then pulled back his sleeve to check his watch. “That took us about thirty minutes,” he said, glancing up at the others. “So it looks like Makoto’s theory was right. Time flows different between worlds.”
Makoto nodded, glancing around the backstage area. “Good. That gives us breathing room to investigate without losing too much time there.”
Haru leaned forward slightly, her brows furrowed. “But look—” she pointed toward the main stage curtains. The faint haze of pink and gold they’d seen in the Kingdom was still here — subtler, but real. It shimmered like heat above the crowd, rippling toward the back of the hall. “They’ve been affected… Kanamin and Risette too.”
Akira followed her gaze. Rise and Kanami were still singing, their voices as angelic as ever, but there was something off — their eyes looked a little too bright, their smiles a little too fixed. The crowd swayed and chanted in perfect harmony, as though tethered to the same invisible string.
Akira’s expression darkened. “They don’t seem to be acting too weird,” he murmured, scanning the audience, “but something’s pulling their energy… and it’s moving backstage.”
He turned back to the others, his voice low but resolute. “Let’s split up. Go back to your teams and act normal. We can’t risk drawing attention. I’ll try to follow the source of that flow.”
Before he could turn, a small hand caught his wrist. Akira looked down to see Kasumi, her eyes wide with worry. “Akira, wait…”
The other girls were watching too — twelve pairs of anxious eyes, faces lit by the shifting glow from the stage. Kasumi bit her lip. “Please… be careful.”
Akira’s expression softened. He reached up and cupped her cheek gently, his thumb brushing against her skin. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, giving her that calm, unshakable smile that always seemed to ease the tension in their chests.
Kasumi hesitated, then nodded, though she didn’t quite release his hand immediately. When she finally did, it was with a small, reluctant squeeze.
Akira gave them all one last look — his girls, his partners, his team — and flashed a quiet grin. “Back soon,” he said simply, then walked off in search of the source of the corruption. Behind him, the concert continued — a hauntingly beautiful symphony of lies and longing echoing through the hall.
The room was steeped in a warm, golden glow — the kind that came from a single nightlight shaped like a crescent moon, casting gentle shadows across the walls. Saeko Shinbun’s heels clicked softly against the wooden floor as she crossed to the center of the room. It was unmistakably a child’s space: crayon drawings pinned proudly on the wall depicting smiling suns and stick figures with wild hair; plush animals and porcelain dolls arranged in rows that only made sense to a seven-year-old mind; half-finished homework scattered across a desk beside an open box of colored pencils.
And on the bed — beneath a comforter printed with tiny stars — a young girl slept soundly. Her breathing was slow and even, her long raven-black hair splayed across the pillow in gentle waves.
Saeko paused by the bedside, that quiet, wistful smile that only mothers carried touching her lips, and leaned down to tuck the comforter snugly under the girl’s chin. “My little Sora,” she whispered, brushing her fingers gently through the sleeping child’s hair. “My perfect little angel… mama loves you so much.”
Her voice trembled just slightly at the last word, but she smoothed it over by beginning to hum again, her tone low and soothing. It was an old lullaby — one she used to sing every night, though her voice now carried a ghost of longing.
Beside the bed, on the nightstand, sat the small urn — delicately carved and faintly glowing from within. Each pulse of light came in perfect rhythm with a faint, rhythmic beeping sound — like a heartbeat echoing from another world. Saeko didn’t look at it. She just kept stroking Sora’s hair, humming softly.
The noise of the crowd faded as Rise slipped backstage, ducking behind a curtain where the music thumped faintly through the walls. Her pulse was racing — not from the performance, but from what she’d seen beyond the glare of the stage. She pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling only slightly as she dialed Yu’s number. It rang once. Twice. Then —
“Rise?” His familiar, steady voice came through, grounding her immediately.
“Hey, darling” she said, forcing a cheerful lilt into her tone. “Just checking in! How are things back home? How’s Marie doing? And Yukiko? And Ai?”
There was a pause — the kind that meant Yu had noticed what she was trying to hide. “They’re fine. Marie had a pretty bad episode earlier, but she’s a little more stable now.” His voice softened. “What’s wrong, Rise? You sound tense. Has something happened?”
Rise hesitated, glancing around the narrow backstage corridor. A few stagehands passed by, but no one paid her much attention. She lowered her voice, stepping further into the shadows.
“It’s… very foggy here, Yu,” she whispered. “Like it was ten years ago.”
The silence on the other end was immediate and sharp — then came a sharp intake of breath.
“…Are you sure?” Yu’s tone was suddenly taut, every word clipped and careful.
“I’m sure,” Rise replied, her usual bright confidence faltering into something smaller, quieter. “It almost swallowed me. But… Sho was here.” She bit her lip, then added softly, “I’m guessing that was your doing?”
A weary chuckle came through the line. “I wasn’t about to leave you without protection, babe.”
Rise couldn’t help but giggle, a brief, nervous sound. “He hasn’t changed much, though… Still acts like everyone’s an inconvenience.”
“That sounds like Sho,” Yu murmured, a hint of amusement breaking through the tension.
Rise sighed, leaning against the wall. “They’re calling me back on-stage now,” she said reluctantly, hearing the muffled voice of her manager echoing down the hall. “Take care of yourself — and the girls, okay? Keep me updated on Marie’s condition, please.”
“I will,” Yu said, the sound of wind in the background suggesting he was already moving, already preparing. “Be careful, Rise. Don’t take any chances — and stick close to Sho. If the fog’s back…”
“I know.”
There was a moment’s silence, the two of them simply breathing together across the distance.
Then Rise whispered, “I’ll call you when it’s over. Promise.”
“Alright,” Yu replied quietly. “We’ll be waiting.”
The call ended, and Rise tucked the phone away — just as a faint shimmer of pink and gold light brushed across her skin again.
The quiet hum of the generators backstage faded as Akira stepped carefully past stacks of cables and flight cases, eyes narrowed in concentration. The faint pink-and-gold glow still hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight, drifting lazily toward the exit. He followed the trail silently, his steps measured and precise, the faint scrape of his shoes drowned beneath the muffled thrum of the crowd beyond the walls.
The flow was unmistakable now — threads of luminous energy winding together like veins, pulsing with something sickly sweet. They led him through a half-open service door, out into the cool night air of Kyoto’s back streets. “...It’s spreading,” he murmured, scanning the horizon.
The energy wasn’t just flowing from the concert anymore — it snaked outward, curling down alleyways and over rooftops, converging somewhere deeper within the city. The neon signs above flickered with faint tinges of pink, like the infection had already begun.
Akira exhaled through his nose, pushing a hand through his messy black hair. “Guess I’m not chasing that on foot,” he muttered. “Better head back and—”
He turned toward the venue door, one hand on the handle—
—and the air shattered.
A violent gust of energy slammed into him from the side. His instincts screamed, and he twisted just in time to see a blur of red hair and blue light rushing at him.
“—tch!”
The world twisted, colors bleeding into each other as the ground vanished beneath him. That all-too-familiar pull seized his body — the Metaverse dragging him across the seam between realities.
When the distortion cleared, Akira stood once again beneath a sky of molten gold, the vast Kingdom stretching out around him in impossible splendor. The dollhouse loomed in the distance, and the statue of Niobe glimmered mournfully against the horizon.
The black-and-red shimmer of his Phantom Attire flared into existence around him, his mask snapping into place as his eyes locked onto the one who’d pulled him here. The red-haired man stood a few paces away — tall, lean, his face marked by glowing scars that pulsed faintly with cerulean light. His eyes burned with an inner fire, both cunning and curious.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The Kingdom was silent but for the whisper of distant chanting — beautiful lies, beautiful lies, beautiful lies…
The golden air rippled between them, faint motes of pink light drifting like lazy embers as the red-headed man’s eyes glowed brighter. His expression hardened, and he took a step forward.
“You better have the answers I’m looking for,” he growled.
Akira tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Funny. I was just about to say the same thing.”
The man’s grin split across his scarred face — fierce, wolfish, dangerous. In one smooth motion, he drew his weapons: a pair of katanas that caught the golden light like twin lightning bolts. Each hilt was fitted with finger rings, allowing him to spin and reverse the blades effortlessly. The edges shimmered wickedly — serrated near the guard, built for tearing rather than slicing.
Akira’s smirk widened. “Guess you feel like dancing first…”
The redhead twirled one sword idly, its edge whispering through the air. “Oh, I’m always up for cutting loose.”
Joker let out a sharp laugh and snapped his tonfas into his hands, the metal gleaming with faint crimson veins of Persona energy. He dropped into his stance — low, loose, and coiled like a spring.
Then the redhead lunged.
The first strike came in fast — a horizontal slash meant to take Joker’s head clean off. Akira ducked beneath it, feeling the wind shear past his hair, and countered with a sharp jab of his tonfa into the man’s ribs. The redhead twisted away, grunting, and came around with his other blade, sparks flying as steel met steel.
“Nice moves,” the redhead said between blows, his grin never fading. “But you’re a little off the cut.”
Joker parried, twisting into a roll that carried him over a golden bench before springing up to the ledge of a nearby building. “That pun was painful, you know that?” he shot back.
“Good! I like my opponents in stitches!”
Joker groaned audibly. “God, you’re worse than Shiho…”
The redhead vaulted up after him, impossibly fast, both blades whirling. Joker blocked one, deflected the second, then kicked off the wall, flipping over the man’s head and slamming his tonfa into the back of his shoulder.
The redhead staggered forward a step — then turned, still grinning. “Not bad, pretty boy. But you fight like you’re trying to impress someone.”
“Maybe I just don’t like your face.”
“Jealous? It’s a cut above the rest.”
Joker darted in again, using his agility to control the pace — sliding under sweeping strikes, bouncing off lamp posts, vaulting over the redhead’s head to strike from unexpected angles. The rhythmic clang of tonfa against blade echoed through the golden streets.
But the redhead wasn’t just showmanship. He shifted tactics mid-fight, moving with deadly precision, his longer reach forcing Joker back. A serrated edge grazed across Akira’s forearm — shallow, but enough to sting. Another swipe caught his thigh as he dodged back.
Joker hissed in pain, leaping to the side and landing in a crouch. “You’ve got experience,” he admitted, tightening his grip.
The redhead spun his swords once, the motion fluid and effortless. “Years of sharp learning,” he quipped.
Joker smirked through the pain. “And I thought I had a bad sense of humor.”
“You still do,” the man retorted, stepping forward, both blades now crossed in front of him. “Let’s see if you can keep up, Devil Mask.”
Joker chuckled as he raised his tonfas, his storm-grey eyes gleaming behind his mask. “You first, Scarface. Let’s dance.”
And then they clashed again — sparks flying, blades and tonfas ringing out beneath the golden sky, each strike a symphony of precision, speed, and defiance. Neither gave ground. One fought like a phantom; the other, like a storm.
The fight raged on like a storm made flesh. Every strike, every dodge, every clash of steel against steel sang through the golden air — a duel of precision and power, of instinct honed to a razor’s edge. Joker ducked beneath a scything arc, feeling the wind of the redhead’s katana brush the tips of his hair, before twisting and slamming a tonfa into his opponent’s knee. The redhead staggered, only to pivot on his other leg and bring both blades up in a blinding cross-slash.
Joker blocked — barely — sparks flaring like fireworks. They broke apart, circling one another, both breathing hard, both grinning like madmen.
“Not bad, you costumed freak,” the redhead taunted, spinning one of his katanas around his finger before catching it in a reverse grip. “You fight like a dancer… or maybe a cat with ADHD.”
Joker wiped a thin line of blood from his cheek and smirked. “And you fight like you’re trying to impress a mirror.”
“Ha! Keep talking, smartass — I’ll carve that grin off your face.”
“Promise?”
Their laughter mingled — sharp, electric — before they lunged again. Joker vaulted off a golden lamppost, twisting in midair and hammering both tonfas down. The redhead met him mid-leap, their weapons colliding with a thunderclap that cracked the golden pavement below. They landed in perfect sync, neither giving an inch.
Then, without warning, the redhead jumped back, skidding to a stop several meters away. His grin turned feral.
“Screw this,” he growled. “Time to bring out the big guns…”
A blue card shimmered into existence between his fingers — spinning lazily before he crushed it in his palm.
“Come out and play—Tsukuyomi!”
The air behind him cracked like shattering glass. From the rupture, a surge of dark silver light poured forth, coalescing into a towering, black-and-white figure. Its body gleamed with a checkered pattern, the surface shifting like liquid metal. The head was a massive crescent moon, horns sweeping upward in jagged arcs, the central disk a void of black framed by pale ivory. A horizontal visor, shaped like a sliver of moonlight, pulsed across where its eyes should be.
Tsukuyomi let out a low, metallic hum that vibrated through the air — regal and terrible.
The redhead’s grin widened as his Persona loomed behind him. “You’re good, kid,” he called, voice rising above the crackle of energy, “but are you good enough to face the Moon’s Curse?”
Joker straightened, spinning his tonfas once before lowering them to his sides. His pulse thundered, but his expression never wavered. Instead, he smiled — slow, dangerous, and utterly confident.
“I wonder…” He raised two fingers to his mask.
Blue fire burst around him, the air warping under the sheer force of will. The phantom wind whipped his coat and sent ripples through the golden street. His voice rang out, deep and resonant: “Persona!”
Reality shattered in an explosion of azure flame, and from that storm stepped Satanael — enormous, winged, and resplendent in shadow and silver. His revolver gleamed like a fragment of the night sky, eyes burning crimson. The air crackled. The world held its breath.
Sho Minazuki almost never felt intimidated. He’d stared down gods, monsters, and the worst corners of his own psyche — and usually walked away smirking. But the colossal demon that this weird kid had just summoned? That sent a cold shiver down his spine.
What… the… fuck is that?! Sho’s thoughts screamed as the ground around him rippled under the sheer spiritual pressure. The air itself grew heavy — like the sky was bending inward, suffocating beneath the rebel god’s presence.
Tsukuyomi, usually stoic and sardonic, faltered for the first time in Sho’s memory. “No way…” the Persona stammered, his smooth, mechanical voice glitching. “He… he… that’s—”
“Spit it out!” Sho snapped, eyes darting between the winged, gun-toting giant and the black-clad Trickster beneath it.
Tsukuyomi’s crescent horns dimmed. “Sho, we need to get out of here. We aren’t equipped to tackle the First Rebel — we need the Seeker.”
Sho froze, pulse hammering in his ears. First Rebel? He’d heard legends of a Persona like that — a myth whispered between fragments of suppressed memories and forgotten cognition research. A being who defied not just gods, but the concept of fate itself. And this punk — this mouthy, sharp-eyed kid with the easy smirk — had just called it forth like it was nothing.
Sho’s lips curled into a grimace that slowly turned into a wry grin. “Well, shit,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on his twin blades. “Guess I’ve bitten off more than I can chew here.”
He straightened, eyes locking on Joker’s, tone somewhere between respect and exhaustion. “How about we call a truce, huh?”
Joker smirked faintly but lowered his guard, the tension in his shoulders easing as he slid his tonfas back into their holsters. “Sounds good to me,” he said coolly. “So, care to tell me why you wanted to shish kebab me in the first place? And who exactly are you?”
The redhead tilted his head, expression unreadable before finally shrugging. “Name’s Sho Minazuki, and as you’ve probably figured out, I’m a Persona User—just like you.” His voice was rough but casual, like a man used to being questioned. “Can’t tell you much more than that, but I’ve been looking into this place. Feels like it’s tied to something bigger.”
Joker’s eyes narrowed. “Bigger how?”
Sho raised a hand sharply. “Can’t tell you that either. Not yet, anyway. Need to run it past someone way smarter than me first.”
Joker shrugged, unfazed. “Fair enough. I won’t push.” He folded his arms, tilting his head slightly. “Can you at least tell me what you’ve discovered here?”
Sho grimaced, eyes flicking toward the golden horizon. “Not as much as I’d like. All I know is that some woman named Saeko Shinbun is at the center of this mess.”
“Saeko Shinbun…” Joker echoed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That’s a start, at least.”
He then grinned, extending a gloved hand. “By the way, I never introduced myself. Joker—Leader of the Phantom Thieves of Heart. You feel like teaming up?”
Sho blinked at him for a moment, then let out a short laugh, the sound rough and genuine. “Tempting,” he said, taking Joker’s hand in a firm shake. “But I think you’ve got it handled, you and that big demon lord of yours.”
He released the handshake and stepped back, the faint shimmer of blue energy beginning to dance around him. “Be seeing you around… Joker.”
And with that, Sho vanished in a flash of blue light. Joker stood there for a few moments, watching the spot where he’d been, before chuckling softly to himself. “Guess I’ll hold you to that.”
Then, with a final glance at the gleaming gold skyline, he turned and stepped through the portal—back to the real world.
Chapter 44: A Ballad For The Wilful Blind – Part 2
Summary:
The Thieves investigate Saeko and Sora Shinbun
Sho tells Rise about his run-in with Joker
Chapter Text
The RV was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the soft rustle of snack wrappers. The Thieves looked half-dead from exhaustion — shoes kicked off, hair messy, faces lit faintly by the warm glow of the kitchenette lights. Akira sat at the small table with a cup of instant coffee, recounting his encounter with the red-haired stranger.
By the time he finished, Makoto’s brow was furrowed so tightly it looked like she might burst a vein. “You fought him? Alone? In a Palace?!” she snapped, arms folded tightly across her chest.
“Technically, it’s a Kingdom,” Akira replied mildly, which earned him a smack on the arm from Ren.
“Don’t get smart with us, Akira,” Ren said, glaring at him. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. Again.”
Akira raised his hands in mock surrender, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Relax. I’m fine.”
“Not taking your word for it,” Haru chimed in sweetly, pressing a warm cloth against a faint bruise on his jaw. “You say you’re fine, but I’ve learned not to trust your definition of fine.”
Akira gave a sheepish half-smile but didn’t resist. He knew better than to argue when Haru went into caretaker mode. The other girls tried (and failed) not to smirk or comment.
Meanwhile, Futaba was hunched over her laptop in her usual corner of the RV, fingers flying across the keyboard with her usual manic energy. “Okay, so... Sho Minazuki doesn’t exist. No records, no address, no school, no tax files, nada!” she grumbled, jabbing a Cheeto in the air for emphasis. “It’s like he popped out of the netherverse just to mess with my search algorithms. I hate it. I hate it!”
“Maybe he’s just off the grid,” Ann suggested sleepily from the couch, hugging a pillow.
Futaba huffed. “No one’s that off the grid. Not without government-level scrubbing. He’s either a ghost or Batman.”
That earned a snicker from Ryuemi. “Please don’t give Akira any ideas.”
Akira merely raised an eyebrow as Haru lifted his shirt and dabbed at the bruises on his stomach. “Too late.”
“Anyway,” Futaba continued, scrolling rapidly, “I did find something on Saeko Shinbun.” She spun her laptop around to face the group. On the screen was a series of clippings and public records, a few old press photos of a polished, silver-haired woman with sharp eyes.
“Fifty-eight years old, Head of Broadcasting at KBS Kyoto. Divorced fifteen years ago — reason given was ‘irreconcilable differences.’ Has one daughter, Sora Shinbun. Used to be a student at Kyoto Sangyo University, but...” Futaba’s expression softened slightly. “...she was in some kind of accident. Couldn’t find any details yet. I’ll have to dig deeper.”
Shiho, who had been quiet until now, looked up from her cup of tea. “A daughter,” she murmured. “And a mother obsessed with lies and denial... that would fit the pattern, wouldn’t it?”
Makoto nodded slowly. “The Ruler’s Kingdom reflects their warped desires. If Saeko’s is built on rejecting painful truths... then maybe her daughter’s accident is the truth she refuses to face.”
A heavy silence settled over the RV. Even Futaba paused her typing. Finally, Akira leaned back in his seat, tugging his shirt back on. “Then we know where to start.”
He took a sip of his coffee, eyes flicking toward the window, where the lights of Kyoto shimmered softly in the distance.
The morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains of the RV, casting streaks of gold across the cramped but familiar interior. The smell of toast and freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, a rare moment of normalcy before diving headlong into another mystery.
Akira stood by the counter, methodically pouring coffee into mismatched mugs, his movements steady and deliberate despite the faint shadows under his eyes. “All thirteen of us showing up at KBS is going to draw attention,” he said, handing cups around. “We’re going to need to split up.”
Makoto nodded, head resting lightly on Ren’s shoulder as she accepted her mug. “Ren and I were talking about it last night,” she said. “Sora Shinbun’s accident is most likely the key here. Maybe we should investigate further — speak to eyewitnesses, her classmates, anyone who might know what really happened.”
Ann, sprawled across the couch with her legs draped lazily over Morgane’s lap, smirked. “Is that what you brain-boxes consider pillow talk?”
Ren snort-laughed, nearly spilling her coffee, while Makoto went scarlet and buried her face in Ren’s neck. “A-Ann!” she squeaked, voice muffled. “Why would you—!”
Ryuemi grinned over her bowl of cereal. “Because she’s Ann,” she said simply, earning a playful glare from the model.
Akira chuckled quietly, setting his cup down before the banter got too far. “Alright, alright. Save the teasing for after breakfast,” he said, amusement in his voice. “Makoto has a point. We should focus on the daughter. But we also need to remember that we’re outsiders — people might not want to talk to us. Especially if the Kingdom’s influence is bleeding into the real world.”
The mood in the RV sobered immediately. The Thieves exchanged uneasy glances, each recalling how twisted reality had become the last time a Kingdom had began to take root. Shiho finally spoke up. “Still, it’s not like we’ve got any other leads, right? We’ll just have to take what we can get.”
Akira nodded in agreement, then turned his gaze toward the corner where Futaba was perched, laptop balanced on her knees. Her glasses glowed faintly from the reflection of her screen — and the gleam in her eyes said she’d found something juicy. “Talk to us, ’Taba.”
Without looking up, she smirked. “This looks promising.”
The keys clacked in rapid bursts as she pulled up a few documents. “Okay, so… those ‘irreconcilable differences’ that led to Saeko’s divorce? I found the court filings. Looks like Mrs. Shinbun was way more interested in her career and social ladder-climbing than actually being a mom. Husband tried to keep the family together, even gave up his teaching job to care for their daughter. But then Saeko kicked him out, got full custody, and spun it like he was the problem.”
She scowled, tapping at a scanned court transcript. “She convinced the judge that her husband was a ‘pitiful man who couldn’t give my precious daughter the life she deserves.’ Total PR move. After that, she built this whole image of being a devoted mother — all smiles and sob stories for her circle. But the more I dig, the more I find that’s all for show.”
“Classic,” Ryuemi muttered, crossing her arms. “Public saint, private control freak.”
Ann frowned. “So she took her daughter away from a father who actually cared, just to make herself look better?”
“Pretty much,” Futaba said, spinning the laptop toward them. “She uses Sora as her emotional anchor — ‘my beautiful daughter, my inspiration,’ blah blah blah. The perfect tragic-mom act. “But…” Futaba narrowed her eyes, her fingers pausing mid-type as something clearly didn’t add up. “There’s something off about Sora herself.”
Akira leaned forward, instantly attentive. “What do you mean?”
Futaba turned the screen toward the group, the faint blue glow reflecting off her glasses. “I mean she doesn’t exist — not in the way anyone born in the last twenty years should. No social media, no gaming profiles, no streaming accounts, no personal posts, no public photos aside from a few official school pictures. Even her email history is locked down tight. She’s got a perfect academic record — honor roll, extracurriculars, recommendation letters — but nothing that tells me who she is as a person.”
She tapped a few keys, scrolling through a series of sterile database entries — test scores, faculty commendations, and generic yearbook snapshots. “No comments from friends, no tagged posts, no selfies, no venting about exams or professors. It’s like she lived in a vacuum.”
The RV fell silent for a moment. Even Futaba’s usual manic energy dimmed slightly under the weight of the implication.
“That’s…” Morgane frowned. “Creepy. Like she was more of a prop than a daughter.”
“I know what that’s like,” Hifumi murmured somberly.
Akira crossed his arms, brow furrowing. “Futaba, see what you can find about Sora’s accident. Date, location, cause — anything that wasn’t part of the official story.”
Futaba nodded sharply. “On it. If there’s a cover-up, I’ll sniff it out.”
“Good.” Akira turned to the rest of the group. “Ann, Ren, Haru — I want you three to head to Kyoto Sangyo University. See if anyone remembers Sora or what happened to her.”
Ann raised a brow, half-grinning. “Us three? Any particular reason?”
Akira gave her a wry smile. “Because you and Haru are both incredibly empathetic. People open up to you two without realizing it. And Ren’s a detective — she’ll know what questions to ask, and how to tell when someone’s hiding something.”
Ren smirked faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You make it sound like we’re going undercover.”
“Technically, we always are,” Morgane quipped, earning a few chuckles.
Akira continued, voice steady. “The rest of us will head to Kyoto Muse and help set up for tonight’s concert. Keep your eyes and ears open. KBS Kyoto is one of the sponsors for this leg of the tour — we might get lucky and run into Saeko herself, or at least one of her assistants.”
Makoto nodded approvingly. “A divided approach again. Efficient, and it keeps us from drawing too much attention.”
Ryuemi cracked her knuckles with a grin. “And if Saeko does show up, we’ll be ready to see what kind of ‘devoted mother’ she really is.”
Akira sipped his coffee, that familiar glint of quiet resolve flickering behind his storm-grey eyes. “Exactly. Let’s move.”
The hallway of Kyoto Sangyo University gleamed with polished floors and minimalist art — the kind of sterile, professional air that screamed reputation first, personality later. As the receptionist led them toward the Director’s office, the three women moved with quiet precision — the sort of elegant poise that came from countless Metaverse infiltrations disguised as simple confidence.
Ren’s heels clicked rhythmically against the floor, her posture straight, her tone clipped and professional as she murmured a last reminder under her breath. “Remember — we’re not here to pry, we’re here to impress. Let him feel like he’s part of something prestigious. That’s when people talk.”
Ann smirked faintly. “And if he’s one of those ‘hard to impress’ types, I’ll just turn on the charm. Works every time.”
Ren’s lips twitched in mild amusement. “Just remember, we’re not here to give him a heart attack.”
Ann made an exaggerated gasp. “Please. I’m a professional flirt.”
Haru smiled serenely, her voice as warm as ever. “And I’ll make sure we sound genuinely invested — figuratively and literally.”
When they reached the Director’s office, the receptionist gave a polite knock, then peeked in. “Director Kamiyama? You have visitors from Okumura Foods.”
The man behind the desk — a well-groomed man in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and the faintest trace of arrogance behind his glasses — looked up, surprised. “Ah! Please, send them in.”
The three stepped inside in unison, each movement deliberate. Ren subtly adjusted her glasses. Ann smiled brightly, her energy immediately disarming, while Haru exuded quiet grace — every inch the young business tycoon.
“Good afternoon, Director Kamiyama,” Haru began with a polite bow. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us. I’m Haru Okumura, representing Okumura Foods’ Community Growth Initiative. These are my associates — Ms. Takamaki and Ms. Akechi.”
The Director blinked once — clearly recognizing the Okumura name — and then broke into a broad smile. “Ah, Ms. Okumura. It’s an honor to host the heir to such a prestigious company.”
They sat. Ann leaned forward just enough to appear engaged, her expression attentive and friendly. Ren took out a notepad, pretending to jot down details as Haru launched into her practiced spiel — one polished by her business acumen and the group’s earlier planning session.
“We’ve been exploring partnerships with key educational institutions across Japan,” Haru said smoothly. “Particularly those that demonstrate excellence in business and economics. Our goal is to establish both scholarship programs and potential work placements for exceptional students.”
Kamiyama nodded enthusiastically. “That’s a most commendable initiative. We’ve had similar partnerships before, but rarely on the scale your company can offer.”
Ann’s eyes gleamed. Perfect opening. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just a touch. “We’d also like to review a few of your top-performing students — see who might be eligible for such opportunities. If possible, could we take a brief tour afterward? Just to get a sense of the learning environment?”
The Director looked momentarily uncertain — the idea of handing over transcripts clearly pushing a boundary — but then Ann smiled the kind of mega-watt smile that melted all resistance. “Of course, only with your supervision. It’s not our intention to intrude, Director. We simply wish to find the right fit — both for our company and your promising students.”
Kamiyama chuckled nervously, tugging at his tie. “Well… I suppose there’s no harm in that. I can have my assistant prepare a brief list for you.”
Ren caught Haru’s eye, giving the slightest nod of approval. They were in.
As the Director rose to make a call to his assistant, Ren’s mind was already working — scanning for conversational angles, ways to pivot naturally toward Sora Shinbun once they had his trust.
The moment he hung up and turned back toward them, Ren leaned forward, voice casual but calculated. “If I may, Director… there is one student in particular that we feel would be the perfect fit for our initiative.”
Kamiyama blinked, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
Ren smiled faintly. “I recall reading about one of your students — Sora Shinbun, I believe? Her name came up during our preliminary research. Quite an impressive record before…” She paused delicately. “Before her accident.”
The man’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. His smile didn’t vanish, but it froze — just slightly too practiced. “Ah. Yes. Miss Shinbun. A… regrettable incident. But perhaps not the best topic for discussion.”
Ann’s eyes softened, her tone laced with genuine empathy. “Of course — we didn’t mean to pry. Her name just stood out to me. It seems that she was so accomplished at such a young age.”
That did the trick. Kamiyama exhaled slowly, the tension easing just enough. “She was a bright girl. One of our best. It was… tragic.”
Ren watched carefully. “Was she well-liked among her peers?”
A flicker of something — guilt? hesitation? — crossed his face before he forced another tight smile. “Everyone admired her.”
Ren exchanged a quick, meaningful glance with Haru. That wasn’t the truth — or at least, not the whole of it. Before she could press further, the assistant returned with a folder of names, breaking the moment. “Ah, excellent,” Kamiyama said, clearly eager to move the conversation elsewhere. “Here’s a list of our top business students and their academic records. I’d be happy to give you a tour now, if you’d like.”
Haru stood gracefully, thanking him with a radiant smile. As they followed him out of the office, Ren murmured just loud enough for her teammates to hear: “Did you catch that?”
Ann nodded subtly. “Totally lying. His shoulders went tight when you mentioned her.”
Haru added softly, “And he said everyone admired her. That’s the kind of phrasing you use when you’re avoiding saying what really happened.”
Ren’s expression hardened slightly. “Then that’s our thread. We’ll pull it — carefully.”
The three women followed the Director down the hall, their smiles polite, their minds already spinning through possibilities.
Saeko Shinbun lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, the soft golden light from the hallway haloing her silhouette. Her gaze softened as she took in the sight before her — her daughter, her perfect little girl, hunched over her maths workbook, tongue poking slightly out in concentration. The faint scratch of pencil on paper, the smell of cookies, the delicate hum of the air purifier — it all fit together into a picture-perfect scene.
Her heart swelled with something that feels like pride. She’s doing so well. So happy. So safe.
Silently, Saeko stepped into the room, her heels barely whispering against the floorboards. She set down the plate of warm cookies next to Sora’s elbow. The little girl’s face lit up, the corners of her lips smudged faintly with chocolate from breakfast.
“Your friends will be here soon, my angel,” Saeko murmured, her voice rich and velvety with affection. “Make sure you’ve finished your homework by then, alright?”
Sora looked up, beaming, her wide, trusting eyes like twin pools of honey. “Yeth, Mama! Fank you!”
The lisp made Saeko laugh — soft, fond, aching. She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her daughter’s silky black hair. “That’s my good girl.”
Sora giggled and pointed at a question on her worksheet. “Mama, is this one right?”
Saeko bent beside her, their shoulders touching. She hummed thoughtfully, reaching for a pencil to help. “Almost, sweetheart. Remember what I said about borrowing from the next column?”
Sora nodded, biting her lip in concentration as she fixes the answer. For a while, it’s all warmth and comfort. But underneath it all, so faint it’s almost drowned out by the sounds of pencils and laughter, there was a sound. Barely audible. Constant.
Beep. Beep.
Regular. Monotonous. Mechanical. Sora hummed under her breath, still working. Saeko smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. “My perfect little angel,” she whispered again. “Mama loves you so much.”
And in the corner of the room, the beeping continued.
The trio made quite the impression as they walked through the wide, modern halls of Kyoto Sangyo University — sharp suits, perfect posture, and a confidence that made students and faculty alike turn their heads. By the time the tour ended, they had circled back toward the administrative wing. Haru flashed a charming smile, her tone honey-smooth but firm. “Director Kamiyama, thank you so much for showing us around. If it’s not too much trouble, would it be possible to use a small conference room? I’d like to interview a few students from the list your office provided — nothing too formal, of course, just to understand their perspectives.”
Ren added, “And I’d like to speak with a few of the faculty members, if possible. We’re always looking for new ways to improve our outreach and internship programs.”
Kamiyama hesitated — just for a moment — glancing between them with the faintest flicker of unease. But before he could make excuses, Ann stepped forward, her smile bright enough to light up the corridor. “Oh, please, Director!” she chirped, clasping her hands together. “It would really mean a lot to us. You’ve been so kind already — I promise we’ll be quick.”
Kamiyama visibly melted under the full force of Ann’s patented puppy dog eyes. He chuckled, scratching his cheek in embarrassment. “Ah, well… I suppose I can make a few arrangements.”
When he walked away to make arrangements, Haru and Ren both glanced at each other — then at Ann. Ren smirked first. “You know, you should probably file that look as a weapon with the police.”
Haru covered her lips with her hand, eyes sparkling. “Careful not to flirt too much, Ann-chan… you don’t want to make Ren-chan and I jealous, now do you?”
Ann giggled, tossing her hair dramatically. “Oh nooo, what will I do if my two gorgeous girlfriends gang up on me?” she said in a sing-song voice, sticking her tongue out. Then she winked at Haru. “I’ll let you punish me tonight, babe.”
That earned her a low chuckle from Ren and a mock sigh from Haru. “Threatening us with a good time is hardly fair,” Ren teased, shaking her head before her expression grew serious again. “Alright, ladies, fun later — focus now. We need to find out more about Sora.”
Ann hummed thoughtfully, pulling out her tablet and scrolling through the list of student names. “I noticed a few of the girls on this list had classes with her. Maybe I can get them talking — you know, casually.”
Ren arched a brow. “Casually, huh? You mean your ‘oops, I dropped my lip gloss, tell me everything about your classmate’ routine?”
Ann grinned. “It works, doesn’t it?”
Ren smiled faintly. “I’ll leave that to you, then. You’ve got the people skills.” She flipped open her notebook. “I’ll handle the professors. I don’t expect much — they’ll be guarded — but maybe I’ll catch someone off-guard with a small detail or hesitation. Once I’m done, I’ll call Futaba and see if she’s found anything else on Sora’s accident or family.”
Ann nodded as Director Kamiyama came out of his office to wave Haru and her over. “Got it. Let’s meet back here in an hour?”
Ren nodded, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her blazer. “An hour sounds perfect.”
Ren had always been good at reading people — the flicker of a forced smile, the tension in a jawline, the subtle way someone’s fingers tapped when they wanted to change a subject. But even she found this particular faculty lounge unsettling.
The room itself was pleasant enough — sunlight slanting through tall windows, the faint scent of green tea and chalk dust lingering in the air. The professors were polite, accommodating, even warm in their rehearsed academic way. Yet every word they spoke carried an odd, hollow weight, as though they were all reciting from the same invisible script.
“Oh, yes, the students here are quite dedicated,” said a balding man in tweed, stirring his tea. “They may have… ah, differing levels of motivation, but that’s only natural, right? It builds character.”
“And the hours?” Ren asked lightly, pen tapping against her notebook.
“Oh, long, yes, but fulfilling! I mean, it’s not about the pay, really — it’s about shaping the future. We’re all very fortunate to be part of such an inspiring environment.”
Another professor — a woman with kind eyes but tired hands — chimed in almost immediately. “Exactly! The students here are so full of potential. Even the ones who struggle, they… bring energy to the class.”
Ren kept her polite smile, though inwardly she felt a faint chill. Their eyes were glassy, their tones a little too bright. They spoke of exhaustion as if it were a privilege, of disillusionment as if it were purpose.
She steered the conversation toward her real target. “And what about Sora Shinbun?”
That name, at least, got their attention. Three pairs of eyes turned to her in perfect unison, their smiles flickering before reforming just as quickly.
“Oh, Sora-san,” the woman said first, voice warm but brittle. “A remarkable student. Truly exceptional. Everyone loves her.”
“Ah yes, yes, she’s a very popular girl,” another professor added eagerly. “Always cheerful, always helping others.”
Ren tilted her head slightly. “I see. And her work ethic?”
“Impeccable.”
“Always punctual.”
“Such a bright young lady.”
The words tumbled out like a script rehearsed one too many times. Ren’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Something was off. The cadence of their voices matched; the enthusiasm seemed real — and yet their bodies told a different story.
One professor’s fingers clenched around his mug hard enough to whiten his knuckles. Another’s smile twitched at the corners, eyes darting toward the door. The woman’s shoulders were rigid despite her calm tone. They believed what they were saying — but everything about their posture screamed discomfort, denial, fear.
Ren pretended to glance down at her notes, letting her voice turn casual. “That’s strange,” she murmured, tapping a pen against the paper. “Because according to this report, Sora Shinbun was described as ‘brilliant but withdrawn.’ Quiet. Reclusive.”
The reaction was instant.
“Oh, that’s nonsense,” said the man in tweed, too quickly.
“She was never withdrawn,” the woman insisted, her smile tightening. “She had so many friends. Everyone adored her.”
“Yes, yes — you must be mistaken,” the third professor stammered, sweat beading at his temple. “Always cheerful, that girl…”
Ren looked up, her expression smooth and pleasant, though her pulse had begun to pick up. They were lying. Every one of them — or worse, they thought they were telling the truth. She closed her notebook with a soft snap, her tone as calm as ever. “Of course. My mistake. Thank you for your time.”
As she left the room, Ren allowed herself a single, quiet thought. They weren’t protecting her reputation. They were protecting a delusion.
The student common room buzzed with lunchtime chatter and the low hum of vending machines. Haru sat gracefully with a clipboard in hand, the picture of polite professionalism; Ann leaned casually on the back of her chair, all easy smiles and disarming warmth. Across from them sat three students — Satomi, Haruka, and Kenjiro — who seemed perfectly ordinary… until they started talking.
“So,” Ann began brightly, “we’d love to hear a bit about Sora Shinbun. What kind of person was she?”
Satomi’s face lit up instantly, a little too quickly. “Sora? Oh, she was wild! Like, in the best way. Always knew how to have fun. You never needed to give her an excuse to party.”
“Right,” Haru said gently, jotting down a note. “And you, Haruka?”
Haruka tossed her hair back, smiling fondly — or maybe nervously. “Sora was popular. Always surrounded by the A-list crowd. She just had… that kind of energy, you know? Everyone wanted to be near her.”
Kenjiro chuckled, though it sounded more like a reflex. “Yeah, she’d never turn down the chance to turn heads. Like, she’d walk into a room and boom — everyone’s eyes were on her.”
Ann and Haru exchanged a subtle look. The descriptions were all glowing… but oddly hollow. Scripted, somehow. Haru tilted her head, voice still gentle. “You all seem to really admire her. Did you know her well?”
That question seemed to catch all three off guard.
“Uh… well, I mean—”
“I didn’t really talk to her much, but everyone did, right?”
“She was always busy, you know? Lots of friends, hard to get time with her.”
The more they tried to justify it, the more tangled they became. Satomi’s brow furrowed, as though something about her own words didn’t sit right. Haruka stared at her hands. Kenjiro blinked, confusion flickering behind his eyes.
Ann leaned forward slightly, her voice soft. “So none of you ever had a proper conversation with her?”
Silence. Then nervous laughter.
“I… guess not?” Satomi admitted after a beat, her tone uncertain. “But everyone knew her. She was everywhere.”
Haru glanced at Ann again, the faintest crease appearing between her brows. Everywhere, but nowhere.
Deciding to shift focus, Haru changed her tone, her words slow and careful. “What about the accident? Do you remember what happened?”
That drew three different reactions — hesitation, discomfort, and something like dread.
“Oh, yeah…” Kenjiro began, scratching the back of his neck. “There was a party, right? Sora threw it at her place. It was pretty wild — drinking, dancing, the usual…”
“Then she decided to, uh… jump off the roof into the pool,” Satomi added with a nervous giggle. “It was so her. When Sora got an idea for a stunt, no one could change her mind.”
Ann frowned. “So she jumped?”
There was a long pause.
“I think so,” Haruka said uncertainly. “Or maybe she slipped?”
“No, she jumped,” Kenjiro argued, then hesitated. “Wait. No… she fell. She—”
The three exchanged glances again, confusion deepening.
“Anyway,” Satomi said finally, brushing her hair back with a nervous laugh. “We heard she got hurt, and her mom said she’d be out for a while. Nothing major.”
Haru’s tone stayed perfectly even. “Did you go see her?”
Three blank stares.
“…See her?” Haruka echoed softly, as though the concept itself didn’t make sense.
Ann’s pen stilled mid-note.
“I… think so?” Satomi murmured.
“I was going to, but…”
“Wait,” Kenjiro said, frowning. “Did we? I remember wanting to, but—”
None of them could finish.
Ann and Haru exchanged a quiet, uneasy look. There was no malice in these students, no deception. Just confusion, fog, and the hollow echo of memories that didn’t seem completely real. Haru closed her notebook softly. “Thank you all for your time,” she said with her usual grace. “You’ve been very helpful.”
As the three students left, Ann leaned closer, her voice low. “They weren’t lying,” she murmured. “But none of that felt real.”
Haru nodded, her expression thoughtful but troubled. “Painful truths replaced by comforting lies. Whatever the true story is, it seems like it’s been covered without anyone realising.”
Rise’s RV was quiet except for the low hum of the mini-fridge and the soft clatter of her fingers on a laptop keyboard. She was scrolling through old performance clips, but her gaze wasn’t really seeing them — her thoughts were far away, drifting back her loved ones in Fuefuki. So when the skylight above her suddenly thunked open, Rise barely had time to gasp before a red blur dropped down like a cat.
“Sho!” she shrieked, clutching at her chest. “What the hell—”
“You’re getting careless without Narukami around,” Sho Minazuki grinned, landing in a crouch before straightening smoothly. He looked perfectly at home as he sauntered toward the RV’s mini-fridge, plucking out a can of soda and cracking it open without asking. “You didn’t even notice me coming. I could’ve been anyone.”
Rise huffed, brushing her bangs back and shooting him a mild glare. “Or maybe I just wasn’t expecting my ceiling to drop in on me,” she said dryly. “And don’t touch the peach sodas — those are mine.”
Sho raised his can with mock solemnity. “Cola. Swear it.”
She sighed, shaking her head. “Sorry, Sho… I just have a lot on my mind. Marie’s suffering, and all the signs point to Izanami coming back somehow…”
That earned her a brief silence. Sho set the soda down and dropped onto the couch beside her. His usual smirk softened into something far less sharp. “Yeah… I don’t blame you for worrying. But Narukami’s handled worse, hasn’t he?”
Rise’s lips twitched, but the anxiety in her eyes didn’t fade. “You sound confident.”
“I am,” Sho replied simply. “Because that guy’s too stubborn to let anyone he cares about stay in pain.”
For a moment, neither said anything. The low hum of the RV’s generator filled the silence. Then Sho’s tone shifted, curious and deliberate. “And… I think there’s someone else who might be able to help us.”
Rise blinked, looking up from her laptop. “Someone else?”
Sho nodded, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah. Guy I ran into on the other side. Goes by Joker. Says he’s the leader of a group called the Phantom Thieves. Dude is crazy powerful,” he added with a mix of awe and disbelief. “Has a Persona the size of a skyscraper. Nearly made Tsukuyomi shut down just by existing. Calls it Satanael. The First Rebel.”
Rise froze halfway between sitting up and standing, her wide eyes reflecting the faint glow of the RV’s overhead light.
“Wait—” she started, hands flailing slightly as if to physically catch the flood of information that Sho had just dumped on her. “Back up a sec. The Phantom Thieves? The Tokyo ones? The ones that supposedly make corrupt assholes confess on live TV?”
Sho winced, sticking a finger in his ear as if trying to dull the volume. “Inside voice, Idol. But yeah, those ones. Apparently they’re the real deal. And I’m guess all of them are Persona-users.”
Rise blinked, still trying to process it all. “Persona-users,” she repeated slowly, like saying it out loud might make it make sense. “As in… like us.”
“Yep.”
“And they’ve been running around changing people’s hearts instead of fighting Shadows?”
Sho smirked, leaning back against the small kitchen counter. “Guess they just have a different brand of justice.”
Rise stared at him for a long moment, then let out a disbelieving laugh, rubbing her temples. “This is insane… No wonder their cases never lined up with any regular criminal profiles. It was them all along…”
Sho shrugged. “Can’t say I blame them. World’s rotten as hell. If I had a team like that at my back, I’d be kicking the same nests.”
Rise finally dropped onto the couch beside him, curling her legs under herself. “Still… Satanael, huh? The First Rebel…”
Her tone softened, awe and unease mixing in equal measure. “That’s not a title you just throw around, Sho. If Tsukuyomi called him that, then this Joker guy’s not just strong — he’s dangerous. Like… myth-level dangerous.”
Sho nodded grimly, setting the soda down. “Tell me about it. One look at that thing and I felt like my soul was getting judged. Tsukuyomi’s still shaking.”
Rise gave a small, humorless smile. “That’s saying something, coming from the Moon’s Shadow himself.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the RV. Rise’s expression turned thoughtful, eyes flicking toward the curtained window as if searching for a connection between two worlds.
“If the Phantom Thieves are really involved,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, “and if what you’re saying about Joker’s power is true… maybe Yu should have a conversation with him.”
Sho leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing.”
The noise inside Kyoto Muse was the usual kind of chaos — roadies shouting over amps, stagehands hauling crates, and the faint echo of someone testing a mic for the third time. But in a darkened corner backstage, away from all the flashing lights and chatter, Futaba Sakura sat cross-legged on the floor, her world reduced to the soft glow of her laptop screen.
Her headphones were on, the music low enough to let her think, fingers flying across the keyboard in a rhythm that almost matched the muffled bass thumping through the walls. Her expression, however, was far from her usual mischievous smirk — this was her serious hacker face.
“C’mon, c’mon, there’s gotta be something here…” she muttered under her breath, chewing lightly on a fingernail as page after page of data scrolled past.
Saeko Shinbun’s divorce records were clean — too clean. Everything was written in that cold, emotionless bureaucratic language that made it sound like Saeko had done nothing wrong. But as Futaba dug deeper, the ugliness started to show.
Saeko hadn’t just divorced her husband. She’d obliterated him.
“Jeez…” Futaba whispered, brow furrowing. “She took the house, the accounts, the car, even the cat? Lady, that’s low…”
She kept reading. The husband — name redacted on most official forms — had tried again and again to regain visitation rights for Sora. Futaba found traces of court filings, letters, appeals. Each one had been blocked, delayed, or thrown out on dubious technicalities.
And then… nothing.
Futaba squinted, scrolling further. “You just stopped? No way, dude. People don’t just stop fighting for their kid like that…”
Her mind immediately went into overdrive. Did he give up? Or did he find a way around the system?
She opened a second window, linking timelines. The year the father stopped his legal attempts was the same year Sora started attending Doshisha International School, Kyoto — an elite academy with serious political connections. Futaba blinked at the name listed under “Administration.”
“...Grandpa Shinbun,” she murmured. “So the guy’s father was the school’s director?”
Her fingers paused mid-air as she stared at the screen. “That’s… interesting.”
The pattern started forming in her head — Saeko cutting the father out of the picture, but Sora conveniently attending the school run by her paternal grandfather. Coincidence? Or something Saeko couldn’t stop without drawing suspicion?
Futaba’s eyes narrowed. “So… the old man might’ve found a loophole. Kept seeing his granddaughter under Mommy Dearest’s radar…”
She leaned back, grinning faintly as she cracked her knuckles. “Not bad, Grandpa Shinbun. Not bad at all.”
A few keystrokes later, she snapped a picture of the relevant files and fired off a quick encrypted message. Found something juicy. Saeko’s ex stopped fighting for custody right when Sora transferred to her grandpa’s school. Guess who was the director there? Shinbun Sr. Either coincidence or secret visitations. Wanna bet which?
She hit send, pulled her hood up again, and muttered, “Let’s see what Akira makes of that,” before diving right back into the digital rabbit hole.
The air in the RV was thick with the scent of late lunch pizza, coffee, and quiet tension. A couple of the girls lounged against the worn leather couches, half-eaten slices on paper plates beside them, while Futaba’s laptop projected a flickering glow across the low table.
Akira leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his storm-grey eyes sweeping over the gathered group. “So…” he said slowly, piecing the fragments together aloud. “We’ve got everyone saying how great Sora was — cheerful, popular, the perfect girl. But their body language says otherwise.” He tapped a finger against the table. “Which means, consciously or not, they’re lying to themselves. Classic denial behaviour. Fits the Kingdom’s theme.”
Makoto nodded from where she sat beside Ren, pen tapping against her notebook. “And it’s consistent with what we’ve seen in Saeko’s cognition — that obsession with maintaining a perfect image, suppressing anything unpleasant.”
Futaba spun her laptop around so the others could see a flowchart of connections. “And then there’s this little gem.” She pointed at a highlighted line. “Sora starts attending Doshisha International right after her dad gives up his custody battle. School run by Grandpa Shinbun — her father’s old man. Odds of that being a coincidence?”
Ann raised a brow. “Zero?”
“Exactly!” Futaba jabbed at the screen with a chip crumb–covered finger. “It’s super likely the grandpa helped them meet in secret. Which means if there’s a cognition of him inside the Kingdom, he might be a useful ally.”
Ren crossed one leg over the other, thoughtful. “You’re thinking he could be the key to opening the Dollhouse barrier? Or at least tell us what happened to the real Sora.” She looked toward Akira. “Should we check?”
Akira sat back, rubbing his thumb over the rim of his cup, thinking. “It’s worth a shot.” His eyes flicked around the circle — noting the determined spark in their eyes. “But I don’t want to drag the whole team in again. Not until we have a clearer picture.”
Kasumi, sitting cross-legged on the carpet beside the couch, tilted her head. “You’re thinking smaller group?”
“Yeah,” Akira said, nodding decisively. “Four of us should be enough to move quickly and quietly. Me, Lavenza, Ren, and Kasumi.”
Futaba groaned dramatically from behind her laptop. “Awww, come on, no fair! I want another shot at that smug statue.”
Makoto crossed her arms but gave a small smile. “You will get your chance, Futaba. But for now, stay here with me and the others to monitor the situation from the outside. If anything changes, we’ll pull them out.”
Ann leaned forward, chin on her hands, her tone teasing but laced with concern. “You sure you don’t need a little firepower backup, Akira?”
He gave her that easy, reassuring smile — the one that said I’ve got this. “If things get dicey, we’ll call for backup. But for now, it’s recon only.”
Lavenza, ever calm, folded her hands in her lap. “If the Ruler’s psyche truly created a cognition of Sora’s grandfather, he will likely manifest somewhere close to the Dollhouse. We should concentrate our searches there.”
Makoto closed her notebook with a soft snap. “Be careful, all of you,” she said.
Akira smirked faintly. “When am I not?”
Ann rolled her eyes. “You really want us to answer that, babe?”
Laughter broke some of the tension, then Akira rose, brushing pizza crumbs from his fingers and mouth, his expression turning determined. “Alright then. Gear up, ladies. We’re heading back in.”
The group materialized in a burst of blue flame, the familiar static hum of transition fading as their boots touched down on the gilded streets once more. The Kingdom stretched before them — vast, radiant, and utterly sterile. The golden air shimmered around them — warm, heavy, and sweet like perfume. The sunlight gleamed off mirror-polished walls, every reflection warped into a smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes.
“So…” Aria twirled one of her yoyos lazily, her scarlet hair catching the golden reflections. “How exactly are we supposed to find someone in this Stepford nightmare? Everyone’s dressed like they’re auditioning for the same freaky play.”
Joker smirked faintly as he adjusted his gloves. “Maybe we can ask nicely?”
Three sets of eyes fixed on him. Flat. Deadpan. He held up his hands in mock surrender, grin widening. “Okay, okay, maybe not. Tough crowd.”
Lotus sighed through her nose, arms crossed. “I swear, you make these jokes just to see how long it takes for us to threaten you.”
They all laugh before setting off towards the gleaming Dollhouse in the distance, footsteps echoing against the marble paths. The air carried a faint static hum, like the whole world was breathing in unison.
Then Papillon stopped abruptly, her breath catching. “Wait… look.”
She pointed toward the right. Between two identical rows of houses, a narrow path shimmered into existence — a ripple in reality, glinting with soft golden motes. At the end of it, a walled garden bloomed where no garden had been before — its roses metallic, glowing faintly, their petals dripping like molten gold.
“That wasn’t here before,” she said softly.
Joker’s expression hardened. He rolled his shoulders and drew his tonfas with a practiced flick, the steel catching the golden light. “Then I guess someone’s expecting us.”
He took the front, voice low but steady. “Stay close. If this place is showing us something new, it means it wants us to see it… and that’s never good news.”
The air around the quartet shimmered like molten gold, the oppressive beauty of the Kingdom pressing down on them as they stepped off the main avenue and onto the new path. The cobblestones beneath their feet gleamed faintly, each one etched with ornate patterns that pulsed like a heartbeat. The faint sound of laughter echoed from the distant Dollhouse, sweet and suffocating all at once.
Papillon’s eyes narrowed behind her mask. “This garden… it feels different,” she murmured. “Like the rest of the Kingdom’s built to dazzle and distract—but this place is inviting us in.”
Lotus, her spear materializing with a quiet hum, scanned the surroundings carefully. “Which makes it either a trap… or exactly what we’re looking for.”
Joker chuckled under his breath, his tone light but his grip on his tonfas tightening. “When has it ever not been both?”
Aria rolled her eyes but smirked despite herself. “Point taken, fearless leader.”
The quartet followed the shimmering path until it opened into a circular courtyard drenched in warm, honeyed light. The air was thick with the scent of roses—sweet, but with an edge that hinted at metal. Every petal gleamed faintly, their gold surfaces catching and bending the light into strange, shifting patterns.
At the center of the garden sat an elderly man beneath a marble gazebo. His white suit was immaculate, pressed to perfection, his silver hair combed back with meticulous precision. A gilded mask rested upon his face, shaped like a pair of old-fashioned spectacles. His posture was calm, his movements deliberate, as he pruned a bush of golden roses with shears made of crystal.
When the Phantom Thieves approached, he looked up slowly, his expression one of mild curiosity, as though he'd been expecting them all along.
“Ah… visitors,” he said, his tone deep and resonant, carrying a faint echo through the still air. “It has been quite some time since anyone has walked this path.”
Joker tilted his head, tonfas loose in his hands. “We’re looking for someone. An old man connected to Saeko Shinbun. You wouldn’t happen to know her, would you?”
The man gave a small, knowing smile. “Know her?” he repeated softly. “I know of her… perhaps better than she knows herself.” He placed his shears aside and rose to his feet, his movements deliberate and elegant. “You stand before Gordias, Keeper of Memories… and grandfather to Zoe.”
Papillon frowned faintly. “Zoe? You mean—”
He nodded before she could finish. “Yes. The one you call Sora Shinbun.”
Lotus and Aria exchanged uneasy glances, the air growing thicker with every word he spoke.
“It is surprising that you have found me,” Gordias continued, turning slightly to gesture at the glowing roses around him. “The Ruler of the Kingdom of Hidden Facades has taken great pains to bury my existence. I spend my days tending this Garden of Memories… preserving what little truth remains before it, too, is rewritten.”
Joker took a cautious step forward. “Then maybe you can help us,” he said. “We’re trying to understand what really happened to S—Zoe. Why her mother built all this.”
Gordias studied him in silence for a moment, as though peering straight through the mask and into the soul beneath. Then he smiled—a sad, weary curve of the lips that carried centuries of heartbreak.
“You seek the truth,” he murmured. “Then you must be prepared to see what Saeko herself could not bear to face.”
He spread his hands, and the roses around them began to shimmer and hum, their petals unfurling like golden eyes.
“Every memory buried here is a thread of pain, sealed within by lies. To reach the truth, you must weather her illusions… and survive the reflection of what she has wrought.”
The garden trembled, light rippling like water across its surface. Shapes began to rise from the rosebeds—figures in golden masks, elegant and faceless, their bodies sculpted like Spartan warriors.
Joker exhaled slowly, a wry grin spreading across his face as he drew his tonfas again. “So much for a peaceful chat…”
Aria twirled her yoyos, stepping to his side. “Hey, you wanted to ‘ask nicely,’ remember?”
Lotus rolled her eyes but leveled her sceptre. “Let’s just make sure we don’t kill the gardener while we’re at it.”
Papillon summoned her Grimoire with a confident smirk. “Then let’s prune some weeds.”
Gordias’ voice echoed gently as the warriors closed in. “Show me your resolve, Thieves… and perhaps I shall show you what truth still blooms in this forsaken garden.”
Joker drove his tonfa forward with a sharp crack, shattering the last figure’s mask. The golden construct let out a hollow gasp before disintegrating into a cloud of black dust that scattered across the marble tiles like ash. For a moment, the only sound was Joker’s steady breathing and the faint rustle of rose petals disturbed by the lingering energy of the fight.
He lowered his weapons, scanning the garden. Lotus glanced at him with a nod, while Aria spun her yoyos back onto her belt with a triumphant flick. Papillion snapped her fingers, her floating Grimoire closing with a soft thump and disappearing in motes of blue light.
“All clear,” Papillion said, exhaling. “Not bad for a morning stroll through hell’s botanical garden.”
Lotus gave a wry smile. “You and your metaphors…”
Their attention turned to Gordias, who stood calmly amid the carnage, untouched. His golden shears gleamed faintly as he regarded them with a proud, almost paternal smile. “Excellent work,” he said, his tone carrying both approval and melancholy. “It seems you are indeed strong enough to walk the path to Zoe’s Sanctuary.”
He lifted one hand, and the garden responded. The golden rosebushes parted with a whisper like silk being torn, revealing a narrow path of white marble stretching toward the distant Dollhouse. Its shimmering façade pulsed faintly, as though beckoning them closer.
“Now remember,” Gordias continued, his voice softening as he began to fade. “This place is built upon the refusal to face pain. The answers you seek will demand that you look beyond illusion—beyond comfort—and stare suffering in the face.”
His outline flickered like static, growing thinner, less real. “I hope your hearts are strong enough to handle it.”
And then, with a faint shimmer, the old man vanished completely, leaving only the faint echo of his words hanging in the perfumed air.
For a moment, none of them spoke. The roses seemed to lean toward the path as if urging them onward.
Papillion swallowed. “I… don’t like the sound of that.”
Lotus’s expression was grim. “Neither do I. But if he’s right, then Zoe—Sora—may be trapped in something even worse than we thought.”
Aria sighed, rolling her shoulders as she stepped beside Joker. “Well, Leader? You heard the ghost gardener. What’s next?”
Joker stared down the gleaming path, the golden light reflecting in his storm-grey eyes. “We keep moving,” he said quietly, tightening his grip on his tonfas. “If the truth is waiting for us in there…”
He looked back at his team, a confident grin flickering across his face. “Then we’ll face it together.”
Without another word, he stepped forward, leading the Thieves toward the shimmering Dollhouse and the secrets that waited within.
The trip down the narrow path had been far less smooth than Joker and the others expected. Shadows kept bursting from the rose bushes, clawing and shrieking as they tried to ambush the group. None of them posed much of a threat, but the constant attacks were beginning to wear the Thieves down.
“Is it just me,” Lotus panted after crushing another golden figure, “or does it feel like we’re not making any progress?”
Aria leaned against a nearby hedge, wiping sweat from her brow. “That damned gardener tricked us,” she muttered bitterly. “We should turn back. This is pointless.”
Joker’s eyes flicked toward the two women — and he froze when he noticed it: a faint golden glow pulsing around them like heat haze. “This place is getting to them…” he muttered under his breath. “We need to move faster.”
His gaze shifted to Papillion, who seemed untouched by the influence, her expression steady and clear. “Think you can scout ahead a little, love?” he asked softly. “I’ll see if I can pull these two out of their funk.”
Papillion gave a short nod, then melted into the golden haze ahead. Joker turned back to Lotus and Aria, taking a steadying breath before reaching out to clasp their hands.
“Come on, you two,” he said gently, his tone firm but warm. “I know it’s tough—but you’re Phantom Thieves. You don’t give up, remember?”
Aria flicked black dust from her yo-yo lines, her voice low with irritation. “Maybe the voices are right. Maybe we shouldn’t even be here. Everyone in this place looks happy, right? They’re not hurting anyone. Why not just… leave them to it?”
Joker froze mid-step. The faint golden light flickering around both women pulsed stronger now, like the Kingdom itself was whispering through them.
He exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “Because it’s not real,” he said softly. “That happiness—the smiles, the peace—it’s all a cage made to look like freedom.”
Lotus frowned, half-turning to him. “But if they don’t know they’re trapped—”
“—it’s still control,” Joker cut in, his voice gentle but firm. “A lie doesn’t stop being a lie just because it’s comfortable. Someone decided they didn’t deserve the truth, and that’s the cruelest kind of prison there is.”
The air seemed to still around them. For a moment, the distant hum of golden light faltered. Aria lowered her gaze, biting her lip, and Lotus clenched her fists, her expression softening.
“You’re right…” Lotus murmured. “If it were us, we’d want someone to wake us up.”
“Exactly.” Joker gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “So let’s make sure we keep moving—no matter how pretty the lie looks.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the whisper of golden petals falling from the bushes. Then, slowly, the light surrounding them began to dim—fading to nothing but the glow of the roses playing across their faces.
Lotus exhaled shakily. “Guess I needed that reminder…”
“Yeah,” Aria murmured, rubbing her arm. “Thanks, Joker.”
He gave them a faint, reassuring smile. “That’s what I’m here for. Now come on—Papillion’s waiting for us.”
Papillion was waiting for them a few twists down the path, crouched before a grand golden gate overgrown with thorned roses. The metal shimmered faintly with cognition light, and the intricate lock at its center pulsed like a heartbeat.
“There you are,” she said, gesturing at the gate. “This wasn’t here a few minutes ago. I’m guessing it’s the way in—but it’s sealed tight. No handle, no mechanism I can see.”
Joker knelt beside her, studying the ornate lock. “Hmm. Looks fancy,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along the engraved surface. “But… not impossible.”
Lotus arched a brow. “You can pick that thing?”
Joker grinned and reached into his coat, producing a slender, silver-black lockpick that gleamed like starlight. “Meet the Eternal Lockpick. Built it myself… during the last timeloop.”
Aria blinked. “Wait, you made that?”
“Yup.” He fit the tool into the lock with a practiced twist of his wrist. “Took me three loops through Mementos farming those damn Anubis for materials, a ton of other scrap, and more coffee-fueled nights than I care to admit. Morgana was so proud when I showed it off…” His grin turned faintly haunted. “I swear, seeing that cat smile like a human will haunt me for the rest of my life.”
Lotus snorted. “I can picture it already.”
There was a satisfying click, followed by a soft mechanical sigh as the gate’s golden vines unwound and drifted apart like mist.
Papillion smiled, eyes wide with admiration. “And just like that…”
“…we’re in,” Joker finished, pushing the gate open. Beyond it lay a narrow bridge of crystal light stretching toward the heart of the Dollhouse. From here, the structure no longer looked like a building—it looked like a dream given form, glittering and fragile, daring them to step closer.
Joker’s hand brushed the tonfa at his side. “Alright, team. Eyes open. Let’s see what truth this place has been hiding.”
And together, they crossed the threshold.
The narrow corridor shimmered with reflected gold, every surface polished to an unnatural sheen. It was like walking through the inside of a mirror — endless reflections of themselves stretching in every direction.
At first, there was only silence and the faint hum of air, but as the group took their first few steps, the sound changed. The hum broke apart into voices — whispering, laughing, crying, shouting — all layered atop one another in a chaotic fugue.
Each voice spoke of something different. Snatches of praise. Regret. Apologies. Pleas for love. Boasts of perfection. Lies of happiness. It was impossible to follow just one thread; together they rose and fell like a tide of static, pressing at the mind from all directions.
Aria winced, pressing a hand over one ear. “That’s really distracting…” she muttered, the edge of irritation in her voice. Her yoyos flicked nervously between her fingers, the soft whirr of the strings barely audible over the din.
Lotus slipped an arm around her waist, grounding her. “Try not to listen, babe. Just focus on what we’re here for.”
Papillion frowned, glancing uneasily around them. “Feels like the walls themselves are talking…”
Joker didn’t respond. He stood a few paces ahead, his storm-grey eyes half-lidded in concentration. His lips moved silently, following the overlapping cadence of the voices, searching for something within the noise. The others watched him tensely as he tilted his head slightly, the faintest crease of understanding forming between his brows.
Finally, he looked up. “They’re all telling different stories,” he said quietly, his tone low but steady. “All the people who built their lives on lies — and convinced themselves it was the truth.”
He turned to face the group, jaw tightening. “Let’s go.”
The Thieves nodded in unison, tightening formation as they moved deeper into the corridor — toward the source of the golden babble.
As they moved deeper down the corridor, the voices shifted. The incoherent murmur began to separate into patterns — overlapping fragments weaving together into two distinct narratives.
One voice, soft and melodic, spoke of a young girl filled with light. “She was kindness itself… always helping others… everyone loved her.”
Another, sharp and bitter, rasped with contempt. “She was cruel. A tyrant in a pretty mask. She made us feel small just to feel tall herself.”
The two stories tangled and fought, echoing off the mirrored gold walls until it became impossible to tell which belonged to truth and which to fabrication. But through both, one name repeated like a mantra: Sora Shinbun.
Lotus frowned, her brows knitting together. “Are… are they talking about the same person?”
Papillion shook her head. “It’s like two versions of her are fighting for dominance…”
“Which one’s the lie?” Lotus murmured. “Was she really that cruel? Or…”
She trailed off as she noticed Aria’s face. The redhead’s color had drained completely. Her eyes were distant, unfocused — and her hands were trembling.
“Or is she…?” Aria’s voice broke, barely above a whisper. “Am I…?”
The other three froze. Joker turned sharply toward her, storm-grey eyes narrowing in concern. Lotus immediately wrapped her arms around the redhead, pulling her close. “Hey, hey—look at me. You’re not her. You hear me?”
Aria didn’t respond, her whole body shaking as the voices swelled louder — now whispering her name.
Aria… Aria… liar… cruel… cruel… cruel…
“Damn it,” Papillion hissed. “It’s reacting to her.”
Joker stepped forward, gripping Aria’s shoulder firmly. “That’s enough.” His tone cut clean through the noise, steady and commanding. He looked at Lotus and Papillion, voice low but resolute. “This place is messing with her head. We need to move. Now.”
The three women nodded, Lotus tightening her hold on Aria as they pushed forward through the golden haze — the voices rising behind them like a storm of guilt and memory.
The hum of the RV’s air conditioning filled the silence — a soft, steady drone that did little to ease the tension lingering in the air. The golden light of late afternoon slanted through the blinds, striping the worried faces of the Thieves as they gathered in the rec room.
Kasumi sat curled up in Akira’s lap, her head resting against his chest. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles against her shoulder as if grounding her back in the present. The others had gathered close — offering their support.
Ren was the first to speak. Her voice was gentle but serious. “That seemed to affect you badly, Kasumi... Are you sure you’re okay?”
Kasumi nodded at first, though her hands twisted anxiously in the fabric of Akira’s shirt. “I… I think so,” she murmured, then exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “It’s just… that place, those voices — it made me think about my relationship with Sumire.”
Akira’s arms tightened slightly, steady and protective.
Kasumi swallowed hard, her next words trembling on her lips. “Before she left, she said something to me — something that’s been stuck in my head ever since. She said she was tired of living a lie with me.”
The RV went utterly silent. Even Futaba’s fingers froze mid-tap on her keyboard. Kasumi blinked rapidly, hiccupping through the tears that had begun to form. “She never explained herself. I thought she was just… angry about something. But hearing those voices today, saying that Sora might not be who we have been told she is — it made me wonder if… if maybe I’m not the person I think I am. If my own twin could say something like that to me…”
Her voice cracked, the words dissolving into quiet sobs. Akira rested his chin against the top of her head, whispering softly into her hair. “Hey, hey… take your time, babe. We’re here for you.”
Kasumi nodded shakily, drawing a deep breath as Ren reached out, placing a comforting hand over hers. “Whatever Sumire meant,” Ren said quietly, “we’ll figure it out together. Just like we always do.”
Kasumi smiled faintly through her tears, the warmth of their support slowly grounding her again. Akira lingered for a moment longer, his hand still tracing calming circles against Kasumi’s back until her trembling eased. When her breathing finally steadied, he pressed a soft kiss to her temple and murmured, “Rest for a bit, okay? You did amazing in there.”
He waited until she gave a small nod before standing, his expression hardening as he turned to face the others. The warmth that had softened his eyes only seconds ago was replaced by quiet determination. “As much as I hate to say this,” he began, voice low but steady, “we can’t afford to lose time. I’ll head back in.”
Every girl in the RV looked up sharply. Ryuemi was on her feet almost immediately, eyes blazing. “Not without backup, you’re not.”
Akira blinked, ready to argue, but the look on her face stopped him cold — that fierce determination that always reminded him of the day they first fought side by side. He exhaled through his nose, giving a reluctant smile. “...Alright. Thanks, babe.”
Ryuemi smirked faintly, crossing her arms. “Someone’s gotta keep you from doing anything stupid.”
Akira chuckled under his breath, shaking his head before turning to the others. “I could do with two more on the team…”
“I’m in,” Ann said before he could finish, standing with a familiar spark in her eyes. She adjusted her top and gave a confident grin. “No way I’m letting my boyfriend go back into a mind-warping nightmare without his favorite model-slash-Phantom-Thief.”
Beside her, Hifumi rose more quietly, but her nod was resolute. “Same here. You’ll need precision and tactics if this Kingdom continues to distort emotions the way it did before.” She stretched her legs, rolling her ankles until the faint click of her heels echoed in the RV.
Akira gave her a grateful nod, his eyes softening. “Glad to have you, ‘Fumi.”
He turned toward Makoto, who had been silently watching the exchange, her hands clasped behind her back. Their eyes met — leader to strategist, confident boyfriend to resolved girlfriend.
“You’ve got things here, ’Koto?” he asked softly.
Makoto’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Always.” Her tone was equal parts reassurance and warning. “Be careful in there, Akira. All of you.”
Akira gave a short nod, then looked at the girls beside him. “Let’s move.”
Panther winced, one gloved hand instinctively covering her ear. “Jeez… it’s even louder than I imagined…”
Kirin’s expression tightened as she steadied her breathing. “They’re… voices. Countless voices. Layered over one another.” Her eyes darted across the corridor, narrowing as though trying to separate the whispers from one another through sheer force of will. “It’s disorienting.”
Comet folded her arms, frowning at the gilded walls. “Feels like they’re crawling under my skin. How are you supposed to think straight in a place like this?”
“By focusing on the mission,” Joker replied simply, his voice calm but sharp. His eyes swept the corridor, every movement measured. “We find the truth hidden here, whatever form it takes.”
The four Thieves moved forward, weapons ready, every step echoing softly against the golden marble beneath their feet. The corridor wound and twisted like the inside of a labyrinth, the whispers rising and falling with the rhythm of breath. Shadows didn’t leap from the walls this time—no ambushes, no sudden rushes of black and gold. And somehow, that made everything worse.
Comet glanced over her shoulder, voice low. “Is it just me, or does it feel like we’re being watched?”
“Not just you,” Panther murmured, her eyes flicking upward to the mist that hung thick in the air. “Feels like the walls are staring right back.”
The corridor finally opened into a vast central hall, ceiling lost somewhere in the pale pinkish-grey haze that coiled and shimmered like smoke. The space was circular, with several arched corridors branching out in every direction. Each passage seemed to breathe with its own pulse of whispers—different tones, different emotions—but all tangled into the same maddening hum.
“Great,” Panther muttered, hands on her hips. “Now what? Do we just pick a direction at random?”
“Shhhh…”
Panther froze as Kirin raised a hand, her expression alert. “Footsteps,” the strategist whispered.
Joker’s head turned immediately, tracking the sound. Soft, rhythmic—like a child skipping down a hall.
And then, through the haze, a small golden figure emerged. A child—no older than eight or nine—skipped lightly into view. Their entire body shimmered with a faint golden hue, features indistinct but undeniably human. They froze the instant they saw the Thieves, tilting their head in a way that was both curious and eerily detached.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, the child turned and skipped back down the corridor from which they came, vanishing into the mist.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to hear hearts beating.
Panther blinked, looking between her teammates. “Should we… follow?”
Joker exhaled slowly, sheathing his tonfas with a soft click. “Might as well. It’s the only lead we’ve got.”
Comet rolled her shoulders, a flicker of unease behind her usual bravado. “Creepy golden ghost children. Totally normal day in the Metaverse…”
“Eyes peeled, ladies,” Joker murmured, stepping forward first, his coat brushing faintly through the mist as the others fell in behind him. “Something tells me this kid’s going to lead us exactly where we need to go.”
The Thieves moved as one, their footsteps muted by the mist that coiled low across the marble floor. Every corner whispered. Every shadow breathed.
Joker’s gaze never wavered from the golden haze ahead, his tonfas drawn but held low, the picture of quiet readiness. Behind him, the others followed — Panther scanning the ceiling with quick, restless glances; Comet rolling her shoulders like she could shake off the tension crawling up her spine; Kirin’s eyes darting back and forth, cataloguing each new sound, each shift in the air.
No Shadows. No traps. Just that constant murmur — thousands of voices that rose and fell in uneven rhythm, as if the very walls were exhaling words they couldn’t form.
The corridor bent again, and the path split into three. The left was narrow and dim, lined with ornate mirrors that reflected nothing but the mist. The one in the middle was bright but empty, its floor polished to a blinding sheen. And the one on the right was darker, pulsing faintly with the same golden light they’d seen before.
They hesitated, forming a loose triangle around the junction.
“So,” Comet muttered, hands on her hips, “what’s behind Door Number Existential Dread?”
“Hold on,” Kirin murmured. Her sharp gaze caught something — a flicker of motion far down the right-hand corridor.
The golden child. Standing perfectly still, half-shadowed by the fog. As soon as their eyes met, the figure tilted its head and skipped away again, vanishing into the shimmer.
“Guess that answers that,” Joker said quietly, moving without waiting for agreement.
The others followed, weapons ready. It happened twice more — the corridor splitting, the child appearing, always just within sight, always skipping deeper when they drew close. The rhythm of it was almost hypnotic. Like being led along the bars of a golden cage.
At last, the hall opened up — and the Thieves froze. The air felt thick here, heavy with incense and dust. The space looked like a child’s bedroom melded with a chapel — ornate beds carved with angelic figures, toys arranged like offerings on small altars, and at the center of it all, a life-sized golden statue of a girl. Around it sat children — the same glowing kind they’d followed — quiet, motionless, their heads bowed in prayer.
Joker took a slow step forward, eyes scanning the group.
“Twelve,” he said under his breath.
The girls turned to him, startled.
“Babe, there’s twenty of them,” said Kirin, brow furrowing.
“What are you talking about? There’s fourteen,” Comet countered.
“Wait… I’m counting sixteen,” Panther added, unease creeping into her voice.
A chill rippled through the air.
The children raised their heads in unison. Their faces were indistinct, flickering between innocence and emptiness. When they spoke, it wasn’t one voice — it was many, layered and shifting like the whispers in the corridors.
“Will you hear our story?”
“Will you listen to our tale?”
“We do not know which of us speaks happy lies…”
“…and which of us speak bitter truths…”
The Thieves stood in uneasy silence, the breathy chorus of voices still reverberating through the golden air. Joker’s eyes swept the hall again, taking in the mismatched count of children — some solid, some half-faded, as if reality itself couldn’t decide how many truly stood before them.
Panther stepped forward cautiously, her whip coiling loosely in her gloved hand. “Hey… what do you mean by that?” she asked, trying to keep her voice soft. “Happy lies and bitter truths? What are you talking about?”
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the faint hum of the golden mist. Then the children tilted their heads in eerie unison. When they spoke, it was the same overlapping whisper as before — one line echoing over another, indistinguishable, but perfectly synchronized.
“Will you hear our story?”
“Will you listen to our tale?”
“We do not know which of us speaks happy lies…”
“…and which of us speak bitter truths…”
Panther glanced back at the others, confusion written plain across her face. “Okay, yeah, that didn’t help.”
Joker exhaled slowly, then stepped forward until he stood at the base of the statue. The light from its golden surface caught in his storm-grey eyes as he crouched, meeting the children at eye level.
“All right then,” he said quietly, voice steady but gentle. “Please… tell us your stories.”
For a moment, there was silence — and then a sudden ripple of excitement ran through the gathered children. Their indistinct faces brightened, and a dozen voices burst out in gleeful rhyme, overlapping yet melodic:
“You’ll listen, you’ll listen, oh joy, oh delight,
Our words shall be heard in the warmth of the light!
You’ll listen, you’ll listen, to sorrow and glee,
For truth and for fiction both beg to be free!”
They laughed, the sound strangely musical and dissonant at once. Then two children rose from the group, stepping toward the statue that dominated the center of the room. Each glowed brighter than the rest — one radiating a soft, warm gold; the other gleaming with a sharper, almost metallic sheen.
The first child pointed up toward the statue, their voice lilting and bright:
“This is Zoe the Kind, so loving, so fair,
With ribbons of sunlight that danced in her hair.
She smiled for her mother, she helped one and all,
Her laughter would echo through summer and hall.
All hearts that beheld her were gentle and true,
For Zoe the Kind gave love as her due.”
The second child shook their head violently, their glow flickering darker.
“No! Zoe the Unkind, deceitful and vile,
Her kindness a mask, her heart full of guile!
She struck with her words, with her hands, with her scorn,
She broke what she touched, left affection forlorn.
Her mother wept softly, her friends turned away,
For Zoe the Unkind brought ruin each day!”
The first child stamped their foot, golden dust scattering from their heels.
“Lies, all lies, you twist her name!
You drown her light in words of shame!”
The second child pointed an accusing finger.
“And you, you liar wrapped in grace!
You paint false smiles on a hateful face!”
Their argument escalated quickly — voices overlapping, rhymes tangling into a rising storm of cadence and contradiction. The rest of the children began to murmur as well, fragments of both tales spilling from their mouths like refrains from an unfinished song.
“She was kind!”
“She was cruel!”
“She was loved!”
“She was feared!”
“She sang with the angels!”
“She screamed with the damned!”
Panther took a step back, eyes wide. “Okay… they’re really losing it.”
Comet’s jaw tightened, her gaze flicking between the flickering figures. “They can’t even agree on who she was…”
Kirin’s hands clenched at her sides, her analytical calm strained but unbroken. “No — they can’t remember who she was,” she murmured. “Or maybe… they remember too many versions of her.”
Joker remained crouched, watching the children with unreadable eyes. The light from the statue shimmered across his mask like a reflection in rippling water.
Whatever this place was, whatever story they were hearing — it wasn’t just about “Zoe.” It was about something deeper, something fractured. And the truth, happy or bitter, was buried somewhere between the rhymes.
Kirin’s whisper hung in the air like a warning. “Look at the statue.”
Joker’s eyes tracked to the golden girl and froze. A thin rivulet of molten-gold slid from the statue’s eyelid and fell, clinking against the pedestal. “That might mean something…” Kirin murmured.
Joker straightened, raising his voice to address the golden children. “Who are you all, and who is Zoe to you?”
For a moment, the children looked confused. Then the bright storyteller stepped forward: “We are Zoe’s friends!” its voice chimed, sing-song and overlapping with the others.
The other storyteller snapped back, voice sharp as a broken bell: “We are Zoe’s slaves!”
Both turned their coin-like eyes toward Joker and asked in rhyme: “Wise stranger, tell us, which story rings true to your ears?”
Joker studied them, stepping closer to the statue. “Both stories paint opposite pictures of Zoe… one of an angel, the other of a demon. But there’s one thing consistent in both retellings…” He reached out and wiped a tear from the statue’s golden cheek. “Her mother’s portrayal.” He drew his tonfas, and the air snapped as his Persona flared, elemental energy dancing across his form. “And that means both stories are untrue.”
The golden children shrieked, the layered voices twisting into a terrifying harmony. “We shall rip you and rend you!” Half lunged at Joker, the rest barreling toward Comet, Panther, and Kirin.
Joker spun his tonfas, unleashing a flurry of elemental strikes — fire and ice flickered, lightning arcs danced across the golden mist, and shadowy whorls bent around his movements. One child barreled into him, shrieking, and he countered with a scorching blast of Agidyne, the flames lashing outward and sending several attackers scattering.
Kirin sprang forward, her bladed heels catching the light. Every kick was precise, slicing a golden child in two mid-air. She followed up with a burst of Agidyne, flames trailing from her feet, and a strike of Kougaon magic that forced a cluster of attackers to shatter into harmless motes.
Comet rolled under a dive, her cutlass flashing as she struck upward, electricity sparking along the blade. Children who had thought to flank her screamed as arcs of lightning tore through their forms, scattering them across the hall in golden sparks.
Panther flicked her wrist, summoning Ishtar. Fire licked across the room, curling around children advancing from the sides, forcing them back. She moved fluidly, whip and magic entwined, leaving scorched streaks in the golden mist where attackers had hovered moments before.
The children adapted quickly, a swarm of golden shrieking forms bounding from every angle. Their layered rhymes twisted and overlapped, a weapon as sharp as any claw, attempting to drown the Thieves in sound. But Joker spun his tonfas, channeling multiple elements at once — ice to freeze, wind to scatter, fire and lightning to stagger — forcing the attackers to fragment mid-flight.
Joker cycled through his personas, every elemental attack bending the swirling golden mist. Fire, ice, wind, electricity, and shadow all danced across the hall as the Thieves pressed forward as a single, coordinated force. The golden children screeched in layered chaos, their voices unraveling into jagged, dissonant rhymes as they fell one by one. Finally, the last golden child crumpled, its layered chant breaking into a single, forlorn note before disappearing entirely. Silence descended, complete and heavy, leaving only the echo of the Thieves’ own breaths in the hall.
The room was empty. The corridors beyond twisted quietly, obediently waiting, but there was no movement, no sound save the faint glow of Zoe’s statue.
The silence that followed the battle was heavy—oppressive, even. The faint glow of Zoe’s statue painted the Thieves in soft gold, their shadows long and distorted on the marble floor. None of them spoke. The only sound was their breathing—steadying, cautious.
Then, from behind them, a voice—smooth, measured, and touched with grim amusement. “Well done.”
Joker spun instantly, tonfas raised, the others flaring with their Personas’ power once more. Out of the swirling mist stepped Gordius, his towering form gleaming faintly, every movement deliberate. His golden helm caught the light from the statue, casting his face into shadow.
“You’ve done well to come this far,” Gordius continued, his tone carrying neither warmth nor hostility, only a faint, weary respect. “You saw through the lies of the children… through the illusions woven to test your eyes.”
He stopped a few feet away, folding his arms behind his back. “Perhaps you’ve earned the truth—the story behind the echoes that haunt this place.”
Panther frowned, lowering her whip slightly. “You mean… Sora’s story.”
“Yes.” Gordius nodded slowly. “The truth of the girl this sanctuary belongs to.”
The mist behind him stirred as he spoke, faint shapes rippling like reflections in water. “In the real world, Sora Shinbun was a quiet girl. Always had been. After her parents’ divorce, she retreated further into herself. Her classmates thought her strange. Withdrawn. Even her teachers gave up trying to reach her.”
He paced as he spoke, each word heavy with restrained bitterness. “Of course, her mother was too busy making a name for herself to ever truly notice. Saeko Shinbun—the brilliant journalist, the public hero—too occupied chasing prestige to remember that she had a daughter waiting at home. There were nights—no, weeks—where she wouldn’t return at all. Sora would survive on cup noodles and whatever she could find. And yet…” He looked up, his voice laced with venom. “…Saeko was always quick to take credit for every little thing her daughter achieved. Her grades. Her awards. Her discipline. Everyone praised her for raising such a ‘brilliant young woman.’”
Comet’s grip on her cutlass tightened. “Let me guess—no one saw what was really happening.”
Gordius’ mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “No one ever does. My son tried—again and again—to bring the truth to light. To show the courts that Saeko was unfit to raise Sora. But Saeko… she was clever. Charming. She could make any lie sound noble. She convinced every judge that my son was a bitter ex, desperate to destroy her reputation.”
He stopped pacing, his posture rigid, voice hardening. “And the worst part? It worked.”
The Thieves stood in stunned silence. Even Panther, usually the first to break tension, found no words.
Gordius lowered his head briefly, as though collecting himself. When he looked up again, there was something haunted in his eyes—grief buried under anger. “Then Sora turned twenty-one. She was in university by then. Quiet, but brilliant. She decided to reach out—to meet her father again after years apart. To find some piece of family that still cared.”
He exhaled sharply, the sound heavy as metal grinding. “And that’s when Saeko told her the truth. That my son was not her father. That he never had been. That Sora was the result of one of her… indiscretions.”
Panther covered her mouth, eyes wide. “That’s—”
“Cruel,” Kirin finished softly.
“Cruel doesn’t begin to describe it,” Gordius muttered. “The revelation broke her. Everything she believed about her life—her family, her worth—crumbled in an instant. And for the first time, she did something out of character.”
He stared at the floor, voice quiet now. “She went to a bar.”
A hush fell over the group, the sound of the golden mist whispering faintly against the marble.
“Six hours later,” Gordius continued, “she was found on her university campus. Some of the girls who had bullied her for years had followed her, plied her with drinks, mocked her… and told her to do the world a favor. To end it.”
Panther’s eyes darkened, fire crackling faintly in her hands.
“She tried to,” Gordius said, his tone flat and final. “She climbed to the top of the library and jumped.”
He turned toward the statue of Zoe, the faint light catching his armor. “Saeko was beside herself with grief—or at least, she convinced herself she was. The woman who had never been there for her daughter suddenly played the mourning saint. The doting mother.”
Gordius’ fists clenched at his sides. “But grief built this place. Not Saeko’s grief… Sora’s. Her pain became the mortar and the walls. Her loneliness gave it breath. And Saeko’s lies—those polished, poisonous lies—gave it gold.”
The Thieves stood in silence, the weight of the story pressing on all of them.
Joker looked at the statue again, the faint glow flickering like a heartbeat beneath the surface. “Then this… sanctuary… is her world twisted by pain.”
“Yes,” Gordius said quietly. “And if you truly wish to free her… you will have to face the one who bound her here.”
The golden mist stirred once more, whispering with voices just beyond hearing. The glow of Zoe’s statue flared brighter, casting long shadows across the Thieves’ faces.
And behind them, Gordius’ voice echoed one last time, low and distant—almost like a prayer. “Steel yourselves, Phantom Thieves. The truth will not forgive you for finding it.”
The hall went silent again—save for the faint, rhythmic sound of the statue’s golden tears falling, one by one.
Chapter 45: The Truth In The Fog
Summary:
The Thieves explore the Broadcast Tower and learn who the real Ruler of the Kingdom of Hidden Facades is.
Chapter Text
Saeko Shinbun sat in her favorite rocking chair — the old cedar one that creaked like an aging heartbeat — its slow rhythm matching the rise and fall of her daughter’s breath. Little Sora lay nestled in her arms, warm and small, thumb tucked against her cheek as she drifted in that hazy border between dreams and waking.
The soft hum of the apartment at night was almost peaceful. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere beyond the balcony, the city murmured to itself.
Then the air shuddered.
It began as a faint vibration, like the world exhaling. The light from the ceiling lamp flickered once… twice… before a low, thrumming pulse rolled through the room — not sound, not quite, but a pressure that rattled Saeko’s bones and set her teeth on edge.
She froze.
The next pulse was stronger. The air rippled around her, distorting like heat on asphalt. Saeko’s eyes snapped to Sora — and her breath caught.
For an instant, her daughter’s face glitched, as though reality itself had stuttered. The soft, round cheeks of her nine-year-old child flickered — replaced by the faint traces of an adult woman’s face. Twenty-one, exhausted, eyes hollow with pain. Then the image snapped back. Nine again. Then twenty-one. Then nine.
Each flicker came with a faint, electronic beep, sharp and sterile, echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Beep.
Beep-beep.
Beep-beep-beep.
Faster and faster, until the sound filled the room like an alarm only she could hear.
“Sora?” Saeko whispered, voice trembling. “Sora, baby, wake up—”
But the child didn’t stir. The flickering grew worse, her small body jittering between ages, her features warping mid-breath — a child’s soft sigh blending into the rasp of a woman who’d cried too long.
“No… no, no, no…” Saeko’s voice cracked. She tightened her grip — then recoiled as the air around Sora sparked, tiny motes of gold and static dancing across her skin.
The beeping grew shrill, dissonant — mechanical panic given sound. Saeko’s heart raced to match it.
“Make it stop,” she whispered, eyes darting wildly. “Please—make it stop—”
She stood abruptly, the rocking chair thudding back against the floor, and Sora slipped from her arms. The girl — woman — girl again — hit the rug soundlessly, her form flickering like a broken video frame.
Saeko stumbled back, hands clutching at her temples, nails digging into her scalp as she rocked in place. The air around her pulsed with golden light, each wave stronger than the last.
“Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!” she screamed, her voice breaking on the last word. The beeping had become a deafening shriek, drowning out the sound of her own cries.
And as the golden light swallowed the room whole, the last thing Saeko saw was Sora’s face — nine and twenty-one and gone — flickering out of existence like a dream ripped from its dreamer.
The air tore open around them in a burst of light and static. Joker, Panther, Comet, and Kirin stumbled forward out of the Dollhouse’s warped gates, the echo of battle still buzzing in their veins. The moment their boots hit the streets of the golden city, the world convulsed — a deep, resonant crack splitting the air.
Above them, the shimmering barrier surrounding the broadcast studio splintered like glass under pressure, fragments of gold light scattering across the skyline before fading into nothing. The Kingdom itself seemed to shudder, as though exhaling after holding its breath too long.
Then came the sound — a rising wail, countless voices crying out at once. The Thieves froze, instinctively falling into formation. The cries rolled through the streets, high and mournful, echoing off the marble and metal.
Panther pressed a hand to her ear, grimacing. “What the hell—?”
All around them, the masked figures that had once filled the city — golden cloaks, blank visages, perfect synchronized motion — began to collapse. One by one, they crumpled where they stood, the masks clattering to the ground. From each fallen body seeped a dark, viscous ichor, as if the Kingdom’s lifeblood itself had been poisoned.
The liquid spread, snaking through the cracks in the marble streets, weaving together into a single flowing stream that ran toward the broadcast station at the city’s center.
Comet took a cautious step forward, watching the black current shimmer faintly with gold at its edges. “That’s not creepy at all…”
Kirin’s eyes narrowed, her voice calm but wary. “It’s converging. The distortion’s focusing itself. Whatever comes next—this is the prelude.”
Panther adjusted her gloves, sparks of flame dancing between her fingers. “Then we better make it a damn good finale.”
Joker watched the dark river curl away down the boulevard, the broken remains of the barrier reflecting in his eyes like shards of light. Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth — not smug, but steady, resolute.
He turned to the others. “Shall we get the others?”
Comet smirked and spun her cutlass once before resting it on her shoulder. “Hell yeah, Captain.”
Kirin brushed a strand of hair from her face, a faint, fierce smile ghosting across her lips. “They wouldn’t want to miss this.”
The four of them turned toward the heart of the city, where the dark stream vanished into the base of the broadcast tower.
Saeko sat at her desk, her whole body trembling. The beeping in her ears had finally quietened down; now it was just her, the cold light of the monitor, and the sound of her teeth chattering. She clutched her arms to her chest, rocking back and forth in her seat like a frightened child.
“Someone knows…” she whimpered, voice cracking. “Someone knows… they’ll take her away… the truth will come out and everyone will know…”
Her breath hitched as her gaze drifted toward the urn on her desk — the one she’d discovered on her bedside table a few days ago and hadn’t let out of her sight ever since. It pulsed faintly, soft waves of gold and pink light pushing through the cracks in its surface, casting trembling shadows across the walls. The glow seemed to sync with her heartbeat, faster, harder, until she thought her chest might burst.
Then — a shift in the air. The faint smell of ash and rot. Saeko froze. Slowly, she lifted her eyes. A hooded figure now stood across from her, draped in black that seemed to drink in the light. Its face was obscured by a bone-white mask. The air around it shimmered faintly, reality bending in its wake.
Saeko’s lips parted in a small, broken gasp.
“D–don’t—”
“Don’t be ssssscared…” the figure hissed, voice sliding through the air like a blade through silk. “Your ssssecret is ssssafe…”
It reached out a long, skeletal hand, the fingers pale as porcelain and impossibly thin. When one touched her forehead, Saeko’s body jerked as if struck by lightning.
“Let’ssss give your Sssshadow Sssself… a little boossssst.”
Her breath caught in her throat — a strangled, choked sound — before her body went slack. Her head tilted backward, mouth open in a silent gasp, and her eyes snapped open, glowing an unnatural, searing gold.
The figure lingered a moment longer, its mask tilting slightly, as though admiring its handiwork. Then it nodded once, sharp and deliberate, before dissolving back into the dark — leaving Saeko alone in the dim office, the urn’s glow now pulsing faster, hungrier, like a storm gathering power.
The Phantom Thieves emerged from the rift in a blaze of gold light, boots touching down on the shining boulevard that led toward the broadcast station. The air was thick — charged with static and dread — and the city around them seemed to flicker between beautiful and broken.
Above them, the colossal statue of Niobe loomed larger than life, her marble face streaked with tears that streamed faster and thicker than before. But now, those tears shimmered with sickly hues of gold, pink, and black, cascading into the overflowing basins below her and into the streets below like an unholy river of grief. The air trembled with every drop that hit the pavement.
Joker stepped forward, the wind tugging at his coat. He surveyed the horizon — the dying shimmer from the Dollhouse mixing with the ominous glow bleeding from the station’s towering spire — before glancing at Oracle.
“Anything?” he asked, voice low but steady.
Oracle’s visor flickered to life, streams of vertical code cascading across the surface as she typed rapidly on her gauntlet. She made a face, puffing her cheeks. “Aside from a metric crapton of Shadows crammed inside that building?” she quipped. “Looks like the broadcast station’s basically a fortress. And get this—” She pointed at her screen. “There are eight levels in there. So yeah, it’s gonna be a slog. Hope everyone stretched.”
Dead-Eye groaned softly, cracking her neck. “Eight levels? Seriously? Whoever built this place needs to chill.”
Queen folded her arms, analytical as ever. “The Ruler’s probably right at the top. We’ll need to clear each level before we can move up.”
“Lovely,” Panther muttered, rolling her shoulders and flexing her fingers, loosening them up for the many battles to come. “That’s going to be murder on our feet.”
Before Joker could reply, Papillon — her expression calm but alert — stepped forward, her Grimoire clutched to her chest. “I sense… another presence,” she said softly. “One powerful being aside from the Ruler herself. Its energy feels… old.” Her eyes narrowed. “We would do well to keep our eyes peeled.”
The group exchanged uneasy looks. Then, Joker smirked faintly, adjusting his gloves as he looked up at the station’s gleaming gates. The gold shimmered faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. “Then we watch our corners, keep formation, and don’t get cocky. Let’s finish this.”
The team fanned out behind him as they advanced toward the broadcast station, the sound of their footsteps echoing in rhythm with the sound of the Niobe statue’s falling tears.
The golden doors of the broadcast station burst open beneath Joker’s boot, slamming against the walls with a metallic echo that rippled through the air. The interior was a distorted newsroom — towering cameras floated on their own, lights flared in sickly hues of pink and gold, and the tiled floor shimmered like liquid glass. The Phantom Thieves barely had a second to take it all in before Shadows emerged from behind overturned desks and teleprompters.
They were grotesque parodies of journalists — humanoid figures with televisions for heads and microphones for arms. Their faces flickered with distorted smiles, repeating soundbites like broken records.
“Breaking news—Saeko Shinbun: perfect mother, perfect woman!”
“No flaws, no faults, no failure in this family!”
“Smile for the audience!”
“Looks like her PR team’s on the offensive,” Vixen muttered, drawing her katana.
“Then let’s give them something to report!” Vent grinned, throwing her disc forward as she leapt into the fray.
The room erupted into chaos. Panther’s whip ignited, slashing through the air as a wave of fire engulfed a cluster of reporter-Shadows. “Blazing Hell!” she shouted, the flames forming a blazing wall that forced others to scatter. Comet vaulted over a desk, her cutlass crackling with lightning. “Ziodyne!” A bolt speared through a cameraman-Shadow, making its lens explode in a burst of static.
Kirin spun gracefully into the fray, her bladed heels gleaming as she kicked off a wall and flipped, landing a precise heel-strike into a sound technician-Shadow’s head. “Kougaon!” she called, the explosion of holy light vaporizing several nearby enemies.
Oracle’s voice buzzed in everyone’s earpieces. “Heads up! More Shadows incoming from the editing bay!”
Joker leapt forward, his tonfas striking like lightning, his coat flaring behind him. “Maragidyne!” Flames swept across the floor in a sweeping arc, knocking several anchors off their feet. “Let’s finish this!”
Within minutes, the newsroom was a smoking ruin of glass and golden smoke. But as the dust settled, Noir pointed toward a glowing screen flickering behind a cracked teleprompter. “Hey… take a look at this.”
Onscreen, old footage began to loop — Saeko Shinbun, smiling radiantly at a press event, standing beside a much younger Sora. Reporters’ questions overlapped:
“Your daughter must be so proud of you!”
“How does she feel about following in your footsteps?”
Saeko laughed, brushing her hair back. “Oh, Sora reminds me so much of myself at her age. She’s loved by her classmates, her professors—she’s a bright, happy girl. Truly, I’m blessed.”
Oracle frowned as lines of code appeared on her visor. She brings up a holographic projection on the wall besides them. “Look at this… these videos are timestamped right after the school reported multiple bullying incidents involving Sora.”
“Yeah,” Queen said coldly, scrolling through the data. “And it looks like Saeko deleted every report. She filed them under ‘unverified claims.’”
Aria clenched her fists. “She knew her daughter was suffering and just… ignored it? Because it didn’t make her look good?”
“Exactly,” Papillon murmured, folding her arms. “The mask of perfection must not crack — not even for her own child.”
Joker stared at the looping footage for a moment, eyes darkening beneath his mask. “Then we make sure it does.”
The screen fizzled, and somewhere deeper in the building, a low, rumbling scream echoed through the halls. The golden lights flickered red for a moment before returning to their sickly hue.
“The more I hear, the less I like,” Joker said, twirling his tonfas. “Let’s see how deep the rabbit hole goes.”
The second floor greeted them with a suffocating stillness — the kind that pressed on the skin like wet cloth. The golden corridors gleamed brighter here, almost feverishly so, but the air shimmered with that same pinkish-grey fog, thicker now, curling around their ankles like smoke from a dying fire.
“Ugh… the fog’s worse up here,” Panther muttered, waving a hand in front of her face. “Smells like… perfume and lies.”
“Pretty accurate description, honestly,” Dead-Eye replied dryly, drawing her bow as her eyes scanned the corridor ahead.
The hallway resembled an extravagant newsroom corridor — framed awards, glossy magazine covers, and glowing banners celebrating Saeko Shinbun’s “unparalleled journalistic excellence.” But the deeper they went, the more distorted it became. The walls twisted inward, photos of smiling Saeko clones melted into one another, and the laughter from invisible studio audiences echoed faintly in the haze.
Then came the Shadows. This time, they were tougher — bulkier, more grotesque versions of the ones below. Reporters now wore gold-plated suits, their faces replaced by rotating camera lenses that zoomed in and out on the Thieves as they approached. Cameramen hovered on skeletal tripods, using their cords as whips, while anchor-Shadows projected dazzling spotlights that blinded and disoriented. Their voices rose in a warped chorus:
“Saeko Shinbun, paragon of virtue!”
“A loyal wife! A devoted mother!”
“She shines brightest in the light of truth she herself creates!”
“Not this crap again,” muttered Queen, rolling her shoulders before slamming her fist into her palm. “Alright, let’s clean house!”
“Showtime,” Joker said calmly, spinning his tonfas before diving into the fray. The battle unfolded in a blur of flame, lightning, and fury. The Thieves cut through the Shadows like thirteen knives through golden sludge. But even through the chaos, the fog pulsed—like it was alive.
As the echoes of battle faded, the fog drifted back, thicker and more oppressive than before. The Thieves regrouped, their breathing heavy but steady.
“Something’s changing,” Papillon murmured, looking around. “The air feels heavier. Like her guilt’s rising to the surface.”
“Or her lies,” Oracle countered, pointing to the screens Comet had exposed. “Guys… look at this.”
They approached carefully. The flickering projections showed fragments of memory, looping in distorted, golden hues. Saeko stood in an elegant living room, her voice calm but sharp as glass. “You’re just bitter because you failed as a husband,” she said smoothly. “You always resented my success.”
Her ex-husband stood across from her, hollow-eyed, holding a stack of legal papers.. “Saeko, you haven’t been home in weeks. Sora needs you, she barely remembers your face. You can’t keep pretending nothing’s wrong—”
Saeko laughed sweetly, her tone honeyed and cruel. “Oh, stop being dramatic. You’re just jealous because I’m finally successful. You always hated that, didn’t you? You wanted me to stay small, weak, dependent.”
“That’s not—”
“Oh, it is, darling,” she interrupted smoothly, stepping close. “You twist everything I do to make yourself the victim. You’re pathetic.”
The vision warped, showing her later, in a judge’s chambers. Saeko leaned forward, her hand on the judge’s arm, her voice a seductive whisper. “You understand, don’t you? My husband’s been impossible. I just need… relief.”
The fog thickened, swallowing the image in swirls of rose and grey.
Another scene emerged — a courtroom. Saeko smiled tearfully before the same judge, his gold eyes glowing faintly.
“He’s trying to destroy my reputation,” she sobbed. “He’s abusive, he’s jealous—please, Your Honor, protect my daughter from him.”
The husband tried to speak, but his words were drowned out by the judge’s gavel slamming down.
“Custody awarded to Mrs. Shinbun.”
The projection dimmed, replaced by Saeko’s face — smiling for the cameras. The text at the bottom of the hologram read: “SAEKO SHINBUN: INSPIRATION TO WORKING MOTHERS EVERYWHERE.”
“...She lied about everything,” Panther whispered, fury twisting in her chest. “Even in court.”
“…She wasn’t the victim,” Noir murmured, her voice trembling slightly. “She made herself the victim every time someone tried to hold her accountable.”
“Of course it was,” Queen said, disgusted. “She buried the truth of her divorce. Like everything else.”
As if in response, the fog pulsed violently, and a new wave of Shadows emerged from the mist — reporters with wings of torn newsprint, wielding microphones that screeched like banshees. “Guess that’s our cue,” Lotus growled, raising her sceptre.
The Thieves launched themselves back into battle, magic lighting up the haze in bursts of color. Flames and nuclear blasts rolled through smoke, lightning and psychokinetic energy flashed, ice-cold winds howled, divine and profane lights struck with equal force, shredding everything in their path. When the last Shadow fell, the pink-grey mist rippled outward, briefly revealing a mural on the far wall — Saeko standing tall, surrounded by countless golden figures bowing before her, each one wearing Sora’s face. Aria stared at it for a long moment. “…She doesn’t see people,” she said quietly. “Just reflections.”
Joker holstered his tonfas and glanced toward the staircase spiraling up ahead, glowing faintly gold. “Then let’s break her mirror.”
The air on the third floor felt wrong the moment the Thieves stepped through the threshold — thicker, hotter, buzzing faintly with static. The space around them twisted like a fever dream version of a television studio: cameras mounted on walls that blinked like eyes, teleprompters spewing gibberish in gold letters, desks that stretched too long and too thin, covered in microphones that whispered Saeko Shinbun’s name over and over like a prayer.
Oracle’s visor flickered with warnings. “Okay… yeah, this floor’s bad. Distortion’s through the roof. Shadows are everywhere, and the data here’s—” she stopped, staring at the wall of screens in front of her, “—wow. It’s basically a propaganda loop. She really curated her image, huh?”
Panther scowled, cracking her knuckles. “Guess we’re about to see how deep her ego goes.”
The first wave hit before they could take another step. Dozens of humanoid Shadows poured out of the warped newsroom walls — reporters with golden microphones for faces, HR clerks whose pens stretched into swords, executives with briefcases that unfolded into snapping maws. Their voices overlapped in a deranged echo:
“Mrs. Shinbun! So inspiring!”
“A trailblazer for women everywhere!”
“She uplifts her peers… by standing on their backs!”
“Charming,” Comet muttered, drawing her cutlass and sidestepping a swipe from a pen-bladed arm. “Let’s see how inspired you feel full of volts.” She slashed her blade through the air. “Wild Thunder!” Lightning lanced across the room, frying the first row of Shadows in a sizzling burst of ozone.
Aria launched herself into the fray next, spinning her yoyos like windmills, sparks of gold trailing behind her. “Kougaon!” A wave of holy light erupted outward, forcing the ink-faced monsters back. “Honestly, if I see one more self-congratulatory headline, I’m going to lose it!”
Vixen darted forward, katana in hand, striking with calm precision. A burst of freezing air followed her swing—“Cocytus!”—turning a microphone-Shadow into brittle ice before shattering it with a follow-up kick. “Eyes open. She’s hiding something on this floor.”
As the battle raged, the screens above the newsroom began to flicker, showing disjointed visions: Saeko at a press conference, wiping a fake tear as cameras flashed. “It’s not easy being a woman in this industry,” she said softly. “I’ve had to fight twice as hard for half the credit.”
Then, another feed: Saeko in a boardroom, smiling sweetly across the table at an older man. “You’ve done so much for me, Director,” she purred. “Which is why I can’t help feeling… apprehensive. I worry that Mariko-san doesn’t respect you enough.”
The man nodded slowly, dazed, his signature scrawling itself across a contract that shimmered gold — and seconds later, another woman was escorted out of the room by guards. “Wow,” Panther breathed, her voice thick with disgust. “She really weaponized victimhood. That’s… next-level manipulation.”
“And it worked,” Oracle added grimly. “Every one of these clips ties to her career milestones. Promotions, awards, exclusive interviews. All because she made herself look like the underdog while quietly cutting out anyone in her way.”
Another wave of Shadows materialized — golden HR reps clutching scrolls that unfurled midair, glowing with writing that snaked toward the Thieves like chains.
“Code of Conduct Violation!”
“Professional Misconduct!”
“We’ll rewrite your reputation!”
“Not today,” Queen snarled, summoning Morrigan. “Atomic Flare!” A surge of nuclear energy tore through the chains, shattering them and blasting the Shadows back into data fragments.
Noir sliced through a screeching microphone-Shadow, her scythe glowing faintly. “Her ethics speeches… her interviews… All a façade. She became the story she wanted to sell.”
The next illusion appeared without warning — Saeko on a grand stage, holding an award shaped like a golden quill. “Integrity and truth,” she announced, smiling into the blinding lights. “These are the foundations of journalism.”
The illusion distorted. Her smile twisted, her eyes burning gold. “And both are mine to define.”
The floor itself began to quake as a towering Shadow formed behind her — a monstrous amalgamation of cameras, microphones, and typewriters, all fused into a faceless golden mass. Its voice was Saeko’s and the crowd’s, merging together into a single, echoing chant: “She is virtue. She is brilliance. She is truth.”
“Big one!” Oracle shouted. “Go all out!”
The Thieves didn’t need the warning.
“Ragnarok!” Kirin’s flames seared the creature’s limbs.
“Morning Star!” Papillion’s voice was serene as Lucifer emerged from the pages of her Grimoire.
“Shining Arrows!” Dead-Eye spun through the air, her bow emitting blinding light.
Joker stepped forward, his mask flashing. “Megidolaon!” The shockwave of raw energy shattered the monster into fragments that dissolved into glittering ash.
The silence that followed was heavy. The fog pulsed again — thicker, darker, carrying a faint static hum that sounded disturbingly like applause. Lotus lowered her scepter. “She built her entire empire on lies… and convinced herself it was justice.”
Joker exhaled slowly, scanning the golden hallway ahead. “If this floor was about how she fooled her peers… the next one might show how she fooled herself.”
The group exchanged uneasy glances, then pressed on — deeper into Saeko Shinbun’s kingdom of half-truths and polished deceit, where every headline was a mask and every mask hid another lie.
The fourth floor felt colder than the rest. Not in temperature, but in spirit—sterile, suffocating, calculated. The Thieves stepped into what could only be described as a cathedral to corporate greed. The walls were mirrors lined with gold trim, reflecting not their faces but warped, grotesque parodies of themselves—masks of ambition twisted into vanity and deceit. The air shimmered with thick pink-grey fog, clinging to their bodies like guilt. In the center of the vast chamber stretched a boardroom table that could have seated fifty, carved from black marble and veined with gold. Floating above it, hundreds of golden ledgers drifted lazily, their pages fluttering open and closed as if breathing.
Each page glowed faintly, showing endless columns of names, headlines, and numbers—the costs of Saeko Shinbun’s empire.
“...This is obscene,” Noir murmured, brushing her fingers along one of the ledgers. It reacted to her touch, flaring with light and showing a projection of Saeko smiling across a boardroom table.
“If we cut thirty percent of the staff, our quarterly profits rise by twelve. Tell HR to make it look like voluntary resignations.”
“But... that’s dozens of livelihoods,” someone protested.
Saeko didn’t flinch. “Dozens of livelihoods for the good of the company’s image. Necessary sacrifices.”
The vision faded. Noir’s hand trembled slightly before she clenched it into a fist. “She’s not just callous. She’s methodical.”
“Yeah,” Queen muttered. “She turns people into numbers, and numbers into validation.”
They didn’t get long to dwell on it before the shadows appeared—twisted humanoid forms that looked like they’d been born from spreadsheets and contracts. Golden graphs crawled across their skin, and every step they took left behind floating yen symbols. Angry faces emerged from the fog—ex-colleagues, former rivals, even faceless courtroom judges holding gavels that cracked the air with each strike.
Vixen drew her blade, her expression grim. “Their faces—these must be people she trampled to get ahead.”
“They’re still bound to her narrative,” Lotus said quietly, summoning her Persona. “Let’s set them free.”
The ensuing battle was short but brutal, a storm of blades and elemental magic cutting through the warped illusions. The Shadows’ cries twisted into static as they fell, dissolving into lines of golden code that faded into the fog. When the air stilled again, Oracle adjusted her visor. “Okay, so—this floor’s data patterns are different. Less reactive distortion, more… self-awareness. Like she knows this is wrong.”
Joker walked toward a nearby mirror. His reflection shifted—not himself, but Saeko again, older now, standing over a spreadsheet projected on the table. She was talking to someone off-screen.
“You can’t control everything, Saeko,” a voice warned her. “You’re burning bridges faster than you can build them.”
Saeko’s smile was faint, tired. “Bridges can be rebuilt. Reputations can’t. If I fall once, no one will let me get back up. I’d rather they burn than I drown.”
The mirror fractured, cracks spreading like spiderwebs across its surface. Panther crossed her arms, her expression softening despite herself. “So she knew... she just didn’t care.”
Fox looked toward the ledgers drifting overhead. “No. She cared—just not about the people she hurt.”
Oracle pulled up another ledger, scanning rapidly. “She calculated everything—reputations, scandals, promotions. Every move she made was an equation for survival.”
Noir frowned. “Then morality wasn’t part of the formula.”
A distorted laugh filled the room, echoing from all around. The mirrors rippled, showing Saeko again—but now she stood behind a podium, her expression angelic for the cameras.
“Success is built on difficult choices,” her illusion said sweetly. “You can’t change the world by playing fair.”
Behind her, in the reflections, her colleagues stared hollow-eyed. Some wept. Others whispered. One slammed his fist on the desk—but no sound came out.
“‘Difficult choices,’ huh…” Skull muttered, cracking his knuckles. “She calls screwing people over ‘difficult choices’? Lady’s real piece of work.”
Joker didn’t answer at first. He studied the reflections—Saeko signing a contract while a rival’s career evaporated in a single keystroke, Saeko smiling for the press as layoffs were announced, Saeko rehearsing lines for speeches about empowerment while ignoring desperate messages from subordinates. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “She’s convinced herself that suffering is the price of greatness. That every betrayal, every lie, was justified because it led her higher.”
“And the higher she climbed,” Queen said, eyes narrowing, “the further she fell from herself.”
The group moved forward, the fog growing denser around their legs as the golden ledgers began to dim one by one, pages closing themselves as if ashamed. The air felt heavier—charged with something deeper than distortion.
“Each floor’s peeling her back,” Oracle murmured. “We’ve seen her ambition, her deceit, her callousness… Whatever’s next—it’s what’s left when all that’s gone.”
Joker adjusted his gloves and glanced toward the ornate golden elevator at the far end of the room. Its doors gleamed faintly, pulsing with the same gold-and-pink light that had followed them since Sora’s Sanctuary.
“Then let’s see what’s waiting at the top,” he said.
Together, the Phantom Thieves stepped into the elevator, their reflections trailing behind them in the fractured mirrors—thirteen figures marching toward the heart of a lie that had once been called success.
The fifth floor of the Broadcast Station felt… wrong. Gone were the gold-tinged office corridors, the mirrored walls, the ever-present scent of ink and corruption. Instead, the Thieves stepped into the foyer of an impossibly large mansion — white marble floors, crimson carpets, chandeliers dripping with glass that shimmered faintly pink and gold. But the air was still heavy with that same pinkish-grey fog, coiling lazily like a living thing.
No Shadows moved here. No clatter of claws or whisper of corrupted newsmen. Just… silence.
Then the scene began to shift. The fog rippled, and ghostly figures began to appear — vignettes from another life playing out before their eyes. A little girl — maybe seven, with a perfect black bob and a neatly pressed school uniform — knelt on the floor, clutching a report card. Her hands trembled as her parents loomed above her.
“You ranked third again?” her father said, voice like a knife. “Do you think anyone remembers the one who comes third?”
Her mother’s smile was saccharine and cruel. “You’ll never stand out if you don’t learn to be perfect, Saeko.”
The young girl’s lip quivered. Then she whispered the words like a prayer. “Perfect is the only way to survive.”
The Thieves stood frozen, their reflections caught in the glossy marble. As they moved deeper into the mansion, the illusions followed — Saeko being berated for crying when she lost a piano recital. Saeko being told to smile wider when her parents entertained guests. Saeko being grounded for speaking up when she was blamed for her brother’s mistake.
“Jeez…” Panther muttered, clenching her fists. “That’s… seriously messed up.”
Queen’s eyes softened. “It’s no wonder she learned to fake everything. If her parents only cared about appearances, she probably thought manipulation was survival.”
“That’s giving her too much credit,” Kirin said sharply, folding her arms. “Plenty of people had toxic upbringings. They don’t all turn into narcissists who hurt their own kid.”
Vixen crossed her arms, looking away. “I agree with Kirin. Sympathy doesn’t erase accountability.”
Aria sighed, glancing at the little Saeko still repeating her mantra in the illusion. “I’m not excusing her,” she said quietly, “but… it’s clear she never really learned how to be loved for who she was. Only what she could pretend to be.”
Noir frowned. “That’s tragic, but it doesn’t make her a victim. It makes her dangerous.”
Dead-Eye exhaled through her nose, a touch of sadness in her eyes. “Maybe both.”
“Yeah, well,” Comet muttered, sparks flickering faintly around her fingertips, “the kid version gets my pity. The adult version? Not so much.”
“Same here,” Lotus said, shaking her head. “She’s hurt too many people for me to care about how it started.”
Oracle, perched on a floating holographic panel, groaned. “Okay, okay, hold up — I get both sides, but can we not turn this into a morality debate right now? We’re literally standing in the middle of her trauma scrapbook.”
Before anyone could add more, Joker’s voice cut through the tension, firm and commanding. “She’s right.” He turned to face them, his expression grave beneath the dim, shifting light. “This isn’t the time or place to discuss this, girls.” He looked around at each of them in turn, ensuring their attention was locked on him. “We can talk about it once we’re back in the real world.”
The Thieves exchanged glances — some chastened, others still simmering — but slowly, they nodded. As the argument quieted, the illusion flickered one last time. The young Saeko stood alone in her bedroom mirror, repeating to herself, “Perfect is the only way to survive… perfect is the only way…” Her reflection began to warp, her innocent face morphing into the calculating adult the Thieves knew.
And then, as the fog thickened, the mansion’s doors swung open on their own — a silent invitation to ascend.
The sixth floor unfolded like a fever dream — the grand mansion’s structure dissolving into a maze of mirrored corridors that seemed to rearrange themselves at random. Every surface gleamed with that same unnatural sheen of gold and pink, but the reflections were wrong: warped, delayed, sometimes showing the Thieves from moments ago, other times not showing them at all. The fog was thicker now, heavy as wet wool, swirling around their ankles and rising to their knees.
“Everyone stay sharp,” Queen warned, eyes darting around. “This place is designed to disorient us.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Vixen muttered. “I can’t even tell which way’s up anymore.”
Oracle’s visor flickered as she tapped at her holographic controls. “The layout’s shifting constantly. I can’t map this floor — it’s like the building’s alive.”
As if to punctuate her words, the fog trembled, and figures began to emerge from the haze — distorted humanoid Shadows wearing the faces of Saeko’s parents and house staff. Their eyes gleamed with the same artificial gold as the fog, and their voices were hollow echoes of the past.
“Saeko, smile for the camera.”
“Don’t embarrass us, dear.”
“We gave you everything—”
The Shadows lunged. What followed was chaos. The Thieves fought hard, forced to conserve energy as the Shadows came in relentless waves. Joker stood at the center of it all, commanding the flow of battle — switching Personas at lightning speed, lashing out with wind, fire, ice, and light in rapid succession. Every time a Shadow fell, another rose from the fog, their broken glass faces reforming, their voices echoing accusations.
When the last of them shattered into black smoke, the Thieves stood panting, bruised and exhausted. The mirrored corridors stilled — and began to glow faintly.
Then the next vision began. The mirrors rippled, and a teenage Saeko appeared, all perfect posture and false charm. She smiled sweetly at her father while whispering poison into her mother’s ear. She faked tears to guilt her tutors into leniency. She lied effortlessly, and the reflections multiplied, showing dozens of versions of her, each twisting words, spinning truth into performance.
“She learned fast,” Noir said bitterly. “And she enjoyed it.”
The visions grew darker. The mirrors showed Saeko as a young adult, working her father’s business contacts, feeding him misinformation that led to catastrophic investments. They watched as the man, older now and weary, sat in a ruined office, surrounded by shredded documents and empty bottles.
Then came the sound of a gunshot. The mirrors cracked.
In the next reflection, Saeko was comforting her mother, smiling faintly as she promised to “make things right” — while quietly pulling financial strings that kept her family dependent on her mercy. Her mother’s health declined. Her younger brother vanished from the images altogether.
The Thieves stood frozen, horrified. “…She destroyed her own family,” Dead-Eye said quietly.
“Not by accident,” Aria added, her voice trembling. “She planned it.”
“Disgusting,” Kirin hissed. “All for power.”
The air seemed to vibrate with an unnatural hum. Then — a voice, soft as silk and poisonous as smoke — drifted through the fog. “Power is only evil when the powerless judge it.”
The Thieves turned as a shape materialized ahead of them — tall, feminine, her form draped in layers of black mist. Her face was ever-shifting, yet her eyes burned steady gold within the maelstrom.
“Who—?” Panther started, but the figure chuckled — a dry, hollow sound that seemed to echo from every direction at once.
“Achlys,” she purred. “The one they call the Blinding Fog. You see monsters… where there is merely clarity. Saeko has not deceived you — she has simply accepted the truth. People prefer pretty lies to harsh realities. She merely gave them what they wanted.”
Joker stepped forward, his tone sharp. “That’s not enlightenment. That’s cowardice.”
The masked figure tilted her head. “And yet, isn’t your mask a lie too? Your righteousness, a performance? You play hero to make your own darkness palatable.”
The fog pulsed, pressing against them, whispering their doubts back at them. The air grew thick, heavy, suffocating — their own reflections began to sneer at them from the mirrors.
Achlys’s laughter rang out, smooth and mocking. “If that’s what you truly believe, then you will have no problem finding your way to me through the fog.”
With that, she raised a hand — and the world erupted in blinding light.
When the glare faded, the world reassembled itself into something wrong. The air was dense with fog, thicker than it had ever been — a luminous, pink-grey haze that pressed in from all sides. The golden marble underfoot was cracked and uneven, and faint echoes of static filled the air like a distant heartbeat. The Thieves blinked, disoriented, calling out to one another — but every voice came back muffled and warped.
“—racle? Can anyone—?”
“Panther? Noir?!”
“Joker! Where are—?!”
Nothing but static in reply. Each of them was alone now, the fog swallowing the sound of their own breathing. And then, from everywhere and nowhere, came her voice. “Let’s see which of you can still tell truth from illusion…”
Achlys’s whisper slithered through the mist, a chill crawling up every spine. The fog rippled — and each Thief found themselves staring into a reflection… that smiled back wrong. A Shadow.
Vent’s reflection leaned casually against a streetlight that hadn’t existed a moment ago, her smirk dripping with pity. “You can wear their clothes, speak their language, even steal their hearts…”
The Shadow tilted her head, eyes gleaming amber. “But you’ll never really belong here, will you? Just another pretty foreign face people stare at — exotic, temporary, disposable.”
Vent clenched her fists, teeth grinding. “You don’t get to talk like you know me.”
“Oh, but I am you. The version that stopped pretending Japan was ever home.”
The fog seemed to close in around her, the air tasting faintly of salt and sea — a memory of all the places she left behind.
Comet’s Shadow leaned on a mirror-bright wall, twirling a cutlass made of glass. “You think you’ve earned your place in the polycule?” it sneered. “You’re the extra spark — cute, flashy, but not vital. They’d all get by fine without you.”
Comet’s hands shook, lightning flickering around her fingers. “That’s not true.”
“Then why do you need them to tell you it isn’t?”
A mirror cracked — and the shattering sound lingered, echoing like laughter.
Panther’s double strutted forward with a lazy smile, hips swaying like a model on the catwalk. “Oh, Ann, sweet Ann. Everyone adores your face, your body, your fire…” The Shadow’s tone darkened, eyes burning red. “But what else are you good for? When the beauty fades, what will they love?”
Panther trembled, biting her lip. “I’m more than that. I am.”
“Then why do you use your looks as your weapon?” the Shadow hissed. “Because deep down, it’s all you think you have.”
The fog shimmered with flashes of camera lights — mocking, blinding.
Dead-Eye’s Shadow crawled out of the fog, pale and trembling, eyes ringed with red. “You can play the cool markswoman all you want,” it rasped, “but you still wake up screaming, don’t you?”
The real Dead-Eye froze, her breath catching.
“You pretend you’re fine, but you never stopped seeing his face. You never stopped feeling—”
“Shut up,” Dead-Eye hissed, drawing her bow.
“You’ll never shoot fast enough to silence me.”
The air around her echoed with the ghostly laughter of Kamoshida’s minions — and the sound of a door locking, again and again.
The Shadow-Vixen appeared surrounded by phantom paintings — all signed Madarame. “You’ll never escape his name,” it said softly. “You’re his last masterpiece — the tragic prodigy.”
Vixen’s voice cracked. “I’ve moved on. My art is mine now.”
“Then why do you still hide behind his shadow in every gallery? You crave the sympathy that keeps you relevant.”
The canvases bled gold and black, the paint forming Madarame’s cruel, leering grin.
Aria’s Shadow looked heartbreakingly like Sumire — or rather, what Sumire used to look like when she smiled. “You failed her,” it said coldly. “You were too busy playing big sister to notice she was falling apart.”
Aria staggered back. “That’s not— I tried—”
“Tried. But trying isn’t enough, is it? That’s why she’s grown distant. That’s why she doesn’t trust you.”
The Shadow’s eyes softened into pity. “You weren’t her sister. You were her jailer.”
The fog twisted into ribbons of red — like a gymnast’s trail, fading in the dark.
Kirin’s Shadow knelt before a chessboard made of shattered mirrors, its pieces tiny human figures.
“All those careers… toppled like pawns. And for what?” it murmured. “A mother’s pride you never wanted.”
Kirin’s lips parted, but no words came. “You keep playing the prodigy because you’re scared you are your mother. That every move you make cuts someone else down.”
The Shadow smiled faintly. “And maybe it does.”
The mirrored board glimmered — each piece reflecting a face that had once admired her.
Oracle’s Shadow sat cross-legged in midair, wearing her same goggles, though cracked and flickering.
“They love you, Futaba,” it cooed, “but you know you’re hard work.”
Oracle flinched. “That’s not—”
“You make everything harder. You need fixing, constant reassurance. You’re draining.”
“Stop it.”
“Sojiro could’ve had a normal life, you know. A partner, maybe kids. But no — he got stuck with you.”
Oracle covered her ears, trembling. “Stop it stop it stop it—”
The Shadow’s smile softened. “You can’t hack away the truth, Futaba.”
Noir’s reflection sat primly at a boardroom table, counting money that dripped like blood.
“You’re one bad decision away from destroying everything your father built,” it said. “Okumura Foods will be ashes — and it’ll be your fault.”
Noir’s fists tightened. “I’m not my father. I’ll lead differently.”
“Differently? You already lie to investors, don’t you? Tell them you’re ready, when you still don’t even believe it yourself.”
The coins in her hand melted into sludge.
Queen’s Shadow leaned against a broken mirror, arms folded. “You think Sae’s proud of you, Makoto?”
Queen hesitated. “…She is.”
“No. She’s trapped because of you. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night — because someone had to be responsible for you after your father died.”
The reflection’s eyes glowed faintly red. “You stole her freedom and called it love.”
Queen’s jaw trembled, but she didn’t look away.
Papillon’s Shadow was a cruel duality — two identical girls in blue prison uniforms. Caroline and Justine smiled sweetly.
“You pretend you’re real now,” Justine said.
“But you’re just a leftover,” Caroline added. “A doll given a name.”
Papillon drew herself up, fists clenched. “I am real.”
“No Persona, no soul of your own,” they hissed in unison. “Just a warden’s echo. A butterfly pinned in the Inmate’s book.”
Their laughter was metallic — like cell doors slamming shut.
Lotus’s Shadow wore Belladonna’s mask — dark, sleek, and stained with blood.
“You think changing your name washes away what you’ve done?” it purred. “All those people you hurt. All those lives destroyed in Shido’s name.”
Lotus’s eyes burned. “I’m trying to make it right.”
“‘Trying’ doesn’t bring back the dead,” the Shadow said gently. “You may wear white now, but you’ll always be painted in blood.”
The fog pooled at her feet, red as wine.
And in the heart of the maze — Joker faced himself.
His Shadow stood with its head tilted, smirk familiar yet hollow. “You keep telling yourself this time will be different,” it said softly. “But we both know how this ends.”
Joker said nothing.
“You couldn’t save them in the last loop. You’ll fail them again — because you have to. You need to play the martyr.”
The Shadow stepped closer. “The great Akira Amamiya — hero, lover, savior. All that selflessness hides what you really want…”
Its grin sharpened. “Control.”
The fog closed in, and the sound of distant screaming — his friends, his family — echoed through the mist.
Joker drew his tonfas, steadying his breath. “Then I’ll face you,” he said quietly. “All of you.”
The fog trembled, the echoes of every Thief’s despair overlapping — a rising storm of distorted voices — as Achlys’s laughter rippled once more through the choking haze. “Good… Now let’s see who survives themselves.”
The fog grew thicker—so thick it tasted like sugar and smoke, cloying on the tongue. Each Thief stood frozen, staring into the face of their own Shadow. The voices began again—soft, lilting, hypnotic. A rhythm, a pattern. Lie. Truth. Lie. A lullaby of deceit.
“You’ve done so well to fit in,” her Shadow murmured soothingly. “They love you here—your friends, your lovers, even strangers in the street.”
Vent’s breath hitched slightly, that warmth almost believable.
Then the smile sharpened. “But they’ll never see you as one of them. You’re just a guest in their story. A novelty they’ll tire of.”
And then—gentle again. “But that’s alright, isn’t it? Because you’re special. They need you to make them feel worldly. You give them color.”
Vent’s eyes flickered, her expression softening—just a little.
Comet’s Shadow leaned forward, its tone honey-sweet. “You’re the spark that keeps everyone smiling. The team needs you.”
The warmth turned to ash in the next breath. “But only because you’re easy. You don’t demand anything real. You’re safe—fun. Replaceable.”
Then, softly—almost tenderly: “Still… they’d be lost without your laughter. Stay bright, stay simple. That’s all they need from you.”
The words wrapped around Comet like a hug made of barbed wire.
Her Shadow circled her like a predator, red heels clicking against marble. “You’re breathtaking, Ann. You’ve always been the beautiful one.”
Panther swallowed hard.
“But beauty fades. And when it does, what’s left? You? Just the broken girl behind the mask.”
Then, sweet again, coaxing: “But don’t think about that. Smile, pose, burn bright while you can. They’ll adore you forever if you never let them see the cracks.”
Panther’s flame flickered, momentarily dimmed.
“You’re strong,” her Shadow whispered. “You survived.”
Dead-Eye’s eyes fluttered shut—until the tone shifted.
“You didn’t survive, you froze. You ran. You still see his hands every night.”
Her breath caught.
“But hush,” the Shadow soothed. “It wasn’t your fault. Just forget. Keep laughing with the others. Pretend you’re over it.”
Dead-Eye’s hands trembled on her bow. The words felt so comforting, she almost let them be true.
The studio lights flickered, illuminating her Shadow’s painted smile. “You’re free now, Yuki. You escaped Madarame’s shadow.”
The brushstrokes on the walls began to twist. “No, you didn’t. Every canvas you paint still begs for his approval. Every exhibition, every praise—you want to prove him wrong, not prove yourself right.”
Then, a breath, a whisper of false tenderness: “But that’s art, isn’t it? Pain makes it real. You’re better because of him.”
Vixen’s hands clenched, unsure if she wanted to scream or cry.
Aria’s Shadow spoke with Sumire’s voice, gentle and low. “You were a good sister. You tried your best.”
The voice hardened. “You smothered her. You built her cage from love and called it protection.”
Aria stepped back, shaking her head. “No… I—”
“Shhh,” the Shadow murmured, smiling again. “You only wanted her safe. It’s not your fault she hates you for it.”
Tears stung Aria’s eyes. That almost felt merciful.
“You were brilliant, Hifumi. Always brilliant.” Her Shadow smiled warmly. “But brilliance without empathy burns everything it touches. You ruined lives to keep your mother’s illusion intact.”
Kirin flinched, her heel scraping against the floor.
“Still,” her Shadow added softly, “they were small lives, weren’t they? Unremarkable. You’re destined for more. Let their sacrifices mean something.”
The words twisted like gold wire around her conscience.
“You’re a genius, Futaba. Everyone says so.” Her Shadow’s voice was childlike, teasing. “But you’re not normal. You never will be. Every hug, every joke—they’re just pity in disguise.”
Oracle pressed her hands over her ears. “No…”
“Shhh. They love you anyway, don’t they? That’s enough. Just keep smiling and hacking for them, and maybe they’ll never notice how broken you are.”
Her Shadow smiled. “Pretend. Pretend until it’s real.”
“You’re a visionary, Haru,” her Shadow whispered. “You’ll lead Okumura Foods to greatness.”
The kindness turned brittle. “Or to bankruptcy. Your compassion is weakness, your empathy naïve. Business devours girls like you.”
Noir blinked rapidly, fighting the creeping dread.
“But maybe… maybe it’s better to let someone else lead. You could just smile and wave, stay the pretty face of a dead empire.”
Her grip on her scythe faltered.
“You’ll make Sae proud,” her Shadow murmured. “She’ll be grateful for all you’ve done.”
Queen’s jaw clenched.
“She’s trapped because of you. Her life ended when your father’s did.” The Shadow stepped closer, voice honeyed again. “But it’s alright. You gave her purpose. You’re her reason to wake up. Isn’t that love?”
Queen’s eyes flickered, torn between guilt and comfort.
The twin Shadows spoke in eerie harmony. “You’ve done so well, Lavenza. You’re almost human now.”
Their smiles sharpened. “But you’re not. You never will be. You exist because the Inmate willed it.”
Lavenza’s breath hitched, and one of the twins tilted her head kindly. “But that’s fine. You don’t need a soul of your own. You have his. That’s enough.”
Papillon’s pupils dilated, her resolve slipping.
Belladonna smiled serenely, blood dripping from her gloves. “You’ve changed. You fight for good now.”
Her voice dropped. “But redemption doesn’t erase what you’ve done. You still crave the thrill of manipulation, the power. You miss it.”
Lotus flinched, shaking her head. “No… I’m not that person anymore.”
“Of course not,” her Shadow soothed. “You’re better now. More refined. You choose your victims carefully.”
Lotus’s lips parted, unsure if it was a denial or confession.
His Shadow smiled, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “You’re their leader, their protector. The one they trust most.”
Then, without missing a beat: “You only protect them to feel worthy of their love. You need their dependence.”
Joker’s expression hardened, but the Shadow kept going. “Still, that’s what makes you strong, isn’t it? That need. Without it, you’d have nothing left.” Its grin widened. “So keep saving them, Akira. Again and again, until there’s nothing left of you but the mask.”
The fog pulsed with each cycle, the rhythm hypnotic. Lie. Truth. Lie. Truth. Lie.
And little by little, the Thieves’ stances softened. Panther’s flame dimmed. Noir’s scythe lowered. Oracle’s hands dropped from her ears. Even Joker’s breath grew shallow, his eyes glassy as Achlys’s laughter echoed faintly through the fog. “Yes…” the voice purred, layered and omnipresent. “That’s it… let go of what’s real. Isn’t it easier to believe the stories that comfort you?”
One by one, the Thieves’ reflections stepped closer—reaching out, smiling, kind.
The fog rippled like a living thing, swallowing color and sound until the world was nothing but whisper and shadow.
The lies had settled in like venom. You could see it in the Thieves’ eyes—unfocused, dulled, turned inward. The fog pressed close, heavy as a blanket, and the Shadows—their Shadows—began to change.
Their bodies twisted, bones stretching, faces smearing into something smooth and perfect—too perfect. Pale, veiled figures with hair like flowing ink and eyes that gleamed gold through the haze. Each one now bore the cold, serene beauty of Achlys. And in their hands—copies of the Thieves’ weapons, wreathed in smoky darkness.
Panther barely breathed as her Achlys-Shadow coiled her whip with a lazy flick. “Stop fighting it, Ann. You’re tired of being strong.”
The whip lashed forward—and suddenly a spark of blue light flared from Panther’s eyes. The lash wrapped around her arm—she yanked hard, dragging the shadow closer and snarled, “Maybe I am tired. But I’ve got people who remind me I’m more than pretty smiles and tight leather!”
Her flame erupted, shattering the Shadow’s dark form like brittle glass.
Comet’s Achlys-Shadow spun her cutlass, grinning. “They’ll always see you as second best. He’ll always love them more.”
The blade came down—and was met by a blazing cutlass of her own, igniting in radiant orange as Comet blocked the blow. “Maybe he does,” she said, grinning through the sting of her doubts. “But I’m not fighting for first place—I’m fighting with them.”
Her counterstrike sent the Shadow scattering into dust.
Vent’s Achlys-Shadow flicked the throwing disc with a dancer’s grace. “You’ll never belong, little foreigner. Just echoes and smiles, trying to sound local.”
The disc flew—only to be caught midair by Vent, her eyes now glowing with blue fire. “I don’t need to belong to prove I’m one of them,” she said, hurling it back. “I already am.”
The shadow's head dissolved in a flash of smoke and sapphire.
Dead-Eye’s Achlys-Shadow’s bow creaked, arrow drawn. “You can’t keep pretending the nightmares don’t own you.”
The string snapped—but Dead-Eye’s hand moved faster, nocking her own arrow and loosing it in the same instant. “I don’t pretend,” she growled. “I just refuse to let them win.”
The glowing arrow struck dead center, dissolving her mirror image into motes of light.
Vixen’s Achlys-Shadow raised her katana, its edge black as tar. “Every brushstroke, every canvas—you’re still his student.”
Vixen drew her own blade, letting its mirrored edge catch the blue glow rising from her feet. “Maybe,” she said softly, “but the art is mine now.”
The two blades met, scattering a storm of paint-like sparks before Vixen’s second swing cleaved through the illusion.
Aria’s Achlys-Shadow twirled a pair of dark yoyos, laughing. “You never stopped trying to be the perfect sister. You can’t fix what’s broken.”
The yoyos snapped forward—but Aria ducked, her own weapons glowing as she answered, “Then I’ll stop trying to fix her. I’ll just be there.”
The golden cords wrapped around the Achlys-Shadow’s wrists and tore her apart in a burst of light.
Kirin’s Achlys-Shadow’s bladed heels clicked as she stepped closer, the sound like razors on stone. “You danced over the careers you ruined. How graceful of you.”
Kirin’s eyes narrowed. Her heels gleamed as she spun, kicking the incoming strike aside. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making that right,” she said quietly. “That’s how I move forward.”
Her next kick went straight through her foggy double’s chest.
Futaba’s Achlys-Shadow giggled from behind its mask, fingers flexing like claws. “You’re the burden everyone carries so they can feel good about themselves.”
Futaba’s hands glowed with a blue circuit pattern as her visor flared to life. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m their problem—and they’re mine. That’s family.”
A pulse of neon light burst outward, scattering the phantom like pixels on a dying screen.
Noir’s Achlys-Shadow hefted the massive scythe. “You’ll lose everything your father built.”
The scythe swung—but Noir caught it on the blade of her own weapon, sparks flying. “Then I’ll rebuild it,” she said, voice calm but steady. “The right way.”
She shoved forward, sending the fog monster reeling before splitting it clean in two.
Queen’s Achlys-Shadow slammed her spiked gauntlets together. “You trapped Sae in your grief.”
The blow came fast—but Queen dodged it, the impact of the downward punch sending cracks through the floor. “She trapped herself,” she said, her red eyes blazing with conviction. “And I’m going to help her break free.”
The blue aura of her nuclear powers burst from her fists, consuming her double in its brilliance.
Caroline and Justine laughed, pages of the black Grimoire fluttering. “You’ll never be human. You’re a reflection in someone else’s dream.”
Papillon raised her own book, pages glowing azure. “Then I’ll write my own soul,” she whispered. “With their help.”
She slammed it shut—the explosion of blue feathers consumed the two Shadows in divine fire.
Belladonna swung her jagged-edge sword, dripping venom. “You’ll never wash the blood from your hands.”
Lotus’s own scepter blazed with golden light. “I don’t have to,” she said. “They saw the blood—and still took my hand.”
She thrust it forward, a wave of light obliterating the blackened mirror image.
At the center of it all, Joker’s Achlys-Shadow twirled his tonfas, eyes gleaming gold. “You’ll fail them again. You always do.”
The tonfa struck—and Joker met it with a cross-block, blue fire sparking between them. “I don’t have to save them,” he said, voice low but certain. “We save each other.”
He twisted, knocking the weapon aside, then drove his fist straight through the foggy doppelgänger’s chest.
As the echoes faded, all that remained was blue luminescence shimmering in the mist—one pulse, then another, each heartbeat syncing until the fog itself began to dissipate.
The Thieves stood in a loose circle, breathing hard but smiling through it. Panther’s hand found Comet’s. Queen’s rested on Noir’s shoulder. Oracle clung to Kirin’s sleeve. Dead-Eye and Vent hugged. Aria and Papillion reached for Lotus, who took both their hands with a soft smile. Akira exhaled as he stared at Achlys while Vixen stood beside him, her arms wrapped loosely around his waist. “We don’t need to lie to ourselves,” he said quietly, his voice carrying in the still air. “Our fears… our pain… it’s all real. But so is this—”
He looked around at the women beside him—all of them, their light still burning. “And that’s what makes it easy to carry.”
Achlys materialized again from the dim fog—her many reflections knitting themselves together until she stood whole before them. Her elegant, bone-white mask was cracked now, hair streaming like smoke. She regarded the Thieves with undisguised disgust, her golden eyes flicking over them like a disappointed teacher surveying unworthy students. “Touching,” she drawled, voice a silken hiss that filled the empty air. “Truly, I am moved. The little heroes embrace their flaws and think that makes them strong.”
She tilted her head, fingers brushing the air as if tracing their lingering blue light. “But what you fail to grasp,” she continued, voice rising with a bitter laugh, “is that it changes nothing. Humanity will always avert its eyes from truth. They crave the lie—the comforting, sweet-smelling delusion that everything is fine. They build their worlds on it, crown liars as saints, and burn those who dare to speak otherwise.”
Her voice hardened, echoing with layered tones now—rage, pity, and an almost devotional fervor. “You think you can tear away the veil? They’ll only stitch it back, tighter, prettier. You’ll see. You’ll all see.”
Before Joker could even open his mouth to answer, a sound broke through her tirade—
Footsteps. Measured, deliberate, descending the grand staircase that loomed at the far end of the golden hall. Achlys froze. Her entire form shivered, folding in on itself as she turned her head sharply toward the stairs. The fog around her dimmed to a tremble.
Then, almost reverently, she whispered, “...Mistress.”
The Thieves turned as one. From the top of the staircase, a figure emerged—hauntingly graceful, gliding rather than walking. Her skin was alabaster white, smooth as marble; her eyes shimmered like shifting jewels, color sliding between gold, violet, and crimson. Her hair fell in twin rivers of black and deep red, the two shades mingling like blood and ink. Draped around her was a simple palla—red as fresh roses, glowing faintly against the pink-and-gold mist that formed where her legs should have been. She seemed half-real, half-sculpted dream.
When she spoke, her voice was soft yet carried an authority that pressed into their bones. “That will be enough, Achlys.”
The fog recoiled as if obeying. Achlys bowed deeply, almost folding herself in half.
The Thieves instinctively stepped into formation, weapons raised. Joker stood at the front, eyes narrowing.
The ethereal woman’s gaze drifted toward him, lingering with unsettling calm. “You’ve come far, little tricksters,” she said, smiling faintly. “I am Apate… the Ruler of this Kingdom. The lie made flesh. The mask covering every truth your kind refuses to face.”
Her smile widened, serene but cold. “You are not yet ready to face me. Not until you understand why lies are sacred… why humanity needs them.”
With a graceful wave of her hand, the air shimmered. A barrier of molten gold and rose light sprang up at the base of the staircase, humming with power. It stretched floor to ceiling, radiant and unbreakable. “Our moment will come, Phantom Thieves,” Apate said softly. “But not today. Rest, recover, and reflect—if you can.”
She turned, mist swirling as she ascended the steps, Achlys trailing behind her like a dutiful shadow. In seconds, both vanished into the glow above, the sound of their passing fading like a sigh.
Silence descended. Joker approached the barrier, a faint glow of energy forming around his hand as he pressed his palm against it. The moment he did, the surface rippled—and a surge of static energy sent him skidding back a few feet, boots scraping the marble.
“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his hand. “No way through.”
The Thieves exchanged looks, weary but resolute.
Joker straightened, exhaling. “Then we pull back,” he said firmly. “Regroup, recover, and come back ready. She wants us to reflect?” He smirked faintly. “Fine. Let’s give her something to regret when we return.”
They nodded, one after another. Blue light began to gather around them as Joker pulled out his phone, its familiar chime cutting through the still air as a portal formed before them.
“Alright,” he said, voice steady as the world began to fade. “Let’s go home.”
And with that, the Thieves vanished—leaving behind only the faint echo of Apate’s laughter, soft and hollow, like a lie that wanted to be believed.
Chapter 46: Tearing The Veil
Summary:
The Thieves face the fog - and their fears
A mother wakes up
Chapter Text
The world reformed in a wash of soft blue light and heavy breaths.
Akira blinked as the distortion of the Metaverse gave way to the muted gold of evening sunlight spilling through the backstage windows of Rise’s concert venue. For a moment, he just stood there, letting the buzz of reality sink back in—the hum of speakers, the chatter of crew, the faint smell of hairspray and stage polish. He looked down at the phone in his hand, checking the time: 6:05 PM.
“Two hours until curtain,” he murmured.
That snapped everyone back into motion.
“Two hours?!” Ann yelped, grabbing her bag and dashing for the dressing rooms. “I’ve got to redo my makeup before the other dancers see me looking like I’ve been in a brawl!”
“You have been in a brawl,” Shiho said dryly, tying her hair back before giving Ann, Haru and Kasumi a teasing shove toward the corridor.
Ren gave a tired smile, straightening her top. “She’s not wrong though. We can’t let the concert fall apart because we look like we fought a small war.”
Akira chuckled softly as the girls scattered—some toward the stage, others backstage or the lighting booths. “Everyone to your stations,” he said, tone half-leader, half-boyfriend. “Keep your eyes peeled – we don’t know if there’s going to be more funny business.”
One by one, they nodded. There was a flurry of quick kisses and tight hugs—each of them brief but grounding after the chaos they’d just endured. Yukiko lingered for an extra heartbeat, her thumb brushing the edge of Akira’s jaw. “Don’t forget to breathe, love,” she whispered.
He smirked faintly. “You either, Yuki...”
Then they were gone, their parting footsteps echoing through the backstage halls, leaving Akira alone amid the clatter of equipment and the rising hum of the crowd outside.
The stage roared with the first notes of Risette’s performance. She appeared bathed in gold and violet lights, microphone in hand, stepping to the center with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times before—but something was different.
Akira watched from the side of the stage, scanning her movements, her expressions. The lyrics poured from her mouth—the beauty of lies, the weight of truth—but the way she carried herself was… lighter. More free. Her voice had the same haunting lilt, but it was tinged with her own presence, her own conviction, not the slightly mechanical precision he had noticed during last night’s concert. She was herself again, or at least… more so than he had seen.
Akira watched from the wings, headset crackling softly in his ear. “Ryuemi, how’s crowd acting?”
“Same like yesterday,” came the reply over the comms, the sound of waves of applause in the background. “Seems like they’re still under the Kingdom’s influence.”
“Morgane?”
“Things are looking normal here,” her voice chimed. “Rise’s stylists are losing their minds, but she’s keeping calm. Honestly? She’s glowing.”
“Futaba, Lavenza… anything?”
“Stable. No Metaverse interference, no distortion spikes. I think we can breathe a little easy for now,” Futaba reported, the relief in her tone barely restrained.
Akira’s gaze lingered on the stage, watching Rise throw her heart into another verse—her voice trembling slightly on the high notes. When she finished, the crowd erupted into cheers, waves of adoration crashing like thunder. Rise smiled and bowed low, soaking in the applause. But her eyes were alert as she scanned the crowd, almost as if she was searching for someone.
He filed the thought away—something to unravel later, when they weren’t in the middle of a sold-out concert teeming with mind-controlled civilians. For now, he focused on keeping the show running smoothly.
The night pressed on in a dizzying rhythm: music, lights, calls, coordination. And yet, through it all, Akira remained vigilant, shuffling between tasks and check-ins, careful to balance attention between the performance and the well-being of his team. Each smile from the girls backstage, each small glance exchanged, reassured him: they were holding together.
The night air was cool and heavy with the echo of cheers from Rise’s concert, the energy still lingering like fading sparks in the air. The Phantom Thieves moved through the city in an easy, tired silence— the tension of their earlier battles, as well as the tiredness from their work during the concert, beginning to seep from their shoulders. Neon lights reflected on puddles left from an earlier drizzle, painting their faces in streaks of violet and gold.
They walked in loose clusters—Ren and Makoto ahead, quietly discussing crowd logistics; Morgane trailing with Yukiko and Haru, their hands occasionally brushing; Ann sandwiched between Ryuemi and Shiho, arms linked; Akira a few steps behind them all, scanning the streets with that protective, unreadable calm of his.
For a while, there was only the rhythm of footsteps and the distant hum of traffic. Then Ann slowed. Stopped. Her breath hitched once—then again. She covered her face with both hands, shoulders trembling.
“Ann?” Shiho murmured, immediately at her side.
Ann shook her head, trying to laugh it off, but the sound broke halfway through. “I’m sorry, it’s just—” She inhaled sharply. “Sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, people only ever see me as the pretty face. Even when we’re fighting Shadows, even when I’m giving everything… I can feel it, you know? That I’m still the model, the object. Not someone strong.”
Ryuemi’s jaw clenched, and she pulled Ann into a hug. “You are strong, dumbass. You’ve faced down things most people couldn’t even imagine.”
Shiho joined in, wrapping her arms around both of them. “Your looks might get people’s attention, but your heart—your empathy, your fire—that’s what makes you unforgettable. We see that, always.”
Ann sniffled, smiling through tears. “Thanks… I needed that.”
They stood like that for a moment, a tangle of warmth under the city lights.
Then Shiho exhaled softly. “Since we’re… opening up, I guess…” She hesitated, her voice quieter. “I still have nightmares. About him. Sometimes it’s not even about what he did—it’s about what could’ve happened. And I wake up angry at myself. For being scared. For still letting him have that hold on me.”
Makoto stepped forward first, eyes soft but steady. “You’re not weak for feeling that way. You’re human.”
Ren placed a hand gently on Shiho’s shoulder, his tone calm but certain. “Every time you fight beside us, every time you smile—you’re proving that he didn’t win. You are brave, Shiho.”
Shiho let out a shaky breath, nodding. “I’m trying to believe that.”
A little silence followed—one of those fragile, sacred kinds that doesn’t need to be filled.
Then Morgane spoke up, her voice lower, almost embarrassed. “You know what’s funny? I’ve lived here for years, but I still feel like I don’t belong. Not fully. I’m not Japanese enough, not foreign enough. It’s like… I’m stuck in between.”
Yukiko reached out, looping an arm through hers. “Belonging isn’t about birthplace.”
Haru smiled softly. “It’s about where you’re loved.”
Kasumi nodded. “And you’ve got that with us.”
Morgane blinked fast, looking away—but her lips twitched upward. “You guys are way too sentimental,” she muttered.
Akira, who’d been silent through it all, finally stepped forward. The streetlamp behind him haloed his hair in silver light. His voice was quiet, almost too soft to hear.
“We’ve all got things that hurt,” he said. “But we don’t have to face them standing still. Let’s get back to the RV. We can talk more there—somewhere safe.”
No one argued.
The group gathered themselves—tired smiles, lingering touches—and began walking again, closer now. Shoulders brushed. Fingers found fingers. No words were needed. The distance between them had never felt smaller.
The RV was slowly transformed back into that cocoon of warmth and lamplight by the time the Thieves were ready to settle in for the night. Steam fogged up the little bathroom mirror as showers cycled through one by one, the sound of running water slowly giving way to hair dryers, murmured laughter, the occasional spritz of body spray wafting through the air.
When everyone had changed into nightwear—soft cotton, loose shirts, an occasional stolen hoodie—they migrated toward the rec room. Someone dimmed the lights, someone else threw extra blankets over the floor cushions. It became a nest of limbs and color—pajama-clad shoulders brushing, knees touching, shared warmth under a tangle of fleece and quiet sighs.
Akira sat cross-legged on the carpet, Lavenza leaning against his arm. Across from them, Ryuemi fiddled with the drawstring of her shorts, gaze downcast.
“I, uh… I’ve been thinking,” she began, voice low. “About whether I even belong here. With you guys. You’re all so—amazing. Futaba’s a genius. Makoto’s basically perfect. Ann’s a model. Yukiko, Hifumi, Kasumi—they’re prodigies. Haru runs a company, for crying out loud. And me? I’m just… me. Ordinary.”
For a second, silence. Then Hifumi, sitting closest, set her tea down and simply wrapped her arms around Ryuemi from the side, resting her chin on the other girl’s shoulder.
“You are extraordinary,” she said softly, “simply by being yourself. The rest of us might shine in different ways, but you’re the one who grounds us. Who sees us.”
Ryuemi blinked rapidly, trying for a smirk and failing. “That’s cheesy as hell.”
Hifumi smiled faintly. “I learned from the best.”
The room rippled with laughter, soft and easy. Futaba, who had been curled half under a blanket between Haru and Kasumi, shifted next. Her voice was small but steady. “I’ve got one too. Sometimes I… worry that my brain makes me a burden. That my quirks—my info dumps, my spirals, the shutdowns—just make things harder for everyone.”
Kasumi immediately reached for her hand. “Futaba, we choose to be here. You’re not a burden—you’re ours.”
Haru added, leaning over to tuck a loose strand of Futaba’s hair behind her ear. “And your quirks aren’t flaws. They’re part of what makes you so vibrant. You don’t weigh us down. You make us laugh. You make us better.”
Futaba sniffed, cheeks pink. “Okay, but if you guys keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna cry and short-circuit again.”
“Then I’ll fetch a towel,” Haru teased, gently booping her nose.
The mood stayed soft, mellow. Then Kasumi spoke, her voice trembling slightly. “I still feel guilty about Sumire. I wasn’t… there for her enough. I was so focused on trying to live up to everyone’s expectations that I didn’t see how much she was hurting. Now she barely talks to me, and it feels like I failed her.”
Morgane slid closer, hand finding Kasumi’s knee. “Sumi, don’t do that to yourself. You tried. That matters.”
Ann leaned in from Kasumi’s other side. “You can’t force people to heal on your timeline. Intention counts—and I’ve seen how much love you have for her.”
Kasumi let out a shaky laugh, swiping under her eyes. “You guys make it really hard to wallow in self-pity.”
“That’s the idea,” Morgane said dryly, bumping her shoulder into hers.
Finally, a hush fell as Lavenza’s delicate voice broke the stillness. “May I… share something too?”
All eyes turned toward her. She looked small but radiant in the amber light, blue eyes flickering uncertainly.
“I… I worry that I don’t truly belong among you,” she whispered. “That I am not human. That I lack what you all have—a soul. I feel love, but I fear it’s only mimicry. An echo of something I can never truly possess.”
The silence that followed was thick and reverent. Akira turned to face her fully. His hand found hers, fingers gentle but sure. “Lavenza,” he said softly, “you love us in ways no echo could. You choose to stay. You feel with us. That’s more human than most people ever manage.”
He brushed a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, voice dropping lower. “And that soul you claim not to have? It shines so brightly it blinds all of us.”
Lavenza blinked, eyes shimmering—and then she smiled. A real, luminous smile that seemed to ease the air in the room.
From there, the moment unraveled into warmth and motion—Futaba curled up with Kasumi and Haru, Hifumi still half-wrapped around Ryuemi, Ann braiding Morgane’s hair while Makoto dozed lightly against Ren’s shoulder. The quiet was punctuated by low murmurs, soft laughter, stolen kisses. Little ripples of affection that passed from one person to another—an endless loop of giving and receiving comfort.
The nest of blankets and bodies had gradually shifted—slowly, almost unconsciously—until the girls were all closer, shoulder to shoulder, hip to thigh. A natural current of touch passed between them: a hand tracing idle circles against someone’s back, a head resting on another’s shoulder, fingers brushing against fingers until they twined together. The soft rhythm of comfort, the language they all spoke fluently by now.
And at the center of it, inevitably, was Akira.
At first, it was just proximity—Ren leaning back against his knee, Futaba curled against his side, Ann and Makoto sitting cross-legged across from him. Then Kasumi shifted closer, tucking herself between his arm and Lavenza, while Morgane lazily slung her arm across his lap to reach for Ryuemi’s hand. One by one, they turned toward him, until their entire circle seemed to orbit around that steady, quiet heart at its center.
Ren was the first to break the hush. She looked up at him, eyes soft but searching. “I… We heard what your Shadow said to you, babe.” Her voice carried a careful weight, like something fragile and precious. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Akira exhaled, long and quiet, his eyes closing as if trying to find the words in the dark behind them. When he spoke, his voice was low and unguarded.
“My biggest fear…” he began, “is failing you all again.” His gaze flickered between them, full of guilt and affection in equal measure. “I was given another chance. One I still don’t understand how I earned. And this—” He gestured vaguely, helplessly, to the circle of them around him. “You all… I…”
For once, words betrayed him. The charming, unflappable leader couldn’t find a script for this.
Finally, he managed, barely above a whisper, “I love you all so much. Each and every one of you. The thought of losing even one of you—it terrifies me.”
Silence. Then movement—soft, instinctive, sure.
Ann leaned forward first, sliding her hand into his and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Ryuemi shifted closer until her forehead rested against his shoulder. Makoto placed a steadying hand on his back, while Haru brushed her fingers along his jaw. Lavenza moved into his other side, her small hand curling over his heart.
No one spoke at first; they didn’t need to. Their closeness said everything—trust, love, understanding, all overlapping and seamless.
Futaba murmured something unintelligible before nuzzling against his shoulder. “You’re stuck with us forever, Joker,” she said, the nickname almost a purr.
Kasumi nodded, her hand finding his on the other side. “We’re here because of you, not despite you.”
Hifumi added softly, “And if you stumble, we’ll catch you. Like you always catch us.”
A ripple of quiet agreement followed. Makoto’s voice, calm and strong: “Fear is natural. But love is what we’ve chosen, all of us. That won’t change.”
Morgane’s dry, affectionate murmur: “So stop brooding and accept that you’re stuck with us, okay?”
A few of them chuckled softly at that, the tension easing just a little. Haru brushed her thumb along his wrist, Kasumi leaned into his back, Morgane rested her forehead against his arm. It was a slow, wordless tide of closeness—trust made tangible.
The moment lingered, stretching into something deep and quiet. No grand declarations, no speeches—just touches and breaths and a shared promise to keep holding on.
Fingers found fingers. Foreheads rested on shoulders. Someone’s thumb traced lazy circles on an arm; someone else pressed a kiss to a cheek, to hair, to the back of a hand. Every small contact said what words couldn’t: I’m here. I’m staying. You’re not alone.
The night softened around them. The only sounds were the tiny rhythms of peace—the rustle of blankets, a sigh here and there, the faint creak of the RV settling. Skin brushed skin. Heartbeats slowed and synced, breaths evened out.
And as the last light dimmed, the Phantom Thieves drifted into sleep—entwined not just by touch, but by love, trust, and the unspoken vow that whatever waited in the Kingdom, they would face it together.
Morning found them slowly, like a blanket being pulled back by gentle hands rather than any kind of alarm.
A soft gold washed over the RV’s windows, the early Kyoto sun pushing through the haze. Outside, the city was quiet—too quiet, actually—and the air felt unnervingly dense, as though someone had draped the world in a damp, heavy cloth.
Inside, the Thieves stirred in a sleepy tangle of limbs, blankets, and bedheads that ranged from “cute puffball” to “should be classified as a natural disaster.”
Futaba was the first to verbalize consciousness. She sat up, hair sticking out in about four different directions, squinted at nothing in particular and grumbled, “When this is over, I’m booking… like… seven years of therapy.”
A few chuckles rose—Ann’s soft, Morgane’s muffled, Makoto’s tired but fond. Even Akira let out a warm huff of laughter as he rubbed his eyes.
But as he shifted, something flickered at the edge of his vision. A shimmer—so faint it almost looked like the air itself was glitching. He froze, watching it twist, thread, dissolve. Gold. Pink. Grey. Mixed like smoke that couldn’t decide on a color.
Slowly, carefully, he extricated himself from the warm pile of bodies—Kasumi murmuring sleepily as he slid out from under her arm, Haru instinctively nuzzling into Ryuemi when he moved, Morgane clutching a pillow like she intended to sue him for emotional damages.
He stepped toward the RV door and watched the shimmer again. Not dust. Not sunlight.
Wrong.
Behind him, one by one, the girls roused.
Makoto blinked blearily, then frowned the moment she saw it too. “That… isn’t normal.”
Kasumi sat up straighter. “It’s like the Palace fog but…”
“Prettier?” Ann offered.
“More ominous?” Haru added.
“Both,” Shiho decided, shivering.
Lavenza stood last, moving with that uncanny grace that always gave away the Velvet Room in her bones. She and Akira locked eyes—two halves of an unspoken recognition snapping into place.
Her voice was soft, but it carried. “The fog… it’s seeping in.”
No one argued. No one hesitated. The atmosphere had done that strange thing where it quietly drops the temperature of a room by a few degrees. Decision came naturally.
Makoto nodded sharply. “We go back in.”
The RV exploded into motion.
And by “exploded,” it was more like a coordinated scramble of very exhausted young adults trying to remember how pants worked.
Ann slipped into leggings and a hoodie while doing a surprisingly graceful stretch. Ren and Makoto were already tying shoes with military-level efficiency. Kasumi braided her hair in record time. Hifumi clipped her hair ornaments into place with practiced calm. Morgane shoved her legs into jeans and announced, “If something jumps us before coffee, I’m suing fate.”
Akira grabbed the emergency “breakfast we can eat while panicking” stash from the pantry: onigiri packs, protein bars, canned coffee. Futaba grabbed three cans and declared all of them “medically necessary.”
Minutes later, they were out the door, stepping into the shimmering air that seemed to curl around their ankles like mist with intentions.
Their walk through early-morning Kyoto was quiet, purposeful. The city hadn’t fully woken up yet—birdsong, the hum of distant cars, the faint scent of temple incense lingering on the breeze.
Up front, Akira, Makoto, Ren, and Hifumi fell into a low-voiced huddle, running through quick-fire strategy.
“If the fog’s reaching out, the Kingdom might be expanding.” Makoto murmured.
“Or leaking,” Hifumi noted. “Which could mean instability.”
Ren clicked her tongue. “Or it means Achlys is trying to drag us back before we’re ready.”
Akira popped open a can of coffee and handed another to Makoto. “Either way… we’re not waiting for her to finish the job.”
Behind them, the others walked in pairs—hands brushing, shoulders bumping, quietly bolstering each other’s resolve.
And together, the Phantom Thieves headed straight for Kyoto Muse… and the fog waiting just beyond.
Rise’s tour bus should have felt luxurious—plush seats, soft lighting, the faint scent of expensive perfume and new upholstery—but right now it felt like a shrinking box. The morning light leaked through the curtains in fractured beams, catching on the glitter of last night’s makeup she hadn’t fully washed off. Everything looked pretty. Everything felt wrong.
Her fingers trembled as she unlocked her phone, scrolling—not even seeing—until she hit Yu’s name. She tapped it. Pressed the phone to her ear. Held her breath.
Voicemail.
Again.
She hung up with a soft, choked sound. Her vision blurred. Her chest tightened, breath quick and shallow, like her body was trying to outrun itself.
She tried again.
Voicemail. Again. And again. And again.
By the seventh attempt, her hands were shaking so hard she nearly dropped the phone. She squeezed her eyes shut, shoulders curling in, a sob ripping loose before she could swallow it down. She forced a few shaky breaths, fingers digging into her thigh.
“Okay… okay, one more…” she whispered to no one.
She hit the call button again.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then—
“Rise?”
His voice. Calm, steady… but with a worn tension she could hear even through the speaker. He didn’t need to ask if something was wrong—he’d heard the panic in her breathing before he’d even said her name.
That was all it took.
Rise burst into tears.
“Yu... Yu, the fog—” she hiccuped, voice breaking, “the fog… she’s back… the fog is back—!”
“Rise.” His tone stayed level but gentle, the kind of anchored calm only someone who’d stared down gods could muster. “Hey. Hey. Breathe with me, okay? Slow. In… and out… it’s alright.”
“It’s not—I saw it—Yu, I saw it—” Her words tangled with sobs.
“She’s not back,” Yu said firmly. “Marie is still holding on. If she weren’t, the fog would be everywhere… not just flickering through one city.”
Rise squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping fast and hot. “It felt like her, Yu. I saw it and—my body just—” Her voice cracked again. “I can’t go through that again. I can’t.”
“I know,” he said softly. “I know you’re scared. But listen: you’re not alone. And you don’t have to ride this out by yourself. Call Sho—have him come to you. He’s close, right? Having someone there will help.”
She nodded automatically even though he couldn’t see her. “Okay…”
“And Rise?”
“…yeah?”
“Things may look bleak, but we’ll get through this. We always do. We just need to trust.”
Rise wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, breath still uneven but no longer collapsing. A tremor left her body on the exhale.
“Yeah…” she whispered. “Yeah, you’re right.”
They said their goodbyes, and Rise held onto the warmth of Yu’s reassurance even after the call ended. She lowered the phone slowly, staring out the window.
The fog coiled faintly against the glass—pink, gold, grey.
“Trust…” she murmured to herself, the word both fragile and resolute.
And she took a breath. A steadier one.
The Kingdom of Hidden Facades did not welcome them back. It attacked.
The moment the Phantom Thieves stepped through the warped golden gates, the fog surged like a living tide—golden static, pink shimmer, and oily grey threading together into a suffocating storm. Whispers slithered through the air, brushing against thoughts, tugging at doubts.
But the Thieves didn’t slow. Not today. “Eyes sharp, people,” Joker called, already slipping into motion. “Fog’s thicker. Shadows’ll use it as cover.”
“Cover this,” Dead-Eye muttered from the rear—then vaulted onto a broken streetlamp, drawing back her bow. “Lighting ’em up!”
Light arrows streaked skyward, then rained down like divine meteors, carving glowing holes into the fog. Shadows screeched as they disintegrated. Oracle whooped. “Dead-Eye going FULL angelic punishment mode! I feel like I should be confessing things!”
The archer didn’t break stance. “Start with the food wrappers you’ve been hiding behind the couch cushions.”
“YOU SAW NOTHING.”
That was all the warning before the fog burst, disgorging a dozens-strong mob of Shadows shaped like blurred silhouettes—reporters with distorted microphones, cameramen with tripod legs like spider limbs, sound techs dragging cable whips crackling with static.
“CONTACT!” Queen shouted.
Joker was already ahead of her. He slid into the crowd, tonfas flashing like silver lightning, breaking joints with fluid, brutal efficiency.
“Panther, Vent—heat them up!”
Panther cracked her whip, sparks cascading around her. Vent’s disk whirled, gathering wind in a tight spiral.
“Time for our signature collab, babe!” the blonde bombshell grinned. Vent threw her disk. Panther snapped her whip. Wind and fire collided in a roaring inferno that rolled across the street like a flaming typhoon. The Shadows’ screams were swallowed whole.
“Team Hot Girl undefeated,” Panther said smugly.
“We’re changing that group name later,” Comet warned flatly, zapping a group of Shadows with a blast of Wild Thunder.
“NO WE’RE NOT,” Panther and Vent said in perfect sync.
More Shadows surged in—bigger, heavier ones. Gold-plated brutes with news-camera heads and mechanical limbs.
“I’ve got these ones!” Kirin shouted, launching herself forward. Her heels clicked once—then she spun, the bladed edges of her shoes slashing in elegant arcs across metal. A giant Shadow toppled with a sound like a collapsing broadcast tower.
“Elegant violence never misses,” Vixen murmured appreciatively as she swept in beside her, katana slicing in minimalist, devastating cuts.
A monstrous wave of Shadows poured from the fog—
—and Hypatia rocketed overhead like a neon dragonfly. “Pew-pew, mother—!” The last word dissolves into excited cackle. Twin barrels spun. Light beams shredded the front ranks of the horde, carving glowing trenches in the ground.
“Try not to vaporize us, Oracle” Haru called sweetly as she cleaved a Shadow clean in half with her scythe.
“No promises!”
Joker darted back into formation, breath steady. “Aria, Lotus—up!”
Aria flicked her yoyos outward, strings blazing with Bless energy. Lotus extended her scepter, curse-light pooling at the tip. Papillion stepped behind them, grimoire opening in her hands.
“Triad cast, ladies,” she giggled.
The blast that erupted was blinding—white and violet spiraling into a devouring vortex that ripped Shadows apart with a thunderous implosion.
Kirin whistled low. “Textbook.”
“I call it our shiny black hole of friendship!” Aria beamed.
“Never call it that again,” Lotus murmured as she flicked out a bit of Shadow ichor from under her nails with a look of mild disgust on her face.
The Shadows kept coming—wave after wave, thicker than before, some crawling across walls, others bursting up from the ground like ink geysers. The fog pulsed with the heartbeat of something watching.
Queen ground her knuckles together. “They’re trying to wear us down before the Ruler.”
“Good luck with that,” Dead-Eye muttered, shooting a Shadow through the head as it leapt for Vixen. “We’ve had less sleep than this during midterms.”
Joker cut down three Shadows in a spinning arc, then pointed upward. “Dead-Eye—skyfall!”
Dead-Eye triggered an arrow that burst overhead in a radiant detonation, staggering the entire swarm. The group surged forward as one unified strike-force.
“Move! Don’t let them box us in!” Queen called.
They sprinted up the boulevard—dodging spectral camera flashes, smashing through writhing cables, leaping over crumbling golden pavement. Every few seconds another Shadow lunged out, and every time a Thief was there with a weapon, a spell, a hand pulling another forward.
They kept going. Together.
By the time the Broadcast House loomed out of the fog—tall, warped, shimmering with gold and static—the Thieves were breathing hard, sweat shining on their skin, adrenaline buzzing under fatigue.
But they were smiling. Every single one of them.
Joker slowed, turning to look at all of them with a small, fierce grin. “Good work… but we’re not done yet.”
He pulled a Soma from his pocket.
“Oh THANK GOD,” Oracle gasped.
“You’re my favorite person,” Panther declared dramatically.
“Move aside,” Noir said. “Let the man work.”
Joker crushed the Soma in his hand.
Healing radiance exploded outward—warm, gentle, renewing. Bruises vanished. Aches dissolved. Their lungs opened, their thoughts sharpened, their bodies steadied.
Comet rolled her shoulders with a groan. “Oh that’s the stuff…”
Aria stretched like a cat. “We can definitely keep going.”
Joker simply tucked his now-empty hand back into his coat pocket, and nodded once. “Alright.” He stepped forward, eyes fixed on the Broadcast House. “Let’s finish this.”
Fog clung to them like a second skin as they ascended—floor by floor, landing by landing.
Shadows still lunged from side doors or rose from swirling patches of mist, but nothing like the overwhelming onslaught outside. These were scattered, weakened, more like echoes than real threats. The Thieves dispatched them with practiced ease—Kirin’s kicks, Queen’s fists, Panther’s whip, Aria’s yoyos—like they were clearing debris on the way to something far worse.
By the time they reached the staircase to the eighth and final floor, they were breathing steadily, focused, sharpened. The spot where the barrier had once stood now lay open, fog curling inward like breath. Joker stepped forward, spinning one tonfa into his palm, the other already crackling faintly with anticipation. “This is it, girls,” he said, voice steady, controlled, but with that familiar electric undercurrent. “Time to end this.”
They crossed the threshold together.
And the world… warped.
The chamber was a hollow void of fog—pink, gold, grey, constantly shifting like a heartbeat trying to regulate itself. The floor was stable only because the mind insisted it must be. Walls pulsed with faint silhouettes of faces, then faded. Everything felt too close and too far at once.
A whisper curled through the haze. You’ve come so far… only to drown now.
Achlys emerged from the fog like a shape sculpted from mist—tall, lithe, her eyes glowing like violet lanterns swallowed by smoke.
“Children of harshness,” she murmured, voice layered with a dozen tones at once. “You cling to truth as though it has ever saved anyone.”
Panther rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna have to do better than moody ASMR.”
Achlys smiled—too wide. Then she snapped her fingers.
The fog erupted. Twisted versions of the Thieves lurched out—hollow-eyed, weaponed, distorted like smudged reflections in a warped mirror. But this time, the team didn’t hesitate.
Comet intercepted her doppelgänger mid-charge, slashing the warped cutlass aside. Lotus swept her scepter low, blowing apart two shadowy clones. Vixen bisected her reflection in a single clean stroke.
Dead-Eye dropped hers before it even took two steps. Papillion slammed her grimoire shut and obliterated her double in a burst of azure flame.
Within seconds, the chamber was quiet save for the whispering fog.
Joker twirled a tonfa and scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’re just a one-trick pony.”
For the first time, Achlys’ composure cracked. Her form rippled violently.
“You insolent little—” The fog shrieked.
Suddenly the floor tilted, the walls stretched, and the world skewed like a broken lens. Noir stumbled back—because Queen suddenly looked like a hulking Shadow brute. Aria’s yoyos rebounded wildly as the distance between her and her target warped. Dead-Eye’s arrows bent mid-flight, curving toward allies. Panther’s whip looked like a snake writhing for her throat. Oracle’s HUD flooded with contradictory warnings—friend or foe? illusion or real?
Voices whispered from every side:
She doesn’t trust you.
You will fail them.
You’re weak.
Let me show you a softer truth…
Let me show you what you want to believe…
Comforting lies washed in—soft, warm, sweet. Then harsh truths sliced through—cold, abrupt, merciless. The cycle built, twisting sense and logic until even the strongest started to sway.
Achlys laughed, low and velvety. “Yes… yes… you see? Lies can soothe… truths can shatter… and humans—”
“—rely on each other.”
The fog around Joker rippled. He straightened, shook his head, eyes sharpening with sudden clarity. His voice cut through the illusion like a blade: “Girls. Eyes on me.”
Each Thief snapped toward his voice—trust instinctual, bone-deep. The fog recoiled.
“Everyone!” Joker called. “Look at each other—not the lies. Trust the people right in front of you. Trust what you feel.”
The Thieves lurched, blinked, and slowly—one by one—snapped free of Achlys’ distortion.
Panther gritted her teeth. “Right. Let’s kick her ass.”
Queen cracked her knuckles. “On your lead, Joker.”
He grinned—sharp, reckless, absolutely unafraid now. “Follow my timing!”
He charged first, tonfas flashing as he barreled through a wave of distortion. The others fell in behind him—Noir’s scythe slicing open illusions, Dead-Eye firing through shifting fog, Aria and Lotus flanking with coordinated precision.
Achlys staggered back as hit after hit connected—real hits this time, not trick shots. Her fog frayed. Her outline flickered. “You—!” she hissed, stumbling, raw fury in her voice. “You should be drowning in doubt—”
“Yeah, well,” Joker cut in, striking her square in the chest with a charged blow, “we got tired of drowning.”
The momentum shifted hard—the Thieves pressing forward, Achlys forced onto the defensive for the first time as the chamber flickered with unstable light.
Fog ruptured around them in a violent spiral, as though the chamber itself were being sucked inside-out. Achlys shrieked—then her form stretched, snapped, and was yanked upward like a puppet on severed strings. Something descended through the haze. No footsteps. No weight. Just a silhouette of gold and rose sliding downward like a moon behind storm clouds.
Apate.
She touched down without a sound, her veil of refracting light glimmering in slow-motion waves. Achlys—what was left of her—twisted, warped, and was pulled into Apate’s waiting hand like smoke being inhaled. Apate absorbed her in a single effortless motion, as though she were nothing more than a scrap of fog drifting home.
The chamber dimmed. Even the fog seemed to hold its breath.
Apate exhaled softly. “Humans,” she said—and her smile was the kind of kind you could drown in if you weren’t careful. Her voice rang with a crystalline calm, tinged with delicate disappointment. “You chase truth as though it were a virtue. But truth is cruel. Truth abandons. Truth scars.”
Golden light rippled off her skin like oil on water.
“Lies,” she continued, “are warmth. Lies soften. Lies cradle. Lies give you the world you wish existed. A gentler world. A safer world.” Her eyes swept the Thieves, luminous and unbearably calm. “You call me false, yet you cling to illusion every day of your fragile lives. That makes me righteous. And it makes you… hypocrites.”
Panther snorted. “Lady, you wanna talk about hypocrites—?”
Joker lifted a hand, quiet but steady. His glare cut through the fog like a searchlight.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “We don’t cling to illusions. We fight for what’s real. And we face the truth—even when it hurts.”
Around him, the others straightened, battered but unwavering—Noir tightening her grip on her scythe, Queen planting her feet, Vixen stepping to Joker’s flank, Kirin rolling her shoulders like she was already warming up to kick a goddess in the teeth.
Apate tilted her head, amused. “Then drown in your precious reality.”
She raised her hand. Fog detonated outward in a blinding shockwave.
The entire battlefield twisted—walls bending like molten mirrors, the floor dropping in jagged pieces, floating debris spiraling upward in reverse gravity. Reflective planes refracted themselves into fractals, scattering shards of light that cut the room into impossible geometry.
Then the reflections moved. Dozens of Apates stepped out of the mirrored fog—gold and pink silhouettes splitting and multiplying like a kaleidoscope gone berserk. Some walked. Some floated. Some crawled along the walls like inverted shadows.
And all of them attacked. A slash of golden light cleaved the air—Papillon barely raised her grimoire shield in time. Lotus dodged as a reflection materialized behind her and lashed out with a spear of hard light. Dead-Eye fired upward, but her arrows struck one decoy after another as reflections kept shifting, refracting, disappearing.
The fog surged next, whipping itself into hazards—whirlwinds that tried to suck the Thieves in, tendrils of semi-solid mist that lashed out like striking vipers.
“Left—! No, right—oh crap, both!” Aria yelped as a tendril punched through the floating debris beside her.
But the worst assault came from inside. The fog whispered, and suddenly Queen’s vision flickered—her younger self in tears as her sister was berated by colleagues. Noir saw herself alone in her gilded cage again, every choice dictated by someone else’s ambition. Kirin saw the shame of her forced gravure shoot, her mother’s voice twisting in her ear. Oracle heard Sojiro’s words warped into something cruel. Comet saw her father’s cold gaze as he walked out of the door one last time. Lotus saw an empty bedroom and a locked door. Vixen saw Madarame’s shadow stretch toward her like it had never died. Papillion saw the guillotine’s blade hanging over her head.
Each hit—physical or psychic—pushed them back, breath by breath. A reflection slammed Noir through a wall of glass; Panther staggered as tendrils swarmed her; Kirin clutched her head as illusions flashed too fast to block.
This should have broken them. But tiny moments—barely-seconds—kept snapping them back.
A hand brushing a shoulder. A whispered, “I’m here.” A spark of Persona light grounding a spiraling mind. Joker grabbing Queen’s wrist and anchoring her as the world buckled sideways. Aria steadying Papillon when her knees threatened to give. Vixen slamming her back against Panther’s to keep them both upright. Kirin and Comet locking hands for one heartbeat—just long enough to breathe again. Dead-Eye’s voice cutting through the din: “Focus—on—us!”
The fog wavered. Apate’s reflections flickered.
Joker exhaled—sharp, almost a laugh—as he spun his tonfas. “She’s slipping,” he called, voice cutting through both illusions and fear. “Stay with each other. We break through together!”
Apate’s smile finally cracked. A hairline fracture of irritation—and something dangerously close to fear.
The battlefield convulsed like a dying star. Apate’s illusions thickened, splitting and multiplying into a labyrinth of blinding brilliance—walls folding in on themselves, floors fracturing into spinning plates of mirrored glass, reflections of the goddess lunging from every impossible angle. Fog tore itself into tendrils and blades, whirlwinds spiraled toward the Thieves, and memories—weaponized, sharpened—flooded their minds in dizzying waves. But then something shifted.
Something small. A breath shared. A shoulder braced. A hand grabbed just in time. A voice—someone’s voice—cutting through illusion, grounding another before the spiral took hold.
And one by one, the Thieves locked in.
Noir was the first to snarl through the psychic assault, swinging her scythe in a wheel of psychokinetic energy that cleaved a reflection clean in half. The glassy copy shattered into glittering fog.
Queen followed, jaw set, fists blazing with nuclear force as she sprinted forward and punched straight through a wall of condensed illusions—her gauntlets dispersing the fake world like fragile mist.
Dead-Eye took to a higher vantage—just a step, a leap onto floating debris—and loosed a storm of arrows that pierced three Apate copies mid-phase. Their forms exploded into pink-gold vapor.
Panther cracked her whip, each strike detonating illusions into sparks. “C’mon,” she growled, “Let me show you that I’m more than just a pretty face!”
Aria and Lotus synchronized without a word— Bless infused yoyos bouncing off floating shards to ricochet in impossible arcs, colliding with mirrored doubles at the precise moment Lotus unleashed a jet of Curse energy. The blasts ignited in a chain reaction, scattering reflections like burning leaves.
Kirin launched into a spinning series of kicks, cutting through tendrils like paper. Her bladed heels carved crescent arcs of light, slicing three reflections down before they even touched the ground.
Papillon tore her grimoire open; summoning Baal. “Vaccum Wave,” she commanded, voice trembling but fierce—and the gale-force burst that followed blew a corridor straight through the choking fog.
Oracle’s voice cut in through everyone’s comms, steady for the first time: “Illusions dropping! Push through!”
Together, the Thieves surged. And Joker—always the calm eye of the storm—charged at the front, tonfas crackling, carving a straight, fearless path right to Apate herself. He struck the goddess with a blow that shuddered through the entire space, knocking her back. Her illusions rippled wildly, losing form, losing cohesion.
Apate reeled. Her reflections shattered into static. The fog spiraled into a panicked cyclone around her.
“No—no—NO!” she shrieked, desperate now, fury fracturing her voice. “You cannot reject me! Humans need the lie! They beg for it! They—”
“Persona!” Joker’s voice rang out. And the Thieves answered in perfect unity.
A storm burst open across the battlefield—brilliant colors searing through the fog as twelve Personas manifested at once:
Justicia, Artemis, Uzume-no-Mikoto, Astraea, Hypatia, Circe, Teuta, Ishtar, Eurydice, Zenobia, Morrigan — and Satanael’s power flickering like dark lightning behind Joker.
Their combined presence shook the air, magic and elemental force spiraling into a cataclysmic convergence.
“Everyone!” Joker called. “On my mark!”
Apate let out one last warped scream.
“MARK!”
Twelve Personas attacked at once— a conflagration of ice, fire, light, curse, wind, nuclear, psionics, and the jagged brilliance of rebellion’s true form.
The combined blast tore through the illusions, through the fog, through Apate’s gilded armor of deception. Light swallowed the chamber whole. Pink-gold haze evaporated in a single, blinding flash.
When the world settled… when the dust drifted down like pale snowfall…
Apate was gone. And in her place, kneeling at the center of the ruin, was Shadow Saeko, sobbing into her hands—small, broken, and finally exposed. The Thieves stood silent around her, absorbing the weight of it—the real cost beneath all the fog and lies.
The harsh white light of a hospital room. The shrill, unending scream of a heart monitor.
Saeko Shinbun clutched her daughter’s limp hand, shoulders heaving as she begged the universe to rewind time. “Sora… Sora, please—please, baby, come back— I’m sorry, I’m so sorry— I shouldn’t have told the truth— please—!”
She pressed her forehead to Sora’s fingers, kissing them frantically like her love alone could restart a failing heart.
Nurses burst in, trying to pull her back, but Saeko clung with a terrified strength only grief can give.
“DON’T TAKE HER FROM ME—SORAAAA—!”
It took an orderly—a large man with gentle hands—to finally guide her away. Saeko’s sobs echoed long after she vanished down the hallway.
Silence swallowed the room.
For a heartbeat.
Then—
“Ssssssooooo ssssaadddd…”
A figure materialized from the corner of the room—more shadow than flesh, their form thin and crooked, like the outline of a nightmare barely choosing to exist.
“Sssshe dessserved better…” Their whisper slithered through the air. “Human parentssss… truly are—”
The sentence died halfway. Because they were already bending down, bony fingers closing around an urn tucked discreetly at the foot of Sora’s bed. Intricate carvings glowed faintly along its surface.
“Masssster will be pleassssed,” the figure hissed, tracing the lines like they were touching a lover’s cheek.
And with a ripple— They disappeared.
The room went still. Two seconds passed. Three—
beep…
A tiny sound. Weak. Fragile.
beep… beep…
Sora Shinbun inhaled, chest rising as her eyes snapped open.
Rise sat curled up on the plush leather seat of her tour bus, phone clutched in both hands like it was the only thing tethering her to reality. Her breath hitched as the fog outside the window dissolved into nothing.
“It’s gone…” she whispered. Then louder—raw with disbelief and relief all tangled together: “The fog… it’s gone…”
Yu was still on the line. Steady. Familiar. Her anchor.
Rise sniffled hard, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Yu… Yu, has—has Marie-chan woken up? Is she better? Can I talk to her?”
There was a warm chuckle—Yu’s signature you’re safe laugh. Then a startled yelp.
“RiseyoustupidsexymoronIDIOTwhyareyounotHERE??!!”
Marie’s furious screech exploded through the speaker, fast enough that Rise actually pulled the phone back like it might bite. Her breath caught—and then she burst into relieved laughter, shoulders shaking.
“Marie… oh god…” Rise pressed a hand to her forehead, grinning through tears. “I’m so glad you’re back with us. I’m sorry I’m not there to give you a big hug and kiss, but I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’d better,” Marie huffed, her tone dripping with familiar irritation-softened-into-affection. “I need my Idol kisses after nearly dying, thank you very much.”
Rise snorted. “Drama queen.”
“Hypocrite.”
The two slipped easily into their usual rhythm—bickering, teasing, soft little confessions and reassurances braided together between breaths. Marie grumbled about Yu fussing over her, Rise promised multiple future kisses, and Yu in the background muttered something about needing earplugs.
Finally, the warmth settled. Rise blew a shaky breath out and hung up the call.
When she looked up, Sho was still sitting in the corner of the bus, legs kicked out, a box of raisins in his lap. He raised a brow, unimpressed but listening.
“Well,” Rise said, wiping the last of her tears with a tiny smile. “Looks like we were right to trust.”
Sho popped another raisin into his mouth, chewing like someone contemplating war. “Uh-huh.”
“And now,” Rise continued, leaning back with an exhale that felt like release, “we just need to figure out who the Phantom Thieves are…”
Sho’s grin stretched slow and sharp. “Oh, that part’ll be fun.”
The fluorescent lights of the Odaiba lab flickered with a low hum, cutting sharp reflections across polished steel and glass. Technicians sprinted between consoles, their voices overlapping in tense bursts—status updates, pressure readings, recalibrations shouted over each other. Warning lights pulsed amber, then steady white, as the massive containment tank at the center of the chamber came online.
Behind the reinforced observation glass stood three men—Shido, stone-faced and coiled like a serpent; Maruki, hands clasped tightly behind his back, eyes glued to the tank with a mixture of dread and reverence; and Kouetsu Kirijo, calm and composed, the faintest glimmer of anticipation softening his features.
A technician in a hazmat suit approached the tank’s side hatch with deliberate care. In his arms: Saeko Shinbun’s urn.
The room stilled. The hatch opened with a hydraulic hiss. The technician slid the urn into the chamber slot, sealed it… then turned the release handle. The urn cracked instantly. A sound like shattering porcelain filled the chamber—followed by a rush of pink and gold luminescence spilling into the fluid-filled tank like a blooming nebula. The figure suspended inside twitched, the glow washing over her skin, sinking into it, rewriting something essential.
Monitors spiked. The tank vibrated. Shido’s lips curled into a thin, hungry smile. Maruki took a step back, breath caught in his throat. Kouetsu Kirijo didn’t move.
Within the tank, Mitsuyo Togo’s eyes fluttered—once, twice—then opened fully. Brilliant. Ancient. Terrifying. She turned her gaze toward Kouetsu with perfect, deliberate clarity.
His expression softened with something almost like tenderness. “Izanami…” he murmured, voice reverent, almost devotional. “It is wonderful to see you once more.”
Chapter 47: Adagio For The Apathetic
Summary:
The Thieves travel to Osaka and get right to work
A few things come to light in Odaiba
And a certain Inspector is on the hunt...
Chapter Text
Phones rang. Keyboards clattered. Someone in the back was having an argument about whose turn it was to refill the copier toner (and based on the emotional intensity alone, this dispute was not going to end peacefully). A single figure glided through all this chaos—moving with purpose, cutting through the bustle the way a shark cut through a school of fish. Early to mid 40s. Dark, shoulder-length hair that said he didn’t have time for barbers unless he was interrogating them for information. Grey eyes, goatee, rimless square glasses. Black suit, black tie, black dress pants—clean, crisp, and absolutely slept in because he was definitely that guy. A turquoise button-up peeked out from underneath, the single concession that suggested he might still experience joy.
He carried two cardboard coffee cups. One for him. One for the only person he feared slightly more than he feared God: his boss. He slipped into the Chief’s office without knocking—because you didn’t knock when the Chief already heard you approaching and judged your footsteps.
The Chief looked carved from mahogany and expectations: Sharp features, hair pulled into a braided bun tight enough to qualify as structural engineering, gold glasses catching the overhead lights like a verdict. He set one coffee on her desk with the solemnity of a priest offering communion. She nodded once—just once—then slid a thin folder across the desk. Not thick. Not heavy. Which made it worse. Thin folders meant delicate, political, or explosive problems.
He opened it casually, like he’d seen a hundred just like it.
A quick skim.
A glance up.
A sip.
A single, silent nod.
No questions. No clarifications. Just the kind of brisk professional understanding between two people who’d worked together long enough to skip the “are you serious?” phase. He finished his coffee, tossed the cup into the bin like it had personally offended him, bowed deeply, and walked out. As the door clicked shut behind him, he pulled out his phone. His expression softened—just a little—like a mask slipping. He pressed call.
After one ring, he said:
“Ma, it’s me… Yeah. Listen—can you watch Akane for the next few days? I need to go to Osaka urgently…”
The hallway swallowed the rest of his sentence as he walked away—into whatever mess that slim little folder had promised him.
The RV felt heavy with exhaustion—the air thick with the collective groans of girls who had, the night prior, fought a goddess of deception and then immediately been shoved back into concert work like over-worked idols. Pillows were clutched, blankets were tangled, and several members made noises that could best be described as “mourning doves in distress.”
Ann groaned into her pillow. Ryuemi rolled off the bunk with the grace of a dying seal. Shiho stretched, then immediately regretted stretching. Yukiko blinked blearily like someone who’d gone to bed fully intending to die. Futaba looked like she’d been unplugged and replugged. Kasumi moved like every muscle in her body had filed for divorce. Ren? Ren was… well, Ren. Too pretty to function this early, but functional nonetheless. Hifumi remained gracefully exhausted—like a noblewoman politely declining consciousness. Haru looked like someone who needed coffee intravenously. Makoto was attempting to sit upright with sheer force of will and a spine of determination, but even she winced. Morgane? Morgane was staring at everyone with a murderous glare that said, “If anyone speaks above 15 decibels, I will end you.” Even Lavenza looked miserable as she opened her eyes.
And then there was Akira. Standing in the kitchenette, bright-eyed, aproned, humming softly as he whisked eggs. He looked—unfairly—well-rested. Fresh. Cheerful.
Naturally, all the girls hated him for it.
Ann squinted at him. “Why do you look like you’ve had eight hours of beauty sleep and divine blessings?”
“Mm?” he said, cheerfully flipping an omelet. “Oh, you know. Healthy lifestyle. Good habits. And the fact that you all looked adorable drooling on each other.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the group of death-warmed-over girlfriends. “And by the way—nobody gets a kiss,” he added lightly, “until teeth are brushed.”
Every girl in the RV gave him the same synchronized dirty look. It was honestly impressive. But they still dragged themselves toward the bathroom in a zombie conga line. Five minutes later, they returned looking significantly cleaner—and significantly more kiss-seeking.
Akira smirked. “Much better.”
Morning kisses were dispensed. Several in ways that made Morgane call it “unsanitary PDA” while glaring at Ren and Ann specifically.
Breakfast followed soon after—eggs, rice, miso, fruit, and enough coffee to revive the dead. The Thieves collapsed around the RV table, plates in hand, chewing like famine victims.
“It’ll only take an hour to get to Osaka,” Shiho said around a yawn. “So I vote we leave early afternoon.”
Everyone nodded with the solemn enthusiasm of tired people agreeing to nap. Then Futaba’s hand shot up like a rocket. “Ooh! If we’re not in a hurry, can we try maiko henshin?”
The other girls froze… then turned… then grinned like she’d just suggested they rob a candy store.
“I’m so down for that,” Ann said, stretching her arms overhead.
Yukiko’s eyes sparkled. “It’s perfect for Kyoto…”
Kasumi practically vibrated. “I’ve always wanted to try it…”
Ren nodded with an excited little smile. “That’s a great idea, ‘Taba.”
Haru clapped her hands softly. “We’ll look so elegant…”
Hifumi looked intrigued. “A traditional transformation sounds… delightful.”
Makoto blinked sleepily but smiled. “I wouldn’t mind. It might be relaxing.”
Lavenza turned to Futaba, head tilted like a curious cat. “What is ‘maiko henshin’?” she asked, enunciating it perfectly but with absolutely zero understanding.
Futaba lit up like a neon sign. “Oh! Oh!!” she exclaimed, bouncing in her seat. “It’s when you get to dress up and be transformed into a maiko—like a trainee geisha! Full kimono, full makeup, full hair, full photo shoot! It’s like—like—like magical girl cosplay but historical and gorgeous and girly and we’re doing it!!”
The other girls nodded enthusiastically behind her like her hype squad.
Akira… paused mid-bite. “...Wait,” he said slowly, “does this mean I’m getting left alone in the RV?”
Ren kissed his cheek. “You’ll live.”
Ann patted his shoulder. “We believe in you.”
Morgane smirked wickedly. “Try not to burn anything down while we’re gone, mon cher.”
Akira stared at the sea of excited girlfriends. Then sighed dramatically. “...Fine. But I’m getting pictures.”
Ren grinned sweetly. “We’ll make sure of it.”
The studio sat tucked between two quiet Kyoto side streets—white paper lanterns swaying gently outside, soft shamisen music drifting from within, and a hand-painted sign offering Maiko Henshin in elegant brushstrokes. The Phantomettes stopped in front of it as a unit, bleary exhaustion forgotten in an instant.
Futaba bounced on her heels. “Okay, okay, I know I said I was excited before, but now I’m excited-excited.”
Ann hooked an arm around her. “We noticed.”
Ren cupped her cheeks, eyes sparkling. “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die. I’ve always wanted proper photos in kimono—!”
Yukiko let out a soft, reverent sigh. “This is… honestly, I feel like I’m coming home.”
Kasumi clasped her hands. “My mom always talked about doing something like this with me and Sumire. I’m really glad I get to do it with all of you.”
Makoto smiled warmly. “And what better souvenir for Osaka than looking absolutely stunning?”
Haru giggled behind her hand. “Akira won’t know where to look first…”
Ryuemi smirked. “Oh, I know exactly where he’ll be looking.”
Hifumi nodded serenely, though her eyes gleamed with competitive fire. “We must naturally ensure that each of us captures his attention uniquely.”
Shiho cracked her knuckles. “I call dibs on going first—before my muscles remember they’re mad at me.”
Lavenza struck a dramatic pose in front of the door, like Futaba had taught her. “Ladies… let us become ART.”
The transformation process was—unexpectedly—fun chaos. Makeup brushes swirled. Powder puffed. Hairpins chimed as they were arranged. Silk rustled like whispered secrets as the staff wrapped each girl in layers of fabric and elegance. It took less than five minutes for the entire staff to fall in love with them.
When Yukiko stepped out first—hair styled with a lacquered kanzashi, kimono a deep ember-red with maple motifs—the room briefly forgot how to breathe.
“Oh—oh my goodness,” a stylist murmured. “You look like you walked out of a painting.”
Yukiko blushed, but her smile shone.
The photographer scrambled for his camera. “Please—please stay exactly like that—!”
Shiho followed, dressed in soft indigo with a crane pattern. She moved with a gentle grace that made everyone quiet.
Kasumi twirled out next in a pastel blossom kimono, absolutely glowing. Ann teased her relentlessly until Kasumi puffed her cheeks—which only made her cuter.
Then Futaba strutted out in a bold saffron-and-crimson ensemble, looking like a feral gremlin princess who had just unlocked her final form. The photographer nearly tripped backing up for a better angle.
Makoto emerged with poised beauty—calm, elegant, and devastatingly photogenic. Hifumi stepped out like she’d been born for the stage—controlled, graceful, regal. Ren emerged in soft lavender and butterfly motifs, shy but radiant. Haru was sweetness incarnate—warm, peach-colored silk floating around her like petals. Morgane chose deep blue and silver—sharp, dramatic, mysterious. She tilted her head and the photographer made an embarrassing squeak.
Ryuemi walked out next, calm but radiant, her kimono a soft pink adorned with swallows in flight, hairpins glinting. The photographer leaned forward. “You… wow. Incredible.”
Lavenza followed, her platinum-blond hair catching the light, kimono a muted violet with subtle starlight embroidery. The room quieted for a heartbeat, caught between awe and admiration.
Ann, finishing last, came out in fiery vermilion with gold flowers, every inch the star she always was. The photographer held up a hand. “I’m going to need a second camera. And maybe a paramedic.”
Once they were all dressed, the girls took turns teasing, posing, and hyping each other. The energy in the studio skyrocketed.
“Futaba, tilt your head—no, less gremlin, more mystical,” Makoto instructed.
“I AM a mystical gremlin!”
“Ann, stop flirting with the camera,” said Shiho.
“I can’t help it if she likes me!”
“Morgane, can you… stop trying to smolder? You’re going to set the backdrop on fire.” Haru giggled.
“It is not my fault the camera is weak.”
Ryuemi laughed softly, adjusting her sleeve. “I… think I’m going to enjoy this more than I thought.”
Ren gave her a gentle nudge. “I think we all will, Ryuemi. The fun is in sharing it together.”
Lavenza kept trying to help everyone adjust their kimono until Kasumi physically turned her toward the camera. “Your turn, sweetheart!”
Hours later, the girls sat on a low bench outside the studio, dressed again in their regular clothes but buzzing with excitement, sharing snacks while reviewing the sample shots. Every shot was stunning. Every girl looked ethereal. And every picture radiated something unmistakable: their bond. Their growth. Their joy.
Ann nudged Futaba. “Think Akira’s going to survive getting an entire album of all of us dressed like this?”
Futaba grinned wickedly. “Oh, he’s gonna short-circuit like an old TV.”
Kasumi’s cheeks flushed pink. “We’ll… give it to him after the show tonight, right?”
Yukiko nodded. “It’ll be a beautiful memory for all of us.”
Makoto folded her arms thoughtfully. “And a reminder of what we all mean to each other.”
Hifumi smiled. “And a promise of the future we’re building.”
Ren tapped her foot lightly, eyes shimmering. “I can’t wait to see his face…”
Ryuemi stretched, smiling despite herself. “I suppose I should practice my dramatic poses for when he sees my pictures.”
Lavenza flipped her hair. “He will perish of beauty. As he should.”
Shiho checked her watch. “Girls? We should head back now.”
The twelve of them linked arms and headed back toward the RV, excitement bubbling through fatigue, bonded more tightly than ever.
The girls spilled back into the RV in a whirl of leftover laughter—only to find Akira crouched over the stove, sleeves rolled up, looking entirely too industrious for someone who was supposed to be taking it easy.
He had just reached for the cutting board when twelve shadows fell over him.
He froze.
Ann crossed her arms. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“...making lunch?” he tried, with the same doomed tone as a man explaining himself to a firing squad.
“Tch. No.” Makoto stepped forward, arms crossing with perfect student-council-president menace.
Kasumi pointed at him like an offended schoolteacher. “You promised you’d rest.”
“And you lied,” Hifumi said, narrowing her eyes in a way that made him visibly reconsider his life choices.
Shiho cracked her knuckles. Ren tightened her ponytail. Morgane somehow managed to look cute and judgmental. Even Lavenza’s usually-soft gaze had sharpened into a tiny, celestial laser pointer of disappointment.
Akira opened his mouth.
Twelve pairs of eyes narrowed in unison.
He closed it again. “…I’ll… sit down.”
“Good call,” Haru said sweetly.
Lunch ended up being a chaotic, borderline-illegal mixture of styles: Haru chopping vegetables like a benevolent empress, Makoto policing portion sizes, Shiho and Yukiko giggling over miso, Ann and Ren trying to flambé something they absolutely should not have flambéed, Ryuemi giving commentary like a sports announcer, Kasumi twirling between tasks, Hifumi quietly perfecting the plating, Morgane guarding the spices, Futaba taste-testing with zero restraint, and Lavenza—of all people—brewing coffee like a serene Victorian ghost haunting a café.
The meal tasted like love, mild aggression, and questionable teamwork.
Halfway through lunch, Akira’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the caller ID.
“Rise?” he said, answering.
Her voice crackled through the speaker, bright as ever. “Hey! Just letting you know I’m heading to Osaka now. Don’t rush—seriously, it’s like an hour from Kyoto. Just get there before six, ‘kay?”
“Got it,” he said. “We’ll be there.”
The girls waved, shouted greetings, and Futaba even tried to hijack the call before Rise hung up, laughing.
Afterward, everyone drifted into that pleasant, lazy lull that follows a big shared meal. A few lounged on the RV’s couches, others sprawled on cushions or played with the props from their maiko shoot—hairpins, fans, stray bits of glitter that somehow ended up everywhere. Akira leaned back with a sigh, finally letting himself unwind, and the girls kept a subtle, quiet watch on him, as if making sure he didn’t try to ninja his way back into ‘being helpful’.
By two, they piled into the RV and set off. The trip to Osaka passed quickly—sunlight flickering between buildings, Futaba DJing questionable music choices, Ren swatting her hand away from the volume controls, and Morgane loudly threatening to jump out the window if anyone played the “Kamoshida Diss Track” again.
Around 3 p.m., the RV rolled into the lot behind Osaka-Jo Hall, parking among equipment trucks and polished tour vans. The venue towered ahead—gleaming, huge, electric with the promise of upcoming concerts.
Akira stretched as he stepped out. Then he noticed Lavenza. She’d gone still. Not frightened—never frightened—but alert in that ancient, uncanny way that reminded them she was not merely a girl with a book.
Her eyes glimmered gold.
“There is one here…” she murmured.
The air seemed to shift.
Akira’s jaw tightened, though he’d clearly been expecting this. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
He turned back to the rest of the team. Ann’s shoulders slumped. Makoto exhaled slowly. Haru pressed her lips together. Even normally-breezy Ryuemi looked resigned.
Akira took a steadying breath and spoke quietly. “Alright, you all know the drill. Eyes peeled. No wandering off alone.”
A chorus of nods answered him. The fun of the morning receded like a tide.
The room breathed dimness, the kind that didn’t simply linger but settled—like a heavy blanket pressed over the walls. Only the laptop’s pale blue glow carved a shape out of the gloom, catching on the edges of papers strewn across the desk like discarded feathers. Each page was crowded with frantic lines—character silhouettes, half-finished concepts, hastily scrawled notes looping into spirals of self-correction. A battlefield of ideas she never let see daylight.
At the center of it all sat a young woman, slight and small, swallowed in a black hoodie trimmed with orange. The sleeves of her blue shirt peeked past the cuffs, fingers tapping anxiously against the keyboard. Her black hair—streaked with faint, dyed accents—hung in soft, uneven curtains around her face, bangs nearly brushing her glasses as she leaned closer to the screen.
Hikari Fukuen.
The name wasn’t spoken aloud, but it pulsed through the room nonetheless—etched on every plaque, every framed certificate, every trophy lining the wall beside her. Accolades from the manga world, shelves of gleaming recognition. Awards many artists would kill to touch.
Hikari barely glanced at them. Her eyes were fixed on the message board glowing up at her.
“Hikari-chan’s work is as brilliant as ever, but it seems derivative.”
“I love her series, but it’s like she can only tell one story.”
“Fun, but… predictable. Formulaic.”
“Wish she’d try something fresh.”
Hundreds of comments. More every time she refreshed. A tide of polite disappointment and faint condescension dressed as critique. She exhaled—long, slow, deflating. She rubbed her thumb across her brow, smudging graphite she never noticed was there.
Her gaze slid sideways, toward the one object on her desk that wasn’t paper or tech.
The urn. Teal enamel, intricate orange filigree curling along its surface like captured flame. The metal caught the laptop’s glow in shivering reflections. It was beautiful in a way that felt deliberate—handmade, meaningful. Loved.
Hikari reached out, fingertips brushing the curved design almost absently… almost ritualistically.
“Why change what works?” she murmured, so softly it barely counted as sound. “If I try something new and they don’t like it… if they hate it…”
She swallowed, throat tightening. “I don’t want them to hate me.”
For a moment, the room held its breath. Then—just barely—the urn pulsed. A faint, internal shimmer. A heartbeat that didn’t belong to any earthly vessel. Hikari’s shoulders slumped in relief, as though reassured.
Shohei Sujimura stalked through the narrow, sterile corridors of the Odaiba laboratory, every footstep snapping sharply against the tile flooring. The sound echoed like gunshots in the emptiness, feeding the simmering irritation already twisting in his gut.
He was in a foul mood — violently so. He hated being kept in the dark. Hated being told to wait. And whatever “Project Revival” was, it was big. Big enough that Father — his real father, the only one who mattered — was keeping details from him.
Father never kept secrets from him.
Never.
His jaw flexed as he passed through another set of automatic doors, down another fluorescent-lit hallway that hummed with that faint, maddening buzz he despised. Eventually he turned into the room he had started calling the Meat Locker.
Not out loud. Not to a soul.
But the name fit.
Steel racks, cold lights, and seven vertical tanks once lined the room like grotesque trophies. Only five remained occupied now — The Painter and The Mother had been transferred after awakening, tucked away in another wing where he didn’t have to hear their breathing through the glass.
Shohei approached the first tank and stopped.
Kunikazu Okumura bobbed lifelessly within, face slack, hair drifting around him like strands of ink.
His ex–future father-in-law.
The old irritation tightened his chest. Haru Okumura’s name brushed across his mind like a spark across dry tinder — enough to reignite one of his favorite fantasies of revenge. He imagined her terrified, cornered, helpless beneath his control, and a slow, ugly smile crept across his face.
Shame Father had put her off-limits for now.
Not forever.
He dragged his thumb across one of the tube’s metal braces, forcing his thoughts back into a simmer. He’d find a way to blow off the tension later — Oleander was always eager enough when he needed relief.
He forced himself onward, pacing to the next tank. This one held a woman he did not know personally but had heard plenty about. And even suspended in the nutrient solution, she was striking. Long, wavy dark-gray hair fanned weightlessly around her shoulders; pale porcelain skin; a figure that looked sculpted rather than grown. Her eyelids remained shut for now, hiding the nearly translucent grey eyes he’d heard described.
Apparently she was the little sister of some Kyoto Police hotshot — “The Wolf,” they called him.
Shohei grinned, slow and wolfish. He pressed a hand against the glass, leaning in as though whispering to someone already listening. “Oh, sweetheart… once you wake up, we’re going to get very well acquainted.”
He chuckled, low and mean, turning away as the lights thrummed overhead. “Who knows,” he mused as he walked toward the exit, “maybe you’ll even enjoy spending some time with Oleander and me…”
His laughter followed him down the corridor, echoing distantly like something feral loose in the dark.
Backstage at Osaka-Jō Hall hit them like a living beehive — all sound, color, and frantic, choreographed chaos. Stagehands zig-zagged through rolling crates; the backing dancers stretched and spun through warm-ups; lighting rigs hummed as engineers tapped out final checks; wardrobe staff hustled entire forests of clothing racks toward dressing rooms with the grim determination of people who’ve survived enough live shows to fear nothing short of the apocalypse.
At first glance, everything looked… normal.
Normal enough that the Phantom Thieves loosened just a fraction. The girls exchanged small nods, split into their assigned groups, and got to work.
Ann, Kasumi and Haru were folded into the cluster of backing dancers almost immediately. Ann warmed up with them. Kasumi flowed into stretches with perfect form. Haru helped carry a portable mirror panel to the practice corner. Everything looked normal.
Except… every dancer’s expression seemed faintly glazed, their pep curiously dim. When Ann mentioned a new transition move she and Kasumi had discussed with Rise at the end of the last show, one of the senior dancers waved it off with a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “Better not complicate things. The old routine works. No point trying something untested.”
Kasumi tried a gentle suggestion next, a graceful bow of deference before offering her idea about adjusting a rotation pattern. Again the same reply: “We already know the winning formula.”
Haru’s comment about maybe incorporating some of Kanamin’s newer choreography drew a chorus of polite but empty chuckles. “New stuff risks backlash. Let’s just stick to what the public expects.”
Each answer sat like mist in their veins — thin, cloying, subtly wrong.
Ryuemi helped a tech haul a mixer case onto a table while Shiho stretched up to adjust a mic boom. Futaba dove straight into a lighting control board like a kid into a toy box, only for a weary-looking older technician to place a hand on her shoulder.
“Ah-ah. Pre-programmed cues only,” he said.
“…But these are ancient,” Futaba muttered. “Literally pre-FHD era crap.”
“It’s worked for years,” he replied, tone bland and final. “No need to risk the crowd hating anything new.”
Shiho raised an eyebrow at another technician. “But you gave Futaba the go-ahead after Okinawa—”
“Why mess with success?” the man replied without even turning around.
Ryuemi tried charm, leaning against a crate and grinning. “C’mon, live shows evolve. That’s, like, the point.”
The tech only shrugged, face slack. “This is the safe choice. People like safe.”
The three exchanged increasingly uneasy looks.
Wardrobe wasn’t faring better. Yukiko held up a brightly sequined jacket. “Shouldn’t this be for the new number Rise mentioned?”
One of the senior assistants gave a stiff smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We’re not using the new number. Better to stay safe.”
Morgane squinted. “Safe?”
“Reliable,” the woman corrected. “Predictable.”
Lavenza — whose mere presence usually unnerved everyone — was being ignored entirely, as though the workers’ minds were stuffed with cotton. She watched them quietly, her golden eyes narrowing as the same phrases repeated like a chant.
Makoto was reviewing the emergency safety brief when she noticed the set list. Ren saw it too — her brows shot up in alarm. Hifumi leaned over her shoulder, lips tightening.
Only the commercial hits. Only the most overplayed singles. None of Kanami or Rise’s new experimental songs.
Ren approached Inoue, Rise’s manager, holding the list. “Is this… final?”
“Of course,” Inoue replied briskly. “We need to stick to songs we know the public loves.”
“But Rise specifically wanted—”
“Artists always want risky nonsense,” he cut in with a shrug. “We’re going with the formula that sells.”
Hifumi’s voice was polite, but cool. “Shouldn’t the creative direction be left to the performers?”
“Why bother?” Inoue said. “This is what we know works.”
Makoto stared at him, something twisting low in her gut. She’d been hearing that exact phrasing everywhere in the past hour.
An hour before the venue opened, the Thieves trickled back into a quieter corner of backstage, settling into a semicircle around Akira. The mood was tense — too many furrowed brows, too many stiff shoulders. Lavenza stayed close to him, expression stormy.
Ann spoke first, arms crossed. “It’s like everyone here suddenly became afraid of… I don’t know. Originality.”
Kasumi nodded. “Anything new. Anything different.”
Futaba groaned dramatically. “It’s like somebody dropped a ‘Do Not Think Critically’ debuff on the entire building.”
Ryuemi tilted her head. “I kept hearing the same phrases. Over and over.”
“Same,” Makoto added quietly. “Why mess with success. The old way works. Stick to what sells.”
Lavenza inhaled sharply, eyes unfocusing for a moment like she was listening to something beneath the noise of the hall. “A Desire for Stagnation,” she murmured. “Something within this place is discouraging growth… progress… change. It whispers fear of change into every mind it touches.”
Akira leaned back against a crate, folding his arms. His smile was soft, but his eyes were sharp. “Looks like Osaka has a problem.”
Ren glanced around the circle. “And we’re the ones who fix problems.”
“Show starts in an hour,” Haru said. “Whatever this is, it’s already settled in.”
Akira nodded slowly. “Then let’s stay alert.”
Lavenza’s gaze flicked toward the hall — distant, uneasy. “There is a Kingdom nearby,” she said softly. “And its Ruler does not wish for anything to evolve.”
A chill threaded through all of them.
Akira turned toward Lavenza, the low backstage hum fading beneath the weight of the moment. “Can you sense where the entrance is?”
Lavenza’s expression sharpened. She closed her eyes, lifted a hand, and let her fingers trace a small, deliberate circle in the air. Reality shivered. A ripple of velvet-blue light yawned open just a few feet down the corridor — a door that hadn’t been there a second ago, framed in shifting, cerulean blue.
She opened her eyes and nodded once. “There.”
Akira pushed off the crate he’d been leaning against, straightening his ever-present hoodie and rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a jog instead of a potentially lethal reconnaissance mission.
“Alright.” He looked around at all of them. “Keep your eyes open during the concert. I’ll just take a quick peek inside the Kingdom.”
The reaction was instantaneous.
Ann stepped forward first. “’Kira—”
Makoto tightened her fists. “You shouldn’t go alone—”
Haru stepped forward, “At least let us—”
He lifted a hand. And they all stopped, collective realization settling across their faces like a reluctant truce. They knew him too well. He was going. Nothing short of handcuffs and a riot squad was going to change that.
One by one, the protests dissolved into resigned sighs and soft huffs of frustration.
Ann leaned in and gave him a quick kiss, her forehead brushing his. “Don’t you dare do anything stupid.”
Makoto kissed his cheek next, firm and grounding. “Be careful.”
Kasumi cupped his jaw and kissed him gently. “Come straight back if it’s dangerous.”
Yukiko’s touch was warm as she pressed her lips to his temple. “Don’t push yourself.”
Morgane tugged his sleeve, kissed him fast, and muttered, “If you get hurt, I’m hexing you.”
Ren kissed him with calm precision. “Stay sharp.”
Shiho followed with her own brief kiss. “Come home.”
Futaba popped up, kissed him, and poked his chest. “Be smart, you menace.”
Ryuemi smirked and kissed him long enough to make Makoto clear her throat. “Bring me something cool from the other side.”
Hifumi’s kiss was soft, almost shy. “May fortune guide you.”
Haru stood on tiptoes to kiss him, hands gentle on his shoulders. “We’ll hold the fort.”
Lavenza stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his brow. “Return safely, Akira.”
Akira exhaled, surrounded by warmth and worry and twelve pairs of eyes trying very hard not to look terrified.
“Alright,” he murmured, turning toward the shimmering doorway. “Time to take a look.”
Joker felt reality twist, then snap back into place around him with a muted thud — and immediately, he knew something was wrong. The world around him was drained of color, washed to a palette of black, white, and weary grays. Even the air felt thin, as if someone had dialed down saturation on existence itself. A few figures wandered the street like sleepwalkers, their movements sluggish, their eyes empty. They muttered to themselves in looping, apathetic phrases:
“Why bother… things are good enough…”
“No point trying something different…”
“This formula already works…”
Joker slipped into the nearest alleyway, keeping to the deep shadows where instinct told him he’d be harder to notice. He moved deeper into the warped cityscape — and that’s when he began to see it. He stepped past a “wall” that wobbled slightly when a breeze hit it.
A movie set. A cheap one.
He narrowed his eyes as he moved deeper. Buildings snapped into place with lazy, half-finished edges. Some streets were just painted floorboards. A row of trees turned out to be cardboard cut-outs on wheeled stands.
He ducked behind a cardboard façade of a convenience store just as a cluster of Shadows shuffled past — and froze. They were… movie characters. Identical versions of the same rugged action hero, right down to the ripped sleeves and dramatic five o’clock shadow. But their movements were stiff, their expressions blank, and they spoke as one: “Justice always wins… justice always wins… justice always wins…”
They passed like a looping animatronic troop, following pre-written marks on the ground.
Joker exhaled, slow and steady. “Yeah… that’s not creepy at all.”
He pressed forward, weaving through a battlefield of broken genre clichés. Western towns. Fantasy castles. Sci-fi corridors. All fake. All stitched together with the same lazy hand. Derivative. Safe. Familiar. No risks.
He finally stopped at a spot where the horizon broke open into a new skyline — and there it was. A towering cinema complex rose above everything — enormous, opulent, and entirely in grayscale. Multiple massive screens plastered its front, all facsimiles of real successful movies. All directed seemingly by the same person – H.F.
The center of the Kingdom. Had to be.
Joker’s lips curved beneath his mask, equal parts amusement and grim resolve. “Hm. That looks promising.”
He rolled his shoulders, checked his tonfas, and straightened. “Guess I’ll take a quick look around… then I’ll head back.”
He stepped out of the shadows, boots silent on the fake pavement, and advanced toward the towering, distorted cinema — the heart of another mind, another lie, another Kingdom waiting to be unraveled.
The cinema complex sat slumped beneath a haze of neon, its signs flickering with the same handful of movie titles on loop like a broken record. Joker slipped through the glass doors and into the entrance hall, greeted by the scent of stale popcorn and something far more unsettling: sameness.
Every poster he passed had the same layout. The same cast. The same expressions. A dozen variations on the same damn movie, just wearing slightly different hats. Even the actors’ faces blurred together—too symmetrical, too polished, too identical.
“This place is starting to feel like a factory line,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting his hood and strolling into the main atrium.
Inside, the crowd shuffled from screening to screening without enthusiasm. No chatter. No debates. No excitement about what they’d just watched. Just empty-eyed compliance, as though entertainment itself had become mandatory.
Yeah… this is definitely the central pillar, Joker decided, keeping his footsteps light as he drifted away from the main flow of people.
He took his time combing through the complex. Projection rooms, maintenance corridors, staff lobbies—every nook that might hide a clue. But the Kingdom was thorough in its sterility; nothing broke the monotony until, tucked beneath a stack of identical promotional flyers, he spotted something that didn’t belong.
A business card. Heavy stock. Embossed initials: H.F.
He turned it between his fingers. No name. No phone number. Just those two letters like a puzzle piece from the wrong box.
“Wonder if one of the girls will recognise the initials,” he murmured, slipping it into his pocket.
He headed for the exit—until a shiver crawled up his spine.
Someone was watching him.
Slowly, Joker turned.
A small man stood at the far end of the hall, dressed like he’d wandered out of a silent film: toothbrush mustache, baggy trousers, a too-tight coat stretching comically across his torso, a bowler hat tilted just so, and shoes so large they almost slapped the floor on their own. He leaned on a cane that bent with a springy wobble, as if it were trying very hard not to laugh.
The hell…?
Before Joker could utter a word, the man gave him a quick wink—then snapped his fingers.
And vanished.
Joker blinked at the empty space, heart ticking up a notch. “Okay. Sure. That’s normal,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “Vent is going to be jealous she missed that…”
He reached into his coat, fingers closing around a Goho-M capsule. Time to regroup before the Kingdom threw an entire clown car at him.
Dotonbori was loud, bright, and blessedly normal—or at least normal by Phantom Thief standards. After the ocean of dead-eyed concert-goers they’d just escaped, the neon chaos of Osaka’s most famous street felt downright therapeutic.
The moment they stepped onto the boardwalk, the girls scattered like sugared-up pigeons.
“TAKOYAKIIII!” Morgane practically levitated toward the nearest stall.
“Okonomiyaki! No—gyoza! No—” Futaba panicked at the abundance of choice the way normal people panic at tax forms.
Ann had already bought taiyaki, croquettes, a skewer of grilled squid, and a matcha crepe. Ryuemi and Makoto grabbed yakitori for the group. Shiho and Kasumi reappeared with karaage and fried cheese sticks. Yukiko and Hifumi returned—very calmly—with enough takosen to feed a small army. Even Haru got into it, politely negotiating for a mountain of red bean buns.
By the time they reached Utsubo Park, Akira was carrying three bags of food he didn’t remember agreeing to.
They found a grassy patch beneath the trees, city lights glimmering through the branches. Midnight air, warm food, full squad—honestly, it was one of the nicer breaks they’d had on this road trip.
“So,” Akira asked as they settled into a messy circle, “how’d the concert go?”
Ann exhaled dramatically and flopped back onto the grass. “Weird. Like… super weird.”
Shiho nodded. “Everyone backstage acted like they were terrified of doing anything new. It was just, ‘stick to the plan,’ ‘don’t experiment,’ ‘don’t take risks.’”
“And the audience was worse,” Ren added between bites. “They screamed for the hits. Literally nothing else. Rise tried to get them hyped for the new stuff and they just… blanked.”
Lavenza looked thoughtful. “It would appear that this Kingdom feeds on a desire for stagnation...”
Ann raised a brow, tapping her taiyaki. “Actually, that reminds me—have any of you noticed Rise seems kinda… immune? Like she wasn’t affected in Okinawa at all. And after the first night in Kyoto she was totally normal. Now she’s the only person besides us acting like a human being.”
Ryuemi shrugged. “Could be her celebrity mindset? She’s used to weird crowds.”
“Or she’s too stubborn to let anything mess with her,” Shiho offered with a small smile.
“Or maybe she just ate something funky!” Futaba suggested cheerfully.
Akira raised his hand, stopping the theorizing before it spiraled into a 2 a.m. conspiracy board. “Let’s not speculate too much yet. But… yeah. Keep an eye on her. Just in case.”
The girls nodded, exchanging glances.
Akira set down his takosen plate and reached into his pocket. “Anyway—while we’re on mysteries…” He held up the embossed business card. “Does ‘H.F.’ ring any bells? Any Osaka-based filmmakers with those initials?”
Ann and Morgane both frowned. “Not that I know.”
“Same here,” Ren said, tugging at her ponytail. Yukiko mirrored her puzzled expression.
All eyes slid to the only person rapidly tapping at a tablet like she was hacking the moon.
Futaba looked up, face illuminated by the glow. “Might be a long shot, but—there is a super-famous Osaka mangaka named Hikari Fukuen. Trending like crazy right now. She’s won loads of awards, buuuut—” Futaba wiggled her eyebrows. “She’s also getting dragged for telling the same stories over and over and reusing character designs.”
She spun the tablet around. “And here’s her latest post.”
The Thieves leaned in to read:
Why would I want to mess with a winning formula?
I give the fans what they want…
A collective shiver went down the group.
“Woooow,” Morgane murmured. “That’s… on the nose.”
Akira popped a takoyaki ball into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Worth looking into. 'Taba, see what you can dig up.”
Futaba saluted with a skewer. “Aye aye, Captain Joker.”
“If Fukuen’s our Ruler,” Akira continued, dusting off his hands, “we need to know exactly what kind of distortion we’re walking into.”
The group nodded, the weight of the moment settling—but not too heavily. Shiho handed Akira another snack. Morgane stole a dumpling. Futaba declared herself “Chief Manga Investigator.” The night hummed with city lights and the soft warmth of found family.
The night air had cooled just enough to make the lingering warmth of dinner pleasant, the kind that drifted lazily through the group as they packed up their leftovers and ambled toward the park exit. Akira was mid-sentence, probably making some sly comment that had Ann rolling her eyes in that “I’m totally charmed but pretending I’m not” way, when a voice cut through the calm.
“Well, well, well…”
The Thieves turned as one.
A tall man with long, slightly unkempt hair and rectangular glasses approached them with the slow confidence of someone who’d been on stakeouts longer than any of them had been alive. His coat looked like it had seen better decades, but he wore it with the air of a man who’d learned to bluff through anything with caffeine and grit.
His gaze settled on Ren. “If it isn’t the famous Detective Princess herself…”
Ren froze for half a heartbeat—then her expression split into a grin that was half fond, half feral. “Wolf, you old fart! What’re you doing out here?”
She strode forward and clasped his hand, their shake more like a brief, forceful arm-wrestle. The rest of the Thieves exchanged looks; it was always a bit surreal watching Ren Akechi greet someone with more warmth than menace.
Ren turned back to the group, still holding that half-smirk. “Everyone, meet Inspector Zenkichi Hasegawa of the Kyoto Prefectural Police. Better known as The Wolf. Shirogane-san and I have worked with him on a few cases in the past.”
She paused—dramatically, of course—and added with exquisite timing, “Wolf, meet my… well, my boyfriend and girlfriends.”
Zenkichi’s eyes almost popped out of his glasses.
Ann snorted. Shiho pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Futaba whispered “Polycule jump scare!” before Morgane elbowed her.
Zenkichi coughed into his fist, trying to reassemble his face into something that didn’t scream ‘WTF’ quite so loudly. “Right. Well. That’s… good for you, Ren-chan. Very… modern.”
Ren absolutely basked in the reaction. If she could’ve bottled his expression and sold it, she would’ve. “So,” she continued, voice lilting with mischief, “what brings you to Osaka? Business or personal?”
Zenkichi finally pulled himself together. He cleared his throat and adjusted his coat like it might restore order to the universe. “Bit of both, actually. I’m following a couple of leads on an ongoing investigation…” His tone shifted subtly, the way people’s voices do when something heavy sits behind the words. “…and also something closer to home.”
Ren’s smirk softened instantly. She rested a hand on his arm—gentle, respectful. “We’re here for the next two days,” she said quietly. “If you need a hand, let me know, okay?”
Zenkichi held her gaze. For a moment, the tiredness beneath his exterior showed itself—raw, worn-in, deeply human. Then he nodded once. “Thanks, Ren-chan. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He gave the others a short nod—equal parts gratitude and “please don’t cause trouble”—then headed down the path, disappearing into the neon glow beyond the trees.
Ren watched his retreating form for several long seconds. When she finally turned back to the group, her expression had settled into something far more serious. “His sister’s been missing for about a year,” she said softly. “Saori Hasegawa. Last seen… here.”
The night seemed to grow heavier around them. The cicadas quieted. Even the city noise faded enough to let the weight of her words settle in.
The soft, rhythmic hum of machinery filled the Odaiba lab—steady, clinical, almost soothing in its precision. Takuto Maruki stood before Saori Hasegawa’s suspension tank with his usual quiet diligence, pen poised over his battered red diary as he jotted down readings: vitals steady, cognition indicators unchanged, neural responses dormant but stable.
He exhaled, a tired, almost fragile sound. “Vitals are holding steady, conscious brainwaves still minimal. Still a viable vessel,” he murmured, more to himself than to the unconscious woman floating in stasis.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor—light, quick, unmistakable. Maruki didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. The smile that lifted the edges of his mouth came as naturally as breathing.
A figure in the Black Mask uniform slipped into the room, the sleek black leather catching the faint green glow from the tanks. They scanned the room with sharp, practiced caution before reaching up and unclipping their mask.
Short, tousled red hair tumbled free. Delicate features. A smile too sweet to trust.
“Finally a moment to ourselves, Taku,” Rumi purred.
Maruki didn’t even get a greeting out before she grabbed the front of his lab coat, pulled him down, and kissed him—deep, hungry, possessive.
Then she slapped him. Hard. His head snapped sideways, glasses askew.
“You haven’t given me any attention in a week,” she hissed, all sweetness gone. “And worse—you didn’t give me any spending money.”
Maruki turned sheet-white, clutching his cheek with one hand and scrambling frantically through his pockets with the other.
“S–sorry, sorry, Rumi, I’m so sorry— I must’ve forgotten—h-here—!”
He finally yanked out his wallet, shaking fingers pulling out every bill he had and offering them in both hands like a supplicant at a shrine.
Instant transformation. Rumi’s rage dissolved like sugar in hot tea. Her eyes sparkled. She let out a squeal so high-pitched one of the monitors beeped in protest. “Thank you, Taku! Now I can go shopping for pretty things!”
Without hesitation she laced her fingers with his and tugged. And tugged harder when he didn’t move fast enough. “Come on! Come on come on come on!”
Maruki allowed himself to be dragged away, stumbling slightly, diary still clutched in his other hand. His cheek was red and throbbing, and his expression was a strange, painful mix of guilt, relief, and helpless adoration.
But at least she wasn’t channelling Othalanga any more.
That counted as a win… Right?
Kouetsu Kirijo lounged back in the leather chair of his private observation suite, one leg crossed neatly over the other, remote in hand like a king surveying his domain. Before him, an entire wall of monitors displayed every corner of the Odaiba complex—gleaming labs, shadowed corridors, offices bustling with carefully curated activity. His empire. His masterpiece.
He flicked through the feeds lazily until one screen caught his eye.
Takuto Maruki, getting slapped by his fiancée.
Kouetsu winced, though it came out more like a dry, sympathetic chuckle. “Brilliant boy… but honestly, Takuto, grow a spine.”
Rumi bounced out of frame, newly flush with cash, and Maruki followed like a scolded puppy. Kouetsu shook his head. If love made fools of men, then Takuto was the mold.
“Not like Masa…” he murmured under his breath, pressing a button.
The screen shifted to Masayoshi Shido—bald, smug, and draped in sycophants like a dragon in cheap gold. Even through the grain of the office feed, Kouetsu could see the oily gleam in the man’s eyes as he ogled two interns carrying coffee. Promises and lies oozed out of his mouth in equal measure, and every toady within arm’s reach seemed desperate to drink his poison.
“Pitiful creature,” Kouetsu sighed. “But useful.”
Another switch. Another feed. Shohei Sujimura. Ah yes—the boy was with Sae Niijima, and the activities on-screen were… vigorous. Very vigorous. And somehow, despite the enthusiasm, astonishingly inelegant.
Sae, of course, was performing with far more skill than Shohei had earned. Kouetsu rubbed the bridge of his nose, watching for a few seconds in morbid fascination before muttering, “He truly believes he’s irresistible. How unfortunate for everyone involved.”
A mental note was made—once Shohei’s usefulness expired, something would need to be done about the boy’s delusions. Preferably something terminal.
He flipped to the next feed.
Ah. There was something worth watching.
The red-haired girl—lean, controlled, every movement slicing through the training room like purpose incarnate. Fire in her hair, ice behind her eyes, discipline in every breath.
Kouetsu felt something tighten in his chest, something almost like longing.
“She really does look like you, Mitsuru,” he murmured, a rare softness threading his voice. “The hair… the form… the elegance.”
A shame. A genuine shame. His granddaughter and her companions had sealed themselves deep within the Abyss, safeguarding the fading echo of a Seal they believed still mattered. Brave. Noble. Utterly futile.
Nothing they could do—not their legacy, not their strength, not even Mitsuru’s iron will—could halt what he and his benefactor had set in motion.
He checked the time.
“But speaking of…” Kouetsu pushed himself to his feet, smoothing the front of his immaculate suit. The screens dimmed automatically behind him. “I shouldn’t keep Masataka Kashihara waiting.”
His smile sharpened—thin, elegant, and utterly sure of the future about to unfold.
By the time they piled back into the RV, the collective energy of the Osaka night had finally ebbed, replaced by the soft, familiar hum of winding down. Pajamas were pulled on in a chaotic rotation of curtain-drawn changing corners; hairbrushes and scrunchies were passed between hands like contraband; someone complained loudly about split ends; someone else bemoaned the dire tragedy of forgetting to book the salon in Kyoto; and a chorus of groans met the discovery that all the good sheet masks were gone.
Meanwhile, in the kitchenette, Akira was doing his best imitation of a sleepy barista—whisking matcha, warming milk, steeping lavender chamomile. Haru was by his side, slipping in behind him now and then to “help,” which mostly meant pressing light kisses to the back of his neck. Yukiko had wedged herself between them with a tray under one arm and a suspiciously innocent expression, which lasted exactly three seconds before she kissed Haru and then Akira for good measure. The drinks might’ve taken longer than usual, but nobody was complaining.
Eventually, the herd migrated to the rec room. Blankets were tossed everywhere until the entire floor became one massive, tangled nest. Akira distributed drinks like the world’s coziest dealer, then promptly found himself pulled—quite literally—into the center of the cuddle storm. Arms and legs tangled, heads rested on shoulders and stomachs, and Morgane claimed his lap with the territorial confidence of a cat who pays rent.
That’s when Futaba, snuggled between Kasumi and Ryuemi like a burrito with opinions, piped up. “So… Wolf’s sister.”
Half the room hummed thoughtfully, the other half sighed. Ren lifted her head from Ann’s shoulder.
“It happened about a year ago,” she began, voice softer now that the room was dim and warm. “Saori came to Osaka for a business conference. She checked out on the last day… and then just vanished.”
Ryuemi frowned. “She didn’t contact anyone?”
Ren shook her head. “That’s what set off alarm bells. Saori was known to have a bit of wanderlust, but she never went more than a day without messaging her family. When she didn’t check in, her mother got worried and the search started. The only clue was CCTV—her leaving her hotel at the same time as a ‘known person of interest.’ Which,” she added with air quotes, “is cop-speak for ‘we know he’s a criminal, but the evidence fairy hates us.’”
Shiho winced. “Oof.”
The room fell quiet as Ren continued, expression distant. “Naoto-san and I looked into it too. Nothing solid tying Saori to him, but Wolf is convinced there’s a connection.”
Makoto sat up slightly. “And this… person of interest is…?”
Ren let out a slow sigh. “Shūichi Owada. Supposedly a businessman.” She added that last word with enough sarcasm to peel paint. “PSIA thinks he’s actually The Cleaner—former Yakuza hitman, now freelancing.”
Futaba’s eyes went wide. “Like… that Cleaner? The one who supposedly made three syndicates call a truce because they were all too scared to claim responsibility for the bodies? It was all over the conspiracy forums.”
“Yep,” Ren said flatly.
A collective shudder rippled through the cuddle pile.
Akira, however, had gone very, very still. Makoto and Ren caught it immediately—like two guard dogs who had just spotted the world's dumbest burglar creeping toward the window.
Makoto narrowed her eyes. “Don’t even think about it, ’Kira.”
Akira glanced at her, doing a terrible job pretending innocence. “I was just—”
“No.” Haru’s voice was soft but firm enough to stop a charging bull. “We have plenty on our plate without you deciding to take on a Yakuza hitman, darling.”
Akira pouted. Actually pouted.
And twelve women stared him down in perfect, unified, unimpressed silence.
He wilted like an overwatered houseplant. “…okay,” he mumbled.
The cuddle puddle reclaimed him from all sides, and the moment dissolved into sleepy murmurs and warm bodies settling in for the night—though not before Futaba whispered loudly to Kasumi:
“He was totally thinking about it.”
Kasumi whispered back, “Oh absolutely.”
Akira groaned. And with that, the RV drifted toward sleep.
Chapter 48: Adagio For The Apathetic – Part 2
Summary:
Vent and Papillion go to the movies
Risette puts on her detective hat
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Akira always rose before the others, but today he wasn’t the first set of footsteps in the kitchenette. He paused in the doorway, the soft morning light catching the faint tremble in Ren’s shoulders. She stood at the counter, phone in hand, eyes unfocused and distant.
He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t speak. He simply stepped up behind her and slid his arms around her waist, drawing her gently back against his chest. Ren stiffened for half a breath—then melted, exhaling shakily as his presence grounded her.
For a while, neither of them said anything. Only the quiet hum of the mini-fridge filled the room.
Finally, Ren spoke, her voice thin at the edges. “Shido just called me…” Her fingers tightened around the phone. “Told me he has a job for me. Since I’m already in position. He’ll send the details later…”
Akira nodded, lowering his head to rest his cheek atop her hair. His hands drifted in soothing circles over her shoulders, slow and steady.
“You think it’s something to do with the Kingdoms?” he murmured.
Ren gave a small, jerky nod and reached up to grip his forearms. Her nails dug in—not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor herself.
“Seems likely… I’m worried, ’Kira.” Her voice dropped, frayed and vulnerable. “What if the Kingdoms are part of something bigger?”
Akira let out a soft laugh, warm against her ear. “Oh, we kind of already know it is,” he teased gently. “But as long as we keep our eyes open and stick together? We’ll get through this.”
He coaxed her chin up with a knuckle, just enough to meet her teary eyes. “We’re the Phantom Thieves, babe… this is what we do.”
His mouth curved into a smirk as he dipped his head, brushing his lips over hers. Ren surged up into the kiss, and he caught her lower lip between his teeth, teasing a soft gasp out of her.
When they finally parted, her eyes were half-lidded and gleaming.
“Careful, honey,” she purred, her voice dropping to a velvet rumble. “You don’t want to start anything you can’t finish…”
He opened his mouth—probably to challenge that—but the sudden chorus of yawns, rustling blankets, and sleepy complaints from the bunks cut him off.
Akira and Ren froze for a beat. Then they looked at each other… and burst into laughter.
“Alright,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Breakfast for thirteen.”
Together, still smiling, they turned to the stove—ready to feed their chaotic, beloved harem as the rest of the team shuffled awake.
Breakfast at the hideout was always a chaotic blend of noise, teasing, and questionable table manners—but today it hit a whole new level of lively the moment Ren’s phone dinged. She glanced at the screen… and promptly choked on her coffee.
“What?” Akira asked, half-turning from the sink with suds all the way up his arms.
Ren didn’t answer at first. She just stared at her phone, pupils shrinking, shoulder twitching like she was resisting the urge to throw it at the wall. Then: “Oh that bald fucking fraud—!”
Her voice cracked so sharply that Futaba yelped with delight, almost dumping her cereal. Haru, ever the elegant lady, politely cleared her throat and added, “Well… he is rather shiny,” which set Ann and Ryuemi off like a pair of gremlins.
Ren practically slammed her phone onto the table, and everyone crowded around to peek over her shoulders. Shido’s instructions were blunt: Observe and report on Yu Narukami and anyone he associates with.
A political briefing followed, complete with attachments detailing Yu Narukami’s reputation as a rare independent politician who could actually threaten Shido’s rising momentum in the coming general election.
Futaba whistled. “Damn. Didn’t know the guy had it in him.”
Ryuemi jabbed a thumb at Ren. “Guess Shido’s feeling the heat if he’s dragging Miss Silent Assassin over here into election espionage.”
Ann leaned back in her chair. “Yeah, I bet he’s sweating under all that foundation he uses.”
Ren looked about two seconds away from biting her phone in half. By the time everyone finished roasting Shido’s entire existence like he was poorly seasoned poultry, they finally turned to strategy. Akira quietly finished washing the dishes—his arms swallowed up to the elbows in suds—listening until the moment felt right.
He looked up, flicking a bit of foam off his wrist. “Alright, Thieves. Focus up. Small recon team heads into the Kingdom,” he said, voice steady and sure. “Makoto, Haru, Morgane, and Lavenza—you’re with me.”
Each girl straightened slightly at being called.
“The others remain on standby. Futaba,” he nodded toward her, “keep digging into Hikari Fukuen. Ren, stick close to Ri-Ri. If Shido has someone watching, they can’t say you’re ignoring orders. You might also be able to find out when we can expect Yu-senpai back from Fuefuki. Something tells me there’s more to Shido’s interest than political rivalry.”
He rinsed off a pan, set it in the drying rack, and added, “Alright. That’s the plan.”
There was a brief beat of silence. And then—because equilibrium in this group never lasted—Ann gave Akira a slow grin. “So bossy in the morning,” she teased. “Total dom energy.”
Haru added sweetly, “And also a very soft house husband.”
Futaba cackled. “Domestic Daddy!”
Makoto pinched the bridge of her nose, while trying to hide the furious blush that was forming on her face. “Please stop calling him that.”
Even Lavenza—precious, composed Lavenza—tilted her head thoughtfully. “Yes. He exhibits an effective blend of authority and domestic aptitude.”
Akira froze, sponge halfway to the sink, the tips of his ears turning a spectacular shade of red. “I—I’m just washing dishes,” he muttered.
“Sure, honey,” Ren purred, patting his back. “Keep telling yourself that.”
The teasing exploded into laughter, and somewhere in the middle of it, Akira decided he was never doing the dishes with an audience again.
Rise was halfway through a steaming bowl of miso soup and mentally planning her day when—
CLANG–thump–clatter!
Sho dropped straight through the skylight like he was auditioning to be Batman.
Rise yelped, nearly wearing her soup. “Sho! Oh my god—Use. The. Door!” She pointed dramatically toward the perfectly functional entrance, which he ignored with the blissful apathy of a cat who knows the counter is off-limits and climbs up anyway.
He just dusted off his coat, picked up an apple from her fruit basket and took a noisy bite.
Rise rubbed her temples. “One of these days, you’re gonna give me heart arrhythmia and I’ll haunt you forever.”
Sho shrugged around his mouthful. “Not my fault your trailer’s got skylight access. That’s practically an invitation.”
She cuffed his arm lightly before settling back down. “Anyway, I talked to Yu this morning. He says he’ll meet us in Nagoya in three days.” Her voice softened just a little, as it always did when she mentioned him. “So that’s one thing off the stress list.”
She then looked at Sho expectantly. “Any luck finding the Joker or the Phantom Thieves?”
He gave a world-weary shrug and chomped again. “Checked the Kingdom in Kyoto before coming here. Nothing. Which is to be expected, given that Saeko Shinbun just confessed to all kinds of messed up crap this morning.” Crunch. “And since we’ve got a Kingdom popping up here now?” Crunch-crunch. “Odds are they’re coming this way.” Crunch. “If they’re not here already.”
Rise twirled a strand of hair thoughtfully, lips pursing. “Speaking of the Kingdom… what’s this one like? We got any data? A name? Anything?”
Sho tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like the details might be written up there somewhere. “Looks like movie sets,” he said between crunches. “Empty ones. No idea who’s running the show.” Crunch-crunch. “I’ll go poke around soon.” Crunch. He paused, then, with quiet sincerity: “Damn. That was a good apple.”
Rise sighed theatrically and lobbed him another. He caught it without looking—show-off—and tucked it away like a squirrel prepping for winter.
“Alright,” she said, returning to her own breakfast. “Let me know when you find anything. I’ll keep eyes out on this side.”
Sho nodded, expression turning just serious enough to show he was actually listening.
Knock-knock-knock.
Rise blinked toward the trailer door. “Probably the crew—”
She turned back.
Sho was gone.
No skylight noise. No door. Just gone. Like an edgy ghost who shed crumbs.
Rise stared at the space he’d occupied, then sighed fondly. “Guy’s like a freaking ninja with bad table manners.”
Sho padded silently through the Kingdom, taking idle bites from his apple as he kicked nudged open fake saloon doors with his foot, and casually bisected any Shadow slow enough to shamble into his personal space. It was all very… Tuesday.
Then the universe decided to be dramatic.
FWOOOOM.
A harsh blue flash tore the air open behind him. Sho didn’t think—he moved, diving behind a toppled set facade just as a portal bloomed like a malfunctioning sun. The air rippled, reality flexed, and five silhouettes stepped through.
Sho narrowed his eyes. “Well. That’s new.”
The first figure was short and wrapped in a flowing black-and-green robe, the hood hiding everything except the quiet ripple of power around them.
Then came someone even shorter—a blonde girl with an otherworldly glow, dressed in a velvet-blue gown. The floating book fluttering ahead of her like an overexcited familiar made Sho’s nose wrinkle. “What…? A magical child librarian?”
The next two? Absolutely screamed “do not mess with me” in different dialects.
One wore bronze armor over a royal-blue bodysuit, fists adorned with bladed knuckles that said I solve problems by punching them creatively.
The other—elegant, serene, dressed in royal purple like she’d stepped out of a Renaissance portrait. Soft smile. Gentle presence.
Giant reaper scythe.
Sho gulped slightly as memories of a different sweet-looking menace with a big-ass scythe flashed through his mind.
And leading them… Of course. Joker.
Sho’s fingers tightened around the apple core.
He moved to step out—instinct said “say hi,” or at least “throw something sarcastic at him”—but something tugged him back. Curiosity… and something closer to caution than he’d ever admit.
Tsukoyomi stirred inside him, a deep rumble like a lion stretching after a long nap. “It’s unlike you to be this stealthy, Sho…” the Persona murmured, voice rolling through his bones. “Are you afraid of them?”
Sho scoffed softly. “Afraid? Of them? Yeah, right.”
He watched the group spread out, Joker giving subtle hand signs, the others flowing into practiced formation like they’d been doing it for years. He watched how they checked each other's blind spots, how they moved as a single organism, how Joker’s eyes swept the perimeter with razor focus.
Sho’s jaw tensed thoughtfully. “I just want to see what they’re really like,” he muttered under his breath. “If they’re worth trusting. I owe it to the others.”
He flicked the last of his apple core into the dust and rested a hand lightly on his blade.
Observation first. Judgment later.
And confrontation? Heh. He really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Rise practically bounced down the steps of her tour bus, humming to herself as she headed toward sound check. Her morning coffee had been good, her outfit was cute, and nothing had exploded in the past two hours—by idol standards, that was practically a national holiday.
She was halfway across the lot when she spotted two familiar figures moving in her direction. Ann Takamaki, casual, gorgeous, effortlessly sparkling even in sweatpants. And beside her—Ren Akechi, Detective Princess, partner and heir-apparent to one of her closest friends and dating her ‘fluffy little brother’. Two Tokyo girls… one an actual detective…
It hit her—like a lightbulb clicking on over her head, full anime sound effect included. They might know something about the Phantom Thieves!
Rise’s pulse sped up. Not fear—more like nerdy excitement at the idea of finally getting some clues. She quickened her steps, waving cheerfully.
“Hey, girls!” she chirped, maybe a little too brightly. “Do you have a minute?”
Ann lit up instantly, because Ann Takamaki was genetically incapable of being anything but human sunshine. “Of course!”
Ren offered her a warm smile. “What can we do for you, Rise?”
Perfect.
Rise slid smoothly between them like she’d been doing it for years, hooked her arms through theirs, and began steering them toward the break area before either could ask follow-up questions.
“Girly catch-up time,” she declared with the confidence of a woman who had already decided this was happening. “Let’s grab a milkshake.”
Ann and Ren shared a quick look— something halfway between is she adorable? and are we being kidnapped politely?—but both shrugged and flowed along with her.
“Who are we to say no?” Ren giggled.
Rise grinned wide, practically glowing.
Excellent. Step one complete. Now to get them some sugar, some comfy seats…
…and oh yes. Time to dig for intel, Idol Style™.
Rise sipped her milkshake through a fat straw, listening with genuine warmth—and a little starry-eyed envy—as Ann leaned in with that conspiratorial sparkle.
“… sure, it’s unconventional, and sometimes we get a little jealous or insecure,” Ann said with that easy, sunlit honesty of hers, “but Akira is really good at reminding each of us that we belong with him and with each other. All of us together.”
Ren—who’d been sipping her own drink with the quiet focus of a sweets devotee—snorted softly. “He tries. And we try. It works better than anyone expects.”
Rise couldn’t help smiling. They’re cute. The way Ann glowed, the way Ren softened even while pretending not to… it tugged at something warm in her chest. It also made her think of her own chaotic, heartfelt polycule—Yu cooking breakfast shirtless at the stove, Marie grouchily editing Rise’s lyrics, Ai dragging everyone on shopping trips that threatened their wallets, Yukiko laughing behind her hand like she was in on every secret.
She shared a few of those memories. Watching Marie and Yu argue over metaphors. Ai complaining she needed someone to “hold her bags and validate her fashion sense.” Yukiko’s serene smile as she tried—and failed—to explain hot spring rituals to Marie.
Ann giggled. Ren smiled softly.
It felt good. Girly. Soft. Like they were all just normal twenty-somethings bonding over complicated love lives. So Rise slid the question in casually, perfectly timed, like dropping a hook into calm water.
“So… uh… speaking of chaotic groups,” she said lightly, tracing her straw against the rim of her glass, “do you two know anything about the Phantom Thieves?”
She saw it—Ann’s eyes went wide for a heartbeat, like someone had asked whether she knew Santa personally. Ren didn’t panic; she froze for just half a breath, eyes narrowing, assessing, calculating.
Then Ren tilted her head. “May I ask where that question came from?”
Rise shrugged with flawless idol nonchalance. “Curiosity? You’re both from Tokyo. And Ren, you’re Naoto’s partner—if anyone would know something, it’d be you.”
Ren held her stare for a moment… then let it soften with a sigh.
“Honestly? Most of what we know is just the public stuff. Urban legends. Half-baked theories.” She leaned her elbows on the table. “All we really know is they seem connected to several high-profile figures suddenly confessing. How they choose targets or accomplish those confessions… that’s still a mystery.”
Ann had recovered by then, and Rise caught the subtle look the blonde shot at Ren—more mischievous than nervous now.
Ren continued, thoughtful and conflicted. “As a detective, I can’t condone taking the law into one’s own hands. But they are exposing crimes that would’ve gone unpunished. So… I’m torn.”
Ann jabbed her straw toward Ren. “Speak for yourself, Renny. I think the Phantom Thieves are super cool!” She gave Rise a sparkly-eyed grin. “I’d love to meet them someday.”
It was just vague and cute enough to sound convincing.
Rise opened her mouth to push a little—just enough to see if they’d twitch—
—but then Inoue materialized like an unhelpful NPC.
“There you are, Rise-chan. I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Of course he had. Rise forced a polite smile as Ann and Ren excused themselves, waving as they slipped away. Rise watched them go, half-listening to her manager’s droning about call sheets and wardrobe.
They’re hiding something, she thought, the spark of excitement curling in her chest again.
“Yes… most certainly, dearest,” Kouzeon whispered, her voice a warm bell-chime in Rise’s mind. “I sense something powerful within them. Maybe we should observe their companions as well.”
Rise smiled faintly, already plotting. This day was getting very interesting.
The five of them drifted deeper into the Kingdom’s twisted Hollywood—cardboard façades, flickering spotlights, incomplete sets jutting out of the void like abandoned dreams. And at the head of the pack—of course—was Vent, vibrating with the kind of glee that made Joker half expect her to leave a cartoon dust trail behind her.
Vent stopped so abruptly that Noir nearly bumped into her. “Tabarnak… are those—?!”
Joker followed her line of sight.
Ruby-red slippers. Sparkling. Iconic. Sitting neatly on a tiny golden pedestal.
Vent clasped both hands to her chest. “There’s no place like home…” she breathed reverently.
Then, without missing a beat, she added with a wicked grin, “I wonder if Kirin has the stiletto version of these. She could kill a man with them. And then take his wallet.”
Papillion snorted. “If she doesn’t yet, Joker will just buy them for her.”
Vent giggled, then gasped again and pointed ahead. “OOHHH, LOOK—THE TITANIC!”
And sure enough, rising out of the mist like a half-built promise, was the famous bow of the ship—only the first third of it, scaffolding still visible behind it. Vent turned to Joker with the biggest, sparkliest puppy eyes he'd ever seen from her.
“…Vent,” Joker warned gently.
She grabbed his coat sleeve with both hands. “Please, mon amour. Pleeeaaaase. I need this. I need this like Noir needs expensive tea or Panther needs sugar.”
Papillion cackled, channelling Oracle. “Oh you’ve lost. Just give in.”
Joker sighed the sigh of a man defeated by cuteness. “Fine.”
Vent lit up brighter than the goddamn Heart of the Ocean.
Thirty seconds later, Vent was standing on the edge of the Titanic bow, arms out, Joker pressed to her back to hold her steady, both of them catching the fake wind machine like absolute idiots. Noir was pretend-filming. Papillion was wheezing. Queen had her face in both hands.
“I’M THE KING OF THE WOOOORLD!” Vent shouted.
“You’re shorter than the railing!” Papillion called back.
Vent didn’t miss a beat. “Je m’en câlisse!”
Joker leaned slightly forward so she could hear him. “You happy now?”
Vent hummed. “Very. I’ll never let go, Jack…”
Joker looked down at her and raised an eyebrow.
Vent grinned up at him. “…unless there’s a shinier set over there.”
Queen cleared her throat loudly before Noir could die laughing. Joker stepped down from the bow, dusting off his gloves. Vent hopped beside him.
They moved on, weaving between a replica yellow brick road, half a Jurassic jungle, and the skeletal frame of what looked suspiciously like an unfinished Marvel-esque cityscape.
It was Queen who slowed first, frowning. “…Have you noticed something?”
Joker flicked a bit of dust from his shoulder shoulder. “Besides that Vent seems to be channelling Oracle and is now in full ‘theme park’ mode?”
Vent blew him a kiss, then grabbed Papillion’s hand and went off to explore what looked like a half-built Death Star.
Queen shook her head. “No. The sets. They follow a theme.”
Noir tilted her head. “Famous movies?”
Queen shook her head. “Not just famous. Famous movies that people keep copying. Retreading. Remaking. Rebooting. I’m seeing patterns—formulaic blockbusters, over-used tropes, déjà vu everywhere.”
Joker stopped, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I was wondering if that was just coincidence,” he murmured, “but you’re right.”
He looked around at the glittering, empty recreations—perfectly safe to imitate, never daring to innovate. “What’s that got to do with apathy, though?”
Queen folded her arms, thinking aloud. “Maybe it’s about the comfort in repetition. Why innovate when you can repeat something proven? People avoid risk. They cling to familiar formulas…” She met Joker’s gaze. “It can become a desire, right? To stop caring about improvement because the safe option always works.”
Joker considered that, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. That tracks. Apathy of creation… or maybe apathy of ambition.”
He looked into the distance. Then blinked. “…Where did Vent and Papillion go?”
Queen stiffened. “They were right here.”
Noir scanned the area, grip tightening on her scythe. “They didn’t wander far. They wouldn’t.”
Joker’s posture shifted—slight, but unmistakable. The leader’s mask settling into place.
“Alright,” he murmured, voice low and calm. “Something’s up. Spread out just enough to search—but stay within sightlines.”
He narrowed his eyes toward the rows of elaborate fake sets towering ahead.
Vent groaned, clutching her head with both hands as she crouched under the offending low-hanging branch.
“Tabarnak… I swear, if I ever find that damn Charlie Chaplin look-alike again, I’m turning his hat into fondue.”
Papillion rubbed her shoulder soothingly, eyes darting around the dim, fog-draped woods. The trees glowed faintly with unnatural twilight, leaves shimmering like stage props under a spotlight. “You alright?”
“Non. Oui. I hit my head, I’m allowed to be dramatic.” Vent flicked a pine needle out of her hair and straightened, dusting herself off with exaggerated indignation—then paused, scanning the surroundings.
“…So, do you think we’re inside a film?” Papillion asked.
Vent nodded, still gingerly touching the developing bump on her skull. “Seems like it… Let’s find out which one before I get bonked again.”
They moved quietly through the forest, footsteps muffled by moss so soft it felt manufactured. Occasional flickers of sound—splashes, humming, far-off whispers—made the hair on Papillion’s arms rise. Then, after several minutes, the trees parted to reveal a river. Dark water rippled in slow waves, reflecting a sky that didn’t match the forest’s lighting at all.
Across the water stood a small figure—maybe a boy, maybe a girl, it was hard to tell. They were quiet, shoulders hunched as they stared into the rippling surface like it held all the answers they didn’t want.. After a moment, they reached into a pocket and pulled out two tubes of paint: one a vivid blue, the other bright yellow.
They squeezed them out into the river, watching the colors curl and mix, drifting downstream like faded dreams.
Papillion’s brow furrowed. “What’s…?”
Vent’s breath caught.
“…Bridge to Terabithia,” she whispered, barely audible. She looked up and pointed.
Papillion followed her gaze. A frayed rope hung limply from a tree branch overhead. The remnant of a swing. A gateway to a world one kid couldn’t reach anymore.
“It’s a movie about losing your best friend…” Vent continued, voice softer, heavier.
The girls watched as the child wiped his eyes, stood, and walked away without looking back.
The forest froze. A blinding flash swallowed their vision—white, cold, relentless—
—and then the two of them were standing alone in the woods again, no river, no figure, no rope swing. Just the quiet hush of the fake forest.
Vent blinked hard. Twice.
“What…?”
Papillion swallowed, rubbing her arms against the sudden chill. “We were pulled out.”
Vent looked shaken now. Really shaken. “The ending’s wrong…” she murmured. “There should have been a bridge. Jesse builds a bridge with his sister. It’s how he moves on. It’s how he honors Leslie. It’s… hopeful.”
Silence settled between them like a heavy curtain.
Papillion finally spoke, voice gentle. “Maybe… he never does in this version?”
Vent stared into the dark of the trees, jaw tightening. “…Then this Kingdom’s not just about apathy,” she whispered. “It’s about stories stopping short. No closure. No healing. No trying again.”
She met Papillion’s eyes. “And that’s way worse.”
Before either could say more, the forest rustled around them.
Something was watching. And it didn’t want them rewriting the ending.
The rustling began as a mild tremor—just enough to make the leaves jitter. Then it spread. Surrounded them. A low, crawling vibration through the earth that Vent felt in the soles of her boots.
She stepped in front of Papillion on instinct, throwing disk held low and ready. Papillion opened her Grimoire with that quiet, controlled breath of hers—the one that always meant okay, I’m about to take this seriously.
Then the forest… peeled open.
A tall shape slinked out first, draped in shifting shadow, its edges flickering like torn film frames. No face. No form. Just a silhouette made from fear.
Vent’s jaw tightened. “The Dark Master,” she murmured, and the temperature seemed to dip with her voice. “All Jesse and Leslie’s fears made… y’know, uncomfortably tangible.”
Papillion eyed the creature as more horrors lumbered out behind it—massive troll-like brutes dragging rusted chains, the vulture-like birds with too many teeth, and squat Sqorgres with clubbed limbs and drooling maws.
“So I’m assuming none of these are friendly?” she muttered.
Vent snorted. “Mais non, unless you wanted to hug a nightmare.”
The Dark Master let out a shriek like a film reel snapping—sharp, metallic—and the entire mob charged.
Papillion reacted first, slamming her Grimoire open.“Maragidyne!”
A sweeping wave of molten fire arced across the forest floor, forcing the first line of trolls to stagger back, smoking and howling. The Hairy Vultures dove above the flames, screeching.
Vent hurled her disk— it split into three mid-air with a sharp whik-whik-whik, carving clean through a cluster of Sqorgres who popped in clouds of ink-black smoke.
One vulture swooped for Papillion’s face— Vent leapt, kicked off a tree, and booted the thing in the spine so hard it spiraled headfirst into the ground like a malfunctioning drone.
“Thanks!” Papillion called.
“De rien! Watch your left!”
Papillion ducked, summons Alice from her Grimoire, and chanted: “Die For Me!”
The creature was engulfed in a cloud of giggling suicide bomber teddies.
The Dark Master glided in behind them—silent, predatory. A long claw of shadow lashed toward Vent’s back.
Papillion snapped her fingers, and a Tetrakarn barrier flared to life just in time. “Focus, Vent!”
“I am focused! I’m multitasking my trauma references!”
She rebounded the disk off a trunk, ricocheting it into the Dark Master’s chest. The shadow rippled like disturbed water—but held.
“Okay, that’s new,” Vent muttered.
Papillion nodded toward it. “Try hitting harder.”
Vent grinned. “Gladly.”
She summoned Circe, who appeared with swirling silver and violet hair and crescent moon-tipped sceptre.
“Fury of the Anemoi!”
Four cyclones merged into a single massive hurricane, engulfing the Dark Master. The blast tore apart half the clearing, sending trolls flying like discarded toys. Papillion followed up instantly. Lucifer manifested above her with wings spread and eyes glowing like twin suns.
“Morning Star!”
A beam of Almighty light slashed across the battlefield, wiping out the remaining creatures in a single, searing sweep.
The Dark Master staggered—its form glitching like corrupted footage. It tried to lunge one last time. Vent was faster. She snatched her returning disk mid-air, sprinted forward, leapt—and brought it down in a howling arc.
The Dark Master split like a strip of film catching fire. And the forest went… quiet. Vent exhaled shakily. Papillion lowered her book, equally breathless.
“Well,” Vent said after a beat, wiping sweat off her brow, “I give that fight a solid eight out of ten. Docking points for jump scares and emotional manipulation.”
Papillion huffed a soft laugh. “You did great.”
“Heh.” Vent offered her a tiny, sheepish grin. “C’mon, let’s find our way back before Joker freaks out and sends Queen on a search party.”
Together, they stepped forward through the trees— and the forest flickered again, like someone had just cut to the next scene.
Vent bent over, hands on her knees, panting like she’d just run a marathon uphill, barefoot, in the snow, against the wind, while carrying Papillion on her back.
For the third time, the forest spat them back out. For the third time, the Dark Master and his supporting cast of nightmarish extras lunged at them. And for the third time, Vent and Papillion had to delete them from existence with increasingly tired pizazz.
“Okay…” Vent wheezed, leaning against a tree that looked just as exhausted as she felt. “We’re obviously doing something wrong here. But what? …Other than being stuck in a grief-loop designed by a sadistic film student.”
Papillion plopped onto a mossy log, fanning herself with her hand. “Maybe… we aren’t supposed to go through the forest?”
Vent looked down at her, then up at the sky like she expected subtitles to magically appear.
And then a little spark lit behind her eyes.
“Wait. What if we’re on the wrong side?” she breathed. “In the movie, Jesse doesn’t start letting go of his grief until someone else helps him understand he’s allowed to. His dad, his teacher… someone comforting him. Maybe we need to be that someone.”
Papillion slowly nodded. “So we need to cross the river… but how? Every time we walk into that clearing, the Kingdom just hits the rewind button on us.”
Vent shrugged in determination. “So we don’t use the clearing. We find somewhere else to cross.”
She gestured deeper into the trees—away from where they’d been caught in the loop. “That way. Worst case, we get lost. Best case, we stop replaying the world’s saddest Groundhog Day.”
Papillion stood, dusted herself off, and gave a firm, tired nod.
Vent and Papillion trudged on, crunching over twigs and dead leaves as they wound deeper through the dark, hushed forest. Aside from the occasional shadow-creature lunging out from between the trees—each one dispatched with bone-deep irritation rather than flair—the woods were eerily still. No cinematic score. No narrator. Just two tired Phantom Thieves marching through someone else’s grief.
After what felt like an entire extended edition of walking, Vent spotted a narrow animal trail threading through the underbrush.
“Shortcut?” she guessed.
“Or a death trap,” Papillion offered.
“Same difference.” Vent pushed forward.
The little path dipped and twisted until it delivered them to the riverbank—this time without any ominous clearing or magical reset loops waiting to greet them. The river was narrower here, barely a few leaps wide.
Vent tested a stone with her boot. “Okay, this looks doable.”
It was. A few careful jumps—one not-so-careful splash from Vent—and they landed on the opposite side.
Vent threw her arms up triumphantly. “Voilà. Right side of the river. Now let’s see if we can find that kid again.”
Papillion nodded—then immediately hissed as pain shot up her leg the moment she put weight on her foot.
Vent’s head snapped around. “Hey—want to take a quick break? We’ve been walking forever.”
Papillion gave her a grateful, sheepish little nod. “Just… a few minutes. If that’s all right.”
They found a fallen log and sank down with synchronized groans. Papillion slipped off her boots and began massaging her stocking-clad feet, wincing as pins and needles stabbed back to life.
“I have a newfound respect for Kirin,” she muttered, kneading her arch.
Vent snorted. “Oh yeah. That girl’s feet are made of titanium. She’s not like the rest of us mere mortals.”
Papillion huffed out a tired laugh, letting the silence settle comfortably between them. The river burbled quietly nearby, the sound almost peaceful… After a moment, Papillion’s expression softened, her gaze drifting toward the forest.
“That child…” she murmured. “Do you think it’s Hikari Fukuen?”
Vent shrugged, rolling her shoulder. “Who knows? Oracle never confirmed HF’s identity. But it makes sense, non? The things they posted on their blog seems pretty on-theme for what we’ve been seeing both here and in reality.” She nudged Papillion lightly. “Why?”
Papillion finished pulling her boots back on, then leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring into the woods with newfound tension.
“I just hope we don’t end up having to fight them,” she whispered.
Vent followed her gaze, her humor dimming a notch—but her resolve staying steady. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”
Vent and Papillion pushed deeper into the woods, moving quietly now, every step deliberate. The forest thinned ahead, moonlight gathering like a ghostly spotlight on the clearing they remembered. And there—across the gentle sweep of grass—the child reappeared.
She moved like a puppet on strings, no spark, no awareness, just soft, mechanical motions. She reached into her pocket, pulled out two familiar tubes—watercolors, blue and yellow—and squeezed them into the river in thick, dripping lines that swirled away downstream.
Papillion and Vent stayed hidden among the trees at first. Watching. Waiting. And then the roar came.
A monstrous bellow cracked across the clearing from the opposite bank. The Dark Master surged out of the shadows—larger than before, its limbs nothing but veins of darkness and jagged fear.
The child dropped immediately, hitting her knees. Her hands covered her ears. Her eyes squeezed shut. A tiny, silent scream twisted her face.
And then—
FLASH.
The world blinked white.
The loop restarted.
The child walked into the clearing again. Reached into her pocket again. Squeezed the paint again.
This time, though, she wasn’t alone.
Vent and Papillion stepped out of the tree line and walked straight toward her. No sneaking. No hiding. Just certainty. Just purpose.
Up close, the child looked heartbreakingly small—maybe ten, maybe younger. Black and orange paint-splattered t-shirt, black leggings, scuffed sneakers. Her hair was tied in short, uneven pigtails. She didn’t even flick her eyes toward the two masked women; she simply kept reaching into her pocket like nothing else existed.
Vent gave Papillion a soft nod. Follow my lead.
Papillion moved to the child’s left. Vent stood to her right. They didn’t interrupt. They didn’t speak. They simply stayed—quiet, steady, present—while the child squeezed the colors into the river.
Then came the roar.
The Dark Master burst into view. The girl collapsed, hands up, eyes squeezed shut again. The loop should have swallowed them in another flash.
But Vent moved first. She dropped to one knee. Then the other. And gently, she wrapped her arms around the trembling child and pulled her into her embrace. The girl didn’t fight—she simply froze, breath hitching, as though waiting for the inevitable pain to follow.
Vent held her close, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other stroking slow circles along her back. “Shhhh… shhhh…” she whispered, voice soft as river moss. “It can’t hurt you. Not anymore.”
The child let out that same silent scream—mouth open, sound swallowed by fear rather than air—but Vent only held her tighter, rocking her with gentle rhythm. “You don’t have to hold it anymore,” she whispered. “You can let it go. We’ve got you. I’ve got you…”
Papillion stood guard, one hand on her Grimoire but her gaze fixed on the child’s face. Something in the girl’s expression cracked—not broken, but loosening. Softening.
The Dark Master’s roar flickered into static, failing to trigger the loop. The child sagged into Vent’s chest, trembling like a leaf in a storm, and then slowly… slowly… her shaking eased. Her breath steadied. Her little fingers curled into Vent’s robe. Vent held her, head bent protectively over the child’s crown, as she collapsed fully into Vent’s arms, not from fear anymore—but from release.
Vent held the little girl for a long, steady moment—long enough for the child’s breathing to settle, long enough for the forest itself to seem to exhale with her. When Vent finally shifted, she did so gently, easing back just enough to look at the girl’s face.
Up close, now that the fear had receded, the child looked… real. Present. Fragile, but no longer hollow.
Vent softened her expression. “You’re Hikari, aren’t you?”
A tiny flicker—recognition, maybe—passed through the girl’s eyes. She gave the smallest nod.
“Can you tell me what happened here?” Vent asked, voice low and warm.
Hikari didn’t speak. Her throat bobbed once, but no sound came. Instead, she slowly lifted an arm and pointed toward the riverbank.
Vent followed the gesture and nodded thoughtfully. “You want me to carry you to the riverbank?”
Another little nod.
“Okay.” Vent lifted her with careful arms, holding her close as she stood. Papillion followed beside them, watchful and quiet, her presence a comforting shadow.
The three of them made their way through the clearing, twisting around roots and soft moss until they reached the river’s edge. Hikari gave Vent’s robe a gentle tug, signaling she wanted down. Vent crouched, lowering her until the little girl’s feet touched the stones.
Then Hikari stepped forward, straight into the river.
“Wait—!” Papillion gasped, reaching out.
But Hikari wasn’t sinking. She was glowing.
Light gathered in petal-soft colors around her small frame—soft gold, pale blue, delicate pink. It grew brighter, gentler, almost warm enough that Vent could feel it brushing her cheeks. And then Hikari began to fade, dissolving like watercolor in sunlight.
In her place, the river shifted.
A wooden bridge grew from nothing, stretching out across the water as though woven by invisible hands. Flowers bloomed along its rails in vibrant bursts—marigold, cornflower, morning glory—wrapping the bridge in soft, living color.
On the far side, a portal unfurled in a silver glow—calm, serene, shimmering like moonlight on glass.
Vent and Papillion stared for several seconds, letting the silence settle.
“…Looks like that’s our way out,” Vent murmured.
Papillion nodded. “I’d say so.”
Together, they stepped onto the wooden planks. They crossed the bridge, pushed through the silver glow—and vanished into the light.
Behind them, unseen, a short figure with a bowler hat and an amused little smile stepped into the clearing. The Tramp tipped his hat toward the fading glow of the portal.
Then he, too, slipped away.
Hikari sat hunched in the glow of a single monitor, her room swallowed by shadows. The curtains were drawn tight, the air heavy, as though the whole space was bracing around her. She rocked slowly in her chair, clutching the urn against her chest, fingers white with the strain.
“No… no…” she whispered, breath trembling. “I need to keep things the same. I need to stick to what works. He knew what worked… I can’t change it… I won’t change it…”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
After a moment, she reached out with stiff, shaky hands and picked up the battered manga lying on her desk. Its cover was creased, its corners frayed, the spine softened by years of rereading. But Hikari held it as if it were made of glass—more than that, as if it were sacred.
“He showed me the way…” she breathed, brushing her thumb across the faded illustration as if touching it could anchor her.
Gently—almost reverently—she set the book back down. The urn stayed clutched in one arm as she pulled her drawing tablet toward her with the other. Her stylus quivered between her fingers.
“I just need to follow it…” she murmured.
And with her eyes hollow and sleepless, Hikari began tracing lines—not creating, not imagining, just repeating. Over and over, the same style, the same strokes, the same patterns burned into her muscle memory from someone she refused to let go.
Stepping through the shimmering film-reel archway and back into the Kingdom proper felt like surfacing from deep water—cool air, steady ground, and immediately three panicked voices slamming into them like a worried stampede.
“WHERE WERE YOU?!” Joker, Queen, and Noir converged at once—equal parts relief, fury, and oh-my-god-I’m-never-letting-you-two-out-of-my-sight-again energy.
Queen grabbed Vent by the shoulders, shaking her lightly. “You disappeared for hours! Hours!! Do you know how many cursed musical characters and talking-animals we had to dodge?! We were worried sick about you both.”
Vent just blinked at her, still dusty and looking like she got dragged through a hedge backwards. “We made it back… eventually?”
“Not comforting!” Queen snapped, then hugged her so hard Vent wheezed.
Noir, meanwhile, was fussing over Papillion like a mother hen. “You’re trembling! You’re scraped! Your hair is—okay actually your hair is still perfect but you scared me half to death!”
Joker just stood there for a beat, arms crossed, doing that very specific brand of “I was worried but also knew you could handle yourselves but still mostly worried” boyfriend-glare. Then he exhaled and pulled both girls in, a long, tight embrace. “You two are never leaving my sight again. Ever. Got it?”
Vent saluted. “Yes, captain.”
Papillion nodded very fast, very eager to be forgiven.
Once everyone stopped clinging and shouting, Vent and Papillion recounted everything—from the looping forest to the Dark Master, to the realization about grief, to the hint that the Ruler of the Kingdom was indeed Hikari Fukuen.
Joker listened intently, Queen’s eyes widened in an “oh great, emotions—this is gonna be a whole thing” sort of way, and Noir spun her scythe idly round and round, looking thoughtful.
“That sounds like you two have been on quite the adventure,” Joker finally said with an impressed whistle. “And honestly? I do not want a repeat. We should head back before somebody’s copyright-protected puppet decides we’re perfect for a cameo.”
“Agreed,” Queen muttered. “I swear, if one more anthropomorphic sidekick tries to deliver a moral lesson at me, I’m throwing hands.”
The group started toward the portal back, when Papillion tugged lightly on Joker’s sleeve and looked up at him with eyes so pleading they could melt solid steel.
“…Can you give me a foot rub when we get back?”
Joker snorted, laughter warm and immediate. “You nearly got eaten by metaphorical grief wolves and that’s what you ask for?”
Papillion nodded. Completely serious.
He booped her nose, amused and fond. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Vent pumped a fist. “Score one for Papillion!”
Queen groaned theatrically. “Do not encourage her.”
Noir just giggled. “Too late.”
Together, they headed back toward the real world—tired, relieved, and with just enough energy left for a little teasing on the way.
Rise pressed her back against the cool concrete wall, arms folded, lips pursed so tightly she could probably whistle through them if she tried. The morning had been... unproductive. And that was putting it politely.
After Ren and Ann had given her the sort of perfectly coordinated double-deflection that would make even seasoned PR managers applaud, she’d spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon trying to corner the rest of the girls. Trying being the operative word. They weren’t rude, they weren’t hostile, they weren’t even evasive in an obvious way. No, they were infuriatingly pleasant—smiling, chatting, joining in on casual topics—and then sidestepping her questions with the grace of trained ballroom dancers.
Shiho gently redirected her. Yukiko politely overwhelmed her with art speak. Futaba started talking about anime and Rise somehow ended up listening to a 15-minute rant about magical girl power-scaling instead of getting a single answer. Ryuemi laughed her way through an entire 20-minute conversation that somehow yielded zero information.
Rise had eventually resorted to Kouzeon. And that had been the strangest part of all.
Normally, when she scanned someone, they lit up with that faint glow only she seemed able to see. Humans: green. Persona-users: golden-yellow. Shadows: these days, they were mostly blue.
But Akira’s friends? Barely anything. A faint smudge of light, a little shimmer—like static on a TV. Muted. Interfered with. Blocked by something… or someone.
Rise wasn’t like Yu or Naoto. She hated mysteries she couldn’t pry open with charisma and spiritual horsepower. She was still chewing on that when movement caught her eye backstage—specifically, Akira wandering past with a large speaker strapped to a dolly… while Lavenza perched on his back like a tiny blonde queen riding her personal steed.
Rise blinked. Then blinked again.
Akira, unfazed, adjusted his hold on Lavenza’s thighs and kept pushing the massive speaker like this was the most normal thing in the world. Lavenza, for her part, looked serene—content, even—snuggled against Akira’s back like a sleepy koala.
Rise stared. This boy… He really is like Yu.
But then she realised she hadn’t spoken to him properly all day. Perfect. If she could get him alone for thirty seconds, she might actually get some answers—and she really, really wanted answers before the show kicked off.
Steeling herself, Rise stepped forward, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt and fixing on her brightest professional smile—the one that sold a million photobooks and melted fanboys for breakfast.
“Akira?” she called, pitching her voice just right. “Got a minute?”
And behind that smile, her mind sharpened like a blade. This time, she wasn’t leaving without something.
Akira spotted Rise before she even finished saying his name, and his face lit up with that warm, easy brightness he seemed to turn on effortlessly.
“Well, well, well,” he called, steering the dolly with one hand and hitching Lavenza up with the other. “Look who’s gracing us commoners with her presence. Shouldn’t you be in your trailer, sipping imported tea and yelling at interns?”
Rise put a hand to her chest in a dramatic gasp. “Excuse you, I’ll have you know I’m a world-famous idol, not a diva.”
She pouted—adorably, infuriatingly so—and Akira snorted. “Could’ve fooled me,” he teased.
“Oh, hush. If I were a diva, you’d know. There’d be fainting couches and a rule that no one make eye contact with me.”
“Honestly, that sounds like Futaba on low sleep.”
They fell into their old rhythm easily—light jabs, easy laughter, that comfortable familiarity of two people who’d known each other long enough to skip past the awkward bits. The only oddity was Lavenza, still draped over Akira’s back, softly snoring into his shoulder.
Rise tried not to stare. Tried. She failed a little. “So I ran into most of the girls today,” she said lightly, “but somehow you kept slipping away.”
Akira shrugged, rolling the speaker dolly a little forward. “Been floating around. Helping wherever I can. You know—being useful.”
Before Rise could continue, Lavenza stirred. She blinked sleepily, then lifted her head with the slow elegance of a cat waking from a nap. “You may put me down now,” she murmured. “I shall return to my section.”
Akira immediately offered, “Want me to carry you the rest of the way?”
But Lavenza shook her head, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek—soft, affectionate, matter-of-fact. “Rise-san has been wanting to speak to you. You should hear her out.”
She slid smoothly off his back, straightened her clothes, and began walking away. Halfway down the hall, she glanced back with a mischievous sparkle. “I’ll see you after the show… you still owe me that foot rub…”
Akira watched her go with a smile so fond it practically glowed. Rise watched him watch her go, then turned to him with the smuggest grin she could muster.
Akira groaned. “Yeah, yeah… laugh it up…” He snagged a bottle of water from a crate, twisted the cap off, and took a drink. “So, what did you want to talk about?”
Rise hesitated—just a beat—then decided to dive straight in. “’Kira… do you know the Phantom Thieves?”
Akira, mid-sip, executed the most dramatic spit take of his life. He coughed, choked, patted his chest, and stared at her like she’d asked if he moonlighted as a tap-dancing kangaroo. “Wha—what? Where did that come from?”
Rise crossed her arms. “Just answer the question. Do you know the Phantom Thieves?”
He wiped his mouth, cleared his throat, and tried very hard to look normal. “I mean… I know of them,” he said, making air quotes. “Bunch of vigilantes who ‘steal the hearts’ of corrupt people. Not sure if they’re real, but they sound pretty cool…”
Rise let out a low, frustrated exhale. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else?”
Akira shrugged, the picture of innocence. “Not really… Well, they do have a request board.”
Rise perked right up. “A request board? You can send them stuff?”
He nodded. “Yeah, apparently. Why?”
“Never mind that… do you have the URL?”
Akira put on an exaggerated show—patting his pockets, pretending to scroll, making a whole performance out of it—before reading the address aloud. Rise typed it into her phone at lightning speed.
“Thanks, ‘Kira,” she said, throwing him a bright wink before pivoting on her heel and walking off.
Akira waved after her, but she was already halfway down the hall, laser-focused on whatever she planned to do next. He watched her go, then sighed into his water bottle. “…This is fine,” he muttered to himself.
Backstage buzzed with the pre-show hum—roadies shouting over amps, stage lights flicking through test patterns, and the faint vibration of bass checks trembling through the floor. The Phantom Thieves clustered behind a stack of equipment crates, tucked just out of sight of the staff. It was the only pocket of semi-privacy they’d managed to steal all day.
Makoto, arms folded and brow furrowed in classic Student Council President Mode™, broke the silence first.
“Rise’s questions concern me a little,” she said. “But logically, it probably means she’s associated with that other guy Akira met in the Kyoto Kingdom.”
Akira nodded grimly. “Yeah. Sho. He did say he needed to run things by ‘people much smarter than me.’ Not a stretch to imagine he meant Ri-Ri and Yu-senpai.”
Ren snorted, crossing her arms. “So, what do we do about it? Just come clean?”
Akira shook his head immediately. “Not yet. We still don’t have nearly enough information. And right now, our priority is the Kingdom.” He turned to Futaba. “Any updates on Hikari?”
Futaba made a helpless little noise, pushing her glasses up. “Not much. She’s always been super reclusive. Hardly ever does interviews or conventions, even though her manga is huge. She always credits her older brother with ‘showing her the way,’ whatever that means.”
The team fell quiet, the weight of that cryptic phrase hanging between them.
Then Ryuemi raised a hand. “Okay, but… do we know what happened to the brother?”
Futaba’s fingers tapped rapidly against her tablet. “According to an old interview, he moved away about five years ago. Doesn’t say where. I can dig, but it might take time…”
Akira shook his head. “Where he went isn’t as important as why he left.”
That earned him several curious looks—Haru’s the most openly puzzled.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Akira hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe Hikari feels responsible for him leaving. And maybe she feels like she can’t move on until he comes back.”
Morgane’s expression softened, eyes dropping slightly. “That fits with the whole Bridge to Terabithia scenario Lavenza and I went through. So let’s say you’re right… what then? Try to find the brother?”
Another head shake from Akira. “We’ve only got today and tomorrow. That’s not enough time.” He looked around at all of them, face serious, voice steady. “We need to go back in and try to get through the whole Kingdom tonight. It’s going to be tough, though.”
The girls exchanged glances—some anxious, some determined, some quietly fired up.
Makoto exhaled, stepping forward. “All right. Then the real question is… who’s going in?”
The club was a cathedral of shadows tonight—thick, smoky darkness stitched together with the pulse of low, ominous music. Patrons drifted like wraiths between tables, their cloaks brushing the floor, their masks catching fleeting glints of dim red light. Nothing about the place ever changed, and yet it always felt like it was holding its breath.
At the central table, hunched beneath the edge of a hood, Gemini Mask poured over a spread of ancient-looking scrolls. Their gloved fingers traced diagrams and sigils with religious care, the flickering candles around them casting long, trembling shadows across the parchment.
The candles fluttered. The room stilled. And then—without a sound—the red-robed figure with the golden mask appeared at the opposite side of the table, lowering himself into the chair with casual, effortless authority.
Gemini Mask flinched, immediately bowing so deeply their forehead nearly brushed the scrolls.
“Welcome, Master. I was not expecting you. Should I summon my brethren?”
A soft chuckle answered them—warm, almost friendly, which somehow made it ten times more unsettling. “No,” the figure said, waving a hand lazily. “This is just a… casual visit.”
Gemini Mask dared to breathe. Just a little. But they remained bowed, hands perfectly still, posture rigid with devotion.
The red-robed figure studied them for a moment—silent, thoughtful—before speaking again. “You have done good work thus far. I am pleased.”
A tremor of relief ran through Gemini Mask. They raised their head just enough for their masked gaze to meet the golden visage. “I am happy to hear that, Master… My brethren and I… we live to serve.”
The figure laughed again—soft, amused, pleased by their reverence. “Good. Very good.” He stood slowly, his robe whispering across the floor as he reached into his sleeve. “But I come with a gift for you…”
He placed a small pillbox on the table—delicate, ornate, and somehow humming with quiet menace. “It’s time for you all to take your places at the table with the rest of my children.”
Gemini Mask’s head snapped up fully at that, disbelief cracking through their voice. “Master… Do you mean—?”
But the red-robed figure was already turning away, the faint gold sheen of his mask catching the dim light like a final, ominous wink. “Await my summons,” he said, voice low and echoing with promise.
He paused at the edge of the shadows. “Takaya…”
And then he vanished into the dark like he’d never been there at all.
Notes:
Holiday Update: Two Chapters Left Before the Break!
Hey everyone! I wanted to give you a heads-up on the final posting stretch before the year is out.
I've got two more chapters coming your way before I take a few weeks off to de-stress, eat too many cookies, and hang out with my family for the holidays! I really need the break to recharge, but don't worry, the fic will be back in mid – January 2026!Now for the fun part! The second of those two chapters is going to be a special Christmas one-shot! It'll be set after the main story, and I'm letting you decide what happens!
Drop your suggestions and requests in the comment! Everything is on the table! I'll pick one and write it up as a special thank you for reading this year.
See you next Monday for the next chapter!
Chapter 49: Adagio For the Apathetic – Part 3
Summary:
The Thieves investigate trauma through movies
Chapter Text
Joker, Oracle, Comet, and Kirin stepped back into the Kingdom of Eternal Apathy, and the world immediately washed itself of color—everything reduced to dull greys and exhausted shadows, like reality had given up halfway through rendering.
Oracle froze mid-step. “…oh my god.”
Her head snapped left, then right, then up, eyes sparkling behind her goggles. “Is that—wait—no way. That’s definitely a nod to Blade Runner. And—hold on—are those X-wings welded together with—oh my god, is that a busted TARDIS?!”
She spun in a slow circle, practically vibrating. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, whoever built this place has taste, even if they’re emotionally dead inside.”
Comet chuckled, folding her arms. “You’re doing the Vent thing.”
“This is not the Vent thing,” Oracle shot back, already zooming in on a glowing hover-car. “Vent appreciates vibes. I am appreciating craft.”
Kirin rolled her ankles to loosen them up, eyes sweeping the area with calm focus even as Oracle continued her enthusiastic commentary. “Try not to forget where we are,” she said gently. “This place still feels… wrong.”
Joker had been quiet, his attention fixed on the horizon. The cinema complex he’d spotted earlier loomed ahead of them—vast, imposing, its marquee frozen mid-flicker. But something had changed.
A faint, blue-hued barrier shimmered around the structure, like heat distortion caught in ice.
“That’s…” Joker narrowed his eyes. “…new.”
Oracle blinked, then followed his gaze. After a moment, she sighed and switched gears, visor humming as she scanned the structure.
“Yeah. Thought so.” She gestured vaguely over her shoulder. “Probably got triggered when Vent and Papillion made changes inside the Bridge to Terabithia set. Narrative deviation, emotional breakthrough, yadda yadda—Kingdom defenses don’t like that.”
She paused, head tilting. “…Oh. Ohhh that’s clever.”
She raised her visor and looked at the group, expression suddenly all business despite the grin tugging at her lips. “I’m picking up three additional power sources arranged in a relay network. Think… distributed projectors propping up the barrier. We can’t brute-force it.” She pointed off into the distance, where a faint glow hovered in the air—a floating movie screen, flickering silently. “We need to take them down one at a time.”
Kirin followed the direction of her finger. “So we’re going on a cinematic tour.”
“More like a hostile film festival,” Comet muttered.
Joker adjusted his gloves and let a slow grin spread across his face as he looked back toward the glowing screen. “Well then,” he said lightly, already stepping forward, “let’s go catch a movie.”
The Thieves stepped through the threshold together—and straight into chaos. The sitting room was elegant in the way only old money could be: polished wood, glass-fronted cabinets, porcelain figurines arranged with obsessive care. All of it was being systematically destroyed.
A young girl stood at the center of the room, screaming as she hurled a vase against the wall. It shattered spectacularly. She grabbed a clock next, hands shaking, eyes wild, and smashed it against the fireplace. Each crash echoed like a gunshot.
Towering behind her loomed a shadowy figure, its shape indistinct but its presence overwhelming. Its voice boomed through the room, rich and terrible.
“Yes,” it urged. “Let it out. Break it all. Let the rage heal you. Let it consume you.”
Before anyone could react, Comet moved.
“Hey—!” Joker started, but she was already lunging forward, blade flashing as she leapt toward the shadow.
The moment her attack should have landed, light exploded across the room.
The world lurched.
And suddenly, they were back at the doorway—unscathed, unharmed, staring at the same threshold they had just crossed.
Comet blinked. Then sputtered. “What the hell?!”
Oracle exhaled slowly, lowering her visor. “That,” she said evenly, “was reckless, babe. We keep telling you—look before you leap.”
Comet groaned and scratched the back of her head, ears burning. “Sorry. I just… got carried away.”
Joker chuckled under his breath and stepped closer, pulling her into a brief, reassuring hug. “Hey. It’s fine. No major damage done.”
Comet relaxed a little at that, shoulders dropping.
Kirin, who had been quietly observing the doorway, smiled faintly—then her expression grew more thoughtful. “But… what was all that?” she asked. “The child. The shadow. That room.”
Oracle hummed, rubbing her chin as she replayed the scene in her mind. “Definitely a movie set. Which means it’s following rules. Narrative rules.” She glanced at the others. “We just need to figure out which one.”
Silence settled over the group for a beat.
Then Kirin spoke again, slowly, carefully. “I… might have an idea. I remember watching a movie with Panther and Vent not long ago. It was about a child dealing with the guilt of wishing his terminally ill mother would die—and hating himself for feeling that way.” She frowned slightly. “There was a tree monster. It told him stories. It was devastating, but also… hopeful.”
Oracle’s head snapped up.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened behind the visor. “Oh wow, yeah. That’s A Monster Calls.”
She looked back at the doorway, expression sharpening with understanding. “And that scene we just saw? That was the second story.”
She straightened, already recalibrating her scanner. “Which means we did exactly the wrong thing.”
Joker adjusted his gloves, gaze fixed ahead. “So…”
Oracle nodded once. “Let’s head back. This time, we watch.”
The Thieves walked back into the sitting room—and the scene unfolded exactly as before.
The young girl screamed, her voice raw and breaking as she tore through the space, smashing antiques with reckless abandon. Porcelain shattered. Wood splintered. Glass rained down across the polished floor. Behind her, the shadowy figure loomed, its booming voice urging her on, coaxing her to surrender to the storm inside her.
“Let it all out,” it intoned. “Let the healing rage consume you.”
This time, no one moved. The Thieves stood frozen at the threshold, forced into the role of witnesses as the room was reduced to ruins. One by one, the antiques fell—until only a single cabinet remained, standing stubbornly against the far wall.
The girl stopped. Chest heaving, fists clenched, she stared toward the doorway, eyes burning with something unreadable. The room held its breath.
Then—light.
The world flashed, twisted, and reset. The Thieves found themselves once more just beyond the doorway.
“Wait… what happened?” Comet asked, looking around in disbelief.
The others exchanged uncertain glances. Joker frowned slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. “We must have missed something,” he said. “Let’s watch again.”
They stepped back inside.
The destruction played out again.
They looped. And again. And again.
By the fifth time, the tension had curdled into frustration.
“How many more times do we have to go through that?” Comet groused, folding her arms. “We watch her wreck the room, there’s that one cabinet left, and then—boom—loop. Are we supposed to tell her to break the last cabinet or something?”
Kirin froze. “Wait,” she said sharply. “What did you just say?”
Comet blinked at her. “Tell… her to… break the last cabinet?” she repeated, slower now.
Kirin facepalmed hard, groaning. “That’s it. That cabinet. Come on.”
Before anyone could question her, she was already moving.
The Thieves followed Kirin back into the sitting room as the scene began once more. They watched in silence as the girl destroyed everything in her path, the shadow’s voice rising and falling like a cruel tide. Eventually, only the final cabinet remained.
That was when Kirin stepped forward.
Slowly. Deliberately. Her gaze never left the young girl as she approached the cabinet. She placed her hands against it—and tipped it over.
The cabinet crashed to the floor with a deafening crack.
The girl let out a broken sound and dropped to her knees, sobs wracking her small frame. As her cries echoed through the ruined room, her form began to fade, dissolving into light until she was gone entirely.
The shadow vanished with her.
Silence followed. Kirin turned back to the others, her expression solemn as she gave a small nod. “In the film,” she said quietly, “the grandmother tips over the last cabinet.”
The other Thieves fell silent, the weight of what had just happened settling over them like dust after a collapse. Then Comet was the first to notice it. “…Uh. Guys?” she said softly.
On the far side of the ruined sitting room, a door glowed faintly, its outline shimmering as though it were unsure whether it existed or not.
Before anyone moved toward it, Kirin stopped short. “I think I know what we’re about to see…” she said quietly.
The others turned to her, puzzled. Oracle’s visor lit up as she accessed Hypatia’s databanks once more, fingers flicking through unseen data. After a few seconds, she lowered the visor and looked straight at Kirin.
“The Monster’s third story,” Oracle said. “The Invisible Man,” right?”
Kirin nodded once.
Joker and Comet exchanged a look.
“…And that is?” Joker asked.
Oracle exhaled slowly. “In the movie, Conor—the protagonist—hits his breaking point when his bully tells him, ‘I no longer see you.’ Not an insult. A dismissal. It turns him into an invisible man.”
She continued, voice steady but heavy. “The Monster appears and tells a story about an invisible man who screamed just to be noticed. After that… Conor snaps. He brutally attacks Harry—the bully—in front of the entire school. Bad enough to put him in the hospital.”
Comet winced. “And that fixes nothing, does it.”
Oracle shook her head. “Worse. He isn’t punished. No suspension. No consequences. And that’s what breaks him—because even that doesn’t make him feel seen. It just confirms he’s still invisible.”
Kirin folded her arms, gaze distant. “Which means this time, we’re not here to stop the violence after it happens. I think we’re meant to see him. Really see him.”
Joker frowned thoughtfully. “How?”
Kirin shrugged slightly. “Pull him off the bully. Step in as an authority figure. Punish him. Acknowledge him. Something that tells him he exists. We won’t know until we’re there.”
Comet cracked her knuckles. “Well. Guess we’re about to find out what kind of intervention this movie wants.”
Joker nodded once, decisive. Together, the four of them stepped through the glowing door.
The Thieves froze, their breaths caught in their throats. The playground stretched before them like a half-finished diorama, muted colors blending with the cold gray sky above. The young girl straddled the chest of the larger boy, her tiny fists hammering down with terrifying precision. Each strike landed with a wet, sickening thud, punctuated by her incoherent screams—part rage, part anguish. Blood spattered her clothes and smeared her cheeks, dripping onto the sand below in a dark, sticky pool. Her hair clung to her face from sweat and tears, and her eyes were wide and unfocused, a storm of grief and fury contained in a child’s frame.
Behind her, the shadowy figure loomed, towering and faceless, its booming voice pushing her forward. “Let it all out! Let the healing rage consume you!” it commanded. Its words reverberated through the courtyard, twisting the air like wind in a storm. The girl’s strikes became more frantic, more desperate, as if the act itself could purge every ounce of pain she carried. The boy beneath her didn’t fight back—he barely moved, groaning softly, trying to shield his face with his arms, though the blows kept coming.
Joker stepped forward, careful to make no sudden movements. He crouched so that he was level with her, his calm presence cutting through the chaos like a beacon. “There are worse things than being invisible, you know?” he said gently, his voice carrying a steady warmth.
The girl’s trembling hands faltered, but she didn’t look at him. Her bottom lip quivered, and a strangled whisper escaped her throat. “I… I’m… not good…”
Joker shook his head slowly. “There isn’t always a good guy, and there isn’t always a bad one. Most people live somewhere in between. You just need to choose which side you want to be on today.”
For a long, tense moment, the girl simply glared down at the boy beneath her, chest heaving, fists twitching in the air. She screamed again, a raw, unfiltered howl of grief, and the shadow figure surged forward as if urging her to continue. But the sight of Joker’s steady gaze seemed to anchor her, however slightly. Her shoulders sagged, and the tremor in her fists slowed.
Finally, her gaze flicked up, meeting Joker’s. “Are… are you going to punish me?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the echoes of her rage.
Joker shook his head. “Not unless you tell me why you feel you need to be punished.”
The girl’s chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. Then, almost imperceptibly, she pointed to the far end of the courtyard, where a shimmering silver portal hovered above the sand. “You’ll see…”
Before anyone could react, she and the shadow figure vanished into thin air, leaving the Thieves alone in the eerie quiet of the playground. The sand was streaked with crimson, the echoes of screams still lingering in the air, and a faint, unnatural hum of the Kingdom’s energy hummed around them.
The world on the other side of the portal twisted itself into a nightmare the instant the Thieves stepped through.
Gone was the school playground. In its place stretched a narrow, winding path carved into the side of a colossal cliff, vanishing upward into churning black clouds. Wind screamed past them in violent gusts, tugging at coats and skirts, threatening to peel them from the stone and send them plunging into the abyss yawning on either side.
“Fantastic,” Comet muttered, bracing herself as the ground shuddered beneath her boots. “Who ordered the death hike?”
They didn’t have time to complain for long. Shadows erupted from the rock walls—amorphous, clawed things that lunged without warning, their bodies flickering like torn film reels. Joker moved first, tonfas flashing as he parried an attack that nearly sent him over the edge. Oracle shouted warnings, her voice tight as she tracked enemies and footing simultaneously.
“Left—no, your other left—Kirin, careful!”
Kirin grimaced, teeth clenched as she pivoted on one heel. Fighting with kicks on solid ground was one thing. Fighting on a ledge barely wide enough to stand on, with a killing drop inches away, was another beast entirely. Every strike had to be measured, every movement precise. One misstep meant oblivion.
A Shadow lunged low. Kirin twisted, delivering a sharp upward kick that shattered it into smoke—but the momentum carried her too far. Comet caught her arm at the last second, heels scraping stone as they both nearly went over.
“Still alive?” Comet asked breathlessly.
Kirin let out a shaky laugh. “Ask me again after we’re off this cursed cliff.”
They climbed. They fought. They slipped, stumbled, and recovered, every battle blurring together under the relentless assault. Shadows came in waves, forcing the Thieves to fight back-to-back, balancing offense with survival. More than once, Joker had to haul someone back from the brink, fingers burning as he clung to wrists slick with sweat and rain.
At last—somehow—they reached the summit.
The wind howled louder here, nearly deafening. At the edge of the cliff lay the young girl, flat on her stomach, fingers dug desperately into the stone. She was holding onto a young boy who dangled over the precipice, his small body swaying helplessly in the gale.
Behind her stood the shadowy figure.
Joker’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t hear what the Shadow was saying, but he didn’t need to. Its posture was unmistakable—looming, insistent, one long arm gesturing downward, urging the girl to let go.
“No—” Joker breathed, already moving.
He broke into a sprint, boots pounding against the rock as he reached for the pair, heart hammering in his chest. If he could just grab the boy—if he could just—
A flash of blinding light swallowed the world. The wind vanished. The cliff dissolved. And the Thieves found themselves standing once more at the bottom of the path, staring up at the summit as if they had never climbed it at all.
Joker stared up at the cliff, jaw tight. “What did we do wrong?” he asked quietly, eyes never leaving the summit. “Should I have waited? Moved faster?”
Kirin hesitated, then slowly shook her head. “No… I don’t think that was it.”
He turned to her sharply. “Then what?”
Kirin met his gaze, expression heavy. “If we’re following the film’s logic, then… we’re not supposed to save the boy.” She drew in a steadying breath. “This is Conor’s nightmare. In the movie, this is where he finally admits the truth—that in his dream, he lets go on purpose.”
Joker froze.
Kirin continued, voice low but steady. “He knows his mother won’t survive. Part of him hopes she’ll die, because it would end the pain—for both of them. And at the same time, he hates himself for even thinking that.” Her hands clenched at her sides. “The nightmare isn’t about failing to hold on. It’s about the guilt of wanting to let go.”
She swallowed thickly. “So… we need to tell her it’s okay. That letting go doesn’t make her a bad person.”
Silence settled over the group, heavy as the storm clouds above.
Joker finally exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah…” He glanced at the cliff again, then at Oracle. “Think you can get us up there without making us re-enact Extreme Cliff Climbing Simulator 3000?”
Oracle’s lips curled into a grin as she snapped her fingers. “Oh, absolutely.” Hypathia shimmered into existence behind her, radiant and serene. Oracle threw an arm out theatrically. “Welcome aboard Air Oracle. Complimentary peanuts, zero leg room.”
Despite everything, Comet snorted. Kirin shook her head with a faint smile. A moment later, the ground fell away beneath them as Hypathia lifted them skyward—straight toward the summit, and the truth waiting at the top.
Back at the top of the cliff, the girl clutched the boy’s hand as he dangled over the chasm, her knuckles white with strain. Joker approached slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile moment. He lowered himself beside her and placed a steady, reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“It’s ok to feel the way you do,” he said gently. “Letting go is hard… but sometimes, it’s the bravest thing you can do.”
The girl didn’t look at him. Her fingers tightened around the boy’s hand instead, trembling. “I don’t want to be brave,” she said. Two voices overlapped now—one thin and childish, the other older, rawer, weighted with years of regret. “Being brave means accepting that I can’t change things. Being brave means moving forward. I don’t want to. I need to be punished for what I did…”
Joker nodded slowly. “I get it… Hikari.”
She gasped and finally turned to him, shock written plainly across her face. “You… you know my name?”
He nodded. “Yeah. You’re Hikari Fukuen, right?”
Her eyes wavered, then she nodded back, small and uncertain. “Do… do you know what I did?”
Joker shook his head, his smile soft and unjudging. “I don’t. Do you want to tell me?”
Hikari hesitated. Then she straightened slightly, as if gathering the courage to stand on her own. As she did, her grip loosened.
She let go.
The boy vanished into the white void below, and in that same instant, light swallowed everything.
When the world reassembled itself, Joker found himself lying beneath a yew tree. Kirin, Oracle, and Comet were beside him, all of them blinking and catching their breath. Ahead of them stood another portal, its surface shimmering faintly.
As Joker pushed himself upright, he noticed a familiar figure standing just beyond the tree line.
The Tramp.
He met Joker’s gaze, smiled warmly, tipped his bowler hat, and—without a word—skipped through the portal.
Joker exhaled, then rose to his feet. The others followed suit, brushing off dust, straightening masks and outfits, the unspoken understanding settling between them.
Without another word, the four Phantom Thieves stepped through the portal together.
They emerged back into the main hub of the Kingdom of Eternal Apathy, the echoes of the nightmare finally behind them—for now.
Hikari Fukuen sat curled in the corner of her darkened room, knees pulled tight to her chest. The curtains were drawn, sealing out the day, and the only light came from the faint, unnatural glow of the urn clutched in her arms. She rocked back and forth, slow and mechanical, like a pendulum that had forgotten how to stop.
“I need to be punished,” she murmured flatly. “For what I did… I need to be punished…”
The words had no heat in them. No anger. No sobbing. Just repetition—worn smooth by time and overuse. Around her, the room reflected the same hollow stillness. Stacks of untouched art supplies. A tablet left idle on her desk, its screen dark. Posters peeling slightly at the edges, relics of passions that no longer stirred anything inside her. Even the air felt tired.
Her rocking slowed.
Hikari’s gaze drifted to the desk, where a framed photograph lay face-down. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached for it and turned it over with trembling fingers. The picture showed two children, paint smeared on their hands and clothes, grinning wildly at the camera. One of them—older, taller—had an arm thrown protectively around the other’s shoulders.
Hikari stared at it.
Her eyes burned. They shone, glassy and red, tears gathering but refusing to fall, as if even that release had been denied to her. Her grip tightened on the urn until her knuckles ached, the glow reflecting faintly across her face.
She didn’t cry.
She just kept staring—trapped between memory and motionlessness—while the room quietly swallowed her whole.
The four of them stood in the main hub a little longer than usual, the echoes of what they had just seen clinging to them like mist that refused to burn off.
No one spoke at first. Joker finally broke the silence. “Oracle. Take us to the next screen.”
Oracle nodded and set off, her steps slower than before. The others followed, weaving through the warped avenues of the Kingdom. Shadows prowled the periphery—closer now, more restless. One lunged and was cut down in a flash of steel and light, but even then, the air didn’t relax.
“They feel more alert somehow…” Comet muttered, tightening her grip on her cutlass.
Kirin nodded quietly. “Like the Kingdom knows it’s being dismantled.”
No one disagreed. They reached the next screen—a floating rectangle of light, its surface rippling faintly like disturbed water. Joker stopped short and turned to Oracle.
“Can you scan it?” he asked. “Anything at all—what kind of film we’re walking into?”
Oracle lowered her visor and focused, fingers twitching as Hypathia’s symbols flickered across the lenses. After a few seconds, she exhaled sharply and shook her head.
“Too much distortion,” she said, sounding more annoyed than worried. “It’s like the data’s been intentionally scrambled. Whatever’s inside doesn’t want to be categorized.”
She lifted her visor and glanced at the others. “But if I had to guess?” A small, humorless smile tugged at her lips. “We’re about to walk into another grief-loop.”
Comet sighed. “Of course we are.”
Kirin straightened, rolling her shoulders like she was bracing for impact. “Then we handle it like the others.”
Joker looked at each of them in turn, then nodded once. “Stay sharp. Stay together.”
Without another word, the four Phantom Thieves stepped forward—and disappeared into the glowing screen.
The Thieves stepped out of the portal and into a hospital corridor flooded with harsh, fluorescent light.
Doctors and nurses hurried past them, charts clutched to their chests, voices overlapping in clipped urgency. The world felt loud and busy—but emotionally hollow, like a set dressed to look important without meaning any of it.
What drew their attention wasn’t the rush.
It was the stillness.
A lone young woman stood in front of a vending machine, hands limp at her sides, eyes fixed on a single bag of M&Ms jammed crookedly in the chute. Not fallen. Not retrievable. Just… stuck. Forever out of reach.
The Thieves exchanged glances and approached carefully.
The woman didn’t react to their presence. After a long, empty stare, she turned away from the machine and walked to the reception desk. She grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, then moved to a row of plastic chairs and sat down.
Oracle stepped forward, lowering her visor slightly. “Hey… you okay?”
Flash. Light swallowed the corridor. They were back at the entrance.
“…Welp,” Comet muttered. “That’s a nope.”
This time, they didn’t speak. They approached together, quietly, and sat around the woman as she began to write. Her pen scratched furiously against the paper as she muttered under her breath, voice flat and distant. “This is unacceptable… absolutely unacceptable…”
But the words on the page weren’t about the vending machine.
They were about him. About how he was perfect. How he always knew what to say. How he created worlds effortlessly, while she could only imitate them. How he had been her compass—her proof that there was a right way to exist.
“And now…” she whispered, pressing the pen so hard it nearly tore the paper, “…he’s gone. And I don’t feel anything.”
She finished the first letter, set it aside, and immediately started another. Then a third. Each one spiraled deeper—praise curdling into self-erasure, devotion hardening into something brittle and hollow. The Thieves didn’t interrupt. They just listened.
Finally, she ran out of paper.
She looked up.
For the first time, her eyes actually focused on them. Without a word, she handed each of them a letter. Then she stood, turned, and walked away.
Flash.
The world shifted again.
The Thieves now stood outside a small brick house, quiet and unassuming. Night pressed close around it, the windows glowing softly.
Comet frowned. “So… anyone know where we are?”
Joker nodded slowly, his expression heavy. “I could be wrong,” he said, “but I think this movie is Demolition.”
Oracle stiffened slightly, while Kirin and Comet looked a little confused still.
“And Hikari,” he continued, stepping up to the window, “is playing Jake Gyllenhaal’s role.”
He beckoned them closer. Inside, they saw Hikari standing in front of a bathroom mirror. She leaned in, studying her reflection with intense concentration. Then she tried to cry.
Her face twisted awkwardly—eyebrows pulled down, mouth trembling in a way that felt… rehearsed. She stopped, reset, and tried again. And again.
No tears came. Just frustration.
The Thieves watched in silence as Hikari exhaled shakily, pressed her palms to the sink, and whispered to her reflection, “This is what you’re supposed to look like… right?”
The house felt unbearably quiet. And for the first time, the Kingdom didn’t just feel apathetic. It felt empty.
The world fractured into a montage. Hikari dismantled her life the way one might take apart a clock—carefully, deliberately, without visible emotion. Cabinet doors came off their hinges. Light fixtures were unscrewed and laid out in neat rows. Walls were stripped bare, screws and nails sorted into little piles on the floor. Nothing was destroyed yet. Just disassembled, as if she were trying to understand how everything had once fit together.
Then the scenes shifted.
Hikari stood among a demolition crew, hard hat too big for her head, hands wrapped around a sledgehammer. At first her swings were stiff, uncertain. Then freer. Stronger. Concrete cracked. Walls gave way. Dust filled the air. Each impact echoed like a heartbeat she could finally hear again.
And then—
The nail. Her foot came down wrong. There was a sharp, sickening crunch as the metal punched through her shoe and into flesh.
Hikari screamed. Then she froze. Then she started laughing.
It spilled out of her in wild, breathless bursts—half sob, half hysterical relief—as she clutched her injured foot and rocked back and forth. Blood pooled beneath her, vivid and real. “I can feel it,” she gasped, laughter shaking her frame. “I can actually feel it.”
Flash.
The Thieves found themselves standing in a forest clearing. The air was cool and still. Birds didn’t sing. Leaves didn’t rustle. Hikari emerged from between the trees, wearing a bulky bulletproof vest over her clothes. Her eyes were bright—too bright—and her smile was wide, unhinged, almost joyful. Without a word, she handed each of them a handgun. Then she stepped back, spread her arms wide, and lifted her chin.
The invitation was unmistakable. Oracle’s breath hitched. Comet swore softly. Both of them immediately threw the guns away.
Flash.
The scene reset. Again, the guns were offered. Again, Oracle and Comet tossed them aside.
Flash.
The third time, the Thieves hesitated. Just for a heartbeat too long.
Flash.
The fourth time, Joker didn’t hesitate at all. The gun went off with a deafening crack.
Hikari staggered back as the bullet slammed into her vest, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. She blinked—then laughed, delighted, breathless, radiant.
She motioned for him to do it again.
Joker fired.
Again. And again.
Soon all four Thieves were shooting, their hands shaking, their faces pale as the bullets thudded uselessly into the vest. Hikari laughed every time, spinning slightly with each impact, alive with sensation.
Then—click.
Click.
Click.
The sound of empty chambers echoed through the clearing. The Thieves dropped the guns as if they were burning them alive. Oracle doubled over, retching. Comet followed suit, gagging violently. Kirin turned away, one hand clamped over her mouth.
Joker stood still.
Hikari faded, her manic smile lingering until the very last second before she dissolved into light.
Joker stared at the empty space she’d occupied, his jaw tight, eyes dark. “We’re getting to the end of this now,” he murmured quietly. “Just a little longer…”
The woods thinned, the trees giving way to soft grass and pale stone. The Thieves emerged into a quiet graveyard, bathed in gentle twilight. The air was still, reverent—so unlike the chaos they had just left behind. Rows of gravestones stretched out before them, names blurred and half-forgotten, as if memory itself were wearing thin.
Joker spotted Hikari a short distance away. She stood before a single grave, hands clasped in front of her, staring down at the stone as though willing it to speak back to her.
He approached quietly, the others hanging back out of instinct rather than instruction.
Joker stopped beside her. “Your brother?” he asked softly.
Hikari nodded, her face empty of expression.
“When did he die?” Joker asked.
She shook her head slowly. “He’s not…” she said after a moment. “…although he might as well be.”
Joker rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay to not know how to feel,” he said. “You just need to let it happen.”
Hikari looked up at him. Her face remained blank, but her eyes glistened faintly, as though tears were pressing against a door she refused to open.
“What if it never does?” she whispered. “What if I’m stuck this way?”
Joker shook his head and drew her closer, his voice steady and certain. “I don’t believe that will happen. I think you’re not allowing yourself to feel anything… because you’re feeling too much.”
Hikari’s gaze drifted back to the gravestone. Her lips trembled. Then, slowly, she began to fade—her form dissolving into soft motes of light that drifted upward like fireflies before vanishing entirely.
A portal shimmered into existence in front of Joker. He turned to Oracle, Comet, and Kirin. “Looks like we’re at the end of this one…”
The four stepped through together. They emerged onto a long pier, stretching out over dark, rippling water toward a cityscape glowing faintly on the horizon. At the far end of the pier stood another portal—and before it, waiting as if he had always belonged there, was the Tramp.
He smiled at them, tipped his bowler hat, and skipped through the portal without a word.
The Thieves stood in silence as, across the river, the buildings of the city collapsed inward, one after another, disappearing into a massive cloud of dust. Only then did they turn and walk through the glowing portal, returning to the main hub of the Kingdom.
Joker exhaled slowly and looked at the others. “One more to go…”
The Kingdom seemed to tighten around them as they moved. What had once been empty spaces now crawled with motion—Shadows slithered along walls, dropped from ceilings, and burst from the ground without warning. Every step forward felt earned. Every breath came measured.
The Thieves advanced as a unit, weapons flashing, Personas flaring in quick, brutal bursts of color. The narrow streets and warped plazas of the Kingdom offered no mercy; Shadows lunged with reckless abandon, uncaring of their own destruction so long as they dragged someone down with them.
“They’re getting worse,” Comet muttered, cutlass slicing through a lunging Shade before she kicked herself backward to avoid another. “A lot worse.”
Kirin landed awkwardly after a spinning kick, heels skidding on the cracked stone. “Like they’ve got a personal grudge,” she grunted, forcing her balance back under control.
Oracle’s voice crackled through their comms. “Aggression levels are spiking across the board. Whatever’s on that last screen?” She whistled. “Yeah. It’s not shy.”
Eventually—scraped, breathing hard, but still standing—they reached it.
The final screen floated high above a ruined plaza, pulsing softly like a waiting eye.
Joker stopped.
A prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck.
He turned slowly, storm-grey eyes sweeping the shadows, every instinct screaming something’s wrong. The plaza lay empty—too empty.
“Oracle,” he said calmly, never taking his gaze off the darkness, “are you picking up any particularly nasty signals at the moment?”
Oracle’s visor flared to life as she scanned. A beat passed.
Then she snorted. “Nothing we need to be concerned about,” she said cheerfully. “Just someone who thinks he’s being sneaky.”
She pointed off to the side. There was a startled snort, followed by several muttered curse words, and then Sho stepped out from behind a collapsed pillar, scowl already locked firmly in place.
He took one look at the identical grins spreading across the Thieves’ faces and scowled harder. “How long,” he demanded, “have you known I was there?”
Joker grinned. “Right from the start.”
Sho froze. “…Seriously?”
Joker shrugged. “Kinda hard to miss you when you’re quietly murdering Shadows like an overcaffeinated ninja.” He tilted his head. “I’m guessing you’ve been keeping them off our backs?”
Sho clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed, but nodded. “Don’t know exactly what you’ve been doing,” he said, “but it’s been making those fuckers way more aggressive.”
“That tracks,” Joker said easily.
He gave Sho a quick, stripped-down explanation of the films—the nightmares, the loops, the grief, the apathy stitched through every scene. Sho listened in silence, arms crossed, occasionally interrupting with a sharp question or a skeptical huff.
When Joker finished, he glanced toward the floating screen, then back at Sho. “You want to come with us for the rest of the Kingdom?”
Sho shook his head immediately. “Nah. Sounds like you guys have this under control.” He jerked a thumb behind him. “I’m heading back to make my report.”
Joker nodded. “Fair enough. Tell Ri-Ri and Yu-senpai we need to talk soon.”
Sho took two steps—then stopped dead. “…Wait.” He turned slowly. “How did you know Rise and Yu are the ones I’m reporting to?”
Joker smirked as he stepped toward the portal. “I didn’t,” he said lightly. “You just confirmed it.”
Sho stared, slack-jawed, as Joker walked through the screen, lifting a hand in a lazy wave over his shoulder.
“Shit…” Sho muttered.
I can see why they call him Joker now, he thought.
Somewhere deep within him, Tsukiyomi hummed in quiet, deeply amused agreement.
The Thieves emerged from the portal and found themselves inside a busy police station. Phones rang, officers moved briskly between desks, and paperwork shuffled endlessly—but all of it faded into the background the moment they spotted Hikari.
She sat at a small metal table, hands folded tightly in her lap, while a police officer interviewed her. The Thieves exchanged glances, tension coiling instantly in their chests as they approached. The closer they drew, the more details snapped into focus—Hikari’s face was bruised, her hands scraped raw, and her clothes were caked with mud and soot.
“What happened wasn’t your fault…” the officer told her, their voice low and carefully gentle. “It was an accident… a tragic, human mistake.”
Hikari nodded slowly.
Then she turned her head and looked at the Thieves. Joker’s eyes widened.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched it happen—Hikari suddenly reached out, grabbed the officer’s holstered handgun, and tried to shoot herself in the head. The safety was on.
Officers shouted and tackled her to the ground, but as they restrained her, she let out a guttural, desperate cry. “Please!”
The world flashed white. The Thieves found themselves standing on a sidewalk, people passing by them without a second glance, absorbed in their own lives. Cars rolled past. Someone laughed nearby. Life went on.
This time, all four of them knew exactly where they were. “Manchester by the Sea…” Oracle said somberly. “We all watched it together a few months ago, right?”
Comet and Kirin nodded. Kirin spoke next, her voice subdued. “This must be the part where Lee accidentally runs into his ex-wife, Randi… where she tries to ask for forgiveness for all the things she said to him after the fire…”
Joker scanned the street, then lifted a hand. “Look…”
He pointed farther ahead. The Thieves followed his gaze and saw Hikari backing away from someone just out of view, her movements tense and agitated.
“Let’s follow her,” Joker said quietly.
Hikari walked into the bar without hesitation. The Thieves followed her inside, the sour stench of spilled alcohol and old sweat hitting them immediately. Neon lights buzzed overhead, casting sickly reds and blues across scarred tables and sticky floors. Laughter burst out in harsh, ugly peals—too loud, too sharp—and the jukebox groaned out something angry and off-key.
Dread settled heavy in their chests. They all knew this scene.
Hikari slid onto a barstool and ordered one drink. Then another. Then another. She downed them mechanically, barely flinching, her gaze drifting until it locked onto two women sitting a few stools away. They were big—thick arms, squared shoulders, the kind of presence that made the air around them feel tighter. They noticed her stare almost immediately.
Hikari didn’t look away.
She smiled instead. It was small. Mean. Deliberate. The first insult came softly, almost lazily. Then another, louder this time. She mocked the way one of them laughed. Commented on the other’s scars. Each word was chosen carefully, sharpened, thrown with intent.
“Hey,” one of the women growled, rising from her seat. “You got a problem?”
Hikari tilted her head, glass dangling loosely from her fingers. “Yeah,” she said flatly. “You.”
The Thieves tensed as one. Comet’s hand twitched toward her cutlass. Kirin shifted her weight, already calculating angles. Oracle’s visor flared, warning lights blinking as if begging her to intervene.
They didn’t move.
They couldn’t.
The punch came fast.
Hikari barely had time to stand before she was slammed into a table, wood cracking under the impact. A fist caught her across the jaw, snapping her head sideways. She went down hard, but she laughed—actually laughed—as she hit the floor.
That only made it worse.
Boots followed. Kicks to the ribs. A knee to the stomach that knocked the air from her lungs in a wet, choking gasp. Someone grabbed her by the hair and hauled her up just long enough to drive a fist into her face again.
Blood spattered across the floor.
Hikari never fought back.
She curled inward, arms barely lifting to shield herself, her body taking blow after blow as if she were counting them. Each strike seemed to loosen something in her expression—not relief exactly, but grim satisfaction, like this was confirmation of something she already believed.
Time stretched unbearably thin. Minutes blurred together until they felt like an hour.
Finally, bored or exhausted, the women stepped back. One spat near Hikari’s head. The other muttered something about “crazy bitches” before they walked away, the crowd already turning its attention back to their drinks, to the music, to anything else.
Hikari lay crumpled on the floor, barely moving.
The Thieves moved immediately. Joker knelt beside her, carefully lifting her head. Blood ran freely from a deep gash on her forehead, matting her hair. Comet grabbed napkins by the handful while Oracle thrust a bottle of water into Joker’s free hand. Kirin helped steady Hikari as they half-carried her out of the bar, the night air cool and sharp against their skin.
They laid her gently on a bench outside. Joker cleaned the gash as best he could, his hands steady despite the anger coiling in his chest. “Was it worth it?” he asked quietly.
Hikari turned her head toward him, one eye already swelling shut. “Worth it?” she echoed dully. “It’s not even half of what I deserve… I need to be punished for what I did…”
Kirin crouched beside her. “What did you do, though?” she asked softly. “That’s the one thing you never tell us…”
Comet nodded. “We’ve seen how much grief you’re carrying… but we don’t know why you’re carrying it.”
Hikari shrugged weakly. “Does it matter? It won’t change anything… I need to be punished for what I did, but no one cares enough to punish me…”
Oracle studied her for a long moment. “You think people don’t care because they aren’t punishing you?” she said carefully. “What if they aren’t punishing you because they can see how much you’re hurting—and they care enough not to hurt you more?”
Hikari stared at her, stunned. “But… but… I did something bad,” she whispered. “Kazu-niichan can’t walk anymore because of me… If I hadn’t disobeyed Father and climbed the big tree in the garden… or if I had been brave and climbed down by myself…”
Her hands flew up, slapping against her own face again and again—once, twice—before stopping abruptly. Her expression went blank, hollow, like a light had been switched off behind her eyes.
“Everyone says they don’t blame me,” she murmured. “But… they’re lying. They have to be…”
Oracle’s composure cracked. She grabbed Hikari by the shoulders and shook her. “What if they’re not?” she snapped. “What if the one lying… is you?!”
Hikari looked at her for a long moment.
Then she shook her head slowly. “You’re wrong… you must be… I need to be punished for what I did… Otherwise…” Her voice trembled. “Otherwise… I have no reason not to move on…”
The world flashed white. The Thieves found themselves standing on a fishing boat, rocking gently on a dark, quiet lake. The night was calm, almost eerily so.
Hikari was gone.
Oracle scanned the horizon, her visor lighting up as she pointed into the distance. “There,” she said softly. “That’s the portal…”
The Thieves spilled back into the main hub just as the air itself seemed to exhale. The blue-hued barrier surrounding the massive cinema complex shuddered, its surface rippling like disturbed water, before beginning to fade. Not collapse—fade, slowly and reluctantly, as if even the Palace were too tired to maintain the illusion.
All four of them stopped at once.
Shadows were gathering. They slithered out from alleyways and between half-finished sets, clustering around the cinema in uneven knots. Some prowled openly, others lurked just beyond sight, their forms warping and stuttering like bad film frames. The usual background menace of the Kingdom had sharpened into something purposeful.
Joker’s jaw tightened. “Shadows are massing around the complex,” he muttered, storm-grey eyes sweeping the area. “We’ll need the entire team if we’re going to break through.”
He hesitated, then added more quietly, “And I don’t like that we still haven’t run into the Ruler of this place. The Hikari we met was… broken, but she wasn’t hostile.”
Comet rested a hand on her cutlass and squinted toward the cinema. “Well,” she said with a crooked smirk, “this is the Kingdom of Apathy. Maybe the Ruler’s too lazy to come out?”
The others turned to stare at her.
“…That’s not how Palaces work,” Oracle said slowly.
Kirin folded her arms. “That’s not how anything works.”
Comet shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Hey, just saying. If you were the embodiment of emotional burnout, would you feel like making a dramatic entrance?”
There was a beat of silence.
Joker let out a quiet huff of a laugh despite himself. “…Annoyingly, she might have a point.”
He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if bracing himself. “Either way, we won’t get anywhere standing around philosophizing about lazy god-constructs. Let’s head back and grab the others.”
His gaze lingered on the cinema complex—on the thinning barrier, the restless Shadows, the sense of something watching from just beyond the edge of perception. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
The Thieves turned as one and moved out, their footsteps echoing through the artificial streets as the Kingdom of Apathy watched them go.
The room was quiet in the way only locked rooms ever are—thick, airless, heavy with thoughts that have nowhere left to go.
Hikari sat on the floor with her back against the bed, knees drawn to her chest. In her hands was a photograph so worn the edges have gone soft and white, corners curled from being taken out and put away again and again.
Two children smiled up at her from the glossy surface. Seven-year-old Hikari beamed like the sun itself, missing tooth and all, eyes bright with a happiness that felt almost painful to look at now. Beside her stood a boy a few years older, brown hair perpetually messy, curious eyes turned not toward the camera—but toward her. His arm was slung around her shoulders, protective without being possessive, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to stand between her and everything else.
“Kazu-niichan…” she whispered.
Her thumb moved without her noticing, tracing the outline of his face. The curve of his cheek. The bridge of his nose. The place where his smile creased just slightly, like he’s on the verge of saying something clever.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
And the image changed.
She saw him as he was now.
A hospital bed. White sheets. Tubes. Machines that breathed for him because he could not. Eyes that still recognized her—still kind, still gentle—but trapped in a body that wouldn’t answer him anymore. A mouth that couldn't speak. Hands that couldn't draw, couldn't build the worlds he used to create just for her. Worlds where she was brave. Where she was clever. Where everything made sense.
The tears came suddenly, without permission.
“It’s my fault…” she murmured.
If she hadn’t tried to prove she could be brave like him. If she hadn’t climbed the tree. If she hadn’t needed help getting down.
If Kazu-niichan hadn’t put his foot on that branch. If the branch hadn’t cracked. If—
Her breath stuttered.
The memory crashed over her again, unstoppable.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling—
Broken.
Her hands tightened around the urn as her thoughts spiraled, words blurring into one another, losing shape, losing meaning.
“I broke you,” she whispered, voice flat, hollow. “I break everything.”
The photograph slipped from her fingers and landed face-down on the floor, forgotten. Hikari stared straight ahead now, eyes wide but unfocused, as if looking through the walls themselves. Her body rocked gently, mechanically, back and forth.
In her arms, the urn pulsed softly.
Once. Twice. Again. A steady, patient glow in the dimness.
And Hikari Fukuen sat there, unmoving, empty-eyed—caught between the past and the present—while the Kingdom she built in her heart waited for someone to finally reach her.
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