Chapter Text
Akira opens his eyes.
The rain is coming down hard, pounding on the top of the train car, cascading down the wide windows in monochrome sheets, and the sound thunders through the empty interior, filling Akira’s ears with static. Despite the noise, when the man sitting across from him opens his mouth, his words ring like bells.
That wasn’t very fair, now was it?
Akira doesn’t respond, staring blankly at the man’s placid face. His silver half-mask obscures part of his expression, but when he smiles, Akira feels it all the way in his bones.
You won, and still, fate twists the knife one last time.
The train car rumbles, tilting as though snaking around a bend.
That’s not how things are supposed to work. Uncrossing his long, black-clad legs, the man stands, and his dark, trailing ponytail swings behind him with the motion. And I have been persuaded to give you another chance.
Akira watches as the man closes the distance between them, tipping his head back to hold the man’s strange golden stare, and the proximity hums uncomfortably under his skin, a body-wide headache.
Are you willing to take it?
“What will it cost?”
The man laughs, soft and whispery like the flutter of insect wings. Astute as always, little trickster.
Akira waits.
The price will be steep.
“I’ll pay.”
A pale eyebrow lifts in surprise. So quick.
“I don’t care what you take.”
It’s not about what I will take. The man’s golden gaze crawls down Akira’s spine. But what you will give. This is not a one-time payment. All that I am risking to give you this chance will be for nothing if this is allowed to happen again.
“Again?”
You are not the first to contend with the meddling of beings who have no place in the physical world, nor will you be the last. Unless something is done.
“What does that mean?” Akira’s on his feet, eye level with the man. “Just tell me what I have to do.”
Break the cycle, trickster.
“How?”
Heal the scars. Assemble the fragments. Destroy the Lens. Only then can you prevent these events from repeating.
“Scars, Lens—” Akira repeats, head spinning. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
Around them, the train gives a violent rattle. Lightning pierces the storm, bleaching the man’s face featureless and glaring off his mask for a blinding instant. He glances to the side. There is much I cannot tell you. Even speaking these words is dangerous for us both.
“Okay, fine, I’ll solve your riddle. Just send me back.”
You would accept this burden?
“Yes, anything.” Akira clenches his fists at his sides. “Anything.”
Do not regret this.
“I won’t.”
The man extends his hand and Akira grasps it. His skin is cold, or maybe Akira’s is just boiling.
One warning. The man’s eyes blaze brighter, twin suns in the darkness of the train car. Your thievery strengthens the imposter. There is another way.
Akira can only nod, the words weaving into the chaos between his ears.
You have three hundred days before your heart is taken. The man’s grip on his hand tightens and a wry smile flashes across his face. Good luck, little trickster.
A spike of heat drives into the base of his spine, radiating through his bones, and Akira slams his eyes shut—
Saturday, April 9
Akira opens his eyes.
The hard seat underneath him jolts as the train rounds a corner and Akira plants his feet to steady himself, blinking in the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. He inhales sharply, and for a beat the drum of rain fills his head—before settling into a rumbling mechanical hum.
“What, are you for real?” A cheerful, feminine voice carries across the car and Akira looks up to see two teenage girls huddled over a phone by the door. “A mental shut-down?”
“It’s the truth!” the other girl insists, tapping at her screen.
“To a person, though?” The first girl laughs. “It’s gotta be a joke! You really love all that occult stuff, don’t you?”
They giggle together and Akira bolts upright so quickly the man sitting beside him casts him a startled glance. Numb fingers shift the bag in his lap, fumbling for his pocket, and Akira pulls out his phone, thumbing it on frantically.
His old, default home screen greets him and for a second his eyes freeze on the dull blue background. Because that’s not right. What happened to the photo he set it to? Or, the photo that Ann set it to after she snuck his phone out of his pocket the last time they—
He shakes his head. No. This is his new phone. After his old one was shattered during his arrest, he didn’t have a chance to replace it, until they got the word about his probation—Akira remembers his father dropping the box onto the pile of clothes he was packing—
“Don’t call unless it’s an emergency.”
He hasn’t even had it long enough to care about changing the backgrounds yet.
But that’s...wrong.
Akira swipes across the screen, scanning the small collection of apps for that familiar red and black square, but it’s not there. Wait. Of course it’s not there. Last time, it didn’t appear until he got to the Scramble—
Last time.
Rain and golden eyes and the soft swish of papery wings brushing his cheek—
I have been persuaded to give you another chance.
The date on his phone reads April 9.
It’s all the same. Akira takes in the bustling train car, blank shock twisting in his stomach. It’s all exactly like he remembers.
Before he can stop himself, he’s pulling up his search engine, fingers poised over the keyboard with one name in mind.
All of the most recent stories about Akechi Goro are on cases he’s solved or TV programs he’s appeared on. A few images pop up, all pleasant smiles and shining chestnut hair and perfect skin spearing right through Akira’s chest like a bullet—Akira scrolls though headlines that say stuff like Ace Detective Cracks Another and Detective Prince Prodigy Tells All and How A Boy Detective Balances Work and School—
There’s no missing. There’s no mysteriously vanished. There’s no last seen on—there’s no gone.
Whatever settles heavy in Akira’s gut feels almost like relief, but the edges are too sharp.
Clenching his jaw, Akira tears his eyes away from a shot pulled from Akechi’s instagram (a selfie featuring a fake smile and a massive crepe) and forces himself to lower his phone as the train vibrates gently to a halt.
His head is swimming, unmoored. Searching Akechi was a mistake, whiskey eyes glittering out of his memory and tangling the flailing threads of his thoughts with each innocent flutter of long lashes, but Akira had to see—had to know—
But now he needs to get right. He needs to think. He strides off the train in a daze, clutching his phone in one clammy hand, bag hitched over his shoulder.
Welcome back.
The unmistakable weight of his persona settles gleefully at the back of Akira’s skull, so suddenly he finds his feet faltering in the crosswalk. This time, there’s no blaze of cold fire, or cessation of the world around him. One second he’s alone, and then Arsѐne is purring in his ear, slotting into place like he never left.
We have a lot of work to do.
A tiny trickle of relief accompanies Arsѐne’s steadying presence, and a glance down at his phone reveals the predictable eye icon sitting amongst his apps. He supposes all of the theatre from last time isn’t necessary now that he knows the drill.
Arsѐne hums with something that almost sounds like a laugh.
Tucking his phone back into his pocket, Akira hurries on.
“So, you’re Akira?” Sojiro’s eyes flick up and down Akira’s frame, assessing.
Akira fights against the urge to shift his weight. “Please take care of me,” he requests with a polite dip of his head.
“Uh-huh.” Sojiro’s gaze travels back up to Akira’s face, his scan apparently done. He sticks a hand on his hip and frowns. “I’m Sakura Sojiro. You’ll be in my custody over the next year.”
As Sojiro leads him through the familiar instructions, Akira tries to ignore the loneliness panging in the hollow of his chest.
The instant Sojiro lopes off downstairs and leaves him alone, Akira sinks down onto his rickety bed and digs a notebook and a pen out of his duffel bag.
Flipping open the cover, he rips the cap off the pen with his teeth and presses it to the blank page:
you have 300 days
heal scars
assemble fragments
destroy lens (?)
NO stealing treasures
Akira doesn’t understand most of what the man on the train said, but he needs to get the words down before they’re lost to the slurry in his head. Figuring out the details can come later.
He glances over the paltry list and his eyes catch on the number at the top of the page.
So he has less than one year to fulfill whatever conditions the man on the train hinted at. Something about powerful entities and breaking the cycle. Obviously things need to change this time, Akira muses (the clang of a bulkhead sealing shut—two sequential, ear-splitting pops—), but something about the man’s words makes Akira think that he wasn’t just talking about the actual sequence of events that led Akira and his friends to fighting the god of control. The man was unfamiliar, meaning there are players on the board Akira’s never met, and he gets the feeling he’s playing with something bigger now.
Rewinding time isn’t some parlor trick. It’s not merging the metaverse and the real world, and it’s not manipulating teenagers into feeding some domination scheme. The fabric of reality is one thing, but the flow of time is something else entirely. Whatever the man did to bring Akira back...Akira suspects that kind of power isn’t actually supposed to be used. And the man himself seemed uneasy, his words intentionally vague.
Rain drums against Akira’s bones, golden eyes glancing furtively to one side, and something in Akira’s ears pops—
—before your heart is taken.
Pain stabs at the root of Akira’s spine and he straightens up with a hiss, one hand flying to the small of his back. The skin beneath his clothes is tender, protesting when he presses against it, and he furrows his brow.
Retrieving his phone from his pocket, Akira stands and sheds his jacket. His suspenders slide off easily, allowing him to untuck his shirt, and he spares a single disparaging thought for his decision to wear his uniform. It was the nicest, most put-together outfit he packed, and he recalls wanting to make a good impression on Sojiro. It didn’t really work, this time or last.
Reaching back, Akira hikes his shirt up as far as he can with the awkward angle and opens his camera app. There’d be no way to tell what was in frame if he tried for a picture, so Akira clicks the video record function and the camera starts rolling. Extending his arm behind himself, Akira tilts the phone a few different ways to make sure he captures everything. When he’s satisfied, he drops his shirt and brings his phone back around, ending the recording.
Moving gingerly to account for the ache now radiating up his spine, Akira sits back down on the bed and selects the video.
When the pale plane of his back comes into view, Akira pauses quickly and squints at the screen. Right over the waistband of his pants, scrawled across the small of his back, Akira can make out something that looks like a little bundle of white lines. Zooming in on the frame, Akira stares in confusion at what appears to be a collection of thin scars, curling out of a small central knot, almost brushing his waist on each side. A few seem to be reaching upward, as though preparing to climb his spinal column like creeping vines.
Heart thudding in his chest, Akira slips his hand under his shirt, fingertips prodding the small of his back. The lines don’t seem to be raised, but they tingle slightly under his touch. Withdrawing his hand, Akira stares fixedly at his phone.
He can only assume this has something to do with the deal. Some sort of seal, perhaps?
Huffing out a frustrated breath, he tosses the phone aside and snatches up his notebook and pen again. He’ll puzzle it out later, he decides, flipping to the next blank page. Right now, he has something else to worry about.
His memory is a swamp, bogged down with flashes of sensation and vague impressions of horror, fear, desperation—but beyond that, before that, there’s solid ground. The first time around, he kept an edited version of events in his probation diary, so the ceaseless, dizzying stream of time still has some structure in his scattered mind, and he starts scribbling down everything he can remember.
He’s not sure how much time passes, but the next time he looks up, the sun is setting, dipping the whole attic in long shadows and beams of orange. Downstairs, Sojiro clangs some pots together, and Akira glances around at the clutter surrounding him.
If he’s doing this all again, he should play along for now. Obviously, Sojiro doesn’t remember anything, but maybe some of his fellow persona-users have been spared the memory wipe. Until he can get to school, he shouldn’t try his luck.
So, with a sigh, he pushes himself to his feet and gets to work.
That night, he stands before the bars of his cell in the Velvet Room and meets Yaldabaoth’s gleaming yellow eyes over Caroline and Justine’s heads with an unwavering gaze.
“Trickster,” the imposter croons. “Welcome to my Velvet Room.”
Akira scans the chamber covertly. The shackles binding his wrists and ankle weigh heavy, cold in a very un-dreamlike way, and the round room outlined by cells looks the same as it did the first time.
Caroline and Justine’s acerbic words and Yaldabaoth’s speech are the same as well. Whatever entity sent Akira back doesn’t seem to be working with the God of Control, or the regular denizens of the Velvet Room.
And that means Yaldabaoth’s plot is still on track.
“You truly are a prisoner of fate,” Yaldabaoth laments. “In the near future, there is no doubt that ruin awaits you.”
“Ruin?” Akira plays along.
A gravelly laugh grates over Akira’s ears. “Worry not. There is a means to oppose such a fate.” Yaldabaoth eyes Akira meaningfully down his long nose. “You must be rehabilitated. Rehabilitated toward freedom. That is your only means to avoid ruin.” He waves one bony hand in Akira’s direction. “Do you have the resolve to challenge the distortion of the world?”
Last time, Akira was confused, desperate. Igor seemed to be extending a lifesaver and Akira felt he had no choice but to take it, even before he fully understood what was going on. He was scared and naïve. Ripe for the picking.
But now he knows better.
Hopefully.
“I do.”
Yaldabaoth’s grin stretches wider.
Akira jerks awake, sucking in a gasp that burns all the way down. Shoving himself upright on the creaking mattress, he rakes his eyes through the dim attic, searching the irregular silhouettes for bald, hunched figures with too many teeth.
But he’s alone, heart thundering loudly in his ears, sweat cooling on his brow, as a sharp, needling pain lances through him from behind.
He lets out a surprised grunt, reaching back to touch the spot. It’s low on his back, right around where that marking is. With shaking hands, Akira grabs his phone and quickly repeats what he did earlier, turning his back to the window to catch as much of the light from the street as possible.
The video this time is darker, but Akira can still make out the cluster of scars, and, looking closely, he thinks they may have spread a little higher. And now, sitting at the center of the densest collection is a tiny dark smudge. Zooming in farther, Akira can almost make out a radial shape, bruise-purple petals sitting amongst the bleached scar tissue.
A quick peek back at the first video confirms that the mark wasn’t there earlier, and Akira reaches behind himself, poking gingerly around the base of his spine. A dull sting shoots through him as his fingers graze the tender flesh, echoing the pain he felt when he woke up.
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Akira frowns down at the frozen image of his own back, trying to figure out what it means. Did he do something wrong? Is the mark like a little demerit or something?
When he goes to scroll back to the first video, his gaze snags on the time at the top of the screen.
12:09
It’s just past midnight. If the discomfort of the mark appearing was what woke him, then that might mean….
A fresh wave of sweat prickles at Akira’s hairline.
It’s a countdown. The flower-shaped bruise must indicate that a day has already passed. And as time goes on, Akira bets more will appear, each night at midnight, so that he never forgets his life has an expiration date.
It takes Akira a while to fall back asleep.
Sunday, April 10
“Looks like you’re up.”
Sojiro’s voice calls Akira out of his scribbling and he raises his head to see the man slouching into the attic, dressed in a crisp white outfit. He casts a suspicious eye at the notebook balanced on Akira’s lap.
“Finish whatever you’re writing later. We have to go introduce ourselves to the staff at your new school.”
Akira nods and quickly tucks the notebook away, listening absently as Sojiro explains how he’ll give Akira a ride this time because getting to Aoyama on the trains is a pain. He almost smiles at Sojiro’s gripe about letting men in his front seat. As lonely as it is without the affection he’d grown accustomed to, Akira takes solace in the fact that everyone really is the same as they were. That means there’s a chance he can get back what he lost.
As he goes to leave, he’s struck by a thought and snags an energy bar from his travel bag, tucking it in his pocket.
Principal Kobayakawa’s disdain is just as unpleasant as last time, but it’s easier to ignore, and Akira keeps his mouth shut during the meeting, lest he say something that gets him expelled immediately. The man is a moron on a string, but he’s a moron who’s complicit in the abuse of his students at this very moment. Despite knowing his fate, Akira finds he feels no sympathy for his principal, though it would be best to avoid a repeat of the exact circumstances of his death. Perhaps Akira will have to devise some other punishment for him.
At his side, Kawakami looks exhausted. So exhausted, she slaps down a flyer for her maid business alongside his student ID and then pales as she quickly retrieves it.
“Be sure to read the school rules,” she instructs, clearly trying to cover her slip. “Any violations will send you straight to the guidance office.”
Akira scans her surreptitiously. The shadows under her eyes are almost completely hidden with concealer, but it’s impossible to miss how her shirt hangs off her shoulders, or the dull sheen of her hair. She carefully avoids looking at him for too long, even when she addresses him directly.
It is a bit heartening that Sojiro cuts the others off when they start talking about Akira like he’s a feral animal, and he doesn’t seem pleased to be told how to do his job by the principal.
“Come to the faculty office when you arrive at school tomorrow,” Kawakami says begrudgingly. “I’ll show you to your classroom.”
With that, they’re finally dismissed, and Akira dutifully holds the door for Sojiro and Kawakami. Sojiro sets off down the hall without a backwards glance, and as Kawakami starts to head in the opposite direction, Akira taps her on the shoulder.
She shoots him a guarded look that morphs into confusion when he holds out the energy bar.
“It was nice to meet you, Kawakami-sensei,” he says quietly.
Blinking, she accepts the bar, seemingly on instinct, and Akira can feel her wide, startled eyes on him as he bows slightly and turns to follow Sojiro.
“Everyone’s giving you the cold shoulder,” Sojiro mutters, pausing in the entrance hall. “That’s what having a criminal record does to you. Turns out your past follows you wherever you go.”
Something about his rueful tone strikes Akira. “Do you know that first-hand?”
Sojiro cuts him a shrewd glare. “Don’t get an attitude with me, kid. Step out of line or piss me off too much, and I won’t hesitate to throw you out, got it?”
Akira dips his head apologetically, and Sojiro’s hard gaze softens somewhat. “Come on,” he grumbles. “We’re going home.”
“So how was it?” Sojiro asks, smoothly switching lanes. “The school, I mean. Think you can manage?”
Akira watches the cars passing by dispassionately. “It might not be up to me.”
“Well, that’s—” Sojiro blows out a sigh. “Yeah, it’s easy to feel like a victim, but look—” He glides to a stop at a light, tapping restlessly on the wheel. “No one else cares if you feel that way, ‘cuz they’re all gonna look at you as the enemy and themselves as the victim, and you’ve seen how that plays out.”
“My word against theirs,” Akira concludes, barely audible over the rumble of the engine.
“Smart kid.” Sojiro shifts into drive as the light changes and the car jerks forward. “At least you understand your situation.” In his periphery, Akira sees Sojiro shake his head. “Still, you were expelled once already. To think you’d re-enroll somewhere else. And it looks like you won’t be getting any sympathy there. If even the principal was that blatant, I bet folks’ll have no problem talking about me too.” He huffs, guiding the car around a turn. “No matter how smart you are, you might be more trouble than you’re worth.”
Akira already knows why Sojiro took him in, how his parents were eager for anyone willing to take him off their hands, even to the point of paying a man they only knew by association and did no research on to look after him. But he also knows that when Sojiro heard about the kid no one wanted to deal with, he couldn’t help remembering Futaba, and that no matter what grumpy front he puts up, that instinct started it all. So Akira doesn’t ask why Sojiro bothered.
“I’ll watch myself, sir.”
“See that you do.”
They lapse into silence for the rest of the drive.
It isn’t until Akira returns to the attic to see afternoon sunlight streaming across the creaky floorboards that he realizes something isn’t right.
He can barely even focus on what Sojiro is saying, something about a diary and the obligations of his probation—his mind is scratching at itself like a fingernail under a scab, and when Sojiro strolls back downstairs to open the café, Akira wastes no time retrieving his notebook and ripping it open.
This is wrong. If he remembers correctly, Sojiro didn’t open the café today, he just delivered Akira back to the attic and then went home and Akira didn’t have time to do anything but go to sleep because it took them so long to get back and that was because—
Akira’s eyes catch on one of the first things he wrote down: 4/10 subway derailment
All traffic around Shibuya station was rerouted due to the accident. Akira remembers the radio announcement, the stationary lines of cars, Sojiro’s indignation, and the darkness of the sky by the time they finally made it back. But now the sky is orange with late afternoon light and Sojiro is puttering around downstairs, preparing to open for the evening regulars, and Akira is sitting on his bed, staring at his own timeline with unease creeping through him.
A quick search with his phone eliminates the possibility that the accident happened and they just missed it somehow. No trains derailed in Tokyo today.
Akira drums his fingers on the notebook, right over the words. Everything else has been the same. This is the first thing that’s been different. If the train didn’t derail, then that means the engineer didn’t suffer a mental shutdown, which means that Akechi didn’t attack him in Mementos, and that means—
The anomaly isn’t the accident. The anomaly is Akechi Goro.
Monday, April 11
The first day of school dawns dull and rainy like last time. Akira tucks the two folding umbrellas he bought last night into his bag before heading downstairs.
As distracted as he is, the familiar taste of Leblanc’s curry warms him, and he manages a genuine smile in thanks. Sojiro smiles back, seemingly taken off guard, and for a split-second, the coffee shop almost feels like home again.
Then Sojiro is hurrying him out the door. “You’re gonna be late if you get lost, country boy,” he warns.
Akira nods and exits, flipping the sign without looking.
Two trains later, Akira realizes he isn’t running as late as he was last time, and deliberately slows his steps as he exits the station into the rain, scanning the scattered crowd intently. Since the trains aren’t delayed, his entire understanding of today is out of sync, so there’s a chance he might miss—
But no, there she is, already standing under an awning to keep dry, looking out at the street with a worried expression. If he’s running fast, she must be as well, and managed to beat him here by a few minutes.
Akira withdraws an umbrella and pops it open.
Ann doesn’t look at him right away when he walks up to her, staring after a group of girls in Shujin uniforms, and she jumps when he clears his throat.
“Oh, sorry—” She blinks wide blue eyes at him. “Uh...hi?”
“Hi.” He gestures with his umbrella. “Want to join?”
“Uh—” She glances around, crossing her arms over her stomach. “It’s okay—”
“You go to Shujin, right?” Akira asks, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. “Today’s my first day. I’m not really sure how to get there from here.”
She relaxes a little at that, regarding him curiously. “Are you a transfer?”
Akira nods.
Eyes flicking to the pin on his jacket, Ann’s face opens with understanding. “Oh, you’re the one who’s joining our class. Kawakami-sensei mentioned we were getting a new student.” She smiles like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Yeah, I’ll show you the way!”
Akira holds the umbrella out for her, making ample room underneath, and she joins him with a grateful nod.
“I’m Takamaki Ann,” she says, starting off down the road. “I’ll be in your class.”
“Kurusu Akira.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to say more, but the crunch of tires on wet pavement cuts her off, and Akira turns to see a light, compact car sliding up beside them. Ann’s footsteps falter and Akira pauses at her shoulder as the car’s passenger window rolls down.
“Ann-chan,” a smarmy voice calls, and a familiar, punchable face ducks into view. “Do you and your friend need a ride? It looks like the rain is getting worse.”
Ann shifts beside him, and when he looks down he catches the edge of an anxious glance.
“Do you want to?” she asks quietly.
Akira shakes his head. “I’d like to learn how to get there on foot.”
Relief flashes across her face and she leans over to address Kamoshida. “Sorry, sensei! He’s new and I promised I’d show him how to get to the school from here.”
Kamoshida’s smile twitches. “I see. That’s kind of you, Ann-chan. Maybe another day.” His gaze cuts to Akira, and his eyes narrow slightly. “You two stay dry.”
“Thanks.” Ann waves as Kamoshida cranks the window up and glides away. Then her shoulders slump.
“Who was that?”
Ann straightens up, flashing him a small smile. “The volleyball coach. Come on.” She resumes walking and Akira falls in step, keeping her troubled expression in his periphery.
“Do you play volleyball?”
“Huh? Oh—” Ann shrugs. “No, but one of my friends is on the team, so I’ve been to practices and games and stuff.”
“Does the coach always offer you rides?”
“Sometimes.” She casts him a squinty look. “Why?”
Akira gazes back steadily. “It seemed to make you nervous.”
She blinks, before a pale pink blush colors the tops of her cheeks and she turns away. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says quickly. “Anyway, let’s turn here. Careful on this road; if a car goes by fast, you’ll get drenched.”
Just as he goes to follow her around the corner, a solid blow to his shoulder knocks Akira off balance and he stumbles, umbrella dipping.
“Hey, watch it,” an irritated voice snaps, and Akira regains his footing in time to meet the glare Ryuji throws over his shoulder as he passes them.
Ann bristles. “You ran into him, Sakamoto!”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have if you two weren’t taking up the whole sidewalk,” Ryuji shoots back, rounding on her. “Have some consideration." He glances between them, hands stuffed in his pockets, hair already sticking to his forehead from the rain. “Surprised you didn’t go with Kamoshida,” he mutters. “That was his car, right?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Ann demands.
“Did he say something to you?”
“I—” Ann huffs, taking Akira by the elbow. “We don’t have time for this. Come on, Kurusu.”
As she tugs him past a mulish-looking Ryuji, Akira juggles his bag in order to pull out the other folding umbrella.
“Here—” he tosses it to Ryuji, who jolts in surprise but still catches it with both hands.
“What—”
But Ann is yanking him away, around the corner, and Akira hastens his steps to keep up with her.
“That idiot—” she’s mumbling, power-walking down the road. “He always thinks he knows everything. If he’d just keep his opinions to himself, maybe—”
“Who was that?”
She sighs. “Sakamoto Ryuji. He’s a bit of...well, I’d say a delinquent, but not really. He’s just—” she bites her lip. “The other students don’t really get along with him, so you’d do good to stay away. Though in that case—” she furrows her eyebrows at the ground. “You’d do good to stay away from me too.”
Akira’s heart twinges in his chest. “Is it okay if I don’t?”
For a beat, Ann doesn’t respond, staring hard at the pavement passing under her. Then she turns her shining blue eyes on him. “What?”
“Is it okay if we’re friends?”
She opens her mouth soundlessly, closes it. Then a sly smile curls across her face. “You’re kind of a player, huh, Kurusu?” But she sounds pleased, some of the playfulness Akira recognizes from the future seeping through.
“I just need someone to show me around,” Akira can’t help smiling back.
“Hey!” She points at his face. “You look really handsome when you smile! If you do that in class, everyone will be all over you!”
Akira lets the smile twist into a grimace and Ann laughs. It’s not her usual high, nasally peals, but it clears her expression and makes Akira’s heart swoop happily.
“Fine,” she declares, just as the front gates come into view down the road. “You can stick with me, Kurusu. I’ve already got lunch plans, but I’ll show you around after school if you’re willing to hang out.”
“Thank you.” He’s supposed to go straight home, but if Akira explains he was getting a tour, Sojiro won’t mind.
And so he makes it to school right on time for his first day.
It’s risky, Akira muses, standing before a distracted-looking Kawakami in the faculty office. Going off script like this. Circumventing his first metaverse visit. So much of his first round was orchestrated, it’s hard to tell what might tip Yaldabaoth off that he’s not playing the same game anymore, and harder to tell if that would even matter. But when Akira stared down at his handwritten timeline last night and asked himself if he was willing to let his friends dive into that danger again, with no guarantee that things will happen the same, the answer was inescapable.
He has to do this without them.
But he might not be alone.
Even though Akechi’s contact is gone from his phone, Akira still knows his chat ID by heart, and his fingers hovered over the keys well into the night, but a message from a stranger would be too bizarre. He has to find Akechi and figure out if he really remembers, or if something else caused the disruption with the train. That’s his top priority. After getting through the first day of school.
And he supposes he’ll have to duck into Kamoshida’s Palace and rescue Morgana soon, too. He’s got a lot to take care of.
When Ann waves encouragingly at him during his introduction, some of the anxiety in his stomach loosens.
“Hey.”
Predictably, Ryuji is waiting outside Akira’s classroom when Akira steps out to buy lunch. Less predictably, he tosses Akira a wrapped yakisoba bread.
Akira catches it, eyebrows raised, and Ryuji jerks his head to the side, hands shoved in his pockets. “Come with me.”
Anyone else would be nervous at such an abrupt callout, but Akira is well-acquainted with Ryuji’s shaky social skills, and he follows calmly as Ryuji leads him through the whispering, glancing hallways, all the way to the roof.
Ryuji plops himself on top of a discarded desk and rifles in the plastic bag on his arm for another sandwich. Akira spares a look at the garden boxes on the other side of the enclosed roof and sits opposite Ryuji, starting to unwrap his lunch.
After a few beats of quiet chewing, Ryuji swallows. “Sorry about earlier, man.”
“It’s okay.”
“Nah, it’s not.” Ryuji sighs, lowering his sandwich to his lap. “I knocked into you on purpose.”
“Why?”
Cringing, Ryuji scratches the back of his head. “I, uh—I was tryna get Takamaki’s attention. I wanted to make sure that Kamoshida bastard hadn’t said anything to her.”
Akira grips his bread a little tighter, the half-wrapped plastic crinkling. “Does he talk to her a lot?”
“Yeah.” A look of disgust crosses Ryuji’s face. “Too much.” He shakes his head, hitching up a crooked smile. “Anyway, I forgot to introduce myself. Sakamoto Ryuji. I’m a second year too, but I’m in a different class.”
Akira smiles back. “Kurusu Akira.”
“You’re the transfer, right? What were you doin’ with Ann—uh—Takamaki this morning?”
“She was showing me how to get to the school.”
Ryuji’s smile softens into something rueful. “Yeah, figured it was something like that. Probably a good thing you were there. I just know that pervy teacher would have tried to get her in his car if you weren’t walkin’ with her.”
He still did, Akira doesn’t say. Covertly, he reaches into his pocket and powers his phone off.
“Speaking of—” Ryuji digs in his bag for a second before producing the folding umbrella Akira gave him. “Here.”
“Keep it.”
“Nah, man, I—”
Akira gestures with his bread. “A trade.”
Ryuji blinks, then he smiles and drops the umbrella back in his bag. “Why were you carrying two umbrellas around anyway?”
“It never hurts to be prepared.”
Ryuji laughs. “You’re pretty funny, man. You weren’t even scared when I showed up at your class.”
“Am I supposed to be scared of you?”
Grinning, Ryuji shakes his head. “Nah, man. I’m pretty harmless.” His smile dims. “That delinquent stuff—that’s just rumors.”
“I’m too new to know the rumors.” He’s already heard whispers, of course, his classmates muttering during breaks, but most of that was about Ann and her supposed relationship with Kamoshida. Ann ignored the gossiping all morning, turned in her seat to helpfully catch Akira up on what they’ve been learning.
“Oh, right. Well, ignore it when you do hear it.” Ryuji rolls his eyes. “The folks here love to blab. I’ve already heard ‘em gossiping about you.”
It’s hazy, but Akira thinks he remembers people talking about his probation by this time on the last go round. “Anything interesting?”
“Not really. Unless you’re really the son of a yakuza boss?”
A smile lifts the corners of Akira’s lips. “Not that I know of.”
“Dang. That’d be pretty cool.” Ryuji settles his weight more firmly on the desk and bites into his sandwich again. “I’ll give you some advice, Kurusu—keep away from Kamoshida. The dude’s an asshole who gets off on bullying students. Acts like he’s the king of the castle around here. Prolly keep away from Takamaki too, but—” he frowns, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t know about her.”
“Don’t know what?”
“If she’s serious. Like, she’s all friendly with him, even though I know she knows what he’s like.”
“She didn’t seem happy to see him this morning.”
Ryuji perks up. “Really?”
Akira nods.
“Huh.” Something in Ryuji’s expression lightens. “I never really thought she’d be the type to actually—you know, with a teacher?”
“What are you implying?”
An embarrassed blush colors Ryuji’s cheeks. “Nothin’, just—stay off Kamoshida’s radar, yeah?”
“Understood.”
Ryuji smiles, raising his sandwich again. “Anyway, how are you liking our esteemed institution so far, Kurusu? You can tell me what you really think—I’m not a gossip.”
Akira smiles back. “You can call me Akira, if you want.”
“Alright, I will! And you can call me Ryuji.”
Ryuji’s words are wise, and Akira appreciates them, but he deliberately passes by the PE faculty office before heading back to class.
The door is cracked and he can see Kamoshida sitting inside at his desk, going over something in a folder.
Akira raps his knuckles against the door and pushes it open just as Kamoshida looks up.
“Can I help—” he cuts off, scanning Akira in the doorway. “Oh. You’re that transfer student, right?”
Akira nods, sticking his hands in his pockets.
Kamoshida swivels in his chair to face him properly. “Right, I heard you were coming today.” His eyes narrow. “Have we met before?”
“I saw you this morning,” Akira reminds him.
“Ah, that’s right. You were walking with Takamaki.” His mouth twists in an ugly smirk. “She’s a sweet girl, huh?”
“She is.”
Irritation flashes across Kamoshida’s face. “Well, welcome to Shujin, I suppose.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you need something from me?”
Akira casts a casual look around the office, taking in the mundane clutter and stacks of papers on Kamoshida’s desk. Having seen Kamoshida’s Palace, knowing how Kamoshida interprets his surroundings, the sheer ordinariness of his workspace strikes Akira as pitifully ironic. “I was thinking about joining the volleyball team. Are you the person I’d talk to about that?”
Kamoshida’s brows fly up in surprise. “Really? You?”
“Is that strange?”
“Look, kid,” Kamoshida starts, scowling. “The teachers all know about your...situation. Shouldn’t you be focusing on other things?”
“Club activities are a productive way to spend time.” Akira adjusts his glasses, smiling. “If I’m here after school, I can’t be somewhere else getting into trouble, right?”
For a second, Kamoshida just stares at him. “You ever played volleyball before?” he forces out, the irritation visibly mounting behind his eyes.
“A few times.”
“Any sports at your old school?”
“Soccer.” He wasn’t a regular on the team, but he attended practices. That’s why he was walking back so late when— “And dance, in middle school.”
“Hm.” Kamoshida’s gaze shifts, scanning him again, and for a second he actually looks like he’s considering it, but: “Sorry, Kurusu. I run a pretty tight shift around here and my team is very well-regarded. I can’t just start adding unknown elements this close to Nationals. You’d do better trying again next semester. Though—” he sucks in a pointed breath through his teeth, “—I have to admit, you’re not really the type I look for.”
“I see.” Akira cocks his head. “We can’t all look like Takamaki, I guess.”
Kamoshida blinks before his expression sours. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” His tone lowers with menace. “Because I’m not laughing.”
Akira holds his gaze placidly.
“I’m sure you’ve heard from the principal—” Kamoshida sneers, “—but cause any trouble, and you’ll be expelled. Every teacher in this school has the authority to get rid of you, understand?”
“I know, sir.”
The bell chimes overhead.
“Sorry for interrupting your break, sensei.” Akira nods respectfully. “I’ll keep our conversation in mind.”
Brow twitching, Kamoshida shoots him a dirty look as he turns back to his desk. “Right. Make sure you do.” His face curdles with a smug smile. “Good luck trying to enjoy your new school life, Kurusu.”
Akira nods again and leaves the office.
Kamoshida is definitely still the same, which means the volleyball players are definitely still in danger, and Akira definitely has to do something to stop it. The man on the train’s weird mission might have to take a backseat to sorting this out, hopefully with less fumbling and fewer near-misses than last time.
Like she promised, Ann gestures for him to follow her after class is dismissed, and they both ignore the muttering that trails them out of the classroom.
“This place isn’t too big,” she explains, leading him past a gaggle of curious students. “But the halls all look the same, so it’s easy to get turned around. Just make sure to pay attention.”
“Yes, sensei.”
She wrinkles her nose at him. “I can’t tell if you’re polite or cheeky.”
“Why can’t I be both?”
“Cheeky. Definitely.”
Akira keeps his smile contained as she shows him around the halls he spent nearly a year traversing, trying not to act like he knows his way around. As she starts to lead him through a door to Shujin’s outdoor sports area, a passing figure catches her attention.
“Oh—Shiho!” she calls, waving at a subdued-looking black-haired girl stepping through the door.
Suzui looks up and blinks before a muted smile crosses her face and she adjusts the duffel bag on her shoulder, making her way over to them with noticeably stiff steps. “Hi, Ann,” she greets.
“Shiho, this is the transfer student I told you about.” Ann jabs a thumb at Akira. “I’m showing him around.”
“Nice to meet you,” Suzui says, and Akira appreciates the lack of suspicion in her eyes as she takes him in. Beneath the evident exhaustion, her expression only belies polite interest. “I’m Suzui Shiho.”
“Kurusu Akira.” Akira examines her covertly, grateful for the shadow his fringe casts over his eyes, assisted by his glasses. Her posture is carefully maintained, as though she stuck a rod vertically through her spine to keep herself from drooping, but there’s no way to hide how she favors her right leg, or the brace wrapped around her knee, or the weariness in her eyes. “But you probably knew that already.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t pay attention to rumors.” A flicker of sympathy pulls her eyebrows together. “But I figure it can’t be easy. It’s your first day, and everyone’s already talking about you.”
Akira shrugs.
“Don’t let them get to you,” she says earnestly. “It’ll die down once they find something new to gossip about.”
“Thanks.”
“You’d think people had nothing better to do,” Ann scoffs. “I heard some stuff too. At lunch.”
Akira shoves his hands in his pockets. “What if it’s all true?”
“What, that you’re yakuza? That you’ve got a record?”
“Ann,” Suzui scolds softly.
“All of that, and worse stuff too,” Akira fires back.
Ann waves her hand. “That’s nothing.”
“You’re not scared?”
“Of some skinny teenage boy?” Boldly, Ann pinches Akira’s arm through his jacket sleeve. “Please. I think I’ve got more muscle than you.”
Suzui presses her fingers to her lips to hide the way her smile grows.
“Don’t need muscle to be yakuza,” Akira points out.
“If you’re yakuza, I’m the prime minister of Japan.”
“You two seem friendly,” Suzui says, glancing between them.
Ann sticks her hands on her hips. “He rescued me from the rain this morning.”
“That was sweet of you.” Suzui tilts her head, ponytail swinging, and regards Akira kindly. “Ann has trouble making friends, so I hope you two can get along.”
“Wha—Shiho! What are you, my mom?”
“The other students like to spread rumors about her too.” Suzui’s expression sinks into something troubled. “But don’t listen to them.”
“I won’t,” Akira swears.
“How about you two stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Ann suggests heatedly.
Suzui giggles. “I have to get to practice anyway.” She nods at Akira. “It was nice meeting you.”
“See you around,” Akira tells her.
She smiles at Ann again before heading off down the hall and Akira’s eyes follow her retreating, limping figure.
“Really don’t need Shiho making my friends for me,” Ann grumbles. “Come on, Kurusu.”
There’s an extra spring in her step for the rest of the tour.
“Give me your chat ID,” Ann commands before they split at the gate. “And be grateful. Lots of people would kill to get mine.”
“I’m honored.”
Ann’s tiny chat portrait winks up at Akira from his contact list, bringing his grand total to two. Ignoring his father’s entry, Akira stares down at her name as he waits for the train and his heart feels just a little lighter.
That night, after finishing his deep clean of the attic, Akira unwraps the unadorned, 16-month calendar he picked up at the bookstore and pins it to the wall right beside his bed. Flipping the pages up to show April, he circles the ninth before crossing out the squares for the tenth and eleventh.
Sitting back, he takes a beat to run the numbers in his head. Then he double-checks his math on his phone. Relatively confident he’s got the right answer, he cards through the calendar until he reaches February of next year. A lump rises in his throat as he grabs his pen again and circles the third.
February 3rd is exactly 300 days from April 9th. The significance of that particular day is a mystery to Akira, especially because his last memory takes place on Christmas of this year, but according to the man on the train, he has until then to figure out how to break the cycle, and then his “heart” will be taken. What that means, Akira isn’t completely sure, since persona users aren’t supposed to be able to have treasures, and that’s the only “heart” he’s familiar with. So by that logic, the man was referring to his physical heart. Pretty macabre, but Akira supposes it’s only fair. Something like turning back time would surely require a sacrifice, and as the deal-holder, Akira is the only candidate.
Well, whatever the man truly meant, it’ll become clear in less than a year, so lingering on it is useless. Akira has other things to worry about.
Letting the calendar fall back to April, Akira grabs his notebook out of his school bag and settles himself in the wobbly desk chair. The harsh light of the lamp falls across his hasty, messy handwriting and he flips quickly past filled pages to get to his most recent notes.
Despite the shivery tension in his gut at the thought of his time limit, Akira can’t, in good conscience, allow Kamoshida to keep harming his students, especially when those students include Akira’s own friends. He has a responsibility to do something, like last time, an intense compulsion to punish evil, but he can’t simply walk into Kamoshida’s Palace and fix everything. If the man was right, and stealing treasures really bolsters Yaldabaoth, Akira can’t afford to give him that edge, not while he’s flying more or less solo. On the other hand, if he doesn’t play the game, Yaldabaoth might start suspecting something is wrong. For his safety and his ability to carry out his true mission, maybe it would be better to follow the script….
But as the thought occurs to him, the memory of the man’s rain-soaked words weighs heavily on his shoulders: You are not the first to contend with the meddling of beings who have no place in the physical world.
Yaldabaoth and his influence aren’t natural. The man on the train was willing to alter time itself for an opportunity to keep beings like him from plaguing humanity, so it’s Akira’s duty to prevent him from gaining power again. This isn’t about protecting himself; this is about guarding humanity against the influence of a malicious creature.
Images of Tokyo steeped in blood, bones cracking through the earth as his friends screamed with the agony of being forgotten shatter through Akira’s head and he sucks in a deep breath. Pushing his glasses up, he rubs over his eyes, pressing hard to banish the memories.
Yaldabaoth can just sit in his Velvet Room and be suspicious for all Akira cares. He’s not giving that leech an ounce of satisfaction.
But that still leaves the problem of how to deal with Kamoshida.
Without the option of the metaverse, Akira’s only choice is to remove him through real-world means. The man on the train’s mysterious other way niggles at the back of his mind, but Akira doesn’t even know how to start figuring that out; therefore, exposing Kamoshida’s wrongdoing is his best path forward at the moment.
But he can’t ignore the fact that Morgana is likely still stuck somewhere in Kamoshida’s castle, waiting for a rescue that was supposed to come earlier today. He can’t just leave Morgana in there to fend for himself. And on that note, he can’t leave Yusuke or Futaba to their fates either. Yusuke is still out there in that dilapidated shack, suffering under the thumb of his abusive mentor, and Akira won’t stand for that, no matter what other cosmically important task he’s supposed to be fulfilling. If he’s smart, he should be able to keep Makoto from getting mixed up with Kaneshiro, so he shouldn’t be an issue, but Futaba is still trapped in a prison of her own making just up the road, and the knot in Akira’s stomach tightens uncomfortably at the memory of their first meeting, of her fear and utter hopelessness.
His deal with the man on the train might be his most vital concern, but it’s not his only responsibility. He’s the one who dragged everyone back and stole his friends’ only way to protect themselves, so it falls on him to save them again, and to keep them out of danger. He owes them that, at least.
Akira’s shoulders twinge painfully and he rolls them back, realizing with a pang of despair that he’s lost track of how much time he’s spent hunched motionlessly over his desk. The page before him remains blank.
Raising one hand to tug anxiously at his curls, Akira finally sets the pen on the paper.
In terms of urgency, Morgana should take priority. He’s alone in the metaverse, confused about his origins and likely still in captivity, since Akira and Ryuji never showed up to free him from his cell. But Akira’s smart enough to know better than to enter the metaverse alone. If he’s been reset to his original skill level, he’d just be asking for trouble. He can’t recruit Ann or Ryuji, so that leaves—
Akechi.
It always comes back to Akechi. The irregularity with the train blazes like a beacon, and once again Akira finds himself wondering if, hoping that Akechi remembers. That he might have an ally in all of this.
Bouncing his leg under the desk, Akira starts writing.
1. Find Akechi
2. Rescue Morgana
It’s not a comprehensive to-do list by any means, but writing it down helps organize the disarray in Akira’s head, lending some sort of structure to his vague goals. While he figures out how to make contact with Akechi, he’ll work on how best to neutralize Kamoshida.
As he’s glancing back over the short list, a familiar pain stabs at the small of his back and he flinches. Checking his phone, he confirms that it is indeed midnight. Another day gone.
With a tentative plan in mind and another flower ornamenting his skin, Akira flicks the lamp off and staggers to bed.
Tuesday, April 12
This time, Akira squeezes himself between Kasumi and the man angling for her seat, so when she stands, the older woman is allowed to sink down without interruption. Of course, this means Kasumi has no reason to thank him, but he notices her taking in his uniform and offering him a polite smile regardless. They don’t speak.
It’s for the best, Akira tells himself.
“Hey.”
Ryuji greets him outside of his classroom again, this time at the end of the day, and Akira nods to him in response.
Scratching the back of his head, Ryuji glances fitfully around. The other students are indeed watching them, not even bothering to hide their curiosity.
“Wanna grab a bite?” Ryuji asks, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.
Akira needs to figure out how to reach Akechi, but none of the ideas he came up with during class instead of listening to Mr. Ushimaru disparage him could be acted on right away. And most of them involved stalking the Detective Prince’s social media, which Akira’s not sure he’s ready to do yet. So he may as well humor Ryuji. Plus, Ryuji’s uncharacteristic subtlety is intriguing. “Sure.”
Akira trails Ryuji out of the school and to a familiar beef bowl restaurant. At the sight of the sign, Akira flashes back to the last time he lived though April 12th. Maybe some things are just meant to be.
Ryuji is cagey through the whole trip, tight-lipped and serious, up until the moment their food is placed in front of them, then he leans in with a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “I think someone leaked your record.”
Akira lifts his brows in an approximation of surprise. “What?”
Nodding, Ryuji snags his chopsticks and starts swiping ginger from the little dish in front of them. “Yeah. I’ve been hearing all sorts of shit about you since this morning. Yesterday too, but I thought it was just stories.” He gathers the ginger into a little pile on his rice and prods at it without looking. “Today, though, a lot of it was the same everywhere I went, so I started asking around—” he grimaces. “I don’t wanna make assumptions—but you’re on probation, right? That’s why you’re here?”
Akira had avoided directly confirming anything yesterday, slightly worried that, without the unifying factor of the Palace, Ryuji might decide spending time with him was too risky, but now, Ryuji doesn’t look worried or disdainful. His face is open with genuine concern, and Akira feels warm in a way completely independent from the bowl steaming in front of him. “Yes. I was arrested and my old school expelled me.”
Ryuji blows out a sigh. “Tough break, man.”
Akira eyes him. “You heard I assaulted someone, right?”
Chopsticks click against porcelain as Ryuji turns to focus on his food. “Yeah. That true?”
“It is.”
“But there’s a story, right?”
“Do you care?”
“‘Course, man.” Ryuji brings a slice of meat to his mouth and smiles as he chews. “You seem like a cool guy. Not like the type who’d just hurt someone for no reason. The kids at school—” he swallows, expression souring, “—they’re more interested in the stories they make up, but—” he stares morosely into his bowl, “—the truth is usually less exciting.” He glances over at Akira. “Right?”
Throat tight, Akira bobs his head. “Right.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wanna.”
“No, it’s okay. You’re right. It’s not very exciting.”
Like last time, Ryuji’s face transforms with righteous anger as Akira lays out the truth for him, and by the time he’s finished, Ryuji seems to have completely forgotten about his food.
“What the hell,” he hisses, horrified. “That’s so effed up! I mean—how much shittier can that asshole get?”
Akira quirks a smile and sticks a clump of rice into his mouth. “It’s in the past.”
“Nah, man—” Ryuji insists, “—that doesn’t make it better. They really slammed you with an assault charge for that?”
Akira nods and Ryuji’s scowl carves deeper.
“Bullshit,” he mutters, swiveling to stare into his bowl. “That’s such—agh!” He shovels a piece of beef into his mouth and chews furiously. “It’s cool that you're so chill about it, but I’d be freaking out all the time!”
“Freaking out wouldn’t have helped me,” Akira points out somberly.
“It’s the principle of the thing, dude.” Ryuji swallows, jaw tight. “And I guess that means someone really did leak your record. The kids at school know you were arrested for assault and expelled. There’s no way they’d all be telling the same story unless someone blabbed.”
“Any idea who?” Akira asks, pinching a long strand of onion between his chopsticks.
Ryuji slides him a sideways glance. “I asked around a bit, but everyone heard it from someone different. One girl said she heard someone got an anonymous message through chat. Maybe that’s where it started.”
So that’s how Mishima did it. “Only the teachers should have known, though.”
“Then it was probably one of them,” Ryuji mutters bitterly, stabbing ineffectually at his egg. “Those bastards don’t give a shit about any of us.”
“That so?”
“Yeah.” Ryuji grinds his chopsticks in his fist. “As soon as something happens, they turn their backs. Every time.”
“Did….” Akira bites his tongue, considering his words. How much fervor does he want to ignite within Ryuji? Would encouraging his rage against the school lead to a persona event? Perhaps without Akira present? It might be better not to test it. But the line of Ryuji’s spine is so rigid, his expression so injured, and Akira’s chest aches at the memory of how much hurt and anger he was holding onto the first time around—he just can’t help it. “Did something happen to you?”
Ryuji turns startled eyes on him. “Huh?”
“You talk like you know firsthand,” Akira justifies.
Ryuji blinks at him, fingers slack around his chopsticks. Then he shakes his head. “Nah, man, you don’t wanna hear my sob story.”
“You heard mine.” Akira meets Ryuji’s gaze evenly. “It’s only fair.”
A beat passes, before a wan smile cracks Ryuji’s tense face. “Guess that’s true.” He balances his chopsticks across his bowl and props his chin on one hand. “I’ve gotta warn you, though, it’s not as cool as yours.”
The coolness factor plays zero role in the familiar upset that tightens Akira’s stomach as Ryuji explains his unfair ousting from the track team. Akira knows it all already, but hearing it again, from a Ryuji who has yet to forgive himself, stings in a different way.
When Ryuji trails off, brows furrowed, gaze distant, Akira sets his chopsticks down. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
Ryuji waves a hand. “Like you said, yeah? It’s in the past or whatever.” He sucks on his teeth for a second. “‘S my own fault, anyway.”
“No,” Akira says firmly. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
Avoiding eye contact, Ryuji shrugs one shoulder, noncommittal.
“You didn’t.”
“Sure—yeah.”
“Kamoshida is a bastard.”
Ryuji snorts. “Understatement of the year. He’s an abusive dick.” He pushes his bowl away from himself, frowning. “The whole school can see how messed up the members of the volleyball team are, but as long as they keep winning, no one wants to say anything.”
Akira watches his stormy profile closely. “I met one of Takamaki’s friends yesterday. Suzui. She was limping.”
“Suzui—” Ryuji’s brows pull together. “I think she’s a starter. Got that injury during practice, apparently.”
“But you think otherwise?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time team members ended up with weird injuries out of nowhere.”
“And you think Kamoshida does it on purpose. Like he did to you.”
“Sure makes sense to me.”
“That can’t continue.”
Ryuji flashes him a guarded look. “Speaking up against Kamoshida doesn’t get anyone anything. Trust me, I know. The school’s invested in keeping him right where he is.”
“Even if someone had proof?” Akira prods.
Ryuji snorts. “There’s no proof strong enough, man. My whole team was there when I messed up my leg, they all saw, they all know Kamoshida did it on purpose, but that don’t matter. Not even to them.”
It sounds like there really isn’t a solution to this problem that doesn’t involve the metaverse. Akira figured that would be the case, but he can’t give up. The man on the train promised there was another way. He just has to find it. “There has to be something we can do.”
“Any suggestions?” Ruiji angles toward him. “I’m all ears.”
Akira considers for a second. “You said you thought a teacher might have leaked my record.”
“Yeah?” Ryuji straightens up on his stool. “Wait, do you think—”
“Could it have been him?”
Ryuji scrubs a hand through his hair, eyes shining. “I mean—if anyone’s got stock in the school’s reputation, it’s him. He’d definitely want you gone. Shit!” he curses, clenching his fists. “That makes sense!”
“But how would he spread it?”
“Prolly—uh—” Ryuji snaps his fingers. “He probably made one of the volleyball players do it! They’re all under his thumb—it’s not like they could refuse.”
“If we knew who—” Akira starts carefully, “—maybe we could get them to confess. That might be something we can use.”
“Yeah!” Eyes shining, Ryuji leans forward. “We can ask around tomorrow—it’s the volleyball rally so a bunch of the team will be around. Spreading a student’s record is hella messed up—no way the school can ignore that. It’s, like, a breach of your rights or something.” He claps a hand on Akira’s shoulder. “This could work!”
Akira offers a thin smile. “Thanks, Ryuji.”
“No problem. Ah—right—” Ryuji rummages through his jacket pockets before producing his phone. “Forgot to ask you yesterday, gimme your chat ID.”
Akira shares his contact information and glances covetously down at Ryuji’s name under Ann’s.
“Thanks.” Ryuji grins at him. “You’re pretty cool, Akira. You know, for hanging out with a loser like me.”
Akira quirks a brow. “I don’t hang out with losers.”
Ryuji laughs and claps him on the shoulder again. “Smooth-talker! Come on—eat up! They’ve got tons of ginger here!”
After they finish eating and Ryuji pays, per his instance, they file out of the shop and into the late afternoon.
“I’ll message you tonight about the plan for tomorrow, okay?” Ryuji asks excitedly, nearly hopping along beside Akira as they start down the street in the direction of the station.
Akira cringes at Ryuji’s volume and opens his mouth to ask Ryuji to keep it down, but before he can make a sound, a flicker of movement in his periphery kills his voice.
Feet freezing on the pavement, Akira whips his head around as a spike of adrenaline drags his heart into his throat, attention crystallized on a familiar figure striding past him. His muscles activate on instinct, one arm shooting out, fingers curling into a beige sleeve, before his brain can even catch up to what he’s seeing, and then he’s face-to-face with startled crimson eyes, carefully groomed brown hair, confused, parted pink lips—and everything rushes into place.
Whatever Akira thought he would feel upon meeting Akechi again, the sheer surge of airless shock constricting his lungs blows it all away.
Eyebrows shooting up, Akechi glances down at the hand holding him in place, before his gaze flickers back up to lock with Akira’s, and, for a suspended instant, Akira can only stare. Akechi looks the same. Fair skin and sharp eyes, framed with soft honey locks—beautiful in a pointed way, like a headache, the brainfreeze creak at the back of Akira’s skull, and Akira has to fight not to wince against the pain.
“—excuse me?” someone, the woman beside Akechi, is saying, and Akira shoves the breathless fog aside long enough to recognize that it’s Sae. Of course Akechi would be out with Sae—they work together—he can’t look at her, though, can’t look at anything but the bizarre expression creeping across Akechi’s face.
Akira’s mouth falls open on the word: “Akechi.”
Akechi swallows visibly, the line of his lips thinning, scanning Akira’s face.
“Akechi-kun, do you know this person?” Sae asks, and, somewhere behind him, Akira thinks he can hear Ryuji making confused noises, but nothing matters beyond the dawning familiarity in Akechi’s eyes.
A muscle in his jaw jumps. “You—”
Akira tightens his grip on Akechi’s sleeve. “You know me,” he breathes, and Akechi flinches like Akira slapped him.
“No—no, I—”
“Akechi—” Pressure around his wrist sucks Akira’s attention down to see a gloved, slim-fingered hand wrapped around his arm. When he darts his eyes back up, Akechi’s face is stricken.
“Who—” he pulls in a shallow breath. “I—I don’t—”
“Akechi-kun, is something wrong?” Sae sounds alarmed now, and Akechi finally jerks his stare away from Akira, releasing his wrist mechanically.
“No, Sae-san,” he says in an approximation of his usual smooth tone. He pulls his sleeve out of Akira’s slackened grip and Akira lets him go, heart pounding. “He merely mistook me for someone else. We should get going.”
Without another glance at Akira, Akechi turns and stalks away, shoes tapping quickly against the pavement. Sae follows, tossing a puzzled look over her shoulder but saying nothing.
Akira can only stand there, rooted to the spot, pulse drumming in his ears, and watch Akechi’s retreating figure disappear into the flow of pedestrians while Ryuji asks what the fuck that was all about.
The lamps lining the street outside of Leblanc always dye the attic with a watery yellow hue after the sun goes down.
Last time, Akira kept meaning to put up some blackout curtains, but, after a while, the glow started to feel golden and welcoming. Akira liked being able to open his eyes in the middle of the night and make out the vague shapes of a room that wasn’t his, of a place away from his parents and his hometown. The attic was smaller than his bedroom, cluttered and drafty, but within a matter of weeks, Akira felt more at home there than he ever did in his parents’ house, and the light of the streetlamps settled over him like a warm blanket every night.
Tonight, however, as Akira lies in bed on top of the covers and stares up at the ceiling, the sallow tint sits nauseously under Akira’s skin, familiar and alien, reminding Akira that he’s not allowed to just skip forward to everything being okay. He’s back at the beginning, untrusted and isolated. None of the answers he found last time have meaning here and he can’t lean on his old allies.
Regardless of whether or not Akechi actually remembers him, he walked away. If he doesn’t remember Akira, then they’re stuck on the same collision course as before. And if he does remember Akira—well, given how that course ended last time, Akira can’t blame him for wanting to get away. But the conclusion is the same.
He’s alone.
A car passes by outside, the automotive hum cutting the heavy silence of the attic for a split-second, before fading away, letting the hush settle back into Akira’s bones.
His phone buzzes.
Right. Ryuji said he was going to message him tonight about the plan for tomorrow. Akira’s foolish, paltry attempt to save his friends and solve the man on the train’s puzzle.
Swallowing thickly, Akira gropes around beside his head until his fingers bump the hard shape of his phone. He grasps it and brings his arm up, holding the phone over his face to squint at the readout.
One unread message is waiting for him, but, as Akira selects the chat app, he sees that the notification isn’t next to Ryuji’s name. Instead, a new ID is waiting to start a conversation with him.
An ID that he can recite in his sleep.
Akechi
How do I know your name?