Archive of Our Own ^beta

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 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 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 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 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.”

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 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.

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.

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.