Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I don’t sign anything without reading it carefully first,” is the first thing Goro Akechi says in this new world. His voice comes out hoarse, as if from disuse. Perhaps that’s just what happens when you die twice.

The shimmering blue butterfly that led him here simply continues to bat its wings, like a slow, blank-eyed blink. It’s the only source of light in this darkness, but its brilliance radiates out so powerfully that it illuminates the entirety of the pulpit it’s resting on. A series of intricate designs are carved along the sides of the pulpit, of heroic figures and stars and moons. Laid out over the surface of the pulpit is a sheet of paper, an inkwell, and a quill, but the paper appears to be written in some kind of ancient language. A singular line with an x at the start of it is his only clue. Whatever this says, it appears to describe the details of a contract.

He doesn’t remember how he got here. The last thing he remembers of it is the sight of Ren clinging onto Maruki as the crystal staircase trembled beneath him, after the two of them had punched each other like idiots for a full minute. Then whiteness, nothing. And now he’s here. Staring expectantly at a butterfly.

He almost assumes that his mysterious guide has no way of communicating back to him, until the words ring in his head: You may feel free to use me as a resource. The words have no voice; they simply float there in his brain, interrupting the regular flow of his thoughts. It’s disorienting and a violation of privacy, but there isn’t much else to work with here.

He decides to cut straight to the point. “So. Am I dead?”

A moment. You are between worlds. In a normal world, Persona-users who die in the Metaverse return to the physical plane. But the God of Control intercepted the process to trap you in that cell. Now that the world has returned to order, you have returned to a cell that no longer exists. As such, you are neither alive nor dead. You simply are not.

“Right.” Akechi vaguely remembers some similar explanation from Ren’s info-dump at the laundromat. “Then I suppose you expect me to sign this to return to the physical realm.”

The answer is immediate this time. You may return to the physical realm regardless of whether you sign the contract. The contract simply holds you accountable for your actions as a wildcard, in return for our service.

“Accountable in what way?” Akechi waits. There is no answer. Fine then. “What service?”

A guide down the path of your choosing as a wildcard.

“Did he make use of this service?” More silence. “The other wildcard.”

Which one?

Interesting. He stores that information for later. “The one known as Ren Amamiya.”

Indeed.

Then that’s all he needs to know. 

Perhaps due to its supernatural quality, the ink miraculously doesn’t smudge as he signs his name across the dotted line. Goro Akechi. Signed and bound to this bodiless, faceless, voiceless entity. His path forever intertwined with the same entity that bound itself to his rival.

Both the quill and contract vanish upon signing. At approximately the same time, the distinct noise of a door unlocking catches his ear. In the distance, a singular blue door stands ready for him to step through.

“Then I’ll be taking my leave.” Akechi moves past the pulpit, but the butterfly quickly catches up and circles around him.

A word of caution. He stops. Of course there was a catch. The Persona-users known as the Phantom Thieves were able to fight their way back into the world’s cognition due to the bonds they had accumulated. But...

“But the only bonds I have are with my shithead father and…him,” Akechi finishes. “Which means there’s a chance I’ll come back and no one will know who I am.”

Another thoughtful pause. That is correct. 

“And what of the Shido case? Will my part in that be forgotten as well?”

I cannot speak to specific cases. That figures. There may be bonds you are entirely unaware of, some that reach deeper than you’d expect. Some may remember you, if you work hard enough to bring forth the memory. Others may gradually begin to forget, the longer they are apart from you. And some may remember you only in snatches of deja-vu. None of it is certain or concrete.

Suddenly, the door at the end of the hall bursts open. A burst of white light shines through.

The moment you step out that door, your mark on the world will be permanent. Anything before that is uncertain.

It’s not ideal. But it doesn’t matter. Even if he no longer holds any power over Shido’s cronies as the Black Mask, or over the police as the Detective Prince, he’ll tie up whatever loose ends he left behind. 

May luck be on your side , are the butterfly’s last words before its presence evaporates from his brain.

More nonsense, he thinks. Luck has nothing to do with it.

He walks forward into the light.

===

Of the people in the world who have met Goro Akechi, the ones who remember him (so far) include the following:

• The staff at the Sunset Rehabilitation Center, who let him work there part-time for a month. They didn’t ask questions when he arrived at their doorstep on the brink of death, but they did gossip quite a bit amongst themselves when they believed him to be out of earshot. They also brought up his mother quite often, whose picture now hung among a collection of other past patients who had been there longer than a year. It was the first photo of him with his mother that Akechi had seen in almost a decade.
  
  
• Potentially, one of the social workers assigned to him growing up. His eyes flashed with faint recognition when Akechi came around to investigate, and he eventually came to the conclusion that he used to work with Akechi as a child, but it’s likely that he simply made that assumption due to the nature of Akechi’s interrogation. The other social workers he interrogated after that had no recollection of him.
  
  
• Prosecutor Sae Niijima. Fortunately.

“That’s it?” At Akechi’s nod, Niijima’s frown deepens. As far as her expressions go, it isn’t the worst frown in the world. She isn’t frustrated past the point of reason, like she had been as a Palace ruler, and she isn’t entirely hopeless, either. She’s simply piecing him in with the rest of the evidence, running through all the possible ways she can use his testimony.

She looks back down at the notes scattered across the interrogation room table. That, too, had been lucky; if Akechi hadn’t woken up last December with his briefcase at his side, he wouldn’t have had any hard evidence to nail Shido with. “At the very least, these documents should confirm the claim that Shido was involved with the mental shutdowns,” she says. “As for your connection to him… I see you have bank statements detailing the transactions between you and Shido, but without proof that you own this account, this would be circumstantial evidence at best.”

Akechi lifts an eyebrow. “The burden of proof is on the prosecution, not the defense. Why should I have to prove that I did it before turning myself in?”

Niijima sighs, frustrated, as if agreeing that it should be that easy. “I’ve been feeling some pressure to prosecute Amamiya as the culprit behind the mental shutdowns. There’s no real evidence that that’s the case, but there isn’t any evidence contradicting that theory, either. So without hard proof as to whom these accounts belonged to, it would be too easy for someone to claim that you’re covering for him. Unless you have another way of proving your involvement in the shutdowns, at best this would slow the investigation down.”

Akechi scowls. He can’t even prove his own existence, let alone his alter ego. No bank accounts, no birth certificate, no student ID. He suspects his gun license is probably useless now, too. His old detective badge is the only potentially useful ID he has, and only so he can flash it at people who wouldn’t know any better.

“Then what are our options?” he demands, because he didn’t come all this way just to fail, but Niijima clearly knows the playing field better than he does.

She taps a nail against the table, thoughtful. It doesn’t seem like she’s searching her mind for more options; rather, her lip is curled with hesitation, like she knows what her options are and doesn’t care for any of them. Eventually, she produces a business card from her pocket. It’s a sleek black card with silver print, detailing the contact information for the help desk at the Kirijo Group’s Tokyo headquarters. He lifts an eyebrow. What could a multinational trading company have to do with anything? 

“Mitsuru Kirijo has been stopping by the precinct every other week for the past several weeks,” Niijima explains. Akechi sets the card down to stare at her. The head of the Kirijo Group herself? “She’s been demanding to speak with Ren Amamiya about the Metaverse nonstop. Commissioner Kaburagi is strongly against it, but Kirijo keeps insisting that she has the clearance to speak with him. Yet every time she comes here, it’s the same thing...” Niijima sighs, rubbing her temples. “In any case, the last time she came, she slipped me her card and tried to set up a meeting to discuss the case. I think she’s getting desperate.”

Akechi flips the card between his fingers, mulling that over. Some kind of insignia is printed on the back, of two swords crossed over a circle and the letters ‘S W.’ “So you’re sending me instead,” he concludes.

Niijima nods. “Given my position, it’d obviously be inappropriate of me to hear her out. You, on the other hand…”

“It would be a waste of time.” Akechi sets the card back down on the table. “I’d rather use that time to figure out another way to prove Ren’s innocence.”

He receives an odd look for that, one that is all too soft and sympathetic for his liking. “In all fairness, the Kirijo Group does appear to be working with the police in some capacity,” Niijima says gently. “Clearly, they’re at the bottom of the totem pole, but...it sounds like they understand more about the Metaverse than your standard police. It’s possible they could help clear his name if you give them enough to work with.”

Right… In fact, depending on how much they know about the Metaverse, he could clear Ren’s name with the snap of his fingers. Akechi plucks the business card off the table and pockets it. “Fine. I’ll pay them a visit,” he tells her.

“See that you do.” Niijima starts organizing the papers into piles. “I’ll call to follow up with you if anything else comes up during the investigation. You have my number as well; feel free to reach out if you think of anything that might be useful.”

Akechi takes that as his cue to leave. “Then, if that’s all--”

“Don’t do anything reckless.” Niijima has raised her eyes to meet his own. “If you feel like something’s amiss, call me first.”

As if she would have the power to do anything even if he did. Nevertheless, she’s staring at him like she won’t let him leave this interrogation room until he agrees, so he nods. It almost reminds him of how they were before: partners, of sorts, even though in reality they had always had their own agendas. In retrospect, it’s strange that she’s putting this much trust in him, even though she knows what he did. Then again, she’s a smart woman and a professional. She knows they’re on the same page this time; she knows that he wants himself in jail for this just as much as she does. It doesn’t matter what her personal feelings toward him may be. All that matters is that Ren Amamiya walks free.

So he nods, again, this time more firmly. “Noted,” he says, and leaves.

===

As far as skyscrapers go, the Kirijo Group’s Tokyo headquarters is a rather no-nonsense building with a straightforward architecture, though its dark one-way windows look more modern compared to its neighbors. The interior is a sleek expanse of ceramic tile accented with smooth black glass and white marble, with the group’s name embossed into the marble counter. There’s some confusion at the front desk when Akechi arrives for his appointment, until the poor man’s supervisor finally comes over and scans the back of the business card Niijima gave him. She gives him an odd look as she does so, and doesn’t let him through the gate until a man in a nondescript suit and tie arrives to escort him. 

He’s taken down a long row of elevators to the very end of the hall. In the elevator, his escort gently pries open a little panel beneath the buttons and enters a passcode too fast for Akechi to see. The combination prompts the elevator to descend. His eyes are fastened to the green number above the doors as it progresses rapidly: B1-B2-B3-B4-B5– on and on and on until they finally slow to a stop at B30. 

The doors open up into a wide hallway lit by fluorescents. Akechi follows his escort and tries to map out the floor in his head, but each hall branches into another hall, into another, with no real common areas to speak of. Several people pass them by on the way to wherever the hell this man is taking him, most of them openly staring at Akechi and all of them wearing lab coats. Their faces go by too fast to register fully, but he gets an odd sense of deja vu from a number of them.

Finally, the escort comes to a stop in front of a random door and opens it unceremoniously. A single long table sits in the middle of the room, chairs surrounding it on all sides. None of the people inside are actually sitting in those chairs, though, and they all turn to look at Akechi when he arrives. At a glance, it’s hard to say what the common denominator is among all of them. There’s a wide swath of ages, genders, occupations, from a frizzy-haired middle-aged woman to a stocky older man he recognizes as the owner of Untouchable. A number of them have split off into little cliques to chatter amongst themselves, but judging by the cadence of the conversations, they don’t seem to know each other very well.

“Hold on,” Akechi says when the escort tries to leave. “What’s going on here? Is this some kind of group interview?”

“You’ll see,” is the immediate, indifferent answer. The escort leaves and shuts the door behind himself. Great. Now what? 

“So what’s your deal?” A nosy-looking journalist has cornered him by the door, notepad in hand. Just when he thought he was done with the fucking paparazzi… 

“Sorry, I’m not sure what you mean,” Akechi replies with a princely smile, partly from habit and partly out of caution.

The journalist plucks the pencil from behind her ear and points at various people around the room. “That guy used to be his boss. That girl was his shogi master. That lady was his teacher.” She spins her pencil around in a circle. “Everybody in here knew Ren Amamiya in some capacity, and we all received the same business card from Mitsuru Kirijo. So, how did you know him?”

What the hell. He casts another look about the room. He doesn’t recognize anyone from the Phantom Thieves here, so at least they were smart enough to stay away. But even then, there’s quite a lot of people in here. How the hell did Ren collect so many connections in just the span of a year? Acquaintanceships, sure, but people who cared about him this much ?

Suddenly, the journalist clears her throat. “Ahem. Sorry I asked.”

The revulsion must be clear on his face. He doesn’t quite care enough to wrap it back up in a smile. “I don’t have a ‘deal.’ I’m not here for him,” he lies, of course that’s a fucking lie, and then stalks off into the corner before she can respond.

Before long, the escort returns to call out a random name, and it continues in that fashion for a while. When it comes time for Akechi’s turn, he is led back out into the hall and down a series of more hallways that look exactly the same, before finally arriving at a closet-sized office that has been taken over by some lanky intern. The intern’s limbs are too long for the cramped space behind the desk, and he has to push up flush against the wall just to make room for his knees. He nevertheless acknowledges the escort who brought Akechi here with an awkward nod and readjusts himself at least three different times before finally resigning himself to suffering at that angle. He sighs, shakes the shaggy brown hair from his eyes, and flips to a new page in his notebook.

“Sorry for the wait. Name and age?” Despite the perfectly polite tone, the teen may as well have been yawning through it for how invested he sounds in the answer.

“Goro Akechi, eighteen,” he answers.

The boy scribbles something down. “Current occupation? Oh, if you’re a student, you can just--”

“Unemployed.” When the boy gives him an inquisitive look, he adds, “I dropped out.”

“And you’re...still wearing the uniform?”

“I see that you’re more attentive than you look.”

The inquisitive look sours. Nevertheless, the boy jots that down. “Do you have a phone number we can contact you with later?”

“No.”

“A mailing address, then?”

“No.”

The boy’s eyes narrow. “Okay,” he says slowly. “How much do you know about the Kirijo Group?”

“It’s a multinational trading company. I fail to see the relevance of the question,” Akechi adds, in some vain hope that he can annoy the real questions out.

But the boy just nods and writes that down. “I see. And what brought you here today?”

Akechi stares at him. “Is that a joke?” The boy just blinks at him in polite confusion until Akechi tosses Kirijo’s business card onto the desk. “I was given this card and told to come here to speak with someone about the Metaverse. Instead, I was dragged into a basement and made to wait for an hour so I could participate in a marketing survey conducted by an intern.”

Somehow that’s the quip that earns him a fully-offended glare. “Intern? I’m not--”

“We’ll cut straight to the point.” Akechi leans forward and slams his hand on the desk. To his credit, the not-intern doesn’t shrink away. “I have information on the Metaverse. That includes the true identity of the culprit behind the mental shutdowns, what really happened to Masayoshi Shido, and how reality collapsed in on itself. Now tell me who you are and what you intend to do with this information. Then, if I like what I hear, I’ll tell you what I know.”

He expected the wide-eyed shock. None of Ren’s precious companions from the other room looked like they’d be of any use, and this boy has probably been suffering through their useless testimonies all day. But he’s already wasted enough time just sitting around. He withdraws his hand, grabs his briefcase, and says, “If I don’t get a straight answer in the next five minutes, I’m leaving.”

“No!” The regret on the boy’s face is immediate, but it’s already too late. He’s tipped his hand; not that it wasn’t already obvious. “Fine. If you want me to talk, I’ll talk.”

“Four minutes and forty-eight seconds.”

The boy doesn’t acknowledge the reminder with anything beyond an irritated frown. “My name is Ken Amada,” he says. “I’m...well, I’m not technically part of the Shadow Operatives right now, but I still help out sometimes.”

Shadow Operatives? Akechi can glean some context from the name alone, but… 

“It’s a special unit under the National Police Agency,” Amada explains for him. “We take care of all the supernatural cases that have to do with Shadows--basically anything the police can’t handle on their own. When the mental shutdowns started going on, we’d suspected that something was going on, but our investigations turned up nothing Shadow-related. Then the incidents kept piling up: the mental shutdowns, the Phantom Thieves, and a huge Shadow reading that resolved itself before we could dispatch anyone to take care of it. Now that the leader of the Phantom Thieves has come forward, we were hoping to get some answers, but...”

“But Commissioner Kaburagi has been blocking your attempts to get into the interrogation room with him. I see.” Akechi finally sits back down. “If you’re looking for someone to provide information on the Metaverse, look no further. I may not be a Phantom Thief, but I know more about that world than all of them combined.” It’s a bluff; Futaba Sakura’s knowledge of cognitive psience alone outmatches him by a mile. But he owes this debt to more than just Ren.

Amada seems skeptical, though. “I see. And how do you know all that?”

Akechi looks him in the eye. “Because I’m the one behind the mental shutdowns. The Phantom Thieves had nothing to do with it.”

Amada’s eyebrows rise, incredulous. “What? But...but why would you…?”

“For the same reason Ren Amamiya decided to turn himself in. To see the right person go to jail.” But the shock in Amada’s expression only clouds, uncertain. Fine. That was to be expected. “I can prove it to you with a demonstration.”

“You don’t scare me,” Amada says bravely.

“It wasn’t a threat,” Akechi bites back, impatient. “I couldn’t do it right here even if I wanted to. I need access to the Metaverse in order to summon my Persona.”

Amada’s face darkens with understanding. “I see. Let me guess: you used your Persona to kill people in the Metaverse, which ended up affecting them in the real world.”

Now it’s Akechi’s turn to be surprised. Impressed, even. The Shadow Operatives have more experience than he thought. “Yes and no. I did my fair share of killing in the Metaverse, but that’s not all.” He cracks open his briefcase over his lap and hands over a spare copy of the dossier he’d given Niijima. “The Call of Chaos. It can send any Shadow down a mental spiral that greatly enhances its capacity for violence but lowers its self-awareness. That included the Shadows of real people.”

Amada skims over the document, eyebrows knitting together in concentration. “And....you’re saying that you have that ability?”

“I’m saying that I’m the only one with that ability. The staff who worked on the Loki project can confirm that his power was unique, and the dossier should contain enough evidence to force them into the interrogation room.”

“The Loki project…” Amada lifts his eyes from the documents to look at Akechi. “You mean, that power you spoke about… That was the result of an experiment?”

A possessive, proud heat curls in his chest. “Certainly, they created an environment that pushed me to the breaking point,” he concedes. “But it wouldn’t have worked with anyone else. In the end, science can’t choose your Persona for you. I was chosen by Loki.”

Amada just stares at him, quietly unnerved. “I see,” is all he has to say.

“The team who worked on the Loki project won’t remember who I am. The memory of my existence has been wiped from the public’s cognition.” He breezily ignores the dumbstruck look on Amada’s face at that last part; they need to stay on topic. “Hence the demonstration. Find me a Shadow, and I’ll show you what I can do.”

This boy doesn’t seem particularly stupid, but he does have the look of someone who has been shocked awake after being half-asleep all day. So he lets Amada digest, sift through some papers, look through his notes. He lets Amada stare at his face for a while, too, though he doesn’t know what he could possibly be taking away from it.

“You’re doing this to prove Ren Amamiya’s innocence,” Amada says eventually, a slow half-question. “Why?”

“I owe him a debt,” Akechi answers simply, because it is, genuinely, that simple.

Someone who has a murderer in his debt probably doesn’t make a good impression, so perhaps he shouldn’t have said it. But perhaps being surrounded by people who could easily claim a relationship to Ren made him want to proclaim his connection to Ren as well. Perhaps he wanted someone, anyone to know that he still has any connection to this world at all. Not just to his dead mother, or to his shithead of a father. Even if the world forgets him, even if they never meet again, he and Ren will always have that promise between them.

“So.” Akechi closes the briefcase, sets it aside, and stands, leaning against the desk once more. “Are you going to help me get arrested or not?”

===

The blood is ringing in his ears, his pulse throbbing, his skin hot and tingling with static. But the Call of Chaos still won’t come.

They’re not in the Metaverse, that he knows for sure. But the explanation for what or where this place is had gone in through one ear and out the other during the train ride, his brain too occupied with trying to reach inside himself and determine what power he has left. He hadn’t expected Hereward to remain with him after Maruki’s Palace collapsed, but then, he supposed that Personas didn’t adhere to time travel or reality bending. More importantly, he hadn’t expected Loki to just be gone , an empty void where malice and envy used to run deep. It hadn’t felt like Loki had left him, the moment Hereward came into being. He’d assumed that the chaotic Persona had simply stepped off to the side to allow a newer, more suitable persona take the stage. Hereward had been more than adequate for the fight against Maruki. Fighting with him felt good, empowering.

But even now, in the midst of battle, with his adrenaline running high, he reaches into that space where Loki used to be and feels nothing. The anger that used to compel him forward - the audacity of these creatures who dared think they were stronger; the general injustice of an uncaring world that wouldn’t change unless he tore it asunder - it’s still there, pulsing through him. But it doesn’t respond the way it used to; doesn’t let itself manifest into a physical power, sloughing off him like a powerful miasma. It simply sits in his gut and boils.

He leaps back to gain some distance from the Shadow--a powerful angel with silver steel skin that would’ve been tough for even the Phantom Thieves, let alone one person--and whips his head around to glance at the operatives who accompanied him here. They’re hiding atop a rooftop, their guns at the ready “in case he needs backup,” but it’s plain to see that those flimsy sniper rifles are like peashooters against a Shadow like this. The real backup is the not-intern, Ken Amada. Supposedly, his Kala-Nemi is rather powerful against this Shadow, but he’s not allowed to interfere until the time limit is up. A glance at his watch tells him that he has another ten minutes before Amada intervenes, and Ren’s acquittal is lost forever.

“To me, Loki…!” Akechi grits out, and again, it’s like grasping at air. He cries out as another bless attack pierces through him, knocking him onto the ground. Then cries out again as the angel’s swords descend upon him, slicing through his limbs and barely missing his torso as he rolls out of the way. He pushes himself off the ground and forces his legs to run, though by now they feel so heavy they tremble with each step.

This place, wherever or whatever it is, is spread out like an abandoned city. He leads the angel down one street before making a sharp right and barreling into an empty storefront. The angel’s wings beat once, twice as it floats past the building, energy humming and crackling at its hands. He should just kill the thing with Hereward and be done with it, but then he’ll have failed and Ren will be heading straight to prison for Akechi’s own crimes. And even if he tried to escape this place on his own, he has no way of knowing how to return to reality without the Shadow Operatives’ help. All that aside, he doesn’t want to leave here knowing that he hasn’t done everything he can to prove himself. Knowing that he’s weak, too weak to even defeat a Shadow that a boy like Ken Amada can vanquish single-handedly.

Once the beating of the angel’s wings has faded out, Akechi summons up Hereward again and gives him a long, hard look. The black knight’s shining red eyes glow at him quietly.

“I need Loki,” he demands, arms crossed.

You lack faith in my ability. It’s the first time Hereward has spoken to him. His voice is smoother than Loki’s, but calmer and quieter than Robin Hood’s. No… You lack faith in our ability.

“Your power is fine, but it isn’t what I need right now.” Akechi leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. “I can’t get out of this without the Call of Chaos. I need Loki,” he repeats stubbornly.

Hereward continues to tower over him, his fingers flexing over his bow. You’d truly prefer my former self?

Akechi stares up at him. “Former self? What are you…” He realizes now. Loki didn’t disappear. He became...this. Which essentially means that he’s really, truly gone; Akechi can’t just summon him back up with sheer willpower. He laughs, an empty sound. “Of course. I should’ve known. I did this to myself.” 

His fists clench. Hard. It isn’t enough to stop the tears from welling up. “I always knew I’d be nothing without him. Without...without that power. It was the only thing that made me special--made me of any use to anyone . I thought I had grown stronger than that, but I was wrong. I thought I didn’t need him anymore, but I was wrong . I...I made myself weak .”

There is a long stretch of silence for a while as he stares sullenly at his feet. In the distance, the city is filled with the sounds of the angel blasting it apart, looking for him. If the operatives from earlier are still around, he can’t hear them over the roar of the explosions. That’s it, then. He’s been trapped. After all that, this is where it ends.

Do you truly believe that? Hereward is still looking down at him expectantly. He doesn’t have to pick up his head to know that. That day, when I came into being. Was that a moment of weakness?

What? Akechi finally picks up his head, confused, and is faced with Ren Amamiya’s terrified frown. His breath catches in his throat.

“But then...you’ll…” Ren says. Said.

“So. What.” Akechi says. Said.

He remembers the anger in this moment. Anger that Ren would have the audacity to keep his freedom from him. Anger that he would rather choose this ridiculous fantasy over everything else--over Akechi’s own choices. He hated that he had to be the one to talk sense into him, that he had to relive his own grieving process and accept his own death all over again. He hated that, even in this, even when the stars aligned and their goals lied on the same path, he still had to fight his battles alone. He hated that he had been foolish enough to trust Ren with this at all.

But then Akechi posed the question one last time, and the grief in Ren’s face gradually subsided. Not entirely, but enough to give way for calmer emotions to reign. Resignation. Acceptance. Most importantly, a distinctive glint in his eye that Akechi held onto for a long time after. A knowing stare that made him feel, for the first time, like he’d been seen in his entirety. Not the Detective Prince. Not Shido’s puppet. Not Maruki’s twisted dream. In Ren’s eyes, he was Goro Akechi, fully autonomous and vicious and free.

Do you believe you were weak in that moment?

No. Of course not.

Do you believe that such a rivalry could give birth to something that would fail you?

As if Joker would dare fall short of his expectations.

Do you doubt the power that that moment had granted you?

He remembers the fight seeping out of Ren’s shoulders, only to return in his fiery gaze. He remembers the determination, the wordless promise in his eyes.

Do you remember now? How it felt to be reborn?

He remembers. He feels it now, heating up inside him. He reaches for it, twisting just right--

If you understand, then go. And do not doubt me again.

“Understood. Come, Hereward.”

Akechi pushes off the wall, a newfound power surging through him. The weight of his pain has been lifted, his body becoming light and airy. It’s the same but different from the Call of Chaos. Chaos had muddled his mind, filled him with nothing but rage and bloodthirst. This-- rebellion, conviction, determination --cuts through the fog clouding his brain and channels his anger into a clear, singular focus. He will not die here. He’s made his vows. He will carve a path through this sickening world and strike down whoever may get in his way.

Hereward is right by his side as he charges out of the building and sees the angel floating atop where Akechi’s escorts had been set up. Now they’re backed up against the corner of the roof, their rifles useless against it. Ken Amada stands before them, gun in hand, his Persona nowhere to be seen. But he looks calm. Interesting. The boy is stronger than he looks.

Akechi shoots a gun attack at the creature to catch its attention, then smiles when it whirls and bears down on him.

“You’re in my way.” Akechi swiftly evades its divine judgment, then knocks it out of the sky with a curse attack. If this were Loki, he would tear this trash to pieces until the rush had finally settled. Now, he calmly picks his way through the detritus of the angel’s attack, fixing his gloves and contemplating his next move.

“Now seems as good a time as any to do what we came here for.” He lifts his head up to the roof. “Don’t look away from this!” he calls out to the operatives, who simply gawp at him from afar.

The steel angel’s wings flutter crookedly as it tries to right itself, but Akechi stops it in its tracks. With Hereward looming over his shoulder, he senses that feeling inside of the Shadow--that drive, that light, that fire --and pulls and tears at it until it matches his own. But it’s different this time. Where before it had felt like carving a chisel into stone and feeling it shatter beneath his strength, now it feels like stoking a flame. The Shadow doesn’t break; it thrives .

In its eyes, he sees Ren Amamiya, witnessing Akechi’s conviction and recognizing its strength. He sees the moment it clicks, that this is the path it should follow for now, even if their fates will one day diverge again. No I am thou, thou art I , but My path is yours, and yours is mine . No fear in its eyes, just inevitability.

It isn’t the Call of Chaos--it isn’t anything he has seen or felt within him until this very moment--but they don’t need to know that. He wills the Shadow to be consumed by its own passion, and it follows him blindly into the dark. A surge of crimson darkness rises from the ground beneath it, swallowing it whole and rebirthing it anew. A new follower. A new path.

His hands are shaking as he palms at his wrist, clearing the timer off it. He raises his fist into the air and glares at the operatives still gaping at him, Amada included. 

“Done.”

===

The church they used to attend always felt different from the other buildings in the area. The vaulted ceilings, the stained glass, the gilded tabernacle, the cartoonishly bulky organ--all of it was so distinctly western compared to the humble little shopping area around it. For half an hour every week, Goro felt transported to another world, someplace that was quieter and cooler and filled with colored sunlight. He liked it better like this; he couldn’t imagine attending church on Sundays with rows of people filling up the pews, trying not to fall asleep to a series of monotone sermons. But he tried his best not to look forward to these trips, because he knew his mother didn’t like them. She’d always come out of the confessional booth looking somewhat relieved, but her face going in was always strained and serious. He didn’t think it was good for him to feel excited to go when she was obviously distressed.

If he was honest with himself, maybe that was part of the appeal. Being locked away from his mother for a while, unburdened by the day-to-day guilt of existence, just sitting quietly with the stained glass and the candlelight.

He had never gone into a confessional himself, not until many, many years later in Kanda. It had been alright. He never understood what his mother got out of it, but it did have a rather interesting effect on his abilities in the Metaverse. In the end the whole experience was truly nothing but an exchange of words. Perhaps, if he was the kind of person to have regrets, it would’ve felt different. Perhaps he too would have fallen victim to that strange addiction his mother had to forgiveness.

This confessional is different.

A melancholy shade of blue shines dimly through the window in the door. He should be able to see shadows or people or pews or altars through the semi-opaque window, but instead he only sees a clear blue light. It’s silent in there, save for the sound of his own breathing and the creak of the wooden seat beneath him as he shifts forward. Then a soft click draws his attention to the lattice screen woven into the wall to his left. A brilliant shade of blue projects out around the dark silhouette of a small, childlike figure with short hair. They face forward initially, in the direction of the door. But then, as if they can feel his eyes on them, they turn their head, lift a hand, and wave. 

Alright, what the hell. “Where am I?” Akechi demands.

As if in answer, there’s another soft click to his right. The same brilliant blue shines out at him, this time illuminating the silhouette of a hunchbacked figure with a long nose.

“Welcome…” The man’s voice comes out light, cordial and smooth through the screen. “...to the Velvet Room.” 

The Velvet Room? The name rings a bell. He vaguely recalls Ren bringing it up during one of their Jazz Jin outings back in that ‘other’ January, but…

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you,” the figure continues, “though I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting just yet. My name is Igor... I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

His presence carries some authority to it, the way Yaldaboath did when he imprisoned him in a cell. “Do not mistake this for a second chance, dear champion.” He remembers a spindly crooked old man looming over him outside his cell door, his voice so deep it itched beneath his skin. His words drove him down deeper into his own self-hatred. “You have lost the game. Now this cell shall be your tomb.”

Come to think of it, that place had the same otherworldly, half-here half-not sensation that this confessional exudes. Yet there’s something missing, too. He doesn’t feel quite as on edge as he did in that other place; doesn’t have that same sense of dread weighing him down. But he doesn’t quite feel in control, either, so he can’t exactly relax.

“This is Beaufort.” The light to his left glows just a little brighter. “He is a resident of this place, like myself.”

The silhouette inclines his head. “So you’ve finally made it, Trickster.” His voice has the rasp of a young boy, clear and earnest. “You may call me Beau. I look forward to working with you.”

“This place exists between dream and reality, mind and matter…” Igor continues. “Setting aside some...minor exceptions due to recent mishaps...only those who have signed the contract can enter this place. It is rare to have two guests in such quick succession, but I am happy to finally have you here through the proper channels.”

Two guests? He must be talking about Ren. Which means…

The contract simply holds you accountable for your actions as a wildcard, in return for our service.

“Accountable in what way?” Akechi waits. There is no answer. Fine then. “What service?”

A guide down the path of your choosing as a wildcard.

“Did he make use of this service?” More silence. “The other wildcard.”

Which one?

Interesting. He stores that information for later. “The one known as Ren Amamiya.”

Indeed.

This is the result of that contract? This dazzling closet-sized room? What happened to the jail cell Ren had spoken about? Or the little girl? Then again, Ren had mentioned something about the ‘jail’ being a representation of his heart. Akechi stares up at the ceiling of the confessional, so close to his head, so cramped. Is this truly the pathetic state of his heart? Perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised.

“Ah, such a rare opportunity we have at our hands today!” The absolute glee in Igor’s spidery voice brings him back to the present. “A destiny that was taken from the hands of not one, but two false gods, and placed within your own. A path that has been carved out for yourself. You may not be closing in on your destiny for quite some time, but your journey will nevertheless still be packed with the potential for growth all the way through. It will indeed be intriguing to see the shape that this path will take... I look forward to guiding you along the way.”

He wants to tell this man that he’s wasting his time. That whatever “journey” he’s rambling on about is over already; that he had only signed that contract on a selfish whim, to bind himself to his rival in some irrevocable way. But then a singular blue key materializes in front of him, dangling in the air for a second before landing on his lap. Even if he’ll never use it, it feels like it belongs to him. It tugs at too many of his instincts: the instinct for power, for pride; the instinct to compete; the instinct to grasp at even the slightest semblance of control.

I’m not coming back here , he wants to say. I will not disappoint , he wants to say, too.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Sleep fogs his mind and gently pulls him away, letting the world around him fade to black before the words can get unstuck from his throat.

===

For a while, his daily schedule sees him bouncing from interrogation to interrogation. He talks to Niijima, to Commissioner Kaburagi, to a number of detectives who used to be his superiors. They assign him a defense attorney to sit in as well, but it’s the representative from the Shadow Operatives who does most of the heavy lifting. Between the evidence Akechi gathered and the Shadow Operatives’ expertise, they manage to build a tight case and wipe Ren Amamiya’s name out of the investigation. It doesn’t clear Ren of everything, but it at least makes it easier to prove his innocence.

By the time Mitsuru Kirijo finally argues her way into the interrogation room, the investigation has just about wrapped up. He waits around at the usual table until she finally walks into the room with an air of purpose, as if she could possibly have anything to contribute to this case now . Her look consists of sharp whites and blacks that offset the deep red color of her hair and matching lipstick; altogether, the kind of look designed to mask how young she actually is. She and Niijima have that in common.

“I’ve already told your operatives everything I know about the Metaverse,” Akechi tells her, because he has. At this point, there’s no reason for her to be here other than to prove that she can be.

But she doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “I’m not here to discuss the Metaverse. I’m here to discuss the Loki project.”

He should’ve known this would happen. There’s no way a government organization like the Shadow Operatives could exist without attempting to weaponize their knowledge. “If that’s the case, then I have nothing to say to you. I’m not interested in inflicting that project on anyone else, and the Shadow Operatives shouldn’t be, either.”

With Kirijo standing there in her heels, she has to look down her nose at him to hold his gaze. “I’m afraid that’s already happened, to many more people other than yourself,” she says, matter-of-fact.

That throws him for a loop. Somehow he keeps forgetting that these Shadow Operatives have been around the block for much longer than he has, and Kirijo is no exception.

“It’s why I’m here, in fact,” she continues when he doesn’t react. “Your testimony regarding the Loki project bears some resemblance to a series of experiments that have since been ruled illegal. Those who worked on those experiments have since been dealt with...or so we thought.”

It clicks. “You think someone who was involved with those experiments might have been involved with the Loki project.” At her nod, he adds, “Do you suspect any of your own?”

Kirijo hesitates. “Amada has been investigating that dossier you gave us. None of our own are mentioned in it. However...he’s noticed that some of the names are fake. Or rather, they’re the names of citizens who have nothing to do with the Metaverse. Children, residents at retirement homes. The dead. It would seem they took the necessary precautions to protect their identities. That’s why we need your input.” Kirijo pulls out the tablet tucked under her arm, swipes a few times, and sets it on the table. “Scroll through and tell me if you recognize any of these people.”

Akechi sits up in his chair to read the screen, then looks back up at Kirijo. “You’re putting the fate of your internal investigation in the hands of a known criminal.”

“You have no reason to lie. Besides, I believe it was you who told Amada that you want to see the right people in jail.”

He doesn’t like that she knows the specifics of that conversation. Nevertheless, he does swipe through the list without further comment. Most of the staff are total strangers, but he does vaguely recall seeing a couple of faces who worked under Shido. He points them out to Kirijo, whose face grows grim at the news, but she nods and thanks him all the same. She doesn’t leave straight away, however. In fact, after closing her tablet, she finally sits down across from him.

“That’s not all I came here to speak with you about,” she states the obvious. “I wanted to clarify a few things about your testimony regarding the specifics of the Loki project. Is that alright?”

“Are you giving me a choice?” He’s clearly being sarcastic, but she nods anyway. He rolls his eyes. “Go on.”

Kirijo folds her hands over the table. Even her nails share the same shade of red as her hair. “I would like to know about what happened after you became one with Loki. Was it a stable relationship? Did he ever...act out?”

It hits him, suddenly, what she’s asking about. Maybe his face gives him away, because her eyes fill with understanding. He hates that she waits for him to respond, even though she clearly knows the answer already. 

“If by ‘act out’ you mean ‘tried to kill me,’ then yes,” he grits out. “At first, I was too weak to hold him off on my own. Isshiki would usually put him down for me, but eventually I told her to stop. The only reason why he kept attacking me was because he knew I was weak. He wouldn’t stop until I dealt with him myself.”

“You didn’t--” Kirijo stops as abruptly as she started, frowning in disbelief. “They didn’t give you suppressants?”

Suppressants? Akechi huffs. “I never knew there was such a thing.”

Her face sours even more. “I’m sorry they did that to you,” she says sincerely.

“Don’t misunderstand. I wasn’t an unwilling participant. Even if I thought that experiment was inhumane, I didn’t care. I wanted that power, and I knew I could handle it.”

Her hard gaze doesn’t waver, but it does grow more thoughtful. “I see. But according to the report, you referred to your Persona as ‘Hereward.’ What happened to Loki?”

It’s not as if he fully understands it himself, so it takes him a moment to land on a solid explanation. “Hereward is...an upgrade,” he decides to say.

“Right… And yet you used that ‘upgrade’ to turn yourself in for Ren Amamiya’s sake.” He can see where this is going. “Amada tells me you did this to repay a ‘debt.’ What exactly--”

“I’m not here to talk about him,” he says immediately. “I’ve already told you everything I have to say on that subject.”

“You don’t have to get defensive. We’re not interested in prosecuting him or the Phantom Thieves.”

That does mollify him somewhat. He still doesn’t like this line of questioning. “I wanted to see my shithead father in jail. The Phantom Thieves succeeded in doing so where I had failed.”

“I assume you’re referring to Masayoshi Shido. I believe your testimony acknowledged him as your illegitimate father.” At Akechi’s nod, she nods back with understanding. “I see… So now that that goal has been accomplished, you don’t care about what happens next. As long as the right people go to jail.”

Why does she keep harping on that particular choice of words? “Is that a problem?”

Kirijo doesn’t answer him immediately. She keeps staring at him with an intensity that Akechi matches with cool indifference.

“Right now, I’m faced with a difficult decision,” she begins, and he can feel some kind of speech coming already. “Like you, I’m trying to take responsibility. It was our job to ensure that our research would never be used to hurt people again. Even if you claim to be a willing participant, we failed to protect you nevertheless.”

She gets up from her seat and rounds the table, watching him carefully all the while. “But what does taking responsibility look like in this situation? Do I let the courts decide what to do with you, a monster created from our own oversight? Or do I set you free, a victim of our failure to protect?” He bristles at that last part, but she holds his gaze unflinchingly. “I can tell what your answer to that question would be. Perhaps it doesn’t matter what I think. If you want to see yourself locked away for this, I’m not going to stop you.”

Then don’t , he tries to say, but Kirijo continues, leaning forward on one hand. “Just know this. There are other ways to take responsibility. You could accept a guilty sentence, but I highly doubt they’d put you in juvie for a crime of this magnitude. You’d likely waste away many years in an adult prison. Perhaps you would even suffer the death penalty. However, I could pull some strings and have you walk away free. You’d be on probation for a number of years, but you’d still have the opportunity to live a normal life. Most importantly, you wouldn’t have the ability to hurt anyone using your Persona ever again.”

She removes her hand from the table, drawing herself up to her full height. He refuses to crane his neck to meet her eyes. “Or you could join us,” she says, and that forces him to look at her, incredulous. At this angle, the fluorescents overhead form a halo around her head, throwing the majority of her face in shadow. “That power of yours was designed to hurt and destroy, yet you’re actively using it to protect others. You’re clearly passionate about honing your skills and preserving your sense of justice. You don’t have to let that feeling go to waste.”

He can sense there’s more to this little speech, but he’s already tired of listening. He stands as well, removing himself from the glare of the fluorescents. “Tell me, do you make this offer to all the criminals who use their Personas to harm others? Or is it just the ones you feel guilty about?” he sneers. “So I’m particularly self-aware for a murderer. So what? You’ve lost whatever respect I might have had for your operation if you think that acknowledging my crimes for what they are has earned me any kind of redemption.”

“It isn’t complete and total forgiveness. There is no world where you walk free from this without some form of probation,” Kirijo reminds him evenly.

“Bullshit. I can see through your inspirational sales pitch. I want nothing to do with an organization that cares so little about the morality of its recruitment process.”

Even now, Kirijo won’t stop looking at him with those sympathetic eyes, as if he’s said anything at all in the past five minutes to deserve such pity. “Believe what you will. The offer still stands, regardless. But for the record, I don’t need to forgive you to believe that you could be better. You don’t need to forgive yourself to be better, either.”

He feels like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. “Go to hell,” he snarls, but she’s already done here. She flicks her card onto the table and leaves without another word, leaving him all alone with his own self-loathing.

===

Despite Akechi’s full cooperation, it takes a total of three months after that for Akechi to receive his sentencing. This happens for a number of reasons, the first of which, chronologically, involves Akechi’s deal with Kirijo.

“We’ve been having a hard time nailing the rest of Shido’s colleagues,” she tells him on her second visit. “I’m aware of your disinterest in joining us formally, but we’d still appreciate any assistance you could lend on that front.”

And so he crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, sighs, and says, “I suppose the trash won’t take out itself.”

The trial is postponed before it even begins so Akechi can make good on this deal. It only lasts a little over two months; not nearly enough to put a dent in the strongest of Shido’s allies, but he cleans up what he can. He reaches out to one of Shido’s more gullible cohorts and introduces himself as the Black Mask assassin all Shido’s colleagues had raved about. From there, he’s able to infiltrate the mission to capture Ren Amamiya and sabotage it thoroughly from the inside. It helps that the Phantom Thieves are competent enough to divert their attention; he expected no less from the group that had bested him, after all.

(It ends up being bittersweet, watching Ren Amamiya’s figure disappear into the train. Too much, even. Akechi doesn’t let himself linger too long, lest he do something stupid like try to follow him onboard. And just like that, Ren Amamiya is gone from his life forever.)

So the deal is done, Akechi is put back in jail, and the trial finally begins. His cooperation with the Shadow Operatives guarantees that he doesn’t get the death penalty, but prison is still very much on the table. For a crime as serious as his, the sentence could land anywhere between ten years and a lifetime--or at least it would’ve, if not for Mitsuru Kirijo.

“To be completely frank,” Kirijo says, eyes blazing as she speaks out to the meager audience among the gallery, “I don’t see the justice in persecuting a young man who was tortured, manipulated, and killed by members of our own government.” 

The judge just keeps nodding like he has been for the entirety of Kirijo’s speech. Some of it had been confused nodding--followed shortly by questions about what a Shadow is, what a Persona is, are Shadows real people or fictional--but more and more it has been progressing into vigorous nods of agreement. It’s hard to tell if the judge is suffering from information overload or if he’s just particularly stupid, but either way, he seems to be more swayed by the passion with which Kirijo speaks than the actual meaning of her words.

“I have no doubt that this man owes a debt to our society for the tragedies he has inflicted upon it,” Kirijo continues, and Akechi doesn’t bother hiding his eyeroll, “but were we not the ones who gave him the tools to do so? Have we not already enacted enough violence upon him? If Goro Akechi owes a debt to our society, then we in turn owe a debt to him as well.”

“If you let me go with a slap on the wrist, you’re setting a dangerous legal precedent,” Akechi counters. He ignores the glare Niijima sends his way; it’s not like they were pleading not guilty, anyway. Meanwhile, the prosecutor opens and closes his mouth, like he wants to object on principle but knows it would be stupid to stop Akechi from digging his own grave. “I wouldn’t feel safe living in a world where monsters like me can get away with murder, simply because the means were unconventional.”

“That isn’t the reason and you know it.” Her eyes gleam with a challenge. “But if you insist on being technical, then allow me to ask you the following.”

The prosecutor chooses now to finally interject. “O-objection, your honor, Kirijo-san is meant to be here as a witness--”

“I’ll allow it,” the judge says, because of course he does.

“Were you or were you not a minor for the majority of your time working for Masayoshi Shido?”

“I was.”

“And were you or were you not instructed to commit these crimes by your fully grown, adult employer?”

“An oversimplification. I--”

“By your own father ?”

“I agreed to his terms of my own free will ,” he says with thinning patience. “I wasn’t some poor innocent soul being puppeteered by a narcissistic adult. I made my decisions for myself.”

“Consent from a minor means nothing in a situation where the power dynamics are--”

Akechi slams the table, the noise so sharp that the bailiff advances warningly towards him. “I’ve had enough of this. Who gives a damn about what you think I deserve? Rewards and punishment aren’t up for debate here; we’re here because I broke the law. The context hardly matters when there are people dead because of me. The only question that remains is what punishment fits the crime.”

“Is that what your justice truly is, Goro Akechi?” Kirijo demands. “Justice completely divorced from context; punishments bestowed upon crimes without a second thought given to the culprit? I refuse to live in a world so thoughtless and cruel.”

“Then leave,” Akechi grits out.

The next three instances of Kirijo’s time at the witness stand are more of the same. Thankfully, the prosecution eventually grows weary of Kirijo’s ostentatious speeches and stops bringing her on as a witness, but that somehow only makes it worse. Without Kirijo’s cross of eloquent speech and scientific know-how, the prosecution stumbles over its arguments, particularly in its attempt to explain how Akechi’s actions in the Metaverse translated to reality. To make matters worse, the new researcher they replaced Kirijo with is one of the researchers from the Loki project. Upon seeing Akechi at the counsel table, her expression clouds with confusion, then darkens with doubt when it comes out that he can’t, in fact, summon Loki.

“There’s no way it could be him,” she says when the judge asks her directly. “For him to be unable to summon Loki at all… It’s just impossible. That aside, I’ve never seen this boy in my life.”

“ You said just five fucking minutes ago that you don’t remember what the test subject looked like,” Akechi hisses. “It stands to reason that it could’ve been me .”

“But I’d definitely remember if I saw him again,” she protests.

“Well you didn’t , and I already told you why you can’t, you stupid piece of shit.”

“Akechi-kun, sit down.”

“And another thing--”

“Bailiff.”

“--and another thing, what kind of moron do you have to be to not realize that--fuck off! Get your hands off me!”

At the very least, this same witness is able to prove that it wasn’t Ren, but it does put a damper on Akechi’s own proceedings. The trial is suspended upon further investigation, and it doesn’t go any better once it resumes. By the end of it all, Akechi’s final sentence amounts to a meager two years in prison--not for the mental shutdowns, but for some vague involvement with Masayoshi Shido.

Two years for all the suffering he caused. Two years for the deaths of Wakaba Isshiki, Kunikazu Okumura. Two years for the murder of Ren Amamiya.

It’s times like these that Akechi wishes Joker had left just a piece of Yaldaboath behind for him to punch in the fucking face.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t be so quick to judge the severity of your sentence.”

Niijima is his first visitor in prison, just a week in. It hasn’t been long enough for Akechi to know the true extent of this prison’s brutality, but so far, Yokohama has been rough. It’s not as if Akechi has ever had trouble following rules, but it’s clear that the guards around here actively nitpick for an excuse to beat the shit out of their prisoners. He has been beaten for marching on the wrong beat, sitting improperly, yawning at mealtimes, brushing his teeth too hard, even for looking too long at another guard. More than the violence, though, is what it truly represents: a gross abuse of power that chafes at Akechi’s sense of justice. Whether Akechi himself deserves this treatment may vary from person to person, but plenty of his fellow inmates with much lesser charges are given exactly the same experience. To think that this is part and parcel of how the law-sanctified judicial system works disgusts him to his core.

He doesn’t say that, of course. He’s not looking for pity. But he fucking hates it all the same.

“Two years may seem like nothing to you on paper, but prison culture isn’t something you should take lightly. Especially for someone as headstrong as you…” she continues, arms folded over her lap. Her voice is somewhat muffled by the plexiglass between them, but she has always been rather good at projecting.

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. The aches and bruises he has already suffered are proof enough that she isn’t exactly wrong.

Niijima seems to take his silence as an adequate answer and moves on to the next topic, though not before glancing at the nearby guard and leaning her elbows against the table. “I looked into those names you asked for.” Her voice is lowered now. “All the scientists you identified from the Kirijo Group are currently on trial for collaborating with Masayoshi Shido’s illegal experiments. It doesn’t look like Kirijo made any attempt to cover that up.”

Hm. So Kirijo truly was trying to weed them out. That doesn’t necessarily mean that her intention to protect Akechi was a fully noble one, but at the very least she isn’t secretly one of Shido’s cronies.

“I spoke with her shortly after the last trial,” Niijima says suddenly, bringing him out of his thoughts, “For what it’s worth, she...seemed to genuinely feel responsible for how things turned out. It sounded like she would’ve rather been the one in charge of your rehabilitation, as opposed to a place like Yokohama.”

Akechi snorts, derisive. “Of course she would. She’s exactly the kind of woman who can’t stand it when things don’t go her way. But as much as it must pain her to acknowledge, at the end of the day, she isn’t the law. She’ll have to find some other way to stave off the guilt she feels.”

Niijima shoots him a knowing look. “Much like yourself.”

“Excuse me?” he sneers.

The chair creaks against the floor as Niijima finally stands. “Take this time to reflect on your actions,” she non-answers. “If you really want to make up for what you’ve done, you should be ready to put in the work once they let you back out into the world.”

Again, she isn’t wrong. He offered himself up to the law, and this was what the law had to offer. He’s not sure what he expected. He couldn’t trust the law to take care of Shido, either. It only makes sense for Akechi to be put in charge of his own punishment, once the two years are up.

So he looks her in the eye, acknowledging the expectation in them, and nods. “Fine,” he says, and it is.

If and when the universe wants to put things fully in his hands, he’ll do it.