Chapter Text
“Fuma, I need you to see him,”
Euijoo’s words are like a punch to the throat, rendering Fuma struggling for breath, speechless. He knew it would have to happen eventually, as good as the Behavioural Science Unit was, there was still a hole that had been growing within it for the better part of six years. Losing what was arguably their most brilliant agent to a maximum-security cell in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane would most definitely account for that.
“Why?” Is all that he can say. The word comes out in a strangled whisper as he struggles to find air again. He clears his throat. “Why now? Why me?” Euijoo sighs, leaning back in his chair, tiredly running his hands down his face. He takes a moment before responding, trying to find the words that he knows are going to sting, no matter how he forms the sentence. In all his years as an agent, and later, the head of the Behavioural Science Unit, this is very nearly the hardest thing he’s had to do. Just the thought is making him feel those years actively catching up to him.
“Taki’s missing,” is all he says. Fuma immediately straightens in his seat. He had known something was wrong when he got Euijoo’s call just before five that morning. If there was something he needed to discuss, he always waited until Fuma arrived at work to go over it. A call outside of working hours, especially one so early, was always cause for concern. He had just never expected the cause to hit so close to home.
“When?” He knows his voice is trembling, shaking with the panic that he usually prides himself on being able to keep hidden. Now, he supposes, he’s allowed to let himself feel, given the circumstances.
“Late last night, possibly sometime early this morning, Harua called me around two when you weren’t picking up. He said Taki had gone out around eight, he has astronomy labs at nine, and he usually gets home around eleven, sometimes midnight if he stops by the convenience store for dinner afterwards. When he still wasn’t home after that, Harua knew something was wrong,” Euijoo leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk. “Why didn’t you pick up?”
“I left my phone in my kitchen, didn’t look at it at all after I got home yesterday, I didn’t see anything until I woke up this morning, and you were calling me— Look, are there any leads? Witnesses? Anything at all? We’ve got to have something, Euijoo.” He knows he’s started rambling, the way he does only when he’s stressed, and he feels powerless to stop it.
“Taki texted Harua just after midnight, said he was on his way home, but was going to help someone move something, I think he said a couch or a table, or something to that effect. A few minutes later, he said he was on his way again, then nothing. We’ve triangulated the phone signal, but his phone and school bag were left next to a trash can. Whoever took him made sure we wouldn’t be able to track him.”
“Okay, well, we need to get onto CCTV in the area, anyone that happened to be around at the time—“
“Fuma,” Euijoo cuts him off, hand raised. “We’re already on it, but for now, I need you to go see him. Stop talking around it, I know what you’re doing, but I need you to go, and I need you to go now.” Fuma deflates, the urgency momentarily lapsing as the conversation returns to where it had began in the first place.
“But why me? You’ve got so many other agents, why do you need me to talk to him?”
“Because you’re the only one he’ll listen to, and you know that,” it‘s said as a fact, maybe a little accusatory, but they both know it’s the truth. “We’ve tried sending others in before, but he shuts up immediately, closes himself off. If there’s anyone he’ll talk to, it’s you. We need him on this, Fuma, it’s just as personal for him as it is for us.” Fuma freezes, the realisation of Euijoo’s words sinking in.
“You think it’s him, don’t you?” Euijoo nods.
“Lures his victims in under the guise of needing help moving something, always between the hours of eleven and two, victim’s belongings left at the scene. The MO is exactly the same, Fuma, and you know what that means.” A blanket of tense silence falls over the office, settling in, heavy and suffocating.
“You have twenty-seven days, Fuma, starting now.”
Fuma stands frozen in front of the large, looming brick building before him, but it has nothing to do with the mid-February air biting at his nose and lips from where they peek out above his scarf. He knows what waits for him inside, right below his feet, beneath several feet of reinforced concrete and enough security to put Fort Knox to shame. He’s terrified to face it, moreso than he has been in all his years in law enforcement. He’s terrified because he knows there’s no way around it, that this is the only way to help Taki, the only way to catch the man they’ve been running in circles around for nearly a year. He thinks it’s ironic, knowing that the only way to catch a killer is with help from another killer.
He almost turns and leaves, his stubborn pride rearing its ugly head for just a second, convincing himself he can do this on his own. He knows how the minds of killers work, he spends all his time thinking how they think, understanding why they do what they do, there’s no reason this time should be any different.
Unfortunately, he knows better, and so he forces his feet to carry him forward.
He’s met with a blast of warm air and the sympathetic (albeit a little pitying) smile of Dr. Seonghwa Park.
“Agent Murata, good to see you again, it’s been far too long,” he extends his hand. Fuma shakes it once, firm, before shoving his hands back in his own coat pockets.
“I, uh,” he clears his throat, his earlier nerves catching up to him once more. “I hate to rush, but I fear this visit is time-sensitive in nature.” Seonghwa nods, his soft smile not wavering once, as he gestures for Fuma to follow him.
“He hasn’t been notified, as per Euijoo’s request, he said something along the lines of insisting you be the one to, and I quote, ‘do the honours’, which I will admit, seemed an inconsiderate choice of words, considering the circumstances.” Fuma’s responding laugh is dry, humourless.
“Given the circumstances, I think any words at all would be considered inappropriate,” Seonghwa leads them to the elevator, pressing the button for the lowest floor.
“Yes, it is a difficult and… unfortunate situation,” he muses. “But I agree with Euijoo, he should hear it from you. And as someone who’s known you both for much longer than I’d care to admit, I think this is something you both need.” Fuma grits his teeth, biting back any remark about Seonghwa not knowing anything about what he needs, but he holds his tongue. He was right, he had known them for quite a while, and was also a fixture in the world of psychology. He knew just as well as Fuma that this conversation needed to happen.
“Right, so I know you know the rules as well as anyone, but legally, I do have to remind you of what they entail,” Fuma nods for him to continue as the elevator doors slide open, revealing the staircase leading them to the maximum-security unit. “Do not touch the glass, do not attempt to reach through the glass. If you are to pass him anything, it must be only soft paper, no staples or paper clips attached, no pens or pencils either. Do not accept anything he attempts to give you, and you are only to use the sliding food carrier. Do you understand?” Seonghwa holds out his key card to unlock the gate before them. Fuma nods.
“I understand,” he says quietly. He looks up, and there is only one barred gate left in front of them, a row of cells to the left beyond it. A folding metal chair sits in front of the last one at the end of the hall.
“It’ll be just fine, Fuma,” Seonghwa rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You know what to do. You know him, you know how he works. I’ll be right here, when you need to leave, just say the word, okay?” He unlocks the final gate, holding it open. Hesitantly, Fuma steps through, hands shaking from within the confines of his pockets.
“Remember to stay to the right,” is the last thing Seonghwa says before the gate shuts with a dull, heavy thud. Fuma takes a deep, steadying breath before pushing himself forward, slowly. The shouts and jeers of the other inmates as he passes are muffled, as if he’s wading through water. His destination is clear, and is, objectively, drawing closer, but with every step forward, the hallway seems to stretch on further, the last cell on the left remaining just out of reach.
He stops just shy of where he knows he can see him.
“I can hear you, you know. I know they’ve sent someone to visit me, don’t be shy,” the soft, lilting voice of the last cell’s occupant echoes through the hall, effectively stealing what breath Fuma had left from his lungs. He’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t heard that voice in nearly six years, but if there had been nights where he’d sat on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him, listening to old voicemails containing that same voice, then no one had to know.
Don’t be shy. Words that held a much different meaning now, but had once been used to encourage before dragging him out onto a dance floor, to ease him out of his shell when he knew there were pictures being taken, whispered under the cover of darkness as he hesitated to give what the body below him so desperately wanted him to give.
And yet this moment held so much more than all of those combined. It was just a simple conversation, from an FBI agent to a convicted serial killer, an ”intelligent psychopath,” as he had so succinctly put on the psychological profile. But Fuma knows it’s much deeper than that, so much deeper than anyone, even Euijoo, could possibly understand.
Steeling himself, he finally steps forward, and the sight that greets him almost has him vomiting on the spot.
The walls of the cell are covered in pages, some scrawled over with numerous lines of what Fuma knows is poetry, others covered in hyper-realistic sketches of landmarks, scenery, memories. If he looks close enough, he thinks he can see one of his face. The man in the cell is standing, gazing at Fuma with a mix of surprise and thinly-veiled elation. Fuma thinks he looks just as beautiful as he did six years ago, even if, underneath the emotions he seems to be displaying, there is nothing there. His eyes are hollow, emotionless, even as crystalline tears gather at the edges.
“So,” he starts. His voice is watery. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” he chokes out. His eyes fall to the nametag sewn to the chest of the blue jumpsuit he wears. Inmate 10212, reads the first line. Yudai Koga, reads the second. He clears his throat as he sits in the chair across from the cell. “I believe it’s considered good form to ask after the wellbeing of old… acquaintances, so… how are you, Yudai?” His name tastes metallic as it leaves his lips, the coppery tinge of blood lacing the vowels, something smoky and venomous coating the consonants. To his credit, Yudai doesn’t remark on Fuma’s careful choice of words, clearly as uneager to start a fight as he is.
“I’m fine, Fuma. How are you?” His cadence is clipped, cautious, as if he’s speaking to a complete stranger. Fuma considers lying, telling him he’s fine, that he’s doing great, even. He finds, though, that even after all these years, he’s unable to lie to him. All the same, he tests the waters, checking to see if they’re on the same page.
“Truth?” That earns a small smile.
“Always,”
“Could be better,” he admits. Yudai chuckles softly.
“What, you miss me or something?” He can’t help the smile tugging at his own lips.
“Something like that,” there’s a pause, then, the silence between them settling into something resembling comfort. It’s in this silence that Fuma remembers why he’s there in the first place. He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair. He knows Yudai is watching every move, analysing each one just as deeply as he would have years ago. He knows that Yudai is familiar with all his tells, knows that he’s about to broach an unpleasant subject.
“Fuma, what’s going on, why are you here? I know this isn’t a social call,” if he had known any better, he would think that Yudai sounds concerned. He knows better, though, and knows it’s an act. If he suspects correctly, though, he knows the act will soon drop.
“There’s really no easy way to tell you this,” he starts, unsure of how to proceed. In the end, he just decides to bite the bullet, no mincing of words. “But Taki’s missing.” As if on cue, Yudai’s act drops, his mask crumbling right before Fuma’s eyes. He launches himself forward, hands pressed against the glass as fear and anger colour his features. Fuma doesn’t flinch.
“What the fuck do you mean ‘he’s missing’?” He hisses. He holds his gaze, steady as ever.
“This morning, around two a.m. He didn’t come home after his class, so Harua called us,” he relays the facts briefly, not trusting his voice to not betray his own emotions. “What do you know about The Moth, Yudai?” Yudai’s gaze hardens as he drops his hands, stepping back from the glass.
“Don’t do that to me,” he seethes. “Don’t you dare try to scare me like that, Taki’s smart, he would never—“
“I’m not trying to scare you, Yudai, it’s him! Same goddamn MO, the dates match, Taki’s last texts corroborate everything, it’s him. So you know just as well as I do that time is running out, and we need your help.” He leans down, picking up his bag from where it rested at his feet. “I can provide you with all relevant details as we get them. We have the beginnings of a profile, but there’s something missing, something that Euijoo and I can’t see.” He extracts a folder from his bag, standing. Yudai laughs bitterly.
“Are you deputising me? I think that’s a little against protocol, Agent Murata, I’m the victim’s brother. Or are you forgetting that we can’t work on cases we could be personally involved in?” Fuma says nothing as he opens the food carrier tray, setting the file inside and sliding it back in Yudai’s direction.
“We’re all personally involved in this one. I think we’re allowed to be just a little unprofessional, don’t you?” Yudai takes the file and flips it open, scanning its contents wordlessly. He paces around his cell as Fuma sits back down in his own seat. They remain silent as Yudai reads, and Fuma takes the opportunity to really look at him. He always found it easier to look when he wasn’t looking back at him.
Despite having spent the last several years in a cell, Yudai looks almost exactly the same as he did the last time Fuma had seen him. His hair’s grown just a bit longer, almost hitting his shoulders, and there are a few new wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead, but he dares not mention them. There’s a weight to him, though, that wasn’t there all those years ago. It rests heavy against his back and shoulders, an almost imperceptible change to anyone who doesn’t know him as intimately as Fuma. It’s almost like he’s trying to make himself smaller, and whether it’s subconscious or part of his act is nearly impossible to tell. He used to joke about taking up too much space, being so tall, but Fuma could always read the meaning beneath it, what he really meant.
“This is almost verbatim how Ted Bundy’s profile reads,” Yudai speaks up from where he’s now reclined on his bed. “But this guy, The Moth, he’s more creative than that. He views each body as a canvas of sorts, he’s not just killing and dismembering them, he’s… it’s almost like he’s reincarnating them, in a way. There’s something almost respectful about how he treats them, there‘s a sort of reverence there. He’s detached enough not to have any remorse for what he’s doing, but he’s human enough to realise that these are actual lives he’s taking.“ Despite it all, Fuma smiles.
“Welcome back, Agent Koga,” he jokes. Yudai looks up, a smile of his own growing.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Murata. One of us is a convicted serial killer, remember?” Fuma’s smile drops just a fraction. Right. One of us.
“Felt like I had you back for a second there, though,” he says quietly, softly.
“Wish I could come back sometimes, y’know,” Yudai closes the file. “I miss it, gave me something to do, even if it wasn’t enough.“
Was I enough? are the words that sit at the back of Fuma’s throat, threatening to choke him, but he swallows them down. This is neither the time nor the place. He shakes out his hands and stands, collecting his bag from the floor.
“I’ll be back as soon as I have more for you,” is what he says instead. “I— we really appreciate it, you know. You helping us out, I mean.” He shuffles his feet awkwardly, looking somewhere above Yudai’s left shoulder. He knows he notices.
“I’ll do anything to help Taki, you know that,” it’s the gentlest he’s sounded since the visit started. For a moment, gone is Yudai the killer, Yudai the pyschopath, Yudai the agent. All that’s left is Yudai. “And I’ll do anything to help you.” The words land, heavy and incendiary, a log falling into the embers of a dying fire. Fuma nods, turning away.
“See you soon, Yudai,” he makes it one, two, three steps away before he’s calling after him.
“Fuma!” He stops in his tracks. “For what it’s worth… you were always worth it.“
He keeps walking. Not once does he turn around.