As he walked down the hall the colorless pristine walls sent chills down his spine, the smell of antiseptic had filled the air as he was guided towards the visitor's room. The walls were padded with white material, and the lights were bright and fluorescent, the light almost blinding him, and the floors were a smooth and squeaky tile.

 The occasional patient he could see all had the same shared look in their eyes, a look of hopelessness. Maybe he had the same look in his eyes.

He sat down in what was once a plush chair, now hard and uncomfortable to sit in as he waited patiently, the nurses recited the same old visitor procedures he was used to.

Ones he had heard for half a decade.

He glanced down at his hands, weathered and scarred. He could still remember when he had thrown himself headfirst to catch that single device when he had caught fire just to spare his former classmate from having the same fate.

Yet even now, he felt as though he was still burning. He didn't save his classmate from the flames, instead, he only joined him in his suffering.

At least he wasn't alone though.

He sighed as he brought his hands to his face, a slight migraine coming on from the workload. Even after all these years and with Themis being long disbanded, copycats continued to spring up, and there were still dozens of cases around the country that had traces of being involved with the infamous group, however, those cases had been left unsolvable due to time.

Despite how hard he tried sometimes, tried to get even a sliver of evidence, the truth became muddled with idealization and muddled with lies, lies so deeply rooted and disguised it was impossible to sort out.

For every one of those cases, he felt useless, for every family member or former friend who tried to assure him it was ok when he admitted it might be unsolvable, for every one of those left behind who cursed and scorned him for all their loss and grief he never defended himself.

He deserved those looks of disappointment and those cries of anger. He was a useless detective after all, not a friend or confidant, he had proved that he proved that when he prioritized casework over someone who needed him, someone who had depended on him when he left him behind in a town of anger and sorrow.

When he let him be claimed by madness and paranoia, he relinquished all his rights to be called his friend. All rights to ever dream of potentially something more someday.

To them both, it didn't matter if his father had been sentenced to death row and had been executed a few years prior. Because in his heart, he knew that he should've been able to stop Ouma's father long before he even laid a finger on Ouma.

Before his tainted worldview corrupted Ouma's psyche, he could have and should have been by Ouma's side to protect him.

Useless.

Finally, he was brought inside the room.

Ouma was wearing the clean uniform of the patients, a loose white shirt and pants combo that looked more like pajamas, his hair had grown long over the years, they feared letting the patients near scissors.

His body seemed healthy enough, when I have first seen him he was skin and bones and constantly fighting the nurses when it came to eating, to the point he spent multiple months with a feeding tube.

His eyes had slight bags, likely from long restless nights, they mirrored my own eyes.

He walked in with his own two feet, though he occasionally nearly tripped he refused help and instead stared at him with judgemental and scornful eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Ouma asked, his voice tired and bordering monotone.

"I wanted to see how you were doing" he answered, "you don't need to come anymore...case is long over I'm useless to you now," Ouma said with a small sigh as he rubbed his eyes.

"I know I don't need to, but I want to" he insisted, trying not to be overly emotional, "besides who else would bring you Panta?" He asked jokingly.

Ouma paused and sighed tired, "I'm starting to think you're the addict, not me," he said with a dull voice, but he did reach for the soda, it had been transferred by a nurse into a clear plastic cup for security concerns though.

"Cheers to the next many fun years of my life" Ouma said sarcastically, as he raised his glass before taking a drink.

"You'll be out of here someday..." he tried to reassure but Ouma just laughed, "no...no I won't. And we both know that don't we?" Ouma asked, a small shine in his eyes as he wore a familiar twisted smile.

"Because I tried to destroy it all, they'll never let me go," he said sweetly. Cold rushed through my veins and the familiar feeling of fear, how even though the person in front of him was still so frail, he still held so much power and malice that the sheer hint of its presence could draw people to their knees.

Ouma smiled in content as he gazed at my reaction, the familiar look of unrelenting madness in his eyes as he laughed. With every laugh it felt like the dreams remaining were being crushed, a facade being torn apart, the reality that whoever Kokichi Ouma had once been was gone and there was no getting him back.

"It doesn't have to be like this...it shouldn't have..." he remorse, Ouma paused taking in my words before sighing.

"But it did, so deal with the consequences, I did" he advised as he seemed to have enough talking for the day as he got up. Though he was heavily guarded with hospital personnel as he left he still seemed to be in control of the room.

I reached for him and...held back. Held back the truth, that always stung with every visit for all these years. He was too late that day, as familiar words from long ago rang clear in his head. Advice Ouma had once given him.

You can't save what's already gone, he had said. He still wondered if he truly did mean himself when he first said it, but now those words were undoubtedly connected to Ouma.

Because Kokichi Ouma was dead, what was left of a noble leader, a friend, and a person of unmeasurable strength had been twisted and shaped into something that could never resemble the original character.

He was right, Ouma was right.

Shuichi Saihara wasn't here because he wanted to visit his once friend, he was here to mourn and grieve what he never could have.

That even if the country was at peace, that justice had been served and some were praising him for starting a new era of true justice and investigative work, Saihara still couldn't feel satisfied. He couldn't sleep at night anymore, maybe he never knew what a peaceful rest was, his mind had been stuck reliving a day from long ago.

What he could have saved, had he not left that question unanswered all those years ago.