... In which Akechi asks me to spend a last evening at the jazz club before facing Sae's Shadow and I have to confront what the alarming evidence we found about his true plans means for the two of us—regarding everything that's happened so far, and everything that's still to come.

******************************************

Thunk!

The baseball misses the target by a mile. It slams into the net with so much force that I worry it might tear. However, in that moment, I couldn't care less.

<< . . . Then, I'll guide the police into her Palace and have them catch the Phantom Thieves in the act. That would be the only way to arrest them, given their methods. I'll deal with them after that. >>

I shut my eyes, trying to focus. But it is as though my mind is a broken record, replaying not only the words but also the voice, the intonation, and the emotion I felt hearing it for the first time. It's been over a week, and I still can't get it to stop.

<< We could say she stole the guard's gun and committed suicide during her imprisonment . . . How about that? >>

I blow out a frustrated breath, despising how it all has burned itself into my brain like a hot iron seal. I don't know how many times I had to listen to the whole thing before it did.

<< Public security questioning will occur on the first day . . . and with that room, my task will be simple. >>

I grit my teeth and tighten my grip on the heavy bat, trying to focus on the target.

Thunk!

Still not even close. I've never been particularly good at the batting cages, although one would think spending every evening here for more than a week would get me the needed practice.

<< Yes, the guard will be one of ours. We'll have to eliminate him after, to destroy the evidence, though . . . >>

But I don't come here for practice. I come here because we've long secured the route to Sae's treasure and here is the only place besides the Metaverse where I can hit things with as much force as I want without breaking any rules or causing damage.

Thunk!

The bat flies out of my hand together with the ball this time. It lands on the floor and rolls off. I groan.

"Rin? Are you okay?" Morgana peeks out of the bag that I left on the floor. "You're not playing that well today . . . Maybe we should call it a day?"

I sigh, and after only a brief moment of hesitation, I nod. An icy hand closes around my heart at the thought of returning home and going to sleep, though. I don't want to go to sleep . . . because if I go to sleep and wake up in the morning, the deadline will be yet another day closer. The dead . . . line.

<< . . . And thus, the dangerous criminal responsible for the mass mental shutdowns shall end her own life. >>

The day I'm . . . supposed to die.

<< . . . When she does, you will become a great hero who saved Japan from evil. As will I, of course. >>

Reluctantly, I pick up the bat and turn to my bag. Stalling is pointless, I remind myself. I know what I have to do. My friends are counting on me—Morgana is counting on me. Sometimes I feel like every single soul I've decided to embrace and get close to is.

Dr. Takemi, Ohya-san, Yoshida-sensei, Chihaya-san, and Iwai-san . . . Dr. Maruki and Kawakami-sensei . . . Mishima, Hifumi, Kasumi, Shinya-chan . . . and Sojiro, although they don't even know what's going on . . . I still feel as though they're all counting on me. Not to mention Caroline, Justine, Igor . . . and my teammates. They don't even try to conceal their expectations.

But the worst part is that . . . I will have to somehow convince Sae all by myself. I've barely talked to her, and the mere thought of having to have this kind of conversation with someone who is essentially a stranger clogs my throat and makes my chest tighten painfully. Every little thing that could possibly go wrong with this plan has been accumulating at the back of my head, creating one massive heap of ever-present anxiety. It seems so absurdly risky that it's almost laughable—but it is also somehow the best plan we could come up with.

Weren't I so caught up in trying not to drown in despair over how it had come this far, I would be paralyzed with fear. I don't feel suited for this job whatsoever, yet I have no choice. That doesn't mean I hate it any less.

Picking up my bag, I stick the bat under my arm and prepare to leave the batting cages. Yet I nearly drop the bat again when, from the depths of my bag, my phone chimes.

"Huh? Who could still be texting you this late?" Morgana asks, then dives into my bag to dig up my phone from its depths.

I shrug. It's probably one of my friends . . . I don't want to think about what kind of new information they could possibly have intercepted. I don't want any of it, honestly. The plan has long been made, and so close to the deadline, I don't expect any major changes. I don't want any. I just want this over with, so that I have an excuse to lock myself in my room and finally collect the pieces of my broken heart off the floor where they've been lying for over a week now.

I don't have time, I think and fight the familiar urge to cry that I couldn't let myself give in to yet either. I don't have the energy or the emotional capacity to do anything but sweep the pieces of my heart under a rug and pretend they're not still beating, bleeding . . . wailing in agony.

<< . . . My task will be simple. >>

I swallow and lower my head, letting my hair fall in my face, hoping it will conceal how close to tears I still am.

"Rin . . . I know all this is difficult for you." Morgana skillfully shoves my phone up and toward me. "But we're all there for you; you know that, right? We will beat this . . . together. You'll see."

His kind and supportive words awaken the equally familiar guilt that I've been grappling with over the last week . . . for doubting my friends, even condemning their godsent caution. And for what? I take my phone and unlock it, opening IM without paying attention to the screen. It was all for—

The moment I cast my eyes down to read the new text, my heart stops.

GORO AKECHI

> Are you free right now?

> There's not much we can do for Sae-san anymore except wait.

> We're nearing the end of my tenure with the Phantom Thieves, aren't we? How does a trip to the jazz club sound? I did promise to take you again . . . And we could chat a little.

I can barely will my phone not to slip out of my hand and shatter irreparably on the floor. Because if it did, I would have an excuse to—

"Rin? What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost." Morgana heaves himself over the rim of my bag and pulls himself up by my arm to peek at the screen. "Oh!" he exclaims the moment he sees who texted me. "Rin—!"

I can barely hear him. In my ears whispers a different voice. A voice that's haunted my dreams and, more recently, my nightmares; a voice that I can't seem to let go of, no matter what.

For a moment, I want to burst out laughing at the audacity of this message—a message that sounds like it belongs to a different era. A different life. No matter what you may think or however you may try to avert it, you and I are fated to clash, the voice speaks in my ear. No matter what, I will never stop fighting.

". . . You don't have to accept," Morgana says after a while. "Tell him you're busy. I'm sure it won't arouse any suspicions at this point . . ."

I don't respond, but for the very first time since he first texted me, I genuinely consider it—to decline his invitation. I consider it, but . . .

I've tried so hard. The thought burrows into my skull, carrying an unbearable emotion that pushes and forces its way down into my throat and finally into my chest, my heart. I did everything I possibly could have. For him, I tried so hard. Harder than for any of my other confidants. It was all for him. And yet . . . I stare at my screen and at the typed words that almost seem to mock me—inconspicuous, bold, and oh-so enticing.

And yet . . . here we are. Here is he. The only one I've pursued to the best of my knowledge and conviction who doesn't stand with me. Because he stands behind my back, knife raised and poised for the stab.

It goes against everything I believe in to assume it's too late for anything . . . anyone. But if it weren't too late . . . if there was a way to prevent all of this after all, I would have to blame myself for not trying hard enough. And I can't do that anymore. I've already wallowed plenty—on where I went wrong or what I could have done differently to change our fates. I'll probably do it again, but not now.

Now . . . I grip my phone tighter and scrape together as much courage and anger as I can muster. Now I have to stop running and go see him. To look him in the eyes one last time, the way I was unable to when we finished Sae's palace as teammates, and face up to the truth: that it will never be the way it once was. That it is over.

A tiny, resilient voice in my head—the part of me that just can't stop having hope, no matter how little sense it makes—whispers that he may want to talk about what he said. Explain that it was all some kind of . . . misunderstanding.

There are still so many things that don't make sense, the voice says. We have no actual proof that he really is the one committing the mental shutdowns, and beyond the texts and phone calls, we don't have any information about the true nature of his relationship with whoever he's working for either. We technically can't even rule out the possibility that he may be playing and manipulating them just as convincingly as he did us . . . me.

The only thing we do know with absolute certainty is that this attempt on my life is happening, one way or another. And just this once . . . I grit my teeth until it hurts, then I force myself to shut the door on that little voice of hope. It feels wrong—so wrong that it almost physically hurts—but I can't afford to listen to my feelings. Just this once, I can't afford hope. Today, all it will do for me is lead me astray, so I'm convinced.

Without further ado, I raise my phone again and, with shaky fingers, begin typing.

RIN AMAMIYA

> That sounds good!

". . . Rin, are you sure—?"

I clutch my phone with one hand, the bag with Morgana with my other hand, and attempt to exude resolve as I make my way out of the batting cages. I'm not sure. I swallow hard and stare at the screen, watching the three dots that indicate he's typing.

But what I do know is that I can't be sure until I face him—to see and process it for myself. What exactly I'm hoping to see, I don't know. Only that I can't let the voice from the recording haunt me like this any longer. Even if it means accepting that the man I fell in love with, once upon a time . . . is gone.

. . . May have never existed in the first place.

Or maybe . . . I glimpse at the screen again and force myself not to smile.

GORO AKECHI

> Thanks. I'll see you there, shall I?

. . . Maybe what I want is a last goodbye.

I drop Morgana off at Leblanc. He argues that it would be safer if he came along, but finally acknowledges that neither Akechi nor his supervisor would change their plans at the last minute and try to harm me before the due day.

The ride to Kichijoji has never seemed longer. When I finally stand in front of the jazz club, I can't fight the swell of emotions and memories that wash over me at the sight. I haven't been here since he last took me, but part of me feels like it was only yesterday that we were here together . . . dancing, like the world around us didn't exist.

I have to swallow and compose myself before I can step over the threshold. Inside, the feeling that nothing's changed—nothing's supposed to have changed—is even more overwhelming. The sights, sounds, and smells—the atmosphere that he said reminds him of me—envelop me like a soothing blanket. So much so that I have to fight tears again.

"Over here."

I jerk around at the sound of a voice that once used to fill me with excitement. Now all it does is conjure up the specter of a recorded message that I can't unhear.

Akechi waits exactly where we sat last time. His posture is characteristically but also unnervingly casual; his long legs are leisurely crossed and his arm rests on the backrest of his chair.

I approach, most likely looking more timid than I intended. Behind me is the stage, and only when I hear footsteps do I process that the same singer from last time is making her way to the center.

Akechi gives me his usual bright smile, but all I can see is his wicked smirk from when he pointed his gun at me behind a subway station. Now, he looks like he always does . . . did, and the temptation to ignore every sign that I don't want to be there, as I usually do, is overwhelming. But this time, I don't give in. I can't afford to, it repeats in my head over and over. Not now and not . . . ever again. The thought is devastating, soul-crushing. But emotions like that are on the long list of things that I can't afford as well.

I take a seat and try my hardest to relax. The soothing atmosphere helps; suddenly, I'm grateful that he chose to invite me here, of all places. Who knows if I could have kept my composure anywhere else?

"I'm so happy that I'm here talking with you again." Akechi uncrosses his legs and waves at something behind me—presumably someone to take our orders. "Isn't this jazz club nice?"

I nod, genuinely agreeing. This is one of the nicest places I've ever been to. Except . . . I don't know if I'll ever be able to come here again, anymore. The thought adds to my already pungent sorrow.

"I like how not a lot of people really know this place . . ." Akechi continues. "Heh, or does that sound like I'm showing off?"

I shake my head gently and try to make anything out in his voice that resembles a genuine emotion. But . . . I register this with bewilderment—he sounds nothing like he did in that recording or after our duel. He sounds . . . normal, is my first thought. The way he always used to. Then I consider that "blank" may be a more appropriate word. Because, as pleasant and carefree as his voice seems . . . when I actively try to listen for any sign of genuineness, I find . . . nothing. This observation, along with the fact that I never noticed this before, sends a chill down my spine.

I let Akechi order for us, and when our drinks arrive, I've finally managed to soothe my unease a little.

"Ah, so there was a singer here today." Akechi watches her walk up to the microphone, and I suddenly wish he would speak in any tone, be it the low, malicious hiss that was his voice on the recording. Sure, it was unsettling, but ever since I started paying attention, the utter absence of emotion in his voice, the way it is now, terrifies me much more. It makes me picture a blank sheet that can color and fold itself to resemble any conceivable shape and object without actually truly becoming or being any of them.

". . . It really is different hearing the real thing."

I find myself wanting to yell at him to show me his own reality too. It feels like we've come much too far for him to think I'd still fall for this facade.

So far, whenever we spent time together, he made me want to talk more than I'm used to—ask questions, engage with the things he said . . . But now, I can't bring myself to open my mouth. I can't even muster the will to think about asking whether there was a specific reason he wanted to see me. Whether he wanted to talk about anything . . . come clean?

It's too late, says a voice in my head, and I don't have the energy to argue with it. I've already decided to lock away my hope. There's nothing left I can say or do. I've tried my hardest for him up until now, and it amounted to nothing. What's the . . . point in still doing it now?

Eventually, I think Akechi catches onto my silence, even though I don't usually speak much. He looks at me for a moment longer than necessary, then takes a sip of his drink, and I mimic him instinctively. "Delicious," he says. "It's very well-made."

I barely register the taste. All I perceive is the music and the singer's voice seeping into my aching heart. Yet it cannot soothe the pain.

Why are you holding that absurdly big heart of yours out to me like we both don't know that I'm going to break it? The words of warning he gave, which ingrained themselves in my mind a long time ago, ring in my ear for the hundredth time. I had never truly allowed myself to process their true message until . . . Well . . . Serves you right, then.

For a moment, I ponder what things might be like if I had chosen to listen to him. If I had never gotten attached to him in the first place. Would I be as gleeful as my friends, then? Would I be hurting at all?

The thought is . . . inconceivable. It doesn't sound like me. I'm not sure how to feel about the realization that I'd rather break my own heart for the sake of someone who hasn't given me any reason to do so—on the contrary, has even tried to warn me away—rather than be carefree and free of all this suffering.

. . . Briefly, I wonder if this is something I should bring up to Dr. Maruki before he leaves.

Remembering where I am and that Akechi's right here—that this may be the last chance I will ever have to speak to him normally—I force the gloomy thoughts out of my mind and look up at him. But his eyes are turned away, fixated on the stage, and . . . there is something in them other than nothingness. I freeze, having to blink a few times before I believe what I think I'm seeing: it looks like an ever-so-faint hint of . . . regret.

Before I can determine whether I've imagined it, he apparently senses my staring and turns to face me. "You know, I did mention that my tenure with your group will be over soon. It's . . . almost a shame."

For a second, my heart stings with the familiar emotion that once made me want to invite him to join our team. I take a deep breath.

"It was your decision . . ."

> ". . . What will happen after that?"

"After we defeat Sae-san?" Akechi pauses, and the odd regret reenters his eyes for a moment. "Well." He shakes his head. "If I were you, I wouldn't let that concern me. You won't have any worries anymore after that."

The words sound neutral, as though he is re-confirming the false promise he made to take care of things for us—to capture the true culprit.

But that isn't what he means at all.

An icy shiver runs down my spine when I process just how literally he means it. I hold his gaze for a second, then I cast my eyes down. I think about how I came here to process . . . to understand whether I'm justified in giving up hope.

. . . And I think he just gave me the answer.

You won't have any worries anymore after that. The words sink into my chest and press down on my heart like a pile of unbearably heavy boulders. It's an unprecedented kind of ache, worse than any I have ever felt before.

I want to lay my head on the table and cry. Instead, I take a sip of my drink, trying to force myself to accept that it's too late. The words taste bitter—wrong. But I can't afford to believe they are. My bond with Akechi won't grow any deeper. Not today, and not—

". . . Hm," Akechi says after a minute or so of silence, only broken by the soft yet melancholy music that seeks to envelop me in happy and carefree memories I find myself wanting to forget. "You look like you want to say something else."

Upon that, I almost break into laughter. There is so much I want to say to him, but . . . I've already decided not to, haven't I?

"Are you wondering why I brought you here? Why this place is so special to me?"

. . . I wasn't, but now that he brings it up . . . ? I nod.

"Well . . ." Akechi leans back. "You are aware how I'm both a high school student and a detective, right? You must know I don't have much time for studying. At times and in places like these, I can conveniently look up the class material online. The atmosphere is favorable for focusing. That is why I initially started coming here."

I look around instinctively, and I can't say I don't know what he means. It's quiet, yet not deathly silent. Each table feels isolated enough to provide privacy, but not lonely. I nod again.

"Hah!" Akechi shakes his head. "It seems to put teachers in an awkward position, doesn't it? Why teach us things we can just learn ourselves . . . ?"

I almost laugh along with him. If he's going to talk like that, he has no right to complain about people considering him a prodigy. I almost point it out—that very few students could keep up with school work this way and still get the grades expected of an honor student. For a moment, I wonder whether he's deliberately avoiding going to school because of ostracization and pressure . . . then I wonder if he's even telling the truth.

I swallow and look up at him, finally allowing myself to think that maybe I can't and never could trust anything he ever said to me. The thought burns and singes my already chipped heart like acid.

I hate it. Every fiber of my being wails in protest whenever I force myself to acknowledge that it has come to this.

I hate that he's here, that I'm here, and that I have to ask myself all these questions.

I hate that I can't just stand up, grab him by the collar, and yell at him to explain what the recordings mean, who his boss is, and why he is working for them in the first place. That I can't lock the two of us in a room and scream until he tells me what the hell happened that led a high schooler like him to become an assassin. What I could do to make it all better. Whether there is anything . . . whether he even wants it.

. . . Whether he feels anything at all at the prospect of having to . . . kill me.

I don't look him in the eyes anymore. If I did and caught a glimpse of that regret again, I think I might actually start crying. But I can't stay quiet any longer, either.

". . . Have you ever thought about giving up that life?"

". . . Are you happy with the way things are?"

"Huh?" he asks, and for a second, I worry that I may have said too much. But if I have, Akechi is far better at keeping his cool about it than I am. "Happiness . . ." He shakes his head and finally downs the rest of his drink in one go. "Happiness is a strange thing, you know? So much of it depends on the circumstances under which certain events occur, more so than on the events themselves."

I don't react—mostly because I have no idea what he is talking about. After a few silent moments, Akechi seems to catch onto my confusion and actually gives me a smile, although his eyes don't smile along with his mouth.

"If you mean whether I'm happy with my life as both a detective and a student . . . I realize it must sound rather exhausting from an outsider's perspective. But I don't mind it. Every day is fascinating and exciting . . . And I would never simply give up. Especially not now."

I frown. Give up . . . what? The odd phrasing makes me wonder, if only for a second, whether I'm not the only one who is actually talking about something entirely different from what our mouths are saying.

"Either way . . ." Akechi suddenly pushes his chair back and stands. Only then do I notice that the performance has ended. Most of the people occupying the tables around us are preparing to leave . . . and so is he, it seems.

An icy claw of fear grips my heart. I'm not ready to say goodbye. I'm not ready to let him go and never return—not the way he always used to, anyway. I'm not ready to—

"It doesn't always have to stay this way . . ."

"Be open to change . . ."

> "Nothing is set in stone . . ."

The look Akechi gives me stabs a dagger into my heart. "Easy for you to say," he practically scoffs. "You, who can so effortlessly transform everything around you. But I? It's just the way I am, really." He rounds the table and takes a few steps toward the exit, then halts one last time, looking back. ". . . Because I can only ever be me."

I don't know for how long I remain sitting there, in the thinning-out jazz club, staring after him . . . at a spot in the room that's long emptied because he's gone, and no matter how much I hate it, he's not coming back. Maybe . . . I think and clench my fists so hard that my nails dig painfully into my palms . . . Maybe he was never here to begin with.

I stay until nobody else is left, and the manager walks up to me, asking if it isn't getting a little late for me to still be out on my own. I muster enough composure to thank him for his concern and make my way out, into the subway, and home.

Back in Leblanc, first Sojiro and then Morgana greet me, worried sick because it appears to be past midnight. I can't do anything but apologize and tell them the same story—that I took a stroll after the meeting and lost track of time.

Only when I'm finally in bed and Morgana is snoring soundly do I allow for the strain and the sorrow that weigh on me to win. I cry until I have no tears left, and all that remains is crushing exhaustion and the words that have ingrained themselves into my mind. They now echo alongside the cacophony of everything else that's still haunting me . . . I can only ever be me.

It was the last thing he said to me, and the meaning the words seem to convey is not one that I want to hear, much less believe. But what choice do I still have?

It is too late, I force myself to think. Maybe it . . . always was.

The thought doesn't leave my mind anymore—not during the fight against Sae nor during the never-ending, nightmarish blur of voices, sounds, and violence that follows. I know what I have to do, and I do it. But there is no place for hope anymore, not even as everything miraculously falls into place the way we planned. Because I've decided to lock my hope away, fearing that it would lead me astray.

. . . Little did I know that I would regret this decision for the rest of my days.