5/23

The lunch bell rings.

When Ann turns to him, it is slow, as if she’s unsure whether she should. It has been another silent, awkward day in class. “Hey,” she says, but won’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah?” Akira asks. He is far removed from the relief of seeing her step out, safe, from Madarame’s office. The weekend further drained him, between all his investigations and the reveal that the Palace was significantly more complicated than Kamoshida’s. Akira is in no mood for Ann’s bullshit.

“Want to go see our scores?”

The announcement had come earlier, accompanied by the typical chorus of groans and heads collapsing onto desks. Akira does not answer for a while. He feels ashamed for thinking poorly of Ann mere seconds earlier. He does, however, want to say several things. What he says instead is, “Sure,” and stands.

The two file out of the room, several hands’ worth of distance between them. “You spoke to Yusuke, right?” Akira asks. “He’ll meet us after school?”

“Yeah,” Ann replies. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not. I’m just asking,” Akira replies.

A procession of students marches its way towards the stairwell, their faces a majority mix of indifference and fear. A few look excited. Stomping his way against this tide is Ryuji.

Ann steps in front of him and crosses her arms. “Where are you going?”

“Huh?” He asks, glancing from her to Akira, and back again. “N-nowhere.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, eyes narrowing. “You just don’t want to see how you did on your tests.”

Ryuji opens his mouth in what looks to be a protest, then his face falls. “Yeah, so?”

Ann’s softens. “I’m sure you didn’t do that bad. We’re going to look for ourselves. Come with us.”

“No thanks,” Ryuji replies, eyes falling to the floor. “It’s cool.”

Akira steps forward and lays a hand on Ryuji’s shoulder. “You’ve got to look eventually, right? I’m sure I didn’t do that great either.”

Ryuji frowns. “What’re you talking about, man? You’re like, super smart.”

Akira chuckles and lowers his arm. “If you say so. But it’s fair to say we had more shit on our minds than the average student.”

A grin cracks Ryuji’s face. “That’s true.”

“Yeah,” Ann says, stepping up alongside them. “So, come on. Rip the bandage off, right? It’s not like my scores are going to be awesome.”

“Also true,” Ryuji mutters, which earns him a slap on the shoulder from Ann. Ryuji rubs the spot and turns into the mass of students. Akira sticks his hands in his pockets and walks beside him. He feels relieved to have a buffer between himself and Ann, then feels guilt over it being Ryuji. By the time they reach Shujin’s first floor, he’s shoved the thoughts aside.

Students swamp the board, and the noise is a white cacophony of whispers, shouts of excitement, and moans of things not excitement.

Stricken with sudden bravery, Ryuji shoves his way through the crowd, Akira and Ann following in his wake. When he reaches the front, his eyes skim the board, and he lets out a small groan. “Damn…”

Akira closes the distance between them and finds his friend’s name at the bottom of the list. Or rather, second to last.

“H-hey,” Ann says, and pats the blonde boy on the same spot she’d just hit. “You’re not dead last. That’s… something.”

“Yeah, it’s real awesome,” Ryuji replies, and points to the name right above his. “This guy’s been out with pneumonia for the last month. So the guy who doesn’t even come to school still does better than me.” He shakes his head and steps back into the crowd. A few others glance towards him, barely contained smiles on their faces. Akira throws a few scowls their way before they straighten their looks out. Assholes, he thinks. If he’s going to be the scourge of Shujin, he might as well play the part when it suits him.

“Alright,” Ryuji says, forcing some brightness into his voice. “Let’s see what you guys got!”

The three move to Akira and Ann’s respective board. Ann gets there first, and finds her name almost immediately. “Okay,” she says, nodding. “Not bad.” She’s smack dab in the middle, Akira sees. His eyes hover around her name, searching for his own. He can’t find it.

Then he feels an elbow jabbing into his shoulder, again and again. “Ow, what?” Akira asks Ryuji.

The boy’s eyes are wide, and his mouth is hanging open. “Dude,” he says, and points. Akira follows his finger and sees his name.

Number… seven?

“Dude, dude, dude!” Ryuji exclaims, and starts slapping Akira’s shoulder. “Top ten, man! Top freakin’ ten! That’s freakin’ awesome! Freakin’ incredible!” The louder he gets, the more eyeballs turn to them. The surrounding student conversations die, and louder whispers pick up their slack.

“…got lucky…”

“…way he did that well…”

“…blackmailed the teachers, no other way…”

Akira hears these things and feels his mood blacken, but then Ryuji throws his arm around Akira’s shoulders and laughs, and Akira looks at his friend, and suddenly the voices around him seem very small and very far away.

Akira smiles. “Alright man,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Calm down.”

He looks at Ann, and sees her face twisted up into a smile, but a misshapen one.

He remembers another young woman’s face, all gnarled up.

“You must be, like, a super genius or something,” Ryuji states, still delighted.

No, Akira thinks. I just had a good tutor.

Sometime later, during a bathroom break, against Akira’s better judgment, he steals a look at the RINE app.

Kurusu got top ten status – wtf were the rest of you idiots doing lol?

No way no way he got that legit

(Dude can barely answer questions in class and suddenly he’s a genius? Yeah, no.)

LOL You guys are all just dumb

How’s it feel to be beat by a delinquent retards?

Akira exits the app and sits in the stall for a few minutes before he finds himself ready to return to class.

#

Iwai prefers not to use names. He has come to accept that they are a necessary inconvenience of life. It is easier for him to attach a short descriptor to an image. His customers frequently fall into this classification.

Short-haired weasel.

Anime haircut.

Sweatshirt-obsessed virgin.

That isn’t to say he never uses names. Iwai just opts for the simpler choice when it suits him. Kaoru gets his own name. A few others too.

When the door opens, and two girls step inside – the taller one holding it ajar for the shorter – he dubs them, ‘tallish short-haired girl’ and ‘pink cardigan girl.’ They are not something he expects to see in his shop. Getting to be the norm around here. He lets his gaze drop back to the magazine he’d been reading and listens to two sets of footsteps, one receding deeper into the store, and the other approaching him, and stopping just short of the counter.

“Hello,” comes a voice, calm and mature.

Iwai groans, shuts the magazine as loudly as it allows itself to be, and rolls his head up until he’s facing ‘tallish short-haired girl.’ “Need somethin’?”

“I’m hoping you could help me. I’m looking for a gift for my boyfriend.”

His metaphorical hackles rise. The way she’d said ‘boyfriend’ felt off, like she was pushing the word out of her throat. He jerks his head towards the many replica firearms lining the wall behind him. “These don’t make romantic presents. Can’t you make him chocolates or whatever?” That’s what girls who like boys do, right? Iwai thinks about asking Kaoru, then smiles. That one wouldn’t know.

“I’d rather get something more personal. He’s a gun enthusiast. I believe he’s shopped here before.”

Iwai thinks of ‘short-haired weasel,’ ' anime haircut,’ and ‘sweatshirt-obsessed virgin.’ No way one of them landed a girl this anatomically correct. “Describe him.”

She frowns, then says, “Um, his name is Akira Kurusu.”

Iwai keeps his face under control. “Sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Her eyes narrow a fraction. “Are you sure? Akira is a fairly common name.”

“Then I must only know a bunch of uncommon people.” He mentally kicks himself. He’s doing it again. Giving lip. Being cute. His defenses are up. The situation reminds him too much of others. Interrogation rooms and solitary lamps burning dull fluorescents into his retinas. But this isn’t a cop. It’s a high school girl. And this isn’t a precinct. It’s a shop. His shop.

Still, something’s off about the girl. It’s her poise. Her precise way of speaking. It reeks of law. Iwai learned a long time ago how to sniff out something like that.

Iwai wrestles his mind back under control and thinks. Akira has never mentioned having a girlfriend. There’s that blonde girl, but they definitely aren’t together. So, who was this? And Akira – for all his faults – wasn’t stupid enough to tell some outsider about their little arrangement, was he?

He stops himself. Technically, Iwai hasn’t done anything illegal. Burner phones were on the up and up. That they were the favorite of drug dealers and criminals was irrelevant.

“This… what’d you say his name was?” He asks.

“Akira Kurusu.”

“Right, this Kurusu guy. Did he say he was here?”

Rather than answer, tallish short-haired girl says, “He’s tall and lean. His hair is black and messy, and he wears glasses.”

He rolls the dice. “Oh,” he mutters. “The quiet one. Yeah, I know him.”

The girl blinks, but it’s enough for Iwai to suppress a smile. Hadn’t expected that answer, eh? “He’s been here a few times. I don’t ask for names, on principle. You’re his girlfriend?” He looks her up and down and flashes his most repulsive grin. “How’d he manage that?”

Her face reddens, and her following sentence starts with a stammer. “Do you remember what he bought?”

Iwai presses his sudden advantage. “Seriously. How’d someone like that kid get someone like you?” It’s one of the older tricks. Make the one asking the questions answer questions. Uncomfortable questions. He’s seen veterans of the interrogation exchange crumple with just a few well-intentioned sounding barbs.

This girl, though.

The red leaves her cheeks. She says, “I punched him in the face.”

His composure fails him, and he barks a laugh. The sound is sharp and pinballs its way through the shop. It surprises even him. The girl looks nonplussed. “Guess that’s one way to stake a claim,” he says.

The corners of her mouth curl up. “I suppose. Do you recall what he bought?”

Iwai throws up a not-too-casual shrug and raps his knuckles against the counter glass. “Just a pistol or two. Big ones, but cheap. Not the kind that would fool anyone.” Disclaimers are important.

“I see.” She finally peels her gaze from him and stares down through the glass counter. Her eyes brighten a fraction, and she points at a replica revolver on the shelf inside. “Could I see that one?”

Iwai opens the cabinet and removes it. He holds it out, and she lifts it up better than any amateur he’s seen. With a flick, she pops out the loader, spins it, and snaps it back. The sound is dulled by the fact that it’s plastic, but the heft of it is similar to the real thing. “You’ve got an eye,” he tells her. “That’s a Type 26. First-”

“It’s the first Japanese revolver adopted by the Japanese military,” she replies. “It’s old. Hasn’t been used since the Second World War.” She turns it over, eyes wide with admiration. When she catches him starting, she says, “I’m at the top of my class.”

Do they quiz you on guns at your school?

“Wanna buy it?”

Her face freezes, and she sets it back on the counter. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure it would suit him.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ you should buy it for him.” At this, the tallish short-haired girl’s lips suck in, and her eyes run over the gun repeatedly. He smiles despite himself. She’s actually considering it.

“Thanks, but no. What would it be if you had to recommend something for Akira?”

“The most expensive thing in the store,” he replies.

She fixes him with a tired gaze, but the edge is gone. She looks almost comfortable.

Iwai decides to keep her off-balance. “If you don’t want the gun, I’ve got some brass knuckles. In case this boyfriend of yours gets out of line again.”

She smiles. “I just have one more question for you, sir.”

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever seen Akira Kurusu with a cat?”

Iwai’s brows raise. If your boyfriend has a cat, shouldn’t you know about it? Still, Iwai can’t see the harm in answering this one truthfully. “I think I recall seeing a cat in his backpack once. And there’s been a few times when he’s here that I swear I’ve heard meowing.” Iwai shrugs. “So, sure, I guess. I have.”

The girl looks about to reply when an exclamation of excitement echoes from the back of the store. “Oh my!”

Iwai glances over the tallish, short-haired girl’s shoulder and sees ‘pink cardigan girl’ stepping out from the shelves. “Look at this one, Mako-chan!” She calls, absolute joy sketched across her face.

She holds a replica RG-6 Grenade Launcher, primarily used by the Russian military.

“What,” he says.

Tallish short haired girl’s smile grows. “That definitely suits you, Haru.”

#

Yusuke finds the batting cages at the top of an exacting set of stairs. The entire experience of ascension leaves him feeling quite surly upon reaching them. Surprise snaps into him. Having never been to a place such as this, he had assumed it alight with the banter of young ruffians, put upon parents, and the clatter and clanging of baseballs and their respective bats.

All Yusuke finds is a napping clerk behind the cash register, and his new acquaintances sitting outside the furthest cage from the entrance.

Ann, he sees, has her elegant fingers wrapped through the chain link, her eyes far away and mouth folded in on itself in worry. A piece begins to construct itself in his mind, before he thinks to wonder what worries her.

Ryuji spins a baseball bat in a slow rotation in his hands, the top of the blunt object flat against the ground, revolving like a drill going nowhere. Bespectacled Akira leans against the wall, hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his uniform, a tired look writ across his face.

The cat sits with its tail dangling off the edge of a thin, metal bench. It is the first to see Yusuke enter, and when it meows, the eyes of the others snap toward him.

Ann speaks first. “Yusuke, hi.”

“Good afternoon,” he says, and sets his schoolbag alongside the cage. “It is-” He starts to say, but a pang stabs his stomach, and he distracts himself from the sensation with exaggerated movement, and takes a seat next to the cat. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabs at the sweat that has bubbled up along his forehead. “Apologies. It is good to see you all. May I ask what prompted you to call me out here?”

He has a lot of work to do. The muse had pierced him the night before, and he’d gotten a significant amount done. Yet, he’d stopped before completion and had to forego dinner. It’s not something that worries him. He’ll stagger his finish dates sometimes. The accentuated hunger makes him feel the art all the more, and the delayed gratification he receives for a job well done is worth every cold sweat and spell of dizziness.

His mind drifts to the meal he might request of Sensei. Perhaps some takoyaki. Or sushi. Or curry. Or udon. Or soba. Perhaps even a hamburger, or something exquisite and foreign. Something French or Italian. Their fare is supposedly delectable. He may be able to convince Sensei to spring for pizza. Or pasta. There is that shrimp-thing he has seen in some magazines. Or perhaps he will decline all that, and simply pick a place randomly. His daily sojourn to Kosei takes him past many an enticing hole-in-the-wall establishment, and the smell of their rich dishes wafting out into the stale Tokyo air, snaking its way into his nostrils, infecting him, and-”

“Yusuke?” It is Akira’s voice.

Yusuke blinks himself back to the present, and feels the flush of his skin. His stomach quivers. It no longer growls. “I am sorry,” he says, quickly. “I seem to have lost myself for a moment. You were saying?”

“We wanted to ask you something,” Ryuji says, his eyes and tone hard.

“By all means.”

“Yusuke,” Ann starts, and glances at the other two boys – as well as the cat, oddly enough – before she continues with, “What was your mother’s name?”

The question gallops through him, and it is a long moment before he can say, “I admit, I did not expect that. Why do you wish to know?”

“You said she was a painter, right?” Ann says. “We wanted to know if we could see anything by her. Anything she painted.”

“Ah,” Yusuke smiles, and he knows from experience it must come off as sad, but that is truly not how he feels. “Unfortunately, she never painted anything of note. Sensei says that, had she lived, she would have become one of the greats.”

“Was she an apprentice to Madarame too?” Akira asks.

“Indeed. Madarame took me in due to his affection for my mother.” Then he adds, without thinking, “He’s a great man.”

The three – no, four if you count the cat – exchange chary looks with one another. Yusuke begins to wonder why they asked him to Yongen-jaya. He begins to wonder why they are the only ones at the batting cages. He begins to wonder if these fellow teenagers have ulterior and sinister motives. Am I to be mugged?

“Yusuke,” Ann says, insistent. “What was your mother’s name?”

“Well, if you must know, it was Chisako Kitagawa.”

Yusuke can feel the tension that dashes about their bodies when they steal looks at each other this time. It pumps through him, and the headache behind his eyes that he’s been carrying since waking builds in pressure by a few fractions. He rubs his temple with one hand, and rests the other on his leg. “I would like to know why you are asking me this. I am beginning to suspect ill intentions.”

Akira takes a step forward. “You live at Madarame’s atelier, right? Where is it?”

“Why do you need to know? Why do you care?” Yusuke demands.

Akira’s face grows softer. “Yusuke,” he says, and Yusuke cannot stand how many times his name has been said in that tone of voice. Soft and hesitant. As if they pity him. As if he were some victim. As if they were in any position to look down on him. “I think you should talk to a friend of mine,” Akira continues. “She’s a reporter, and-”

The word slices through the fog in his mind. “Ah-ha!” Yusuke shouts, and stands. The sudden movement makes his head spin, but then the anger hooks him in its arms, and he forges ahead. “I knew this situation stank of villainy! You want me to talk to a reporter? Why? So you can write an article on Sensei? Are you so unsatisfied with his lack of appearances and his refusal to cater to the media's whims, you have to stoop this low? Vultures! How dare you disrespect his privacy? How dare you use me to do so?” The last few words he yells, and the four – cat included – jump at the sudden shift.

Good.

“To think I believed this the seed of genuine friendship. When in truth, it was conspiracy!”

Ann pats the air with her hands. “Yusuke, calm down. We-”

“Conspiracy, I say!” Specks of kaleidoscopic colors pepper his vision, but Yusuke ignores them. “Sensei told me to never talk to you people, that you’re all parasites, swarming and devouring, seeking to profit from his fame and talent!”

Akira steps up to him. “Did you just say Madarame told you never to talk to reporters?”

Yusuke feels his breath grow more ragged, his chest rattling like an empty paint can with a single yen coin within. “I will not betray his confidence. I will not trample on what Madarame has given me!”

And then Ryuji closes the distance between them, seizes Yusuke by the shoulders, and gives him a single, solid shake. He hears the words, “Get your shit tog-” but then a rumbling darkness rises to claim him, and he sees and hears no more.

#

Yusuke drops to the ground, out of Ryuji’s grasp, and lies still.

The Phantom Thieves look at him, then at one another.

“Nice going, Bonehead,” Morgana hisses. “You killed him!”

#

Tae Takemi is beginning to believe she’s lost all control of her life.

The slip had started what feels like forever ago, but has been aggravated by the persistent presence of one particularly troublesome schoolboy.

First, Akira Kurusu had shown up at her place, blunderingly, albeit cutely, determined to get his hands on ‘medicine.’ She had fingered him a perfect candidate for her experiments, so their relationship had begun.

And now, she was some pseudo-member of the Phantom Thieves, an otherwise all-teenager-slash-cat crime-fighting unit that utilized their phones to access the Metaverse, a hypothesized realm Takemi remembers from medical school.

The shit just kept piling on. Aiding and abetting doesn’t feel harsh enough for what Takemi is doing. She could’ve stepped back at many points, but she never did. Full steam ahead. That was her modus operandi. It’s how she got into this mess and why she’s working at this hole-in-the-wall in Yongen-jaya.

So, when Akira bursts into her office in the late afternoon, accompanied by his entourage of fellow Phantom Thieves, carrying – between the three of them – an unconscious boy, Takemi is decidedly having none of it.

“Kurusu,” she yells, unable to contain herself. “What the actual fuck?”

“I don’t know,” the boy stammers, not bothering to wait but storming through the waiting room to the exam area. “He just fainted at the batting cages.”

Takemi feels a – what her mother used to call – ‘murder smile’ carve itself across her face, shoves herself to her feet, and is halfway to the door she’d seen them go through before she turns, runs back into the waiting area in her fucking high heels, locks the door, and shoves a ‘Closed’ sign into the window.

Then, she sprints to the exam room, which is terrifically crowded.

“He was shouting at us,” Akira is telling her, at the same time the blonde girl – Ann – is saying, “We don’t know what happened, but he lives in a crappy building, and do you think the dust –” and Takemi cannot hear the rest because the other one, Ryuji, is shouting at the damn cat, “Stop saying it’s my fault, dammit,” and the cat is hissing up at him, because apparently the cat can speak.

And so Takemi shouts, “EVERYONE SHUT THE HELL UP!” and everyone shuts the hell up, including the cat.

Takemi pushes her way through the sea of teenagers and leans over the prone boy on the exam table. “Who is this?” She snaps, as she feels his pulse. It’s there and not too faint, she’s happy to see. His breathing is steady as well.

“His name is Yusuke Kitagawa,” Akira says.

“What happened to him?”

“He fainted.”

Takemi whirls on Akira. “Mental shutdown?”

Akira shakes his head. “No, I mean, I don’t think so. We were at the batting cages down the block.”

“Did anything hit him? A baseball or anything?” Takemi gingerly presses her hands to his scalp. There are no tender bits or bumps that she can feel. Her practiced eyes roll over his complexion. It’s pale. Other things begin to alarm her.

“No.”

“What was he doing right before he fainted?”

“He was upset with us. He thought we were-”

“I didn’t ask what he thought. I asked what he was doing.”

Akira clears his throat. “He stood up fast and started yelling at us. I don’t know. He seemed unsteady the whole time. Even before he was mad, then, he just collapsed.” The cat meows, and Akira says, “Ryuji shook him once, but I don’t think that’s what did it.”

“Nice to know I’m not the only doctor here,” Takemi replies. “Is he diabetic?”

Even with her eyes on the unconscious Yusuke, she can almost feel them staring at one another. “We’re not sure,” Akira says. “I don’t think so. He’s never mentioned that to us.”

“I’m guessing you don’t know his medical history either.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

So she was in the dark. Fine. “You,” she says, and points to Ryuji. “Take that cat and get out of this room.”

Ryuji gulps but doesn’t argue. Instead, he scoops up the cat and exits.

“Have you contacted Yusuke’s parents and told them what’s happened?” Takemi wants to know if she’s going to have to.

Akira glances at Ann, who doesn’t reply. The silence stretches too long.

“Well?” Takemi snaps.

“Yusuke is an orphan,” Akira mutters, and Takemi’s hands hesitate for a moment before they continue their examination. “He’s got a guardian. We haven’t told him.” There’s a hitch to his voice, but Takemi can’t be bothered to try and figure out what it means.

“Alright, Takemi says. “Both of you. Get out.”

The two scurry from the room and leave Takemi with the thought that one of these days, Akira Kurusu will need a doctor, and it would be because of something she did to him.

#

Time goes by. The four thieves sit in Takemi’s waiting room, silent. Akira can’t speak for the others, but he doesn’t know what to say. The whole thing has exhausted him, and he was already plenty tired to begin with, but every time he thinks this, Akira feels a stab of guilt. What he should be thinking of is Yusuke’s well-being.

But what can he do?

What can any of them do?

Nothing, his father’s voice whispers.

Eventually, the door to the exam area opens, and Takemi sticks her head out. “Kurusu,” she says, and jerks her head for him to follow. After casting wary glances at the others, he does so, and she leads him to an empty exam room. “How’s Yusuke?” Akira asks.

Takemi leans against the empty desk and points to the exam table. Akira hops up onto it. She crosses her legs and leans forward, like she always does, but there’s no fey seductiveness this time. “You said he has a guardian. Who is he?”

“Is Yusuke okay?”

“Answer the question, Akira.”

Akira has to wet his lips a few times before saying, “His name is Ichiryusai Madarame. He’s a famous painter. Yusuke is his apprentice. He’s also our next target.”

Takemi perks up at this. “You’re going to change his heart? Like you did Kamoshida? Why?”

“He’s been plagiarizing his apprentices for years. The majority of his work has been stolen from young students. Once he’s used them up, he throws them out, and they become destitute. Most of the time.”

Takemi nods, and her brows furrow. “Your friend is severely malnourished. The symptoms you described earlier are consistent with that diagnosis. And if this ‘guardian’ is stealing from him, it makes more sense.”

“Malnourished?” Akira asks. “You mean, like, he’s not eating right?”

Takemi shakes her head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not eating at all.” The words are like twin hammers against Akira’s chest, but as he absorbs this, Takemi continues. “He’s underweight. His skin is the wrong kind of pale. You told me he was dizzy from just standing up. The exertion caused him to faint.”

“I… I didn’t know,” Akira says. “I’ve only known him for a few days. I thought… but, not that.”

Takemi looks thrown. “This isn’t your fault, Kurusu.”

Akira shakes his head. “No. We invited him out. We asked him questions he didn’t want to answer. We’ve been using him as a source during our investigation. We pushed him. He-”

Takemi cuts him off. “Stop it. Now. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault. You need not to freak out right now, Kurusu.”

The words cut deep. She’s right, Joker whispers in Akira’s head. Focus. Akira nods. “Sorry. As I said, I’ve only hung out with him a few times. I’ve never seen him eat anything. I don’t even think I’ve seen him take a sip of water.”

Takemi smiles, then. It isn’t much, and there’s little feeling behind it, but it’s a smile that makes him feel a bit better. “As much as I don’t appreciate you barging in with unconscious teenagers, you did the right thing, bringing him here.”

Akira leans back against the cool wall of the room. He shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. “He thinks Madarame is this amazing person. That he can do no wrong. This bastard has been lying to him, stealing from him, and now you’re telling me he can’t even be bothered to feed him?”

Takemi nods, then says, “I’m going to call the police.”

Akira’s eyes open. “What?”

“This is child abuse,” Takemi says, and straightens. “I need to notify the authorities.”

A million thoughts sprint through his mind, and Akira jumps off the table. “You can’t do that. Please. We need-”

Takemi stares at him, and her smile is gone now. “You’re going to change his heart, right?”

“Yes. If you call the cops, we won’t get the chance and-”

“I’m sorry, Akira,” Takemi says. “But I’m not doing this again. I understand your reasons, but I didn’t call the police with you, and I should have so-”

“Even if you had, it wouldn’t have changed anything,” Akira snaps.

Takemi holds up a hand. “The Metaverse is dangerous, no? So why not get this guy off the street the old-fashioned way? Besides, nothing you’ve said changes the fact that Madarame’s neglect of Yusuke’s nutritional needs constitutes child abuse. I am reporting it.”

Akira feels his hands ball into fists. “It won’t matter. They won’t do anything. You’ll just be making it harder for us to do what needs to be done.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can.”

Takemi looks away, not out of shame, guilt, or anything. Her eyes remain determined. “Well then, I can’t. I’m flattered your friend out there gave me a code name, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m a doctor. I choose to believe that someone will give a shit and stop this.” Takemi puts her hand on the doorknob. “I won’t tell them anything about the Phantom Thieves. Let me try to handle this the right way.”

Akira shakes his head as Takemi opens the door and steps out.

“That’s what I’m saying,” he says, to the air. “This isn’t the right way.”

#

Madarame stretches across the bed, and yawns. It has been a long day. He’d spent most of it at the gallery, entertaining questions and critics and the usual sycophants. It had gone well enough.

The bathroom door opens, and his girlfriend steps out. She is dressed in the new lingerie he’d bought for her, all black and lacy, and she looks at him seductively and poses with her hands on her hips, and a little shimmy that makes him smile. Then she nicks her toe against the dresser's edge, and he scowls. She’s drunk. Again.

Before he can be bothered by this for too long, his phone rings. He groans but reaches for it. Few people would dare call him after hours, and the reasons for doing so were typically good.

He freezes when he sees the number is unregistered. Madarame shoots out of bed, faster than he’s been in years, and leaves the room, ignoring his girlfriend’s protests. His throat is dry by the time he answers the phone. “Hello?”

“Madarame-san,” comes a voice. “Evening, I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I’m calling on behalf of your third favorite customer.”

Madarame feels a knot tie itself in his chest. “What is it?”

“Hey now, no need to get snippy. This is a courtesy call, after all. We’re trying to help you out. Give you a head’s up.”

“Fine, fine,” Madarame snaps. “Just tell me what it is.”

“Geez, man. Relax. Or don’t. One of your little shitbirds is about the fly the coop.”

“What?” Madarame may talk in nonsensical idioms, but that doesn’t mean he appreciates it when they’re served to him.

“I’m sayin’ you’ve got a problem on your hands. One you need to deal with.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! I’ve had enough of your nonsense.” Madarame pulls the phone away from his ear and holds it before him like a microphone before shouting into it. “Why don’t you put your boss on, and maybe he can speak like a normal person and explain whatever damn garbage you’re spewing at me!”

There is a brief bit of silence. Then, the voice says, “Hold on.”

Madarame feels his pulse shudder in his neck.

More silence, then a new voice. “Madarame.” It is not a question. The voice is smooth and soft, but though this is not a voice he has ever heard before, Madarame knows the person speaking is neither.

“Yes?” Madarame manages.

“What about this do you not understand?”

“I just think that if your people want to tell me something, they should speak plainly.”

“I would think a man of your stature and artistic sensibilities able to cut through the trappings of veiled speech.” There’s no humor in the voice, only thin annoyance.

“Please,” he says, after swallowing. “Please just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Yusuke Kitagawa,” the voice says. “He’s at a doctor’s office in Yongen-jaya. The physician just called the police. Your apprentice is severely underweight and malnourished.”

“Fuck,” Madarame spits. That stupid boy! “Wait, how do you know that?”

“We have people in the police,” the voice replies. “Anything reported to the authorities related to you, gets passed along to us.”

“I… I don’t-”

“Let’s keep this simple,” the voice says. “Whatever method you use to cut your students loose, use it. Now. Yusuke Kitagawa has become a liability to our arrangement. I will not tolerate liabilities to our arrangement.”

Madarame surprises himself by finding something resembling a spine. “You don’t have to threaten me,” he states. “Don’t forget that I’m vital to your operations and-”

The voice interrupts. “You’ve overestimated your importance. You use your scam to make money. We use your scam to make money. But it’s not our only scam. It is, however, your only scam. If the scam goes away, we have other scams. If the scam goes away, you don’t. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t like being misunderstood. The collapse of your scam would inconvenience me. But eventually, things would settle for me and mine. There’s always another scam.” A pause, and then he says. “You should remember that, Madarame. There’s always another scam.”

The line goes dead.