Akira's eyes open. A thin, viscous membrane surrounds him, the pink shade of a throat's interior. Bleached spires of smooth bone stretch overhead.

This maw replaces the walls of his room, but the furniture remains. Someone sits at his desk with arms folded across the back of his chair.

"I'm only here to talk," Akira's father whispers.

Akira sits up, and the blanket sloughs away. Humid air clings to his bare chest. He'd worn pajamas to bed. His eyes skitter across his bed, but he finds no evidence of Morgana.

His mouth opens, but his lips remain still and refuse to articulate. "Although Nobunaga was Nobuhide's legitimate successor, the Oda clan divided into many factions, and the clan was technically under the control of Owari's shugo, Shiba Yoshimune." The voice belongs to Inui-sensei, from one of his droning lectures. It flies from between his teeth.

"I never hurt her," his father continues. "Never like that. Came close." The eyes glint a pale color despite the absence of any light source. They narrow. "I never asked how you saw it."

Akira's head swims. Something.

"By 1559, Nobunaga had eliminated all opposition within the clan and Owari Province. He continued to use Shiba Yoshikane as a pretext to make peace with the other daimyos, though it was later discovered that Yoshikane had secretly corresponded with the Kira and Imagawa clans, attempting to oust Nobunaga and restore the Shiba clan's place."

"I knew you'd say that," his father replies.

The walls vibrate in pace with a rapid heartbeat. A ring encircles the appropriate finger on his right hand. It gleams in the pink glow. Soon it sears and begins to sink into his skin. Akira digs at it and claws with his fingernails, but the more he tries, the more he tears his flesh away, punctuated with the clink of handcuffs. The ring disappears, and a raw and blistered fence circumnavigates his finger.

"Those things are tricky," his father says. His words reverberate. Their enunciation feels stiff, like someone haltingly reading from a script. "Shouldn't bother. With them." Akira feels Inui's words ready to vomit again, but his father continues. "Tell me about Morgana." Someone sits behind his father's voice. "Stare and play with the fire, too long, and. youwon't notice the water until you've drowned. have drowned. What is Morgana? Too bad ghosts ain't real."

Something hangs behind his father's silhouette. Something else writhes within the membrane. "When Nobunaga launched a campaign into the Asakura clan's domain, Azai Nagamasa, to whom Oichi was married, broke the alliance with Oda to -"

"No," his father growls. "NoNOno." His father's figure contorts and bends at the waist in a way no sitting human could. "Hail to the King. No one getsathronew ithout horses andMEN. EXplainMorgana."

And finally, Akira hisses out a response all his own. "I'm not you."

The angles of his father's face ripple and his teeth are bare. Shadows rise in the corners. "You sound real fucking sure of that. THISISPOINTLESS"

The legs of something press from within the mucous walls, dimple them with arachnoid tips, and push.

His father no longer inhabits the chair but pins Akira to the bed. His father grins his reaper's teeth. "Liar. Tell us-"

This is a dream, Akira's mind screams. The realization rampages through Akira's system like blood, and he orders himself awake.

6/3

Akira jerks up in bed as the sun peeks above the cityscape. Morgana lies curled next to him. His walls contain no membranes or bones.

The shirt clings to his chest, stained dark gray by sweat, and Akira scuttles out of bed as softly as possible to not wake Morgana. Fleeting moments of the dream roll themselves over within his mind. His father. The things that were not his father. The walls. The strange conversation.

Akira approaches his desk chair, then stops. He studies it in silence for a time, but he cannot remember if the chair remains in the same position he'd left it the night before.

#

The inmate vanishes from the thoughtscape. The manifestation of the inmate's progenitor fades.

The girls keep the facade of Akira's room active for a fraction of a moment before compelling the setting to revert. The throat and bones collapse into sand and stretch to a horizon, and the furniture bursts and settles as grain.

Caroline regards Justine in the way only she can, and her sister responds in kind. They converse in their language, one manifested for them alone, cryptic and in many ways ancient, but outside the capacity of beings from reality to understand. To be understood, the sisters make themselves understood. Such steps are unnecessary when they commune.

Their elongated limbs and unseen appendages wrap around themselves, and depending on perspective, their discussion takes eternity or nanoseconds.

They concur.

"That did not work."

#

Akira places his foot on the next step and shoves himself upwards. "Was this really the only dorm room available?" He asks.

Yusuke pauses, a few steps ahead of Akira, and turns to peer down at him. "Of course not. Several on the first floor were unused, but given the nature of Sensei's crimes and how easily he manipulated the school into believing his falsehoods, the Principal decided I could have my choice of room."

"Hold up," Ryuji says, setting down his burden on the landing below them, and then taking a breath. "You're tellin' us you had options?"

"Indeed," Yusuke replies. "But why would I have chosen a room downstairs when the upper floor affords me a more scenic vista to draw inspiration?"

"I knew it," Akira says, shaking his head. "I knew it would have something to do with art." He turns to look at Ryuji. "Didn't I say that? When he told us it was on the top floor? Didn't I say it would be because of some ridiculous art reason?"

"It's true," Ryuji says, leaning against the wall. "He did say that."

"I hardly see the issue," Yusuke says. "Are we not all carrying our fair share of the burden?"

Each Phantom Thief carries a large, black garbage bag, within which are a few paintings they'd taken from Madarame's cognitive gallery. Though Yusuke left the majority in Akira's care, he'd cited the need for 'inspiration derived from my peers' and requested a few of the paintings relocated to his dorm room. Loathe to rely upon Ryuji's mother again, Akira, Ryuji, and Yusuke each shoved a few into a garbage bag and began the trek across Tokyo. Considering Yusuke's nascent settlement into his new dorm, the three could reasonably be said to be helping him move.

"Your share," Ryuji points out. "Is one freakin' painting."

Given Yusuke's weak constitution - outside the Metaverse - Akira and Ryuji offered to carry the majority of the artwork between themselves.

"A little head's up would've been nice," Akira says.

Yusuke's head tilts to the side, and he readjusts the garbage bag hanging limply from his shoulders. "I thought you enjoyed exercise, Ryuji?"

"I do," Ryuji counters. "But this ain't exercise. It's freakin' torture."

"I hate stairs," Akira groans.

"Everyone hates stairs," Ryuji says. "Everyone."

"I suppose we could've taken the elevator," Yusuke mutters.

Akira and Ryuji fall silent.

"There's an elevator?" Ryuji asks.

"Why wouldn't there be?" Yusuke asks. "The building is hardly medieval in origin."

"I'm gonna kill him," Ryuji says, looking at Akira. "I'm seriously gonna kill him."

"Look," Akira says, and gestures to a small plaque alongside Ryuji's shoulder. His friend turns. The number '5' jumps out in acrylic lettering. "We're close. There are only six floors. One more, and we're done."

Ryuji sighs and hefts the garbage bag up onto his shoulder. "Never again, dude. I'm never helping him with something like this again. I can't believe I agreed to this."

"He did help you with Yamauchi," Akira points out and continues his trek up the steps.

"And you are quite welcome for that," Yusuke says, a sly smile on his face from far above.

The stakeout of Yamauchi revealed what Ryuji expected. One of Kamoshida's former sycophants at Shujin, Yamauchi-sensei saw himself as an athletic know-it-all. Having learned of the man's drinking habits and patterns in a detailed and precise manner that surprised and delighted Akira, Ryuji sent Yusuke to tail him. The Kosei student reported that Yamauchi believed his star was finally rising. After reinstating the Shujin track team, he would promptly pivot off that achievement into another position, similar to Kamoshida's use of track to further his own ends with the volleyball team. Only Yamauchi had no experience and saw no issue with the bullying and heavy-handed practices Kamoshida preferred.

From a big-picture perspective, being a dick of a coach didn't qualify as something criminal, but taking care of the track team mattered to Ryuji. So Akira let it matter to him if only so he could launch his experiment.

The Thieves reach the top floor, and Yusuke holds the door for Ryuji and Akira as they shimmy their way into the hall.

"Which way?" Akira asks.

Yusuke nods and leads them down the hall. "Mine is the room at the end," he says.

"Of freakin' course," Ryuji mutters, before joining.

Yamauchi's Shadow existed in Mementos but still required a Calling Card to manifest. A Calling Card sent in an unusual fashion. If it worked, it worked. If it didn't, Yamauchi's 'crimes' wouldn't impact anyone beyond the Shujin track team. Ryuji might not like it, but the success or failure would result in valuable information regarding the nature of Calling Cards.

Yusuke opens the door, and the three slide inside.

An easel sits in the corner, hoisting a half-completed work of what looks like a landscape. Spartan describes the remainder of the room. Yusuke's possessions numbered few when he'd left LeBlanc, with only a single bag necessary to transport them.

To Ryuji's credit, he gingerly sets the garbage bag of paintings down in the corner, rather than dropping them flat on the floor. Akira does the same. Yusuke removes the painting he holds from the bag and sets it alongside the easel. "Perfect," he whispers.

"Hold up," Ryuji says, glancing out Yusuke's window. "I thought you said this room had a view?"

"It does," Yusuke replies.

"What'd you call that?"

Akira approaches and stares out the window. A few meters from Yusuke's window is a smooth, brick surface of a skyrise. "What the-" Akira starts, then shakes his head. "You can't see shit."

"Ah, but I can conjure what the view lacks in reality with my mind's eye. You see, my friends, the muse often illustrates a portrait of sublime beauty upon the most mundane of surfaces, and one must endeavor to-"

Ryuji clasps his hands to his head. "I can't take this shit, man! Can you be normal for like, five minutes?"

Yusuke crosses his arms. "I could ask the same of you."

"Whatever," Akira says, and sighs. "If you want more of these paintings, Yusuke, maybe you should arrange for other students to help next time? And we could use the elevator."

"That does sound like an excellent plan."

"At least it's done for now," Akira says.

"Right," Ryuji says, and leans against Yusuke's desk. "So, what was this important thing you needed to tell us?"

"I too, am curious," Yusuke says, sitting on his bed.

Akira looks around. "It's a bit stuffy here with all three of us and the paintings. Yusuke, can we go somewhere on campus to get more room?"

Yusuke's gaze drifts to the ceiling, and his hand cups his chin. Akira knows this stance well by now. "I suppose we could head to the chapel," Yusuke says and shrugs. "It's rarely in use."

Ryuji's head perks up. "You guys got a chapel? On campus?"

"It's not religious, though it was designed to be. The foundation of Kosei High was originally established by some Portuguese missionaries some hundreds of years ago. The chapel was constructed around then and maintained, but it has since been repurposed into a gathering place."

"Wow," Ryuji says. "I didn't know South Americans founded your school."

"That's not-" Akira starts, then closes his mouth. "Never mind. That sounds good. You don't think anyone will be there?"

"I rarely see anyone use it."

The three exit Yusuke's room and make their way downstairs - ensuring the use of the elevator. Larger than Shujin, the Kosei campus contains numerous facilities beyond the dorms and primary school building. A gymnasium, student center, and library all ring the main building. Their walk to the chapel, sequestered behind the gymnasium, takes only a few minutes but draws noticeable attention.

Where Yusuke walks, students stare.

"Guess you're something of a celebrity now," Akira says.

"Perhaps they're staring at Ryuji," Yusuke suggests. "We rarely have someone so colorful on campus."

"Uh huh," Ryuji mutters, not taking the bait. "So basically, everyone's stuck up."

Once off the main path that encircles campus, the three find themselves outside the small, two-story chapel. Constructed of wood and painted a deep charcoal color, the cross hangs from a window just above the main entrance.

Yusuke pushes the doors open and holds them for his friends. It is as quiet as promised. Seven rows of pews and an altar, but no one present. Akira sits in one of the pews and motions for the others to join him. Preparing to discuss these matters in such a solemn place feels odd but appropriate.

Yusuke and Ryuji settle down alongside Akira. "Ohya knows," Akira says.

Ryuji's face remains blank for a moment, then his brows rise. "Damn."

"About all of us?" Yusuke asks.

"No. Just me, for now. But I'm sure she's figured out you're a member, too, Yusuke. She told me not too long ago, but I didn't have a chance to bring it up."

"Does Ann know?" Ryuji asks. "Shit, does Morgana know?"

"Morgana, yes. Ann, no. I wouldn't be surprised if Mona's told her by now." Ann and Morgana's investigation into Miura continued. "I'm going to try and limit what she learns. But she's resourceful, even if she's drunk a lot of the time. She hasn't blown our cover yet, which is a plus, but-"

"I don't think she would," Ryuji says, and shrugs. "I mean, she's been cool about working with us so far."

"Yeah, but she's a journalist," Akira replies. "And thanks to Madarame, we're a big story."

"Has she not been an ally?" Yusuke asks. "In the same manner as Doctor Takemi?"

"Hey, that's a good idea," Ryuji says. "We can make her an honorary member like Plague. Then she can't rat us out because she'd be ratting herself out." Ryuji smirks, and taps his skull with his index finger. "Eh? Think about it. Pretty smart, right?"

Akira remains silent for only a fraction too long. "Yes. That's a good idea. I don't think that's exactly how that works, but yeah. I do think she'd be a good asset."

"She did have much information on Sensei," Yusuke says. "We would never have learned about Natsuki Storage without her."

"And the Devil's Dispatch site is a good way of getting our name out there," Ryuji says. "It's like the PhanSite, sort of."

"Alright. I'll propose this to Ohya. But that's not all." Akira spends a few minutes discussing Ohya's report on Daiki Aoe, and his research resulting in the Robert Cunningham story.

"Not sure I get what one has to do with the other," Ryuji says, frowning.

"I'm not saying they’re connected," Akira replies. "But the story online was the only reference I could find to cognitive science. As for Daiki Aoe, I'm worried about what might happen if the story he told Ohya leaks. It might fuel more rumors that we had something to do with Madarame's death."

Yusuke leans back in the pew and stares ahead at the altar. "What if there is something to that?"

"What do you mean?" Akira asks.

"Obviously," Yusuke continues. "We had nothing to do with Sensei's death. But what if whatever caused Daiki Aoe to blackout does involve cognitive science? On the surface, our target seems to decide that they must confess. But we know the confession derives from our theft of the Treasure. Our actions in the Metaverse have direct consequences in the real world. Could not additional actions within the Metaverse cause additional consequences?"

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Ryuji's brows scrunch, but Akira nods. "I've considered if we could coach a Shadow to cause its human to do something other than confess. We may want to test that out."

"Well, hold up," Ryuji says. "What kind of test are you talking about here?"

"Nothing crazy," Akira says, and outlines his plan for Yamauchi.

Ryuji shrugs. "Yeah, I guess that could work. But still, there's a big difference between getting someone to 'not' do something and getting that same someone to stab a guy."

"And, of course, there is the conclusion to this line of thinking," Yusuke says.

"What'd you mean?" Ryuji asks.

"If someone did use the Metaverse to make Daiki Aoe stab Madarame," Akira says. "And we know we didn't do it; that means someone else did."

Ryuji leans forward and curses, then looks around, embarrassed to have said something in such a place. "But didn't you check into that with Igor?"

"Sure, but what if he lied?" Akira asks.

"Great," Ryuji mutters.

"If our benefactor cannot be relied upon for the truth," Yusuke whispers. "Then perhaps we should put some permanent distance between us."

"Then again," Akira says. "He may reveal more to us. I don't know." Akira sighs, and places his head against the pew. It was all becoming too much again. The Metaverse, Daiki Aoe, Ohya's knowledge, Yukio Kan, some potential conspiracy, all of it flew around in his head and gave him no answers.

The door to the chapel opens.

Akira sits up, and straightens his posture. The faint click of footsteps echoes through the small space. Ryuji and Yusuke focus their gazes forward.

A form walks into Akira's peripheral vision. He glances at the tall and rail-thin form of a girl in a Kosei High uniform with long dark hair adorned with a red ribbon as long and thin as her.

Her eyes find Akira's group, and she offers a faint nod. "Kitagawa-kun, good afternoon."

Yusuke smiles and inclines his head, keeping his voice low. "Good afternoon, Togo-chan."

The girl's smile is barely perceptible, and she moves up a few pews.

"Dude," Ryuji whispers in a voice that still manages to resound through the entire place. "Introduce me."

"What?" Yusuke asks.

"Huh?" Akira asks. "We're in the middle of a meeting, man."

"Well, we can't keep up the meeting if she's here, right?" Ryuji asks, swayed by his logic. "C'mon Yusuke, she's your friend, right?"

"We have an assortment of classes together," Yusuke replies. "Were we close friends, I would still not subject her to your advances."

"Bro, come on. We're pals, man."

"We are in church," Yusuke hisses.

"I ain't religious," Ryuji points out.

"If God is real," Akira says. "I think what you're doing is a damnable offense. So drop it, Ryuji."

"She is here to pray for luck in her coming match," Yusuke says. "And we should not disturb her."

"What, is she a track star or something?"

"Nothing so crude," Yusuke says.

"Hey, who're you calling crude?" Ryuji demands.

Yusuke continues, ignoring the response to his provocation. "She is a master shogi player. Top tier, in fact."

"In what?" Ryuji asks. "The school?"

"No, the country."

"For real?" Ryuji demands, at full volume.

The three boys turn to the girl as Ryuji's voice echoes through the chapel. She stares back at them.

"Sorry," Akira says, and seizes Ryuji by the arm. "Our friend is often loud in inappropriate places."

"Indeed," Yusuke says, hustling Ryuji out of the pew. "It takes several moments for his brain to catch up with his mouth."

"I'm not-" Ryuji protests, but then they're in the aisle, hustling for the door. "Good luck in your match," he calls back.

Once outside, Ryuji shakes off the grip of the others and glowers. "Geez, man. I was just askin'. She was cute, and I wanted to meet her. You didn't need to be a dick."

"Togo-chan is notoriously non-approachable," Yusuke replies. "And besides, I would think our present duties leave us little in the way of room for romance."

Ryuji nudges Akira with his elbow. "I don't know. Try askin' this guy."

Akira raises his hands in surrender. "Yeah, but you saw how that turned out."

The three deflate a bit until Yusuke straightens and says, "I am glad we had this discussion, but I am afraid I have an engagement I must attend. Could you two sees yourselves off campus?"

"You don't have a date, do you?" Ryuji asks.

"I do not."

"He just said he doesn't have time for romance," Akira says, putting an arm around Ryuji's shoulder and dragging him away. "We'll talk soon, Yusuke. If I've got news, I'll call on you know what."

"Understood," Yusuke says and nods as his friends leave.

#

Yusuke shifts in his seat. A few beads of sweat roll down his neck, and catch in his collar.

One would think air conditioning a priority in this kind of establishment.

Given the unoccupied space, it should not be so hot.

The priest continues his chant, his tone more bored than ecclesiastical. Yusuke hardly blames him.

Madarame's wake is embarrassingly unattended. Yusuke had entered, adorned in a second-hand suit he'd purchased at a thrift store in Yongen-jaya, complete with black tie. The shirt's collar does not fit properly. It squeezes around his neck, and Yusuke feels the seed of a headache forming in the center of his skull.

Yusuke knows he should feel no pride in himself, given the circumstances. Attending this wake had not been a difficult choice. Even so, he'd kept it a secret from the rest of the Phantom Thieves. One day, he believed, they'd understand.

Well... perhaps not Ryuji.

This is something he must do. For all the complications revolving around his relationship with the man, Madarame raised him. Madarame cared for him - admittedly in a twisted way - and sheltered him (in a series of ramshackle buildings).

Yusuke looks to his left and right. The chairs remain empty.

Madarame's friends from the art world.

His associates.

His fans.

His girlfriends.

No one had come.

How quickly they abandoned you, Sensei.

Yusuke sighs and then becomes concerned over the volume of said sigh. But the sutra continues and continues, uninhibited.

Then, it ends.

Yusuke stands and turns toward the exit. From his vague recollection of his mother's wake and funeral, he knows that more tends to happen. But as Madarame had no family, there's nothing left to undertake.

Yusuke blinks in surprise.

A young man sits in the back of the room. His eyes stare at the floor behind a pair of glasses. The conservative haircut of an office employee sits atop his head. A threadbare suit faded from too many washings hangs off his shoulders.

The man glances up, meets Yusuke's eyes, and looks away.

Yusuke steps up to him. "Hello."

The man lets out a long breath and stands. "Good afternoon."

They lapse into silence. Behind them, the priest grumbles something just out of earshot.

The man wets his lips. "I only heard the end of the prayer. It seemed... nice."

Yusuke shrugs. "I suppose. Were you an associate of Madarame-sensei's?"

A look crosses the man's face. A flicker of rage that dies into exhaustion. "I was. Some time ago."

Yusuke inclines his head. "I did not expect anyone else to come. My name's Yusuke Kitagawa."

The man blinks in surprise, and a small smile flits across his lips. "It took a long time for me to decide. I'm Natsuhiko Nakanohara."

Yusuke's eyes widen. Part of him wants to reach out and grab the man's hands. It was, after all, this man who put Akira and the others onto Madarame's trail. Without his direction, Yusuke would remain beneath Sensei's tutelage.

He suppresses the urge. Akira spoke with him - at length - about the need for secrecy and anonymity. Takemi and now Ohya knew at least some of their identities, and the fewer that did, the better.

But Yusuke knows he must say something. "Were you," he mutters, clears his throat, and continues, "one of Sensei's former apprentices?"

Nakanohara sticks his hands in his pockets. "Yes, I was. It's been a few years now." He chuckles without mirth. "A few bad years."

Yusuke doesn't pry. He's heard enough about Nakanohara's Shadow from the others. "If I may ask," he continues. "Why did you come today?"

Nakanohara looks beyond Yusuke, toward the front of the room. "Madarame's dead. This is what you do when people die, right?"

Yusuke frowns. "And yet, it would appear we are the only two aware of that tradition."

Nakanohara’s face scrunches up, and he pries his eyes back to the ground. "It's..." He trails off, then scowls. "He was a piece of shit."

Yusuke has grown accustomed to vulgar vocabulary, thanks to Ryuji, but to hear such a phrase in this place feels sacrilegious. He is about to open his mouth to protest when Nakanohara continues. "He threw me out into the street. He stole all my work. He made me hate art. He starved me, and I didn't even realize he was doing it until after.

"Still. I can't help but feel responsible, to a degree, for this." He nods back towards the dais.

"Responsible?" Yusuke asks. "You didn't..." he stumbles over the next word, "kill him."

Nakanohara shrugs once more. "Maybe." He glances around, as if they weren't the only two in the room. Yusuke notices the priest has stepped out of the room. "But I told the Phantom Thieves about Madarame. They went after him because I asked them to. They made him confess his crimes, and then..." He takes his hands from his pockets and spreads them as if to say, 'You know.' “If I hadn’t sent them after Madarame, he never would’ve confessed. Then, that kid wouldn’t have stabbed him to death.”

Yusuke isn't sure what to say. Should I feign ignorance? Something else? He chooses his following words carefully. "Well, I feel that I should thank you."

Nakanohara frowns. "Thank me?"

He nods. “I don't think I would've had the insight, nor the awareness, to free myself."

Nakanohara's frown doesn't leave his face, but his features soften. "You don't have to thank me, Kitagawa.”

"No. I do." He bows. "I wish it did not end this way, Nakanohara-san, but thank you for helping me."

When he straightens, there's a small smile and blush on the man's face. "Well, I guess, you're welcome."

"And," Yusuke puts in. "It should be noted that I am not alone. All of Madarame's present pupils have been freed from his clutches. And those who have already been cast aside have been vindicated."

Nakanohara's smile fades. He looks back towards the dais once more. "I wonder about that." Yusuke says nothing and waits for him to continue. "When I heard the news the other day, I was happy the Phantom Thieves had succeeded. But I don't know. I didn't feel better about anything." He sighs. "It just feels like it's convenient for people to believe that Madarame was a bad person. But I've been saying it for years. I'm sure others have been saying the same thing, but no one listened then. Now, well, look around. No one's here but us. No one cares. It just feels like believing Madarame was a good person was the thing to do. And now it's believing that he wasn't a good person." He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, a gesture Yusuke has seen Akira perform numerous times. "I don't know if I'm saying this right. It just feels so over and done. I guess I'm just not satisfied." Yusuke ponders this, but before he can say anything, Nakanohara turns his gaze to him and asks, "Are you?"

And to this, Yusuke can only say one thing. "No. I am not."

#

Airi exits the Harajuku Girls headquarters into the damp summer night. The sun set an hour earlier, and the lights of Tokyo blot out the stars. Airi once loved those lights. Once secured in her bearings, she pushes herself toward a dark alley between the Harajuku Girls building and the department store next door. Once within the shadows, Airi probes the darkness to ensure her solitude, then leans against the scabbed brick and slams her fist into the wall. Her nerves scream, but nothing breaks.

So she does it again. "Bastard," Airi hisses. "Bastard!"

How could she have been so stupid? Nothing was worth what that piece of shit wanted.

And I just went along with it! Why? I knew it was wrong, so why did I let him...

Airi slices off her line of thinking, unwilling to replay the images from moments earlier.

"Stupid," she whispers. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

People warned her about this industry. They told her how her career might devolve.

But Airi was just so mature and so smart, and she wouldn't let any of that nasty shit happen to her.

Airi sinks down the wall, and her blouse rolls up her back and sandpapers her skin. Her designer jeans rest in the alley's grime. She starts to wrap her arms around herself, but a deep revulsion overtakes her and makes her want to crawl out of her skin. "I can't," she says, and cannot determine what she means. "I can't."

"Meow," comes a sound.

Airi jerks and turns her head. A small black cat with a few tufts of white to his coat approaches her and stares into her eyes with a look she swears resembles sympathy.

Airi sniffles and reaches out a hand, slowly. The cat steps closer, sniffs her palm, and then rubs his head against it. Airi chokes out a laugh. "Aww, aren't you cute?" She rubs the cat's head and then reaches under his chin to scratch. The cat's eyes shut, and he purrs. "I did a really stupid thing, Mister Kitty Cat," Airi says. "And I'm really upset." The cat approaches, places a paw on her leg, and meows again. Airi nods. "Thanks. I appreciate it.

"But I don't know what I"m going to do. I could quit. But if I do, what's the point of what I just did? Oh god, doesn't that make me sound awful? What kind of person am I?" Airi squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head, and feels the cat's fur as he brushes himself against her leg. When her eyes open, the cat crouches down beside her. Airi takes out her phone and sighs. "I don't know, Mister Kitty Cat. What do you think I should do?" The cat meows. Airi smiles. "Maybe I should ask the Phantom Thieves for help. Think they're real?"

The cat's tail flicks, and Airi's phone flies from her hands. "Hey," Airi calls, as the cat jumps, snatches the phone in his jaw, and darts away. Airi jumps to her feet. "Come back here!"

The cat drops the phone a few yards away, and Airi closes the distance quickly. The cat, hunched over the phone's screen, scurries away as Airi extends a hand to catch him. She curses, kneels, and picks up her phone. Airi stares at the screen. Earlier, she'd queued open her Message app, intending to text her friend.

"Weird," she says.

The cat's claws evidently clicked their way across the screen. Incomprehensible described most of the text, but the characters came together in the center to make a few legible words.

apoasdwedsjwefLEAVETOUSfudobakuwn

"No way," Airi whispers. She deletes the text and puts the phone back in her purse. She can't remember what she intended to text anyway. She peers into the shadows, but the cat is gone.

#

"I see," Yusuke says.

"It's confirmed," Akira says, through the phone. "The manager and the coach. Both."

"But you only want a poem for the manager?"

"That's right. I told you my idea for the coach."

"Understood. I'll begin at once."

Akira hangs up his burner.

6/4

Kaito Miura throws open the door to his office, struts inside, and slides into his desk chair. He reclines, a position he often finds himself in and stares at the ceiling.

Life is good, he thinks.

The dividends he anticipated from the blitzkrieg he initiated within the Tokyo modeling scene weren't only materializing; they were exploding. The models from Harajuku Girls shimmer across the covers of magazines, billboards, and even commercials. A few even caught the eye of talent agents, and Miura nearly inhales the aroma of lucrative contracts. Some of his favorites might scurry up the chain, but Miura facilitates happily as long as he gets what he wants.

The girls may be the face, but Miura is brain and body both. Even since assuming control of this agency, Miura wanted more than his competitors. He needed to erupt onto the scene and make a real name for himself. Of course, the occasional blowjob didn't hurt, either.

Really, luck shined on the girls. Had they a less competent manager, not one would secure a deal. Some couldn't handle the pressure, like that idiot Mika Aizata. He didn't anticipate she'd have such an extreme reaction to the spotlight's duties. Well, whatever. She was in the hospital, therapy, or wherever and no longer his problem.

Miura leans forward and checks the mail his secretary deposited earlier that morning. Nothing catches his eye, save for a small red envelope. Curious, Miura slides his finger through the crease and opens it.

A small Card falls onto his desk. Miura's eyes widen. He recognizes the top-hat symbol.

Dear Kaito Miura, the sleaze of Harajuku Girls,

You've preyed upon your last innocent. We know what you've done to the models who work for you, insisting they trade sexual favors for your assistance. Your twisted desires have hurt the people around you and ruined lives. That's why we're going to steal those desires from you. You will confess to your crimes and use your profits for compensation. Prepare yourself.

Signed,

The Phantom Thieves of Hearts

Miura shakes his head. "Ridiculous." Ruined lives? He's done nothing of the sort. Everyone's responsible for their actions, aren't they? Those girls chose to give themselves over to him. It's not his fault. Why not get compensation for the hard work he did on their behalf?

Miura crumples up the Card and tosses it into his waste bin. "Not happening."

Miura doesn't care what these so-called 'Phantom Thieves' are capable of; they have nothing on him. Whatever they'd pulled on that gym teacher and that Madarame painter, they couldn't do the same on Miura. They weren't magic. Miura never sent a text, never sent an email, took a photo, nothing. All his exploits occurred within his office, his secure office.

Miura flips on his computer and logs into his email, intent on putting the matter behind him. Within his inbox are dozens of emails from business associates.

Subject: You need to see this

Subject: Are you nuts?

Subject: Cancelling Contract

Subject: Termination of Support Regarding Your...

"What the hell?" Miura asks, and opens the first email. It contains little text but a link to some site called 'Devil's Dispatch.' He follows the link and finds a photo of himself in a very unprofessional position. The girl's face is blurred. His isn't.

The headline reads, 'Scumbag Boss Get Paid a Different Way.'

"Fuck," Miura whispers. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

How did someone see that? His building stands taller than those around it, and the thin windowsill offers no purchase. So how could someone reach the outside of his office with a camera?

Miura tears his eyes from the computer and reaches into his garbage bin. "No, it can't be." He removes the crumpled-up piece of red paper and smooths it out.

Across the city, deep within Mementos, a Shadow fully materializes.

#

Yamauchi's phone vibrates just as he heads out for lunch. He pulls it from his pocket and checks the message. Unknown number? Clicking his tongue, Yamauchi opens the message and reads.

Dear Shouhei Yamauchi, the wannabe Kamoshida,

You use the track team for your own ends. We will not let you. We will steal your Heart.

-The Phantom Thieves

"What the hell?" Yamauchi asks. A prank, surely. From one of the students on the track team. Nakaoka, most likely. Why would the Phantom Thieves target him? He hadn't even done anything. Who cares about his intentions with the track team? They weren't illegal or even unethical. Besides, he received a text message, not a Calling Card. If the Phantom Thieves did try something, Yamauchi would go to the police. Undoubtedly the cops possessed some device or software to identify the source of such messages. Yamauchi chuckles, shakes his head, and slides the phone back into his pocket.

#

Akira twists the burner phone in half and tosses the broken pieces into a garbage can in Roppongi. A few minutes later, his second burner rings. He answers.

"It's there," Ann says.

Morgana sensed Yamauchi's materialized Shadow. Akira smiles, switches off his burner, and begins the trek back to Shibuya.

#

"The form of the Calling Card doesn't matter," Joker says, as the Mona-mobile plunges deeper into Mementos. "So long as we trigger the idea, the Shadow manifests."

"Still," Panther says, lounging in the backseat. "Wasn't that a risk? Sending Yamauchi a text like that?"

"From a burner," Joker reminds her. "A burner that's already broken and disposed of."

"It gets us around the Shujin problem though, right?" Skull asks, sitting beside Joker in the passenger seat. "If we want to change a heart, we could tell em to their face, or call on the phone."

"Let's not go crazy with it," Mona replies, his voice filtering into the bus. "The Calling Card is, well, our Calling Card. The public doesn't have the same reaction if we don't use it. Besides, I don't think walking up to someone and saying, 'I'm gonna steal your heart, hahaha,' will go over well."

"Yeah, I get that," Skull replies. "But it's good to know we've got the option. If we're in a pinch and can't smuggle a Calling Card to someone, we could send a text like Joker did."

"That's only if we really need to change someone's heart," Joker says. "Without the public being aware of the change, it won't build their knowledge and awareness of us. It'll help us work with Shujin people as well."

Fox gasps.

"What's wrong?" Joker asks.

"If the form does not matter, then even my works of art may be used to facilitate the manifestation of the Shadow." He places his gloved hands against his head and appears to swoon. "My mind brims with the possibilities."

"Great," Panther mutters. "Your plan broke Fox. Again."

"I agree with Joker," Mona cuts in, before Fox plunges off whatever ledge he's found. "We only use this as a last resort. In this case, it helps us to avoid alerting the public we're targeting Yamauchi, a teacher at Shujin."

"Meanwhile," Skull says, smirking. "Everyone thinks we're dealing with Miura."

"Well, we are dealing with Miura," Panther replies. "That bastard needs a good ass kicking."

"And he'll get one," Joker promised. "But first, we change Yamauchi's heart. Then we find Miura. We don't want Yamauchi to show anyone the Calling Card before we get the chance to take him down."

"Are we getting any closer?" Skull asks, peering into the gloom of Mementos.

"I'm working on it, geez," Mona mutters. "I'm not exactly traveling at the speed of light here."

The drive takes another few minutes before they reach one of the lower tunnels, and descend deeper. Joker studies the walls as they pass, and his mind replays the dream from the other night. The tall bones of Mementos remind him of the strange scape in which he found himself. Fragments of the dream return to him, and he shoves them aside and only tells himself he needs to focus.

The walls of Mementos continue to close over them as Mona continues to truck deeper, white specters stretching over them like branches.

#

Yamauchi's Shadow bursts into a bubble of smoke and ash and congeals upon the floor. Then, slowly, the desiccated and disheveled figure of the new track coach rises.

"Just leave me alone," the Shadow moans. "I'm just trying to-"

"Yeah, we don't care about the sob story," Joker says, and places his gun against the Shadow's temple. "Skull?"

"You're gonna resign as the track team coach at Shujin, got it?" Skull asks. "But not before doing your very best to find a suitable replacement. Someone who'll give a shit. You should make the case to the Principal and whoever else that they should take over the team. Understand?"

"Yes," the Shadow responds, and nods. "I do. I understand. I will-"

"One more thing," Joker says, as the Shadow starts to fade into the light. "Don't tell anyone you received a Calling Card from the Phantom Thieves. Delete the texts on your phone and never talk about them again. Got it?"

The Shadow looks almost confused, but it nods and fades away.

The Treasure materializes above the head of where the Shadow had stood, and Skull reaches up and snatches it down. "Look at that," he says, turning around and showing it to the others.

"What is that?" Fox asks.

"Looks like a pair of old running shoes," Skull mutters. "I don't know. Maybe the guy was a track star back in his day."

"Think they're worth anything?" Panther asks.

Skull shakes his head. "A beat-up old pair like this? Nah." He regards the Thieves and smiles. "Yo, but for real, thanks for your help with this one, guys. I really appreciate it."

Panther smirks. "No worries, Skull. I'm just hoping you'll stop talking about it now." Her face grows serious. "Now that we've dealt with Yamauchi, let's make our way over to Miura's Shadow."

Joker nods. "Mona, do your thing."

A puff of smoke and Mona transforms into the bus once more.

"Let's roll," the cat calls.

#

Miura fields calls from his business partners all day, not to mention the many enraged calls from the parents and guardians of some of the minor models. In response to the Devil's Dispatch article, a few additional girls contacted his office and requested their contracts terminated.

In a handful of hours, Miura's life crumbles.

His heart hammers in his chest, and he throws his keyboard across the room. What is he supposed to do?

I'll find whoever leaked this, and I'll kill them, his mind screams, but even he knows this is an empty threat. Still, there must be something he can-

Something spreads through Miura like a flush. Images of all the girls he's hurt flash through his mind, and for the first time, he recognizes the look of shame and fear in their eyes.

He runs out of his office, into the bathroom, slams the stall door shut, and vomits into the toilet.

Miura remains in the stall for a few minutes, muttering to himself, the cacophony of ringing phones a backdrop to his words. Finally, he stands and drags himself back to his office. He disconnects whatever calls wait for him and dials the police.

At no point does his mind turn to the Phantom Thieves.