Chapter Text
“I know,” She tries to make sure her voice doesn’t crack when the words come out. She tells herself that she’s doing a good job at being convincing and keeping it together, as evidenced by how foreign her own voice comes across to her own ears. “I understand, sir. November 20th—that’s when I’ll kill him.”
“Good,” Shido Masayoshi’s skewed grin is audible in the word alone. She presses her phone closer to her ear to avoid dropping it. “Do your utmost. We all expect the very best from you, Yoshizawa Kasumi.”
Her mouth fills with bitterness. He always uses her full name, pronouncing each syllable as if it’s a command in and of itself.
She doesn’t know why. He only ever does it to her. For as odd as it is that he refers to his own son by his last name, it’s never each delicate syllable in ‘Akechi Goro’, it is just that: Akechi is simply Akechi, Maruki is simply Maruki, and most people aren’t given names at all.
“Yes, sir. I promise I’ll live up to your expectations.”
As a name, ‘Yoshizawa Kasumi’ is significant for reasons Shido cannot know.
He doesn’t: Maruki wouldn’t lie to her. He never does.
She tacks on, “I know that they all trust me. I promise that we’ll succeed.”
“Good. I look forward to the coming weeks.”
The reorder tone rings out into her ear before she can speak. Shido’s tone had felt so soured, and she always hates it vastly more when he’s sober. At least when drunk, he’s far more blunt—giving less empty validation.
She hates it. She hates how he speaks. She hates how she believes that Shido actually counts on her. She hates the empty house. She hates this bedroom.
Every day is like this. She slams her back flat onto the mattress and flings her phone onto the floor.
She tries to forget that no aspect of this bedroom is hers at all. It belongs to a corpse—one that everyone sees when they look at her, because she asked for it—and she still wants it for as much as she loathes it.
People address Yoshizawa Sumire by a full name that can never be engraved onto a tombstone—and it’s all her fault.
She should have died in that crash.
Shido’s voice always hits her with the urge to take a shower. She feels covered in slime and dirt from it, and she doubts that any amount of soap and hot water can cleanse her from the feeling.
Though she already took one, she considers taking another. And another. And⸺
Pressing her hands flat against her eyes, she tries not to retch, and bites her lip.
And, then, when Sumire is finally done trying to press her eyes into sawdust, she hears her phone ring out again, announcing its presence with unending buzzes. She bites down even harder on her lip, and sinks her teeth even deeper when she tastes blood. Her phone continues erupting with unending noise.
She fully expects it to be Shido again. He must have forgotten something—nobody else has much cause to call her, even though Futaba repaired her (not hers—Kasumi’s) water-damaged phone only a few weeks prior.
She can’t ignore him. He would never let her.
Alternatively, it could be Maruki. Somehow, that seems even less appealing—not that it should. Maruki is kind. She’s truly indebted to him. It’s foolish to be so ungrateful.
Still, even so, when she picks the device up from the carpet, she’s relieved to see that it’s Akira’s name which ceremoniously lights up her screen. She finds herself pressing the answer button almost immediately, just before it can go to voicemail.
“Kasumi. Hi.” His voice comes across monotone—as usual—but she still hears the smile in it.
“Hey, senpai. What’s going on?”
When relief abates, she feels overwhelming guilt.
Akira has two weeks left to live.
“So, ‘m asking everyone when they’re around to do the palace infiltration. We’ve got a couple weeks, but with your schedule…”
Two weeks. Two weeks.
But, no, guilt isn’t right. It’s so that they can build a perfect reality—one where Akira won’t have to worry about being a Phantom Thief or about his probation. One where their whole group can be normal and part of society like they always wanted to be, like they always should have been from the start: so it’s really for their betterment.
So, in two weeks it won’t matter.
“Um, yes! I’ve actually got a lot of free time at the moment,” The metallic taste in her mouth hasn’t gone away. Sumire only has free time because Shido is letting her. “I’ll let you know if that changes, but any day works, so please don’t worry about me!”
In two weeks, Akira will never have to think again—and, shortly after that, nobody will have to.
It’s not death. It’s happiness.
Isn’t it?
“Right,” He says, and a smile can be heard at the edge of his voice, “great, good to know. I’ll hold you to that.”
The ends justify the means.
Giggling, Sumire tries to do exactly what she does best, and tries to forget, “Of course!”
“Mm. That’s all, I’ll let you sleep. Thanks, Kasumi.”
Don’t think about those things. They can be ignored. “Goodbye, senpai!”
And, of course, she doesn’t succeed.
She hangs up before Akira can respond, draws her knees up towards her chest, and shuts her eyes, all in quick succession. Watching colours splay out across her eyelids, Sumire doesn’t move, and keeps analysing the remnants of the light of her phone screen that had burnt into her retinas until everything turns black.
Still, she does not sleep. There are some things that are too loud in her mind for that, and other things that feel far too twisted and urgent for her to finally switch off.
Think about tomorrow, the near future, she thinks—because that’s what Maruki has suggested before for insomnia. Sunday gymnastics, and one errand to run.
Think about normal things. Think about normal problems.
‘I can’t do anything about it now,’ is what she recites in her head as if it were an invocation, if only because it implies that she can do something about it later.
It’s a silly thought—of course she can do something, because she already is. It’s because of her Persona that she can change things, and it’s because of Maruki that she will be able to free everyone as well as herself.
Right?
Normal things. Ordinary problems.
Third place won’t suffice at the next meet, not like July.
Usual concerns. Typical lives.
Shido has no idea about Maruki’s plans.
‘Hardly a normal thing to worry about,’ Hel comments, of which it never does, and Sumire buries her face deeper into her knees instead of deigning her Persona with a response.
She only stops trying to think of ordinary things when she falls asleep right there, with her forehead still on her knees and unmoving.
Sumire wakes up at 6AM sharp to the shrill sound of her phone alarm with a stiff back that can only act as a bad omen. It was an awful position to sleep in.
It’s fine. She stretches out the cricks in her back though the ache shows little to no signs of vanishing. Weirdly, though, it isn’t that bad—she’s almost certain that she’s slept in worse positions. Gymnastics will help with the pain.
Probably.
It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It’s a mundane concern.
That’s a good thing, then—it’s a sign that things are on the up and up.
Surely.
The rest of the morning remains a blur: she knows that she pulls on her activewear, tugging on her sport jacket, and ties her hair back into a tight bun. For once, she ditches the ribbon, but doesn’t remember what the thought process was. She wasn’t really there at all.
She tries not to think.
Sumire watches herself fulfil the motions. She observes herself eating food, but she doesn’t taste it—she knows it has protein, and she knows that it will act as fuel for her workout, and that alone is enough. It doesn’t taste salty, nor savoury, nor sweet—it just is, and she watches herself eat it.
And, Sumire watches herself open her phone to check the train schedule. She watches herself forget to check her text messages. She watches.
Listening to her own thoughts, and yet ignoring them all the same.
She watches herself screw her own eyes shut. Yet, she is, and she does screw them shut, precisely because she is.
An hour goes by of observing someone else. Observing Yoshizawa Kasumi, because that’s who all of these people speak to. That’s who each one of those unread texts are addressed to. She doesn’t think about Sumire, because such a name is known only to herself and the person who let her body become someone else’s.
She is observing a dead girl walking who rents her skin. It is her, and yet it isn’t, and it’s all⸻
hey, sumi, if ur around tonite, can i see u?
Sent exactly two hours ago. Sumire almost overlooks it.
Suddenly, she lurches back into herself, and the feeling is a little sickening. Air rushes into her ears. Her mouth really feels dry and there’s the vague aftertaste of something on her tongue—and she struggles to ignore her own thoughts, and feels herself start typing a response and—
—it’s strange. It’s not unusual for Futaba to message her, though things are much more spur-of-the-moment between them when they go on their outings together. This, though…?
Something about the way the message is phrased makes her gut twist.
Sumire types, and knows because she truly does.
i’m around ^-^
the usual spot??
A full day. Sumire would almost look forward to the evening if it weren’t for her own asinine concerns.
Still, still, it’s…
It’s good. It’s a good thing, then.
Yes. Sumire decides that it’s a good thing.
Gymnastics practice went by without feeling as though it went at all.
Her body still doesn’t move as she wishes it would, despite the fact that even Hiraguchi truly believes that she is Kasumi.
Maybe it was a fatal mistake to wish for what she did. The way Hiraguchi looks at her, assuming that she is the one who is actually a prodigy, the one who actually possesses a natural talent, unlike her lesser twin sister—it hurts.
She’s almost there. Once Akira dies, it’ll only be a matter of weeks.
Whenever Sumire listens to feedback, it isn’t her that any of those words are directed at. They’re directed at someone far more gifted, far more skilled, and far more admirable than she ever was or could hope to be. Yoshizawa Sumire is dead, and everyone sees Yoshizawa Kasumi, only performing so terribly out of grief—she knows that’s what they think, all because she’s heard their words a thousand times over.
It’s been 3 years and they still think ‘Kasumi’ is grieving.
To them, they are so convinced that it was Sumire whose limbs were broken out in pieces across the Scramble Crossing. To them, Kasumi is under-performing, just like her sister always did—right?
Yoshizawa Sumire was the lesser of two prodigies.
Yoshizawa Sumire isn’t real if nobody believes that she exists.
Even Futaba⸻
By the time Sumire snaps from her thoughts, she realises that she’s already right outside of Maruki’s clinic and is halfway up the steps on muscle memory alone. She scarcely remembers even getting on the train, let alone getting off of it.
The wind tousles through her hair that has now fallen halfway out of its bun, reminding her that winter really is starting to set in, and she pushes the door open in one movement.
Right. Her errand.
The waiting room is entirely devoid of people and sits there with a sterile, clinical white. She has no idea who cleans it at all, but, considering the state of Maruki’s personal office just down the hall, it definitely isn’t him. Presumably, it’s someone employed by Shido who also keeps an eye on him, but she can’t fathom what the thought process would be if they don’t touch his office, wherein his actual cognitive psience papers are.
Well, Maruki already seems to get the sense that Shido is desperate to keep an eye on him, thinly veiled beneath those ‘favours’ such as letting him open a clinic in the first place (just, notably, not the Odaiba lab that Maruki keeps talking about. Never the Odaiba lab.) as long as it just so happened to be less than five minutes away from the Tokyo Diet Building.
It doesn’t exactly take intelligence to figure out that Maruki is just one of Shido’s many, many pawns.
So is Sumire, in the end.
In spite of that, she never knows if Shido is aware of what Maruki’s intentions actually are. It’s unlikely, considering everything—Shido can’t possibly know about Maruki’s plans, but she has to wonder if he really finds Maruki to be obedient. He would be against the ideal reality, probably, and yet he seems almost convinced that he has Maruki completely under his thumb.
Though, they seem to have a much longer history than either of them are even remotely willing to let on.
It’s fine. Sumire takes more strides towards the end of the hallway, past the counselling rooms among the storage cupboards that she doesn’t even want to ask about, considering the more questionable objects Maruki keeps in his own office. For as much as Sumire has gotten used to the vats on Maruki’s desk, that does not, necessarily, mean that she wants to see them on the desk of her therapist, but she’s gotten used to it—thankfully most patients will stick to the counselling rooms.
It takes a very odd kind of person to stomach looking at brains in jars.
When Sumire opens the (unlocked) door to Maruki’s office, she, pointedly, makes an effort to avoid looking at them. Most people would, particularly with all of the tendrils covering them, practically suspending them in the vat more so than the fluid, alongside the names embossed on the bottom.
She just needs to collect one of the empty vats. It’s labelled—Maruki already told her that now was the time.
Truth be told, Sumire has no idea why he’s out of office in the first place. Nobody is receiving therapy today, given the relative silence coming from the counselling room without even a muffled fragment of Maruki’s voice, and Maruki is never busy.
Weirdly, she’s glad he’s doing something. Sometimes it feels more like she’s his therapist, and he’s admitted on a number of occasions that he feels as if he’s wasting his life away.
The cupboard with empty vats is at the back of the room—when she opens it, she realises that the number in there must have doubled, maybe even tripled, since the last time Maruki showed her its contents.
At the front, somewhere near the middle. That’s the location she was told not two days prior.
And, sure enough, it’s there: a black, metallic, empty vat with ‘Kurusu Akira’ embossed in gold on the front, directly next to every other vat of a similar colour. The rest are all white—for a long time, it was only Sumire’s vat which was of a dark colour.
She scans the names: ‘Okumura Haru’, ‘Sakamato Ryuji’, ‘Takamaki Ann’⸻
‘Sakura Futaba’.
The names of every Phantom Thief. It’s hardly surprising that Futaba is included, but it still manages to make her breath hitch, and⸺
‘Akechi Goro’, in the same black colour.
But he’s not…?
Sumire shakes her head. She was only there to pick up Akira’s vat, rather than to gawk at the contents of the cupboard. As soon as she slams the door shut, she shoves Akira’s vat to the bottom of her gymnastics bag, below her baton and the activewear she already changed out of, and resolves to make a beeline out of there as soon as possible.
Every time she walks through that corridor, she swears it gets longer.
When she leaves the clinic, some sort of relief washes over her. She tries not to think about what she’s going to have to use the vat for in two weeks’ time.
Instead, she focuses on heading to her and Futaba’s usual spot. The trains should be running every five minutes or so.
Time somehow feels folded. Tied in knots around her neck and readying itself to tighten. Two weeks could be in two minutes, for all she knows.
“Kasumi?”
The timing borders on comical.
Sumire almost judders out of her own skin at the mess of black hair that she could not have pinpointed within a crowd, despite having just been thinking about him. Moreover, she almost fails to notice that he’s not alone.
“Ah, Akira-senpai, Akechi-san! Um, you two…?”
“We’re acquainted, yes,” Akechi smiles pleasantly, face contorting unnaturally to more innocent shapes—compensating for the gesture. It takes one to know one; Akechi’s presence is always close to a bitter reminder.
Close to.
Why did he have a black vat, anyway? Akechi can’t possibly know about the Metaverse if he’s the one investigating the mental shutdowns—surely.
“Oh! Senpai really does know everyone, doesn’t he?”
“Indeed.”
Akira raises an eyebrow and looks between the two of them hesitantly, opting to not so much as breathe audibly. Sumire poises herself to answer the unspoken question, but Akechi is faster:
“I told you once that I did a few, ah, stints on television, didn’t I? Yoshizawa-san’s father is the director of Good Morning Japan, so we’ve met a couple of times in the past.” He lifts a gloved hand to chuckle, “That said, it has been a while.”
Sumire has always wondered about that, admittedly. If Akechi is under Shido’s thumb, then why did he instruct Good Morning Japan’s president to get him out of the limelight as soon as possible? She remembers when it happened like it was yesterday—and yet she still just can’t make sense of it. She knows that Shido seldom changes his mind, and she’s sure that Maruki would agree if she asked him⸻
She tries not to let the question show on her face. She isn’t sure if it’s working.
It’s always hard to tell.
Akira pulls at his bangs and nods in affirmation. Another thing that Sumire can’t seem to discern is whether or not there’s some kind of bad blood between Akira and Akechi, because they both seem so very stilted.
“Um,” She opens, eloquently, “And how did you two meet?”
As if on some kind of cue, Akira avoids looking her in the eye. Sumire’s throat closes up as she distantly wonders if she’s done something to upset him, fearing the worst, or if it’s some kind of effect Akechi has on him. How much does Akechi truly know about her? How much does Akechi know about Shido—?
As such, it’s, unsurprisingly, not Akira who responds. “One of my colleagues recommended Leblanc’s coffee to me. When I got around to trying it out, it was Kurusu’s shift, and we just so happened to have some differing perspectives. It’s very rare for someone to challenge my arguments so openly, I must say, so friendship was the only natural step, really.”
There’s something a little bit ironic in the sentiment: Sumire is unconvinced that she’d call the way they stiffly stand shoulder-to-shoulder ‘friendship’.
Well, Akechi is quite…
“I see! You two must have hit it off really quickly, then.”
“I would say so,” Akechi forces out. His words sound plastic and it leaves a bitter taste in Sumire’s mouth. She bites her tongue as the pair seem to lull.
Then, she notices it: Akira’s bag is still.
Morgana isn’t there.
Just what is…?
“Well,” She reflects Akechi’s stiff, stuck-on smile—teeth and all—and bows out of courtesy, keeping her movement graceful. “I’m sure you both have plans, so I won’t keep you. It was nice seeing both of you!”
Akechi’s smile only widens, as if trying to outdo her. Sumire’s gut churns. Akira is barely there at all.
His eyes are so much more vacant than usual. There’s something embedded within his aimless gaze that only grows by the minute, and she’s almost certain that Akechi knows what it is.
“Likewise, and,” Sumire lets herself be snapped from her stupor by Akechi’s saccharine tone, tasting like empty calories. “given that we all know each other, it would be wonderful to go out as a group sometime, don’t you agree?”
Were Akechi anyone else, the question would have sounded sarcastic. It’s still difficult to tell if it is, though, because Akechi’s mask seems to have been long since stapled to his face.
“Yes, I agree!”
Akechi’s face barely changes, and Akira practically shrinks into himself. “Well then, we’ll be off. Have a wonderful rest of your day, Yoshizawa-san.”
Akechi practically has to grab Akira’s wrist to get him to move, and she can only frown to herself as the they melt back into the horde of names and faces. Sumire shifts uncomfortably in her own skin—something about both of them is so hollowed-out and superficial, and when she thinks back to how Akira spoke to her on the phone the previous evening, the difference is practically night and day.
Trying to ignore the way that Akechi only grows stranger the more she knows about him, she digs her fingernails into her wrist before staring back at the gravel, shutting her eyes, and beelining towards the train station. It’ll be nice to see Futaba.
She’s still scared.
She wonders if she, too, could disappear into the crowd as if she never existed if she wished for it enough.
But, no, utopia will come soon. Those thoughts are useless when faced with an impending new reality.
How nice it would be, to remain unthinking—an unknowing pawn.
When Sumire leaves the train station, it’s as busy as usual. People walk around in groups, talking and laughing, and deciding what restaurants, arcades, and shops they want to visit. She can hear every chuckle from the people around her, and every word both of praise and of cruelty.
Because they’re all the same, in the end.
Their ‘usual spot’ is in one of the back alleys in Kichijoji—towards the back, away from the street vendors and shops, where there are rows of parallel empty lots. A ladder leads to a rooftop, where plenty of people roaming the other sets of back alleys can be seen, and are none the wiser to how insignificant they are when reduced to a face in the crowd.
Very few people come there, and it rarely attracts crime, either.
Though, Sumire has always wondered, deep down, if her view is tainted.
She used to always come here with Kasumi after practice.
They’d get ice cream, laugh about how Hiraguchi was more soft than she would ever dare to let on, and let hours go by. It’s always been a… special place.
Sumire couldn’t face the rooftop after that March. She couldn’t face Shibuya, either, because all she would see was Kasumi’s splattered and twisted limbs splayed out and ripped over the crossing—the life she stole, carelessly, all because she was too selfish.
It’s impossible to count how many times she’s been told not to think that way: by her father, by her mother, by Maruki.
By Futaba.
She has to make up for it. Sumire has to make sure that Kasumi was the one who lived, even if it means living a lie.
No, no—if she really felt that way, she would have asked Maruki to bring her back. She would have asked Maruki to let them live together as sisters again. She knows what she really wants and, better than anyone, she is grossly aware of the hideous truth.
It was Futaba who allowed her to return to the rooftop again without feeling so…
Once she reaches the end of the back alley, Futaba is already waiting for her. When Sumire checks the time, it’s evident that they’re both early.
Her legs tremble and she reaches a light jog to cover the small distance, “Ah, Futaba-chan! Sorry, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting…?”
Sumire’s voice threatens to break under high-pressure. Futaba suddenly goes pale, staring straight through her as if she’s a phantom who can’t really be there.
It’s apprehension: Sumire knows because it’s an expression that Futaba has worn far too many times—the first time they met and all the times Futaba has asked whether they’re really allowed to be there.
Her face hasn’t contorted like this in weeks. Perhaps even months—it’s getting harder for Sumire to interpret the passage of time.
She’s going to be sick. What if she’s done something…?
What if Futaba knows that⸻
“Futaba…?” Involuntary. She can’t gauge whether her fears show or not.
“Um! Yes!” Something snaps back into place. Futaba’s response is immediate. “Sorry, I was just…”
As Futaba trails off, Sumire feels her body revert back to a state of normalcy. Tension practically rolls out of her shoulders: it’s going to be okay.
And, Sumire lets herself smile and giggle, childishly in spite of everything, “Shall we?”
She holds out her hand, and Futaba clings to it. It’s their routine—and it’s one they’ve grown used to.
They wordlessly venture up the ladder and across the rooftop, perching onto the far edge where they can watch people bustling far away, none the wiser to their presence. Kasumi always liked it there—she was the one who found it.
This is just another thing Sumire has stolen.
“So,” Sumire drawls out the vowel to try to drown out her own mind, and it doesn’t work, “What did you wanna talk about?”
It would be a lie to say that she isn’t worried—everything still feels out of the blue and wrong. Everything with Akira, Akechi, and Maruki’s office, and how everything is starting to go just a little bit too fast⸻
She should have bought a new lucky charm. That would help, surely it would—why didn’t she? Why didn’t—?
“I… I dunno, to be honest, I guess I missed you…?” It’s always like a light in the dark with Futaba—her voice manages to bring shocking clarity that almost terrifies Sumire to her very core. “Want… The final frontier…”
Her thoughts are all foolish. Sumire lets herself giggle, again, and it has such heavy contrast on the back of all of her worries and fears, particularly with the innocence it bears even to her own ears. It makes sense—that’s how Kasumi would laugh: it would be innocent, naive, and kind. Those are all traits that Sumire does not possess.
Not for a lack of trying.
Wind rushes through her ears, and it’s nice. Sumire thinks that she could get used to this, or perhaps that she already has gotten used to this, in the midst of every outing and every journey together.
This is what the new reality will feel like, she thinks, and it’s the exact same thing that she reminds herself of every time. It’s worth fighting for this reality no matter the casualties.
If every day can be like this for everyone, then…
“What are we?”
Huh?
Did she hear that right…?
Her thoughts end. Blood immediately rushes to her head and Sumire begins to feel like someone is pressing her face into a sensory hell of ice and boiling water that don’t cancel out. She’s probably gone brick red.
What does that even mean…?
Why?
Is that why Futaba asked her to come here?
Futaba looks up at her. She has to answer.
What do you even say to that!? “I-I mean… What⸺ What makes you bring that up…?”
God, Sumire’s throat is dry and her words are practically croaked out in the form of a mess of garbled syllables. Now, she’s probably purpling, if the colour on Futaba’s face is any indication.
“I⸺”
‘I killed your mother. I ruined your life.
‘Don’t ask me those questions. Please, please just— ask anyone else. You deserve someone else. Please.’
“I just—” Futaba squeaks. Her eyes snap away. Sumire feels herself going into overdrive. “I dunno. …Forget I asked.”
Sumire bites her tongue. She’s liked Futaba for a long time—well, as long as they could, considering how long they’ve actually known each other, but sometimes it feels like aeons. Sometimes, it feels like they’ve known each other for as long as time itself. It’s a ridiculous thought—Sumire isn’t sure if she believes in soulmates.
If such a thing does exist, she’s not Futaba’s soulmate. There’s just no way.
Though it may be a consequence of the deafening, ear-splitting silence, the wind suddenly feels very loud to Sumire’s ears. It’s agonising.
When she looks over at Futaba, she isn’t making any attempts to bolt away, which she thinks might be a semi-good sign. Despite that, she seems to be mulling something over, and every concern shows on her face though Sumire can only speculate on the what—it’s probably obvious, given what just happened not two minutes ago.
Sumire just can’t peel her eyes away. She wants to, but there’s something so captivating.
It’s something she can never have. There’s no point in thinking about it.
The first movement Futaba makes is puffing up her cheeks and slapping them; Sumire feels as though she shouldn’t have been gaping so openly, because Futaba suddenly looks like a deer in the headlights upon realising that she was being observed.
“I was just—” Futaba splutters, going rouge again, and she tries to calm her own tone “I. I have a question.”
Sumire tenses despite herself. “Um, yes…?”
“Can I—” Fidgeting. “Would you mind if I— uh,” Twitching. With the rest of the sentence, Futaba’s voice goes gradually quieter with each passing syllable, “kiss… you…”
“Wouldn’t you… prefer to do that with a boy?”
Sumire regrets the tentative words the second they leave her mouth, watching Futaba go even redder.
She needs to rectify that. “But it’s…! It’s not a no! I really want to, it’s just—” Fumbling.
“No! No! I shouldn’t have asked, I’m—”
“No, I want to,” Sumire suddenly manages to muster up her own conviction like nothing else matters—and, well, soon it won’t, not when the perfect reality has set in. In the end, ventures into the Metaverse will be nothing but a blip, “Please.”
She’s going to suffocate. The silence is practically deafening.
They’re both, most likely, similar shades of crimson.
Futaba shuffles closer towards her on the ledge and Sumire watches her suck in a breath before moving her face closer. Her breath hitches when she realises that they’re practically leg-to-leg while the back of her mind pangs with a thousand things that she, finally, is able to forget about.
It’s chaste—neither of them have any idea what they’re doing and it stays nothing more than just a peck. When they pull away the first time, Sumire watches Futaba unscrew her eyes open.
“Again…?” Sumire asks, tentatively, which earns her a nervous (though, she thinks it sounds happy) hum in response.
Neither of them make an advance to deepen it too far, and it’s fine that way precisely because the agreement was mutual, with no words needed to confirm the unspoken. It might just be the best thing she’s ever felt—Sumire finally feels warmth course through her body as embarrassment subsides.
It’s nice. It’s so nice.
“Um, I…” Futaba pulls back. Sumire can measure the horror in her expression, “I shouldn’t have— I—”
It was too nice.
Suddenly, Sumire realises that something is wrong. She must have overstepped a boundary somewhere—maybe she was just seeing things, maybe it wasn’t actually Futaba who leaned in first. Maybe⸻
“I— I bugged your phone.”
Wait.
Black spots fill her vision, and it covers Futaba’s face, who has practically recoiled.
“W-what…?”
She’s going to be sick.
“And I found those forums. The weird ones that, like, analysed freak accidents⸻”
“Why?” Sumire finds herself spluttering. She tries to sound collected but manages to come across desperate, “Is that why you asked me to come here?”
She might be raising her own voice. It’s so hard to tell.
“No! I—” Sumire doesn’t see Futaba, and yet she does, and everything is so fuzzy. Sumire sees herself. She sees herself think. She sees herself tremble. She sees⸻ “I mean, I…”
She was right. She wasn’t being irrational, it was all—
What was it that Maruki suggested, again…?
Breathe. She just needs to breathe—the advice was, and is, useless, granted, but maybe if she breathes through it enough, it’ll all turn out okay. Maybe if she breathes and breathes and breathes, it’ll all be over like it never started. Maybe if she breathes enough—
“I could’ve told everyone! Would you have preferred that!?”
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“I— dammit, I should’ve!”
Sumire’s chest heaves with each breath. She doesn’t think she’s crying—she hasn’t recently, not in a long time—but she feels cotton and wool covering her eyes and pressing themselves into her pores.
The air is dizzying.
She tries to look over, and Futaba only looks horrified, moving even farther from her on the ledge.
“I mulled over it for so long! There was never any question about it, it’s all so—” Futaba draws her knees up to her chest and looks away, “The answer was so obvious! But I just, I couldn’t…” she sucks in a breath, “I should hate you! Isn’t it stupid that i don’t!? It’s like something’s controlling me!” When Sumire hears the sound of a sob, her chest ruptures—now, it’s her turn to move away. “that’s such a stupid thing to say, I know, but still…!”
Controlling her…?
Sumire doesn’t know how to handle this. She’s not equipped for this. She never was.
It’s impossible for Maruki to be controlling Futaba. If Sumire doesn’t have access, then he can’t possibly—there’s no way he’s ever met Futaba in the first place.
…Right?
“…It’s for a good reason,” In truth, Sumire doesn’t know who she’s assuring anymore; the shake in her voice that she just can’t stop makes her sound infinitely less convincing, “…it won’t matter soon.”
Futaba’s voice drops lower, away from the shouting and closer to something hurt, “…Make sense. Just… I don’t know, make sense.”
Sumire’s hands are shaking—she smooths out her skirt, laces her fingers together, and prays that the sweat and tremors aren’t so evident. “I…”
When Futaba finally looks at her, Sumire hates the look in her eyes. She hates how red her cheeks are, and how glassy her eyes have become.
She hates that look of distrust.
But, no, it makes perfect sense. Sumire killed her mother. Sumire took her life away and tried to give it back two years later—two years too late.
‘I was just carrying out orders,’ hasn’t that been used to excuse countless crimes? How many more times will someone use that exact phrase to get away with ruining lives?
No, no—it’s temporary.
It’s temporary.
Maruki⸻
Time stops working for the umpteenth time. Sumire squeezes the fabric of her skirt, then reaches out towards Futaba wordlessly. It’s hardly surprising that she flinches, just a little bit.
Still, Sumire takes the sides of Futaba’s face gently, and finds that she doesn’t attempt to pull away. The same dreadful expression remains, wearing Futaba’s features, but there’s proof of something. Trust that definitely shouldn’t be there—but it’s there nonetheless, so that’s good, isn’t it?
Sumire’s hands start to feel like mush. She stays stiff. Futaba hardly moves into the touch, and even if Sumire felt that this was a good time to start displaying further physical affection, she isn’t sure if her hands would listen to her in this state.
“I… I work for someone. He can change reality as long as I help him. He’ll make all of your wishes come true,” They’re too stiff. Sumire’s voice goes horribly quiet, though she tries to return to her previous volume, “We can all be happy. ‘Sumire’ won’t exist, so your mom will come back like I never… like she didn’t…”
“And that’s why—” Futaba’s eyes snap away and her voice shakes with a sob that she tries hard to swallow, “That’s why you’re pretending to be your sister? Because you— you wished for it…?”
“…If I can become Kasumi, then it would make up for everything.”
Then, Futaba suddenly goes very pale, “B-but… but you’re— but—”
“It’s what I wished for, so…”
Everything goes silent. Stalemate.
“I— I won’t snitch,” Futaba inches out of Sumire’s grip, and she lets it happen. “On you. …To the others.”
Good. That’s good. Surely.
“I’m sorry.”
That won’t cut it. How could it possibly…? Sumire knows this the moment the words spill from her mouth—what do you even say to someone when you know you’re the one who ruined their life?
What do you say to someone in that situation knowing that you love them?
Are they supposed to just go down together like this…? Dragging each other down into a chasm of Sumire’s own creation? Is that fair on Futaba, who joined the Phantom Thieves precisely because she wanted to avenge her own mother?
Sumire feels sick. She feels horribly sick. She watches herself. She watches a dead girl walking.
She is not Yoshizawa Kasumi, nor is she Yoshizawa Sumire.
She is a means to an end—and she will die the second the new reality has replaced this one.
She cannot become Kasumi because, soon enough, she will not exist.
And that’s exactly how it should be.