... What the hell is it that you're in MY head for? Two words: get out.

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[Content warning for this chapter: kinda disturbing imagery, ngl. But it was worth it.]

. . . Y'know, you're not going to like it here. There are no excuses or sweet little sob stories—if that's what you're looking for. It's all just a pitiful pile of broken, ugly splinters of disappointment . . . Watch out, or you might just cut yourself.

It's true that, as a kid, there was nothing I wanted more than to be the hero. I'm not certain when it was that I discovered that, in this story, I was the villain. And villains don't get happy endings. I'm still going to get mine, though. Even if I have to claw it out of fate's clutches with my bare hands, I'll have it. No matter what it takes.

It is so much closer now. I stare at the display of my phone; it beams like a lone star in the dark apartment. I didn't turn on the lights when I came back from the station; I don't need them. I don't know why exactly it is that I never want to turn on the lights after returning from a mission. And this mission . . .

Well, it's late anyway. All I need now is to get out of my clothes and into bed. Tomorrow there will be news . . . or something else. I don't have any interviews scheduled. There will be something to do anyway.

But what I really need to do is stop staring at the phone. The chat screenshots are dead fragments, and there won't ever be any more. The phone won't chime either. There's no point in holding onto something that is dead.

I close the gallery for the sake of a news site. There is nothing yet . . . of course, there isn't. It's only been a few hours. There won't be anything until tomorrow.

There really is no point in looking at the phone anymore.

I open IM, even though there's nothing there. No new notifications, no . . . I freeze and frown, then roll my eyes at myself for being surprised. There can't be a group chat without a group. And the group . . .

It's gone. I force myself to breathe out in . . . I want it to be relief. I want it so badly that it hurts. I almost convince myself. No more group chat to spam a hundred notifications at 2 am, no more screenshots that serve no true purpose other than cluttering up my gallery, no . . . my eyes flicker to the dark icon that will never light up again. No more . . . distraction. Finally . . . it's all over.

And there will never be anything like this—like her—ever again.

Good.

. . .

. . . ?

I hear the voice of common sense yelling into my ear that I need to put this fucking phone away and go to sleep. Prepare for tomorrow. The election will come soon, and then it will be time. Finally . . . fucking finally, it will be the time for me to get my happy ending. The one for which I've been slogging my way through a living hell for more than two and a half years now.

It will be mine.

And now, there won't be any more d i s t r a c t i o n s either.

I stare at the icon. It's smiling. Of course it is. A wave of sickness hits me when I find myself suppressing the urge to smile back.

I've been getting better about being sick after these missions. It hasn't happened in ages. And it will never happen again.

I stare at the icon, and in my mind, it transforms into a face. Not a bruised one, with much too . . . almost oddly dead eyes, bathed in the pale, cold lights of the interrogation room. One that's smiling, blushing . . . trying to hide beneath hair that is too short to be of use for that. There's a hand holding my arm. My arm! Dragging me somewhere—where it was couldn't matter less. The only thing that mattered was that look.

People look like that at each other in movies. In those disgusting stock image advertisements. People look like that at . . . people who look back at them the same way.

People don't look like that at . . . me.

But it . . . she is looking at me. She was also looking at them . . . the others. And they looked back at her the same way; they all did. It was not the way she was looking at me, though. No one has in . . . No one should. But . . . I want her to look at me again.

The realization is sickening. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a mission, a target, like any other. Another one that . . . Not fast, but easy. One more face in a row of faces that I would hack my hand off to forget. They all mattered, but they didn't . . . couldn't matter to me because the only one who mattered to me was the one who needed me to erase them from existence.

He will be mine. In only a few short weeks, he will be, and then . . . I remember deluding myself that once it was all over, I would feel better. I don't know if I've ever really believed it, but maybe I had to believe something, or I wouldn't have had the resolve to see this through.

At least . . . then he'll know. He doesn't yet, but he already needs me. I force the fingers of the hand holding the phone to stop shaking. He would be nothing without me, and he knows that. He needs the son who used to be too worthless for him or anyone to want . . . but not anymore. Because now, his son is and will always be everything that he needs. The only one capable of getting him where he is now . . . and the one who will be his downfall.

It's a little ironic . . . that this face, the ruthless killer, is the one that I'm needed for. Whereas any and all attempts at pleasantry, at perfection as society defines it, could never give me that. Not once.

Sometimes I'm not sure why I'm even still trying . . . Maybe because I broke and rearranged my own bones too many times now to make all the images of "myself" that the world around me required . . . and now I wouldn't know how to put them back the way they once were. Not that I'd ever want to.

Whatever "I" would be then would be too ugly for anyone's eyes anyway.

I made myself into someone they would see. Have to see. He would have to see. I won't be denied. Not ever again.

. . . But she didn't deny me. The thought gnaws into my temple and nestles inside my brain like a hungry worm. Not even when I slipped and let myself do so many things I would never have in front of anyone else, she still never once denied me. Not even when I denied . . . tried my hardest to deny her.

Never.

The word fills my ears, in that low yet stupidly . . . I clench my teeth against the wave of sickness that overcomes me at that word. But there is no other that would fit. That . . . soft voice she doesn't use enough.

You're welcome here.

I'll wait for you.

I missed you.

I don't want to play any games.

I slam the back of my head into the wall behind me to make the voice stop. That voice will never say anything again. That voice is dead. Just like—

I don't hate you.

"You should have," I whisper into the suffocating silence. My eyes fly around, taking in the silhouettes of furniture and evoking memories of a time when I used to check for monsters under my bed every night . . . Maybe they'd want to come out and have a conversation? A quiet one, of course, so as not to disturb the adults.

There never were any, though. There never was anyone.

My counterpart.

The word makes no sense. It never made any sense to begin with, so I cannot fathom how it still served its purpose . . . because I understood what she meant. It just didn't make any fucking sense.

And I am the one who won't stop believing.

"Stop!"

I yell the word out . . . accidentally and immediately jerk up from the floor, my hand slamming onto my mouth . . . It feels wet. I taste the iron before I smell it. Must have jabbed some skin on a tooth but that's the least of my concerns. I can swallow the blood, wipe it away. I can't—

I force my mind and body out of the past that it still can't understand isn't real anymore. There's no one here to complain about the yelling. To throw things or force me to—

—to anything. I remove the hand, fighting a swell of anger. Nobody will ever force anything on me ever again. I can do whatever the hell I want.

I raise the phone again and take a final long look at the smiling portrait of . . . the only person who saw so much of me and yet seemed like she was truly willing to unconditionally love me. Then, with as much force as I can muster, I hurl it at the opposite wall.

It crashes, and an exhilarated rush fills me at the noise. For a moment, I try to make out the shattered pieces in the darkness. It breaks so easily . . . Everything does. Every object, every body, and every heart breaks so much easier than most would think . . . if you have a talent for breaking them. She would have broken as well; it's a given . . . because everyone does. Eventually, she too would have stopped promising things she didn't realize what they truly entailed, and she would have left.

At least now, I can be certain that this never happens. At least I am breaking my own heart before anyone else gets the chance to. Should be used to it by now . . . Really, maybe I should stop acting like all of this is a first.

I stare at the spot where I barely make out the pieces of my shattered phone, thinking I should ask Shido to buy me a new one. He offered me a reward anyway . . . it's the least he can do. Then I spin around and barely make it to the bathroom and the toilet bowl in time before I throw up.

***

Time until the election passes like an injured animal on its last legs; it claws and drags itself forward, one agonizing second by another.

The leader of the Phantom Thieves committed suicide, the news keeps saying. The ace detective brought her down. He saved us all. He is a hero. And they all look at me like I am. They all believe it. The same utter nonsense that I wanted them to believe so badly that I would have given anything for it, once upon a time. Now I'm actually catching myself wanting to yell at them all to fucking stop. Like I'm ungrateful or something.

"I would never have imagined that their leader would be a young girl . . . and that she would commit suicide," the male game show host says, looking at the audience. Meanwhile, his co-host beside him does her best to conceal how tired she is and failing miserably. "Akechi-kun," the male host turns to me. "Did you . . . anticipate this curious turn of events?"

"Oh, certainly not to this extent . . ." I'm not sure whether the words are those expected of me or whether they're honest. They're . . . true. Or, they were, once upon a time. But there's no place for any memories here. Not here, and not anywhere. They'll go away . . . eventually. Now that everything is back on its intended course. No more distractions. No more . . . "But it is important to note that she was the mastermind behind the recent commotion." These words are lies, and they slip out easily. I've repeated them too many times lately for them not to. "Getting captured must have wounded her pride irreparably. Such things happen often to insurgent leaders."

They're not even particularly good lies. To the people for whom the leader of the Phantom Thieves was nothing more than just that—a phantom—they may be. Anyone who knew her personally will know it isn't true. But however many there are . . . they won't risk revealing their affiliation with her at a time like this.

I watch the female host wake from her daze and sit straighter, taking a moment to remember her lines. "According to the police, the whereabouts of the other members are still currently unknown . . ."

To them, maybe. Even to Shido. I have to suppress a smile. There's something exhilarating about the thought of having information that he doesn't. I won't use it just yet. I shove aside the thought that I likely never will. There's no need for me to actually go through with hunting them down, as we discussed.

Once the election is over, there won't be any need for me to do anything anymore.

"Considering they no longer require testimony from the leader," the female host continues. "The investigation will be hard to—"

"May I butt in for a second?"

Shido's likely watching. Might as well be convincing about this.

"Of course," her co-host confirms.

He's watching, alright. I stare past the audience at the large camera. At least this way, the anger may even come across as real. "The Phantom Thieves may have laid low since then," I say, sitting straighter. "But they must not be excused. I don't care if they come after me! For the victims of their evil deeds, and for their families . . ." A brief, dramatic pause later, I stand up. I would have considered whether I'm going overboard with this if there was such a thing as going overboard on a talk show. If I squint a little, I can almost make out the face of a man with orange-tinted glasses in the dark lens of the camera. "I will capture the remaining Phantom Thieves, no matter what!"

It's a promise . . . as hollow and empty as all the promises I made this man. But I'm going to make it anyway.

I sit down and stare at the camera for a heartbeat longer than I have to. ". . . My apologies. I didn't mean to get so worked up," I say with a smile.

This promise is meaningless, but maybe I can make it into a different promise—one to myself. I've no plans to pursue the other Phantom Thieves . . . but I'll make certain to bring down the mastermind behind the crimes they're being accused of. He won't be excused. He won't even come after me. It'll be for the victims of his evil deeds and for . . . family. But my promise isn't to capture him.

My promise . . . I let my smile widen as I take in the delighted reactions of the hosts to my little statement . . . is to make his every moment on this earth a never-ending, living hell. Just to keep things fair. Return the favor.

"No wonder they call you an ace detective of justice! What passion!" The male host exclaims. If someone slammed his head into the table before us, would he shut up? "How about we use this opportunity to poll the audience?" he continues in his cheerful tone. "Those who believe the detective of justice will annihilate the Phantom Thieves, press your buttons now!"

I turn my head to stare at the number. As expected, when it stops switching, it shows a clean 50.

"My, everyone in the audience agrees!" the host exclaims.

They'd agree to anything if it was fed to them palatably. Not so long ago, the Phantom Thieves themselves would have gotten this kind of approval rating. The masses follow the victor; he writes the history . . . in their minds and in their hearts. And today . . . that victor is me. I can't say it's not cathartic, after all the negative press and rejection.

I stare at the number. I've earned it. Didn't I give it all for this victory? All that mattered. Against my will, I picture a face. A . . . that fucking word . . . soft face with soft hair and a soft mouth that drips with sickening hope and faith whenever it dares to open.

I truly gave it all . . . All that ever seemed like it could matter. In a reality where this miserable thing called life could consist of more than one goal. One target. One man whose ruin would likely also be my own. But at that point . . . there wouldn't be anything left to exist for, anyway. At least his ship will go down with me.

Oh yes—a smile breaks my face—this victory is mine. This victory . . . built on lies, and tears, and corpses, as it is . . . it's mine at last. And the truth . . . To uncover the truth is meaningless if those with the power get to decide it, no?

"Well, looks like you can't back down now." The male host points at the glowing number. His partner has gone back to doing her best to conceal that she is moments from falling asleep. She'll be out of a job at this rate.

Back down . . . the words sink in. They're absurd. There is no backing down. There never was. "I will do the best I can." I give a half-smile this time, to match the words and the message. ". . . Oh, but I do have to study for my college entrance exams. I might not be able to promise that . . ."

The conversational words are met with the expected laughter, and for a moment, I wonder how they feel—all the ordinary people in the audience. Whether the parents among them will go home today and tell their children to be more like the heroic high school detective when they grow up. Whether they'll look at the glamorized, superficial image of me and make up their own stories like they always do, with utter disregard for the pieces of truth that always seem to be peeking out, no matter how hard I try.

But most people only see what they want to see. They ignore what's ugly and difficult for the sake of what's easy to understand and process, pleasant, and comfortable to indulge in.

. . . Nobody wants to see the truth, because the truth is always ugly.

None of these people know that I was an undesirable child. I wanted people to rely on me . . . I wanted to be needed . . . So, I devoted myself to my studies, acted as an honor student, and made my name as an ace detective.

But none of that matters because none of that ever gave me what I wanted. I'm not sure why not. Whether there was a flaw in my attempts . . . or whether I'm the flaw.

What I know is that, only thanks to the Nav app and the Personas bestowed upon me by the gods . . . I managed to dispose of any who got in my way. To finally be here . . . be victorious. Though it took me some time to finally do so . . . And no cost could ever be too great for that.

. . . Now, all that remains is to tell him.

". . . But still," the male host cuts into my thoughts, and I'm almost grateful. I can't afford a slip-up at this point. "Wasn't their leader's suicide a letdown for you, given how long it took to apprehend her?"

I uncross my legs and stare at him, finding it harder and harder to keep up the appearance. It's not usually this hard. It's astonishingly easy, actually. The most difficult part is figuring out what someone wants you to be . . . and even that—picking up subconscious signals and moods—has always come naturally to me. Whether it's the pleasant Detective Prince for the public, or the ruthless assassin for Shido, or . . .

I'm caught off-guard by how I don't have a term for whoever I was with her.

"I think if it were me, I would have collapsed from the shock," the host says and it takes all my remaining will to prevent any sort of reaction to the words that . . . would be innocent enough. If they weren't true.

Well, I suppose I don't have to make up a grand story to respond. One and the same truth can be clad in different types of words to leave vastly different impressions. "True . . ." I allow for the violent cacophony of emotions tied to the memory of that night to trickle back. Emotions I expected, battled . . . and defeated before entering that room.

Every task, no matter how excruciating, becomes easier with practice. Like ripping out your own fingernails, one by one, only for them to grow back and repeat the cycle. You gradually develop strategies and resistances to minimize the pain, even if you never stop feeling it. If I ever stopped feeling the pain . . .

I ponder for a second, then pick the most harmless sensation. "It did make me feel somewhat dizzy . . . Just a little, though. Perhaps my mind was worked up due to the major task I had undertaken . . ."

The smile on my face freezes when I allow myself to recall the fit of dizziness that I remember from when I passed Sae in the hallway . . . because it suddenly strikes me as odd. It was far too late at that point. Everything was already set . . . decided. There was no reason for . . .

I'm startled by a jarring ringtone from the audience that rips the thread of vague emotions and suspicions I was following.

"Hey!" the host exclaims. "Who is that!? If you don't turn off your phone, the Phantom Thieves might change your heart!"

But none of the rubbish he is saying truly registers . . . because the thread is there again, all of a sudden. And it pulls back the curtain on . . . ". . . A phone?"

It . . . was odd, even at the time. But I had other things to focus on, so . . .

"See?" the host says. "Even Akechi-kun's face has stiffened up."

I drain the unwanted emotion from my face at once. "A-Ah, sorry about that." I suppose it isn't that odd to look worked up about someone forgetting to switch off their phone. Still . . . my sudden inability to do something as simplistic as giving a normal interview without almost slipping up multiple times is alarming.

But I'm not done; I refuse to let this impact any potential impressions of me. The last word hasn't been said yet. "I'm not bothered." I wave and smile at the audience, vaguely in the direction from which the ringtone came. "Just make sure to turn it off when you go to the movies!"

Laughter de-escalates. It makes people forget uncertain suspicions for the sake of allowing themselves the fleeting pleasure of shallow entertainment.

But I don't have the luxury of forgetting. Not today, and not when Shido, out of the blue, starts making irrational and rash requests . . . It would be delightful to see him squirm in fear if it weren't for the fact that I was hoping to postpone any more missions until he wouldn't be around to have them seen through anymore.

"But if something were to happen, it would already be too late."

This sticks. He is squirming . . . but just this once, I'm not going to bother easing his anxiety. Because first . . . I have to snuff out my own. Like a bothersome parasite, it nested in the pit of my stomach. It sucked impressions, memories, and emotions out of my brain and grew until it was large enough to press its way up into my chest and up my throat until I found it hard to breathe.

The odd dizziness was the first clue. It didn't fit with the rest of the impressions from that day . . . to the point where I condemned myself for not noticing sooner.

The phone was the second clue. It didn't fit with that exchange I had with Sae; I don't remember her having any justifiable reason to display it the way she did.

And the third clue . . . the clue that should have been the most glaring of them all, but for some reason it didn't occur to me at all until I systematically went over everything that happened in that interrogation room. The third clue . . . was the girl.

The girl the media is painting as the villainess in this story, when in truth, she couldn't be further from it. The girl who looked at me in so many ways that I found hard to comprehend because that's not how anyone should be looking at me. But she did . . . and I know how she looks at me. How she looks at the world. It is always with that obnoxious, excited shine and curiosity . . . with that fucking tenderness. It never leaves, not even when she is upset or tired . . . not even when she is told that her kindness is loathsome.

Is it so irrational of me to believe that a night in a cell could do what I tried my hardest and failed to do—break that unwavering spirit until she doesn't even have enough left to muster a single reaction?

I'm bewildered by how it didn't strike me as odd before—her silence. She may not speak much, but she's always emoting, communicating . . . in her own way. Most of it may be utter nonsense, but . . .

I stop by the subway station and take out my ringing phone to decline Shido's third call today. There won't be any missions. There won't be any explanations. There won't be anything at all until I haven't confirmed for myself whether that squirming, vile lump that sits at the back of my throat has any right to be there. Whether I can rid myself of it in any way other than carving it out of my flesh with my own hands.

Whether this victory is truly the villain's . . . or whether he . . . whether I am still not done wrestling for it. Whether the suspicions that followed the realization and are now piling up and pressing against the restraints I've erected around my heart are going to break through.

I always prided myself on wanting the truth—always the fucked-up, ugly truth that people abandoned and ignored because they didn't want to bear its image or suffer its just consequences. I pursue the truth that nobody else wants. It is the only thing I know to be constant about myself. It is . . . me. The truth, and nothing but the truth. Obtained through the most elaborate lies from the people who don't deserve it anyway.

I want to claw my eyes out in mortification for the reluctance I feel regarding uncovering this truth.

Instead, I'll find it, and I'll face it like I always do. I come to a halt in front of the Diet building, staring it down for a heartbeat before I duck into a hidden corner and take out my phone. I'll find this truth too . . . whatever it takes. Even if it's more blood.

But that's just the story of my life at this point.