Chapter Text
When Akira wakes up in a cold, dark box, the first thing he does is reach for his glasses.
Metal bites into his wrists immediately and he yelps, lurching to a stop. His body feels like one gigantic bruise, throbbing and aching at the slightest movement. Carefully, he twists his arms, and finds them tightly cuffed behind his back. He doesn’t recognise his surroundings and the room is empty - aside from a table, pushed up against the back wall, and the chair he’s sitting in. The fluorescent light emanating from the ceiling seems to fade before it reaches the floor, leaving him in near darkness. A camera blinks in his periphery, its little red eye counting out the seconds of alarm dispassionately. Is someone watching him from behind its flickering lens?
For a moment, everything seems surreal - like a scene ripped straight out of a dream and recreated in reality.
Then, slowly, his senses come back to him. He remembers the frantic chase in Sae’s Casino and the manhandling he’d received from the officers on his way to... To the police station. That’s right, Akira is at the police station, awaiting the next round of his interrogation.
He’d lost his glasses in the scuffle. The investigators had kicked them carelessly from his face when he’d refused to answer a question, then trampled them when he’d frowned and tried to retrieve them. He feels uncomfortably exposed without the extra layer of protection, his expressions impossible to disguise.
That inconvenience is the least of his worries, though; the pain raking through his torso demands his full attention.
Every breath hurts, ribs protesting fiercely when the motion of his diaphragm jostles them. He wouldn’t be surprised if one or two were broken, given that his entire left side burns like his bones have been coated in acid. He’s been punched in the stomach so many times that it feels like his gut is ruptured, organs horribly battered and numb.
He winces and shifts in his seat, attempting to take stock of all his injuries. The sharp jolt of pain he receives in response is a pretty clear indication of how badly he’s been beat up. His cheeks are swollen and the scrapes along his jaw - from being shoved face-first into the ground - sting unpleasantly. His knuckles twinge when he surreptitiously checks how loose his cuffs are, still sore from being stamped on by the police officers.
They really spared no effort when it came to showing him his place, as they’d put it. He’d been expecting some degree of brutality, sure, but the mistreatment had outstripped even his wildest speculations. He wonders briefly if Futaba and the rest of the Thieves would have agreed to the plan if they’d known this was what Akira would have to endure.
Across the room, the door handle twitches.
Akira’s head jerks up, eyes zeroing in on the room’s only entry point. There’s a deafeningly loud click. Dread and anticipation rake up his spine as the door swings open, unlocked. Four men file into the room, a few of them vaguely familiar from the precursory questioning. He grits his teeth and squares his shoulders, ignoring the pang of discomfort when the stance puts strain on his bruised stomach. Then he tilts his chin up, scowling at the officers.
His show of bravado is met with unabashed animosity. The head interrogator snorts, crossing his arms. “Act cocky whilst you can, kid. I’ve seen tougher nuts than you crack within these four walls. You’ll be begging us to let you sign a confession by the time we’re done, you understand?”
Akira doesn’t dignify the threats with a response. Instead, he levels the officer with a piercing glare, channelling every scrap of righteous anger into his gaze.
For a second, it seems like the man is going to attack him, hands clenching into fists at the defiant display. But then he chuckles, shaking his head. “This will be easier if you stop resisting. Your record states that you’ve already been arrested once, as a juvenile; you should know better than to act uppity with us. We don’t appreciate children trying to look down on the National Police of Japan - and we have plenty of methods to prove it.” He steps forward, grabbing Akira by the collar and lifting him off the chair. Akira gasps, scrambling to get his legs under himself, choking with the force of the tug. The officer’s grip doesn’t waver, even as Akira’s chest heaves, desperately fighting to drag air through his constricted throat.
It’s only when Akira’s lashes flutter shut, head swimming from lack of oxygen, that the investigator lets go, dumping him back in his seat. His mouth twists into an ugly smile when Akira wheezes, body shaking as he tries to catch his breath.
Behind the chief interrogator, one of his colleagues swings a silver briefcase onto the table. “Since you insist on being disruptive, the department has authorised the administration of sedatives.” He coolly informs Akira, not even bothering to glance his way. He cracks the case open and picks up what’s inside: a long syringe, filled with clear fluid.
Shit. Akira’s heart drops, fear pulsing through him in a heady rush.
Did the Thieves factor drugs into their survival plan? He can’t remember. He knew the police were corrupt to their very core, but this is sociopathic. There’s no good reason to tranquillise him when he’s already restrained. This is just an excuse to torture him; a casual demonstration of dominance to drive home how helpless he really is. That, or it’s a petty attempt at revenge, following the humiliation the Phantom Thieves heaped upon the police force.
The officer flicks the syringe, nodding approvingly when a drop of liquid falls from the tip. The needle glints under the dim, artificial lights. It looks sharp. Very sharp.
Akira panics. The interrogators chuckle as he yanks desperately at his cuffs, heels scraping against the floor as he tries to put as much distance between them as possible. It’s futile - the chair is heavy and he’s still weak from being smacked around. It barely budges more than a few inches.
The other officer approaches with a patronising sigh, syringe in hand. “Haven’t you learned that struggling only makes things worse? Just cooperate.”
It hurts Akira to crack his jaw open, but he forces himself to speak. “Stop—” His voice breaks, hoarse from screaming. He tries again. “Stop it!”
The man tuts, kneeling down and rolling up Akira’s sleeve. “You have no right to complain. You’re a violent criminal. It’s natural that we sedate you for our own safety.”
The explanation rings hollow, fooling absolutely no-one. Akira is no threat to them. He’s a chained-up, probably concussed teenager, facing off against four grown men - some of whom are carrying guns. There’s no way he’d come out of a fight with them as the victor; this isn’t the Metaverse, where he can channel infinite power with the strength of his heart’s resolve. This is real life, and he’s nearly hyperventilating at the thought of being drugged.
The interrogator holds his forearm steady, tilting it downwards. Akira’s chest constricts, horror welling up inside him. Things are rapidly escalating into the worst case scenario. How the hell is he supposed to pull off the plan if he’s unconscious? Suddenly, the syringe looks huge, magnified by Akira’s terror.
He does the first thing he can think of. He braces his back against the chair and kicks the man with all his might, using the last reserves of his strength to send the syringe clattering away across the floor. The officer stumbles backwards, cursing and landing unceremoniously on his ass.
If Akira had been less scared, he might have laughed. Instead, he shrinks in on himself, watching the man’s face contort with fury. In the space of a second, he’s on his feet again. He backhands Akira so hard that his ears ring, head snapping to the side. “Stupid little brat.” He hisses, rubbing his tailbone.
“That’s what you get for trying to be fair with him.” The chief investigator chastises, patting his colleague’s shoulder. “Scum like him can’t understand generosity.“
“Guess not.” The officer mutters, striding towards the door. “I’ll be back in ten.” He confirms stiffly, leaving without another word.
The lead interrogator watches him go. Then he turns to Akira, eyes flashing. “You’ve got guts, kid. I suppose it makes sense that you’d be reckless, given your illustrious exploits as leader of the Phantom Thieves. Unfortunately...” He raises his fist and punches Akira square in the face, knocking him out of his seat. “Recklessness will just get you into trouble here.” He finishes, crouching next to Akira and grabbing a handful of his fringe, using his grip to slam Akira’s forehead into the ground.
Akira rocks to the side, world spinning. He’s seeing double, six police officers standing over him instead of three. Dizziness washes through him in a crushing wave and it feels very much like he might throw up. He kind of wants to, if only so he can aim the vomit at this bastard’s shoes. That’s the least he deserves. If - when - Akira gets out of here, figuring out this asshole’s name and changing his heart will be top priority. He wants to rip the distorted desires from his chest and then just keep pulling, until he yanks out ribs and blood and viscera - see how this piece of shit enjoys being tortured in his place—
Two hands reach for him, knotting in his hair again. This time, they drag him upwards, paying no mind to the way Akira cries out when the motion tears at his roots.
Everything is blurry and unfocused. He sways, unbalanced, and trips forwards. The pained yelp that leaves him when the hard edge of the chair presses into his stomach is drowned out by the officers’ laughter. It hurts so badly that he nearly passes out, vision dimming and consciousness retreating rapidly.
The only thing that stops him from fainting is the loud bang of the door bursting open, heralding the return of the fourth interrogator. His silhouette slants to the left, two different outlines overlapping into one fuzzy whole. Akira squints, blinking sluggishly. He’s holding a briefcase, isn’t he? That’s bad, isn’t it? It’s difficult to connect his thoughts together; all he can summon are loose, rogue guesses, tumbling haphazardly through his mind and disappearing as quickly as they’re formed.
It’s not until he’s seated again, needle hovering in front of his face, that reality sets in.
Just like that, he’s yanked out of his concussed delirium, adrenaline shooting through him like a lightning bolt. He thrashes as hard as he can, trying to wrench himself away from the officers - but the man behind him has an iron grip on his nape. He holds him still, pinning Akira in place and angling his throat forwards. Akira howls when he feels the syringe brush his neck, eyes flicking frantically around the room. He has to figure out a means of escape, he has to, but he has no fucking clue how he’s meant to free himself and he can barely see straight and—
The needle sinks into his skin. There’s a hot tingle as he’s injected, and Akira feels the sedative enter his veins with horrifying clarity. Fear, cold as ice, rockets through him when he realises that he’s failed. He couldn’t stop them.
Everything is spiralling out of control. The Phantom Thieves’ plan crumbles before him, hours of research and preparation falling apart in a single instant.
Already, the drug is taking effect. Akira’s ragged pants slow against his will. When he tries to twist away from the laughing officers, all he manages is a weak toss of his head. His chin tips forward, resting limply against his chest - like a puppet with its strings cut, limbs completely slack.
A low hum is building around him. Someone slaps his cheek and he can do little more than groan quietly, lolling to the side. His vision swims, black spots dancing across his periphery. He’s freezing. The chill oozes up through the soles of his shoes, numbing him and sinking into his bones. If he was able to move, he’d probably be shivering.
Time slips abruptly away, receding like the late evening tide. Dizzily, he recalls a memory from his childhood - visiting a museum and being told that before a tsunami, the ocean pulls away from the shore; before disaster, the water retreats. What disaster is he staring down the barrel of? What danger is he anticipating? He can scarcely remember anymore.
The world fades to patchy shadows. He’s paralysed, drifting through seconds, minutes, hours, and barely grazing consciousness. He’s so close. If he could just concentrate, then he’d wake up - but any attempt at grounding himself proves futile. The drugs plunge him deeper into the inescapable pit every time he tries to open his eyes.
Akira’s brain sloshes around in his head, occasionally erupting into spikes of panic, but inevitably dissolving again. Nebulous thoughts echo through his mind, muddled and nonsensical. No matter how hard he struggles, he can’t string them into an intelligible thread. The lack of success frustrates him and anger churns inside of his stomach.
There’s a lull. Then, mercifully, he feels a strange burst of warmth envelop him - chasing away the discomfort and soothing his temper. It’s difficult to describe; like someone folding their arms around him and telling him that they love him; like a thousand hesitant touches coalescing into one sorely needed embrace. He melts, happy to be held and comforted for a few fleeting moments.
Briefly, he thinks that he might wake up in Leblanc, with all of this behind him. The door will chime and his friends will come piling in, laughing and hugging him, indescribably glad that he’s alive. The Phantom Thieves united, proud and relieved that their scheme worked out. Or - the Phantom Thieves sans one. Akira’s fantasy has a conspicuous blank spot, on the right side of the shop’s counter. After the others crowd into the booths, there will be one empty chair, unoccupied and unnoticed by all of them... Except Akira.
The dream shifts. The scenery is the same but the atmosphere is different, somehow. Akira is spooning curry into his mouth, smiling when he realises the spice ratio he used is delicious. God, when was the last time he ate? He’s hungry.
Cutlery clinks against another plate. Akira turns, and is greeted by the last person he wants to see.
Goro Akechi grins, eyes fluttering shut and expression like plastic. “Thank you for making me this, Kurusu-kun.” He murmurs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. The gesture seems oddly conscious... Almost rehearsed. Akira hadn’t noticed at the time - because this is a memory, he’s reliving a memory from mid-September - but it seems blindingly obvious to him now. Hindsight is 20/20, he supposes.
He wants to scream at Akechi. He wants to grab him by the lapels and shake him, until all of his masks fall away; until all of the secrets he’s kept come pouring out; until Akira understands why he’s doing this.
Instead, Akira bobs his head in diffident acknowledgment, fiddling with his fringe. “No problem.” He replies softly, just as he did back in September. One cannot change the past, after all. So he watches, a backseat observer, as Akechi nudges their feet together under the table, tapping Akira’s shin with his heel.
“I really do appreciate it.” He leans closer, tilting his head. “I didn’t expect a reward for my victory, but I can’t say I’m not pleased to receive one.” He gestures to the abandoned chess board, and the pile of black pieces that he collected over the course of their game.
Akira grimaces, remembering every misstep he made during the match. He’s been reading some strategy books from the library, in the hopes of improving his skills, but none of them seem to be helping very much. “Don’t count on getting a meal every time you beat me.”
Akechi chuckles, oozing good humour and friendliness. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Sakura-san would be out of ingredients within a week if we played by those rules, don’t you think?”
Akira‘s brow furrows at the teasing. “I won our last darts game,” he can’t resist pointing out, rising to meet the implicit challenge in Akechi’s words.
Akechi nods, looking satisfied by Akira’s response. “Of course, of course. I was only joking. But it is an interesting idea, don’t you think?” He chases a stray grain of rice around his plate as he muses, stabbing it with his fork. “Trading prizes would certainly raise the stakes of our competitions. Although...” He places the rice into his mouth with relish. “I’m not quite sure what I could offer you as a reward.” His eyes glimmer, burnished brown suddenly appearing deep, bloody red. “Do you have any suggestions?”
Akira swallows, hard. Akechi’s foot brushes his knee, quick enough to be an accident - but the way he dips right as he pulls away, grazing Akira’s thigh, says otherwise. Akechi doesn’t miss the way he tenses, judging by the smirk that ghosts across his lips. Akira’s heart jumps at the sight. It’s distracting.
And yet, beneath the butterflies, he’s struck with the familiar, heady feeling that he’s only glimpsing the tip of the iceberg; that there are thousands of meanings playing beneath the surface of Akechi’s innocuous question. What could Akechi offer him? So many things, but the answer that Akira settles on seems to encapsulate them all.
“Whatever you want to give.” He says, chest tight with brittle anticipation. It’s dangerously close to a confession - to admitting that he’ll gladly accept anything Akechi chooses to grant him. But it’s the truth... Or it was, back then. Now Akira isn’t so sure.
Akechi blinks at him, startled into silence. It was probably gratifying at the time, to leave him stunned and speechless. However, upon recollection, Akira just feels cold.
Then Akechi begins to laugh, disbelief written plainly across his face. “That’s incredibly good-natured of you, Kurusu.” He states, shaking his head. “But you should probably be a little more discerning. With these conditions, you could easily end up short-changed. I could pawn off any old trash on you.” To prove his point, he produces a crumpled receipt from his pocket and sets it down in front of Akira. “Would you be fine with a prize like this?” He asks archly, poking the ball of paper.
Akira wets his lip, then nods, palming the receipt. It’s from a restaurant in Kichijoji, by the looks of it; a meal for one, on the 22nd of August. “Yes,” he reaffirms, tugging at its wrinkled edges. “If this was what you wanted to give me.”
Akechi pauses, astonished by the unabashed sincerity. “That’s...” There are dozens of adjectives he could use to describe Akira’s admission: pathetic, ridiculous, insane and sentimental all equally apply. Akechi is unlikely to use most of them, given his unfailingly pleasant attitude, but they hang unsaid in the air between them. “...Fascinating.” He finishes, tapping the counter with his forefinger. “You never cease to intrigue me, Kurusu. The deduction I made, the first time we met, was correct. You really are quite different from other people.”
Distantly, Akira wonders if the fondness in Akechi’s voice is wholly affected. Curiously enough, it doesn’t seem as fake as his smile. Akira hates how it still sways him, even after everything he knows now. He hates the tender twinge of affection that unfurls in his heart whenever Akechi compliments him. It makes him feel like a fool.
Akechi takes a sip of coffee. Despite himself, Akira follows the movement, gaze fixed on the way Akechi’s tongue darts out to catch the last droplet. There’s a flash of teeth and Akechi’s canines glint in the cosy lamplight.
Akira opens his mouth.
Then a bucket of water hits him in the face, ripping him out of the dream with a choked gasp.
He rocks with the force of it, coughing. One of the officers is yelling at him, barking incomprehensible orders that Akira can’t even pretend to make out. The Interrogation Room slides back into view - but traces of Leblanc linger. He hears the soft peal of Akechi’s laughter and turns, trying to catch it before it disappears. The quick motion does little more than disorient him and he heaves. Confusion threatens to overwhelm him, but he clings to the back of the chair, breathing through the nausea.
His distracted silence and lack of response must annoy the men, because one of them strides forwards and kicks him off his seat.
As Akira crashes to the floor, he notices that the camera is still watching, its little red light winking at him. It seems that the police are continuing to impassively record his torture - unbothered and unaffected by his suffering. Somehow, that casual dehumanisation hurts worse than any of the indignities he’s bore so far.
The interrogator pushes down on Akira’s head, sneering something indiscernible. He grits his teeth as the man grinds his face into the ground, colours rupturing and dancing before his eyes.
Someone starts yelling again. Akira stares unseeingly up at the officers, waiting for the world to come back into focus, and receives a swift kick to the gut for his trouble. The gurgle he lets out sounds almost inhuman, even to his own ears. It’s raw and pained enough to be the cry of a dying animal, and the thought scares Akira more than he can possibly admit. He’s not dying. He can’t. He’s teetering on the edge of collapse, defences running dangerously low, but he knows that he can’t die.
A callous hand yanks him upright, unlocking his cuffs and shoving him to the floor. Dimly, Akira realises that this would be his opportunity to escape - to fight back. But when he tries to move, his body can only manage the slightest twitch. It’s humiliating, to be rendered so utterly powerless.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that his left sleeve is rolled up. His arm stings, but not in the same way his bruised wrists do. Ignoring the heavy sense of foreboding, Akira uses the last of his strength to turn it over.
His stomach drops.
The inside of his forearm is covered in little red dots and mottled smudges of blue. Did the interrogators inject him again whilst he was unconscious? They must have; what else could explain these marks? His veins seem to burn with the reminder of the poison pumped into him and he has to fight the urge to sob. This is so fucking unfair. He just wants to help people. He just wants to go home, to Sojiro and Futaba and Morgana, and curl up in bed.
Someone thrusts a clipboard and a pen into his hands. When he fails to understand what they want from him, the officer slams his foot down on Akira’s thigh - right above the kneecap. He presses harder when Akira yelps, threatening to break his leg. He doesn’t stop until Akira is howling and gulping back tears.
This time, when the interrogator withdraws, Akira scrambles to grasp the pen, shakily attempting to write. It’s a confession, he registers, squinting until the letters arrange themselves into coherent sentences. A long, thorough admission of guilt, taking responsibility for both the change of hearts and the mental shutdowns.
He doesn’t even want to think about what charges the police will be able to pin on him, with this in their arsenal. No jury would ever acquit him if his case saw court. The form he’s signing is essentially a death warrant.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to consider it for more than a few seconds. The chief interrogator steps forward, snatching the clipboard from Akira and signalling for the others to continue. There’s a harsh crack, and Akira’s head snaps to the side - and then everything slips away.
Akira retreats into his own mind, the panic and the woozy fear reduced to background noise. A wave of dread washes over him as he remembers the sketchy outline of the Phantom Thieves’ plan... but it’s quickly strangled and forgotten in his daze.
This time, blessedly, no dreams rise to capture his attention. He just drifts, watching the officers brutalise his body like one might watch a movie one wasn’t particularly interested in. The disconnect is a little unnerving, but it’s certainly better than the alternative. He winces when his torso shudders, taking an especially vicious kick to the ribs. That looks like it broke something, but the sedative muffles the worst of the pain. Akira feels only a smouldering ache where there should be burning agony.
Still, the damage is enough to send a feverish jolt through him, throat closing up and chest flashing red-hot. The fire spreads, licking at his spine and scorching his nervous system. Eventually, it reaches his brain, blazing through the last of his determination. Why is Akira forcing himself to endure this again? A tiny voice in his head screams that he has to stay conscious - that this is the most important thing he will ever do - but it’s faint and unconvincing in the face of intolerable suffering. The officers are still hitting him and he’s in no hurry to return to his senses, if all that will greet him is more torment.
Akira squeezes his eyes shut and finally, finally, passes out, even whilst that tiny voice wails that he’s making a mistake; that he’s handing himself over to death and ruin and inevitable destruction. Because the thing is - he doesn’t care. He’s tired. He prides himself on his unwavering rebellion... but so far, all his struggling has brought him is a nasty concussion and a set of cracked ribs. When defiance only causes more anguish, is it really worth clinging to?
Despair seals around him like a cage. Darkness digs its claws into his legs and tugs him back down into comatose sleep. He’s gone in less than a minute, eager to embrace the temporary reprieve.
At least like this, he doesn’t have to hurt anymore.