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Chapter Text

Niijima Makoto dressed for a date.

She chose a blouse, a skirt, a cardigan—neat and comfortable, cozy and feminine. She fastened on a small silver pendant, gleaming grey flowers in the daylight.

Then she took the bus. A normal bus, one that didn't meow or wave a tail.

She caught a pickpocket and nearly broke his wrist as she exited, then casually continued on her way to the giant gates already stuffed with lines of waiting couples. Big underlit letters proclaimed magically: Destinyland.

A man was waiting for her by one of the beautiful wooden benches, leaning against the edge with his arms crossed and countless women glancing at him in admiration. He smiled as he saw her, a daring thing with a hint of mischief.

“Majesty,” he greeted. “Welcome to your castle.”

“You forgot my carriage,” she teased with a small smile.

“Maybe I have something better.”

He whisked something from behind his back with a flourish, like he'd been born to whisk things from behind his back in as theatrical a manner as possible.

A single blue rose, rich and luxurious in hue, winked up at her.

Her heart throbbed and she felt a tingle deep in her gut, a pleasant warmth flowering, the unique knowledge that she was special to someone. She took the rose, a spark shooting up her arm when the tips of her fingers brushed his.

“There's all kinds of warnings about guys like you,” she said, smiling. “Guys who are too charming for their own good. They're dangerous.”

He leaned close and whispered so that the heat of his breath kissed her ear. “Just your type.”

He was on a roll today.

She swallowed her fluttering pulse and sniffed the rose. It was fragrant, fresh. “Where'd you get a blue rose?” she said.

Akira grinned. “I know where to get things that aren't always available in normal places.”

“The black market?”

“More like a phantom market. Legally licensed, I promise you that.”

He held out his arm, and she remembered another date on a street in front of a diner. Her smile faded.

“Akira,” she said quietly, “we can't hold it off forever. I need to go to the precinct and answer for everything I've done.”

His eyes darkened and he looked solemnly at her. “I just want one day.”

She looked at the rose in her hand.

“One day,” said Akira, “without worrying about baiting the Joker or making a Palace or saving psychological Tokyo.”

He paused.

“One day with you,” Makoto finished softly.

She linked her arm through his.

And they walked into the happiest place on earth.

.

.

.

They stopped at one of the minigame booths, a stall with dart rifles that would pop colored balloons. Hitting a certain number would redeem a certain prize.

Makoto stopped Akira with a smile.

“Oh no,” said Akira.

“Oh yes,” said Makoto.

“Don't rob the poor man of house and home.”

Makoto flipped her hair with a confident smile. “I've never gotten to show off in front of you, you know.”

Akira winced. “That's actually false. My body has four holes to prove it.”

That made her grimace. “Sorry.”

“I wasn't aware that cops were such deadeyes.”

“They're usually not,” said Makoto. She quieted. “But there was a specific reason that I wanted to be good at a gun.”

Akira was quiet. He reached out and squeezed her hand. “To protect?”

She swallowed. “To kill.”

He waited.

“I guess I never was a good little cop,” she said wistfully. “When I was at the range, I didn't think of the people I needed to protect. I thought of... certain people from the past. I thought of their faces superimposed over the target. I thought of seeing a hole drill through their brain, or the feeling of exploding their heads with a shotgun. It was the only thing that could keep me in the range.”

Akira's hand brushed her hair. “What do you think of now?”

She looked at the stall with a glint to her smile. “I think that I want to break Destinyland's weekly record.”

And she did.

She was quite a show off, and Akira fell just a little harder for it.

.

.

.

“You know,” said Akira, eying the vendor's cotton candy, “by purchasing this, we'd be celebrating the entertainment industry's premeditated extortion of the upper middle class by targeting the basic human necessity of food and nourishment.”

“It's just one thousand yen, Akira,” Makoto said, grinning.

“It's one thousand yen, Majesty. For something that's half sugar and half air.”

“Think of it as providing jobs for all the workers here.”

Akira sighed and took out his wallet. “One cotton candy, please.”

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.

.

The Haunted House was meant for, apparently, adults with even the hardest of hearts.

Akira and Makoto considered that assertion to be a challenge.

They walked into pitch black, the occasional light bursting before their eyes with plastic heads on skewers for ultimate shock value. It was surprising, but Makoto was a cop and Akira was a combat veteran of the Metaverse, and something about jumpscares from dark corridors just didn't carry the same weight. She vaguely wondered if they should be scared, if the sights should trigger some PTSD that would make the haunted house unbearable, but then shrugged it off. Best not to test her luck.

“You sure you're alright, Majesty?” said Akira, amused. “There's sounds of thunder in the background.”

“Thunder by itself doesn't scare me,” said Makoto. “And darkness doesn't, either. Neither does rain, or wind. It's just... everything together.”

“Bad childhood memories? Nightmares?”

She was quiet, and thunder boomed.

“My dad was shot in front of me,” she whispered.

Akira paused. “Makoto.”

“It's fine.”

“I'm sorry.”

She smiled. “I said that it's fine. I took therapy. I can talk again.”

“Your sign language.”

She chuckled and flicked his nose. She was actually aiming for his forehead, but the darkness made it difficult to see. “I'm fine. Honest.”

“You still get nightmares.”

She shrugged. “So do you, probably. About the Metaverse. Just because the wound closes doesn't mean that the scars disappear.”

His fingers slid through hers, warm and tingly.

They proceeded.

The corridor flashed, and a figure in a horrific mask bolted towards them with the screech of a banshee. It stopped just in front of them, cold wind blasting from the hidden fans in the corners.

“Oh,” said Makoto. “Hi.”

The figure drew away, looking somewhat sulky.

Akira chuckled. “To be honest, I'm a little disappointed.”

“In the haunted house? I think it's actually quite good.”

“No, no.” A finger poked her cheek. “I mean, I love watching you kick a bunch of ass, but you're very cute when you're scared.”

“Uh... huh? I. Um. Uh?”

“And very clingy.”

She let go of him, inching away. “I was definitely not clingy.”

“Please. Until the storm is over.”

She groaned. “This isn't fair! How come you can tease me about so many things, but I have nothing on you?”

“Because one of us had a murderous psyche and the other was just a cute cop stumbling through a new world.” Akira was quiet for a moment. “It's not something I'm proud of. I'd rather take the endless teasing.”

“I call bull. You love to be cool.”

“You're very right. I do.”

She felt him take her hand again, callused digits lacing through the spaces in her fingers, and they moved on.

.

.

.

“I must say, this doesn't feel like a very effective mode of transportation.”

“Akira.”

“I mean, it feels like we're going in circles.”

“Akira, it's a carousel.”

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.

.

The Ferris wheel came last. Of course it would. It was considered the pinnacle of the amusement park—rather literally, but primarily for couples. After all, there was nothing like an isolated space with a beautiful sunset view to paint a romantic mood.

The silence felt strangely tense to Makoto. Akira was sitting right at her side, but his eyes were honed out of the carriage, his gaze distant.

She quietly coughed. “What're you thinking about?”

Akira's head turned slightly. She caught a glimpse of his eye from over his shoulder. He chewed the question thoughtfully, letting the silence fill the carriage.

Makoto waited patiently.

Akira's fingers curled against his pants. “I was just thinking... I'm happy.”

Makoto bit her lip. “But you seem more perplexed than happy.”

“Because...” He turned. They were sitting side by side, but he was facing her, the tip of his knee touching hers. “It feels strange. Haven't felt it before.”

She felt winded. “You... haven't felt happy?”

He shrugged. “I've felt victorious. Content. Smug. Excited, even. But just being—happy for no other reason than just happiness... it feels weird. Almost like the world could fall apart, but for some reason, I'd know that everything would turn out fine in the end."

Makoto's smile broadened. “I think you're feeling the effects of being loved and cherished. By family, friends...”

“And you?”

“And your cat.”

“Not you?”

Makoto flushed. “I don't know,” she blurted.

Akira's lips pulled. “Are you sure?”

She punched him lightly on the shoulder and turned away. There was a warm chuckle behind her.

The sky was beautiful. The moment was beautiful. Akira was beautiful. She wanted to take this second, ball it up, fold it in a time capsule, untouchable. She wanted to keep it pristine and perfect, a matchless memory in the treasury of her head.

But there was still the future. The unknown.

“What are you going to do?” Makoto said suddenly.

Akira was quiet for a moment. “Now?”

“I, I don't know. You're... not going to be a Phantom Thief anymore, I mean, so...”

She trailed off.

Akira tapped his fingers against the window in a calm rhythm.

“I got around three million yen per Palace.” Makoto choked at this, and Akira smiled ruefully. “But the currency is unusable. A humble café owner in Yongen-jaya could never declare such earnings. I could sneak some of the money in, make small purchases here and there, but never anything big, not like a house. I don't even know where the Metaverse money comes from. Does it spontaneously materialize? Is it the collection of yen lost across the country? If it's not being circulated to and from reality, yen from the Metaverse could, over time, singlehandedly inflate the economy and bring a depressive crash.”

Makoto opened her mouth.

Makoto closed her mouth.

“Um,” she said.

“And it was cash. Printed cash.” Akira shook his head. “It gets hard to store. Hard to carry. It's very inflexible. The easiest thing to do is spend it on the black market, but that seems pretty counterproductive for a self-proclaimed thief of justice, don't you think?”

She hadn't even thought about such conundrums.

“Wow,” was all she said.

Akira nodded solemnly.

“So if you couldn't keep it in the country...” Her mind was beginning to turn its faithful gears. “I assume you made international investments under a secondary name? Spread the cash over several countries, met in person with cases of hard cash?”

Akira grimaced. “The first investments were difficult. People were understandably skeptical. But Ponzi schemes have worked from less. It took time to build a reputation, but now I have a variety of small holdings in around five countries.”

It sounded complicated, questionably legal, and brilliant.

“So basically,” Makoto said slowly, “you don't even need a job.”

Akira nodded. “I can cash in those investments and transfer them under the guise of international business dealings without raising too many eyebrows. That's the advantage of global transfers.”

Makoto was silent for a long, long moment.

“You know,” she finally said, “I feel like I should congratulate you or be relieved or be gobsmacked, but all I can think is that you've been pulling some hardcore federal tax evasion for the past seven years.”

Akira recoiled, alarmed. “I mean—if I declared—there would be investigations, people would wonder—”

She grinned brightly at him. “I know, silly thief.”

He was speechless, still staring at her like a lost puppy. Something about it was adorable, so she cupped his face with her hands, tilted her face up, and kissed his nose.

“I wonder if I should be more disturbed,” she mused, “that I'm with a veteran criminal.”

She whispered teasingly just above his lips, and Akira's eyes darkened and his hand snaked around her waist and his breath was hot on her cheek. “I bet you find it quite thrilling.”

She froze, a tiny noise stumbling from her mouth.

Akira's smirk turned a little dangerous. “You're a little too cute when you make that face, Majesty.”

She temporarily forgot how to breathe. She wanted a witty reply, but every thought in her mind had promptly flown put the window. She swallowed, her teeth instinctively catching her bottom lip.

Something flickered over Akira's face and he released her, turning hurriedly to the window.

Makoto blinked.

Silence stretched on.

“What was that?” Makoto said.

“What was what?”

“You're being evasive.”

“Astute observation.”

“Akira.”

“Ah. Pardon, Majesty.” Akira swallowed. “You looked very... innocent.”

Her brow furrowed. “That's... bad? Or...”

Akira swallowed again. “No. It's, it's not bad. It just... makes me think of certain things, because I'm a terrible person.”

A beat.

Two.

Makoto flushed and whipped away, kicking him in the shin.

“Ouch. My feelings.”

“You can't just say things like that.”

“Would you have preferred that I hold my silence?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then. Next time, I'll plea the Thirty-Eighth.”

An awkward, tense silence descended.

Akira coughed.

Makoto laced her fingers tightly.

Akira sighed and touched her arm. “Come here, Majesty.”

Makoto side-eyed him, still blushing. He patted his shoulder.

Cautiously, she rested her head against him, the top of her head anchoring to beneath his jaw. His arm draped over her shoulder and took her hand, gently rubbing her fingers. He was warm. She closed her eyes, soaking in the comfort.

His breath was soft over her hair, but she felt him smile. She smiled back.

“I—”

Her pulse spun.

“I love you,” she said.

It felt right to say, on the top of the ferris wheel with the sun setting in gold and phoenix-red, completely cliché and expected, her head on Akira's shoulder, snuggling in the thrum of his heartbeat against her cheek.

Akira's breath hitched, but his voice was quiet. “How do you know it won't change?”

It was a vulnerable question, lacking his usual slyness. She looked into his eyes, waiting.

“Tomorrow...” His fingers tightened on hers, protective. “Maybe you'll get in serious trouble. Maybe you'll be incarcerated. Maybe you'll forget, or you'll change your mind—”

“I won't,” she said.

“Everything could be different in one day.”

“I won't.”

He looked at her, and she saw it. He was remembering an earlier promise, one where she'd sworn not to hurt him, and then she put a bullet through his hand, made him suffer unbearable agony.

“Feelings change,” he said.

She pulled his head down, resting her forehead against his. “Yes. And so will ours.”

“Then how?”

She smiled. “Love is a choice. That no matter what comes, I'll stick by you.”

His voice was a whisper barely there. “Sounds difficult.”

“Are you up for a challenge?”

He tilted his head and slanted his mouth over hers—a tender movement that made her pulse flutter wildly. His lips pressed gently for one second, two, and then he retracted.

“That's supposed to be the gravity of a vow, I guess,” he murmured in a rumble.

She nodded wordlessly.

Akira suddenly reached down and clasped her hand. “Makoto?”

The atmosphere was turning heady, weighty, as if everything would depend on his next sentence. Makoto's breath shuddered in her chest. “Hm?”

“Will you—”

Makoto gulped.

“—be my girlfriend?”

Makoto stared.

Then she burst into laughter. “You are absolutely ridiculous. After everything that's happened?”

Akira grinned wryly. “Is that a yes?”

She bumped his nose, wrestling away a tiny hint of disappointment. “Definitely.”

“Good,” said Akira, “because I figured that proposing is something you do to girlfriends, not strangers.”

And smooth as butter, he stooped to one knee and drew something from his back pocket and—

“Makoto, will you marry me?”

Makoto stared at the simple, beautiful gold band glinting at her from a navy velvet box.

She stared at Akira.

Akira smiled back, somehow combining smugness and bashfulness into an unfairly charming look.

She was speechless. She could only hit him on the shoulder, tears climbing to her eyes.

“Makoto?” said Akira, alarmed.

“You're so—” She struggled to piece the words together. “You're such a trickster!”

Akira was starting to look very nervous, as if he hadn't considered the possibility of rejection and was now regretting it deeply. “Is... that a no?”

She wanted to say something witty like ‘It's an irritated yes’ or ‘I'll get back to you, let me check with my secretary’ but she saw him on one knee holding a ring with an open and vulnerable expression and she ended up diving into him and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and whispering breathlessly “Yes of course I'll marry you” and he fell back from her weight and they hit the ground like two dorks and the carriage rocked and he laughed, cradling her head.

“You had me worried for a second,” he said with mirth.

She curled into his arms and soaked in his warmth, smiling. “That I'd say no?”

“I plea the Thirty-Eighth.”

She kissed his nose. “Nerd.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

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.

.

When their carriage stopped at the bottom of the Ferris wheel, Akira laced his fingers through hers. Makoto impulsively kissed the back of his hand.

“What a gentleman,” Akira deadpanned, but she heard his breath catch.

She grinned at him. “You've been too charming. I have to up my game to match.”

Akira laughed. “Oh, Majesty, are you clueless?”

“Clueless?”

“Of your own charm.”

She blushed. “I know I don't have much.”

“Are you saying that my taste is subpar?”

“Maybe it is.”

“The one thing that every gentleman thief can do is correctly appraise works of art, Majesty.”

That knocked her off-balance. She coughed, flushing even deeper. “You have strange taste.”

He leaned close as the door opened. “I like a woman who can think.”

The light of the setting sun poured into the carriage, and they stepped outside.

And—

—Akechi Gorou stood before them, backed by a dozen officers in uniform. Their postures were relaxed, but they wore bulletproof vests, and service pistols were strapped to their hips.

Makoto's heart fell to her stomach.

“Officer Niijima,” said Gorou placidly, “there you are. You're under arrest.”