April 22
Friday
Early Morning
Sunny
The walk to school passed like pages turned without reading.
The air carried scraps of conversation — arcades closing, store managers resigning, classmates whispering about engagements. Ordinary enough, yet each rumor carried the same shallow rhythm. Akira let them drift past, eyes skimming his book, though his mind refused to hold on to a single line.
Halfway to Shujin, Ryuji's voice broke through the quiet, as familiar as the thump of a bat meeting a ball.
"Today's the day we send the calling card, right?"
The eager tilt in his shoulders was almost comical.
Akira shook his head, pace steady. "Not yet."
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.
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Lunch
Cloudy
As the day wore on, the question stayed in the air like the weight of the overcast sky. By lunch, Ryuji's expression hadn't changed — still restless, like a pitcher tapping his foot between innings.
On the rooftop, Akira unwrapped a neatly packed bento. Morgana was already tearing into a pouch of tuna, while Ryuji leaned forward over his bread.
"I've been meaning to ask," Ryuji said. "Why exactly are you not sending the calling card right away?"
Akira's mouth quirked. "Seems counterintuitive, right?"
"Yeah. I figured you'd want to take care of Kamoshida ASAP."
"I do. But a precise strike drops someone faster than swinging until you're exhausted. We're thieves. Our first move should be so sharp they're still wondering how they hit the floor."
Ryuji tapped his bread against the table, mulling it over. Morgana tilted his head.
"You think like someone who's been at this longer than you have," the cat said. "Makes me wonder what kind of past shapes a guy into thinking that way."
Akira let the question hang between them, the clouds overhead shifting like unspoken thoughts.
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Afterschool
Cloudy
The rooftop quiet followed Akira into the afternoon. Clouds had thickened, dimming the edges of the school buildings, as if the day itself was holding its breath. By the final bell, his decision was made.
He moved without fanfare, slipping into the Metaverse through a side street far from Kamoshida's gates. Morgana was off chasing some made-up lead, none the wiser.
The distorted city spread before him — empty, echoing — and his first theory clicked into place.
{Metaverse without a palace: confirmed.}
{Promising. As long—}
{—as the next test works.}
Blue flame rippled over him, heatless yet fierce, burning away his uniform in favor of the Phantom Thief's attire.
{Kippōshi.}
{My pleasure.}
The armored persona stepped forward, its black sword gleaming, the worn grip telling of battles past. A Spirit Stab sliced through a parked car as if it were no more than paper.
Akira's smile came without permission.
The next moments blurred — the scrape of shoes on a vertical wall, the brief slip before his footing locked into place, the ground falling away below him.
{Spiderman, eat your heart out.}
One rooftop became another, each leap feeding the next, until the city opened wide beneath the Tokyo Skytree.
The wind worried at his cloak, but the view was worth every heartbeat. Tokyo glittered like a Go board mid-match — territories claimed, possibilities still open.
{How do you feel?}
{Good… I needed this.}
{Then take a moment. You've earned it.}
Kippōshi materialized fully beside him, sustained by Pneuma. His armor's care-worn edges spoke of experience; the folded black wings cast a shadow that almost reached Akira's boots. The mask's twin horns glowed faintly with red-violet flame.
"You've answered your concerns?" Kippōshi asked.
"I did… though your voice sounds different."
"Different from yours?"
"Deeper. More… alive."
"Hah. I am your inner self — the one who demands justice, even if it means setting the world alight."
Their gazes locked, the air between them taut, before they both looked away.
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Early Evening
Cloudy
The lingering rush of rooftop air still clung to him as he stepped back into the real world. It took a while for the noise of Shibuya to replace the silence of the Skytree. Eventually, the smell of tea and the click of stones drew him into a quieter kind of arena.
The Go salon smelled faintly of tea leaves and old wood, the click of stones breaking the quiet.
The sound pulled him backward in time — to evenings of reluctant lessons, then the abrupt shift when his parents traded Go for baseball after a single comment about someone else's gifted child.
{At least you were good at baseball.}
{Yeah… not that it mattered much.}
He paid the receptionist and scanned the room. Older men leaned over boards; eyes locked on battle lines only they could see. In the far corner, a girl younger than him studied a match replay with surgical focus.
He waited until she exhaled before stepping closer.
"Oh — sorry," she said, straightening. "Want to play?"
"If the seat's open."
She nodded and reset the board, her movements precise. "You play often?"
"Not recently," he said, accepting the black stones. "But I used to."
"You can go first."
The first stone landed with a soft click, deeper than the board's surface. Yui studied it for three measured breaths before answering — a move that claimed space and hinted at traps yet to come.
The game unfolded like a wordless negotiation. Their hands hovered over the bowls more often than they moved, weighing outcomes invisible to the onlookers. Each capture was a rebuttal, each extension a quiet provocation.
Midway through, Akira felt the familiar pull of a long game — not fatigue, but the sharpened focus that comes when you know one misstep could turn the tide twenty moves from now.
"You're not bad," she murmured. "What school?"
"Shujin."
"Surprised I haven't heard of you. I'm at Aoyama Gakuin. Turning pro this fall."
Akira raised a brow. "Sixteen?"
"Fifteen." No pride in the correction — only fact.
- - -
The last stone fell. She counted, then blinked.
"…Draw."
"That's rare," he said.
"It doesn't happen." Now her gaze measured him. "Name?"
"Akira Kurusu."
"Yui Kashiwada."
Her handshake was firm; her faint smile edged with a challenge. "Next time, I won't go easy."
"I'll hold you to that."
Even after he left, the rhythm of the match stayed with him — the feel of holding a stone, the pause before committing to its place. The same patience would serve him well in the ritual waiting at home.
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Evening
Cloudy
"This isn't bad," Sojiro said, setting down the cup. "Needs depth, but it's serviceable."
Brewing was trickier than he'd expected, but the ritual had its own calm. Heat, timing, pressure — the same patience as placing a stone exactly where it needed to be.
He'd never called himself a coffee drinker. Cream and sugar had always been camouflage. Then he tried Sojiro's espresso — nothing to hide, nothing to soften.
{Something about her doesn't sit right.}
{Yui?}
{Yeah. Can't name it.}
{Then see her again.}
The door chimed.
"Welco— You…"
The man who entered smiled like someone stepping into a memory he owned.
"Sojiro! Nice place. Still making that curry, huh? Guess you haven't gotten over her yet…"
"Your order?"
The exchange was short, but when the man left, the air in the café felt lighter.
"Suspicious as they come," Akira said.
Sojiro smirked faintly. "Couldn't have said it better. Anyway — keep at this and you'll have no problem getting a girl. How you keep her's another story."
"Experience talking?"
"I only know what I know. Now clean up — I'll teach you properly so I can sit back and relax."
"That's an unbalanced deal."
"Then master the coffee and I'll teach you the curry. Deal?"
"Deal."
When Sojiro left, the café felt quieter than usual. Akira climbed the stairs with a small smile.
{He's warming up to you.}
{I'm warming up to him.}
Brewing coffee, playing Go, running rooftops — each had its rules, its timing, and its moments where one decisive move changed everything. And Akira had always preferred to wait for the right one.