The office was silent.
Too silent.
Akuma sat slouched in his chair, head low, hands limp on his knees. The fading echoes of footsteps still rang in his ears though the hallway outside had long gone quiet. He could hear them leaving, one by one—some light and hurried, some dragging, some uncertain as if hoping he would call them back. But he didn't. He couldn't.
The sound of the academy settling into night filled the air. The sun, already half-swallowed by the horizon, cast long orange blades of light across the black carpet. The shadows stretched toward him like grasping fingers.
His eyes lifted, slow and heavy, to the shelves that loomed in front of him. Empty. Not one trophy remained, not a single glimmer of gold or silver. Bare wood stared back at him, polished but hollow, like the chest of a corpse.
Above, the portraits hung untouched.
Air Groove's stern but proud gaze. El Condor Pasa's radiant grin mid-victory. Maruzensky with his confident smirk, one arm raised to wave at a cheering crowd. All of them immortalized in frames that mocked him now.
Each face was a knife.
His throat tightened. The corners of his vision blurred until all he could see was the glint of their eyes. Pride. Joy. Dreams. All things he swore to protect. All things he failed to hold onto.
The tears came hot and unrelenting. He didn't wipe them away. He deserved them. The world deserved to see its so-called Demon King stripped down to nothing more than a man too weak to keep his own promises.
A ragged sound tore from his chest. His fist crashed against the hardwood desk, cracking it down the middle. Blood seeped from split skin, dripping between his knuckles. He stared at the red like it was foreign. Pain was nothing. Nothing compared to the hollow pit gnawing him apart.
Then the door creaked open.
A shuffle of cloth.
A familiar, calm voice humming.
Tachyon stepped into the dim room, her oversized lab coat dragging across the floor, sleeves too long to show her hands. Crimson eyes locked onto him with that same unreadable spark, sharp and curious.
And behind her…
"Machan…"
The short-haired Uma lingered at the doorframe, brown hair tied up neatly, her green dress swaying as she stepped in. Her smile was small, soft… and unbearably sad.
Akuma didn't move. Didn't try to hide his swollen eyes or bleeding hand. "…I'm so sorry, you two." His voice cracked, a whisper rasped raw.
Machan's smile trembled, but she held it. Tachyon tilted her head, and in her usual detached tone said:
"Why be sorry? I made the decision to stop running."
Akuma flinched. The words cut deeper than any wound. His jaw clenched as he stood abruptly, turning his back to them. The frames on the wall blurred in his vision. He couldn't look at their eyes anymore. Not theirs. Not hers.
He pulled one frame down, setting it on the desk with shaking fingers. Then another. And another.
"Akuma-san…" Machan's voice was barely a breath. "…Are you sure about this?"
His shoulders stiffened. He glanced at her only briefly, her eyes shimmering in the half-light. "I… can't lie to myself," he muttered, setting the photos face-down on the desk.
One by one, he took them down. Each click of the frame against the wood echoed in the empty office. A funeral bell with no mourners.
The girls said nothing, just watching. Their silence weighed heavier than words. They smiled—because they always smiled for him—but those smiles were brittle, fragile, breaking.
"…Machan, I—" His voice caught.
But Machan cut him off, stepping forward with a forced brightness. "It's alright, Akuma-san. I'm sure Lucien-sensei has something planned for me." Her smile stretched wider, too wide. "I'll keep running. For you, too!"
The lie was so sharp, so obvious, that it made his chest ache. He wanted to scream at her not to fake it. Not to bear it alone. But his throat locked, strangled by the weight of his own weakness.
He sighed instead. Heavy. Defeated.
He walked past them, every step dragging chains behind him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his back turned. "For not being strong enough… for either of you."
Machan's eyes glistened as she bowed her head. Tachyon's smirk faltered into something unreadable, her hands disappearing deeper into her sleeves.
The door loomed in front of him, tall and cold. He reached for the handle. His fingers trembled.
The office felt smaller, darker. The portraits on the wall seemed to watch him, eyes accusing, mouths twisted in silent laughter. The crack in the desk widened, spreading like veins.
He pulled the door open.
The hallway stretched into infinity.
Behind him, silence.
The moment the door shut, the sound was deafening.
—
He woke with a start.
Breath ragged. Sheets clinging to his sweat-drenched skin. His heart hammered like it wanted to escape.
"Damn it…" Akuma cursed, dragging a hand across his face.