He’s always been good at reading people—it’s how he survived for so long. It’s how he played into the timeloop mess for so long (one that he almost nearly gave up on), how he wove through the chaos of a world determined to break him down. It did to an extent. He could never have a chance at a normal life. And right now, he’s reading Dove.
The way his shoulders tense, the flicker of hesitation in his gaze, the darkness creeping into his expression like ink bleeding into paper. It’s that same look—that look. The one Akira had memorized before, in another life, on another Akechi.
That brittle edge of bitterness. The quiet fury, the weight of something too much pressing down on him.
Akira doesn’t move at first, doesn’t speak. He just watches with an almost clinical interest, because it’s fascinating, in a way—seeing him try to grasp his own emotions. Akechi had always been good at hiding things. But this one, this Dove... he’s trying to figure himself out in real-time, trying to measure his own pain like it’s something tangible.
Akira’s heart twists.
His foot nudges against the bag at his feet. The tape inside. The one he’s just watched.
Memories being compromised. The silence stretching long and hollow as the memory itself had started to dissolve. As if it was only ever held together by invisible threads.
He frowns slightly, just for a second, before slipping back into something easier. Something lighter.
“Well,” he starts, breaking the quiet between them as he moves on to the final steps of the coffee. “I’m not gonna sit here and tell you people won’t spill bullshit about you.” His voice is easy, smooth, but there’s weight behind it. He tilts his head, eyes sharp. “But if they’re really like that? If they think they know you just because they saw some highlight reel of your worst moments?”
His grin flickers, something more mischievous settling into his expression.
1/2
He’s always been good at reading people—it’s how he survived for so long. It’s how he played into the timeloop mess for so long (one that he almost nearly gave up on), how he wove through the chaos of a world determined to break him down. It did to an extent. He could never have a chance at a normal life. And right now, he’s reading Dove.
The way his shoulders tense, the flicker of hesitation in his gaze, the darkness creeping into his expression like ink bleeding into paper. It’s that same look—that look. The one Akira had memorized before, in another life, on another Akechi.
That brittle edge of bitterness. The quiet fury, the weight of something too much pressing down on him.
Akira doesn’t move at first, doesn’t speak. He just watches with an almost clinical interest, because it’s fascinating, in a way—seeing him try to grasp his own emotions. Akechi had always been good at hiding things. But this one, this Dove... he’s trying to figure himself out in real-time, trying to measure his own pain like it’s something tangible.
Akira’s heart twists.
His foot nudges against the bag at his feet. The tape inside. The one he’s just watched.
Memories being compromised.
The silence stretching long and hollow as the memory itself had started to dissolve.
As if it was only ever held together by invisible threads.
He frowns slightly, just for a second, before slipping back into something easier. Something lighter.
“Well,” he starts, breaking the quiet between them as he moves on to the final steps of the coffee. “I’m not gonna sit here and tell you people won’t spill bullshit about you.” His voice is easy, smooth, but there’s weight behind it. He tilts his head, eyes sharp. “But if they’re really like that? If they think they know you just because they saw some highlight reel of your worst moments?”
His grin flickers, something more mischievous settling into his expression.