Maruki's gaze flickered to his hand, his fingers curling slightly as though he could still feel the sharp sting of bullets tearing into flesh. That first day... He’d come here with trepidation, wary but open, trying to understand the nature of this place and the people within it. And in return? He had been pelted with gunfire, a hail of pain and fury that had nearly undone him. Rage had burned through him then—a raw, primal feeling—but resignation had quickly doused it, leaving him with only the cold weight of survival.
He exhaled softly, his mind drawing back to Drake’s words. They lingered like smoke, acrid and heavy. His voice, when it came, was quiet and deliberate. “My first day here,” he began, his tone carrying a faint clinical detachment, “I ran into someone. Ren. At first, I didn’t understand what I had done to provoke him. But when I saw the look in his eyes... it was like something had broken inside of him. I’d seen that before.”
Rumi. Like the horror flashing in her eyes.
Maruki paused, his gaze dropping to his hand again as if trying to summon the memory of that pain, to feel its edges sharpen. “It wasn’t just fear. It was something deeper—raw, unprocessed anguish. One that retaliated in ways I couldn't comprehend. Something about me had pulled it to the surface. Maybe it was my words. Maybe my presence alone was enough. Whatever it was, it mirrored something I had...” His voice wavered for a moment, then steadied. “...seen before.”
He shifted, looking back at Drake, his eyes sharp with reluctancy. “I realized then that almost everyone here is carrying that weight. The weight of a killer, or the weight of someone forced into survival so deeply that killing becomes second nature. And for a while, I truly believed I could die here. Until the post of Falcon's unfortunate demise made me reconsider.”
A bitter chuckle escaped him, low and humorless. “No, I’m not here to cry over Amada-kun’s circumstances. I understand your perspective—and his. He’s dangerous. That’s undeniable. And this place...” He gestured vaguely to the room around them, his finger now tracing the edge of the table's rim. “This place twists people. Punishes them. Forces them to relive their sins in ways they don’t even understand.”
He straightened, crossing his arms loosely, his face unreadable. “I won’t pretend that I’m above it. I’m worse now than I was when I came here. Every hostile encounter, every dismissal, every reminder of who I am or who I was supposed to be—it wears you down.”
Maruki’s voice dropped, soft yet unyielding. “If I don’t intervene, and Amada-kun wins... well, we’re all in trouble. And if he loses—” He gave a faint, sardonic smile. “—he’ll hate me, and I’ll be even more of a target than I already am so I can't have either of us exist on the same plane. That doesn't even count whether he specifically hates my ideals. Either way, I’m standing on a tightrope, and there’s no net below.”
He fell silent for a moment, as though letting the weight of his own words settle in the room. Then, almost as an afterthought, he spoke again, quieter now. “I’ve chosen the lesser of two evils. I’ll approach it the only way I know how—from an academic perspective. Trauma. Pain. The paths they carve into a person’s future. That’s the only way I can make sense of this... madness.”
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He exhaled softly, his mind drawing back to Drake’s words. They lingered like smoke, acrid and heavy. His voice, when it came, was quiet and deliberate. “My first day here,” he began, his tone carrying a faint clinical detachment, “I ran into someone. Ren. At first, I didn’t understand what I had done to provoke him. But when I saw the look in his eyes... it was like something had broken inside of him. I’d seen that before.”
Rumi.
Like the horror flashing in her eyes.
Maruki paused, his gaze dropping to his hand again as if trying to summon the memory of that pain, to feel its edges sharpen. “It wasn’t just fear. It was something deeper—raw, unprocessed anguish. One that retaliated in ways I couldn't comprehend. Something about me had pulled it to the surface. Maybe it was my words. Maybe my presence alone was enough. Whatever it was, it mirrored something I had...” His voice wavered for a moment, then steadied. “...seen before.”
He shifted, looking back at Drake, his eyes sharp with reluctancy. “I realized then that almost everyone here is carrying that weight. The weight of a killer, or the weight of someone forced into survival so deeply that killing becomes second nature. And for a while, I truly believed I could die here. Until the post of Falcon's unfortunate demise made me reconsider.”
A bitter chuckle escaped him, low and humorless. “No, I’m not here to cry over Amada-kun’s circumstances. I understand your perspective—and his. He’s dangerous. That’s undeniable. And this place...” He gestured vaguely to the room around them, his finger now tracing the edge of the table's rim. “This place twists people. Punishes them. Forces them to relive their sins in ways they don’t even understand.”
He straightened, crossing his arms loosely, his face unreadable. “I won’t pretend that I’m above it. I’m worse now than I was when I came here. Every hostile encounter, every dismissal, every reminder of who I am or who I was supposed to be—it wears you down.”
Maruki’s voice dropped, soft yet unyielding. “If I don’t intervene, and Amada-kun wins... well, we’re all in trouble. And if he loses—” He gave a faint, sardonic smile. “—he’ll hate me, and I’ll be even more of a target than I already am so I can't have either of us exist on the same plane. That doesn't even count whether he specifically hates my ideals. Either way, I’m standing on a tightrope, and there’s no net below.”
He fell silent for a moment, as though letting the weight of his own words settle in the room. Then, almost as an afterthought, he spoke again, quieter now. “I’ve chosen the lesser of two evils. I’ll approach it the only way I know how—from an academic perspective. Trauma. Pain. The paths they carve into a person’s future. That’s the only way I can make sense of this... madness.”