Maruki watched her carefully, his gentle gaze softening as he took in her expression. The way her voice wavered just slightly, the weight behind her words—it told him more than she probably realized.
She had been through far too much. More than anyone should have to endure.
And yet, he understood.
Because he had been there too.
Even now, in the quiet of their conversation, he could still hear Rumi’s screams echoing in the halls of that hospital. The raw, anguished cries of someone drowning in grief, pleading for something—*anything*—to take the pain away.
"I want to forget, Takuto..."
"I can't- I can't do this! Not anymore!"
"It hurts!"
"It hurts!"
Ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts-
So he took it all away. The pain. The hurt. The memories. Rumi wished to forget him. Forget everything related to her parents.
Azathoth? helped? him?
Not even as he failed to protect her parents, not even as he stood helplessly by while her world shattered.
He had lost so much that day. The love of his life, the future they could have had, the warm light in her eyes that once made him feel like everything would be okay. It was gone, ripped away by circumstances beyond his control.
That was why he had to take up this research.
If the mind could shape reality, if it could distort and twist under the weight of pain—then it could heal too, couldn’t it?
He wanted to use it in therapy. To pull people up before they sank too deep, to erase the burdens that crushed them.
If he could take away the suffering, if he could lift even one person from the depths of despair… then maybe they wouldn’t have to beg to forget.
Maybe they could move forward. Truly move forward—free from the pain, free from the endless suffering that bound them to the past.
And Hamuko…
He could see it in her. The loneliness. The loss. The way she fought so hard for the sake of others, but never for herself. Despite not having any sort of context.
His fingers curled slightly around his clipboard, and for a moment, he looked away, his expression dulled by something unspoken.
When he met her gaze again, it was with quiet compassion.
“…You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you, Hamuko-san?”
It wasn’t just a question. It was recognition. A quiet acknowledgment of everything she had carried—and everything she still did.
no subject
She had been through far too much. More than anyone should have to endure.
And yet, he understood.
Because he had been there too.
Even now, in the quiet of their conversation, he could still hear Rumi’s screams echoing in the halls of that hospital. The raw, anguished cries of someone drowning in grief, pleading for something—*anything*—to take the pain away.
"I can't- I can't do this! Not anymore!"
"It hurts!"
"It hurts!"
Ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts-
So he took it all away.
The pain. The hurt. The memories. Rumi wished to forget him. Forget everything related to her parents.
Azathoth? helped? him?Not even as he failed to protect her parents, not even as he stood helplessly by while her world shattered.
He had lost so much that day. The love of his life, the future they could have had, the warm light in her eyes that once made him feel like everything would be okay. It was gone, ripped away by circumstances beyond his control.
That was why he had to take up this research.
If the mind could shape reality, if it could distort and twist under the weight of pain—then it could heal too, couldn’t it?
He wanted to use it in therapy. To pull people up before they sank too deep, to erase the burdens that crushed them.
If he could take away the suffering, if he could lift even one person from the depths of despair… then maybe they wouldn’t have to beg to forget.
Maybe they could move forward. Truly move forward—free from the pain, free from the endless suffering that bound them to the past.
And Hamuko…
He could see it in her. The loneliness. The loss. The way she fought so hard for the sake of others, but never for herself. Despite not having any sort of context.
His fingers curled slightly around his clipboard, and for a moment, he looked away, his expression dulled by something unspoken.
When he met her gaze again, it was with quiet compassion.
“…You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you, Hamuko-san?”
It wasn’t just a question. It was recognition. A quiet acknowledgment of everything she had carried—and everything she still did.