New years has been in many ways fleeting and ever-changing. New developments that occured past what have been some of the most active months after his first arrival here. He does miss the bliss of the new year's party but really as Maruki's life were. Good things always came to an end.

Now were they replaced with better things?

...

---

A. Tranquil delights [locked to Toshiro for now]

The New Year’s party had been a success, at least on paper. The hotel was lavish, the food abundant, the atmosphere carefully curated to exude warmth and celebration. Maruki had planned it all with meticulous care—the small handful of adults and older residents deserved something to look forward to, even in this strange place.

But now, as the late hours stretched into the quiet of the night, Maruki found himself on the balcony, separate from the lively remnants of the gathering.

The cool night air pressed against him, carrying the faint sounds of laughter and conversation from inside. He barely registered it. His fingers rested lightly on the railing as his gaze drifted, unfocused, toward the distant skyline.

He was dressed in a yukata, a traditional choice for the occasion—gold, with elegant green and black accents woven subtly into the fabric. It was a rich color, warm against the lantern-lit backdrop, but the man wearing it looked strangely out of place.

Awkward. Unsure.

His thoughts, traitorous as ever, had carried him elsewhere.

"Shibusawa…"

Maruki exhaled slowly, the name lingering unspoken in his chest.

It was almost funny—the way memories could shift in hindsight, how the mind could so easily reshape them into something more tolerable. He had just been recalling their usual back-and-forth to Midnight just a few days ago, the way Shibusawa had practically dragged him to a Christmas Eve get-together on that fateful day. How they had argued over his research. How Maruki had left early after another disagreement.

That was the story he told himself.

Except…

Except the memory was wrong. It was softer than the truth.

The truth was that they had fought, really fought. Words sharp enough to cut. A tension so thick it had nearly suffocated them both. And then—

A fist. A sharp, jarring impact. The dull ache that had followed, not just in his face, but deep in his ribs, in the parts of himself that couldn't simply heal as he had fought back.

He had left in a haze, not just of anger but of something else. Something messier, something he hadn't wanted to acknowledge.

Now, standing here beneath the quiet glow of the night, Maruki found himself wondering.

What is he doing now?

Did he still think of that night? Did he regret it?

Regret.

Maruki's smile curled. That didn't even matter anymore, did it?

---

B. The laboratory [Locked to morning]

[Moon-> Current CR: 1]
Dated: Second last Monday of January.

The morning air was sharp with winter’s bite, but Maruki had come prepared. His usual brown jacket shielded him from most of the cold, and underneath it, a black turtleneck offered an extra layer of warmth. As he adjusted his sleeves, he turned to Morning with a small, reassuring nod.

“Just follow my lead,” he instructed simply. “It’s… easy to get lost in here.”

The lab in Odaiba was massive. It loomed ahead of them, sleek and modern, its sheer size enough to make it feel almost intimidating. There were few places like it, and in a way, it felt like a world of its own—detached from the usual rhythm of the city.

As they walked, the chill lingered in the air, breath forming in soft puffs before them. A few passing cognitions took notice of Maruki, offering polite nods and words of well-wishing as they went. He acknowledged them in turn, his replies courteous but brief. He didn’t linger, though; his focus remained ahead.

At the front of the lab, a set of immense, regal gates stood before them, their surface polished yet old with an air of grandeur. As they approached, a deep, mechanical groan echoed through the quiet as the gates slowly creaked open, revealing a sort of pathway with flowers etched on the sides and expanding further down the east wing of the building where they flourished like a grand garden.

A butterfly flew before Morning's face.

Maruki didn't remember the last time he had maintained the garden after designing it.

---

C. Setsuban. [Locked to Trickster for now]

Dated: Evening, 2nd of February

It was quiet inside.

Maruki stood at the entrance of Leblanc, the dim glow of the streetlights outside casting long, slanted shadows through the café’s windows. His breath was slow, measured, as a single inky tentacle hesitated at the doorway, curling inward to check for any sign of life before withdrawing. No one was here.

Good.

He stepped inside. The faint aroma of coffee still clung to the air, even if this place—this version of it—was merely a cognition. The warmth of memory seeped into him, but the weight in his chest never lifted.

"You're awfully quiet today."

Azathoth’s voice slithered into his thoughts, its amusement as heavy as the suffocating silence in the room.

Maruki barely acknowledged it. Instead, his fingers trailed absently along the counter as he walked, his eyes searching—*for what?* He wasn’t even sure. His mind felt like a frayed thread, pulled too taut, slipping through his grasp the more he tried to hold on.

"You don’t even recognize the significance of this day, do you?"

A slow inhale. His grip tightened slightly on the wood.

"You fought for this. You bled for this."

Maruki exhaled through his nose, turning slightly toward one of the booths as if the answer might be waiting there for him.

"And yet, here you are, wandering in the haze of it all. Do you even remember what you were willing to destroy for your ideals?"

A flicker—just a flicker. A cold February night. The glow of golden cracks in the air. Desperation clinging to his words.

His brow furrowed as he pressed his palm lightly against his temple.

"...I was here," he murmured, half to himself. "But—what was it?"

His memory felt like a shattered mirror, the pieces there but just out of order, just out of reach. He had fought. He had pleaded. But the details—his reasons—his conviction—were slipping between his fingers like sand.

And it frustrated him.