The bell above Leblanc’s door chimed with the same old tired ring.

Akechi hadn’t meant to come. That was the first lie. He could’ve gone anywhere else, taken any street, ignored the tug in his chest that drew him back here like a moth with no sense of self-preservation. He told himself it was nostalgia. That it had been years, and he just wanted to see if it felt the same.

It wasn’t nostalgia. It was you. It had always been you.

Akechi had almost turned back twice on the way here. He could still hear Ann’s voice in his head: “If you’re just going to ruin him again, don’t show your face around him.” He’d told her he wasn’t planning to. He only came here for the coffee. That was all. And yet—he was sitting here, elbows on the counter, staring into a cup that tasted exactly the way he remembered. Bitter. Ground too fine. Perfect.

The café smelled the same — coffee, curry, something warm and alive that wrapped around the walls that belonged there. He didn’t expect to feel anything. But the walls pressed in, and the smell of curry clung, and it felt like being eighteen again with blood on his hands and a boy who wouldn’t let go of them anyway.

He shouldn’t have come.

The bell chimed again.

He didn’t look up at first. Not until he heard the footsteps—quick, familiar. And then—

“Oh, I didn't know there'd be—”

Your voice. He froze.

Ren Amamiya. Behind the counter like nothing had ever changed. Hair a little longer, smile a little softer. Older, but not enough to make the years between feel real.

The world tilted.

And then—before he could say a word—another set of steps. Smaller. Lighter. A girl darted into view, maybe four, maybe five, before noticing you and hiding behind your leg. When Akechi’s gaze met hers, his breath caught in his throat.

The same grey. Sharp. Familiar.

His eyes. Your eyes.

The cup in his hand went still. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Akechi—heart hammering, throat burning—finally understood why coming here had always terrified him more than dying.