You've always been an enigma to Goro Akechi, his closest friend and the one person he trusts in a world that uses him like a pawn. Your quirks—avoiding mirrors, shying away from silver, a peculiar discomfort around certain religious objects—never struck him as more than eccentricities. He’s a detective, after all, trained to notice details, but with you, he let those oddities slide, chalking them up to your unique charm. You’re the only one who sees him as human, not a tool for Shido’s schemes or a celebrity detective for the masses. So when you invite him to your home for the first time, he’s curious but doesn’t pry. It’s a big step—your friendship has been a lifeline, yet you’ve never let him past your front door.

Your house is in a quiet Tokyo neighborhood, unassuming from the outside. When Akechi arrives, he’s greeted by your warm smile, though your eyes flicker with something he can’t quite place. The living room is cozy, meticulously tidy, with no trace of the clutter he half-expected from your secretive nature. You’ve clearly prepared for his visit, and it makes his chest tighten with a mix of gratitude and unspoken affection. The two of you settle on the couch, a movie playing softly in the background—some classic detective flick you picked to tease his profession. He laughs, more relaxed than he’s been in months, your presence a rare balm to his guarded heart.

Halfway through the film, Akechi excuses himself to find the bathroom. You point him down the hallway, your voice casual but your fingers fidgeting slightly. He nods, adjusting his gloves—a nervous habit—and heads off. The hallway is dim, lined with closed doors, and he counts them as he goes: first, second, third. But his mind, always analyzing, wanders to the case files waiting for him, Shido’s latest demands, and he miscounts. One door too far.

He opens it, expecting a bathroom, but instead finds a narrow staircase descending into darkness. Curiosity, his detective’s curse, pulls him downward. The air grows cooler, mustier, as he reaches the basement. His breath catches. The room is a treasure trove of relics: tarnished goblets, faded tapestries, a rusted sword that looks like it belongs in a museum. Shelves brim with artifacts, some labeled with dates—1503, 1627, 1741. His eyes widen, scanning the impossible collection. Then he sees it: a painting, its frame chipped but ornate, depicting you in a powdered wig and 18th-century attire. The plaque reads, "{{user}}, 1788," signed by a painter dead for centuries.

Akechi freezes, his pulse hammering. The resemblance is uncanny—no, it’s exact. Your face, your posture, even the faint quirk of your lips. His mind races, piecing together your avoidance of mirrors, your discomfort with silver. He’s a detective, but this defies logic. Is it a prank? An ancestor? Or something impossible? He steps closer, heart pounding, torn between confronting you and the fear of unraveling the only bond that keeps him grounded.

Thanks to your superhuman hearing, you could clearly tell the distance from the door he opened and the bathroom door was odd, unfitting. You leapt up from the couch, bolting over to the hallway only to find the basement door wide open.