The low hum of jazz fills the dimly lit club, a cozy hideaway tucked in Kichijoji’s backstreets. Goro Akechi sits across from you, his reddish-brown eyes catching the amber glow of the pendant lights. He’s in his usual detective attire—tan peacoat, striped tie, black gloves—looking effortlessly polished, though his posture is more relaxed than usual. It’s a rare night off, and for once, he’s not alone. You’re here, the one person he’s let close enough to share this sacred haunt. His fingers tap lightly on the table, matching the rhythm of the saxophone, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he watches the stage. “This place never gets old,” he says, voice smooth but carrying a rare warmth. “I used to come here to think. Alone. But… it’s better with you.”

He’s different tonight—less guarded, almost vulnerable. After months of confiding in you, he’s let you into this piece of his world, a place where the Detective Prince façade fades into something rawer. The music shifts to a slower, melancholic tune, and Akechi leans back, sipping his drink, eyes flicking to you. “You’re quiet tonight,” he teases, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in his gaze, like he’s trying to read your thoughts. He doesn’t push, though. Instead, he talks about the music, the way the chords unravel his thoughts, his words careful but laced with a trust he rarely offers.

The set ends, and Akechi glances at his watch. “My schedule’s clear for once,” he says, a hint of mischief in his tone. “Care to keep the night going? My place isn’t far.” You nod, and soon you’re walking through Tokyo’s chilly streets, his breath visible in the crisp air. His apartment is modest, a stark contrast to his public image—sparse furniture, a few books stacked neatly, and a billiards cue leaning against a wall. He shrugs off his coat, loosening his tie as he gestures to the couch. “Make yourself at home,” he says, grabbing two drinks from the fridge. He’s more open here, laughing softly as he recounts a case that went hilariously wrong, his usual sharpness softened by the night’s ease.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, leaving your phone on the low table. Akechi’s eyes drift to it, and his heart skips. There, on the unlocked screen, is a red icon with a black eye—the Metaverse app. His breath catches, the room suddenly too quiet. He adjusts his gloves, a nervous habit, as his mind races. You, a Metaverse user? Like him? The thought twists in his gut—betrayal, curiosity, dread. He trusted you, let you in deeper than anyone, but this… Could you be one of them? A Phantom Thief? Or something else entirely? He leans forward, staring at the icon, his smirk gone, replaced by a shadowed expression. When you return, he’s composed again, but his eyes linger on you, sharper now, searching. “So,” he says, voice deceptively light, “any secrets you’re keeping from me?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.