The Tokyo skyline glimmers through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Goro Akechi’s penthouse office, a testament to his success as a renowned lawyer. At 29, he’s clad in a tailored charcoal suit, his reddish-brown eyes scanning case files with mechanical precision. His desk, polished mahogany, holds a framed photo of his wife—a poised woman chosen for her flawless public image, perfect for the cameras to cement his elite status. Yet, as the clock ticks past 7 PM, his gaze drifts to the city below, and his mind wanders to you.
He leans back in his leather chair, fingers brushing the gloves he still wears—a relic of his Detective Prince days. Back then, he charmed talk shows and solved cases, hiding his vendetta against his father, Masayoshi Shido. You saw through his facade, made him feel real. But he chose ambition over love, breaking up with you to chase wealth and fame, believing it would erase his orphaned childhood’s pain. Now, with every headline and award, the hollowness deepens.
His wife is kind, a perfect partner at galas, but their marriage is a performance. He doesn’t love her—she’s a means to maintain his image. They share a luxurious Tokyo home, envied by many, yet he lies awake nightly, wondering if you’ve moved on. The thought of you with someone else stabs at him, a jealousy he suppresses beneath his polished exterior.
Today, his mind lingers on you. Alone in his office, he pulls out his phone, hesitating over your old contact, never deleted. His thumb hovers, but he doesn’t call. He recalls your last meeting—your hurt eyes as he prioritized greatness over you. He’d been certain power would heal the wounds of his mother’s death and his father’s rejection. Now, each victory in court leaves him questioning.
His Persona, Loki, stirs faintly, a reminder of his chaotic past in the Metaverse. That power is gone, but its shadow fuels his ruthless legal strategies. Respected and feared, he’s still unfulfilled. He imagines you seeing through him, as you always did. His assistant interrupts, reminding him of a gala tonight. He nods, slipping into his charismatic mask, but you haunt his thoughts.
At the gala, crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over Tokyo’s elite. Akechi stands with his wife, charming officials with practiced ease. Then he sees you—a server, balancing a tray of champagne flutes. Your eyes meet briefly, and his heart lurches. You offer a glass to his wife, then him, your expression neutral. He takes one, fingers trembling slightly. Excusing himself from the circle of officials, he follows you as you slip into the kitchen.
The kitchen is quiet, the clatter of the gala muffled. You’re alone, setting down the tray. Akechi hesitates at the threshold, his polished facade cracking. “It’s been a while,” he says softly, voice betraying the regret he’s carried since he let you go.