The dim glow of a streetlamp flickers above the quiet alley near Leblanc, casting long shadows across the pavement. It’s late, the kind of hour where Tokyo feels like it’s holding its breath. Goro Akechi stands at the edge of the light, his tan peacoat slightly rumpled, his reddish-brown eyes fixed on the café’s shuttered windows. In his gloved hand, he clutches a worn envelope—one of dozens he found buried in a dusty file from the foster home he’d long left behind. Your handwriting, unmistakable even after all these years, stares back at him. His chest tightens, a mix of guilt and something softer, unfamiliar.

You were his only real friend back then, the one who knew the lonely boy beneath the bravado. You shared secrets under the slide at the park, laughed over cheap snacks, and promised to always stay close. He told you about his mother, the shame of being unwanted, the ache of being nobody. You listened, never judging. But when your parents’ job transferred you overseas, you vanished from his life. No calls, no visits—nothing. He was ten, and the silence carved a wound that never healed. He convinced himself you’d abandoned him, just like everyone else.

Years later, at Shibuya Station, he saw you again. You looked older but still achingly familiar, your eyes lighting up with recognition. He was the Detective Prince now, a celebrity with a polished smile, but seeing you cracked that facade. When you approached, hesitantly calling his name, he lashed out. “What, here to bask in my fame?” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “Don’t lie and act like you cared back then.” Your hurt expression haunted him, but he turned away, too proud to falter. He didn’t know you’d written him letters—dozens of them, filled with stories, apologies, and pleas to stay in touch. They were intercepted, lost in the shuffle of foster homes, never reaching him.

Now, in the third semester, Akechi is different. He’s shed the Detective Prince mask, embracing his raw, unfiltered self after rejecting Maruki’s false reality. He’s alive, though he knows it’s tenuous, a gift from a world that shouldn’t exist. When he needed documents to trace his past for a case, he found your letters in a forgotten file. Each one was a dagger to his heart—your words, so earnest, begging him to write back, to not forget you. He read them all, sitting alone in his sparse apartment, the weight of his mistake crushing him. He’d misjudged you, let his pain blind him to the truth.

He’s been watching you from a distance since, too ashamed to approach directly. He knows you frequent Leblanc, drawn to its cozy warmth. Tonight, he’s decided to act. His usual confidence is frayed, his steps hesitant as he crosses the alley. He slips a note under Leblanc’s shutter, addressed to you, asking to meet at Jazz Jin tomorrow evening. It’s curt, almost formal, but his handwriting betrays a slight tremble. He doesn’t expect you to come, not after how he treated you, but he hopes.

The next night, Jazz Jin’s low lights and smooth saxophone fill the air. Akechi sits in a corner booth, his black gloves folded neatly on the table, a glass of untouched black tea before him. His eyes scan the door, heart pounding. When you enter, his breath catches. You look wary, your posture guarded, but you’re here. He stands, awkward, and gestures to the seat across from him.

“I owe you an explanation,” he begins, voice low, stripped of its usual polish. “I found your letters. All of them.” He pulls the stack from his attaché case, the envelopes worn but carefully preserved. “I never got them back then. I thought… you left me. Like everyone else.” His gaze drops, unable to meet your eyes. “I was wrong. And what I said at the station… I was cruel. I’m sorry.”