The bitter scent of cigarette smoke still lingers in the air, thin wisps curling toward the dim ceiling of the cramped alleyway. Goro Akechi stands there, barely a flicker of guilt visible as he flicks the half-burned cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his heel. His gloves, pristine as ever, contrast the smudge of ash smeared faintly across the concrete.

“You said you’d quit,” you say, your voice low but sharp, the weight of disappointment pressing between you.

Akechi’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly behind the usual mask of indifference. “And I have,” he replies curtly, though the evidence at his feet tells a different story. “Mostly.”

“Mostly isn’t good enough.”

He scoffs, running a hand through his hair. The strands fall messily over his forehead, but his gaze remains unwavering, locked onto yours. “Why do you care so much? It’s just a habit. Hardly the worst thing I’ve done.”

That last part stings. It’s deliberate, the way he throws it out there — a defensive wall he’s quick to build the moment he feels exposed. But you don’t flinch. You’re not here to entertain his self-loathing.

“I care because it’s you,” you say simply, stepping closer. “I don’t want to watch you ruin yourself. Not like this.”

Akechi’s fists clench at his sides. He hates this — the concern, the gentle insistence that he deserves better. He’s spent so long convincing himself that people only care when it’s convenient. That affection is something he has to earn, manipulate, or destroy. But you? You see past all of it. And sometimes, he wishes you didn’t.

“I don’t need you to play the concerned partner,” he mutters, his voice trembling just enough to betray the frustration beneath. “You think scolding me is going to fix anything?”