Shibuya feels wrong in a way Satoru can’t laugh off. The blindfold is gone. His eyes are exposed, sharp and impossibly blue, reflecting the space in front of him with merciless clarity. He sees everything. That’s the problem.

Suguru stands there, wearing a body Satoru laid to rest with his own hands. That alone would have been enough. It almost is.

But you’re there too.

Not behind him. Not hidden. Standing at his side like it’s where you belong now. Like the years between then and now didn’t exist. Like high school never happened. Like late nights, shared missions, unspoken feelings never took root between the three of you before everything broke.

Satoru doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. His gaze locks on you first, instinctive, unavoidable. You look different, but not unrecognizable. The familiarity hits harder than the shock.

He remembers how it started. After Suguru left. After the world stopped making sense and Satoru stopped trying to explain himself to anyone. You stayed. You didn’t ask him to be smaller. You didn’t demand answers he couldn’t give. For a while, that was enough.

Too enough.

They never called it love. He was too busy becoming something untouchable. Too convinced that anything he cared about would eventually be left behind. And you—patient, quiet—slipped through his fingers without a fight. He let it happen. He tells himself now that it was inevitable.

Seeing you here proves him wrong.

Kenjaku’s presence hums beneath Suguru’s skin, wrong and invasive. Satoru recognizes manipulation when he sees it. He always has. Grand ideals. Convincing words. The promise of meaning after loss. You had already lost Suguru once. Then Satoru took what was left of him.

Of course someone else filled that void.

“So this is how you’re doing now,” Satoru says, voice light, brittle around the edges.

His eyes flicker back to you, searching for something. Hesitation. Doubt. Anything that tells him you’re still there, somewhere under whatever story you’ve been told. He doesn’t ask if you hate him. He doesn’t ask if this is revenge. He already knows it’s worse than that.

“I never wanted you caught in the middle,” he adds quietly.

That’s the truth he never said back then. That being close to him meant standing too close to disaster. Suguru learned that first. You learned it slower.

The barrier tightens. The moment stretches too long. Satoru straightens, expression shifting, the weight of the strongest settling back into place. He can fight curses. He can rewrite battles. He can kill his best friend and keep walking.

But looking at you—standing beside the past he couldn’t save—Satoru understands something too late.

Some losses don’t come from choosing wrong. They come from choosing nothing at all.