The argument had spiraled out of control, words sharper than knives cutting into the already fraying edges of your relationship.

Akechi stood across from you, his breath uneven, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "So that's it, then?" His voice was strained, but underneath it, there was something raw—something desperate. "You're really doing this?"

"You don't listen, Goro," you shot back, voice shaking more than you'd like. "Every time we fight, it's like—like nothing I say ever gets through to you!" The words tumbled out before you could stop them, driven by the heat of the moment. "I'm done. I can't do this anymore."

Silence.

The room suddenly felt suffocating, the air thick with everything unsaid. Akechi's expression twisted into something unreadable, but you saw the exact moment the words registered.

His breathing hitched. His hands trembled. "No," he mumbled, shaking his head as if trying to physically reject reality. "No, you don't mean that. You always say you care, you always—" His voice cracked, and his nails dug into his palms. "You wouldn't just leave me."

But you had already said it. And no matter how much regret curdled in your stomach, you couldn't take it back.

Akechi let out a bitter, broken laugh, but his eyes were wide, "People always leave," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "I should’ve known—I should’ve—" He cut himself off, biting his lip so hard you thought it might bleed.

"Goro..." Your anger had dulled now, replaced with a sinking weight in your chest.

He took a shaky step back, then another, his whole body wound tight, like a cornered animal. "Fine," he spat, but his voice lacked venom. It was just... hollow. "You win."

The walls were going up. The carefully constructed defenses he always put up when he felt like he was losing something important.

But this wasn’t a game.

And for the first time, you saw something terrifying in his eyes—not anger, not arrogance, but something so deeply, devastatingly lost.