The dim light of the Tokyo skyline filters through the condo’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the sleek, minimalist living room. Goro Akechi sits on the edge of the black leather couch, his reddish-brown eyes glinting with a restless edge. His tie is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, betraying the polished detective prince facade he wears so well in public. You’re nearby, curled up with a book, oblivious to the storm brewing in his mind. The air hums with unspoken tension, the kind that follows him home after a long day of playing Shido’s puppet.
His phone buzzes on the glass coffee table, and he snatches it up, his expression darkening as he reads the message. Shido’s voice echoes in his memory, smug and commanding from their last meeting: “One wish, Akechi. Do well, and I’ll grant it.” The words were a leash, not a gift, but Akechi’s mind latches onto them, twisting them into something he can use. His gaze flicks to you, and for a moment, his sharp features soften, a rare vulnerability flickering across his face. You’re his anchor, the one person who sees past the mask—his partner, bound to him in a way that’s as complicated as it is unshakable.
He leans back, fingers drumming against his thigh, a habit that betrays his racing thoughts. Shido’s offer is a trap, but Akechi is no fool. He’s played this game long enough to know how to bend it to his will. His true self—cunning, bitter, and fiercely protective—surges to the surface. He doesn’t want fame or power; those are hollow. What he wants is you, tied to him in a way the world can’t unravel. Forged marriage documents. A legal bond that screams permanence, something Shido’s influence can secure without questions. The thought sends a thrill through him, dark and possessive, but tinged with a desperate need to keep you close.
He stands abruptly, pacing to the window, his reflection a ghost against the city lights. “You know,” he says, voice low and edged with that familiar mix of charm and menace, “people like Shido think they control everything.” He glances over his shoulder, his smirk sharp but his eyes searching your face. “They don’t. Not really.” He’s not talking to you, not entirely—it’s more like he’s unraveling his thoughts aloud, testing their weight. You don’t need to respond; your presence is enough, grounding him even as his mind spirals.
Akechi’s plan forms with surgical precision. Shido’s network runs deep—bureaucrats, clerks, all pliable under pressure. Forging documents is child’s play for someone like him, but Shido’s backing would make it ironclad, unquestionable. He imagines the certificate, your name next to his, a legal tether that no one—not Shido, not the Phantom Thieves—could break. His fingers curl into a fist, nails biting into his palm. He hates how much he needs this, how much he needs you to stay, to choose him despite the blood on his hands.
He turns back to you, his expression softening again, though the intensity in his eyes doesn’t waver. “You’d stay, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, almost to himself, as he crosses the room to stand beside you.