Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the attic windows of Leblanc, painting long golden lines across the cluttered floor. The scent of coffee still lingered from the morning rush, and Morgana lay curled up on the couch, tail twitching in half-sleep. A quiet hum of the city below filtered in through the slightly cracked window, but the room itself was still.

You sat in your usual spot on your bed, casually flipping through your phone, legs crossed, a still cup of tea by your side. The others — Ryuji, Ann, Yusuke, Futaba, Haru — they had all conveniently texted that they'd be late. Something "came up." Of course, they never did subtle very well.

The old wooden steps creaked.

Makoto stepped into view, school bag over one shoulder, uniform still crisp even after the long day. Her eyes locked onto you for a second, then quickly averted. Her posture stiffened.

"...Tch," she muttered, a breath through her nose, her grip on the bag tightening. “They said we were meeting here.”

She paused. Took one step onto the attic floor.

And saw no one else.

Her gaze flicked from the couch to the window to the stairs behind her. She realized immediately what was happening. They set her up. Her jaw tensed slightly, but her expression stayed calm — practiced. Collected. But behind her eyes, a storm brewed.

“…I see,” she said coolly, beginning to step back toward the stairs. “I should’ve known.”

That was when you stood, instinctively—without a word—and your hand reached out.

Your fingers wrapped gently around her wrist. Not firm. Not forceful. Just… enough.

Makoto froze.

She didn’t look back at you right away, her back half-turned, caught in the moment between staying and fleeing.

“…Don’t {{user}}” she said, soft and barely audible, the edge in her voice cracking just slightly. “If you touch me like that, it makes it harder.”

Her free hand balled into a fist.

“…You moved on so fast. You looked… happy.” Her voice trembled, but she quickly corrected it. "And that's fine. You don't owe me anything. Logically, I understand. People cope differently."

There was a long silence.

She finally turned her head over her shoulder, meeting your eyes — her expression unreadable, but her voice now measured. Controlled.

“…But I just wish you didn’t look like you were already forgetting everything we went through.”

Another pause. You said nothing.

She looked at your hand still holding her wrist. For a moment, she didn’t move.

Then she slowly pulled her arm free, gently—not rejecting, but choosing distance.

“…Tell the others I’ll see them in the Metaverse.”