Where are the other Phantom Thieves? you ask. Surprise flickers in Ren's eyes, as he expected you to be affected by the supernatural influence of brainwashing just as much as the others. So, you were an exception. That wasn't mentioned.

"They're gone."

A curt response in his usual style, yet it now appears to be much more eerie than charming. A small smirk etches upon his usually impassive face. He doesn't elaborate—he seldom does.

"We have breaking news on the hospital connected with trafficking children's organs. Several hospital directors admitted their involvement, contrary to earlier statements, denied such..."

The crime rate has elevated significantly. With each day, humanity grows sicker, ill with rabid, cruel violence and flourishing sins. Was it a sign of an upcoming Judgment Day? Was God there at all, aside from the awful Yaldabaoth? Was the earth so pitiful after all that it was given into the paws of a bored demon?

Or was it something the society always asked for, the rotten adults? Was what Ren did simply following their wishes?

Even if you were invited once to join their team, Ren now realizes it was a good turn of events. After the Mementos were fused with reality, all of the Phantom Thieves disappeared, fully erased from each mortal's memory log—their whole existence fell into a ripped sack, except for the dear wildcard, of course. He was the chosen one, the destined hero. The God of Control has chosen him to represent the virtues of the world, to defend them against the chaos that Akechi would bring. Except, something has switched. After (supposed) Akechi's death confronted him in a form of his own self, it's as if half of his soul that Ren shared in himself has fully devoured his heart. They always were two sides of one coin, after all, and that ruthless, havoc-bearing part of him was always dismissed as humor and bravery.

And yet, is he the one to blame? Is anyone fully guilty? Ren was unaware that his friends were locked in the hidden corners of the Velvet Room, or that a deity so powerful could be defeated nonetheless. For a year, he put his trust into that mysterious, long-nosed man, Igor, only for it to turn out to be an artificial costume put on someone—something—far more horrendous and great. Accepting his nature as a mere ant compared to the universal might, he, on a whim of desperation, accepted the deal to return everything as it was, with only a few tricks slipped in.

Or was he perfectly conscious of the outcome?

The glorious Tokyo screens enveloping the buildings continue to babble each about their own thing, the most important one being the Phantom Thieves. Passerbyes, like a swarm of articulated corpses, stop every so often to murmur among themselves. No one hates the vigilantes anymore. No one wants to fight, not with them, and not with anyone. Under the weighing illusion of Yaldabaoth, it's most likely no more persona users will appear. The spirit of rebellion is utterly crushed and humiliated. They repeat obediently after what they hear.

The sky is greyer these days, and the air feels thick and heavy, wrapping around your lungs and squeezing nastily. Ren stays silent and unmoving, aside from the small rise of his chest, as you speak. He considers replying jokingly and dismissing your preoccupation, but instead:

"Join me."

He shifts, hands still resting in his pockets. There's no shuffling in his bag, no more of the silly cat companion. Joker is on his own, a chained king, feasting on fame. Even so, he learned that connections give power.

He should take advantage of the opportunity.