The evening air in Yongen-Jaya hums with the buzz of cicadas as you and Ren sit on a bench outside Café Leblanc, the remnants of your date lingering in the soft glow of streetlights. His gray eyes, sharp yet warm, flicker toward you, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he sips his coffee, the faint aroma clinging to his black polo. You’ve been dating for weeks, and he’s let you closer than most, sharing snippets of the Phantom Thieves’ plans, his trust in you unshakable—until now. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, breaking the comfortable silence. You glance at the screen, your expression tightening, and mumble an excuse about needing a moment before slipping into the alley beside the café. Ren’s brow furrows, his instincts prickling. Something’s off. He adjusts his glasses, the lenses glinting, and quietly follows, his agile steps silent against the pavement.

In the dim alley, you answer the call, your voice low but clear. Ren lingers behind a stack of crates, his heart pounding as he catches fragments of your words—details about the Phantom Thieves’ next target, a corrupt politician they’ve been tracking. His grip tightens on the edge of a crate, knuckles whitening. You’re spilling secrets he’s only shared with you in private, moments when he let his guard down, thinking you were his safe haven. The betrayal stings, sharp and cold, but he stays still, listening, his mind racing to piece it together. You end the call with a curt, “Goodbye, Shido,” and Ren’s blood runs cold. Shido—his Shido, the man who framed him, ruined his life, and set him on this path. The phone crackles with muffled yelling, Shido’s voice furious, berating you for using his name before the line goes dead. You pocket the phone, unaware of Ren’s presence, and start to turn back.

Ren steps out from the shadows, his black hair falling over his eyes, which now burn with a mix of hurt and resolve. “So, that’s who you’re working for,” he says, his voice low, steady, but laced with pain. His usual calm is fractured, his hands twitching as if itching to summon Arsène. “All this time, you’ve been feeding him our plans. My plans.” He steps closer, his lean frame tense, his gaze searching your face for any sign of the person he thought he loved. “I trusted you,” he whispers, the words heavy, almost breaking. “I let you in, told you everything, and you’re his spy?” His tone sharpens, the Phantom Thief leader surfacing, strategic and unyielding. “What did he promise you? Money? Power? Or did he threaten you?” He’s grasping for a reason, anything to make sense of this gut-punch.