...09/10/2009 Friday; Dusk...
The late afternoon sun poured over Tatsumi Port Island like golden honey, streaming down the rooftops and sidewalks, warming the asphalt and restoring to the city the rhythm it never abandoned for long.
Cars passed by. Conversations crossed at street corners. The world went on—indifferent, but not cruel. Just alive.
In the Iwatodai dorm, normalcy was slowly returning, like water finding its level after a storm. The household chores, the classes, Tartarus when the Dark Hour fell over the city—each piece fitting back into its place.
The pain hadn't disappeared. It had simply learned to share space with the routine.
Hiro was on the rooftop.
His hands resting on the metal railing, his body leaning forward, the wind messing up his hair and pulling from his lips a sigh that was lost in the breeze.
He looked at the city without really seeing it—the buildings, the streets, the tiny cars down below were just blurred shapes behind his thoughts.
His hands were bandaged.
The white bandages wrapped around his fists and fingers, some stained with dried blood he hadn't bothered to change. Every movement of his fingers provoked a pull on the skin, a physical reminder of what he had been doing in recent days.
Mitsuru's voice still echoed in his head.
"I don't want you to be like this. I know it's complicated to get over someone's death. But... you have to keep standing, Hiro."
He breathed deeply. The air came in fresh and left slowly, carrying with it some of the tension accumulated in his shoulders. He looked at his own hands—the sore knuckles, the cuts the bandages hid.
He was trying. Really. But Shinjiro's axe was still leaning against the wall of his room, waiting. Waiting for Hiro to make it his. To adjust it. To use it.
And Hiro couldn't stop. Not until all of this was over.
His fists clenched. The bandages stretched. The pain rose through his fingers, but he didn't even blink.
The sound of a door opening cut through the wind.
Calm footsteps. Slow. Unhurried.
Hiro raised his head and looked over his shoulder. Minato approached with his hands in his pockets, the carefree posture as always, but his eyes fixed on Hiro with a silent attention. He stopped a few steps away, the wind playing with the dark bangs falling over his face.
Hiro smiled faintly at the sight of Minato. A small smile, almost an advance apology. He turned to him and crossed his arms—a defensive gesture, albeit unconscious.
"Ahh... hey, Minato."
Minato approached slowly, his steps muffled by the wind. His eyes swept over Hiro's face. "You've been alone up here for a while. Is everything okay?"
Hiro sighed. His hand rose to the back of his neck, his fingers running through his hair. His gaze drifted to the side—to anything that wasn't Minato's eyes.
"Well... I wouldn't say I'm really okay..." His voice came out dragged. "...but I can handle it. Sorry if I worried you guys."
Minato shook his head. Without judgment. Without demands. He walked to Hiro's side and leaned on the railing, his eyes turned toward the city down below. Hiro didn't turn immediately. He kept looking at the ground, as if his mind wandered in silence.
The wind passed between them. Took the silence with it, brought it back, took it again. Neither of them spoke.
It wasn't an uncomfortable silence—it was the silence of two people who knew the next sentence needed to be chosen carefully.
Minato breathed deeply. The air filled his lungs and left slowly, almost imperceptible.
"Hiro..." He glanced sideways. His eyes found Hiro's. "...what exactly did you talk about with Lucifer?"
The chill rose up Hiro's spine. His shoulders tensed under the uniform. His fingers contracted against his arm.
Lucifer. The name echoed inside him, bringing with it the images he couldn't organize.
The flashes. The voices. The red fury that had possessed him that night in the alley—when he threw himself onto the Shadow Arcana, when his eyes flashed red. He remembered the heat. Remembered the rage. But what he had said...
"So that's what you wanted to talk about..." Hiro shrugged, but the gesture came out tense, forced. He looked at Minato with genuine confusion in his eyes. "Look... I don't know how to explain it properly."
Minato nodded. "But... isn't it affecting you?" A pause. "Because when you got like that... it seemed like you were someone else."
The words hit Hiro like a gunshot.
He looked away. His bandaged hands rose before his face, his fingers opening and closing slowly, as if he could feel something pulsing beneath the skin. Something that lived deeper.
His true self that, sometimes, seemed to want more space than he had to give.
"I don't know..." Hiro sighed. His eyes wandered over the rooftop, the concrete walls, the sky, as if the answer were hidden somewhere. "When I... 'argued' with Lucifer, I remember he said he would help me. When I said I would keep going."
Minato furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, 'keep going'?"
Hiro turned and leaned on the railing again. His elbows sank into the cold metal, and he let his body hang forward, his gaze falling on the street below.
"I couldn't let anything happen to you guys." His voice came out low, almost swallowed by the wind. "All I wanted was to keep everyone safe... and kill every one of those sons of bitches."
Hiro's fingers closed around the railing. His knuckles turned white.
"So... that night I started getting angry. Hateful. If we let the Strength Arcana escape, we'd lose our chance. The Dark Hour still had two Shadow Arcana. I couldn't let that bastard get away."
He looked at the street again. His jaw locked.
"But... what I felt... wasn't me." His head shook slowly, an almost imperceptible motion. "It was like a beast... wanting to get out. But I'm not a monster."
He turned to Minato. And in that moment, his eyes carried a confusion that hurt to see—the confusion of someone who looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize the reflection.
"Is it wrong to want to save the people you love, Minato?"
Minato didn't answer.
"I just want all of you to be okay." Hiro's voice cracked at the edges. "We already lost Shinjiro... I can't let anything happen to you guys." He swallowed hard. "But is it wrong to be someone else to save the others?"
The wind passed between them. Minato heard. And as he listened, something inside him moved—a silent recognition.
He understood. Understood that question more than he would like to admit. Because he had asked himself the same thing, on the nights when exhaustion weighed heavy and fear lurked in the shadows of Tartarus.
He remembered the moments with S.E.E.S. The meals in the dorm. The battles. The laughter.
All of that could end at any moment. Any night could be the last. But there was no point in becoming someone else. No point in wearing a mask. They knew the risk. And even so, they went to the end.
Minato shook his head. Slowly. Firmly.
"No. You're not wrong." He paused. "Not to mention that... we don't know what your Persona can do. Whether you'll be okay at the end of all this." Another pause. His eyes found Hiro's and didn't look away. "But that doesn't change who you are, Hiro."
He reached out and placed his hand on Hiro's shoulder. The smile that came next was light—small, almost invisible, but real.
"Don't forget that you're not alone. We're going to destroy the Dark Hour."
Hiro's chest tightened. Something rose up his throat and stayed there, stuck, as if a knot had suddenly come undone.
The weight on his shoulders—the one he had carried since the night in the alley—seemed to lessen. Not disappear. But lessen enough that he could breathe again.
He knew he wasn't alone. Knew they would all fight to the end. Even if he didn't understand why Lucifer spoke to him.
Even if the rage came back. Even if he lost himself again.
He wasn't a monster.
Hiro smiled. This time, the smile reached his eyes. He gave Minato two pats on the back—a simple gesture, but one that said more than any words.
"You're right..." His voice came out lighter, as if someone had loosened a rope that had kept it taut. "Thanks, Minato. I needed to hear that."
Minato shrugged and withdrew his hand from Hiro's shoulder. Something inside him settled—like a gear finally finding its fit.
He still didn't understand why Hiro's Persona was like that, so different from the others. But that didn't matter now. He would help. Somehow.
"No need to thank me." Minato's smile was genuine, his tone gentle. "We just need to keep your Persona under control."
Hiro laughed. A short laugh, somewhat muffled, as he shook his head.
"Uh-huh... if it ever stops giving me grief." He looked at the sky for an instant, as if considering the idea. "I really should go talk to Igor about this... well... if he answers me."
Minato smiled back, but even his eyes dropped to Hiro's bandaged hands. "By the way, how did you hurt your hands?"
Hiro looked at his own hands as if he had only just remembered them. His fingers opened and closed slowly.
He scratched his head, a forced, awkward smile. "Ah... it's nothing much. Mitsuru let me keep Shinjiro's axe." He paused, his eyes drifting. "So I was trying to sew a hook onto my coat to attach the axe to my back."
Minato raised an eyebrow. "Really? And you know how to sew?"
Hiro's face twitched. A frustrated, almost comical smile formed on his lips.
"That's exactly the problem... I have no idea." He blew air between his teeth. "I've lost count of how many times I've pricked myself."
Minato laughed—a low, muffled laugh, but real. "Now it makes sense why I hear you cursing so much at night."
"Ohhh, don't tell me." Hiro rolled his eyes, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "I actually had to ask Fuuka for help because I can't stand pricking myself anymore."
The rooftop door opened.
Minato and Hiro turned to see who it was. Fuuka poked her head through the gap, her green eyes sweeping the space until they found Hiro.
When she saw him, a smile bloomed on her face—and she entered the rooftop, her steps light, almost floating.
"Ah, you were here, Hiro." Her voice was gentle, but there was a touch of worry. "Are you okay?"
Hiro turned to her, his smile more relaxed now. "Hey, Fuuka. I'm fine. Did something happen?"
She shook her head, keeping the smile. "It's nothing serious. It's just that Sanada-senpai said a package arrived with your name on it. So I came looking for you to let you know."
Hiro scratched his cheek with his finger. "Ahh... it's the tools I ordered."
Fuuka and Minato looked at him at the same time, their voices overlapping: "Tools?"
"Ehhhh... I'm going to modify the axe." Hiro smiled, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And I needed some tools." He paused, his gaze meeting Fuuka's. "Thanks for letting me know, Fuuka."
"Ahh... no problem." She seemed surprised for an instant, then her smile widened. "By the way, I finished sewing the hook. Want to see?"
"Sure." Hiro nodded. "I'll test if the axe fits while I'm at it."
He turned to Minato. "Thanks again, Minato. We'll talk later."
Minato nodded. He stayed there, watching Hiro and Fuuka head toward the rooftop door, their voices mixing in a conversation he couldn't hear.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
The rooftop fell silent.
Minato sighed. The air left his lungs slowly, carrying with it some of the weight he hadn't even realized he was carrying.
He looked at the horizon one more time—the city down below, the clouds moving lazily, the sun climbing in the sky.
The next full moon was approaching. The last Shadow Arcana. The end of everything.
He stood there, alone, his eyes fixed on the horizon. And when he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper that the wind carried away.
"I wonder... will everything work out?"
TO BE CONTINUED...