...05/10/2009 Monday; Night...
In Hiro's room, the silence was not empty. It was full—crammed with memories that repeated on a loop, like a scratched record no one could turn off.
Shinjiro's body fallen on the ground. The wound in his stomach, dark and wet.
The blood running through the cracks in the ground, following a path without hurry, as if it already knew there was nowhere left to run.
And the hand. Shinjiro's hand on Hiro's neck, the fingers weak, ice-cold, but still there.
And that smile—that damn smile—that didn't match the blood, didn't match death, but was there. And the voice.
The weak, slurred voice that Hiro heard over and over, every time he blinked:
"Even if you heal me... I'm going to die by my own Persona."
Hiro's fist clenched so hard his nails left marks on his palm. His entire body trembled—a tremor that came from within, from the bone, from rage that had nowhere to go.
The door creaked.
The hallway light invaded the room like a blade, and Hiro's eyes closed instinctively, his eyelids contracting against the brightness. He didn't move.
He remained sitting on the floor, his back against the wardrobe, his legs bent. The light revealed his expression—his shoulders slumped, his skin colorless, his hands loose over his knees. Wrecked.
Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Someone entered the room and closed the door behind them, returning the space to the dimness.
Hiro didn't raise his head. He didn't need to. He knew who it was.
The footsteps stopped beside him.
Silence.
He felt her gaze on him. Heavy. Worried.
Hiro didn't want that. He wanted to be alone with the anger, with the guilt, with the empty eyes that stared at him every time he looked in the mirror.
"Leave me alone, Mitsuru." The voice came out hoarse, dragged, without looking at her. "I'm not in the mood to talk."
Mitsuru didn't move. "You can't blame yourself, Hiro. You didn't do anything wrong."
He shook his head. A short, brusque motion. "That's exactly it..." His voice grew harsher. "...I could have stopped Shinjiro from going out yesterday. And I didn't do a damn thing."
"There was no way to know he would go to that alley." Her voice remained calm. Controlled. But there was something beneath—an urgency struggling not to overflow.
Hiro turned his face to the opposite side, the darkness swallowing his features. "But we had so many chances to go after him. And in the end all we saw was him getting killed! There's no point saying it's not my fault, I should have done some—"
"HIRO!"
The scream exploded in the room.
The walls threw back the echo, and the silence that followed was different from all the others. Dense. Almost solid. As if the very air had frozen.
A silence dragged on. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. It was as if both were processing what had just happened, the sound of the scream still reverberating somewhere between them.
Then Hiro did something he hadn't done since Mitsuru entered the room.
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes.
Mitsuru stared down at him, her fists clenched at her sides, her shoulders rigid. Her eyes were wide with anger. Her mouth half-open, her breathing quickened.
Mitsuru looked at him and her heart ached with every word he said.
She sees him wrecked. His eyes sunken, surrounded by dark circles like bruises. His skin pale. His lips dry. His body dumped on the floor as if it had been discarded there.
She couldn't leave him like that. She couldn't.
"Listen... to me!"
Her voice was still loud. Still angry.
Hiro and Mitsuru remained in silence for a time that defied the clock. His eyes glued to hers. Her eyes refusing to look away.
He felt it. He felt that Mitsuru wanted to pull him out of there, to rip every poisoned thought from his head with her own hands. But a part of him wanted to remain alone.
A part that thought staying in the dark was safer than facing the truth.
Mitsuru knelt down until she was at the same level as Hiro. And she kept staring at him.
"You weren't the one who killed him." Her voice came out firm. Cutting. "Whoever the person is who killed him will pay for what they did."
Her hand rested on Hiro's shoulder. Her long fingers squeezed with firmness.
"There's no point being like this, Hiro. You knew it yourself. If it wasn't the murderer who killed Aragaki... he was going to die because of Castor." A pause. Her voice didn't waver. "You knew that before me or Akihiko did."
Hiro listened.
Every word entered through his ears and descended to a deep place, where logic and pain fought for territory.
And in that place, he knew. He knew Mitsuru wasn't lying. Shinjiro had been condemned by the suppressors long before the bullet found him. His Persona was killing him slowly, and the end was inevitable.
But the heart didn't work on logic.
Hiro's eyes filled. First the edges grew warm. Then his vision blurred. And then, without fanfare, thick tears began to fall silently. More restrained. As if even crying were a luxury he didn't allow himself in full.
And even so, he didn't look away from Mitsuru.
"I'm not saying you should forget him or pretend everything's fine." Mitsuru's voice gradually lost the edge of anger, becoming something calmer—but still firm. "I also didn't want it to have ended like this... I know this hurts."
Her voice trembled.
Only for an instant. Only on one syllable. But it trembled.
Mitsuru looked away to the side. To the window. To the streetlamp that painted an orange rectangle on the floor.
Her chest was heavy. Because she had also failed—as a leader, as a friend, as someone who should have protected everyone and couldn't. Shinjiro was a member of S.E.E.S. He was a friend. And she hadn't been able to save him.
She took a deep breath. The air went in and out. She composed herself—not out of pride, but out of necessity. Because at that moment, Hiro needed her more than she needed herself.
When she faced him again, her eyes were softer.
"But he wouldn't want to see you like this... no one here does, Hiro." She shook her head slowly. "We have to stop the Dark Hour. His death can't be in vain."
Hiro lowered his gaze to his own hand.
For an instant—a flash, an overlay of reality—he saw the Evoker. The device that allowed him to summon his Persona.
As if it were waiting for Hiro to come back... to come back to where he was meant to be.
He blinked.
His hand was empty.
Hiro closed it slowly. He felt his fingers curl, his nails touch his palm—this time not with anger, but with something close to determination.
Then he brought it to his face and wiped the tears.
"Yeah..." His voice still heavy. But no longer dragging. "...but..."
"You don't need to digest everything that happened right now." Mitsuru forced a smile. It was small, imperfect. But it was sincere. "But I need you to be okay, Hiro."
She extended her free hand. Open. Waiting. The hallway light traced the outline of her fingers.
"We all do."
Hiro looked at that hand. Extended toward him, without demands, without hurry. Wanting to help him pull himself together.
His arm moved by instinct. His fingers drew closer to hers.
And stopped.
At the last instant, Hiro closed his hand and pulled it away. Not with violence. With gentleness. Like someone saying *not yet* without uttering the words.
"Thanks..." He nodded. His eyes met Mitsuru's one more time. "...you don't need to help me. But I'll think about what you said."
Mitsuru lowered her hand slowly. There was no hurt in her eyes. Only understanding. She knew she couldn't pull him out by force.
But she had managed to get him back on track.
Mitsuru rose from the floor. Her boots made the floorboards creak as she took two steps back, giving him space.
Hiro placed his hands on the floor and forced his body upward. A grunt escaped his lips.
Since he had returned from school, he hadn't left that spot. He hadn't eaten. Hadn't drunk water. Hadn't gotten up for anything. The cold floor of the room had been his only confidant.
He massaged his own neck, feeling the tendons crack under the pressure of his fingers. "Where are the others?"
Mitsuru crossed her arms. The gesture was familiar—the posture of the leader reclaiming her place. "They're in the command room. Akihiko is telling them about Amada and Aragaki."
Hiro nodded. A heavy sigh escaped. "Yeah... they didn't know anything." He turned to Mitsuru, and there was something in his eyes that hadn't been there minutes before. "Did you find out anything about who killed Shinjiro?"
They left the room. The hallway was silent, lit only by the yellowish lights the dorm kept on during the night.
Mitsuru and Hiro walked side by side, their footsteps echoing in unison.
Until they stopped in front of Ken's door.
Closed. Silent. No light escaped from beneath the crack.
Mitsuru looked at the door for an instant. Her fingers contracted slightly at her side. But she did nothing. She just shook her head, looking at Hiro.
"No... the cartridges removed from the body were a larger caliber." Her voice came out somewhat confused. "For a moment I thought it could have been Noir... but it doesn't match the gun he used to destroy the camera."
Hiro furrowed his brow. The look he cast at Mitsuru was intrigued. "So it wasn't him... Either way, better to talk about this when we're with the others."
Mitsuru nodded. The two resumed walking, their silhouettes stretching under the hallway light until they disappeared around the bend of the stairs.
Ken's door opened.
Just a crack. Enough for his eyes—red, tired, dry from so much crying—to watch Mitsuru and Hiro going up the stairs.
Ken looked at the scene and his mind dragged him back.
The alley. The Dark Hour. The metallic gleam of the barrel pointed in his direction. And then—the impact. Not on his body.
On Shinjiro's body, who had thrown himself in front of the shot without hesitation. The blood. The ragged breathing. And the man behind the trigger.
Takaya.
The name burned. Burned in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes.
The man with light hair and empty eyes who had pulled the trigger as if pressing an elevator button. Without anger. Without pleasure. Just... indifference.
Ken wanted to scream. He wanted to punch the wall. He wanted to run to the command room and demand that everyone go out in search of that murderer.
But all his body allowed was to lower his head.
And close the door.
The click of the lock sounded like a sentence.
TO BE CONTINUED...