The spark we had observed in Akihiko was a delicate entity, a solitary ember flickering within an expansive, shadowy cavern.
In the days that unfolded after the Tartarus anomaly mission, we found ourselves united in a quiet, collective vigilance. Each of us was acutely aware that even the slightest harsh breath of reality could extinguish the fragile hope we held so dearly.
He did not suddenly revert to being the loud, fiercely competitive fighter he once was. That version of him seemed like a character from a play that had long since drawn to a close.
The new Akihiko exuded a quieter presence, his movements now more intentional, and his gaze frequently directed inward.
He appeared to be continuously evaluating a profoundly transformed soul.
He returned to the gym for his training sessions, yet there was a noticeable shift in their nature. The frantic, almost desperate pounding of the heavy bag had vanished into silence.
In that moment, he glided forward with a sense of purpose, each movement imbued with a focused, almost meditative precision that captivated the eye.
He had moved beyond the futile attempt to force his pain into submission; instead, he was beginning to understand its weight and its intricate contours and discovering how to bear it without being overwhelmed.
One afternoon, I stumbled upon him in a moment of stillness. He wasn't throwing punches; instead, he stood firm, his eyes gently closed, and his breathing was slow and deliberate.
"It seems you're not attempting to break the wall down," I remarked, casually leaning against the doorframe.
He kept his eyes firmly shut. "The wall has become an integral part of the house, blending seamlessly into its structure."
"One should never dismantle a supporting wall. One gradually comes to terms with it and learns to navigate life alongside it. One constructs their foundation upon it."
At last, he turned his gaze towards me, his grey eyes revealing a clarity that was overshadowed by a profound weariness. "Is that what you were trying to convey? Am I right? About rebuilding things."
I gave a slight nod of my head. "Indeed. That is precisely what I intended to convey."
He returned to his stance, a quiet gesture of dismissal, yet it carried no hint of hostility. The atmosphere was filled with deep reflection and thoughtfulness. He was in the process of recalibrating himself, searching for a new center of gravity in a world that had seemingly tilted off its axis.
The process of recalibration extended beyond just Akihiko. The whole team was in a state of transition, adjusting to the evolving emotional terrain that defined our lives. Yukari, perhaps attuned to the unspoken desire for a return to normalcy, took on the role of a devoted caretaker.
Her mission was to ensure everyone's nourishment and the dormitory's continued function as a home, despite its somber atmosphere. In his own endearing and somewhat awkward manner, Junpei endeavored to bring a sense of lightness to the atmosphere.
He shared his terrible jokes, which, rather than eliciting the usual groans, were now greeted with gentle, appreciative sighs from those around him. He was cautiously exploring the atmosphere, gauging just how much joy the room could once again embrace.
And Mitsuru…
She was the steady hand on the tiller. She managed the logistical fallout of Shinjiro's death with a cool, impeccable efficiency that was both impressive and heartbreaking. But with me, in our private moments, the armor came off.
I'd find her late at night, not in the command room, but simply staring out a window, her shoulders slumped with a weight no one else could see.
"What I despise the most is the silence," she admitted one night, her voice a mere whisper that floated through the darkness of my room. As we sat on the floor, our backs leaned comfortably against my bed, our shoulders gently brushing against one another.
"Not the silence." The distinct absence of sound where his voice ought to resonate. "Where his… his presence once echoed with significance. It is a void in the fabric of our world."
"I know," I replied, my voice gentle and subdued. I refrained from offering mere empty platitudes. I allowed my very existence, the tangible reality of my being next to her, to serve as my response.
As I extended my hand, I discovered hers waiting for me, and I gently intertwined my fingers with hers, creating a connection that felt both warm and reassuring.
Her grip was firm, bordering on painful, as if she feared that I, too, might dissolve into smoke and become nothing more than a fleeting memory.
"Isn't it different for you?" she inquired after a prolonged pause, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity. "It's not merely that you miss him. One can certainly sense the void that is present. How does it feel for you?"
I shut my eyes, striving to connect with the Entity's perception. The world, as seen through its lens, was a rich tapestry of interconnected ideas and energies.
"It feels like a perfectly balanced equation that now has a permanent variable missing," I said, trying to articulate something that's difficult to express. "The math still holds up, but it feels a bit more cumbersome."
"There's a pause in the flow of things. A note in the song that will never echo again. The Entity recognizes the void. It views this change as a necessary, albeit imperfect, adjustment of the system."
She remained quiet, taking it all in. "What about you? What are Kaito Tanaka's thoughts?" She looked at me with her crimson gaze.
"I feel like the system has become colder," I confessed, meeting her gaze as I opened my eyes. "I believe the song lacks depth without that missing note."
"It really frustrates me that a part of me sees it just as… math."
She turned her head, her face illuminated by the moonlight, looking almost ghostly pale. "That's why you remain true to yourself, Kaito."
"It's clear that this part of you really bothers you." You resist it. Your humanity is what defines you. Always hold onto that."
We conducted our next Full Moon operation to test this intricate, multi-faceted recovery process. The target was a Shadow appearing at the local shrine, its energy signature tied to feelings of regret and lost opportunity. It served as a powerful trigger for the grief that was still lingering among our team.
The Shadow was a sorrowful, priestly figure, tirelessly sweeping leaves that seemed to return as soon as they were cleared away. At first, it held back from attacking. A wave of deep, soul-crushing regret washed over us.
The impact was instant and deeply felt. Yukari stumbled, her hand instinctively covering her mouth as vivid memories of her father's absence rushed back to her. Junpei's lively exterior faltered, his expression dimming as thoughts of Chidori and his own sense of helplessness weighed heavily on him. Even Mitsuru tensed, her jaw tightening as she recalled a personal memory tied to her family's legacy.
And Akihiko… he stood still. The REGRET hit him like a physical blow, causing his body to bend beneath its heavy burden. The emptiness within him felt vast, ready to engulf him completely. I noticed the spark flicker, perilously near to being snuffed out.
"Don't let it in!" Mitsuru commanded, her voice strained yet piercing through the psychic assault. "It feeds on your history!"
"Concentrate on the here and now!"
However, for Akihiko, it was already too late. He was trapped in a memory, his expression a portrait of pain. The Shadow, identifying a weak spot, started to gather its strength, transforming the REGRET into a sharp, tangible spear directed straight at his heart.
I acted on impulse. I didn't force any idea onto the Shadow or its attack. I realized that it just wouldn't suffice. The true assault came from within. I concentrated on Akihiko, on the delicate, emerging strength I had witnessed him reconstructing. I was unable to take away his suffering. I wasn't able to bring Shinjiro back. However, there is one thing I can do.
I declared ABSOLUTION.
It wasn't quite forgiveness, not in the truest sense. It was all about letting go. Some burdens are not meant to be carried indefinitely. Some choices, no matter how tragic, are not ours to claim.
The wave of grey energy that emanated from me was soft, akin to a soothing cloth on a heated forehead. It didn't fight against the REGRET; it merely formed a space around Akihiko's heart where the REGRET couldn't attach itself. It served as a refuge, not a barrier.
The spear of psychic energy aimed at him simply faded away against this enforced tranquility.
Akihiko inhaled sharply, his eyes flying wide open. They were straightforward. The void remained, yet the grip of REGRET had faded away.
He gazed at me, and in that one, stunning moment, I perceived not sorrow or remorse, but an overwhelming, astonishing feeling of relief. The weight was still there, but the chains that held it to him had been loosened.
That moment of clarity was everything he needed.
With a powerful, determined call, he summoned Caesar, channeling his will rather than any anger.
The Persona burst forth behind him, its lightning not chaotic and frantic but rather clean, sharp, and strikingly precise. It was the scalpel once more.
The lightning bolt he unleashed didn't just destroy the Shadow; it cut its link to the very idea of REGRET. The priest-like figure didn't scream; it just sighed, its shape breaking apart into tiny lights, its purpose finally, peacefully, fulfilled.
The heavy feeling in the air faded away. The shrine had returned to being just a shrine.
We stood there, out of breath. Junpei whistled softly. "Wow. Are you all alright?"
Yukari was already checking with Akihiko. "Sanada-senpai? Your vitals spiked for a second there."
"I'm… fine," he said, his voice steady. He looked from Yukari to me, his expression unreadable. "Thanks," he said, the word directed at me. It was simple, but it carried the weight of a saved life.
On the way back, he walked alongside. He walked next to me.
"You didn't take the pain away," he said, looking straight ahead.
"No," I said. I can't do that. I really shouldn't. It's now a part of you; at the same time, it doesn't have to be a weapon you use against yourself."
He grunted in a way that suggested approval. "Absolution, huh? Not a bad concept."
"It seemed fitting."
We walked quietly for a block before he finally spoke, his voice so soft I nearly didn't catch it. "For a moment… I could breathe once more."
It was the most open thing I had ever heard him say.
When I returned to the dorm, the vibe had changed. The win felt refreshing and healing. We didn't just defeat a Shadow; we confronted a part of our shared grief and came out stronger. The ember in Akihiko wasn't just safe; it was thriving, fueled by the shared effort and the peace they had fought hard to achieve.
That night, as I lay in bed, I thought back to the moment I had imposed ABSOLUTION. The Entity carried out the command perfectly, as always, but the idea and the intention behind it were entirely my own. It was a strong confirmation. I wasn't just a channel for a cosmic energy. I was its guiding voice. I was the one who chose when to erase, when to protect, and when to give a grieving friend a moment of kindness.
Our lives were shaped by tragedy, but we refused to be mere bystanders. We became the artists, taking our time to blend our grief with our strength, our loss with our love. We created a picture that was more complex, more painful, and far more real than anything we had experienced before.
The calibration wasn't finished yet, but for the first time, it seemed like we all had the tools in our hands.