3rd Person POV
[Hyoudou Residence]
The scent of burnt toast lingered in the air as Miki Hyoudou scraped another batch into the trash, her fingers trembling slightly against the steel edge of the pan. The kitchen clock ticked louder than usual—or maybe it was just the silence between her and Gorou, who sat at the table, his calloused hands wrapped around a cooling mug of coffee.
Neither mentioned the eviction notice tucked under the sugar jar. Their old life—the lumberyard foreman's house, the weekend fishing trips—was ash now, scattered in the wake of their son's courtroom sentence, because it was a fortunate event after they heard the first sentence delievered by the judge.
"He can still go to Kuoh Academy instead of some rehabiliation center where all the bad kids gather, the counsels or public service were just some branches of the punishment he has to go through, the court didn't strip him of his scholarship, Miki, it's the best possible outcome." Gorou's voice was rough, like gravel dragged through a sieve. He stared into his coffee, watching the oily sheen of overbrewed bitterness ripple as his thumb tapped the ceramic. The lie about the lumberyard insurance payout sat between them—a fragile shield for their son's crumbling world.
The door of the kitchen creaks open slowly, revealing Issei, who has degraded a lot since the court. His shoulders are hunched, his posture betraying the weight pressing down on him. His mother jerks her head up at the sound, her smile straining with forced warmth. "Issei, I made—" she glances at the charred remains in the trash, "—coffee?"
Gorou's grip tightens around his mug. The boy doesn't meet his father's eyes, instead staring at the floor, at the scuffed linoleum—somehow still the same as before, even though everything else had shattered. "They're letting me keep the scholarship," Issei mumbles, more to himself than to them. "But I have to report to the school counselor twice a week. And public service on weekends."
Miki wipes flour-dusted hands on her apron—an old habit, even though she hadn't been baking. "It's better than—" She stops herself before saying *juvie*, but the word hangs in the air anyway. Gorou exhales sharply through his nose. "I hope this is a lesson enough to make you understand the consequences of what you did. We won't scold you any further, we don't have enough health to do so anymore." His tone isn't harsh, just tired. Bone-tired.
Issei's fingers twitch at his sides. He wants to argue, to insist he wasn't *that* wrong, that Nami had provoked him—but the memory of the courtroom playback loops in his skull: *"I'll ruin you if you don't—"* His own voice, tinny through the speakers. He swallows. "I know, I'm sorry, Mother, Father."
Miki comes to him, patting his shoulder "What happened, happened, we've all seen you apologizing Nakamura-san before the court, that was a brave action, and it means you're ready to change into a better person. I'm now working at your school, so I'll be with you all the way, because I too had a blame in this for letting you buy those erotic products"
Issei's throat tightened. His mother's touch was warm, familiar—yet it carried the weight of a debt he couldn't repay. The scholarship was intact, but the stares in the hallways wouldn't be. Kuoh Academy already felt like a minefield. He swallowed again, harder this time. "I'll… I'll do better." The words tasted like ashes.
Gorou stood abruptly, chair scraping against linoleum. "Good." A single syllable, loaded with unspoken expectations. He strode past Issei, pausing only to clap a heavy hand on his shoulder—brief, firm—"I know you can do better, Issei, and please, be better."—before going out to work...somewhere.
Issei was left behind at the dining table as his mother comes to him "Eat, Issei, then we're heading to school together, I have a great idea for what to feed the students today." She slides a plate toward him—grilled fish and picked vegetable, so simple, yet so delicous. His stomach growled, betraying him. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the scent hit him.
When he is done, he quickly goes change into his uniform before coming down to see his mother who has changed as well, wearing a Kuoh Academy staff uniform "You'll be working in the cafeteria?"
Miki nodded, adjusting the name tag pinned to her chest. "Just part-time, for now. The head chef was kind enough to take me in after..." She trailed off, but Issei knew. After everything.
The walk to school was silent, save for the crunch of gravel underfoot and the distant hum of morning traffic. Issei kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or maybe against the weight of eyes he could already feel boring into his back.
He didn't look up when they passed familiar landmarks: the bent traffic sign where he'd crashed his bike last summer, the convenience store where he used to buy questionable magazines.
"Brighten yourself up a little, Issei, no one aside from the teachers, you supervisors, would know about the lawsuit, the Juvenile Court has this secretive policy to prevent ruining your future" Issei forced a nod, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. The school gates loomed ahead, pristine black ironwork twisted into ornate patterns—far too elegant for the churning in his gut. Students milled about in clusters, their laughter sharp as broken glass. He kept his gaze low, trailing half a step behind his mother as they crossed the threshold.
But as they were walking, they notice a familiar face, Nami, she is walking to school as well with her usual group, Rias, Akeno and Aruto, she is talking cheerfully to them while walking backward, like nothing happened between them. But that moving pose gives her a chance to notice Issei and his mother walking behind her, her eyes met Issei's for a second before she turned around again, continuing her conversation as if nothing happened.
"Isn't that your Nami-senpai, Issei?" Miki said "How about you go give her that apology letter you wrote, you know? For the court obligation"
Issei's fingers twitched toward his breast pocket—the folded paper inside suddenly felt like a live coal. The group ahead laughed at something, their camaraderie effortless, untouched. Nami's orange hair caught the morning light as she threw her head back, completely at ease in a world that had tilted beneath Issei's feet.
He hesitated too long.
"Go on," Miki urged gently, nudging his elbow. "She hasn't seen you yet—better to do it before homeroom."
Issei swallowed and stepped forward, his shoes scuffing audibly against the pavement. The moment his shadow fell across their path, the conversation died mid-sentence. Four pairs of eyes turned to him—Rias' curious, Akeno's unreadable, Arto's assessing. Nami's gaze was flat.
"You three go ahead, I'll catch up later, gotta deal with another confessor" Nami whispers, Rias and Akeno, who know the situation, quickly push the oblivious Aruto ahead "Wait, wait....what's going on.....woah~....", leaving all his questions out of their ears
Seeing Aruto is out of sight behind the school gate, Nami focuses back on Issei "Well, well, well, if it isn't Kuoh Academy's very own blackmailer." She tosses her hair over her shoulder, the motion casual yet charged. The morning sun glints off the gold coin she absently flips between her fingers—a nervous habit, though her smirk suggests otherwise. "You've got ten seconds before I walk away. Better make it good."
Issei's hand shakes as he pulls the letter from his pocket. The paper crinkles under his grip, the creases betraying how many times he'd rewritten it. "I—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat, forces himself to meet her eyes. "Nami-senpai. This is my formal apology. For everything."
Nami plucks the letter from his fingers without touching his skin, holding it between thumb and forefinger like a used tissue. She unfolds it with deliberate slowness, scanning the contents while humming tunelessly. The seconds stretch. A leaf skitters across the pavement between them.
Finally, she snorts. "Three pages? Really?" She folds it back along its original creases with surgical precision. "You spent more words justifying your actions than actually apologizing, it's a little absurd why the court approved this" She tucks it into her blazer pocket—next to her phone, Issei notes with a chill. "But don't worry. I'll keep it. For *documentation*." Her grin sharpens. "Juvenile probation officers love paperwork."
Miki steps forward, bowing deeply. "Nami-san, please understand—" Nami immediately changes her attitude to a polite student "Good day to you, Miss Miki, you came today as well, I must say I love your curry recipe, I've never liked eating in the canteen, but now I'm reconsidering."
Miki blinks, momentarily thrown by the whiplash shift in tone. Her hands flutter at her sides before settling against her apron. "Oh! I—thank you, Nakamura-san." The honorific sticks awkwardly in her throat. Behind her, Issei stands frozen, his fists clenched at his sides.
Nami waves a hand breezily. "No need for formalities! We're practically in your care now." Her smile is all teeth, but her eyes flick to Issei just once—cold, assessing—before returning to Miki. "Speaking of, shouldn't you be clocking in? The lunch rush prep starts soon."
Miki startles, glancing at her watch. "Ah, you're right!" She hesitates, looking between her son and Nami. "Issei—"
"Don't worry, Miss Miki." Nami's voice drips honey. "He will be in good care....of the schoolboard. Now run along before Chef Ogawa starts yelling about mise en place."
The moment Miki's back disappears around the corner, Nami's posture shifts—shoulders loosening, her coin vanishing into some hidden pocket. She studies Issei with the detached interest of a mathematician evaluating an unsolvable equation. "Well," she says, leaning against the brick wall beside them, "enjoy your rehabilitation program, Issei"
[Kuoh Academy - Class 2-B]
Arto is scratching his head in class, looking at Akeno and Rias "So Nami had another confessor?" he asks "I'm not surprised, but, who is he?"
Rias twirled a strand of crimson hair around her finger, her lips quirking as she leaned across the aisle. "You don't need to know, Aruto, it's just a kouhai who has a crush on Nami, you know ho popular she is with the boys with that curly orange hair and sun-shining smile, fell many."
Aruto sighs "Alright, I won't pry any further, but that woman walking with that boy, isn't that Miki-san from the cafeteria?"
Akeno's fingers pause mid-air where she'd been adjusting her ribbon. The classroom chatter fades into white noise for a fraction of a second before she smoothly resumes, her smile never slipping. "Oh? You noticed her too?" She tilts her head.
Aruto nods "Well, yeah, her curry recipe is like...top-notch," Aruto does a chef kiss gesture he learns from a movie he saw "even if I brought my own bento, I would head to the canteen and ask her for a scoop of curry if there is any, and she never charged me for it, she just smiled and said 'for a growing boy'." He rubs his chin thoughtfully, then shrugs. "Anyway, Nami can handle herself—she's scarier than Grayfia when she's pissed."
Akeno's laugh tinkles like wind chimes, but her eyes flicker with something darker—something amused yet calculating. "Oh, I wouldn't say *scarier*," she murmurs, tapping a manicured nail against her desk. "Just...more *creative*."
By that moment, Nami returns to class and takes her seat next to a friend of hers in class, "Seems like nothing bad happened" Aruto comments as he takes out his book for the first lesson, which was math.
Before the class starts, a classmate comes to Aruto's desk "Hey, dude, you coming for the game today? We need our best Regista back, we've been managing ever since you went on that student exchange program since December, but we have a derby today with 2-A, and we can't lose to them, it could affect our cup race"
Aruto blinked, momentarily thrown—his fabricated "student exchange" cover story had slipped his mind entirely. He glanced at Rias, who subtly shook her head while pretending to organize her notes.
"I'll play," he said, cracking his knuckles with exaggerated bravado. "But only if you promise not to go offside again, got it?"
The teammate grinned, slapping Aruto's back hard enough to make the desk rattle. "Whatever you say, maestro!"
Nami leaned over from her seat, twirling a pen between her fingers. "Oh? The legendary Aruto Abyga, gracing us peasants with his presence on the field?" Her smirk widened as his ears turned pink. "Try not to break any more hearts with your *dazzling passes*."
The classmate turns to the entire class "Guys, guess what? Our Pirlo is back! We're in for a win today, those bastards at 2-A won't know what hits them!" A murmur of excitement ripples through the room just as the homeroom teacher walks in, tapping his clipboard against the doorframe. "Save the pep talk for the field, gentlemen. Seats."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto asking for curry over his rice]
[Kuoh Academy - Class 1-C]
Issei is sitting in class listening to the lesson, trying to be as normal as possible 'They don't know....they don't know....' Issei reassuring himself in his mind while taking notes, pretending to focus on the lecture.
The secretive policy of the Juvenile Court has kept the case inside the courtroom, no one will know to prevent ruining his future, so no students were told about Issei being sued at the court, but....the teachers have known, they were informed by the court about this matter and now they are his supervisors.
So instead of leaving the job to the unfamilar faces of rehabilitation center, the people who teach him, know him, are aware of what he did, and if they ever slip their mouth, there will be punishment from the court, but also, everyone will know his blackmailing attempt, and if it happens, his life will be ruined.
"Dude, you okay?" Matsuda pats Issei's shoulder from the seat next to him, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. The pencil in Issei's grip had snapped without him noticing—the jagged edges digging into his palm. "You've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes. Even Sensei noticed."
Issei's head jerks up to find Mr. Tanaka watching him over his glasses with that new, clinical detachment all the teachers had adopted since...everything. The kind of look nurses give terminal patients. He forces a chuckle. "Just spaced out. Trig's killing me."
Matsuda shrugs, kicking his feet onto the desk's lower shelf. "Whatever. Just don't zone out during tests, it's only a month left for us to study before the final test." And he goes back to taking notes, 'This is worse than I expected' he thought, looking at the teacher, his eyes dart towards him once in a while like checking if he is trying anything perverted.
Issei grits his teeth—his once-lax reputation now a chain around his neck. He can see his teacher's face when looking at him, cautious, high-alert, like he is waiting for Issei to slip up—and he hates it. this pressure is suffocating him, maybe this is Nami's cruelty forcing him to live under the microscope instead of throwing him to juvie.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Robin turning the clock]
The bell rings. Students scatter like marbles, but Issei lingers—pretending to organize his notes until the room empties. Matsuda lingers at the door. "Lunch?"
"Go ahead." Issei waves him off. "I'll catch up."
He ducks into the stairwell, climbing to the rooftop. The lock's been broken since November—a fact every delinquent knows. Cold air slaps his face as he shoulders the door open, sunlight glaring off the concrete.
He sits down, looking down the schoolyard where students are sharing their lunch or heading to the cantine to get lunch from his mother, curry, always their favorite since she became a staff of the school's kitchen.
The rooftop door creaks open behind him—too soon for Matsuda, too quiet for any teacher. Issei doesn't turn. A shadow stretches across the concrete, slender and deliberate.
"You're here too, Issei-kun?" That voice. Issei turns back to see Robin-sensei, his history teacher, well, everyone's history teacher, the best teacher in this entire school, standing with her arms crossed, looking at him like he is an interesting specimen to study.
He scrambles to his feet—too fast—his knee banging against the ledge. Robin doesn't react beyond a slight lift of one eyebrow. "Sensei, I—"
She raises a hand. "No need. The rooftop isn't off-limits." She steps forward, her heels clicking against the concrete as she leans against the railing beside him. Below, students mill about like ants. "Though I doubt curry is your reason for avoiding the cafeteria."
Issei's fingers dig into his thighs. Robin exhales—a sound almost too soft to hear. then she sits down next to him with her own bento box "It's nice to be here once in a while to avoid the noise from below" Robin said to herself as she opens her bento box, taking out her chopsticks "Itadakimasu~" She said as she takes the first load of rice into her mouth.
"So, how have you been doing lately?" she asks after swallowing, her tone is like usual, gentle and caring, one of the reasons why students love her and her lessons "Some colleagues of mine have been keeping their eyes on you as ordered from the court"
Issei's fingers twitch against his thighs. The concrete ledge presses cold through his slacks. "Fine," he lies, staring at the bento box balanced on Robin's lap—neatly arranged compartments of tamagoyaki and pickled vegetables, just like the meals his mother used to pack before...everything.
Robin hums, chopsticks pausing mid-air. "Fine is a word people use when they're anything but." She doesn't look at him, instead watching a group of first-years below scrambling for the last curry bread. "You know, Issei-kun, in my experience, the ones who insist they're fine are usually the ones closest to breaking."
A gust of wind rattles the chain-link fence behind them. Issei's throat tightens. "What do you want me to say, sensei? That I'm sorry? That I regret it?" His voice cracks on the last word, betraying him.
Robin sets her chopsticks down with deliberate precision. "I know you regret what you did, from the moment your parents knew what happened, from the moment they had to sell their livelihood to pay for what you did, from the moment you said your apology in that courtroom"
He turns to her "You...were there?" Robin nods "I was, as a representative of our school, I took it upon myself to be there, because if it's anyone else, their view won't be as mercy as mine" she takes another bite "I saw how your mother cried, and how your father tried to hide his tears with anger"
Robin tilts her head, sunlight glinting off the silver embroidery on her sleeves—the same sigils Issei had seen Nami wearing at the courthouse. "But regret isn't penance, Issei-kun. And remorse isn't rehabilitation." She taps her temple. "The mind is like a ship's ledger—every action logged, every debt tallied. You can't erase the numbers. Only balance them."
Below them, a cheer erupts from the soccer field where Arto's team celebrates another goal. Issei's fingers dig into his thighs until the fabric threatens to tear. "How?" The word scrapes out raw. "How do I—"
"You start," Robin says, closing her bento with a decisive click, "by eating." She pushes the box toward him. "Hunger clouds judgment. And you," she eyes his trembling hands, "haven't been to the cafeteria once this week."
Issei stares at the food—still steaming, perfectly arranged. His stomach growls treacherously. "I can't—" Robin cuts his words "You're avoiding the consequences of your own action, your mother works here because she needs to make money to support your father's work, to keep your family alive, to keep you alive, and yet, you're avoiding her, rejecting her effort while every other student are..."
She pointed to the line of students, and even some teachers, that stretched all the way outside the cafeteria. "Eating her food with gratitude while her own son refuses to face her." Robin's voice softened as she withdrew the bento. "Tell me, Issei-kun—is this punishment for her, or yourself?"
The wind carried the scent of curry from below, mingling with the salt-tang of unshed tears in Issei's throat. He swallowed hard, fists clenching. "She shouldn't have to—" His voice broke. "She shouldn't be cleaning trays and scrubbing pots because of me."
Robin's fingers traced the edge of her sleeve's embroidery—a subtle motion that drew his gaze to the looping threads forming waves. "Yet she is going it still, Issei-kun. Not because she must, but because she chooses to." Below them, a group of students erupted into laughter near the cherry blossom tree, their joy sharp against the rooftop's quiet. "And your avoidance? That's the cruelest repayment of all."
"Tell me," Robin murmured, following his gaze, "when you imagined consequences, what did you see? Handcuffs? Prison bars?" She shook her head slowly. "Real punishment isn't theatrics. It's watching your mother smile through exhaustion because she still believes in you. It's seeing your father built everything up again. It's..." Her voice dipped, almost tender. "Realizing the people you hurt most are the ones stitching your wounds."
Robin stood abruptly, her shadow stretching long across the concrete. "Now you know why the judge agreed to Nakamura-san's alternate sentence, because this punishment is much, much crueler, seeing people you care about having to suffer because of your action. Do you know what this punishment is similar to in the history?"
A history question out of nowhere—Issei blinked. Robin's fingers tapped her bento box lid in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "In ancient China," She starts "when someone commited an utterly grave crime, the King would sentence to exterminate 3 generations of their family, sometimes 9 as a punishment, causing a whole clan to be purged down to the last person because of a mistake of one of them."
Issei's throat went dry. Robin's voice was calm, clinical—like she was discussing rainfall patterns. "This is a gentler version of it, forcing the parents to pull the weight for the mistake of their son, not by choice, but by obligation to keep them all alive." She leaned down, her shadow swallowing him whole. "Your mother cleans dishes. Your father rebuilds from nothing. And you?" Her fingers brushed his shoulder—light as a guillotine's descent. "You get to watch."
The rooftop door slammed open—Matsuda's voice cutting through the tension. "Yo, Issei! You gonna starve or what?" Robin straightened instantly, her smile smoothing into something benign as Matsuda blinked at them. "Oh, hey, Robin-sensei. Didn't see you there."
Robin nodded. "Matsuda-kun. Just discussing acient China penal systems." She tucked her bento under one arm. "Issei-kun, I expect your essay on Qin dynasty reforms by Friday." With that, she strode past Matsuda, her heels clicking like a metronome counting down.
Matsuda whistled low. "Damn, dude. Getting extra lessons from Robin-sensei?" He flopped onto the ledge beside Issei, oblivious to the way his friend's knuckles whitened. "Lucky bastard."
Below, the cafeteria has gone less buzzing as the hungry bellies are fed by his mother's curry. Issei's stomach twisted. "Yeah," he muttered. "Lucky." Matsuda sits down next to Issei "Dude, Motohama and I talked about it, are you sure you want to....end this friendship between us?"
Issei's breath catches—the question hanging between them like a guillotine blade. "What friendship? We're just three perverts who share a hard drive."
Matsuda's foot taps against the ledge, uneven and restless. "Yeah, well." He scratches his neck, eyes darting to the broken lock on the rooftop door. "Motohama said you've been avoiding us since...y'know."
Since the courtroom. Since the sentencing. Since his parents sold their lumberyards to pay Nakamura's compensation. Issei's nails bite into his palms. "It's something I drew out myself after considering everything that happened to me, our friendship is.....unhealthy for me" he admits quietly.
"If it was not for me, no, us watching too much erotic shit, I wouldn't have thought those videos of Nami-senpai being raped are acts from porn movies" Issei's voice cracked like thin ice underfoot. "That thought brought me to the wrong decision, and that decision ruined me, and my family."
Matsuda flinched—the first honest reaction Issei had seen from him in weeks. Below them, the school bell rang for afternoon classes, but neither moved. "Dude," Matsuda muttered, rubbing his knee awkwardly. "We didn't—"
"You didn't stop me," Issei interrupted. His fingers dug into the ledge's rough concrete. "But you didn't push me either." The unspoken truth settled between them—their silence had been complicity.
The rooftop door creaked again. This time, it was Motohama, panting slightly as he shouldered through. His glasses were askew, as if he'd sprinted up the stairs. "There you are," he huffed. Then, noticing their expressions: "What, someone die?"
Matsuda snorted—a weak, half-hearted sound. "Just history lessons." He stood abruptly, dusting off his pants. "Robin-sensei's got Issei writing about ancient Chinese executions."
Motohama adjusted his glasses with a theatrical sigh. "Ah, the Confucian method—punish the family to control the individual." His smirk faltered when neither of them laughed. Below, the distant clatter of lunch trays being stacked echoed like a ticking clock.
Matsuda shifted uncomfortably. "Look, man—"
"I need to go," Issei interrupted, standing so fast the ledge scraped his thighs. The rooftop door slammed behind him with finality, leaving Motohama blinking at Matsuda.
"Did we just get dumped by our own best friend?" Motohama muttered. Matsuda stands up "Looks like it, but what can we say? We played a role in it, we nudged him to say those words and now....." He sighs "It's partly our fault as well, but he is the only one who took the consequences"
[Kuoh Academy - Cafeteria]
Issei comes to the cafeteria as he sees the lunch has been served for everyone as his mother's shift is half-way done, now, what's left is to wait for the students to finish eating and clean up the canteen, but before cleaning, she and the other staffs have their own lunch break, separated from the students, and usually, the leftovers of the day.
Among the resting staff, he sees his mother, she looks tired, but genuinely happy, about today's lunch as everything is cleaned, especially her curry "It seems that Abyga boy did some advertising for us, no?" she jokes
"Well, that boy is famous as hell, he likes something and half the school will follow" Another staff laughs "Well, good for us, right? There isn't any curry left today" Miki chuckles as she rubs her sore wrist.
He looks at his mother from the outside of the cafeteria, seeing her rubbing her wrist, her fingers stained with turmeric, the scent of cumin clinging to her apron. The sight lodges in his chest like a splinter—this woman who used to wake him with perfectly rolled tamagoyaki now scrubbing industrial pots until her knuckles cracked.
Then, something inside him urges him to move, to help her, because 'this is my fault....' he thinks to himself as he steps. The swinging kitchen doors creaked. Miki turned with a practiced smile already forming, expecting a student begging for seconds. Instead, her ladle clattered against the pot.
Issei stood frozen in the doorway, his uniform wrinkled from rooftop winds, fingers clutching his bag strap like a lifeline. The chatter of staff died mid-sentence. Steam curled between them from the industrial rice cooker, distorting his face like a heat mirage.
"Okaa-san," he rasped. "Do you need...any help?" The words hung in the steam-thick air, brittle as eggshells. Miki's fingers twitched around the ladle—her knuckles white where they'd been pink from scalding water moments before. Behind her, the other staff exchanged glances, their silence louder than any whisper.
Then, with deliberate slowness, she lifted the ladle again. "Issei," she said, her voice steady in a way that made his stomach lurch. "You're supposed to be in class." A droplet of curry slid down the stainless steel pot with excruciating slowness.
One of the older cooks—a woman with forearms like knotted rope—snorted into her apron. "Kid's skipping to wash dishes? Times really have changed." The tension shattered like glass under a bootheel as the staff erupted into laughter.
Miki didn't laugh. Her eyes traced the dark circles under Issei's eyes, the way his collar hung loose where he'd lost weight. When she spoke again, it was softer. "Grab an apron." She jerked her chin toward the mountain of dirty trays. "Wash hands first."
The rubber gloves she threw at him were still warm from the sterilizer. Issei fumbled with the ties, his fingers trembling against the plastic. Behind him, the staff resumed their chatter—deliberately loud, deliberately normal.
"Alright, all you need to do is helping us push the cart of used serving trays of students in the assembly point in the cafeteria into the kitchen so that we can load them into the washing machine" Miki instructed, pointing at the carts filled with dirty trays "Just push them inside"
Issei nodded stiffly, putting on his face mask as he heads to the now almost empty cafeteria, most of the students have finished eating their lunch and have gone back to class, leaving only a few stragglers chatting while slowly eating their lunches, and some cleaning staff pushing carts of trays back to the kitchen.
He grabs a cart, pushing it towards the kitchen, the wheels squeaking as he maneuvers it through the cafeteria tables. The scent of leftover curry lingers in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of the stainless steel trays. One of the cleaning staff glances at him, eyebrows raised, but says nothing—just another student helping out, nothing unusual.
Inside the kitchen, steam rises from the industrial dishwasher as Miki loads trays into the machine. She doesn't look up as Issei pushes the cart beside her, but her shoulders tense slightly, the only sign she's aware of his presence.
"Stack them neatly," she says, voice clipped. "The machine jams if they're crooked."
Issei hesitates, then starts arranging the trays, careful not to let them clatter. The silence between them is thick, broken only by the hum of the dishwasher and the occasional clink of metal. He can feel the weight of unsaid words pressing down—apologies, explanations, questions that have no answers.
As the last tray was transferred into the dishwasher, his mother sighs "Done, thank you so much, Issei for helping me end my shift early. You can leave us with the rest, go back to class" she wipes her brows as she turns to him "What do you want for dinner?
The question hangs in the air—mundane, ordinary, the kind she'd asked every evening before the world fractured. Issei's throat tightens. He stares at the turmeric stains under her nails, the way her apron strings dig into her waist where she's lost weight. "Curry," he blurts, then flinches at his own thoughtlessness.
Miki's laughter surprises them both—soft, genuine, the first real sound she's made in weeks. "Again?" She shakes her head, peeling off her gloves. "You'll turn yellow at this rate." Behind her, the dishwasher churns with a rhythmic groan, steam curling around her ankles like ghosts.
A tray clatters in the sink. One of the staff—an older man with a perpetual cigarette tucked behind his ear—grunts. "Kid wants curry, make him curry. Least he's asking for something." His stare lingers on Issei a beat too long before he turns back to scrubbing.
Miki's fingers reach towards her son's cheek, tugging it playfully "Go," she murmurs. "You've done enough today, thank you again, Issei. Remember you have a counsel to attend today with Robin-sensei after class, don't be late."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto passing the ball]
The class ends like normal as Issei starts gathering his stuffs, other students have gone to the pitch to see the derby match between class 2-B and 2-A, Motohama and Matsuda have tried to convince him to go, but he has something else to attend to.
Standing up from his seat, Issei gets out of the class, going down the empty hall as everyone is now gathered at the pitch, he can see the cheering sound from the windows as he walks towards the counselor room. He knows that Robin is already there, waiting for him.
As he reaches the counselor room's door, he hesitates—his fingers hovering over the handle. The brass is cold beneath his touch. From inside, he can hear the faint rustle of papers, the occasional tap of a pen against wood. Issei exhales sharply through his nose, then knocks.
"Enter." Robin's voice is calm, unreadable.
The door creaks open. Sunlight streams through the half-drawn blinds, casting striped shadows across Robin's desk. She looks up at him, her smile is like usual, gentle and warm "Good afternoon, Issei-kun. Come, sit. You look tired."
He does look tired. Dark circles under his eyes, shoulders hunched beneath his uniform. He settles into the chair, accepting the cup of tea she slides toward him. The warmth is grounding. "The derby match is happening. Motohama and Matsuda wanted me to go watch."
"But you came here instead." It's not a question. She's observed that this has become his pattern—choosing their sessions over peer interaction. She doesn't yet read it as concerning. Just dedication to rehabilitation.
Robin continues "I appreciate your commitment, but I want to make sure you're not isolating yourself further. Social connection is important for your recovery." Issei's fingers tighten around the teacup. The steam curls between them. "They're... they're not really my friends anymore. Since the trial."
Robin tilts her head "They haven't reached out to you?" He bows his head forwards a little "I pushed them away. They kept trying to get me to come to the derby, to act normal, and I just... I couldn't."
Robin nods, making a note. This is what she expects—the reshuffling of social bonds after trauma and consequence. She's seen it before in students who've gone through difficult periods. "Tell me, when they reach out—when Matsuda asks you to watch the match—what do you feel?"
Issei considers this. It's a legitimate question, and he tries to answer honestly. "Like they're asking me to pretend nothing happened. Like they want the old Issei back—the one who thought things like what I did were... normal. Acceptable."
"So rejecting them is a form of rejecting your old patterns. That's actually healthy awareness." She takes a sip of her own tea. "But I want to check something with you. When you say 'old patterns'—can you articulate what those actually were? Beyond the surface level?"
Issei has thought about this. He's thought about little else. "I consumed exploitative content with them. I normalized the suffering of others by treating it as entertainment. And when I found actual suffering—Nakamura-san's suffering—I couldn't recognize it as real because I'd been trained by them to see women as... as objects. As material."
The words sound clinical, almost rehearsed. Because he has rehearsed them—in his head, in front of his mirror, preparing for this conversation.
Robin listens without interrupting, which is one of her gifts as a teacher. She doesn't rush to validate or correct. She lets him sit with what he's said. "That's an articulate analysis. But I notice you're speaking about it intellectually rather than emotionally. Can you describe what you felt when you first understood that difference? Between entertainment and real harm?"
His chest tightens. This is harder. "Sick. I felt sick. Like something I'd built my entire social identity on—the three of us, our group, our jokes—was suddenly exposed as cruel. And I realized I'd been cruel by participating, even if I didn't think of it that way at the time."
Robin scribbles some more notes down "When you use the word 'sick'—was that immediate? Or did it take time?" she asks.
"It took time. At first, when I found the videos, I was... excited. That's what's hard to admit. I was excited because I thought I'd found something valuable, something rare, and immediately my brain started thinking about how I could use that." he admits, his fingers never leaving the cup.
He swallows hard, as if the words are difficult to get past his throat. "I didn't feel sick until you called my parents. Until you explained to them what I'd actually found, what I was considering doing."
Robin listens to this, and something shifts in her expression. Not disgust, but a subtle realization. She's beginning to understand that her intervention didn't just save Issei from legal consequences—it saved him from becoming something much worse. And she's beginning to notice, perhaps for the first time, how deeply that moment shaped his relationship with her. "I'm glad you understand that now. But I want to explore something with you, if you're willing."
"Yes. Anything." The immediacy of his answer—the eagerness in his voice—makes Robin pause fractionally. There's something in his tone that carries more weight than a student should toward a teacher.
She doesn't push on it yet. Not directly. But she files it away. "Since that conversation with your parents, how has your understanding of Nakamura-san changed? Not intellectually. Emotionally."
Issei shifts in his chair. This is difficult territory. "I see her at school. In the halls, in class sometimes. And I remember what you told me—that those videos are of a real person who experienced real trauma. So now when I see her, instead of thinking about... about what I was thinking before, I think about what she survived. What those men did to her."
"And does that change how you see her?" Robin asks "Yes. Now she's not an object or an opportunity. She's a person who's stronger than I could ever be. Who survived something I can barely comprehend and came here and rebuilt her life." He said bitterly, his eyes closed, almost on the verge of tears.
Robin leans back slightly. This is the kind of growth she hoped for. But she's also noticing something in how carefully he's constructed this answer. It's too perfect. Too much like he's answering what he thinks she wants to hear. "That's good, Issei-kun. But I want to ask you something that might feel uncomfortable."
He nods, and there's an almost nervous energy in him now. "When you think about those moments after our conversation with your parents—when you understood what you were actually doing—who were you primarily afraid of disappointing? The court? Nakamura-san? Your parents?"
Issei hesitates. This is the real question. The one that matters. "...You. I was afraid of disappointing you."
The admission hangs in the room. Robin doesn't react with surprise, but she does set down her pen and fold her hands, giving him her full attention. "Why me, specifically? I'm your teacher. Nakamura-san is your victim. Your parents are your family."
"Because you were the one who saw what I was capable of becoming and didn't let me become it. You intervened when no one else did. You treated me like I could still change, even when I was already... already becoming something terrible."
Robin is quiet for a moment. She's recognizing something important, and it's making her reassess their dynamic. "Issei-kun, I want to be very clear about something. The work you're doing—the rehabilitation, the understanding—that's coming from you. Not from me. I provided information and guidance. But you're the one doing the actual work of changing."
"I know, but—" Issei tries to talk, but Robin cut his words "It's important that you understand that distinction. Because I'm noticing something in how you talk about our interactions. There's a quality of... dependence. And while I'm honored that you trust me, I need to be careful not to become a substitute for the other relationships you need."
Issei's hands tighten around the teacup. This feels like rejection, even though she hasn't rejected him. "I'm not dependent on you. I'm just... you're the only one who hasn't treated me like a criminal. The only one who still sees me as someone worth helping."
"Your parents see you that way." Robin points out. Issei can feel his heart tighten when thinking about his parents and how they would think of him when they do the work they weren't supposed to do if it's not for him to cause this mess "My parents see me as their failure. They look at me with guilt because I destroyed our family business."
Robin makes another note, but this one is different. She's seeing the ecosystem of his trauma more clearly now. "Issei-kun, can I ask you something difficult? Do you think your parents sacrificed everything because they love you? Or because they felt obligated?"
"Because they're my parents. Because that's what parents do." He said, she nods and asks another "And how does that make you feel?" Issei thinks for a moment before opening his mouth "Grateful. Guilty. Obligated to become someone who was worth that sacrifice."
Robin settles down her pen after taking notes "That's a tremendous amount of pressure you're placing on yourself. And I think it's important that we explore that in our sessions, because that pressure—combined with your isolation from peers—is creating an unhealthy dependence on the limited support systems available to you."
She takes a sip of tea, choosing her next words carefully. "I care about you as a student, Issei-kun. And I believe in your capacity for genuine change. But part of helping you means ensuring you don't come to see me as the only safe person in your world. That would actually reinforce the patterns that led to your crimes—the idea that certain people (in this case, me) are your source of validation and safety, rather than developing those capacities within yourself."
Issei feels something inside him crack. She's right, and he knows it. But he also can't imagine navigating this world without the shield of her presence. "So what do I do?"
She folds her fingers together "You continue attending our sessions. But you also begin rebuilding connections. Not with Matsuda and Motohama, necessarily—those relationships may have served their purpose. But with other peers. With your parents in a healthier way. With activities that don't involve escapism."
She leans forward slightly. "And I'm going to recommend something that might feel harsh. I'm going to suggest that you speak with the school counselor—a different counselor, not me—about what you're feeling regarding your isolation and your attachment patterns. This isn't because I'm rejecting you. It's because I care enough about your actual healing to ensure you're getting the support you need from multiple sources."
Issei wants to argue. He wants to say that no one else understands like she does. But he also knows, somewhere deep down, that she's right. That his dependence on her is becoming another cage. "Okay." Robin tilts her head "Okay?"
Issei: nods once more "I understand. You're right. I've been leaning on you too much." Robin's expression softens. This is the kind of self-awareness she hopes to cultivate. "I'm not abandoning you, Issei-kun. I'm still here. But I'm going to care about you more effectively by making sure you develop resilience that doesn't depend on my presence. Does that make sense?"
"Yes." Robin's expression brightens "Good. Now, let's talk about what you're going to do this week instead of attending our sessions alone. Have you thought about joining any clubs? Pursuing interests that are yours, not just things you're doing to impress others?"
"I...haven't...particularly, it's been too chaotic this past weeks, with everything around me flipped up and down, i haven't had any time to think about what you asked" he admits.
"You don't need to figure it out right away, just know that you have more to do than just pretending you're okay" Robin closes her notebook and stands up, gathering her things "And I think a match of football is a good example for you to see how a group can help an individual.."
That suggestion surprises Issei, Robin-sensei...watches football? She walks past him "What? Don't act so surprised like that, I do watch football from time to time, and everyone has been talking about it, the derby between class 2-B and 2-A. So, do you want to go with me?"
The question hangs between them—casual, almost careless—but Issei feels the weight of it like a lifeline thrown into dark water. He nods before he can second-guess himself, scrambling to match Robin's stride as she pushes open the counselor's office door. The hallway outside is deserted, but the distant roar of the crowd seeps through the walls like a drumbeat.
[Kuoh Academy - Afternoon, School Pitch]
The sun is beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the football pitch. The crowd is smaller than it would be at evening—mostly students who've finished their afternoon classes, lingering before heading home. The energy is electric but not frenzied. A derby match between second-year classes has a different quality than official tournaments—more personal, more intimate somehow.
Issei follows Robin down the concrete steps toward the sideline, hyper-aware of being seen with her. Students glance at them, eyebrows rising. Hyoudou with Robin-sensei? What's that about? But no one says anything. Robin has a way of existing in spaces that discourages gossip.
They settle into a spot along the sideline, away from the main crowd but with a clear view of the pitch. Robin has brought water bottles—thoughtful, practical. She stands with her arms crossed, her expression focused on the game in a way that suggests she's not just observing, but analyzing.
Robin starts "2-B has been dominant in the first half. But football is a full ninety minutes. Watch how 2-A responds to adversity."
As if on cue, 2-B scores. The ball curves beautifully into the net—a striker's goal, technically sound, aesthetically impressive. The crowd erupts. Issei watches as the 2-A goalkeeper retrieves the ball, his posture slumped for just a moment before he straightens.
Issei leans towards the pitch "They're down 1-0. That's... that's bad." Robin nods in agreement "It's not ideal. But watch what happens next."
The second half begins. And Robin begins her teaching. She points to the 2-A goalkeeper—the one who just conceded—who is now communicating loudly with his defense. "That goalkeeper made a mistake. The ball was difficult, but catchable. He knows he failed. But notice—he's not hiding. He's not shutting down. He's talking to his team, preparing for what comes next."
Issei watches the goalkeeper bark instructions, his movements sharp with determination rather than despair.
Robin continues "In your case, Issei-kun, after you committed your crimes, you had a choice. Shut down, or move forward. You chose to move forward. You're like this goalkeeper—acknowledging failure and refusing to let it define the rest of the game."
A few minutes pass. 2-A begins to build momentum. The center defender who initially looked lost now anticipates passes. The left winger who was being outpaced has adjusted his angle. It's subtle, but it's there—adaptation, collective learning.
Then 2-A scores. The crowd gasps—it's a beautiful goal. The ball moves through five passes, each one more audacious than the last, and finishes with a curling shot into the far corner. It's the kind of goal that makes people leap to their feet, and they do.
"Miraculous, isn't it? One moment of individual brilliance, one perfect convergence of timing and skill. But notice—it took five players. Five people had to make their pass perfect. Five people had to position themselves correctly. One person cannot create that alone."
She points to the 2-A team as they celebrate, and Issei notices something he hadn't before: the goalkeeper is celebrated equally with the goalscorer. The defender is embraced. The midfielder who initiated the play is on the shoulders of his teammates. "When things go well, the entire team shares in the victory. And this—" she pauses as 2-A's defensive shape reforms, "—this is their reward for not giving up after conceding."
For a while, the match is balanced. It's genuinely competitive. Both teams are pressing, both teams are creating chances. The crowd is split, energized. It's the kind of football that makes you remember why the sport matters.
Then Robin's attention shifts. "Now, Issei-kun, I want you to focus on one player. Number 8. 2-B. The one in the center of midfield."
Issei searches the pitch and finds him—Aruto Abyga. Even to someone who doesn't follow football closely, something is immediately evident: this player is operating on a different level. His positioning is always perfect. His passes are always precise. He's not flashy—he doesn't dribble much or take shots—but every movement he makes either creates space for his teammates or denies it to the opposition. "That's Aruto Abyga. He's the Regista—the conductor of his team's midfield. Watch how he controls the rhythm of the game."
Over the next ten minutes, Robin narrates a masterclass in how individual excellence creates systemic dominance. Aruto receives the ball deep, plays it forward to the striker, who has three yards of space—space Aruto created with his positioning. He receives it again, plays a diagonal pass that splits two defenders—a pass only possible because Aruto understands the geometry of the pitch in a way his opponents don't.
"This player is exceptional. And because he is exceptional, his team is operating at a level 2-A cannot match. Notice—2-A's midfielders are working twice as hard as 2-B's, but they're constantly one step behind. That's not because 2-A lacks effort. It's because Aruto is orchestrating movements they can't anticipate."
Issei watches, and gradually understands what Robin is showing him. The 2-A team is not losing because they're less dedicated. They're losing because they're facing someone who is genuinely, measurably better.
"The remarkable thing about 2-A is not that they're struggling. It's that they're not completely overwhelmed. They've conceded one goal. In a match where one player is essentially playing on a different tactical plane, conceding one goal is almost a victory."
Then it happens. Another 2-B attack. Aruto receives the ball, one touch to control, one pass that perfectly weights the space for the striker. The striker is unmarked—not through 2-A's negligence, but because Aruto has maneuvered the play in such a way that the pass is impossible to defend. Goal.
2-1 to 2-B.
The crowd erupts. But Robin is quiet. She watches as the 2-A goalkeeper retrieves the ball again. She watches as the 2-A players look at each other, and then forward. She watches as they don't give up. "This is what I wanted you to see, Issei-kun."
She points to the 2-A defense, now reorganizing. "These players understand something important: they are facing a superior opponent. Not a superior effort, but superior individual ability. They cannot win this match based on determination alone. They could work twice as hard and still lose. But they're going to play the remaining minutes with full commitment anyway, knowing that the odds are against them."
Issei feels something heavy settle in his chest. "So they're going to lose no matter what?"
Robin nods gently as she opens a bottle of water to drink "Likely, yes. But that's not the point. The point is what they're learning by playing against an opponent they cannot overcome. They're learning resilience. They're learning that effort has value even when it doesn't result in victory. They're learning that their worth as individuals and as a team isn't determined by whether they can beat Aruto Abyga."
She turns to look at Issei directly. "In your case, Issei-kun, Aruto is Nakamura-san. She's operating on a level you cannot match. She's more intelligent, more strategically thinking, more emotionally sophisticated. You cannot defeat her through effort alone. You cannot overcome what you did by simply trying hard enough."
Issei feels his stomach tighten. Robin continues "What you can do is what this team is doing. You can acknowledge the superiority of the opponent. You can commit to playing the full match anyway—to living your life with intention even knowing you're not going to 'win' against her. You're going to exist in a world where she's more powerful, more aware, more capable. And you have to find meaning in your own effort despite that reality."
The match continues. 2-A pushes forward, creates a few dangerous chances, but 2-B's defense is impeccable. They read every attack before it develops, cover for their teammates, makes adjustments that neutralize 2-A's strategy.
Then, in the 73rd minute, 2-A concedes again. A deflection off a 2-A defender, slightly changing the trajectory of a 2-B attack. It's not anyone's fault—just the accumulation of pressure, the law of probability finally asserting itself.
3-1...The match is effectively over.
But something remarkable happens. The 2-A crowd doesn't boo or jeer their own team. The players don't slump or gesture in frustration. Instead, they collectively acknowledge the superiority they're facing and respond by playing with even more focus, even more precision.
They don't score again. But they create two clear chances in the final ten minutes—not because their effort increased, but because their desperation sharpened their focus. They're no longer trying to win. They're trying to prove something to themselves about who they are despite losing.
Robin stands quietly as the final whistle blows. 3-1 to 2-B. Aruto is mobbed by his teammates, but he's already looking at 2-A—not in triumph, but in acknowledgment. The 2-B goalkeeper didn't have much to do. The real credit belongs to the midfield conductor.
"Do you know what Aruto Abyga doesn't realize?" The teacher suddenly asks, making Issei turn to her in astonishment "What? He performed perfectly, leading his team to victory,....."
"That his excellence, while genuine, comes with a cost. The reason his teammates play at the level they do is because he carries so much of the burden. If he were removed from that team, they would likely be equal to 2-A. But because he exists as he is, they're dominant, and they develop a dependence on his excellence rather than their own."
She gathers her water bottle. "Nakamura-san is like Aruto. Her intelligence, her strategic thinking, her emotional sophistication—these are genuine strengths. But they also mean she carries a burden. She has to be aware, always, of how much power she wields. She has to make choices about how to use that power."
She turns to Issei as they begin walking back toward the school building. "What you saw today is a team playing against someone they cannot match. They accepted that reality and found dignity in the attempt anyway. That's what I want you to do, Issei-kun. Accept that you're not going to 'win' against Nakamura-san. Accept that your effort, no matter how genuine, doesn't erase what you did. And then, despite all of that, continue trying to be better."
They walk in silence for a moment. "And one more thing. Notice that 2-A's goalkeeper, even after three goals conceded, was still communicating, still leading his defense, still doing his job. He didn't shut down because the situation was hopeless. He understood that his value wasn't measured by the scoreboard, but by his commitment to the role he'd chosen."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto coming to cheer up the losing team]
[Hyoudou Residence - Upstairs Bathroom]
The sound of the shower running provides a veil of white noise—loud enough that conversation downstairs won't travel upward. Issei's silhouette is visible through the frosted glass, steam beginning to cloud the small bathroom window. Gorou waits until he hears the shower door close fully before turning to his wife.
[Hyoudou Residence - Kitchen]
Miki is stirring a pot of curry, like her son requested, her movements practiced and efficient. Her work apron is still tied around her waist. Her fingers are stained with turmeric, her hair slightly damp from steam. But her expression brightens when Gorou enters, carrying the manila envelope from work. "Welcome home. How was the new site?"
Gorou sets the envelope on the kitchen counter and wraps his arms around his wife from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. It's an intimate gesture, one that has become more meaningful since the trial—a moment of genuine connection in the midst of their performance.
"The new orders from Abyssgard's overseas connections are bigger than expected. We're going to need to expand operations at the Fukuoka site." He pauses, listening to the shower running upstairs. Only when he's certain Issei is fully occupied does he continue. "But that's not what I want to talk about first. Miki, did you see Issei today?"
Miki sets down her spoon and leans back against her husband's chest. "Yes. He came to the kitchen during my shift. He helped me clean the trays and load the dishwasher." Her voice carries something Gorou hasn't heard in weeks—genuine joy mixed with sorrow.
"And when I joked about him turning yellow from eating too much curry, he laughed. Gorou, he actually laughed. For the first time since the trial, our son laughed."
Gorou closes his eyes for a moment. The weight on his chest—the weight of maintaining the fiction—shifts slightly. Not lifted, but somehow more bearable knowing that their sacrifice is having an effect. "He's starting to understand. What we're doing—the performance—it's working."
"It's also breaking my heart." Miki said, She turns to face him, and her eyes are wet. "Every time he looks at me with that guilt in his eyes, thinking we've lost everything, I want to tell him the truth. That we're going to be fine. That we're actually doing better than we were before Abyssgard stepped in."
Gorou cements his voice "We can't." Miki nods "I know. But it doesn't make it easier."
Gorou takes the envelope and carefully opens it, pulling out several documents. Financial statements, spreadsheets, projections. He spreads them across the kitchen table—away from where Issei might see them from the upstairs hallway.
"Look at this." He points to a line item in one of the accounting reports—a discrepancy in expenses from the previous year. "Embezzlement. At least 2.3 million yen over the past three years. The site manager at Fukuoka was taking a percentage of lumber shipments and reselling them privately."
Miki's hand covers her mouth. "We never knew?" Gorou lowers his voice "I never checked carefully enough. Or I trusted the wrong people. Either way, we were being stolen from, and I didn't notice until Abyssgard's accountants did a full forensic review."
He taps the document with his finger. "They've already recovered 1.8 million through legal action. The site manager will face charges. And because of what they uncovered, Abyssgard's contacts in the international market saw that we have legitimate grievances—legitimate supply chain integrity issues—and they're offering us premium contracts to supply them."
Miki sits down slowly, absorbing this information. "So Nakamura-san's company didn't just manage our money to maintain the facade. They actually improved our business?"
"Significantly." He sets down the document and takes Miki's hands. Gorou goes on "Nakamura-san is brilliant, Miki. She didn't just arrange for us to keep our lumberyards while maintaining the fiction of their sale. She positioned herself to genuinely help our business thrive. She's essentially providing us with world-class financial management and legal services... for free."
Miki is clearly dumbfounded by this point when hearing this, because what their son did didn't ruin his family, but made it....better, but it demands his suffering as a cost for this prosperity. He continues "But there's something else. Something more important."
He pulls out another document—a projection. "At the current growth rate, with Abyssgard's connections and our expanded operations, the three lumberyards will be worth approximately 40% more than they were before the trial within two years. We're not just recovering what we lost. We're becoming more valuable."
Miki stares at the numbers, and something complex passes across her face—gratitude, guilt, awe, and something darker that might be fear, this family is thriving on their son's psychological turmoil "I know this is good and all, but..."
Her fingers twitch against his palms, and Gorou feels the tremor—the internal earthquake of a mother facing an impossible reality. Miki continues, her voice smaller"It feels wrong. So wrong. Gorou, our son believes his family is destroyed because of him. He carries that weight every single day. And meanwhile, we're becoming more successful, more financially secure, more... prosperous."
She pulls her hands away and walks to the sink, gripping the edge with both hands as if it's the only thing anchoring her.
Miki looks at him, her eyes red-rimmed but clear "What are we doing? What kind of parents are we becoming?"
Gorou bows his head for a moment—not in submission, but in the weight of acknowledgment. The question she's asking is the one he's been asking himself since he signed the Abyssgard contract. "I know. I know it's wrong. But that's the deal we made. That's the deal Nakamura-san offered us: either lose everything, or maintain this performance until she decides Issei is worthy of knowing the truth."
He looks at the documents spread across the table—evidence of their complicity, their prosperity, their guilt. "The contract doesn't specify a timeline. It only says 'until she deems him worthy of her forgiveness.' That could be a year. That could be five years. That could be his entire adolescence."
"It's just another pressure on him." She says it quietly, almost to herself. But the realization is devastating in its clarity. Miki continues"We're not protecting him by maintaining this lie. We're extending his punishment. And we're benefiting from it. Every order Abyssgard brings us, every expansion we make, every yen we don't lose—it all comes at the cost of Issei's guilt."
Miki's voice breaks "Is he not as important as the lumberyards, Gorou? Have we already decided that his psychological well-being is worth less than our financial recovery?"
The question hangs in the kitchen like a guillotine blade. It's the question that matters. The one that separates them from being victims of circumstance and makes them active perpetrators of a system designed to destroy their son's self-worth.
Gorou stands and moves toward her, but Miki steps back—not aggressively, but with the need to maintain distance while she processes this. "He is, Miki. He's the most valuable thing we have. More than the lumberyards, more than Abyssgard's contracts, more than all of it."
His voice is steady, but there's pain beneath it. Gorou continues "But he did something gravely wrong. And there have to be consequences. Real consequences. Not just legal ones, but psychological ones. He has to understand that his actions didn't just affect him—they affected everyone around him. And the only way he'll truly change is if he carries that weight until he decides, himself, that he never wants to carry anything like it again."
He takes a breath, choosing his next words with the precision of someone who's been thinking about this conversation for months.
Gorou goes on"What we can do—what we must do—is guide him toward the 'better' that Nakamura-san has defined. The sooner he genuinely improves, the sooner this can end. The sooner she decides he's worthy of knowing the truth, the sooner our family can be whole again."
Miki wraps her arms around herself, a protective gesture. "But how do we know we're guiding him correctly? How do we know we're not just extending his suffering needlessly? How do we know Nakamura-san will ever decide he's worthy?"
"We don't. That's the nature of what we've agreed to. We have to trust that she understands what she's doing. That her intelligence—the same intelligence that saved him from being prosecuted as an adult—will guide her to release him when the moment is right."
He moves closer, and this time, Miki doesn't step away. Gorou takes her shoulders gently: "But we need to love him through this, Miki. Not the old way. Not the way that coddles him or makes him think his mistakes are acceptable. But the way that shows him we believe in his capacity to become better."
He pauses, ensuring she's looking at him. "We cannot let him see us in pain. We cannot let him see us suffering from what he did. Because if he sees that, the lesson becomes about redemption—about earning our forgiveness. But this isn't about that. This is about him understanding that his actions have weight, that they ripple outward, and that the people he hurt most are people who love him enough to move forward anyway."
Miki's eyes fill with tears, but she doesn't look away. Gorou doesn't stop "When he sees you working in that cafeteria, he needs to see a mother who is building something new. When he sees me coming home from the expanded lumberyard operations, he needs to see a father who is striving to recover, not drowning in what was lost. He needs to see us thriving despite what he did, not suffering because of it."
He releases her shoulders and takes her hands again—firmly this time, with intention. Gorou's voice becomes quieter, more intimate "Because the real lesson isn't 'Issei ruined his family and they'll never recover.' The real lesson is 'Issei hurt people he loves, and those people are strong enough to move forward. And if they can do that, so can he.'"
Miki closes her eyes, and a tear slides down her cheek. "I don't know if I'm strong enough for this."
Gorou pulls her close, and for a moment, they're not performing. They're just two parents terrified of what they're doing to their child, caught between love and necessity. Gorou speaks into her hair
"You are. Because you're already doing it. Every day you go to that school and cook for those students with joy in your heart, you're showing Issei that people can build something meaningful from loss. Every time you smile at him when you're exhausted, when you could break down, when you could tell him the truth and end this—you're showing him that love isn't about being easy. It's about being committed."
He pulls back just enough to look at her. "And when the time comes—when Nakamura-san decides he's ready, when we finally reveal what really happened—he's going to understand that his parents loved him enough to let him suffer the consequences of his own actions. That we didn't take the easy path. That we made the harder choice because we believed he was worth saving."
Miki nods slowly, and something settles in her expression. Not peace, exactly. But determination. The kind that comes from accepting an impossible burden and committing to carrying it anyway.