October 7th, 2020. Afternoon.

"It wasn't suicide," Akihiko said for what must have been the tenth time. And, pleading: "Mitsuru."

They're upset, shaken, all of them, but Mitsuru has the added excuse of jet-lag on top of it, having flown to Japan from the United States for the funeral. She was cranky on top of it. "We're all at a loss, Akihiko."

"He wouldn't kill himself." They were all together for the funeral. Ken's friends from school, a few teachers, no family but all of SEES, clustered together automatically, looking so much older and exactly the same. Clustered but for Akihiko and Mitsuru, who were arguing in sharp whispers in the back of the room. "Even if he were to kill himself, the details are all wrong."

"There's no evidence of murder." Mitsuru rubbed her temple. "If it had been on any other day... but you said it yourself. He was found late on the 4th."

"It's still wrong. This is Ken we're talking about. He's too—meticulous. If he was going to kill himself on October 4th, he would have damn well done it at the Station; just look at how he planned it out as a kid. You know that. And he shot himself wrong."

"Akihiko..." She was losing her patience with him, he could tell, but he pressed on, pulling his police-issue handgun out of its holster, safety on, pressing it quick and smooth to his forehead. He looked at Mitsuru from around his hand and the gun, and she looked calmly back. "Put that away before someone gets the wrong idea."

"That's how I always used my evoker. You know that. That's how he did, too. I could do it in my sleep, make that move. But he was shot in the temple, Mitsuru."

"I don't know!" she snapped, making a cutting gesture with her hands; some people turn to stare, and Junpei starts to take a step towards them. "You're the police officer, Akihiko. If you think it's a murder, then go solve it. I did not think I needed to give my permission. God knows I'd rather it have been." It still hurt to hear her snap it, even though he knew he was nagging, whining. Junpei did head over to them, Yukari's oldest hanging off his arm.

"You all right, Senpai?"

"No," Mitsuru said, looking and sounding exhausted, running a hand over her hair. "No, I am not. Excuse me." She wandered off in the direction of outside, and Junpei raised his eyebrows at Akihiko.

"She's takin' it hard, huh?" He grinned nervous at the realization of his foot going into his mouth; then the grin twisting into a grimace. "I guess we all are. Damn. It doesn't seem real, ya know? I didn't see it comin'."

That's not true, Akihiko thought. If it was, you guys would believe me faster that it was murder; you didn't see it coming, but you expected it. That was the ugly truth of it. Before he could decide if he wanted to bother saying it, a headache stirring behind his eyes, Yukari's kid fidgeted and tugged and requested a soda from uncle Junpei. Akihiko waved them and Junpei's apologetic shrug off.

The kid was four, almost four, something like that. Akihiko kept overlaying him with Ken.

Maybe, he admitted to himself, sitting in one of the receiving room's provided chairs, he was fooling himself. Clinging, obsessing, to avoid dealing with the fact that this had blind-sided him, that someone else he cared about had died without him able to prevent or even slow it. That he had been thick enough, unobservant enough—objectively, he knew all these things.

It was just—

Ken's roommate had seen him around the apartment earlier that day. Ken had been distant, distracted, but his roommate—Yamanaka—had attributed it to his work on his paper, to the date. Around two in the afternoon, Ken had left, presumably to go grave visiting. Yamanaka had left shortly after, having plans with his girlfriend. He'd come back to their shared apartment shortly after midnight, only to find Ken, slouched over a table, bullet in the temple, gun in hand. According to what evidence they'd been able to gather over the past two days, GSR proved Ken had pulled the trigger; the coroner and Yamanaka set the time of death as midnight.

That part fit, anyway. Ken was meticulous. Killing himself at midnight on October 4th did make a morbid sort of sense—but he would have done it at the alley, to the forehead, not half-assed in his apartment. And Akihiko would have seen it coming, the day before, at lunch. He had hovered over the investigation for a few hours, until he was officially removed from it and put on vacation.

He watched Mitsuru come back, looking more put together, sit down beside Yukari. They spoke; Yukari kept looking behind her to him. He stared back; her husband frowned at him, he ignored it.

Fuuka was pregnant with her first child, somewhere in the third trimester, but she was a tiny woman and didn't look it. She was the one who approached Akihiko next, easing herself into the seat next to him and staring at her stomach and lap. "Everyone's really worried about you," she said finally.

"I'm fine." I'm not the point, he added silently.

Fuuka had always been perceptive, more attuned to her Persona then the rest of them. She stopped watching her stomach and watched him; he tried to not notice. "It was suicide, Senpai." Gently. Too gently.

"It's all wrong, I've told you this before, just now—" He frowned. No. He had told Mitsuru. Hadn't he told Fuuka, and everyone else, too, just before? Earlier today? When they'd gathered for the service, before the monk had begun the sutras—

"Senpai?"

"If he were to shoot himself, he wouldn't have done it like that." What was the word? Deja vu. Fuuka's eyes went wide and she looked down and away, very quickly. Her husband, watching over the conversation, rose from his chair but didn't head over. "What is it?" Akihiko asked, snapping, almost, not sure what to make of this sudden change.

Fuuka took in a deep breath and was slow to let it out. "Senpai... Ken-kun hung himself."

October 7th, 2020.

"It wasn't suicide," Akihiko said for what must have been the tenth time. And, pleading: "Mitsuru."

They're upset, shaken, all of them, but Mitsuru has the added excuse of jet-lag on top of it, having flown to Japan from the United States for the funeral. She was cranky on top of it. "We're all at a loss, Akihiko."

"He wouldn't kill himself." They were all together for the funeral. Ken's friends from school, a few teachers, no family but all of SEES, clustered together automatically, looking so much older and exactly the same. Clustered but for Akihiko and Mitsuru, who were arguing in sharp whispers in the back of the room. "Even if he were to kill himself, the details are all wrong."

"He was hung, Akihiko." Mitsuru rubbed her temple. "There are hardly details."

October 7th, 2020. Afternoon?

"It wasn't suicide," Akihiko said for what must have been the tenth time. And, pleading: "Mitsuru."

They're upset, shaken, all of them, but Mitsuru has the added excuse of jet-lag on top of it, having flown to Japan from the United States for the funeral. She was cranky on top of it. "We're all at a loss, Akihiko. At best, it was a tragic accident."

But that was even worse. A murder, a suicide—anything was better than an accidental drowning.

(October?)

Déjà vu. That was the word. Déjà—

Akihiko opened his eyes and found himself lying in bed, covers kicked off, sheet twisted around himself. It was still hot for this time of year, and a fan hummed in the window.

He was sweating, hot and drenched, and he closed his eyes and drifted into a half sleep. After a few minutes, he opened them again, pulling himself out of bed. He padded into the living/dining room in his pajamas, thinking disjointedly from tiredness. He was never at his best first thing in the morning, which was why he still liked to start his day with a jog, a workout, get his blood flowing.

He began filling a teakettle with water from the sink and found himself staring at his wall calender. He'd gotten it for free, some sort of promotion. Ever month had a different exotic locale. This month's was Utrecht, The Netherlands, a city with canals and winding streets. He wrote his appointments on it, checked off each day, finding a strange satisfaction in that organization.

He hadn't checked off any days since September 27th—two weeks. It was the tenth, or the eleventh, right? Water spilled onto his hands; the kettle was overflowing. Akihiko shut off the water, put the kettle on the stove, and wiped his hands. The last week had been—well.

Déjà vu. That was the word. Déjà vu.

He looked for something to eat for breakfast and found his cellphone instead, lying on the shelf he used for dried boxed foods. One New Message, it informed him.

Call ID: Amada.

October 7th, 2020?

"It wasn't suicide," Akihiko said for what must have been the tenth time.