He's a picky eater, always has been, finicky and selective and repetitive with his meals; boxing plays into that, excuses it, gives him the ability to say I'm monitoring my weight when turning down a meal—anything with radishes, green beans, tuna, game. Picky about his water, doesn't like the idea of it coming from a tap—minerals and springs and he can list the ingredients of all his protein bars, knows what each word means.

(is that why Shinjiro-senpai is such a good cook?, Yukari asks once, and he coughs hard from trying not to laugh; I've never eaten a single thing he's made—)

---

He's looked up his Persona on the internet, was thrilled to find he was a boxer, too—brother of Castor, just as they used to pretend, twins, and he skims over the part where Castor dies

(spear to the heart, mortal twin)

and focuses on their sister, Helen (Miki), protected, loved, so beautiful wars were fought in her name. Later he looks them up again, much later, too much later, read the family tree—Nyx to Nemesis to Castor—and hates himself a little for not noticing sooner.

It was Leda, a swan, Ken says thinly; Zeus came to Leda as a swan and she laid an egg—it was Nemesis, he insists right back to him, much later; no wonder they were so successful in the stories, the goddess of justice,

(revenge)

their mother, guarding their backs.

Until they were ambushed.

---

He has a reoccurring dream where he's seven years old again, smoke pouring around corners, the whole world brown and blurred and hot and dry, standing in the hallway, and there are two signs, arrows, standing out in the darkness, pointing opposite—

One says MIKI and the other says SAFETY; left and right; his feet turn right now matter how hard he tries to change his mind, eyes sliding over the letters, blurring them into illegibility, she's outside she's outside she's safe she's—

October 4th he runs and runs and aches and stings and burns, gets himself lost in his panic and coughs, half expecting blood. He reads a stop sign as SAFETY and staggers backwards; everything blurs. Wills himself to turn left, to pick the other path; is too late anyway.

He hates that goddamn dream.

---

He summons his Persona for the first time one night in his dorm room, Shinji in a coffin, the first major rainstorm of the season raging outside. He huddles in bed and tries not to notice how thick, heavy the raindrops sound in the Dark Hour

(like they're not water anymore—)

and remembers what that Kirijo girl said about bravery. He's brave, he thinks, but he isn't usually alone for it. The rain and the coffin combine to steel his nerve, and the Persona, the pulling of the trigger, the pain and the yank and the ache; it all startles him so badly that he falls backwards, trips over something, knocks his back and elbows hard into the slick wood of the coffin, Shinji, he has the bruises for days and by the time they fade, he's joined SEES

(and found out how to pry open that box; shinji joins the week after, slumping)

---

He's a picky eater, always has been, but it's not only that; he likes what he likes but he likes to know what to expect, even if only for dinner. Order and system and lists, this plus that equals thus; obsessive-compulsive, Mitsuru guesses once for him—Shinji overhears, waves it off, defending him selectively—Aki's just a priss.

If I run for this long a day, if I eat this meal at that time, if I adjust my workout program by so much; this will give these results, the results I want, the way I want, he tries to explain but he can't get past give these results when he does. Predictability, he sighs to Aigis; she at least seems to get it.

Tartarus is different. To try and enforce rules, systems, programs on it is useless, dangerous; he comforts himself with eight more floors, counts Shadows in his head. When lost in a maze, keep your hand on the left wall; it'll lead you home. Turn left, turn left, turn left. Shadows bleed black and stringy, by the end of the night they're all slick with sweat, aching sharp, pounding headaches from their guns; Fuuka warns them for new Shadows—Shadows that block his moves, the metallic tang of his own lightning reflected at him sharp in his mouth. Then she scans them and imposes order; weak to ice, she whispers to Mitsuru.

"Three more floors," he says to Shinji, catching their breath. "If we keep up this rate, fifteen a night—"

He's exhausted, too, worse without magic to alternate physical attacks with, but tries to hide it in his temper: "Fuck you, and fuck your fucking OCD."

(minato nods, eyes half-shut, and asks fuuka to teleport them home.)