Sae wheezed. Her body's way of telling her that she needed to stop soon, but Yosou Jochi's financial records wouldn't untangle themselves. If the justice Makoto rambled on about had any meaning, her body would keep going for as long as she needed, but there was no justice in a world where she had to fight for every breath and her father had choked to death in his own blood. So she was here at sunset on a summer's day, looking for answers amidst balance sheets and tax returns.

Everyone knew Jochi by reputation. The man owned half of Yongen and would have sold his own grandmother for an extra percentage of profit. Dozens of small businesses and putative partners lay bankrupt in his wake. More importantly, his tax burden was suspiciously low for someone so wealthy. Revenue had never been able to pin anything on him, so the case had been passed to Sae. A feather in her cap, the director told her, if she would be the one to finally bring him down. Busywork, when the mental shutdowns were still a mystery and the Phantom Thieves were embarrassing the Prosecutors Office.

Sae wheezed again as her throat closed up. She dove for the bag at her side and grabbed her inhaler. The medication burned in her throat and windpipe, but the pressure on her chest eased. She took a few deep, calming breaths and looked around. No one seemed to have noticed. Good. Sae was young and a woman: already two strikes against her. She couldn't afford to be seen as weak as well. But she couldn't afford to gasp and splutter her way to the emergency room, either. She had headed off this episode before it began, but she wouldn't be so fortunate if it continued. She stood and promised herself that she would get an early start in the morning.

Dusk softened Tokyo. Sae joined the anonymous throng of pedestrians and commuters, the sounds and rhythms bred into her bones. Home, worth protecting no matter how corrupt it was or how badly rabble-rousers attempted to flout the law. One of the few things she and Makoto could agree on.

Makoto. Her exams were over, and the cram schools had relented for the moment. There was nowhere for her to be except their apartment. Sae clenched her fist. No she couldn't go directly home. "All you do is eat away at my life." She hadn't even meant the words, but they had erupted in a tidal wave of grief, rage, and frustration. Makoto's horrified expression had been seared into Sae's brain as a punishment. There was a chasm between them now. No, the chasm had been building for years. Makoto with her aikido and belief that the world could be set right if she just attacked the corrupt hard enough versus Sae with her infirmity who had seen that Japan was corrupt from the Prime Minister on down and couldn't afford fairytales. And who had said something no apology could heal. It was better for them both if she gave Makoto space. There was only one place left for her to go.

Seaside Park had been Sae's favorite place in Tokyo since before she could walk. Staring at the main part of the city from across the bridge had made it seem mysterious, like she was a tourist seeing the place for the first time. The water eddied and flowed, suggesting she still had the power to be carried to faraway places. Breathing was easier here, the water unclogging and opening her lungs. Above all, it was quiet: a place where prosecutor burdened with too much responsibility and too little support could still find a place to think.

Except she wasn't alone. Makoto sat on a park bench, clustered around a group of students her own age. Two of them were blonde. The boy's obviously bleached, but the girl's hair was long and apparently natural. Sakamoto and Takameki. Two Shujin students Kamoshida had confessed to tormenting in particular. The things he had wanted to do to the girl...And next to them was a tall boy gazing pensively at the water. He was far too thin for his height. Wait, she recognized him too. Kiraga? Kitagawa? Madarame's last pupil, the son of the true creator of Saiyuri. And in the center of them all was the probationer—Kurusu?-that Sakura had taken in. A camera hung around his neck.

What was Makoto doing associating with people like this? Didn't she know that her reputation had to be carefully protected, that connections mattered even more than test scores if she wanted to succeed. The rumors around Sakomoto alone would be enough to destroy her. But she looked...happy. Her eyes were bright, and she was smiling. Not the small grimace she managed when Sae asked her how her day had gone, but the one that made her eyes crinkle and brighten that Sae hadn't seen in three years. A knife twisted in her heart.

What's it to you? said a smooth, oily voice inside her own head. She's a child who doesn't have the sense to know when she's ruining her life. You have work to do tomorrow. Run along.

Sae stood rooted to the spot. Even if Makoto was being a fool, Sae had to know why and how so she could save her.

Even Kurusu looked different. Sae had seen him only twice before, always with his head down and shoulders hunched, as if he wanted to take up little space as possible. His posture was loose now. He removed the camera from his neck and fiddled with a few dials as the others crowded around him. "Not bad." He frowned. "Not good, but not bad."

"What are you talking about, buddy? Ann looks like one of those—what do you call it? Angels! That's pretty good right?"

"The light of the golden hour on her hair is a striking effect, if rather obvious." Sakamoto elbowed Kitagawa in the ribs, but he didn't seem to notice. "Perhaps a change of scenery? A different model? Or..." He brightened. "Makoto, perhaps you could take a few photographs? Sens—well, I have often been told that viewing bad art can be an inspiration to all of its own. If only giving us the desire to correct it."

"Yusuke..."

Makoto fidgeted. "He's right, you know. I'm not artistic. I don't see what you and Yusuke do when you look at a sunset or tree. I'm just one of those people with no artistic talent. Some people are like that."

Kurusu huffed. "Talent is what an idiot calls training and perseverance. You wouldn't say someone couldn't learn algebra or history, would you?" His voice was deeper than Sae remembered, and he gestured wildly as he spoke. "Photography is simply a matter of training your eyes to see and learning how to make the camera do what you want." Bitterness crept into his voice. "Maybe you'll never get a gallery showing or into an art school, but anyone can at least be competent."

"I don't know," Sakamoto said. "I've been going to school a long time, and I'm still pretty hopeless. Besides, there are some people I could never see being artsy at all. I mean don't you have to have feelings to be a good artist?"

"Art is as much an expression of the artist's heart as it is of technical skill." Kitagawa stroked his chin. "Which reminds me that I need to speak to Akira in private after we disperse."

"And, anyway, everyone has feelings," Takamaki said. "Some people only seem to have anger and greed and things like that, but those are feelings." She shuddered. "I wouldn't even want to think about what Kamoshida would draw in his spare time."

"Me neither." Sakamoto looked as if he had eaten something vile. "But I still say there are people who just would never get it." He turned to Makoto. "I could never see your sister taking pictures for fun. Or doing anything for fun, really."

"You don't even know my sister!"

The breath left Sae's lungs, but not from an asthma attack. It shouldn't matter what Sakamoto or any of these children thought of her. They had never been saddled with a guardianship just at the moment when they might have begun to build their own lives. They had never been forced to don armor and work twice as hard for half as much. They hadn't been compelled to transform from the sister who snuck treats and battled the monsters under the bed to the parent who had to set curfews and the household budget. They didn't...

"Not personally, but a troublemaker like me hears things. No-Heart Niijima will freeze your balls off. No mercy. Once she decides you're going down..." He mimed slitting his throat. "Hot, but a total ice queen."

Makoto rose to her feet. "If I ever hear you call my sister hot again, I will punch you so hard that...well you know exactly what I can do, Ryuji."

He must have because all the color drained from his face, and he threw up his hands. "I'm just repeating what I heard. I didn't mean anything by it!" He cast around for rescue and settled on Kurusu. "I'm right, aren't I? Didn't you tell me that she used to like coming to Leblanc?"

"I haven't seen her since she threatened Sojiro." Kurusu tensed, and his lips were a thin line. "I'm not exactly unbiased."

I'm investigating crimes that are one step up from the supernatural with a director who thinks I should be investigating tax evasion and money laundering. The official records of Wakaba Isshiki's work have vanished. Sometimes extraordinary measures are called for. It's not my fault you guardian refuses to seek treatment for his daughter's mental illness.

"She's always been reserved, and it's been stressful the last three years." Makoto's breath hitched. "That doesn't make her Kamoshida! She can still be—Dad always said that working in law enforcement deformed you a little. It's not her fault."

Sae gripped a pillar for support. It was one thing for those who didn't know her to dismiss her. She had been No-Heart Niijima since she was eight years old when had learned that fits of laughter or crying were just as much triggers as dust. And then she had become a prosecutor and realized that intimidation was the only way to force her colleagues to treat her as a colleague. Kurusu didn't understand that one failure could derail your career forever and that a few threats were a small price to pay.

But Makoto...Makoto knew all that and agreed with them.

So? The smooth voice was back. As long as you win, nothing else matters. She will learn soon enough. You have no time for art or sentiment.

"So, you agree? Some people just can't be taught?"

Leave. She should just leave. This was her punishment for those careless words. Someday Makoto would understand what had driven Sae to them, but for now it was better to let her have her allusion to justice. And they would continue avoiding each other. Until Makoto graduated. Maybe after. That was the path Sae had chosen.

That's right. You don't need her. There are tax returns to sort through.

Another memory. Her family—Mom, Dad, baby Makoto—smiling as Sae had taken their picture on vacation. It had been overexposed, but not heartless. She wasn't...she wasn't some kind of monster needed vigilantes to break her before she could see reason. She took a step forward and cleared her throat, as much to steady her breath as get their attention. "I've taken photographs before. I believe you would find me very teachable, if I made the time to learn."

They stared at her, every one of them as pale as Sakamoto. Kurusu hunched over again and shoved his hands in his pockets. Irritation mixed with fury and grief. He had been confident, even charming, a moment ago. Didn't he know that he was far more likely to overcome his record like that instead of as a mouse?

Makoto worked her jaw. "Sis? How long have you been there? I didn't-"

Sae held up a hand. "I think you did mean it. Every one of you. And I think it's past time that you all went home for the evening. Shujin is in enough disgrace without one of you getting mugged or worse. Just because my job requires a certain severity doesn't mean that I'm not concerned."

They moved, slowly and sullenly. They didn't believe her. Of course not. Why would they when they either didn't know her or saw her at war. All gears and switches, La Belle Dame Sans Merci who would do anything to win because that was the only way to survive this rigged game. Who looked at a tree and saw only a tree and not the color and light Kurusu and Kitagawa did.

An idea flitted around the edge of her mind. Kurusu had spoken of photography as only another skill. She could learn. She could prove all of them wrong. Show Makoto that she had not been deformed. If only she had a teacher. "Stay a moment, Mr Kurusu."

He looked up and blinked. His glasses made him look like an owl. The others stopped, listening. Makoto frowned and looked between Sae and Akira. "Go home," Sae repeated. "And stop looking like I'm going to eat him."

Kurusu smiled a tight smile. "Shame. People tell me I taste pretty good. It'll be fine, guys." He nodded to Kitagawa. "I'll text you when I'm done and you can tell me all about your supersecret project." He watched as his friends peeled away one by until he and Sae were left alone in the silence of the park.

Sae stood before him. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. It was easier to ask for things when she was on official business, when she could whip out her badge and bring the implicit might of the Japanese judicial system to bear. But she could ask for this only as Sae Niijima who had no threats or favors to offer Kurusu. "May we sit?"

He shrugged and collapsed on the farthest end of the bench. He didn't look at her. "Just so you know, I don't know anything about Wakaba Isshiki's research."

"I don't expect you to." She coughed. Not a full-blown attack, not yet, but the emotional shocks and long day were beginning to wear at her. Better to be as quick and direct as possible. As it had so many times before, her illness had decided her path for her. "I want you to teach me photography."

He went very still, and his fist clenched in his lap. "I knew I should have told Ryuji to shut up. I've seen my share of monsters, and you don't qualify. Don't worry about it."

His share of monsters. Interesting turn of phrase. She knew that Akira Kurusu was on probation for assault, but little else. "I want to prove a point." To Makoto, to herself, to that too-smooth, too-condescending voice in her head. "Even I'm capable of a hobby. And human feeling."

He winced. "Never said you weren't. But why would you want me?" His gaze hardened as he focused on her prosecutor's badge. "And why would I help you, of all people?"

Sae coughed again, a harsh bark that left her throat burning and made Kurusu's eyes widen. She hadn't done anything wrong, but if he wanted to think her the unreasonable lawyer, then so be it. "Makoto has always valued honesty in her friends. You were the one that said anyone could be taught. Your own words would convict you in her eyes." And she would find the strength to tell Makoto that. She could see her sister's hurt expression. Even if she thought Sae's heart was deformed, she wouldn't want it validated like that. Sae hoped. "Have you never read a fairy story? Don't make a wager that you can't fulfill."

He opened his mouth and closed it again. Sae chose to take it as a victory. "Why would you want me? The delinquent. Wouldn't that ruling your reputation or something?" There was a edge to his voice that Sae had heard in her own often enough: another person who knew he was judged before he even began.

"If anyone asks, I'm assisting with your rehabilitation." He flinched on the last word. Another strange thing. "My career doesn't exactly fit in with classes at the community center. And I doubt a master would take me on. "She could imagine the condescension of the private teachers at the prosecutor who might be teachable but with no obvious genius and without the connections or wealth to prevent being dropped the moment something better came along. "You said anyone could be taught. And your schedule will be flexible for the next month." And you seem fond of Makoto. Help me bridge this distance between us.

He pushed his glasses upon his nose. "Anyone can be taught," he muttered. "I just didn't know that I'd have to prove it quite like this. You know what? I'll do it. I need a job with a flexible schedule myself. What's the worst that can happen? You still take bad pictures?" He laughed, dark and sharp and bitter. Again, he sounded too much like her.

Kurusu continued, "I have a few conditions. One: you leave Sojiro alone. Two: we don't discuss Futaba Sakura or Wakaba Isshiki. Three: I expect you to take this seriously. If I give you homework, I expect you to do it, the same as your boss expects you to file a brief. My art requires just as much diligence as the law." His voice became louder and clearer as he spoke, and he sat up straighter. No longer trying to hide himself. "Four: I expect to be paid. Forty-five hundred a day. It's what I earned at my last job, and it's an absolute bargain for private art instruction."

Sae would have paid him twice that if he agreed to keep talking like that and not go back to the little mouse she had met at Leblanc. Authority. Reasonable terms. No hint of condescension. He was treating her like an equal. And he had said that he didn't think she was a monster. She could do this. "Very well, Mr. Kurusu." She offered him her hand. "You have a deal."

He looked at her hand for a moment but leaned forward and shook it all the same. His grip was firmer than she expected, and she felt the beginnings of calluses on his fingers. "Then one last question: I assume you have a camera?"

Sae slunk into the apartment half an hour later, her lungs at last on the verge of rioting. She sank onto the couch and ripped her inhaler from her bag. Her breath came in sputtering gasps as her world narrowed to how she was going to get the next batch of air through her lungs. Even with the inhalers, her bronchitis always felt like a battle between her and her own body. Maybe it was foolish to stay in Tokyo, but by the time her family could have afforded the move, it was home. Moving would have been conceding defeat.

Eventually, though, she and her lungs negotiated their usual temporary armistice. She could sit up straight again, even if her voice still didn't quite work and sweat clung to her hair. She rose on wobbly legs and hobbled towards the bedroom and hoped we would give her a respite. From everything.

Makoto's door was cracked open. She lay on the bed, looking at her phone with a miserable expression. No. It was more than misery. It was the look she saw from the perpetrators families sometimes when they finally had to admit that she hadn't been making up the evidence that their loved one was a criminal. Sae should have dragged herself in there, sat on the edge of the bed, ruffled Makoto's hair and asked her what was wrong. She had done that, once upon a time, when they had been able to be only sisters. Before those careless words she didn't know how to take back.

They were more than careless, said the smooth voice. They were the truth. Makoto is nothing but a parasite. All that matters to you is power, glory, and chasing the next promotion. That's as it should be.

No. There was still love. She had lashed out in a moment of anger and weakness. Perhaps she had been harsh even before that, but it was only to help Makoto succeed, to rip her blinders off before the world did and left her broken and bleeding. Before she ended up like their father. And there was still art, that rarefied world Kurusu would help her enter. She was still human.

But she couldn't enter that room. Not until she knew how she could apologize.

Go on. Play with your camera then. You'll fail, and then you'll finally know what you are. I'll be waiting.

Sae walked on.

Akira gazed at the walls of Mementos. He had been entering the collective desires of the people of Tokyo for almost three months, but the place still gave him the creeps with its walls at the wrong angle and train tracks that led nowhere. "This is your secret project?'"

Yusuke knelt to examine the pulsing veins on the floor. "I've had much time to think since Madarame's disgrace. How can I ever hope to capture true beauty when I'm ignorant of the human heart? But here is the human soul laid bare. The inspiration I desperately need!"

"Still no ideas for the contest?" He and Yusuke were both artists in their way—or at least Akira had tried to be a wake-up photographer before the arrest had sent his life up in flames—but he had never been much for the flashy talk of true beauty and so forth. The truth was there in desolate landscapes and in smiling faces and you learned how to frame and edit that truth to tell the story you wanted. Most of the time you couldn't wait for inspiration because there were deadlines and the person who was paying you a hundred thousand yen didn't give a damn about your artist statements. Or maybe having a criminal record had turned him cynical on top of everything else. He hadn't taken a photograph he was truly proud of since March.

"No." Yusuke sighed. "And I am in desperate need of prize money."

Then again even romantic artists had to eat. "You'll come up with something. That doesn't involve us being dinner for a Shadow."

Another sigh and Yusuke put the back of his hand to his mask. "Where is your sense of sacrificing for art?" He was smiling as he said it, though. "Perhaps you should enter the exhibition, in the photography division of course. The prize money is substantial, and our extracurricular activities aren't cheap."

Akira froze and every muscle in his body seized. Flashes of printed paper filled his mind. Kosei requires high character from all its students. In view of your criminal record, your scholarship and place at the academy is hereby withdrawn. His one ticket out of a dead town, crushed, and Yusuke would never know how close they had come to being classmates and colleagues. "I don't think the art world wants someone like me."

Yusuke stood and took out his sketchbook. "They never want true visionaries. Make them want you with that fire of your genius."

"You are the genius." Akira was...well, what was he exactly? Not a complete hack like Madarame. God help him if he ever leeched off other people like that. He could still compose a photo, but those were skill to be practiced, the same as katas. Anyone could do that. Even a prosecutor. "I'm a teacher. Sae Niijima wants me to teach her how to take photographs. She's paying me a lot."

Yusuke drew a series of quick lines and didn't look up. "There are those who would say that consorting with law enforcement is hypocritical at best and suicidal at worst. Though I suppose having her sister as our chief strategist makes the point moot..." His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. "Ryuji's comments pained her. I wouldn't have expected a strangers jibes to affect someone so self-possessed. We shouldn't have carried on so."

"No, we shouldn't have." Akira had seen Niijima's face in the split-second before she had stepped forward, eyes flashing red with cold fury and pride. Pain had not been the word. In agony. Afraid. She looked...like some of the Shadows he had battled here—the ones who were maybe a little cruel, or had stolen from their boss because they thought he was a jerk—but the malestorm of grief and guilt ravaged them equally regardless of their crimes. He had barely thought of Niijima at all before she had threatened Sojiro, and he had wanted to deck her for that. He had stayed silent while Ryuji ran his mouth because there was no harm in blowing off a little steam. Except nothing human should ever look like she had in that moment.

So he was helping. Making things right and maybe this time it wouldn't blow up in his face.

An hour later, he and Yusuke left Mementos none the worse for wear and Yusuke bubbling with ideas. If Akira knew him at all, Yusuke was going to spend the next two days painting and produced a dazzling finished product. He made a mental note to text him reminders to eat and to tell Makoto not to schedule any trips to Futaba's Palace for the rest of the week.

It was as dark as it ever got in Tokyo, which wasn't very. Neon was everywhere in Shibuya, turning streets and buildings garish. Music thrummed from clubs, and drunk Americans sauntered down the street. Nights like this, the city seemed to belong to a different universe than his half-dead fishing village of a home. He'd thought Tokyo would be his future, his camera a ticket to something alive and vital, with none of the stink of desperation and hopelessness. It had taken him coming here as an exile to realize that there was no magic ticket and the people here were more chained than he had ever been.

The streets leading from the station to Leblanc had seen better days. By day, a few honest shopkeepers struggled to keep themselves alive but at night, it became the breeding ground of the parts of Tokyo that no one liked to talk about. Like the thug at the other end of the alley. He looked like Ryuji, if Ryuji was what everyone thought he was. Blonde hair, muscles, scars, the kind of guy who probably thought algebra was the name of a dog breed.

Akira tensed as the thug came closer. He looked Akira up and down, eyes glittering, seeing a boy with glasses and a uniform that was a little too big for him. A mark. A victim.

"Late for you to be out, isn't it kid?"

Akira shrugged. Fighting is our last resort, his sensei had said. Avoid if at all possible. And that was before he had gotten a record. He tried to walk on.

Blondie blocked his path. "Haven't you heard? This is a toll street. Fifty-five hundred yen." He held out a hand "Pay up."

He was being mugged. Unbelievable. "And if I don't have that much?"

"I take it out of your face."

It occurred to Akira, vaguely, that he could kill Blondie, or at least break a few dozen bones before he had time to react. Move at the right time, throw a man the right way, and it didn't matter how small you were. He put his feet apart and brought his right foot forward. It would be as simple as grabbing Blondie's arm, stepping in, bending just so and using his own momentum to send the guy into a wall. And if that wasn't enough, choke him. Sode guruma jime. The last thing his sensei had taught him.

He could see what happened after he left Blondie bloody and unconscious. There was a koban a few blocks away. Police would come. They might believe him, but they might not. The police back home hadn't believed him, even with a shivering, terrified woman standing right there. He'd have to go to juvenile hall, and everything he had done as the Phantom would vanish like smoke. The Phantom. Medjed would perform their little cleanse and Futaba would...

Use your skill, but only when it matters. Only to help others. Not for a lousy fifty-five hundred. He shoved a wad of bills toward Blondie. "There," he spat. "Can I go home now?"

He laughed, an oily sound that made Akira's stomach turn. "Sure, kid. Run along, you soft little coward."

Akira indulged in a last crimson-tinted fantasy of shoving his teeth down his throat, squared his shoulders, and walked away.

Sojiro was long gone by the time Akira reached Leblanc, but Morgana was still awake. He jumped down from the bar and nuzzled Akira's legs. "What's wrong? You look like you've been hit by a truck. You should have been in bed ages ago."

"It's been...a long day." Niijima, Mementos, the mugger, it was all suddenly too much. He sank into the nearest chair. The Phantom, famed or feared by all Tokyo. Standing silent when he should have defended someone and giving money to thugs. Mishima would be mortified. "Do you think I can do any good?"

Morgana tilted his head to one side. "Of course you do good! Kamoshida, Madarame, Kaneshiro..."

"No, I don't mean it like that." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I mean me, personally. Just plain Akira. Something good for someone. Lasting. That doesn't get me arrested. Something to make Tokyo a little more like what I thought it would be."

"Depends on what you thought it would be."

A place of hope. Everything it's supposed to be. A place where people aren't so far up their own ass that petty criminals can just get away with it. Where I can create something. Do something, and not be afraid. "Better than this."

"Oh, Akira. Yeah, you can do good. Isn't that the point of the Phantom Thieves? Changing Japan one heart at a time? And there's lots of ways to change a heart."

"There are? You should have mentioned that before we fought the pink demon with big tongue."

Morgana glared at him. "I didn't mean that kind of heart change. But if you guys were the only way to do it, then nobody would ever feel remorse or want to change their lives." He paused. "The trick is to start small, local. Soothing people's pain and helping them when they want to change themselves. That's the true power. And it's more powerful than a Phantom Thief could ever hope to be."

Akira snorted. "I'm not sure if that was profound or stupid."

Morgana opened his mouth to hiss and stopped. "I think it was a memory. Something someone told me when I was human. Do you think it could be?"

"It could be." One small change. One pain soothed. Akira closed his eyes, and Sae Niijima's face filled his vision. Who was as cold and beautiful as winter. Who wanted him to teach her because it would prove she had a heart. Who had looked for a moment as if she had believed she didn't. He owed her a debt for his apathy, and a gentleman thief always paid his debts. He stood. "Let's go to bed. I have a big day tomorrow."

I feel like I've been exhausting myself for nothing with my rarepair work, so I've returned to Saesuke. This chapter was written back in the summer before I got hit with bronchitis (the irony!). If you enjoy this, please leave a comment. Nothing motivates a writer more.