@batteredmettle Liked for a Starter!
He spends more time in Mementos than reality these days. More time in worlds other than his own. It isnāt that he hates his universe, nor has he forsaken it, there is simply nothing binding him there, no one to notice him disappear, and so he disappears.
Itās strange, he thinks, pushing from the Mementos of his world into that which runs beneath another, rarely does Tokyo differ much from his own world, and yet somehow, it feels different, less oppressive. More welcoming simply in the sense that they have never known him and so cannot forget.
Case in point, as he steps from the Metaverse into Reality, there is a soothing way to the feel of this strange foreign-not-foreign place.Ā
Upon exiting the Metaverse, his Phantom Thiefās outfit fades away, giving way to civilian clothing, black jeans, black boots, black blazer worn buttoned up, he is all monochromes, save for the single copper-red lapel pin he wears, a rider wait Foolās tarot card only slightly larger than his thumb nail.
Immediately, his hands tuck into the pockets of his jeans, head turning left and right as he observes for any abnormalities, but no, it is simply Tokyo. It does not need to be anything more.
He disappears into the crowd, ignored by business people and those on day trips.
Quietly, he makes his way towards Inokashira, he comes here often, in his world and in others, funny, leaving his own world just to go to the same old places.
In any case, he makes his way to the lake, swinging himself over the low wooden fence which keeps people from straying too close to the waterās edge and sitting upon it lightly.
The breeze that comes over the lake is nice. And it gives him a moment, facing away from the world, to simply look exhausted, to close his eyes, and simply let it pulse through him, to feel like his very soul may drip, aching, from his bones to spatter to the ground and disappear.
Alas, it does not. He reigns himself in again in time to hear approaching footsteps, something he would usually ignore, but something draws him to turn his head.
The shock of blonde hair is painfully familiar, but he remains still, he neither attempts to draw attention nor does he attempt to hide. What will be will be, if he is approached, it will be so, if he is ignored, well. Heās come to terms with that truth.
