Shinjiro Aragaki

Within seconds her fiancé managed to leave an acidic taste in his mouth leaving Shinjiro little choice but to punch him square in the jaw to shut him up. The way he suggestively spoke to Haru like she owed him anything more than her signature on their engagement annulment aggravated him beyond words. His knuckles ached, just the way he liked, as he replayed her fiancé fumbling backward yelling threats and obscenities in the air. At least now they were directed at him instead of her. 

She looked up at him begging for answers that never reached her lips. Her eyes were careful and calculating as though analyzing his every move and regurgitating a proper response. She was effortlessly five steps ahead of him, except when it came to matters like this. His nails angrily sank into the palm of his hands, realizing that he had stepped—no, trampled—over carefully set boundaries of status and etiquette. Fury overtook him and despite the fluctuating fervor of his words, she looked as composed as ever.  Her doe-like eyes arrested him. That in itself almost threw him off the edge.There was a brief sense of relief as he saw an intense life possessing her gaze contrasting how complacent and vacant she looked moments before.

“Thank you for your concern, Aragaki-san,” she carefully packaged her words. Despite her assumed inexperience in running a company, diplomacy and grace were embedded into her very bones. He took a step back to set a physical amount of distance between them hoping it would temper his dwindling patience. Haru looked up at him in what seemed to pure awe, naiveté coloring her features as his temperament seemed vague and inexplicable to her. She was a conundrum through and through. She was more mature than any of the others—he knew the moment she contained herself in isolation during her father’s passing—but at times she was just a girl who was vulnerable and afraid of the decisions of the men surrounding her.

How could she let him treat her like that? The way her supposed fiancé leered at her still sent imperishable waves of rage straight to his thick skull. He parted his lips dumbly but struggled to form anything but a wisp of startled air.

“Don’t thank me,” He reproached, exasperation filling his body as the adrenaline from before still thrilled within his veins, “You should be more careful. You’re an heiress ain’t you? Shouldn’t you have people protectin’ you?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone, at least under layers of repressed fondness for her.

“That would imply I have people here I trust.” Her sharp statement contrasted her soft voice.

Her honesty silenced him.

“There are many matters that I can’t rely on people outside of this room.” She looked outside of the large paned windows of her father’s office that overlooked the Okumura building so that Shinjiro could catch her meaning.

Shinjiro finally took a moment to scan the room. His eyes narrowed in on her late father’s name plate still resting on his desk, ready to welcome him back at any moment. Dust collected on the shelves that she didn’t dare touch out of pure sentiment or respect. She thought that maybe in this little way, her father would still have some way of being by her side. There were times she found herself sitting at his desk in isolation away from the prodding of the executives and their manipulative advances and the managers looking up to her with dishonest expectation. It was a difficult dance to play. Haru was well aware of her father’s many flaws, but at times she found herself wishing he was able to impart some of his business acumen to her. She felt at peace here, and what Shinjiro didn’t know was that he was the first person she allowed in her late father’s office—her own safe room.

They lived in completely different worlds. The matter at hand allowed him to temporarily bury the pressing question that always haunted him in the back of his mind—did Mitsuru exist in this lifetime as well?

Even Mitsuru and her seemingly impenetrable ferocity were reduced to just a young girl with a burden too much for one person when faced with a contract of marital agreement. He sneered at the irony of how much Mitsuru sacrificed to save face for her father, when he did nothing in return but push her into the arms of someone who didn’t even deserve to stand in her vivid presence. It rattled him how anyone could see someone as fearless and thrilling as Mitsuru as a mere trinket in their collection of things to feed their greed. And it bothered him more she allowed that to happen. She accepted it, just because of an inexplicable obligation to the Kirijo name and to a vague sense of burden and responsibility. To hell with that bull shit. He was a simple man—maybe too simple—but the ideology of the wealthy was incommunicable to him and to add on to that insurmountable difference of status, Shinjiro had no idea what it meant to have any sense of loyalty to a man you called something as foreign as “your father.”

Even in this life, Shinjiro was born an orphan. The only loyalty he had was to his team and to his own redemption from the past. The word ‘father’ meant nothing to him. Sojiro had given him a warm place to sleep and the freedom to cook, but his generosity was far from fatherhood. But in certain ways, the way Sojiro offered unceasing compassion and love for Futaba challenged Shinjiro’s mindset of the concept.

Merely in terms of circumstance, Haru reminded him of Mitsuru and that realization did nothing to compress his whirlpool of a temper. Despite his observations of Mitsuru’s interactions with her ex-fiancé, he never stepped in between them. There was, of course, the desire to ream Mitsuru’s fiancé, in fact, it never left him, but it wasn’t his place to do that. It was almost an unspoken pact between them. He respected her choices (although that didn’t mean he agreed with them), and she offered him the same regard. Mitsuru offered nothing but an understanding nod when he resigned from SEES after the incident, and he turned a blind eye to her marital arrangement. The difference between the way he compartmentalized his modus operandi around Haru and Mitsuru subdued him. What exactly gave him the permission to disastrously impede on Haru’s engagement when he did nothing more for Mitsuru than keep her at an arm’s length.

Latent realization cooled him down. He didn’t have a place in this intimidating office or an audience with a girl who was dealing with more than he could ever empathize with. Right now, he was acting no better than the patronizing men or her ‘fiancé.’ Reprimanding her, demanding that she needed something that she evaluated for herself as unnecessary, overstepping his boundaries under some false pretense of telling her for her benefit, he was just like the men that caused her distress in the first place. He was a fucking idiot. He groaned, finally sobering down to his usual abstinence.

“Nevermind,” he sighed with perceptible reluctance, an apology forming at the tip of his tongue, “You don’t need this. ‘Specially from someone like me.”  

“Someone like you?” she mimicked, her voice dropping an octave lower, filling the room with the burden he carried over from his past life. Whether or not it was a reality here, he was a murderer in a past life and that guilt still stained his hands.Silence colored the room like dread and what he recalled was uncommunicable forever. She didn’t press him any further. His expression was complex and fearful, and she knew better than anyone not to probe. He would let her know when he was ready, or at least that’s what she found herself unpredictably hoping. He readjusted the beanie on his head, revealing his raw knuckles from the altercation moments ago. God, he could still feel that smug bastard’s jaw cracking beneath his blow.

“You’re hurt,” her tone shifted to undisguised concern and her brows knit together to match.

“I’m fine.” It was absurd how she could think of others moments after experiencing such distress.

“Please, allow me to take a look at it,” she pressed with visible effort, “As a thank you.”

“I didn’t do this for your gratitude.”

“I know,” She quietly laughed as though thoroughly pleased with his answer, and the reason why was inconceivable to him. Her laugh chimed pleasantly throughout the room like a melody. “Then allow me as a friend.”

She carefully motioned for him to take a seat with a gentle probing of how you would treat a wounded animal. Wordlessly, he listened.

——

“Nearly cracking the skull of an heir to an enterprise is quite the felony,” Makoto stated as though reading aloud a case study. In one fluid motion, she took off her peacoat setting it aside on the bar table with one final caress to smooth the surface.

“I’ll take the hit for it,” He said, residual anger singeing the edges of his words, “I ain’t taking anything I did back.”  

“Oh, please don’t misunderstand me,” her composed expression broke as she visibly shifted to a friendlier demeanor, “I’m glad you were there, Aragaki-san. It’s horrible what that man puts her through.” She cleared her throat and re-stacked the already pristine pile of papers before her, “I’ll try to see to it that you aren’t charged. It may be difficult to silence a man with such—,” she paused meaningfully, “Lack of basic principles, but there have been various complaints from his employees of his misconduct in the work place. There’s more than enough for us to keep him just where we want him unless he wants a thorough investigation of his conduct.”

“You can leave that to Aki. This isn’t worth your time.” He set down a cup of coffee before her. Shinjiro’s culinary skills earned Sojiro’s trust which allowed him to use Le Blanc’s best coffee beans for certain customers. Makoto was certainly one of them.

“You’re quite perceptive,” Makoto replied as she smiled into her first sip. She closed her eyes briefly, enjoying the bitter taste of coffee coating her tongue. Setting down her cup, she carefully adjusted her skirt as she repositioned herself on the bar stool. “I believe you’ve only observed my choice of coffee once.”

“It’s a part of the job,” He said mirthlessly, embarrassed at the fact that she was so transparent with her observations.

“And protecting the innocent is mine,” she quipped, smiling as she successfully baited him into her impenetrable argument, “I’m still in training,” she added as she gingerly touched her badge, “but I’ll do my best in assisting Akihiko with this so this never reaches the light of day.”

Shinjiro was far from being a morning person, but it was the only time he could slip away without colliding into Akihiko’s persistent pleas to spar or seeing his reflection in Mitsuru’s watchful gaze. He thought he would slip out the door and be out of sight. Instead, he found himself face to face with her pleasant smile softly illuminated by the warmth of candlelight.

He instinctively looked away from her wink. Honestly, how did she get away with being so careless of how unabashed she was? And how did she even know it was his birthday? He cleared his throat uncomfortably under her expectant look, slightly displeased with the fact that she assumed he would protest her gesture if the cupcake weren’t home made. 

“You shouldn’t have wasted your time on this,” he frowned. Unsure of how his words would be interpreted, he quickly substituted, “On me.”

Cooking felt different now. He used to meticulously hand pick his ingredients to avoid any bruising of fruit or wilted herbs. Past sporadic bursts of inspiration allowed him to discover interesting food pairings—ground coffee beans enhanced the savory flavor of grilled meats while the bitterness of watercress provided a clean aftertaste. There was always something soothing about the rhythmic sound of a freshly sharpened knife hitting methodically against a wooden cutting board. Now, it was the only sound against a deafening silence causing tension with every dull thud. It was metronomic and displeasing to the ear. The precision Shinjiro usually took in prepping his ingredients was quickly cast aside in favor of speed as he tossed a handful of chopped onions into the pot of curry. Sojiro would have his head if he saw how carelessly he was treating his food. With a dull thud, he set down the bowl.

“Eat,” his tone made his monosyllabic response to sound more like an order, but the hoarseness of it made it apparent how little he slept all week.  

Akihiko looked at him—almost through him. His eyes boring holes into his own haggard gaze. Against Le Blancs’ dim, yellow lights, Akihiko’s eyes only looked more sunken.

“It’s curry, and it’s all we have here,” Shinjiro added trying to fill the silence. It was useless trying to make any of this seem normal. He had lived years of another life, one that he wasn’t sure he deserved. And it wasn’t until just this week that memories from his past came inundating his dreams like a haunting melody. At first, it was a daydream here and there, but the weight of those dreams and the vivid detail in them convinced him they were something real. Every dream about his past life felt like days, sometimes months within the span of mere hours. He would wake up in a more taxing state than when he drifted into slumber. Seeing Takaya as one of his last memories, and the three circular scars scattered throughout his abdomen confirmed it. In retrospect, he was foolish to ever think such distinct, symmetrical scars were just birthmarks.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” It was an untimely jab, but despite seeing Akihiko for the first time in years—and confirming his existence in this lifetime—time seemed to stay still in terms of their friendship. And with that friendship came his sardonic responses.

Shinjiro leaned back in an attempt to seem nonchalant. In actuality, it was to keep some distance between him and Akihiko. It was the first time he had seen one of his past teammates in the flesh. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the realness of it all and it was an unadulterated instinct that wanted to protect some part of his sanity with set boundaries between them. The intangible reality of Akihiko sitting before him was as dumbfounded as the expression on Akihiko’s face for the past fifteen minutes. It was unsettling to see and converse with someone he simultaneously didn’t know existed until this week and considered his brother.  

“How can you joke about that,” Akihiko nearly stuttered, his gloved hands combing through his silver hair. With a muted snort, Shinjiro noted Akihiko still wore gloves in this lifetime. “The last time I saw you—,” Akihiko winced. Shinjiro could practically hear the gunshot vibrating in his skull and with it reverberating memories of his past, “You were gone.”

His hand reflexively rose to gingerly touch one of his fatal scars through his sweater. The outlines of Akihiko’s confused, hurt brow instantly aged his seemingly unbreakable will. The vivid fervor of the Akihiko he last knew was gone. It wasn’t until this very moment that he realized how negatively his death impacted him. He looked so broken. Akihiko bore holes into the bowl of curry now coagulating before him. For Akihiko, he was reliving one of his most painful memories as his concept of true reality slipped through his fingers like sand through a sieve. It was a difficult truth to face.

“When did you start to remember?” Shinjiro asked.

“It’s been a few months,” Akihiko squinted, trying to find the answers from deep recesses of his memory and past lifetimes, “At first I thought it was just dreams, but the same people kept showing up in them. Junpei, Yukari, Fuuka, Ken,” Akihiko paused before finally looking back up at Shinjiro, “You, and—“  

“Have you found her yet?” 

Shinjiro looked at the stain of a coffee cup ring on one of the wooden tables, unable to hide the strain of urgency in his eyes. Arguably, she haunted him the most in his dreams. Memories of her piercing gaze and her tight-lipped coquettish smile left him breathless and wide awake in the middle of the night with a sense of longing he didn’t even know he had.

“No.”

Shinjiro’s lips tightened into an indiscernible line.

“You’re the first person I’ve come across all this time.” Akihiko muttered, frustration coating every word, “That’s why I joined the police force. I figured if I was able to patrol the city I would be able to cover more ground. Maybe find the others. I stopped by on an errand only to find you in Yongen-Jaya of all places,” Akihiko swallowed, frustrated that Shinjiro was here all along just under his nose.

“I’ve been warned by Sojiro about the police sniffing around here,” Shinjiro’s eyes narrowed, “What kind of errand were you on?”

“Wakaba Isshiki’s research. I haven’t been able to find out why they’re so desperate to have it, but I can tell it’s something important.”


“Cognitive Psience.” Shinjiro heard Futaba mumble it in her sleep when she was in her unusual comatose state of recharging. Sojiro also begrudgingly mentioned it when he ordered Shinjiro to stay on his toes about possible prosecutors coming in and out of the cafe. He didn’t press on it any further. The barbed way Sojiro spoke about it demanded no further questions.


“Maybe it can help us figure out what the hell we’re doing here or why we’re remembering things about—.” He paused unable to form his experience into words. Akihiko’s expression physically halted, unable to jump from one topic to the next, hell, one life to the next in mere seconds of a conversation with someone he met for the first time and yet knew with his entire soul. Seeing Shinji, a physical, breathing manifestation, was a rushing sense of relief that his sanity was within his grasp. But with that relief came a flurry of open questions with no answers to be found. 

Akihiko couldn’t read the hard lines of Shinjiro’s expression. Was his hesitation and calculated distance between them because he only had a week to cope with what Akihiko had months to digest and comprehend? Or was Akihiko’s presence an unwelcome reminder of a life Shinjiro would have been happy to forget? Was he the only one desperately trying to find the others? 



Was he being left behind in this life as well?

“What would change if we knew?” Shinjiro asked, his question directed toward the air around them rather than Akihiko.

Akihiko’s lips twitched as though ready to bare teeth and bark back ready to challenge and demand why Shinjiro was so latent about their circumstance, but this was a different lifetime and they currently stood in unknown territory.

“I don’t know, but we have to try. Don’t we?” Akihiko’s question reverberated off the walls, echoing into the night. 

Shinjiro wasn’t sure what his intentions were anymore. Sojiro had given him a home and the freedom to cook in Le Blanc’s humble kitchen. He wouldn’t dare cross the boundaries Sojiro crystallized by unlawfully digging up Wakaba’s research. Whatever happens, happens. That was how he lived his life, his scars were proof of that. He wasn’t sure what he wanted given the choice. Peaceful ignorance or the truth? But his cards were already dealt, he couldn’t help but accept that his returning memories were a sign to pursue the truth. It was time to call a spade a spade. He parted his lips to concede only to find Akihiko practically in pieces before him.

“Shinji,” Akihiko’s brows furrowed, his jaw tightly clenched displaying his inner torment. “I didn’t even know if you would remember me.”

Shinji. Just hearing that grounded the interaction into reality. The familiarity of it wrought him speechless, but dwelling on nostalgia and the past wasn’t his style. Yet his body betrayed his natural instinct. Like a magnet, he took a step closer to Akihiko. The noise of the wooden floor creaking against his mass jerked Akihiko’s attention toward him, his expression was fearful and anxious about Shinjiro’s reply. He closed the space between them, his arms now leaning against the bar table seemingly more welcome to an earnest conversation. 

“Eat,” he said, but this time with a gentler tone. He was a man of little words, but if his instinct was right, Akihiko would understand his meaning. Akihiko’s expression washed over with relief as he nodded dumbly, like a child post-reprimand. Without another word, he picked up his spoon and ate with nothing more than a low, satisfied hum to express the taste.

The randomness of her statement was what finally made him turn to her. Her lips delicately curved upwards as though silently and personally pleased that she had caught his attention.