@defective-prince
He didn’t remember much, black.... pain. Lots of pain, that delightfully cruel smile plastered behind his eyes every time he closed them and that loud, agonizing shot that played in slow motion.
They failed.
Akira Kurusu had died.
At least, he thought he had died. By all accounts he should be a rotting corpse in a grave somewhere (hopefully buried, probably not), yet here he was... Slumped against the wall outside of Shibuya station, quietly fumbling over the sight of having earlier seen LeBlanc so.... Empty.
He’d learned the news second hand, through wet newspapers and online tabloids he’d scraped through on a phone battery that was barely scraping by. The Phantom Thieves were dead. All of them, his friends... his family.
Everything was gone and he should not be here.
Yet there was no scar on his forehead and his heart still beat in his chest, Akira Kurusu was very much alive and breathing and every part of him that could process anything simply did not know what to do with that information. It didn’t help that by extension, he was now homeless... The world thought him dead and his phone was dying... He should get inside, out of the rain before he catches a cold on top of it all.
And that was when someone who was dead ran head first into the man who had shot him.
