MikoMisa Games

The cool spring breeze wove through Index’s silver hair like apparitional fingers, whispering through the strands as she knelt before the gravestone. The name engraved into the stone, Kamijou Touma, stared back at her, unchanging, indifferent, eternal. A photograph rested in its frame, the boy’s ever-earnest smile frozen in time, untouched by the cruel passage of days.

A shuddering sigh escaped her lips as she wrapped her arms around herself, the weight of guilt settling heavier on her soul. It was her fault.

If he hadn’t come looking for her, if she had never existed in his life, maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t have been asking around that night. Maybe Junko would never have found him. Maybe he would still be here.

But she knew, in the pit of her stomach, that it wouldn’t have mattered. If she had asked for help—if she had so much as whispered for him—Touma would have come running. No hesitation, no second thoughts. He would have reached for her, would have offered everything without expecting a single thing in return.

And in the end, that’s exactly what happened.

She squeezed her eyes shut as a silent tear rolled down her cheek. His Imagine Breaker was gone, sacrificed to free her from the chains of the Church. And what had she done to deserve it? What had she done to repay the one who had given up everything for her? God was truly cruel.

Maybe if they knew. Maybe if they knew that his powers were gone, Junko would’ve thought twice. If he still had it, he would have been there with her. That’s why she had to enter that stupid game, to make up for the fact he couldn’t defend himself against a new magical adversary. One that was still out there, lying in wait, only growing in power as she grieved. Him saving her led to her saving him to him saying her. What the hell… Index clutched her head, letting out a muffled cry.

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder.

Index blinked through her tears and looked up, her vision hazy. A familiar figure stood beside her, clad in black—a trench coat draped over her frame, a sweater tucked into sleek leather pants. Shinobu’s expression was unreadable, her dark eyes firm, though something moved in their depths. Around her neck, a pendant caught the dull light of the overcast sky, glinting briefly before settling once more against her chest.

For a moment, Index thought she looked like some wandering vampire hunter, an idea that might have made her laugh once. But now, it only seemed fitting.

She was a wraith in mourning with her own black clothes: a lolita styled dress, gloves, boots—the works.

Shinobu said nothing as she extended her hand. Without thinking, Index took it, letting herself be pulled to her feet. They stood there, quiet, the wind twisting between them.

Then Shinobu reached out and wiped the tear from Index’s cheek.

And just like that, the dam broke.

Her bottom lip trembled, and before she could stop herself, she collapsed against Shinobu’s chest, clutching at the fabric of her coat as sobs wracked her body. Shinobu didn’t speak, didn’t try to offer empty words of comfort. She simply held her there, arms firm, unmoving, steady—an anchor in the storm.

For a long time, they remained the only two souls in the cemetery, bound in grief, in silence, in the fragile thread of companionship that neither had expected, but both needed. At least, in the end, she had a friend, something at all. Someone she wouldn’t let go no matter what.

As the Sun began its slow descent, casting the sky in hues of dying amber, they finally stepped away from the grave. Hands buried in coat pockets, they walked aimlessly, lost in thought, until their path took them past the glass display of an electronics store.

The flickering glow of televisions in the window caught Index’s eye, drawing her gaze to the screen. There, standing stiffly at a podium, was a familiar face—Misaka Mikoto, adjusting her collar with the awkwardness of someone unused to formal settings.

Her opponent stood beside her.

Index’s brows furrowed. Accelerator?

She tilted her head, dumbfounded, glancing at Shinobu, who looked just as incredulous. Since when was Accelerator running for office?

Onscreen, the debate took an expected turn for the worse. The podium behind Accelerator abruptly shattered, kicked forward in a violent display of irritation. Mikoto flinched, her mouth moving in what was surely a heated retort. Accelerator shot back with equal fervor.

What an absolute shitshow.

The appliance store’s employees, in their infinite wisdom, had neglected to turn on subtitles, leaving Index to decipher the chaotic exchange through body language alone.

Then, from the sidelines, another figure stormed onto the stage—Meltdowner.

She inserted herself between them, appearing to exchange words with Mikoto before the two walked off together—Mikoto flipping Accelerator the bird as she disappeared backstage. Accelerator, in turn, muttered something and kicked over a glass bottle on the ground.

Index’s mouth gaped slightly, but truth be told, as bizarre as the scenario was, the sight of familiar faces warmed her heart. Like she still had a connection to the world.

They weren’t the only ones watching.

Saten Ruiko passed by, her gaze lingering on the screen, but there was no spark of amusement, no trace of her usual carefree demeanor. Her face was drawn, weary, lips pressed into a tight line.

Since returning from the games, she had been left with nothing but wounds—some visible, others buried deep where no one could see. Concussions, contusions, torn ligaments, fractured bones. And somehow, amidst all of it, she had managed to contract malaria.

Fucking malaria.

But the physical pain was nothing compared to everything else she had lost. Evicted while she was gone. Cheated out of her winnings. Robbed—twice. Every step forward was met with two steps back, and now, here she was, watching Mikoto’s stupid face on television, clad in a pristine suit, standing at a podium like she belonged there.

It made her sick.

She didn’t know the full story, only that Mikoto had rescued them through violence. If she had played by the rules—if she had won the games—wouldn’t the organizers have supported her? Helped her launder the money? Given her a way out?

But no.

Ruiko pulled her coat tighter, glancing up at the sky. Overcast. The air smelled like rain. Just like the storm of what ifs that loomed heavy over her thoughts. There was no way she would’ve beat a Level 5 in one of those games. Not even a Level 3. She would’ve died, and frankly, maybe that would’ve been better. Every night, she woke up in a cold sweat from the recurring nightmares. Night terrors. What the fuck was the difference? She couldn’t sleep and didn’t feel safe in her own home anymore. Every lingering shadow reminded her of those masks, those goddamned masks…

Maybe it was time to leave.

Academy City had taken everything from her. Why not find an island somewhere, vanish into the quiet?

But the idea of solitude gnawed at her.

She had spent so long fighting, clawing her way through the wreckage, only to look around and realize—

Everyone she had known was either dead, or hated her. Maybe it was time to reconcile with someone. Anyone at all. Just to have a friend again.

A sigh escaped her lips as she pushed through the wooden doors of a restaurant, the bell above jingling softly. She had made a reservation for one.

At the front, Maaya Awatsuki greeted her with a polite smile, gesturing for her to follow. Ruiko forced a smile in return, pretending she wasn’t suffocating under the weight of her own loneliness.

As they passed through the dining area, she unknowingly walked past a window-side table where Shirai Kuroko sat, staring blankly outside, her cheek resting against her palm.

Neither noticed the other.

But maybe, one day, they would.

Maybe, in the slow, meandering paths of fate, the remnants of their friend group would find a way to heal. To console.

Maybe.

Ruiko stepped forward, lost in reverie.

The soft clack of heels on the floor snapped Kuroko from her thoughts.

A figure settled into the seat across from her, clearing her throat.

“Sorry that took so long,” Misaka Worst said, flashing a smile.

“Ah, that’s perfectly fine,” Kuroko said, her voice light, though there was an undercurrent of tension she couldn't quite shake.

The candlelight flickered in delicate patterns, the warm glow casting elongated shadows over the table, over the crisp linen, over the crystalline water glasses that stood untouched between them. The ambiance was refined, almost dreamlike, as if the restaurant itself existed outside the usual rhythm of Academy City's chaos.

“Even the restroom in this place is pretty fancy, jeez,” Worst mused, crossing her legs as she shot a glance at Kuroko.

The woman looked different tonight. Kuroko’s hair, freed from its usual bindings, cascaded in gentle waves over her shoulders, the deep brown locks tinged with auburn where the dim light kissed them. It was unusual, intimate even, to see her like this, and it made Worst’s heart do an uncomfortable little flip in her chest.

“Well, when you have all that money…” Kuroko mused, turning her attention to the gilded edges of the picture frames hanging on the walls, to the ornate carvings of the wooden furniture, to the unapologetic luxury that surrounded them.

Worst tilted her head, her gaze never leaving Kuroko's face. “What would you do if you were rich?”

The question was simple, but it cut through the idle conversation like a knife through satin. Kuroko leaned back, tapping her tongue against the inside of her cheek as she let the thought settle.

“I think…” she began, choosing her words carefully, “I’d put it away for a rainy day.”

Worst blinked, her lips bouncing into a smirk as she clicked her tongue. “My, that’s not the answer I was expecting from my little black child stagehand~.”

Kuroko exhaled through her nose, shaking her head with an amused huff. “Just because my name’s—” She stopped, then sighed, a smile forming at the corners of her lips. “You’re not the first person who’s made that joke.”

“And I won’t be the last~,” Worst declared with an easy confidence, leaning forward slightly. Without warning, she reached out, tapping the tip of Kuroko’s nose with her finger—a brief, playful gesture, but one that sent a ripple through the air between them.

Kuroko froze, forgetting to breathe. The warmth of Worst’s fingertip lingered for a fraction of a second longer than it should have, and suddenly, the world around them felt smaller. Relaxing. More intimate, tethering them together like so many virtual particles at the heart of a proton.

“I noticed you’re not wearing your twin tails today,” Worst mused, her voice shifting—quieter now, almost pensive.

“Ah! Well…” Kuroko hesitated, fingers absently twirling a lock of her hair, which now fell freely down her back. “I wanted to look… prof—mature.”

Worst's smirk widened, mischief glinting in her eyes. “Mmm, just to see little old me?”

Kuroko’s stomach twisted into knots. “Well, I mean…” She trailed off, the words fumbling out of her grasp before she could string them into something articulate.

Worst’s foot brushed against hers under the table, a slow, deliberate motion. “You know,” she whispered, her voice dipped in a dangerously sweet honey, “I really like the way you do your hair normally.”

“Oh! R-really?” Kuroko stammered, pulse quickening.

Worst’s shoe traced a slow, teasing path up the length of Kuroko’s leg, barely a hint of contact, but enough to make her squirm. It was a floaty pressure, an unbearable game of patience, the curve of her arch gliding over Kuroko’s calf, her ankle, back again, until it became impossible to ignore. The soft friction sent tiny sparks skittering up Kuroko’s spine, setting her nerves alight in ways she wasn’t prepared for.

“Mmm,” Worst murmured, the hum of her voice amused. “It’s iconic, y’know?”

Kuroko’s breath stopped. She was already gripping the fabric of her skirt, trying not to shudder as that foot—casual, effortless, daring—continued its torturous ascent.

“R-right…” The words came out unsteady, thin, barely audible over the blood rushing in her ears. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her skin burning with an awareness so intense it was almost dizzying.

“Misaka-san…” She meant to say it as a warning, a plea, anything but the fragile, needy thing it came out as.

“Yes?” Worst leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm, her other fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. She was smiling now, but it wasn’t just teasing—it was outright devious. Those piercing eyes were locked onto Kuroko, watching, waiting, enjoying every little reaction she managed to draw out.

Kuroko’s fingers curled tighter against the hem of her skirt, her nails pressing faint crescents into the fabric.

“Y-you shouldn’t… do that,” she forced out, her arm beginning to tremble as she moved it, a feeble attempt to reclaim control over herself—over this entire situation that was slipping through her grasp like fine sand.

“Oh?” Worst tilted her head, her voice syrupy. She lifted her chin slightly, lashes fluttering just so, a calculated gesture, subtle, and yet utterly devastating. “And why’s that?”

Kuroko gulped, feeling the weight of that gaze pinning her in place. Her mind was a battlefield, logic and impulse waging a war she wasn’t sure she could win. She idly moved her glass from one spot to another, raising it and then dropping it.

“Because…” The syllable stretched, unsteady, heavy with hesitation. She licked her lips, swallowed down the lump forming in her throat. “Of the… twisted and demented thoughts of an impure nature I’ll end up having, which—who knows—I might try to act on them…”

The confession left her in a breathless rush, her voice barely above a whisper, her body betraying her at every turn.

Worst’s foot came to a halt. She studied Kuroko now, the mischief in her expression ebbing into something softer, something unexpectedly patient.

“Kuroko,” she said simply.

The way she said it—so casually, so naturally, so familiar—sent a shock through Kuroko’s chest.

“All of that to say,” Worst continued, her voice quieter now, “you view a very natural and normal part of yourself as obscene.”

“Obscene…” Kuroko echoed, the word sitting heavily on her tongue, foreign yet uncomfortably familiar.

Worst sighed, tilting her head slightly, the smirk fading from her lips. “There’s nothing wrong with liking women,” she said, exhaling as if this entire conversation was the easiest thing in the world. “I know how you look at me, and I know why you always ask me to hang out.”

Kuroko felt like the floor had been ripped out from under her.

“Y-you do!?” The words burst out of her, sheer shock overriding any attempt at composure. Her breath was uneven, her pulse a chaotic drumline.

Worst merely smiled, finally leaning back in her chair. She tapped the base of Kuroko’s glass with her fingernail, a small, deliberate sound that pulled Kuroko’s gaze downward.

“It’s as clear as the water in your glass.”

Kuroko inhaled aggressively, staring at it. Ye gods, it was true. Shock reverberated across her face as her hand covered her gasping mouth. The ice had melted away completely, leaving the water perfectly transparent—undeniable, unavoidable, like the truth hanging between them.

Worst stretched her leg out again, her foot brushing higher this time, trailing slowly up until it met the hem of Kuroko’s skirt.

“You have a thing for Misakas, I get that,” she said, and this time, there was no teasing lilt, no jest—just quiet certainty.

Kuroko’s fingers clenched against the table, her entire body locked in place.

“And I’m just the one that’s down with it.”

The space between them buzzed with a tension so thick it was suffocating. The candlelight wavered, the shadows stretched, the world outside their little pocket of reality dimming to irrelevance.

And Kuroko… Kuroko didn’t know how to breathe.

Kuroko swallowed, her throat dry, her skin burning under the heat of Worst’s gaze. She was trapped—caught between the pressure of the foot teasing at the hem of her skirt and the weight of that knowing smirk, pinned like an insect beneath a magnifying glass.

This wasn’t fair.

Misaka Worst always had that cruel edge to her playfulness, that effortless way of knocking people off balance just to see how they’d stumble. But this? This was… something dangerous.

Kuroko let out a shaky breath, her fingers twitching where they gripped the tablecloth. She should say something—anything—to break the unbearable tension pressing down on her.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Misaka-san,” she finally managed, forcing herself to meet those piercing eyes.

Worst’s smirk widened. “Am I? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like you’re the one about to crack.”

Kuroko stiffened, heat creeping up the back of her neck. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing down the urge to react—to give Worst exactly what she wanted.

But Worst wasn’t done.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she dragged her foot up just an inch higher, the toe of her stocking grazing the sensitive skin of Kuroko’s thigh. A shiver shot up Kuroko’s spine, a betraying tremor running through her body before she could stop it.

She sucked in an abrasive breath, her nails digging crescent moons into her palms.

“Misaka-san,” she tried again, her voice lower, strained.

“Yes, my adorable little police officer?” Worst purred, tilting her head as if she were the picture of innocence.

Kuroko’s teeth clenched.

She was not going to let this woman win.

Summoning every ounce of composure she had left, Kuroko straightened her back and slid her chair back ever so slightly—just enough to break the contact between them. A calculated retreat.

Worst blinked, surprised for the first time that evening.

Kuroko took a moment to relish that, savoring the shift in power before she leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table, her chin atop her knuckles.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” she said quietly, her voice smooth, steady now.

Worst narrowed her eyes, her smirk returning. “Don’t I?”

Kuroko’s lips curved ever so slightly, her own smirk forming as she tilted her head, her gaze half-lidded. “If you did, you wouldn’t need to resort to cheap tricks to get a reaction out of me.”

For the first time that night, it was Worst who was caught off guard.

It was subtle—the way her fingers twitched ever so slightly against her glass, the brief flicker in her eyes as she studied Kuroko more carefully.

Then, just as quickly, her smirk sharpened again.

“Oh? So you’re saying I should try harder?”

Kuroko chuckled softly, feigning a thoughtful look. “No, I’m saying that if you really wanted something from me, you wouldn’t need to play games to get it.”

Silence.

A single second of stillness that stretched longer than it should have.

Then Worst leaned back, exhaling a small, amused breath.

“Hah. Well, well, well… maybe you do have a bit of a spine after all,” she murmured, swirling the last remnants of her drink in her glass.

Kuroko simply smiled, letting the moment settle.

For all of Worst’s bravado, for all her teasing and games, Kuroko had struck something. She didn’t know what, exactly—but she could tell by the way Worst looked at her now.

Worst let the silence linger, her smirk deepening as she watched Kuroko with that same predatory amusement. Then, just as Kuroko was regaining her footing, Worst struck.

“You know,” she mused, tilting her glass just enough for the remaining ice in hers to clink softly. “For someone so quick to retreat, you sure talk a big game. Makes me wonder…” She trailed off, tracing the rim of her glass with a finger before meeting Kuroko’s gaze dead-on.

Kuroko forgot to breathe. She knew that look. Knew that tone. Knew she needed to brace herself.

Worst leaned in, her voice dipping lower, silkier. “What do you think would happen if I were to slip under this table right now?”

Kuroko choked on air.

Her whole body jerked, her knee knocking against the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. She reached for her water—anything to distract from the sheer, plasmic heat that had just detonated in her chest—but her grip fumbled, the glass nearly slipping from her fingers.

Worst laughed.

Low. Husky. Absolutely devastating.

“Oh my, did I hit a nerve?” she teased, chin resting lazily in her palm. “And here I was beginning to think you weren’t so easy to rattle.”

Kuroko tried. She really did. She forced herself to inhale through her nose, willed her heartbeat to slow, ordered the fire in her veins to cool.

It didn’t listen.

Her face was burning, her fingers twitching where they gripped the edge of the table. Worst’s foot was still resting lightly against her leg, a silent reminder of just how little space there was between them.

She had lost. Completely, utterly, humiliatingly lost.

“…I hate you,” Kuroko muttered, voice weak, eyes fixed firmly on the tablecloth.

Worst beamed, triumphant. “I know.”

She finally pulled her foot back, the absence of contact somehow just as intense as the presence of it. Kuroko could finally breathe again, though it came out in a shaky exhale.

Worst stretched her arms above her head, letting out a satisfied hum as she leaned back in her chair. “You know,” she said casually, as if she hadn’t just set Kuroko’s entire world ablaze, “I could actually do it.”

Kuroko’s breath caught in her throat.

Her eyes snapped to Worst’s, searching for any hint of a joke, some sign that she was just teasing her again. But Worst’s gaze was firm, her smirk dangerous.

Kuroko swallowed hard. “D-do what?”

Worst tilted her head, lazily running her tongue over her lower lip. “You know,” she purred, her foot sliding back up Kuroko’s leg, deliberate and slow. “Slip under the table. Right here. Right now.”

Kuroko made a noise—something between a gasp and a strangled whimper—and immediately slapped both hands down on the table, as if the sheer force of her willpower could keep Worst from following through.

Worst chuckled, utterly delighted. “Oh, now that’s a reaction,” she mused, tapping a finger against her chin. “For someone who claims to be a proper lady, you sure have a filthy imagination in public.”

Kuroko felt like she was going to combust. Her face was scorching, her heartbeat running wildly in her chest. “Misaka Worst, you—y-you—!!”

Worst leaned in closer, her breath ghosting against Kuroko’s ear. “I bet you’d like it.”

Kuroko slapped a hand over her mouth, the sheer force of her own reaction nearly making her tip over in her chair.

Worst laughed—low, throaty, absolutely wicked—and began scoot her seat back, as if to get up.

But just as Kuroko was trying to collect herself, willing her heart rate to slow, a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention.

Mitsuari Ayu and Hokaze Junko were making their way toward the exit, their strides elegant and unhurried.

As they passed the table, Mitsuari’s gaze flicked toward Kuroko, taking in the violently blushing, wide-eyed mess she had become. Then to Worst, who was all too pleased with herself, her chin resting in her palm, watching Kuroko squirm like a cat toying with her prey.

Mitsuari’s brow furrowed slightly. Hokaze, ever composed, simply raised an eyebrow before the two women exchanged a glance—wordless, unreadable.

Worst grinned. “So,” she said, casually swirling the ice in her glass. “What’s your answer, little stagehand?”

Then, just as smoothly as they had arrived, they turned away, stepping out into the cool night air.

The restaurant door shut behind them with a quiet thud.

Ayu glanced to the window again to notice Worst had disappeared, as Kuroko seemed to be freaking out. Probably to go to the restroom, she thought.

“Never expected those two to hit it off,” Ayu mused as she slid into the backseat, the leather cool against her legs. The driver shut the door behind her with quiet efficiency before making her way to the front.

Junko followed, moving with effortless grace as she buckled in beside Ayu, the faint scent of lavender trailing her. “Well,” she said, adjusting the strap across her chest, “she is a Misaka.”

“Right…” Ayu murmured, her gaze drifting toward the tinted window. The city outside blurred into streaks of neon and shadow, a kaleidoscope of light playing against the glass.

Despite once being at odds with Shokuhou Misaki, Mitsuari Ayu had, in a strange twist of fate, found herself working under her at the detective firm. It had been a year now, and with her own formidable ability, she had climbed the ranks swiftly, settling into the role of Junko’s trusted right hand.

A sudden thought stirred in her mind, unspoken uncertainties that had been lingering for some time. She turned toward Junko, hesitating for a moment before finally voicing it.

“Do you ever…” she started, fingers fidgeting against her sleeve, “feel weird about things?”

Junko tilted her head, her expression one of serene curiosity. “Weird about… things?”

Ayu exhaled through her nose, frustrated at her own inability to articulate her thoughts properly. “You know. The fact that… uhm.” She gestured vaguely, hoping Junko would interject, save her from floundering. But the older girl simply listened, patient as ever.

Ayu sighed. “That we both went to Tokiwadai.”

Junko blinked. “Is having attended Tokiwadai something to feel weird about?”

“Well, no, but…” Ayu pressed her lips together. “I mean, doesn’t it feel strange working for Shokuhou-san?”

Junko’s brow furrowed, not in discomfort, but in genuine curiosity. “Whatever in the world for?”

Ayu rubbed the back of her neck, glancing away. “I mean, you two… had a thing. Back then. And then there was that whole red pony situation.” She exhaled sharply before turning back to Junko. “And now Misaka-san is here, totally just…”

Junko’s expression remained composed, her eyes calm pools of inquiry. “Totally just?”

Ayu chewed her lip, debating whether to say it. But the words slipped out anyway.

“The Railgun’s railing the Queen!”

A beat of silence.

Junko inhaled, recoiling just slightly, while the driver—despite her best efforts—turned rigid at the wheel, an unmistakable pink creeping up her ears.

Junko cleared her throat, composing herself with practiced ease. “Yes, well… it’s not as if I haven’t always encouraged them.”

Ayu shot her a look of disbelief. “But you two had a thing,” she pressed. “Aren’t you, like… jealous?”

“No.” Junko shook her head, utterly unwavering.

Ayu squinted at her. “Is that your kink or something?” Her expression shifted, scandalized realization dawning. “Are you a cuck, Hokaze Junko?”

Junko nearly choked. “Excuse me!?” She put her hands up, eyes wide with something between horror and exasperation. “Absolutely not!”

“Then?” Ayu challenged, crossing her arms.

Junko sighed and composed herself, glancing out the window as if recalling something distant. “It’s true,” she admitted, voice softer now. “Misaki and I did have… an affair, of sorts, back in high school.” She closed her eyes briefly before continuing. “She had just come to terms with the fact that Kamijou-san wasn’t for her. That she was more interested in women. And, well… things happened.” A wistful pause. “They sure did.”

Ayu sat there, silent for a moment, processing. Her fingers traced idle circles against her palm, uncertain what to say.

Junko turned back to her with a perceptive glint. “But you know,” she continued, “I always thought our beloved Queen would make a rather fitting match for the school’s very own Ace.”

Ayu blinked. “You really think so?”

“There’s nothing quite like a Queen and an Ace, wouldn’t you agree?” Junko’s voice carried a distinct fondness. “A power couple in every sense of the phrase.”

Ayu exhaled, leaning back. “Who needs a King when you have an Ace?”

Junko let out a soft chuckle, pressing a fist into her palm. “Exactly. Now you’re catching on.”

Then, with a tilt of her head, she fixed Ayu with a pointed look. “Besides, Mitsuari-san… didn’t you also have a little crush on the Ace?”

Ayu visibly stiffened.

“Huh!?” she spluttered, nearly tripping over herself despite being buckled in place.

Junko, ever composed, simply watched her with the slow amusement of a dog toying with a particularly clumsy cat. “I seem to recall a certain telepath who was quite smitten,” she mused, crossing her legs with an elegance that only made Ayu more flustered.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ayu shot back, turning away in a futile attempt to hide her growing blush.

Junko tapped a finger against her temple, her expression one that was thoroughly entertained. “What is it about psychic ability users being drawn to Mikoto-san, I wonder?”

Ayu groaned, sinking lower into her seat as the car rolled to a stop.

The driver, who had been doing her absolute best to ignore the entire conversation, swiftly exited to open their doors.

Stepping out, the two women found themselves before a grand yet unassuming structure—no towering neon signs, no ornate embellishments. Just a sleek, minimalist facade that concealed the inner workings of one of Academy City’s most discreet investigative firms.

Ayu sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Another late night, huh?”

Junko glanced at the building, then back at Ayu with half a smirk. “The Queen never sleeps.”

With that, they stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind them.

The office was dimly lit, bathed in the cold glow of computer screens and the occasional light left on in a random room. The scent of old books, fresh coffee, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air—like ozone after a storm, or perhaps the ozone from Mikoto herself.

Junko moved with her usual unhurried elegance, heels tapping softly against the hardwood floor. Ayu, by contrast, stretched her arms over her head with a groan, rolling her shoulders like someone preparing for another shift at a job they both loved and loathed in equal measure.

The moment settled between them, quiet, expectant. Then Junko spoke.

“You know, Mitsuari-san,” she began, the lilt of her voice perfectly measured, “I do sometimes wonder why you’re here.”

Ayu blinked, turning to her. “What do you mean?”

Junko quirked her head slightly, studying Ayu as if she were a particularly interesting case file. “You won, didn’t you?”

Ayu’s stomach twisted. She forced a chuckle, leaning against the desk. “Won what?”

“Oh, let’s not pretend,” Junko said, stepping closer, her presence cool and deliberate. “Everyone got a payout that survived, yourself included.”

Ayu’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move.

Junko smiled—or at least, her lips moved in a way that should have been a smile, but wasn’t. “You walked away with more money than most Level 5s… prior to this, would have ever touched. Enough to disappear, to do anything you want. And yet, here you are. Running errands for the Queen.”

Ayu swallowed hard. “It’s… not like that.”

“No?” Junko’s fingers ghosted over the edge of the desk, as if tracing invisible patterns. “Then what is it like?”

Ayu’s throat was dry. She turned away, running a hand through her hair. “I just—”

Junko leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “Did you think if you surrounded yourself with powerful people, you’d feel less like you cheated?”

Ayu’s fingers curled into her palm.

“Or,” Junko continued, “do you miss it? The tension? The finality?” She raised her head. “The way a choice can carve a person in two?”

Ayu let out a sharp exhale. “You’re being creepy again.”

Junko chuckled. “Am I?”

Ayu turned to face her fully now, her maroon eyes sharp despite the exhaustion behind them. “Yeah.”

Junko held her gaze for a moment, then let out a soft hum, almost amused. “I suppose I do have a habit of getting… invested in interesting people.”

Ayu scowled. “I’m not that interesting.”

Junko’s lips curled slightly. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

Ayu stared at her for a long moment before sighing, rubbing her temples. “I don’t know why I stayed, alright? Maybe it’s because I got used to living on borrowed time. Maybe I just wanted to feel normal for a while.” She crossed her arms, shifting her weight. “Or maybe I figured if I worked here long enough, I’d figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with myself.”

Junko considered this, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with the same effortless grace as always, she turned on her heel. “Well, whatever the reason…” She paused by the doorway, glancing back. “Try not to regret it.”

Ayu blinked. “Regret what?”

Junko’s gaze lingered, her violet eyes looking Ayu up and down, as if to visually taste her. Then, with a soft giggle, she disappeared down the hall, leaving Ayu alone with her thoughts. Somewhere, in some far-off corner of her mind, Ayu wondered if she had already made a mistake.

Junko moved through the office with a measured, rhythmic pace, her heels tapping softly against the polished floor. The weight of Ayu’s words still lounged in her mind, a faint whisper clinging to the edges of her thoughts, but she paid it little mind. Some questions had no answers, and some people were meant to live with ghosts.

She adjusted her gloves as she neared the entrance, preparing to retrieve a file from the records room. Then—

WHAM.

The sound of something—or rather, someone—colliding face-first with the inner glass door shattered the quiet like a champagne flute against marble.

Junko blinked.

Mikoto, Academy City’s beloved Ace, its rising political star, and a woman who was supposed to be dignified if nothing else, peeled her face off the glass with all the grace of a stunned bird.

Her blazer was crooked, her shirt was wrinkled, her tie was loose, and her normally sharp eyes were glassy and unfocused.

Misaki, ever composed even under absurd circumstances, let out a long-suffering sigh and steadied Mikoto with a delicate grip on her shoulders. “Honestly,” she murmured, voice like the brush of a feather,painted with both amusement and irritation, “if the press saw you like this, they’d have an absolute field day. The mayor-to-be, drunk out of her mind, barely capable of standing—oh, the headlines, darling. Disastrous.”

Mikoto groaned, resting her forehead against the door again, as if it could somehow erase her embarrassment. “I am not drunk…”

Junko crossed her arms, watching the spectacle unfold with mild interest. “Oh? Then what do you call this?” She gestured vaguely at Mikoto’s crumpled state.

Mikoto turned to look at her—or at least, in her general direction. She squinted. “The floor,” she declared with great confidence, “is moving.”

Junko sighed. “I see.”

Misaki, ever the tactician, began brushing Mikoto’s hair back into place with slow, deliberate strokes, an indulgent expression on her face. “Mmm, well, this is precisely why you shouldn’t try to match me drink for drink, dearest. You’re simply not built for it.”

Mikoto whinged again, burying her face into Misaki’s shoulder. “I hate you.”

Misaki giggled, utterly unbothered. “Yes, yes, I know, my love.”

Junko glanced between them, arching a delicate brow. “Do I even want to know what happened?”

Misaki sighed dramatically, her nails running soothing circles down Mikoto’s back. “We went out for a few celebratory drinks after today’s debate and rather grueling meeting with some incredibly tedious officials. And, well…” She gestured vaguely at the mess of a woman clinging to her. “One thing led to another, and someone got a bit carried away.”

Mikoto, voice muffled, grumbled, “Not my fault they kept refilling my glass…”

Junko tilted her head. “Yes, because declining wasn’t an option, obviously.”

Misaki smirked, gently prying Mikoto from her embrace and tilting her chin up with a single manicured finger. “What can I say? She’s very suggestible after a few drinks.”

Mikoto scowled—or at least, she tried to. It came out more like a pout. “I swear to gooooood, Misa…”

Junko, entirely done with this scene but unable to fully look away, exhaled through her nose and pinched the bridge of it lightly. “So. Are we planning on putting her somewhere to recover? Or are we just going to let her crash into doors all night?”

Misaki tapped a finger to her lips, feigning deep thought. “Well, if I had my way, I’d simply take her home and tuck her in myself…”

Mikoto let out a strangled noise.

“…And I suppose she can’t exactly work like this,” Misaki continued, the glint in her eyes making it clear she was enjoying every second of this. “So yes, Junko, I suppose you could assist me in getting her to the car.”

Junko stared at her for a moment, then turned to Mikoto. “I’m going to have to touch you to do that, you realize.”

Mikoto, still woozy, waved a hand lazily. “Fine, whatever, sh’ust—just don’t be weird about it.”

Junko smirked, stepping forward and looping an arm under Mikoto’s to help stabilize her. “Oh, sweetheart. If I were going to be weird about it, you’d know.”

Mikoto visibly shivered, though whether from the cold or Junko’s words was up for debate.

With a soft hum, Misaki helped from the other side, and together, they half-dragged, half-guided Mikoto towards the exit. In truth, Misaki knew Junko could easily do it herself, but she didn’t want her to. Whether that was because she wanted to help, or because she was feeling childishly petty about the thought, she couldn’t ascertain.

As the glass doors swung open, the cool night air greeted them, crisp and laced with the scent of distant rain. The city stretched out before them, lights shining, casting long shadows against the pavement.

And just as they stepped outside, Junko’s eyes caught movement at the corner of her vision—

Ayu from across the hall a with the same matching expression of secondhand embarrassment the driver had.

Ayu, who had clearly just finished another argument with herself about why she worked here, met Junko’s gaze and exhaled, rubbing her temples.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” she muttered.

The driver just nodded, already moving to open the car door.

The black sedan hummed as it slipped into the quiet veins of the city, neon reflections sliding across its sleek surface. Inside, the cabin was bathed in dim golden light from the overheads, giving the leather seats a soft, muted glow.

Mikoto slumped against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, her breath leaving fogged half-moons that vanished in seconds. The alcohol still coursed through her, thick and warm, numbing the worst of her embarrassment but leaving behind an annoying, persistent watery feeling in her skull.

Misaki, ever pristine, sat beside her with an amused expression, idly twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger. Across from them, Junko sat with her legs crossed, arms neatly folded, watching them with the distant curiosity of someone witnessing an exotic animal exhibit.

It was Misaki who broke the silence first.

“You really are hopeless, aren’t you, my little shrine maiden~~?” she purred, tilting her head.

Mikoto groaned. “The hell does that even meeeeaaan?”

Misaki let out a soft, musical hum, pleased. “Your name, darling. ‘Miko.’ Written like a proper shrine maiden’s, is it not? And yet here you are, falling from grace so tragically~.”

Mikoto turned her head, eyes still bleary, and scowled at her. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” Misaki said, reaching up to brush a stray lock of auburn hair from Mikoto’s face, “you keep letting me take care of you.”

Junko let out a small cough, but whether it was from amusement or secondhand embarrassment was unclear.

The car swayed gently as it turned a corner, the lights of Academy City casting fleeting patterns on the ceiling.

“Sakura Iro…” Mikoto mumbled, a sibilant trail of static electricity dancing in her hair as she ruffled a hand through it.

“Ah, just like middle school choir…” Junko said with a sigh, closing her eyes.

Misaki leaned back, resting a finger against her cheek, watching Mikoto with that ever-present, content expression. “Now, tell me,” she said, voice softer this time as she ignored her miko’s ‘singing’, “why were you so determined to work tonight? You were running yourself ragged even before the drinks.”

Mikoto exhaled through her nose, gaze unfocused. “Because…” she hesitated.

“Because?” Misaki pressed, her voice coaxing but patient.

Mikoto let her head tip back against the seat, eyes tracing the shadows on the ceiling. “Because of that girl,” she finally admitted. “The one thaat invited meee to the gaaames.”

Misaki’s fingers paused mid-circle in her hair.

Junko blinked, shifting slightly. “You said she found you in the subway that day?”

Mikoto shook her head up and down, slow and deliberate. “Yeah.”

For a moment, only the low purr of the engine filled the silence.

Misaki’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The game of ohajiki.”

Mikoto licked her lips, rubbing her temple as if she could push the memories into place. “She had hair like Kuroko’s. I don’t know ‘er name. I sh’ust don’t. She was the one who ashually handed me thuh invitation.”

“And you think your recruiter knows something mine didn’t, my little detective~?” Misaki rubbed her hands over Mikoto’s hair, landing on her ear, which she felt sensually.

Junko winced before her posture straightened slightly. “It’s possible the recruiters had ranks to them.”

Mikoto nodded, slow and certain, leaning into Misaki’s touch like a dog getting the good stuff.

Misaki studied her for a long moment, a hint of seriousness creeping into her voice. “And you think this mystery girl is really worth looking into?”

Mikoto met her gaze, and despite the fog of alcohol still clinging to her, her voice was steady. “I know she is.”

Misaki sighed, looking out the window as the city lights danced past, her mind already turning in quiet calculation. “Perhaps it might be best to find Seria and interrogate her some.”

Junko, arms still folded, tapped a single gloved finger against her elbow. “I suppose that means we have a new lead.”

Misaki turned back, studying Mikoto as if seeing her in a new light.

“Well then,” she murmured, her like the caress of velvet, “it seems my shrine maiden still has quite the pilgrimage ahead of her~.”

Mikoto huffed, crossing her arms. “Shtop calling me that.”

Misaki smirked. “You know you like it.”

The car rocked gently as it passed over a speed bump, but Mikoto barely registered it. Her limbs felt heavy, her mind clouded, but she knew one thing for certain—she didn’t want to sit alone right now.

Misaki tilted her head, watching with mild amusement as Mikoto, still unbuckled, hesitated for only a second before shifting forward on unsteady limbs. Without a word, she clambered onto Misaki’s lap, tucking herself against the blonde’s thighs like a tired cat claiming its favorite spot.

Misaki’s eyebrows lifted, but the smile that spread across her face was nothing short of indulgent. “Oh my,” she whispered, resting a hand against Mikoto’s head. “No seatbelt and climbing on top of me? You really do love living on the edge, don’t you?”

Mikoto hummed, her forehead pressing against the soft concave curve of Misaki’s stomach. “Only if ish with you,” she mumbled.

Misaki giggled, gently smoothing a hand through Mikoto’s tousled hair. Her fingers carded through the chestnut strands, stroking them in slow, soothing motions. “Mm. You love this,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper. “You always love this.”

Mikoto exhaled, breath warm against Misaki’s collarbone. “…Yeah.”

Misaki blinked, fingers stilling for just a fraction of a second.

Mikoto sighed, pressing in closer. “I love… everything about you, I think.”

Misaki’s lips parted, her heartbeat stumbling over itself. A slow warmth crept up her neck, blooming into a full, genuine blush that colored her cheeks like roses—a rare sight, even for those closest to her.

Junko, seated across from them, suddenly became intensely aware of the fact that she was very much a third wheel. She could only smile in earnest at their happiness.

Misaki’s lips curled, eyes shimmering with something far softer than amusement. “You’re going to make me fall for you all over at this rate, my little shrine maiden,” she murmured, pressing her cheek lightly against Mikoto’s hair.

Mikoto mumbled something incoherent, already half-asleep in the safety of Misaki’s arms.

Junko cleared her throat, pointedly looking out the window. “...I swear, you two are insufferable.”

Misaki only smiled, cradling Mikoto just a little closer, her fingers never stopping their gentle motions. Whatever tomorrow would bring, whatever they found out about the games, it could wait just a little a longer.