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They lose Violet.
It’s frustrating, but it’s clear there’s nothing more to be done about it. She’s not coming back with them today; Maruki’s ridiculous ultimatum must be abided by. Fine. Whatever.
The next course of action is a bridge they can cross once they’re outside. For now, they beat a swift retreat from the bleached hellhole of a Palace, nursing wounds and grudges alike.
Already the sky is bruising into an early winter evening when they leave the Palace and step back into that lonely sidestreet with its concrete walls and faded, peeling posters. The dry rasp of fallen leaves blown across the gravel is all that punctuates the taut silence, the distant drone of traffic. It’s somehow less depressing than the place they just left.
Goro blinks away the familiar vertigo of passing between realities to look at Akira, whose hands are deep in his pockets, shoulders slouched. His foot taps out a rhythm without a melody onto the ground, the only part of him that moves at all.
“Kurusu-kun.”
He turns to look at him, and the fluorescent light of the Palace towering behind them gleams across his glasses.
“Where are you headed now?” Goro asks.
“Not sure.”
This coming from Akira Kurusu, who plans his every day by the hour and juggles as much on his plate as Goro does—or did, rather. When Goro had a job. When Ren had a team. Now they are both bereft of the proverbial duct-tape holding them together.
“I’m going to Jazz Jin after this,” Goro says before he can think better of itl the moment’s pause betrays the rest of the sentiment for him.
He wants to mentally kick himself for offering. He’s made it quite clear that this, whatever it is between them, is business. And more than that, it’s not his place—he should know better than to encourage him. If he gives an inch, won’t Akira take a mile? Won’t he?
He doesn’t retract the offer though, even as the seconds pass.
Akira tilts his head, and the bright glare drains from his lenses. Something soft comes over his hollow, haunted face.
He smiles. “Alright.”