Who holds the knife

Next morning, I picked up the topic right where we'd left off.

"Bringing the Munakata down will free people immediately, I won't deny that. But what comes after? The city's prosperity will plummet. Food chains break. Crime spikes. You said yourself the police are just a face. They won't be able to hold anything together."

Everything in me prepared for denial—for excuses and carefully worded justifications. I was ready to push back the moment he did.

Instead—

"Yes. Some districts will tear themselves apart. People will suffer."

Leaning forward—he intertwined his fingers, voice almost eager. "But more people will suffer briefly instead of fewer people suffering forever. And once the Munakata are gone, there will be no puppeteers left at the top."

"What… do you mean? Won't new leaders just rise up one after another?"

"If I die in my last arc, then yes, probably." He shrugged haphazardly. "Even then, the city's current shape will be broken. I consider that a success."

Then he straightened—sharpened. "But let's assume I survive. Let's assume I remain the most powerful force in the city." A spark of excitement crept into his smile. "Do you think I'd seize power and rule it?"

Without waiting, he went on. "I won't. I don't need or want to govern the city. I'll just make sure no one else can."

That… didn't sound as bad as it should have.

So much so that the thought slipped out before I could stop it: "You'd give the citizens the freedom to rule themselves."

He nodded, pleased. "Exactly. People don't need a single ruler, much less someone pulling strings from the shadows. Once the pressure's gone, they'll organize on their own."

"I'll only intervene when someone starts dreaming too big," he added lightly. "Grand plans. Control. A new Munakata family. I won't rule, I'll just prevent others from doing so."

What he was saying sounded… disturbingly competent.

That didn't stop me from pushing back. "And who decides when someone's crossed that line?"

"I do. Someone always has to. The First Munakata didn't start as a tyrant either. By the time anyone realized what she'd become, it was too late."

The plan was flawed. Imperfect.

Which made it believable.

It could work. For a while, at least. Long enough to find something better.

"Where do I fit into this?"

A silent chuckle. "With you helping, everything becomes several grades better. Your illusions are so versatile, every intervention would be easier, cleaner."

Then his shoulders stiffened, excitement giving way to focus. "I won't force you to obey me." His eyes narrowed. "But there is one non-negotiable rule: any time you act in the city, you follow the same principles I do. I'd welcome you as a partner, working side by side. But multiple final decision-makers invite hesitation and collapse."

After a pause, his voice lowered. "Two people can't hold the knife at once. Someone always decides where it cuts."

"So you hold it, and I become your tool."

Not ordered. Not threatened. Just… spared. Protected even.

"It would be almost like being—" My tongue stalled.

"A Munakata? Like Atchan?" He shook his head immediately. "No. If anything, that's exactly why you shouldn't go back. If you try to fix them from the inside, you'll compromise. Delay. Adjust."

"I know the risk, and I'm willing to take it."

"It's not a risk, it's inevitable. You'll either grow impatient and settle for half-measures, or stay stuck forever, convincing yourself patience is wisdom." He looked away—just for a moment. "That's how people like Atchan are made. Afraid of change. Always willing to compromise with authority."

The words hit closer than I wanted to admit—especially when I thought about working under Tomoe.

Still, I couldn't ignore the obvious flaw.

"How is this any different from what you're offering me? You take all the responsibility, you hold the knife, and I stay under you. To me it sounds a lot like the Munakata system."

"I don't care who holds it. It just has to be someone strong enough."

Huh?

That left me without retorts. He'd accept putting someone else in charge of his dream?

A soft smile crossed his face. "If you were the kind of person who wanted that role, I'd step back and support you. But it would take absolute conviction. Dirty hands."

His expression remained patient, undemanding. "I wouldn't force that burden on someone who isn't ready. You're free not to help me, to move on and live your own life."

That line almost made me snicker. I hadn't come this far to take that option now.

"You have until my wounds heal to choose. If you decide against it, I'll finish things myself. A letter with the key to your chains will arrive a few days later."

His eyes met mine, playfully taunting. "You can also try to escape the moment I leave. Your choice." He leaned back, ending the discussion.

It would've been so easy to say yes.

To let him carry the responsibility, the regret, the blood.

He was ready for it.

More than me, undoubtedly.

But no matter how tempting it was—

You should know me well enough to guess what I chose.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Apparently, Kairi had said everything he wanted to by the second day. After that, the next few passed quietly—almost pleasantly.

We talked about irrelevant things. Sports, videogames, anime, books, small daily annoyances… nothing important. Nothing that demanded a stance.

He was… somewhat similar to me.

Not in tastes, exactly. More in the way he'd tried many things once, long ago, before narrowing himself down to a single purpose. Where I scattered myself in every direction just because I could, he'd cut everything away to make room for justice—and revenge.

A questionable purpose, yes. But still admirable, in a way, for the sheer dedication behind it.

We joked about it.

Making light of it was easier.

The days settled into a rhythm. Warm food. Quiet nights. No decisions beyond what to read, what to talk about, when to sleep. Even the chain around my neck faded into the background—not because it was gone, but because it didn't need to be pulled.

That was a problem. I knew it was.

Acknowledging it could wait—just a little—because the break felt too good.

I'd always drifted toward the easy path. The kind where I didn't have to care too deeply, where hardship could be left behind by moving on, where being nice was enough to avoid being real.

By now, you and I both know what that kind of life leads to for me.

What Kairi offered was the same thing—just dressed cleaner.

If I agreed, I wouldn't need to struggle. I wouldn't need to decide where the knife cut, how far I'd go, or which lines I was willing to cross.

I could help without ever deciding.

And in doing so, I'd become exactly what the Munakata were: happy, ignorant—and void. A lesson I didn't need to learn twice.

Yet somewhere along the way, I'd started digging my heels in. Opening my eyes. Confronting reality and standing in it.

When Blake showed me what I was not—and what I might yet be, if I ever chose to stay.