"Does it hurt?"
The cold muzzle of the gun pressed directly against his mangled wound.
"I asked you—does it hurt?"
That voice, the one he could never scrub from his memory, echoed through the dim little room.
"Since you're already a cripple who can't even stand… how about I take the other leg too?"
The stench of blood filled his nostrils. Moonlight poured coldly over the floor slick with red.
The man who could no longer resist gasped for breath like a fish out of water, twitching and writhing in a futile struggle.
Everything overlapped perfectly with the scene before him.
Karasawa gritted his teeth. Pain and rage surged up from the depths of memory. The roof tile beneath his fingers cracked under the force of his grip.
The alert samurai-like shadows all drew their katanas in unison. Maruden Tsujirō, who had just been enjoying the look of suffering on his prey's face, jerked in surprise and turned toward Karasawa's hiding place.
"Someone's there! Who?!"
Karasawa stood up.
He'd been crouched low against the side of the roof, back pressed tight to the wall, just barely out of sight. But now, fully upright, he was exposed to every one of those shadows.
Not that it mattered anymore.
He couldn't focus on the swords, or the danger—they were drowned out by everything flooding his mind.
That suffocating room.
The sound of gunshots and blinding pain.
The blade carving through his flesh—again, and again, and again.
Hunger.
Cold.
The sound of blood dripping onto the floor, louder and louder…
And those looks.
Those eyes by his hospital bed, filled with pity—eyes that wouldn't meet his own. All silently echoing the same word:
"Worthless."
Thump—
His heartbeat roared in his ears.
"Did you really forget it all? The pain, the future stripped from you, denied and discarded… Did you really forget?"
Children's voices, a man's low voice, a woman's clear voice—they spoke all at once, overlapping, overlapping in his mind.
"A fate manipulated. A pride broken. A life destroyed. Haven't you had enough? Or do you want to feel humiliation all over again?"
The pain exploded outward from his chest, consuming his whole body. Karasawa staggered and clutched his head, unable to stifle the cry that escaped his lips.
"Stand. Stand again. Those who don't fight with everything they have… will be devoured by destiny—"
"AAAHHH—!"
Whether from the pain or something deeper, long-buried in his soul, Karasawa let out a roar and reached up, fingers brushing the edge of the mask on his face.
"That's right. Come. Form a contract with me. I am thou, thou art I—"
"With a form that refuses definition, with a presence none can ignore… dance through fate!"
Karasawa grabbed the mask and tore it from his face. The sensation was like ripping flesh from bone. Veins bulged on the back of his hand from the strain.
A shockwave burst from him in all directions. Maruden Tsujirō's shadow lifted a sleeve to block the wind.
Karasawa raised his head. The upper half of his face was covered in blood.
Crimson dripped from his nose and onto his lips. He licked the iron tang off with a slow flick of his tongue. Then came the blue flame—engulfing him completely.
When the fire cleared, the Teitan High uniform was gone.
In its place: a sleek black outfit, a blood-red scarf coiled around his neck. Its trailing ends whipped through the air like a banner.
Behind him, rising from the flames, stood a phantom thief cloaked in darkness.
A skull-faced mask glared out from under a black top hat. A leather-tailored coat flared open behind him, cape billowing wide. The all-black figure looked like a silhouette cut against blinding light, its bone-white mask all the more striking.
Behind the figure, tendrils of inky black fog unfurled, curling around dozens of pure white masks—fox masks, demon masks, Noh masks, faces frozen in tears or grins. Ominous and uncanny.
Karasawa slowly came back to himself. He glanced over his shoulder at his own Persona, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
Seriously? A Cthulhu-core mask? Why couldn't he get something cool like Arsène?
Whatever. He still looked cool as hell.
More importantly, time to run the heist.
"You really are a sadistic freak, aren't you, Mr. Maru?" Karasawa said, looming above the panicked, retreating man. "If not for the law, I bet you'd recreate this whole little scene in real life, wouldn't you? Disgusting."
"Who the hell are you?! What are you doing in my estate?!" Maruden Tsujirō bellowed, face contorted.
"Me?" Karasawa opened his arms wide, scarf fluttering in the wind. "I'm the one who's going to send you to hell. Death would be too easy. You should live. Live long enough to watch your wealth, your reputation, your power—all of it crumble. Rot in prison with nothing but regret."
The shadow of Maruden spat out a string of curses. "Get him! I want him dead! Archers—where are the archers?! FIRE!"
Karasawa beamed, then leapt backward—
And vanished into thin air.
Before combat began, Karasawa had stealthily fumbled for his phone and exited the cognitive world entirely.
Sure, that speech was fire. But he hadn't sent a calling card yet, which meant Maruden's real-world self hadn't become hyper-defensive, and the Treasure wouldn't manifest.
Translation: no boss loot. No instant repentance.
Even on a good day, this stuff took time.
And Karasawa, who had cleared P5 three times, knew the drill.
Still—dropping a badass line and bailing? That never got old.
Just as he was about to strike a heroic pose and laugh—
He looked down. Froze.
Shit.
Why was he still wearing the phantom thief outfit?!
Also, why the hell was he standing outside the Maru estate?!
Panic mode: engaged.
He darted his eyes left and right. No witnesses. Phew.
Focusing hard, he willed his outfit to change back.
His black clothes shimmered—then morphed into his familiar Teitan High uniform.
Thank god.
If he ever had to sneak off after every Palace to change clothes, it would ruin the whole elegant vibe he had going.
As soon as he relaxed, the exhaustion hit him like a truck. Every muscle ached. He staggered a few steps.
So that's what awakening a Persona felt like, huh? Brutal.
He sighed, pulled out his phone, opened a very ordinary map app, and bookmarked the Maru estate's address.
Then, dragging his weary feet, he made his way back to the café.
All the while, he mentally sorted through what he'd just learned about his Persona.
Unlike the P5 protagonist, whose first Persona was the dashing Arsène Lupin, Karasawa's was none other than the infamous thief from Edogawa Rampo:
The Fiend with Twenty Faces.
Weird. But also… kind of inevitable.
The Fiend with Twenty Faces was inspired by Arsène Lupin—designed by Edogawa Rampo as a master of disguise and transformation. The name referred to his ability to assume multiple identities—twenty, supposedly—and his signature move was to send a warning letter before stealing a valuable item.
Sound familiar?
Exactly. Kaito Kid's whole shtick was basically built on this guy and Arsène.
And who was his arch-nemesis?
A classic detective named Akechi Kogorō—yes, the literary ancestor of both Mōri Kogorō and Akechi Goro from P5.
Karasawa groaned and smacked his forehead.
This was getting way too meta.
What was this, fate? Some kind of cosmic joke?
And there was no way that broken-leg-cop trauma-bait in Maruden's Palace was a coincidence.
He wasn't the kind of guy to break that easily—if that scene had really gotten to him, there had to be a reason. Some deliberate trigger.
Yeah, he wasn't buying that it just happened.
Lyon. Get out here. You're catching hands.