Psycho Pass: Redemption (UPDATING)

21 (UPDATED)

Seated on the plush leather couch, Touma immersed himself in the ambient allure of the nightclub. The electronic beats reverberated through the air, synchronizing with the pulsating hues of black and violet that enveloped the space. He took a sip of wine, trying to anchor himself in the present, amidst the whispers of an online forum dissecting Altoromagi Abele's murder.

"It's a tragedy what happened to that man," remarked the woman beside him, her voice slicing through the pulsating ambiance. "I hope the police catch the culprit soon."

Touma shifted his attention, lowering his phone and glass, his gaze narrowing as it meticulously traversed the lines of her figure. Her attire, a harmonious blend of simplicity and allure, caught his eye—a knee-length skirt and a tastefully fitted blouse, the soft pastel hues complementing the vibrant atmosphere. His scrutiny lingered on her expressive brown eyes and the straight, black curtain of hair that framed her face with sophistication.

"What?" A fleeting smile played on her lips as she rose, striding confidently toward him. "Don't shoot me that look."

"What look?" Touma dismissed her comment with a nonchalant wave, placing his phone and glass on the petite table nestled between the couches.

The woman gracefully seated herself on his lap, leaning in, her hands resting delicately on his shoulders. Touma mirrored the gesture, placing a hand on the nape of her neck, his expression briefly tinged with curiosity. Her fingers glided down his chest, tracing the contours beneath his dark red dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows and open at the neck, revealing the well-defined lines of his slim physique.

The air was infused with an alluring mix of fragrances; she exuded a delicate perfume, leaving a trail of sweet floral notes that complemented the vibrant atmosphere. However, a subtle undercurrent of alcohol lingered in the air, a testament to the wine they had both been enjoying.

Lost in thought, Touma's fingers brushed unconsciously against the tips of her black hair. The strands carried a familiar weight, awakening a cascade of memories that danced at the edge of his consciousness—a silent echo of something concealed, yet profoundly significant.

Her fingers traced an absent-minded pattern on Touma's chest as she studied his contemplative expression. In the dim glow of the nightclub's ambient lights, the elegance in her movements became more pronounced. "You've got that look again, Kouzaburou. The one that says there's more on your mind than meets the eye."

Touma's demeanor remained tranquil, his eyes betraying a depth of thoughts. "What do you mean?"

A wisp of her fragrant perfume lingered in the air as she leaned in, her gaze unwavering. "You haven't asked any girl to dance by sitting alone, looking at a picture, and sipping wine, like an old man remembering the world before Sibyl."

Touma's response resonated with calm intensity. "Silence, as a way to disconnect from this world, is increasingly scarce."

"I hate silence. Who likes uncomfortable silences?"

Recalling the panoramic view of Tokyo's skyscrapers from his apartment, Touma let a fleeting memory cross his mind. However, it was not this view or his expansive living space that diverted his gaze from the woman before him; it was the image of another, younger woman seated on the sofa in his apartment.

Many times, when they were together, they spoke little and almost never about themselves. It was not a silence of anger but of a delicate understanding too profound for words. They walked for hours without a fixed destination, and Touma could not recall what phrases had been exchanged. It felt as if they never spoke. The serenity they shared was their medium of communication.

Sometimes he paused, observing her way of walking, turning her head, or leaning on a railing. He noticed the way she stood with her head held high, a posture of strength, effortlessly maintained energy—a moment that gave her body the structural sharpness of the skyscrapers in front of her. Touma was not looking at her; he was contemplating something larger than her—himself.