Why exactly did he become a taxi driver after the demise of the metaverse?

Maruki wondered about it himself. The day he had a change of heart seemed cloudy in his memory. His dream shattered into pieces, his guilt weighed so heavily on his shoulders that he thought he would break. In the midst of him grasping for some salvation, he sought the one person he trusted the most—Shibusawa.

Cognitive psience wasn't exactly alien to Shibusawa, considering how many times he talked to the man about all his research developments and problems. Maruki wondered if Shibusawa could have a gist about what exactly happened when he told Shibusawa he needed to atone. He needed to quit being a counselor. Because his conscience wouldn't allow him to continue aiding people with his own distorted vision of life itself.

Still, he couldn't just run away. The Phantom Thieves didn't run away from the problems that stood in their way. He shouldn't either. But unlike the Phantom Thieves, what he needed to do wasn't to fight, but to atone. How, though? The question was debilitating. And Maruki didn't have a sound mind to think it through.

So he drove.

He didn't have a destination. He simply went with the traffic flow of Tokyo. At one point, he realized he had to drive to keep himself occupied from freaking out. When his mind was finally able to process everything that transpired in his life, he noticed he had been driving in circles. His eyes took in the sight of Tokyo, the vast blue sky, and the hustle of the crowd rushing for their scheduled destinations. A mixture of jubilation and despondency served as subtle paintings like breathy caricatures among insouciance, moving like enchanting shoals of fish. Each footstep seemed to be firm yet levitating at the same time.

He used to be part of the crowd not too long ago, drifting like a wisp of cloud in uncertainty. Such a powerless predicament had driven him into distorted cognition. Life would have been so much easier when we had guiding hands dragging us in a direction without the burden of decision making—what and how should we move on after a tragedy. And yet, it was the reason why his desires bloomed from a mere bud in Mementos into a Palace, as it was called by the Phantom Thieves.

His views were distorted. But how was it distorted? What should he do to alleviate this pain he felt crushing his soul?

It was these questions that swirled around his mind as he drove across Shibuya, reaching the Oyamacho suburbs that he rarely went to. The crowd had become more sparse, the expressions warmer and more exuberant than he had seen at the heart of Shibuya. Young men were helping some old ladies to carry paper bags, some elderlies were giving directions to foreigners towards the secluded parts of the town where the trains never touched. There was a young lady with shoulder-length red hair struggling by a stall to pick some boxes into a wheeled cart. It was a kind neighborhood.

Maruki pulled over the roadside, deciding to help the young lady with whatever task she had at hand.

Exiting his car, he locked the vehicle before approaching the said lithe red-haired woman. It wasn't until she turned to face him that Maruki was convinced that fate had a callous way of penalizing him.

"Rumi," he whispered in surprise.

She was still beautiful. Her hair flowed with the wind in a way that wasn't familiar to him, yet the color was still vibrant, still enchanted him. Her eyes flickered in emotion that Maruki couldn't exactly comprehend. Maruki faltered. She didn't recognize him, of course. In her memory, they never met. Her parents died young. She had been in and out of the hospital because of surgeries.

But she took him off guard when her face beamed into a tender smile, a gesture that finally felt familiar to him. "Takuto. It's been a long time."

He smiled back easily, with how contagious her genial expression was. "You recognize me."

"Of course, I do. We were engaged once."

She said it as if it was a memory in passing. As if it was no big deal. It was. She broke down into a catatonic depression, couldn't even function as a normal human being, or even taken care of herself. He noticed how the corner of her lips eased off some lively spirit.

She gained back her memories. Of course, she did. The metaverse was gone—the cognitive manipulation was reversed. The world had gone back to how things were originally supposed to be for everyone. And this was what was supposed to happen between them. She wasn't in his life. He wasn't in hers. And she was striving, living on healthily. She wasn't imprisoned in her ward wilting away in her PTSD.

"You look good." He didn't even notice that he said that out loud until her smile beamed again.

"I do, don't I?" she gestured to herself, looking down to her form and, dare Maruki to say, being proud of it.

"And you grew your hair," his own eyes softened at the loose, soft strands.

Her fingers weaved along the shoulder-length hair almost bashfully. "It was the first thing I wanted to do after the tragedy that made me lose you and my parents."

She didn't lose him. He wanted to scream that. But he held back for their sanity. "I didn't know you like long hair."

"Neither did I," she concurred. "But I was struggling with my therapy. I didn't want to lose against what life had given me. I wanted to fly higher. And that matured me. I became more empathetic, more solicitous. I finally understand how it feels to lose a family. I'm still on therapy, still on medications. But I realized as much as I liked my old self, I love the current me. I discovered a side of me that surpassed myself, that I can truly love."

It didn't occur to him that she would rise beyond the ashes. He wondered if he had underestimated her in that regard. She was strong. And he didn't even realize that. Had he continued with his doctrine, perhaps he had robbed off this newfound self-admiration she discovered. This new Rumi was alien to him, and it dawned on him that he loved the ambitious, passionate Rumi that she liked, and he never knew the Rumi that she herself loved.

"Life is like a game," Rumi pondered, almost to herself than him. "When you passed one level, life will throw you harder enemies. It'll get harder each time you cleared a level until the day we die. I lost everything in that tragedy. But both the pain and happiness shaped me into who I am today. I still need help, and it's okay. I'm proud of what I've become."

She looked back at him, and it nearly took his breath away. Those weren't the lifeless eyes she had when the tragedy strike. They weren't the youthful countenance she had in her younger years either. Those were the eyes hardened and matured through hardships and strong resolve—of determination and pragmatism.

"Each one of us has a destination, a mortal end. How and where exactly is mine? I'd like to take life head-on and find out myself, don't you think?"

Her final words hit him in such clarity that cleared up the foggy path since the past few days. He wished she knew how much of an influence she had in his life—when she was a woman he loved, and even when she was someone he barely recognized.

But neither of them knew each other at this moment. And they both had some self-discovery journey to partake—particularly him.

He glanced at the boxes by her side, jutting his chin towards them. "What are these?"

"Rice," her eyes brightened—and softened—as she looked at them. "They're from the charity. For a few orphanage houses. I was planning to send them out."

"Orphanage? Charity?"

"Yeah. I started to devote part of my time to charity lately. Losing family is hard. If it hurts that much for me, it would have been terrible to the kids. So here I am," she said, fondly pulling the cart closer.

"You're sending them using this cart?"

Rumi shrugged. "They're just a few blocks away."

"I can help you send them over. Let me just load them into the trunk," he offered.

"You don't have to—"

"I insist."

He didn't have to. But he wanted to. Perhaps he needed to. Anything to help him feel useful in societal reform.

Perhaps it was his preconceived biases that stemmed from the trauma on his end, when the height of his happiness was crushed by the unfair rules of the world. Years of research had crossed the boundary of confirmation bias, instead of opening his eyes to look for the truth.

And yet this simple gesture of sending the rice to the orphaned kids made him happy, as if his soul soared freely. This small deed of helping them reach their destination felt more satisfactory than he ever had during his life as a counselor.

Life wasn't only about happiness. It was a myriad of emotions that made people humans. Some would succeed, some would become distorted. Perhaps it wasn't Rumi who needed therapy the most back then—it was him.

He drove back with the eyes clearer than the flowing river. Giving a lift felt liberating. Perhaps, tomorrow, he could pick people up and help them reach their destinations—literally and figuratively. Maybe he could listen to them and give advice between their busy lives; to remind them of how they are capable of taking charge, making choices. Because, sometimes, people had the means to reach their destinations on their own. But at times, they needed that small extra help to reach further beyond—just like how taxis could reach places a little further than trains could. He had almost forgotten why he was so passionate about being a counselor and researcher in the first place; clouded by his own anguish.

Yet here he was. The pain was still there, but he was contented.

As he reached the heart of Shibuya crowded with a sea of people, Maruki realized they looked more like rivers than still painting—never stopping for obstacles but swirling around them. Each of them with different colors, strengths, and individuality.

And he realized that was what made humanity beautiful.