Chapter Seven: A Dear Moment of Quiet I

I had an uncle who told me one thing: that a man only truly starts living his life when he turned 33. Even though he only started making a presence in my life after my father passed away, I quickly knew what he meant. He meant making money. You could smell the greed coming off of him like the plague. He's dead now too, and I'm sure the lust for money clung to his bones still. Credit must be given where it's due: He did make a lot of money during his lifetime. I was never too sure however he came into his money. He may not have been a self-made man as he claimed, but he certainly carried himself as such.

Did it truly matter?

It all depended on which brother I chose to heed.

That was my uncle. My father was an entirely different man. He never made much money in his life, and even he wouldn't have called himself successful, not the way my uncle believed. To him, the best success in his life was my mother and I; we were the only riches he could ever want in dream or life. He gave himself whole for our sake. Even after my mother passed away, he stayed strong, for me. Cancer killed him. But in between the death of my mother and his own, the only thing he cared about was knowing I would grow up to be a good man, that I would reach whichever height I desired, never at the expense of others.

Never cowardly. Never cruelly.

Days like this, I tell myself the same story over and over - about the two brothers who could never get along, my two teachers. I keep wondering why I begin with my uncle every time. I'm guessing it is because every time I look at myself in a clear surface, I see more of his appearance in my reflection than my father's. I swivel my chair, and all around me I can see the fruits of my uncle's teachings brought into matter. I see the empire I've built. I see wide networks of influence depending on me. I see the promises of a profitable year. I see… success.

But then I look inside of me, and I search for the fruits of my father's teachings… and I'm not sure I see anything at all.

And that kills me. I've hidden away the framed picture of my father and my mother I used to have on that drawer over there because I can't look at it without tearing up.

Am I a good man?

I turned 35 a month ago. I don't know if I'm a good man, and I don't know if I can truly call myself successful. This money… is not what I want. My father knew the true riches – riches that I don't have, riches that I can give, nonetheless. I thought this money could facilitate me to act with honour and justice, and encourage others into doing the same. I've spoken for compassion. And I've devoted my self to and my resources to charity. I've tried to appeal to the better instincts of the masses, out of the belief that mankind is, in its essence, good.

Because, after all, people like my father existed.

Then I saw the fruits of my labour. And I still remember my first thought at seeing what throve despite my efforts. I was naïve to think like that. I was so naïve. Just from remembering, I can hear my uncle snickering. His conviction outlives him. It's like a beetle rustling in the bush. Would that I could pluck it out and crush it in my hand to never have to hear it anymore.

Hatred, ignorance, selfishness, avarice. In my own land and overseas, the men in power worked only to their own profit, and they encouraged others to follow their darkest impulses. Some would call it the base instinct – I know my uncle would.

My uncle, he was still in the wrong, however. There's no better, living, breathing example of it than I. Success – it's still not in my hands. But it will be. Because I still believe that human kind is, at its core, a force for good. But it's easily strayed. It's prone to bouts of weakness and pride. Yet we've intelligence and fortitude. And there's nothing we wouldn't do for the right reasons. Love. Protection. Faith.

And I know this to be a fact.

When I doubted… he came to me. A lean man in a dark suit. I can't think of how he managed to get past security, or how is it his presence felt like thin air. But when I laid eyes on him, all petty concerns disappeared. And only one thing mattered. I needed to know what wanted of me.

He returned my question with silence. Nothing about his face betrayed any emotion. I didn't see the air of superiority one of his position may wear – I saw nothing on my uncle, or my father in him. No intent to ridicule or intimidate. No warmth. Nothing in those shining yellow eyes of him I could place. On hindsight, I'd dare say he might have been friendly.

In the midst of my puzzlement, I felt like I could see through him, like he was a ghost of some kind. But though, I blinked repeatedly, he was still there.

And when he spoke, his voice was like a whispering chill in the dead of winter.

"Look out the window."

So I did. On the months leading up to this moment, something was happening outside, a strange phenomenon that had enraptured the masses of Tokyo. I saw it all as a trifling matter – work had to be done. Nonetheless, I had a cursory awareness of who the Phantom Thieves were and what they did.

Before that day, their business was not my concern. Whatever means they had of "stealing hearts", their identities and their targets – it was the easiest thing for me to dismiss it as a product of the wounded psyche that ails the Japanese society.

But then, like Lazarus himself… the one who led them had seemingly returned from the dead to deliver an ominous promise to one Masayoshi Shido. That man was adored by many. But those with true eyes to see knew him for the putrid sow he was. I knew he would be elected to become Prime Minister, and I felt dread on thinking of the future. The efforts I had invested into protecting the future would turn to damage control for the coming years. And that was the best scenario.

Yet, before my eyes, in the grand screens, the Phantom Thieves, stood tall and ready to prevent Masayoshi Shido's design from coming true. In that moment, I felt something stir in me – something I thought stale and dead. I felt hope. I swear I felt my heart beating along with these youths, and my breath began to escape me. Across my adult life, I can think of no other moment in which I felt more vulnerable.

And this man, he was there to witness it.

I asked him again. What did he want of me?

And he answered: I want the same thing as you.

I asked him. No, I demanded… no, that's not right either. I begged… that he explain himself. What I wanted to hear in that moment were the contents of my heart to reverberate back from the voice of another.

"A righteous world." The man's voice shifted. It was a change beyond his pitch, like he was somebody else entirely. But he appeared to be straining himself to speak, so he said no more on that matter. Truly, he didn't need to.

"Await for my return." He said before vanishing into thin air. I ran from behind my desk to where he stood to confirm what my foolish eyes refused to believe. He was gone now, but he was definitely there.

So, I waited. And as I did so, I observed the deeds, past and ongoing of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts. Whenever they came into thought, it was as if my father was looking at me, smiling.

I'm sorry. Just… give me a moment.

Yes. I waited.

Even as the end of times seemed to be upon us, and our worst nightmares took flesh, I waited with a full heart.

True to his word, the man in black returned after the Phantom Thieves saved us all.

He stood in the middle of my office as the day he first appeared. Eyes glowing as yellow as before. And he told me that the true ordeal was upon us.

And he would need my help.