Archive of Our Own ^beta

Being one of Madarame’s students was not an easy task. 

Being the living embodiment of his greatest work was even worse. 

Sayuri had spent the better part of the last decade being spoken about like she was a living artwork; compared to the infamous painting that shared her name. It was as though she was an art exhibit. Come one, come all, and see Madarame’s pet student. Doesn’t she look just like the painting? 

It was frustrating. 

The Sayuri was objectively a beautiful painting, but it made the real Sayuri angry, though she didn’t know why. It had been painted for her by Madarame shortly after her mother had passed away to reflect how he imagined Sayuri would have looked as she grew older - a gift for her late mother. The Sayuri was delicate, feminine and quiet. The girl in the painting never shouted or cried or said no; she simply smiled and bit her tongue. 

Sayuri hated that painting, sometimes. 

It was a wonderful gift - something meaningful, an indication that Madarame did love her, despite his harsh words and harsher hands - but she couldn’t shake that decade-old resentment. 

She didn’t want this to be the way people saw her.

A dutiful daughter, and nothing more. 

“Sayuri…?”

Sayuri looked up from her easel. Ann was standing in front of her, posing for the painting. Though Madarame had pushed for a nude work, Sayuri had refused, uncomfortable with the idea, so Ann was clothed. 

Her fingers twitched. She needed this piece to turn out well. She’d refused Madarame a few too many times recently. If she wanted to stay in his good graces, she would need to turn in something exceptional, and soon . 

“What is it?” Sayuri asked. 

“Do you like living here?” Ann asked. “Is Madarame good to you?” 

Sayuri gripped her paintbrush tighter. “I could not ask for a more loving master.” 

Ann’s eyebrows furrowed. She was beautiful, no matter what expression appeared on her face. Sayuri wished she could carry herself as effortlessly as Ann did; could mould herself into femininity like an artist moulding clay. 

There was always something stopping her. Some discomfort or unease. 

Like looking in a mirror and seeing a portrait of someone else staring back at you. 

“You seem scared of him,” Ann said. “You’re not… he isn’t hurting you, is he?” 

Breath stopped in Sayuri’s chest. The wooden handle of her paintbrush began to splinter. “I am fine.” 

I am fine. This is how I’m supposed to feel. This is how everyone feels. That gaping pit in my soul is normal, isn’t it? How else am I supposed to feel? How else am I supposed to be? 

I’m fine. 

I’m fine. 

I’m fine. 

“Sayuri?” Again, that name felt like a knife to the heart. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I told you I’m fine !” Sayuri snapped, both loving and hating how much she sounded like Madarame in that moment. “I’m done. You should go home, Takamaki.” 

Ann nodded, as though she was about to leave. 

Then, the door to the storage closet flew open–

– so many paintings –

– and the world folded in on itself. 

Sayuri had never thought she had so much fire within her heart. Standing over that golden, gaudy imitation of Madarame, she felt powerful. She felt free, for the first time in her life. 

(She felt like a man.)

(She shoved that feeling, along with the guilt and terror, as deep down as she could.) 

There was so much that needed to be done; Sayuri didn’t have time to think about such trivial matters. 

Even if she longed for it. 

Looking at the Sayuri again, knowing it was a portrait of her mother, changed things. It all made so much sense. Why wouldn’t Sayuri have resembled her own mother? Why would Madarame - cruel and derisive as he was - have adored a younger version of Sayuri enough to paint her so beautifully, only to abuse her once she grew?

This painting was not a mentor’s love for a student, but a mother’s love for her child. 

And that revelation changed everything . 

Even so, Sayuri couldn’t bring herself to look at the painting for too long. It brought up painful feelings, ones she could hardly even identify. The same deep dread that settled in her bones wherever people called her Sayuri. 

An understanding of the self was crucial for a painter, and Sayuri knew she still felt… like she was living someone else’s life. 

The rest of the Phantom Thieves had Personas that matched their genders: Joker with Arsene, Mona with Zorro, Skull with Captain Kidd and Panther with Carmen. 

Morgana expressed surprise that Fox had been the one to break that pattern. “Given your life and aesthetic,” he remarked, “I would have expected you to have a more feminine Persona.” 

The atmosphere at the table quickly turned awkward. “I think Goemon’s cool!” Ryuji piped up. “I mean, who cares if your Persona’s a girl or a guy or whatever. As long as you can fight, that’s what matters, right?”

“Yeah! I wouldn’t have cared if Carmen was a guy,” Ann said. “Well… it would have felt a little odd, and I probably wouldn’t have liked it much… but that’s just me! If it doesn’t bother you, you shouldn’t worry about it!” 

Akira, who had been silent until now, levelled Sayuri with a curious look. He probably didn’t mean to spook Sayuri, but he succeeded. “I don’t think… you’re being entirely honest with yourself. Are you?” 

Sayuri hesitated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Leave her alone, Akira!” Ann exclaimed. “You know how hard it is to get used to all of this stuff. She just needs more time.” 

“Yeah, man, that was kinda rude,” Ryuji said. “If Sayuri says she’s a girl, she’s a girl. It’s really not your business if she’s not a ‘traditional woman’ or whatever.” Turning to Morgana, he added, “You gotta lay off her too, Morgana!” 

Morgana flicked his tail. “I was just surprised, that’s all…” 

Sayuri lay awake that night, trying to figure out the right question to ask Goemon. 

If you’re a man, does that mean I want to be one too? 

If you’re a man, does that mean I hate being a woman?

If you’re a man, does that mean I’ve been one my whole life and I didn’t even realise? 

Does this change everything? 

She slept poorly that night.

Their trip to Mementos had given Sayuri an idea for a painting. 

Desire. 

What a filthy word. There was nothing positive about Desire. It was disgusting, to want more than you were given. More money. More love. More attention. 

A gender that doesn’t belong to you. 

Sayuri threw paint at her canvas until every inch was covered, but it still wasn’t enough. She wanted more. 

Desire had never done her any good.

More paint. A bigger canvas. That would fix things. 

If she poured more of her desire onto the canvas, maybe the desire would leave her. Maybe this painting would fill the hole in her heart. 

Somewhere deep in her mind, Goemon tried to reach out, but Sayuri shoved him away. 

This was all his fault, anyway. 

“Your artwork has taken a dark turn, Kitagawa.” Sayuri’s teacher flipped through her sketchbook. Recently, she had started drawing female forms for every practice she could, but then she would paint over different parts of the body until they were unrecognisable, until you couldn’t tell if it had been a man or a woman to begin with. “Is everything okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Sayuri replied, and it almost didn’t feel like a lie.

Sayuri cut her hair in the communal bathroom in the Kosei dorms. 

She wasn’t really sure why she did it. Her long, dark hair had always bothered her. She wanted it gone. 

So, she took a pair of scissors from her pencil case, brought it to the bathroom and hacked at her hair until it looked right. Himawari, one of the other girls living in the dorms, came into the bathroom, saw Sayuri - saw her hair in the sink - and screamed like she’d just found a dead body.

When her teachers asked why she cut her hair, Sayuri simply shook her head. She didn’t know why she did it. 

Goemon disappeared.

One day, he was there, and the next he was gone. 

Well, not quite gone. It was as though there was a layer of fog between them. Goemon was still visible through the fog, but Sayuri couldn’t reach him. 

Did she even want to reach him? Goemon was representative of the very anxiety that had been ruining her life since the start. Maybe it would have been better to leave him behind. 

Except… she was useless to the Phantom Thieves without Goemon. Despite those terrible feelings she couldn’t shake, Sayuri believed in the Phantom Thieves’ cause, appreciated what they’d done for her and so many others.

She was honored to have worked with them. It was enjoyable while it lasted, but nothing so good ever lasted. Not for her. 

Before she even knew what she was doing, Sayuri had stolen out of the Kosei dorms, making her way into Mementos.

She would find Goemon or die trying. 

There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else here. 

Especially not Fox’s Shadow Self. 

It made some sense. They’d met Oracle’s Shadow Self less than two months ago. If terrible people like Madarame could have Shadow Selves, it stood to reason that those who were merely bad, like Fox, could as well. 

“What darkness in my heart do you represent?” Fox asked, weapon drawn.

Their Shadow Self blinked slowly. “You misunderstand, Fox. There is no corruption in your heart. Merely distortion, pain and denial.”

(Akira’s voice rang through Fox’s ears.)

(I don’t think… you’re being entirely honest with yourself .)

“Why should I listen to you?” Fox spat.

“Who else would you listen to? If you didn’t want to listen to me, you would not have come.”

Fox didn’t know what to say. 

“You are not Sensei’s daughter. You are not required to be Sensei’s daughter. You have known that for some time, haven’t you?” 

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” Fox admitted. “I don’t know if I can be anything else.”

“You have no idea what you are capable of, ” Fox’s Shadow Self said. “ Be honest with yourself. Be true about yourself. Most of all, be kind to yourself. The rest will come with time.”

Footsteps echoed in the twisting halls of Mementos. 

“They wouldn't like me, if they knew about this,” Fox whispered. 

Their Shadow Self merely smiled. “You were misguided about your friends’ intents with Sensei until he called you chattel to your face. Can you truly be so sure of how anyone will feel?” 

“No,” Fox answered, “but that only scares me more.”

Before Fox could continue, Joker and Oracle rounded the corner.

Joker lunged forward, and Fox thought for a second that he was about to hurt her-him-them for going to the Metaverse alone, but instead, he threw himself between Fox and his Shadow Self. 

“Get away from her!” Joker shouted, dagger drawn. 

“You misunderstand my intentions, ” Fox’s Shadow Self said. “ I meant him no harm.” 

“Him…?!” Oracle repeated, eyes growing wide. 

“You should ask Fox to explain, ” the Shadow Self simply responded. “ You are his trusted friend, after all.”

With that, he reverted back to Goemon and returned to Fox’s heart. Relief washing over him, Fox fell to his knees, sobbing. 

“You were right,” he said, looking at Joker. “I was lying to myself.” 

Joker crouched down next to him. “I know…”

“I can see clearly now,” Fox continued. “For the first time in my life, I think I understand.”

Over a decade and a half of pain was wrapped up into one moment of relief, as Fox cried into Joker and Oracle’s arms.

The matter of a new name was a tricky one. After so long living under the shadow of a name chosen for him by Madarame, the idea of having a new name chosen especially for himself was appealing, but choosing that name was not easy.

“You can take your time, thinking of a name,” Akira had said. “There’s no rush.”

“Yeah! I mean, we can just call you Inari until you figure it out,” Futaba added, her tone jovial.

“Or we could just call you Kitagawa,” Ryuji added. “It’d be kinda weird, since we’re friends, but you know… better than nothing, right?” 

“Whatever you want,” Ann said. “We’ll support you, right, guys?” 

Makoto nodded. “You shouldn’t rush on our account, of course.” 

Haru smiled a little. Yusuke wondered why said smile had a bit of unease in it. “Yes, you should do what makes you happy!”

It took a lot of thought, but he eventually landed on a name. 

Yusuke. 

The name was perfect. Strong, masculine and rolled off the tongue. It was a name he could see himself in. 

Yusuke had risen from what was left of Madarame’s machinations.

Hmmm…

That wasn’t a bad idea for a composition. Yusuke reached for his sketchbook, his mind suddenly full of new ideas. 

Desire and Hope had been finished first, but The Ascension of the Artist would always be one of Yusuke’s most well-known works. It was a simple piece - a solitary figure ripping its way through a canvas to take flight - but it never failed to captivate people. 

During gallery showings, Yusuke liked to linger near to that painting, to watch the way people looked at it with awe, sorrow or excitement. He’d always loved to watch people. 

Now, he had someone to people-watch with.

Akira stepped over, holding two glasses of lemonade, and offered one to Yusuke. “Something on your mind?” 

“I was simply thinking… how happy I am that I met you, and the rest of our friends,” Yusuke said, looking out across the gallery full of people there to see his work.

His work. With his name .

Not Madarame’s. 

“I don’t know where I would be right now, if I had met you all,” Yusuke admitted. “I don’t like the thought…” 

“You’re happy now, right?” Akira said. “Never hurts to hear it from your mouth.”

Yusuke smiled, taking a sip of his lemonade. “ Happy doesn’t begin to describe how I feel.”

There was a certain joy in becoming yourself.