( he had said “again,” certainly, but had that even been the case? had he ever truly made decisions for himself when he was alive? he lived in the home with a controlling mother with exacting expectations on his education, which had belonged to a cold father who so viewed his younger son’s strangeness as a threat to his position and reputation in academia that “distance” turned to “hate.” much of how he spent his time had been dictated by their demands. his interests and curiosities—which, admittedly, had been morbid in their nature—had been curtailed and controlled. if he had done anything for himself once in his entire life, it had been in summoning J, and he had summoned a demon largely to end it.

and even J hadn’t been able to grant him that wish. here he is, bound to immortal life, bound to the whims and sway of a man who commanded him with the power of his name. if pinocchio told him he wished to be given one so he could be given the care that came with it, makoto would tell him to stop, to run—there is freedom in anonymity, in a nameless obscurity where no one could shackle you to their expectations.

he pauses before answering. ) No. I can’t. ( and his voice is a little more harsh, the edges sharp and cutting, at how the voice had started to answer—it’s a good thing he changed tack, or makoto would be far angrier. ) They make me think I can, but I only make a choice in the decisions they give me. When I try to reject them outright… I get punished.

( “you’re in need of reminding just who it is you belong to now.” )

Even here… it’s not any different. Do you believe you’re free to make decisions for yourself in this place?