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The thing about Kurusu is that he’s always in grayscale.


His hair and coat are black, his eyes and sweater are grey, and his skin is an alabaster white. He’s the perfect fit for some old Western film.


He takes his coffee black, because he enjoys the bitterness he says. Goro scoffs at that every time. Nobody enjoys bitter coffee. They tolerate it.


His gloves are always on, that perfect shade of gray to match his clothes.


And his morals, Goro thinks as Kurusu cheerfully blackmails them at the school festival. Some detective.


In his time with Kurusu, he sees tiny flickers of color in him, the red of a bitter and twisted anger, the blue of slumped shoulders and a sad smile, the yellow of visiting a cafe just out of the way.


Inside of Sae’s Palace, all that Goro can think of is how fake the detective seems, every movement perfect, and every word carefully natural.


The white mask that sits on his nose and matches his monochrome schtick doesn’t feel real. His Persona does, but in an odd way. It feels like there’s more to him that Goro isn’t seeing, not with that mask on his face.




“Come, Raoul!”


Kurusu’s movements are wild yet graceful, efficient and cutting. Yet they’re also sloppy and reckless, and he puts up a strong fight, before falling to his knees.


The Red Mask smiles at Goro, his face bursting with the wrong sort of color before he brings the gun in his hand up to his own chin.


Goro shoots it away with his own.

He still dies anyway.


Goro shouldn’t feel so bad about it.