Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He woke with a start, his breath ragged and chest heaving, the cold sweat on his skin clinging like a second layer. His pulse thundered in his ears, but it wasn’t fear that gripped him—it was fury. Raw, blistering anger that didn’t feel entirely his own. It clawed at the edges of his mind, a shadowy presence testing the boundaries of its cage.

This was becoming routine, these nights stolen from him by sudden surges of rage, unbidden yet familiar. He’d tried to reason it away, dismiss it as stress, maybe even a side effect of the life he led. But deep down, he knew better.

It was that thing.

The thing he’s tried lock away, to ignore, to suppress at all costs. The thing that was supposed to remain sealed and forgotten but had found him anyway. A presence tethered to him like a parasite, seething with wrath and hunger. Most days, it stayed silent, slumbering deep within the dark corners of his being. But there were moments—moments like this—when it stirred.

Tonight, it was restless.

He sat up, running a trembling hand through damp hair, his jaw tight as he tried to steady his breathing. He’d spent years convincing himself he was in control, that he could keep it caged. But the cracks in the gate were growing wider.

And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold it back.

He hadn’t struggled like this since he was sixteen. Back then, the nights were relentless, and his days were a haze of exhaustion and barely contained rage. It had taken everything in him to wrest control, to bury that thing deep enough to reclaim some semblance of a life.

Then, Dazai, with his calm demeanor and that uncanny nullifying ability, had become his anchor. The mere presence of his partner had smothered the thing’s influence, like a steady hand over a flame. With Dazai around, the dark presence felt distant, muted, as though it had been shoved into the farthest recesses of Chuuya's soul. For years, it was manageable.

Until Dazai left.

Now it was back, clawing at him, sharper and more vicious than ever.

Chuuya's jaw tightened as he rose from the edge of the bed, pacing the room. The cold sweat clinging to his skin did nothing to cool the heat boiling beneath it. It was calling to him again. It—that cursed thing—pressing against the barrier that Dazai's absence had weakened.

“Damn it, Dazai,” he hissed under his breath, his fists clenching.

He had no idea why Dazai had defected, nor where he’d gone. The betrayal had left him and the organization reeling. But more than the pain of abandonment, Chuuya was haunted by something worse: without Dazai, he was vulnerable. The thing inside him, full of wrath and malice, whispered constantly now, tempting him. It promised him strength. Power. Revenge. He could feel it twisting through his veins, its voice coiled like smoke in his mind.

Unleash me, it seemed to say. You’ll never have to fear anything again.

But he knew better than to trust it.

Chuuya leaned heavily against the wall, his breathing uneven, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He had sworn to keep this thing locked away, no matter what it cost him. But Dazai had taken the key with him when he left, and Chuuya was starting to doubt he could hold the gate shut on his own.

The real question gnawed at him now, more than the rage or the whispers. Had Dazai known what would happen to him when he walked away?

Dazai knew. He had to know. Chuuya sank to his knees, his hands pressing against his temples as the dark presence swirled, relentless and oppressive. It wasn’t just that Dazai had abandoned the organization. He had abandoned him. And Dazai, more than anyone else, understood what that meant.

If he let the thing out—if he so much as slipped for a moment—and Dazai wasn’t there to nullify its power, Chuuya wouldn’t survive. The thing wasn’t just a part of him; it was a parasite, feeding on his very existence. It would devour him from the inside out the moment it escaped. Dazai had been his lifeline. His safeguard. For years, Chuuya had relied on his former partner’s steady presence to keep the creature subdued. It was probably why they had been paired in the first place—Dazai's nullifying ability was the only thing that could suppress the thing’s influence entirely. Without him, it was like trying to hold back a flood with nothing but his bare hands.

And yet Dazai had left anyway. “He knew,” Chuuya whispered, his voice trembling with equal parts fury and despair. “He knew what would happen.”

His mind churned with the memory of their last conversation, just days before Dazai vanished. The warning in his partner’s voice, the unusual hesitation in his words—Chuuya hadn’t understood it at the time. “You can handle it now,” Dazai had said, though his tone was anything but confident. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Stronger? Of course Chuuya was strong—he wasn’t the best martial artist in the Port Mafia for nothing. Dazai knew that as well, so why even bring it up? Either way, the cracks in Chuuya's control were spreading faster than he could patch them.

The whispers grew louder, more insistent, filling his mind with promises and threats.

He left you to die, the thing murmured, its voice smooth and venomous. Why fight me when I’m the only one still here?

“Shut up,” Chuuya growled, slamming his fist into the floor. But the thing only laughed, a low, rumbling sound that reverberated through his skull.

You’re nothing without him. You’ve always been nothing without him.

The anger flared again, hot and consuming. This time, it wasn’t directed at the presence inside him. It was aimed squarely at Dazai.

He refused to chase after Dazai. Dazai had betrayed the organization. Worse, he had betrayed him. There was no forgiving that. No understanding it.

The anger surged again, hot and suffocating, coursing through his veins like liquid fire. His limbs felt heavy and numb, trembling as the thing inside him clawed closer to the surface, feeding on his rage.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head violently. He couldn’t let it take hold. Not now. Not ever.

Before he could spiral any further, he sprang to his feet, almost stumbling as his body fought against him. The room blurred in his vision as he darted toward the nearby dresser, yanking open the top drawer with frantic hands. He dug through the clutter, tossing aside old notebooks, spare gloves, and tangled wires until his fingers brushed against the familiar shape.

The overhead headphones.

He snatched them up, the cord trailing behind, and grabbed the small, battered MP3 player they were attached to. His fingers trembled as he flipped the switch, the screen flickering to life with a soft glow. The playlist was already queued up—his fallback, his escape.

With a sharp inhale, he jammed the headphones over his ears and hit play.

The music exploded into his skull, drowning out the whispers, the anger, the thing. A wall of sound enveloped him, shielding him from the relentless storm within. He didn’t care what song it was; he just needed it loud.

His knees buckled, and he slid down to the floor, his back pressed against the dresser. His breath was shallow, his chest heaving as he clung to the music like a lifeline. He closed his eyes, letting the melody seep into every corner of his mind, wrapping around the places where the thing had begun to creep.

The anger didn’t vanish. It never did. But the music muffled it, softened its edges, kept it from consuming him completely.

For now, it was enough.

He stayed like that, sitting on the cold floor with his eyes shut tight, as the song filled the void Dazai had left behind.

The whispers faded first, like a distant echo dissolving into nothingness. Then, gradually, the anger began to retreat, uncoiling from his chest and limbs. It left him feeling hollow but lighter, as though a crushing weight had finally lifted.

The music had done its job.

For a long moment, Chuuya stayed where he was, slumped against the dresser, his headphones clamped tight over his ears. His breathing slowed, no longer ragged, and his trembling hands stilled in his lap. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy now, the adrenaline draining from his body as exhaustion crept in to take its place.

Reluctantly, he forced himself to move. His limbs felt stiff as he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled back toward the bed. He pulled the headphones off for a moment, switching the playlist on his MP3 player to something softer—gentle piano melodies, faint guitar strums, anything that would ease him into sleep.

Sliding under the covers, he settled back against the pillows, the music still playing quietly in his ears. He focused on the steady rhythm of his breathing, counting each inhale and exhale as the soothing notes wrapped around him like a blanket.

The thing inside him remained silent now, no longer scratching at the edges of his mind. For the first time in what felt like hours, his thoughts were his own.

And just like that, sleep claimed him once more.

Chapter Text

The shrill ring of his analog alarm clock jolted Chuuya awake, its tinny buzz blending seamlessly into the static-laden voice of the radio announcer. He groaned, slapping the clock until it went silent, though the radio continued to drone on with its grim report.

“...thefts reported across three districts... another murder downtown under investigation... and a bomb threat at the port has forced authorities to evacuate the area…”

Chuuya let out a dry, humorless laugh. Just another Thursday in Yokohama, he thought.

He loved his city. He always had. Yokohama was his home, with its sprawling streets, its bustling harbor, its towering skyline that gleamed against the murky waters below. It was alive in a way no other place could be, pulsing with an energy that was equal parts inspiring and ruthless.

But lately, it was hard to sympathize with it.

He glanced toward the clock, the glowing red digits glaring back at him. 7:00 a.m. Another sleepless night followed by another long day. He pulled off the headphones still hanging around his neck, the faint buzz of his MP3 player reminding him of the soft music he’d fallen asleep to.

The anger from last night had dulled into a low hum, distant but not forgotten. The thing inside him wasn’t stirring yet, but it was there, lurking, always waiting.

It was getting harder every day to get out of bed. The weight in his chest seemed heavier each morning, like gravity itself had doubled just to spite him. But Chuuya wouldn’t give Dazai—or anyone—the satisfaction of seeing him fail. Not even in something as small as getting out of bed.

With a low grunt, He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled orange hair as he stood. His legs felt sluggish, his head pounding faintly from yet another restless night, but he pushed forward anyway. He trudged to the bathroom, flipping the switch to flood the room with harsh fluorescent light.

He leaned over the sink, gripping its edges tightly as he stared at his reflection. The dark circles under his eyes were worse today, his skin pale and drawn. He sighed and turned the faucet, splashing his face with cold water. The icy sting jolted him slightly, just enough to shake off the lingering haze of sleep and frustration.

Satisfied, he grabbed a towel to dry his face and shuffled to the kitchen. The ritual of making coffee was one of the few things he looked forward to in an otherwise restless existence.

He reached for the pour-over kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove. While it heated, he measured out the coffee grounds, each movement deliberate and steady. By the time the water boiled, he had already placed the filter and grounds into the dripper, ready to begin.

The slow pour of water over the grounds filled the air with the rich, earthy aroma of coffee. It was one of the few moments he could actually let himself breathe. He watched as the dark liquid dripped steadily into his mug, the simple, repetitive process grounding him in the present.

But the coffee wasn’t complete. It rarely was these days.

Chuuya set the mug down and walked to the other room, where the liquor cabinet stood like an old friend with bad advice. Pulling the door open, he scanned the bottles, fingers brushing past the labels until he found what he was looking for—a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

The amber liquid swirled in the glass as he carried it back to the kitchen. He uncapped the bottle with practiced ease, pouring a generous amount into his coffee mug. The rich aroma of the whiskey mingled with the bitterness of the coffee, creating a scent that was both comforting and sharp.

He raised the mug to his lips and took a slow sip, the burn of the whiskey cutting through the warmth of the coffee and settling heavily in his chest. It wasn’t the healthiest way to start the morning, but Chuuya wasn’t aiming for healthy. He just needed to feel something—or better said, to feel less of everything else.

Leaning against the counter, he stared out the window at the gray morning sky. The city below was waking up, its noise and chaos rising steadily like a tide.

If Yokohama had taught him anything, it was that you didn’t wait around for someone to save you. You got up, you fought back, and you survived.

The whiskey dulled the edges of his thoughts, made the memories of Dazai’s departure feel slightly more distant, less raw. But only slightly.

“Another day,” he muttered to himself, lifting the mug in a mock toast to no one in particular.

Chuuya scowled and downed the rest of his drink, the bitterness of the coffee and the sharp burn of the whiskey hitting him all at once. He slammed the mug down on the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen.

He rinsed the mug and set it aside, shaking off the lingering weight of his thoughts. Today wasn’t going to fix itself, and neither was he.

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, before sighing and heading to his bedroom to get dressed.

The room was dimly lit, the morning light filtering through half-closed blinds. He walked over to the chair where he’d laid out his clothes the night before—a crisp white shirt, a neatly pressed gray vest, a black ribbon bolo tie, and a cropped black jacket resting on the back of the chair. His gloves sat atop the pile, next to a simple black choker.

He pulled on the shirt first, buttoning it up with deliberate precision, each movement steady and methodical. The gray vest came next, its snug fit giving him a sense of structure amidst the chaos of his thoughts. He tied the black ribbon bolo around his neck, carefully adjusting the soft loops of the bow until it sat perfectly centered.

Then, his eyes fell on the choker.

Reaching out, he paused for a moment when his fingers brushed against the smooth black fabric. He recoiled slightly, as if the memory attached to it had burned him. It had been a gift. Back then, it was given with meaning, partly as a tasteless joke, but with meaning nonetheless.

He exhaled sharply and picked it up again, his grip firmer this time. It had become a habit to wear it, and habits were hard to break. Besides, it wasn’t about him anymore—it was about routine, about keeping up the façade. He clasped it around his neck, the fabric light yet present, almost like a ghost he couldn’t quite shake.

Finally, he turned to the gloves.

The leather was well-worn but meticulously cared for, soft yet strong. He slid them on one by one, his fingers finding their place as if the gloves were an extension of his body. He flexed his hands, listening to the faint creak of the leather. They were snug, perfect, just as they always were.

He grabbed the cropped black jacket from the back of the chair and swung it over his shoulders.

The last touch rested on the dresser—his hat. He picked it up, brushing off an invisible speck of dust before placing it carefully on his head. Tilting it slightly forward, he gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror. The reflection stared back: sharp, composed, and unyielding. Exactly how he needed to be.

Satisfied, Chuuya grabbed his coat, patting its pockets almost absentmindedly as he threw it over his shoulders, and headed for the door. He stepped into the hallway, locking the door behind him, sliding the key into his pocket.

The city was already waking up, its noise creeping into the quiet of the building. Pulling his coat tighter around him, he set off, his gloved hands in his pockets, ready to face whatever the day decided to throw at him.

One of the Port Mafia’s signature black vehicles, its windows tinted to perfection, idled at the curb outside his building. The quiet hum of the engine barely disturbed the morning stillness. Chuuya paused for a moment, his gloved hand resting on the brim of his hat, before stepping down the stairs and sliding into the back seat without a word.

The driver, a younger member of the Mafia who had been assigned to him, gave a curt nod in the rearview mirror but didn’t dare speak unless addressed. Chuuya leaned back against the leather seat, crossing one leg over the other as he settled in. The vehicle smelled faintly of polished leather and cologne, a professional veneer that the Port Mafia upheld even in its darkest dealings.

As a Port Mafia executive, Chuuya was far removed from the grunt work and low-level assignments that once occupied his time. Those tasks were for the newer recruits and underlings, the ones still proving themselves worthy of the title. But leadership had its responsibilities, and Chuuya took his seriously.

Today, his schedule included checking in on one of the smaller groups under his command. He only did this every so often—typically on the third Thursday of every other month, a routine he’d established more out of pragmatism than sentimentality. And, as luck would have it, today happened to be that day.

He glanced out the tinted window as the city rolled by, the familiar streets of Yokohama painted in muted grays under the overcast sky. Buildings stood tall and unyielding, casting long shadows over narrow alleyways.

The driver navigated the streets with practiced ease, weaving through traffic and turning corners without jostling the passengers. Chuuya let his head rest against the cool glass, his mind wandering.

The vehicle slowed as they approached the Port Mafia’s designated meeting point—an unassuming warehouse nestled in one of Yokohama’s industrial districts. From the outside, it looked like just another forgotten relic of the city’s bustling trade, its gray walls weathered by years of salt air and rain. But the area surrounding it was under constant surveillance, and Chuuya knew every corner bristled with unseen eyes and weapons.

The driver pulled the car to a stop, stepping out quickly to open the door for Chuuya. He exited without a word, adjusting his hat and coat as the wind swept through the open lot.

Inside the warehouse, a group of Port Mafia members was already gathered. They straightened as soon as Chuuya entered, their chatter falling silent under his sharp gaze. These were the mid-level operatives under his command, a mix of seasoned professionals and rising talent—too valuable for grunt work but not yet in positions of high authority.

"Executive Nakahara," one of them greeted, stepping forward and bowing slightly. His voice was steady, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the unease that Chuuya’s presence often brought.

Chuuya gave a small nod in return, his gloved hands slipping into his coat pockets. "At ease," he said coolly, his voice cutting through the room.

He walked past them, his boots echoing on the concrete floor as he approached a table at the center of the room. A map of the city was spread across its surface, marked with pins and annotations indicating the locations of recent operations, rival activity, and targets. He scanned it briefly before turning his attention back to the group.

“Report,” he said, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

The man who had greeted him stepped forward again, clearing his throat. “The operation at the harbor went as planned. No casualties, and we secured the shipment without interference from the police or any rival factions. The goods are already in transit to the designated location.”

Chuuya nodded, but his sharp eyes didn’t miss the way another member in the back shifted uncomfortably. He pinned him with a glance. “You. What’s your problem?”

The young man froze, swallowing hard before speaking. “W-We had... a small issue, sir. One of the newer recruits acted out of line and nearly blew our cover. We managed to handle it, but it won’t happen again.”

Chuuya’s lips curled into a faint smirk, one that sent a chill through the room. “Nearly blew your cover?” he echoed, stepping closer. “And whose fault was it that a recruit like that was on the mission in the first place?”

The man shrank under his gaze, mumbling something about miscommunication and poor judgment.

“Miscommunication,” Chuuya repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous calm. “This isn’t a playground. You don’t get to make mistakes like that.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “You’ll deal with it—and if it happens again, I’ll deal with you.”

The room was silent, the tension thick as the group waited for his next words.

Chuuya straightened, brushing off his gloves. “Anything else?”

When no one spoke, he gave a curt nod and turned back to the table. His eyes lingered on the map for a moment before he spoke again, his tone lighter but no less commanding. “Good. Dismissed. And make sure the shipment gets to its destination without any more... miscommunication.”

The group dispersed quickly, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out of the room. Chuuya stayed behind, his gaze fixed on the map. He reached into his coat pocket, patting it—and there it was, the familiar weight of his flask.

He pulled it out, unscrewing the cap with practiced ease. The whiskey burned as he took a small sip, the warmth spreading through him almost instantly. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and the restless buzz of anger that always seemed to linger in his chest dimmed to a low hum.

The alcohol coursed through him, keeping the sharp edges of his wandering mind dulled. It didn’t solve anything—he knew that—but it softened the weight he carried, if only for a moment. He tucked the flask back into his pocket, the metal cool against his palm as he gripped it for a second longer than necessary.

“Just another Thursday,” he muttered under his breath again, before stepping outside into the crisp Yokohama air.

Chapter Text

Chuuya stood just outside the warehouse, his gloved hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. The driver remained seated in the car, engine idling, awaiting further directions. The wind tugged at the brim of Chuuya’s hat, the small chain attached to it dangling, the cold air biting through the fabric of his clothes, but he didn’t move.

On the surface, he looked calm, composed—a man in control of himself and everything around him. But beneath that, Chuuya’s heart was racing. It thudded against his ribcage with an almost maddening rhythm, and though he’d claim there was no reason for it, the truth was harder to ignore.

“There’s nothing in my head,” he murmured to himself, almost as if saying it aloud would make it true.

And maybe, consciously, there wasn’t. The routine of his day, the mundane business of checking in on subordinates, should have been enough to occupy his mind. But in the back of his mind—where shadows lurked and whispers coiled—there was always something.

A presence. A weight.

The god sealed within him, Arahabaki, bound to his very soul, loomed like a dark specter. Its wrath stirred faintly in the corners of his consciousness, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. Even when dormant, it was there, its existence a constant reminder of the power he wielded and the consequences of losing control.

And then there was him.

Chuuya clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding slightly as the thought surfaced. He hated that the memory of Dazai could still find its way into his mind, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t even a clear thought—more of a faint echo, a lingering presence he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried.

The betrayal was what he hated most, he told himself, the way Dazai had turned his back on the organization, on him. But beneath the anger, buried deep where even he refused to acknowledge it, there was something else. A wound, raw and aching, that no amount of whiskey or bravado could completely numb.

His fingers flexed, curling into fists before he forced them to relax. The driver was watching him from the rearview mirror, likely wondering why Chuuya hadn’t moved yet. Chuuya exhaled sharply, straightening his shoulders and turning back toward the car.

He considered telling the driver to drop him at one of his usual bars—someplace dim and quiet, where he could drown the restlessness clawing at him in another glass of whiskey.

He sighed. It was way too early in the day, even for him, and the bars wouldn’t open for hours. He wrestled with the frustration of knowing there was no easy escape.

“Forget it,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

Instead, he redirected his thoughts. The docks weren’t far, and while they weren’t exactly a peaceful retreat, they were still outdoors. Fresh air might help clear his head, and he figured he could use the excuse to do a walkaround of the Port Mafia’s turf while he was there. A show of presence, even a subtle one, never hurts.

He opened the door and slid into the back seat once more, his expression unreadable. “Take me to the docks,” he said, his tone clipped and authoritative.

The driver nodded without question, pulling away from the warehouse and into the bustling streets of Yokohama.

As the car weaved through the city, Chuuya leaned his head back against the seat. His heart had slowed, but the weight in the back of his mind remained—a quiet but persistent reminder of the things he carried.

The closer they got to the port, the more the hum of the city gave way to the distinct sounds of the waterfront. The low rumble of ships, the sharp calls of seagulls, and the rhythmic crash of waves against the piers filled the air. Chuuya rolled down the window slightly, letting the salt-laden breeze wash over him.

When they arrived, the driver pulled to a stop at one of the quieter ends of the docks. Chuuya stepped out without waiting for the man to open the door, his boots clicking against the concrete as he surveyed the sprawling expanse of warehouses, cranes, and ships.

This part of the port was firmly under the Port Mafia’s control, its workers either direct members or people wise enough to keep their heads down and follow orders. It wasn’t bustling yet—activity would pick up later in the afternoon—but a few dockhands moved crates and equipment, nodding in acknowledgment when they saw him.

Chuuya’s boots carried him to the edge of the docks, where he came to a stop and glanced down at the water below. The gentle waves lapped against the concrete, catching the morning light in a way that might’ve been calming if not for the memories it stirred.

He exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cool air. He hated looking at the water for too long—inevitably, it brought him to mind. That damn suicidal manic.

Dazai always had a knack for getting under his skin, whether intentionally or not. And more than once, he’d thrown himself into these very waters in some reckless, dramatic gesture. Chuuya had always cursed him for it, shouting obscenities as he shed his coat and hat, plunging in after him.

“Don’t think for a second I’m doing this for you, bastard,” he’d yell through chattering teeth, dragging Dazai’s half-limp body back to the docks. Every time, he told himself it wasn’t about saving him—it was about ensuring that Dazai didn’t get away so easily.

A true escape, whether through death or disappearance, wasn’t something Chuuya would allow. Not for a fellow Mafia executive. Not for someone who was supposed to share his burdens, who was supposed to know better.

And yet, each time, he’d watch as Dazai lay there, coughing up seawater, his usual smirk somehow intact even as he flirted with death.

“Why the hell do you keep doing this?” Chuuya had demanded once, gripping Dazai by the collar. “Are you trying to run away from your responsibilities, or are you just an idiot?”

Dazai had laughed weakly, his voice soft but maddeningly smug. “A bit of both, maybe.”

That memory lingered now, unbidden, as Chuuya stared into the rippling water. He scoffed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he looked away, his jaw tightening.

“Tch. What a pain in the ass,” he muttered under his breath.

The fact that Dazai had defected didn’t change how much his antics had irritated Chuuya back then—or how much his absence bothered him now. He told himself he was just angry that Dazai had abandoned his duties, that he’d left him to shoulder the load alone.

But there was a voice in the back of his mind.

You didn’t let him go then. Why are you letting him go now?

Chuuya’s breath hitched, his fists clenching at his sides. The voice was smooth yet jagged, slithering through his thoughts with ease, like a blade sliding between ribs. It was Arahabaki, ever watchful, ever waiting for a crack to widen.

His chest tightened as the words echoed in his head, striking a nerve he didn’t want to acknowledge. He gritted his teeth, his jaw aching from the effort of resisting.

“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no one else around to hear.

But the voice didn’t care for commands. It never did.

“You hate him, don’t you? Yet you chased him. Saved him. Again and again. Is it hate—or something else? Tell me, Chuuya, what do you really feel?”

A sharp breath escaped him, more like a hiss. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the flask, unscrewing the cap with more force than necessary. Without hesitation, he brought it to his lips and tipped it back, the alcohol burning its way down his throat.

The warmth spread quickly, dulling the edges of his thoughts, muting the voice’s persistence. For a moment, the whispers faltered, retreating to the corners of his mind like shadows fleeing the light.

Chuuya exhaled slowly, screwing the cap back onto the flask and slipping it into his pocket. His fingers lingered there for a moment, gripping the metal tightly as if grounding himself.

He glanced back at the water, his reflection distorted by the rippling surface. The words still echoed faintly in his mind, but he refused to entertain them. Refused to let Arahabaki—or the memories—gain any more ground.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, almost as if trying to convince himself. “He’s gone. Let the idiot drown himself for all I care,” but the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

And yet, as he adjusted his hat and turned away from the water, the weight of Arahabaki’s voice—and the truth it threatened to reveal—clung to him like a shadow.

~~~~

Chuuya lingered around the docks for a while, pacing the length of the waterfront as he tried to shake the gnawing unease in his chest. The salt-tinged air did little to help, though the rhythmic crash of the waves offered some semblance of calm.

He checked the time on the analog watch strapped around his wrist, its polished face catching the faint light. Still too early.

The thought of alcohol crossed his mind again, tempting and persistent. As an executive of the Port Mafia, it wouldn’t take much effort to pull a few strings, maybe have one of the local bars open early just for him. Perks of the job, after all.

He smirked faintly at the thought, imagining the bartender’s begrudging expression as they unlocked the doors for him. Chuuya figured if anyone had a problem with it, he could remind them exactly who ran this city—or, at the very least, who they’d answer to if they refused.

But before he could act on the idea, the sharp, mechanical buzz of his cell phone snapped him out of his musings. He pulled it from his coat pocket, the name on the screen immediately catching his attention:Ozaki Kōyō.

Chuuya frowned, furrowing his brow as he accepted the call. “Kōyō-san,” he greeted, his tone level but cautious. She rarely called him unless it was something important.

“Chuuya,” Kōyō greeted, her voice smooth and measured. “Are you busy right now?”

Chuuya glanced at the docks around him, then back at the water. “Not particularly. What’s going on?”

“There’s a meeting scheduled with the executives this afternoon. I assume you’ve been informed?”

Chuuya furrowed his brow. “Yeah, I heard. Is this about that?”

“Yes and no,” Kōyō replied. “There are a few things I want to discuss with you beforehand. Matters I think should be brought up during the meeting, but I’d prefer to have your perspective first.”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. Kōyō wasn’t one to beat around the bush, which meant whatever she wanted to discuss was either sensitive or significant—or both.

“Alright,” he said. “Where do you want to meet?”

“My office,” Kōyō answered. “The east side branch. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Got it. I’ll head over now,” Chuuya replied, already turning on his heel to head back toward the black car that had been waiting for him.

“Good,” Kōyō said. “Oh, and Chuuya?”

“Yeah?”

“Try to come sober this time.”

Chuuya paused, blinking in surprise before narrowing his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means,” Kōyō said, her tone sharp but teasing. “Just try not to embarrass me, or embarrass yourself, in front of the others.”

Before Chuuya could retort, the line went dead. He stared at the phone for a moment, scowling. “Tch. Like I need her to lecture me.”

With a sigh, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and climbed into the back seat of the car. The driver pulled away from the docks, Chuuya's thoughts already racing about what Kōyō might want to discuss—and what kind of mess the meeting would bring.

For now, thoughts of Arahabaki and Dazai faded into the background, left behind like the rippling waves of the harbor.

Chapter Text

The car pulled up to the east side branch of the Port Mafia. Chuuya stepped out, adjusting his hat before striding inside. The staff greeted him with wary bows, clearing a path as he headed to Kōyō’s office.

When he entered, Ozaki Kōyō was already seated, elegant as ever in her dark kimono, a lit cigarette perched on a gold holder ring around her finger. Her sharp gaze met his as she gestured for him to sit across from her.

“Punctual as always,” she said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

Chuuya dropped into the chair, setting his hat aside, and crossing one leg over the other. “You said you had something to discuss. Let’s get on with it.”

Kōyō raised an eyebrow at his tone but didn’t comment. Instead, she took another drag of her cigarette before speaking.

“It’s about the meeting this afternoon,” she began. “As you might’ve guessed, the topic of the traitor will come up.”

Chuuya’s expression didn’t waver, but a flicker of something—annoyance, maybe—flashed in his eyes. “Dazai.”

Kōyō nodded. “He will be discussed, and I can guarantee that he”—her voice dipped with disdain, clearly referring to one of the other executives—“will push for us to deal with Dazai in the most final sense possible.”

Chuuya leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. “I’m not surprised. He’s never liked Dazai. Hell, he didn’t like anyone when he was taken in. But especially Dazai.”

“Of course,” Kōyō said smoothly, her tone carefully neutral. “Because if it hadn’t been for Dazai’s interference, perhaps Verlaine would have succeeded in taking you with him. You know that as well as I do.”

Chuuya’s fists clenched at her words, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Don’t act like Dazai actually did anything. I’m the one who defeated Verlaine. Not him. Me. I don’t owe Dazai a damn thing.” Chuuya scoffed, his expression hardening. “I don’t care. Whether they want to get rid of him or not, it’s all the same to me.”

Kōyō’s lips curled into a faint smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Mori won’t allow it. Not yet, at least. Dazai is too valuable a chess piece, even if he’s not on our board anymore. Unless it becomes convenient for him, Mori won’t let any harm come to Dazai.”

Kōyō exhaled another puff of smoke. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Verlaine’s hatred for Dazai is personal. And that hatred will fuel his arguments during today’s meeting.”

Chuuya let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “Let him argue all he wants. It’s not my problem.”

Kōyō raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

Chuuya glared at her, but she didn’t flinch.

“You can say whatever you like,” Kōyō continued, her voice calm but firm. “But I know you, Chuuya. Somewhere, deep down, you still care about him. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

Chuuya’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he leaned forward slightly, his voice low and sharp. “I don’t have the time—or the energy—to care about someone who walked away from everything without looking back.”

Kōyō’s expression softened slightly, though her eyes remained shrewd. “You don’t have to admit it to me. But maybe you should admit it to yourself.”

Chuuya leaned back in his chair again, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Is that all you wanted to talk about?”

Kōyō didn’t press further, though her expression told him she didn’t entirely believe him. Instead, she stubbed out her cigarette and leaned back in her chair. “Just be prepared for the meeting. And try not to let Verlaine get under your skin.”

Chuuya stood, picking up his hat as he turned to leave. “I don’t need advice.”

“It’s not advice,” Kōyō replied smoothly. “It’s a reminder. Whether you like it or not, you’ve got a stake in this.”

Chuuya didn’t respond, shutting the door behind him as he left the office.

Let him say what he wants, Chuuya thought bitterly. He’s got no hold over me. Neither Dazai nor him, or anyone.

Since he was already at the Port Mafia building, Chuuya decided to head to his own office. The hallways were quiet, the air heavy with the usual tension that hung over the organization. A few subordinates passed by, casting him concerned glances. Normally, Chuuya would’ve snapped at them, asking what they were staring at, but today he didn’t have the energy—or the patience. He ignored them, keeping his gaze fixed ahead as he strode down the corridor.

Once inside his office, he closed the door behind him and let out a tired sigh. The room was neat and orderly, as always, with a stack of files and documents waiting for his attention on the desk. Chuuya sat down heavily in his chair and reached for the top file, absently flipping through the pages.

The words blurred together, the details failing to stick. He skimmed a few lines, but his focus was elsewhere, his mind clouded with thoughts he didn’t care to entertain. After a few minutes, he tossed the file back onto the pile with a frustrated huff.

Not today, he thought. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with any of it.

Opening one of the desk drawers, Chuuya reached inside and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He held it for a moment, the weight of it familiar in his hand. He didn’t bother with a glass, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig straight from the bottle. The burn of the alcohol was a welcome distraction.

Leaning back in his chair, he rested the bottle on the armrest and stared up at the ceiling. The stillness of the room was both a comfort and a curse, offering no escape from the storm raging in the back of his mind.

~~~~~

"Forget about the meeting and just go kill that traitor with your own hands."

The voice startled Chuuya awake, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat up abruptly, realizing he’d fallen asleep in his chair without noticing. The bottle of bourbon still rested on the armrest, though a little lighter than before.

Arahabaki’s voice slithered through his mind, low and venomous. Chuuya grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt the familiar pressure—the faint creak of the gate that was supposed to keep the god sealed away.

His body felt heavier than he wanted to admit, the fatigue pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shrug off. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost time for the meeting.

"Shut it," he muttered under his breath, directing the words at the voice lingering in his mind. He grabbed the bourbon bottle, took another swig, and shoved it back into the desk drawer. The warmth of the alcohol spread through him, dulling the edges of the unease Arahabaki always stirred.

Straightening his hat and coat, Chuuya exhaled deeply, willing himself to push past the exhaustion. His gloved hand hovered for a moment, steadying himself against the desk.

He had no choice but to attend the meeting.

With one last glance at the empty office, Chuuya stepped out, heading toward the conference room.

You’d think, with the regularity with which Chuuya drank, he’d have built up a strong tolerance for alcohol. But that wasn’t the case. His small frame and a fast metabolism—probably unintended side effects of being a lab experiment at a young age—worked against him. It didn’t take much to leave him slightly unsteady.

Even now, as he made his way to the conference room, he felt the faint buzz from the bourbon and the whiskey from earlier still lingering. His steps weren’t quite as sure as usual, and his movements were a fraction slower. Still, his willpower was strong, and years of working among cutthroats and schemers in the Port Mafia had taught him how to mask any vulnerability.

By the time he reached the door, Chuuya had composed himself. He knew how to carry himself, and he hadn’t drunk enough for the smell of alcohol to cling to him. His mind was still clear, sharp enough to face what lay ahead.

Nonchalantly, he entered the conference room. Kōyō was already there, seated at the table with her usual composed demeanor. Mori was there too, wearing his familiar closed-eye smile, the one that always made Chuuya uneasy no matter how many times he saw it.

Chuuya took a seat, adjusting his hat and coat with practiced ease. From the corner of his eye, he caught Kōyō making a small gesture—whether it was concern or acknowledgment, he couldn’t tell. Mori, on the other hand, seemed unbothered, his enigmatic expression giving nothing away.

Then, the door opened again, and Verlaine walked in.

The man was the epitome of elegance, every movement fluid and deliberate. He strode into the room with an air of effortless grace, almost as if gliding, his tailored suit immaculate. Without hesitation, he took the seat next to Chuuya.

Chuuya stiffened for the briefest of moments, then forced himself to relax, sitting back in his chair as if the proximity didn’t bother him in the slightest. He didn’t look at Verlaine, though. Not directly.

The tension in the room was palpable, but no one spoke immediately. Mori’s smile remained unchanged, Kōyō glanced between Chuuya and Verlaine, and Chuuya focused on keeping his composure, refusing to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing any crack in his armor.

Back when Mori first made the decision to keep Verlaine in the Port Mafia, Chuuya couldn’t stand it. It had been Verlaine who had assassinated so many of his mafia comrades—his friends. Chuuya still remembered the bloodshed, the pain, and the utter rage he’d felt back then. Perhaps Verlaine didn’t seem like the same menace without Guivre, the sentient weapon that once made him unstoppable, but that didn’t change what he’d done.

Chuuya had made it clear to Mori that he would never forgive Verlaine. But Mori, as always, had smiled and dismissed his protests with a wave of his hand. “Even enemies can serve a purpose,” Mori had said.

"Thank you for gracing us with your presence, brother," Verlaine said, his voice smooth, almost warm, like poison in a velvet bottle. He turned to Chuuya with that same easy elegance, his expression unreadable.

"We never get to work together, so it’s nice to have these meetings and see you."

The word brother made Chuuya’s jaw tighten. He felt a flicker of heat rise in his chest, the familiar surge of anger he always felt around Verlaine. Chuuya turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t call me that,” he replied, his tone clipped. His fingers itched to grab the flask in his coat pocket, but he resisted. No way would he let Verlaine see any sign of discomfort.

Kōyō cleared her throat.

The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. It was a subtle reminder to Chuuya—a warning to keep his temper in check.

Verlaine’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t reach his piercing eyes. “Ah, still so cold to family,” he said, leaning back in his chair with that infuriating grace of his. “I suppose some grudges are harder to let go of than others.”

Chuuya clenched his jaw, forcing himself to relax his shoulders and settle back into his chair. He wouldn’t give Verlaine the satisfaction of a reaction. Not here, not in front of Mori and Kōyō.

“Yeah, a real family reunion." he said dryly, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Verlaine’s smile widened slightly, clearly unbothered. The man thrived on provocation, and Chuuya wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait.

Mori’s voice cut through the tension. “Now that everyone is here, let’s begin,” he said, still smiling, as if completely unaware of the underlying hostility in the room.

Chapter Text

Mori’s fingers tapped lightly against the table, the rhythmic sound breaking the silence. His smile never wavered as he finally spoke.

“Now that everyone is here, let’s begin.”

Kōyō straightened in her seat, her usual poise returning as she clasped her hands neatly on the table. Verlaine leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with an air of casual confidence. Chuuya remained where he was, still tense but outwardly composed, keeping his focus on Mori and not on the man sitting beside him.

“As you all know, the matter of our traitor has been causing quite the stir within the organization,” Mori began, his tone light, almost amused. “I thought it would be best to address it among my most trusted executives before we determine the next steps.”

Kōyō was the first to speak, her voice calm but firm. “I assume this is about Dazai. There’s already been talk of retaliation from certain factions within the organization and…” she hesitated, briefly glancing toward Chuuya before continuing, “members of the lower ranks have been murmuring about defecting. They’ve seen there hasn’t been any real punishment for someone who has already left the organization.”

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed slightly at that, but he stayed silent.

“Ah, yes,” Mori replied, his smile widening. “The perception of weakness is always dangerous, isn’t it? Lower ranks need their faith in the organization—and its leadership—maintained. Otherwise, they begin to believe they can act on their own whims.”

“Why not send Chuuya after him to finish the job?” Verlaine asked smoothly, his tone light but pointed. “We all know he’s been vocal about wanting to deal with Dazai himself. A rather bold move, considering how poorly he’s fared against Dazai in the past.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened, but remembered his earlier talk with Kōyō.

He scoffed, leaning forward slightly. “It’s Mori’s call, not yours.”

Verlaine’s smirk widened, his voice almost teasing. “Traitors have to be dealt with, brother. Without exception. Surely even you understand that.”

Mori chuckled softly, the sound almost too light for the weight of the conversation. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Dazai. While the enthusiasm is admirable, Dazai’s fate is mine to decide. And right now, I see no reason to act in haste. Not unless it becomes convenient for us, of course.”

Chuuya’s lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “Convenient, huh? Good to know Dazai’s life hinges on what’s convenient.”

Mori’s eyes opened ever so slightly, the sharpness behind them briefly breaking through his usual calm. “As does everyone’s, Chuuya. Yours included.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Mori’s words lingering.

“Regardless,” Kōyō said, breaking the tension, “it’s clear this is far from resolved. We’ll need to tread carefully. If we move too soon, it could create a rift among the ranks. They’re already questioning us—if they sense indecision, it’ll only make things worse.”

Mori nodded, his smile returning. “Precisely why we must approach this with care. I trust all of you to handle this matter with the grace and discretion befitting your positions.”

Chuuya leaned back again, his gaze flickering briefly to Verlaine, who still wore that infuriatingly calm expression. He thought of all the things left unsaid—the anger, the resentment, and the god sealed inside him, always lurking.

For now, he would play along.

The meeting continued with discussions on logistics and operational matters. Chuuya remained mentally present enough to keep his composure in front of the other executives, deciding to stick to listening rather than crossing any more words with Mori or Verlaine. He could feel Verlaine's occasional glances but refused to acknowledge them, his focus firmly on the table or the documents Mori occasionally referred to.

As Mori began to wrap up the meeting, preparing to dismiss them with his usual calm authority, Chuuya suddenly stood. The sharp movement drew the attention of everyone in the room, but he didn’t wait for any acknowledgment or permission. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the conference room, the door clicking shut behind him with a quiet finality.

In the hallway, Chuuya exhaled sharply, as he tried to steady his racing thoughts. His boots echoed against the polished floors as he made his way toward the exit of the Port Mafia’s headquarters. He wasn’t sure where he was going—he just needed to get away, to put distance between himself and the suffocating presence of that room.

The cold air hit him as he stepped outside, sharp against his skin but oddly grounding. For a moment, he stood there, hands in his coat pockets, gazing out at the city skyline. The sun was about to set, casting long shadows across the city, and yet, Yokohama was as lively as ever.

Chuuya pulled his flask from his coat pocket, unscrewing the cap with practiced ease. He took a long drink. The meeting had been nothing but a reminder of everything he despised—the power plays, the unspoken tensions, and the ever-present shadow of Dazai looming over them all.

He thought about Verlaine’s words, the veiled barbs disguised as casual remarks. It wasn’t the first time Verlaine had tried to provoke him, and Chuuya knew it wouldn’t be the last. What stung even more was Mori’s calculated indifference. Chuuya had once looked up to him, seeing in Mori the kind of leader he couldn’t be for the Sheep. But the way Mori treated everyone—Chuuya included—as mere pieces on his chessboard was something he could never reconcile with.

"Convenient," Chuuya muttered bitterly, echoing Mori’s earlier statement. He tipped his head back, staring up at the overcast sky. The gray clouds mirrored the heaviness in his chest, a weight he couldn’t shake no matter how much he drank or how hard he fought.

After a few moments, Chuuya straightened, slipping the flask back into his pocket. He couldn’t linger here, not like this, and he wasn’t about to let anyone—Mori, Verlaine, or even Dazai—see him falter.

Chuuya checked the time again; the pubs and bars should be open by now. He called for one of the Port Mafia cars and directed the driver to take him to a place where he could finally unwind. The vehicle arrived promptly, a sleek black sedan, and Chuuya slid into the back seat, giving the driver curt instructions.

The flask in his pocket was both a comfort and a reminder of the day’s frustrations. He needed something stronger now, something that could help him drown out the lingering echoes of Arahabaki’s voice and the ever-present shadow of Dazai in his mind.

Chuuya didn’t hold back that night. The VIP room he requested was dimly lit, its luxurious decor a stark contrast to his disheveled demeanor. The staff, ever accommodating to a Port Mafia executive, had brought out the finest bottles of whiskey, sake, and champagne. The girls he’d invited into the room were draped across the velvet couches, their laughter and chatter blending with the music filtering in from the main bar. They were beautiful, their smiles bright, but to Chuuya, they were little more than a distraction—an attempt to fill the void that gnawed at him.

He poured himself another glass of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing slightly as his unsteady hand brought it to his lips. The burn was familiar, almost comforting, and he chased it with another, then another. The girls—some curious, some merely indulging his generosity—accepted the drinks he offered them. They giggled and thanked him, but Chuuya barely heard them. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in memories he desperately wanted to forget.

Occasionally, one of the girls would lean closer, whisper something into his ear, or place a hand on his arm, but the gestures failed to reach him. They weren’t who he needed, and deep down, he knew no one could fill that space. Still, he kept them around, their presence a fragile barrier between him and the weight of his solitude.

The night wore on, the glasses piling up as Chuuya’s inhibitions slipped further away. His laughter, sharp and hollow, occasionally broke through the noise, startling even himself. When one of the girls asked him why he drank so much, he waved her off with a dismissive smirk, muttering something about it being none of her concern. Despite his efforts to seem unaffected, the cracks in his facade were evident to anyone paying close enough attention.

By the time the clock struck midnight, the room was a haze of alcohol and exhaustion. The girls, though still present, had grown quieter, their earlier enthusiasm dimmed by Chuuya’s unrelenting mood. He noticed, of course, but it didn’t matter. He poured another drink, staring into the glass as though it held some answer to the questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Arahabaki was silent, its voice drowned beneath the flood of liquor, but the silence was no comfort. It only made the emptiness more profound.

Through the night, Chuuya continued like this, his drinking relentless. He leaned back in his seat, his hat tilted low over his eyes, as the haze of alcohol blurred the edges of the room. But despite the noise and company, the emptiness persisted.

At one point, he stepped out of the VIP room, claiming he’d fetch more bottles from the bar himself since the staff was taking too long. As he waited at the counter, his vision slightly blurred but his posture still commanding, a handsome black-haired young man approached him. 

“You look like you could use some better company,” the man said, leaning casually against the bar. His eyes glinted with interest as they roamed over Chuuya. “A man like you shouldn’t be wasting time with girls who don’t appreciate you.”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but not dismissive. “And you think you’d be better?”

The man smirked, stepping closer. “I know I would. You’ve got this aura about you—strong, untouchable. But I bet even someone like you needs to unwind. Let me take care of that.”

Chuuya scoffed lightly, “You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who doesn’t know me.”

“Maybe. But confidence gets me places,” the man replied smoothly, his tone dripping with charm. “What do you say? Let’s get out of here.”

Chuuya didn’t brush him off; amidst the haze of the night, he found himself intrigued, if only for a moment.

One thing led to another, and before he fully registered it, they ended up in a dimly lit back hallway near the kitchens. The man leaned in, their lips meeting in a heated kiss. At first, Chuuya enjoyed it. He let himself enjoy the kiss. It had been too long since he’d felt this—soft lips against his, the warmth of another person. When the man’s hands slid under Chuuya’s shirt to rest on his hips, he didn’t pull away. The touch was nice, almost comforting in its tenderness. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to sink into it, the haze of alcohol making everything feel a little less heavy. But soon, the stranger’s demeanor changed. His grip on Chuuya tightened, becoming rough and insistent. He began pulling at Chuuya, trying to turn him around, his intentions unmistakable. The man forcefully pushed his tongue into Chuuya’s mouth and his hands started to wander, sliding lower along Chuuya’s back. Chuuya tensed when he felt the man’s fingers dip past the waistband of his pants, and alarm bells went off in his head. He moved his hands to push the man away, but the man didn’t stop. Instead, he pulled Chuuya closer, his grip more insistent. Chuuya broke the kiss, but the man leaned back in, ignoring the clear message.

Perhaps he thought Chuuya’s small frame and inebriated state made him an easy target. Perhaps he didn’t know who he was dealing with. But Chuuya was no pushover.

Chuuya’s patience snapped. Without even using his ability, he shoved the man back with surprising force, making him stumble and fall flat on his ass. The commotion startled a couple of people nearby who had been making out themselves. They gasped, turning to look, but didn’t say or do anything, quickly averting their eyes.

“Try that again, and you’ll regret it,” Chuuya snarled, his voice low and dangerous. The man scrambled to his feet, muttering curses under his breath as he straightened his clothes, but Chuuya didn’t wait to hear them. He stormed out of the hallway, brushing past the startled onlookers. He didn’t bother returning to the VIP room. Instead, he made his way to the front of the bar and stepped outside, signaling for his car. The night air hit his face, cold and sobering, but the weight in his chest remained.

Chapter Text

Chuuya returned home, the events of the night leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The lingering buzz from the alcohol dulled his thoughts, but not enough to quiet them completely. Tossing his coat and hat onto a nearby chair, he unbuttoned his shirt with trembling hands. He shed the rest of his clothes as he walked to the bathroom, stepping into the shower and letting the warm water cascade over his body.

The heat was soothing, easing the tension in his shoulders and dulling the ache in his limbs. He closed his eyes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the cool tiles. The steam filled the room, thick and heavy, muffling the world outside.

As the water washed over him, Chuuya’s fingers absently ran over his chest and stomach, tracing faint scars as he tried to focus on the present—the sound of the water, the warmth enveloping him—anything but the memories creeping into his mind.Though he despised how the encounter with that stranger had ended, his body had still reacted. His body betrayed him. The ghost of the stranger's touch lingered, unbidden. His lips tingled faintly, recalling the softness of that kiss. He’d missed that sensation—intimacy, even if fleeting and shallow. His hand slipped lower, his breath hitching as he gave in to the physical need that had been simmering beneath his skin all night.

He tried not to think of anyone in particular, tried to let the release be purely physical, but his mind betrayed him too. A familiar face flickered behind his closed eyelids. Chocolate brown hair, sharp eyes, and that insufferable smirk.

Dazai.

Chuuya’s hand stilled for a moment, a rush of anger and shame tightening in his chest. “Damn it, ” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the sound of the shower. He gritted his teeth, forcing the thought away, but it was too late. His body had already responded, and his mind clung stubbornly to the image, no matter how much he tried to push it aside.

He worked quickly, almost angrily, as if punishing himself for even letting the thought of Dazai invade this moment. The tension coiled tighter, the heat building in his core until it spilled over in a wave of release. He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, his breaths shallow and uneven as the water continued to pour over him.

As he came down from the moment, a bitter laugh escaped his lips. How pathetic , he thought. Even now, he couldn’t fully escape that damned traitor. He stood there for a moment longer, letting the water wash everything away—his shame, his anger, and the lingering traces of desire.

When he finally turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist, he felt hollow but oddly calmer. He refused to let this spiral any further. Whatever control Dazai once had over him, it was over—at least, that’s what he told himself.

After stepping out of the shower, Chuuya grabbed a towel and rubbed it over his hair, letting it drape over his shoulders as he moved to the kitchen. His bare feet padded softly against the floor as he poured himself a glass of water. He downed it quickly, the cool liquid refreshing against his throat. He didn’t believe for a second that it would stave off the hangover waiting for him in the morning, but it was better than nothing.

Back in his room, he tossed the damp towel into the laundry basket and slipped on a pair of boxers. The faint buzz of alcohol was still present, not enough to disorient him but just enough to leave his body feeling heavy and his mind slightly dulled. He padded over to the bed and sat on the edge, reaching for the nightstand.

His fingers hovered over the small, scratched MP3 player he kept there. He wanted to keep it close, in case he needed to drown out Arahabaki or if the silence was too much to bear. But tonight, the alcohol had done its job. He wasn’t in the mood to scroll through tracks or let his thoughts wander along with the lyrics. He set it back down and slid under the covers.

The warmth of the blanket, combined with the exhaustion that clung to his body, was enough to pull him toward sleep almost immediately. For once, the alcohol worked in his favor. No thoughts, no dreams. Just the quiet void of rest.

~~~~~

It wasn’t Arahabaki’s voice that woke Chuuya this time, but a relentless throbbing in his head and the unsettling churn of nausea in his stomach. His eyes shot open, and for a moment, he was disoriented, the events of the previous night only vaguely piecing themselves together. Then the nausea hit harder, a sudden wave that had him scrambling out of bed.

His body protested every movement, muscles sore and his head pounding as if someone had driven nails into his skull. He barely made it to the bathroom in time, falling to his knees in front of the toilet as he retched. The sound echoed painfully in his ears, and he gripped the sides of the porcelain bowl as his body heaved.

When it was over, Chuuya slumped back against the bathroom wall, breathing heavily and pressing a hand to his throbbing temple. He glanced at the clock on the wall—past noon. At least it was Friday, and he didn’t need to show up to work early. Most mafia activities happened after sunset anyway, part of the reason he hadn’t thought twice about drinking with such abandon the night before.

He sat there for a moment, the cool tiles beneath him offering a small comfort. His head felt like it was splitting in two, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly with every small movement. "Damn it," he muttered hoarsely to himself, swiping a hand across his sweat-dampened forehead.

Dragging himself up to the sink, he braced both hands on the counter and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His skin was pale, his hair sticking out in uneven tufts, and his usually sharp eyes were bloodshot and shadowed. Turning the faucet on, he splashed cold water on his face and rinsed out his mouth, the bitter aftertaste of vomit still clinging to him.

Chuuya rubbed his face with a towel and shuffled back into the bedroom. His body ached, his headache throbbed relentlessly, and his mouth was drier than sandpaper. The thought of breakfast turned his stomach, but he forced himself to drink a glass of water. It wouldn’t undo the damage, but it might help with the inevitable hangover as the day dragged on.

He sank back down on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to will the headache away. At least he didn’t have to face anyone just yet. By nightfall, he’d have to pull himself together, but for now, he had the luxury of silence.

Or so he thought.

A sharp pain, sharper and more intrusive than the dull throb of his hangover, suddenly pierced his skull. Chuuya winced, pressing a hand to his temple as the sensation clawed at his mind. And then, Arahabaki’s voice echoed, cold and unyielding, cutting through the fog of his thoughts.

“Is this what you’ve become?”

Chuuya froze, his hand dropping limply into his lap. His teeth clenched, his jaw tightening in frustration. “Not now,” he muttered aloud, as if that would silence the god. He exhaled sharply, but the voice persisted, disdain dripping from every syllable.

“Look at you. Weak. Pathetic. Crawling out of bed, reeking of alcohol and self-pity. You, the vessel of a god—wallowing like a broken man.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya growled, his voice low but brimming with irritation. He could feel Arahabaki’s presence creeping deeper into his mind, a cold weight settling in his chest.

The god ignored his demand. “How long do you intend to drown yourself in this filth? You—who once defied the laws of nature, who stood unyielding in the face of destruction. You waste yourself like this?”

Chuuya’s headache pulsed, the pain intensifying as Arahabaki’s words dug in. He gripped the edge of the bed, his nails digging into the mattress. “I said shut up,” he snapped, louder this time. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. You don’t get to judge me.”

The voice was quiet for a moment, but the silence felt more menacing than the words. Then it came again, softer, almost amused.

“You can’t even face your own reflection without shame. Tell me—what do you think he would say, seeing you like this?”

Chuuya’s stomach twisted, but he refused to react, glaring instead at the floor as if his anger alone could silence the voice. “He doesn’t get to have an opinion either,” he muttered bitterly.

But Arahabaki’s presence didn’t fade. The god’s voice lingered like a shadow in his mind, leaving Chuuya with a gnawing sense of discomfort and frustration. He shoved himself off the bed and stalked toward the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face again, trying to clear his head.

The mirror reflected his disheveled state, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something else—a faint glimmer of red in his irises, a hint of Arahabaki’s influence. He blinked, and it was gone.

“Damn it,” Chuuya muttered under his breath, gripping the edges of the sink. “I don’t need this right now.”

The headache lingered, but Arahabaki’s voice receded for the moment, leaving Chuuya with only his own thoughts and the ever-present hangover.

Chuuya spent the next few hours waging a war against the hangover that clung to him like a second skin. The dull ache in his head and the occasional waves of nausea made even the simplest tasks feel like monumental challenges.

He dragged himself back to the shower, letting the hot water cascade over him, hoping it would help clear the lingering fog in his mind. It was a small comfort, soothing his aching muscles, but the throbbing in his skull remained stubborn.

He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and with a resigned sigh, he moved to the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for something light enough to eat without upsetting his already fragile stomach.

A few bites of toast and some tea later, he felt marginally better—enough to keep everything down, at least. He sat at the small table, leaning back in his chair, and allowed himself a moment of quiet. By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet, Chuuya felt somewhat like himself again.

More or less.

When the last traces of daylight faded into dusk, he stood, heading to his bedroom to change. He picked out his usual attire—polished but practical, with just enough flair to remind everyone who he was. Adjusting the brim of his hat in the mirror, he gave himself a final once-over.

Satisfied, Chuuya grabbed his coat and keys, stepping out into the cool evening air. He had somewhere to be.

Tonight, his destination lay on the outskirts of the city.

He didn’t care for the suffocating lights and chaos of Yokohama’s center, not tonight. The outskirts promised fewer people, fewer distractions—just the solitude he needed to gather his thoughts. The car he had called earlier waited by the curb, the driver giving him a small nod as Chuuya slid into the backseat.

“Outskirts,” Chuuya said simply, his tone curt but not unkind. The driver nodded again, and they were off.

Chuuya leaned back in his seat, watching the cityscape transition to darker, quieter streets as they approached the outskirts. He reached into his coat pocket, feeling the smooth edges of the lighter he always carried, flipping it open and shut out of habit. The sound was soft but steady, grounding him as his thoughts drifted toward the meeting.

Mori had emphasized the importance of this deal. This weapons dealer, apparently a significant player in the underground arms trade, had insisted on a remote location for the meeting. That wasn’t unusual—these types always wanted to maintain anonymity, either for their own safety or because they didn’t want anyone connecting them to the Port Mafia.

Still, it grated on Chuuya’s nerves. Anonymous contacts were always a risk, no matter how much leverage Mori believed they had. But Mori trusted Chuuya to handle it, and Chuuya wasn’t the type to let doubts cloud his performance. If this dealer thought he could pull something, well… he’d find out the hard way why people didn’t cross Chuuya Nakahara.

The dealer had also been adamant about keeping the entourage small. Two cars max. Chuuya would lead, and another vehicle carrying members of the Black Lizard crew—Hirotsu, Gin, and Tachihara—would follow close behind. That arrangement was fine by Chuuya. He trusted Hirotsu’s experience, Gin’s precision, and Tachihara’s adaptability enough to know they’d have his back if things went sideways.

The car pulled into the designated meeting point: an empty lot on the outskirts of the city. It was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a flickering streetlight and the faint glow of the moon. The second car arrived moments later, parking a short distance behind Chuuya’s.

He stepped out, his boots crunching against the gravel as he adjusted his hat. Hirotsu and the others exited their vehicle, standing a few paces behind him, quiet but alert.

Chuuya’s eyes scanned the area. It was desolate, save for an old warehouse looming nearby. His gaze fell on a figure emerging from the shadows, flanked by two men who were clearly armed but doing their best to appear inconspicuous.

The dealer.

Chuuya’s lips curled into a smirk, his posture relaxed but his sharp eyes missing nothing.

“Looks like you’re on time,” Chuuya called out, his voice carrying easily through the still air. “Let’s hope you’re as good as Mori thinks you are.”

The man stepped closer, his face partially obscured by the hood of his jacket. “Punctuality’s a virtue in our line of work,” the dealer replied, his tone measured.

Chuuya gestured to the briefcase Hirotsu carried, containing a hefty down payment. “You’ve got what we came for?”

The dealer motioned to one of his men, who stepped forward with a large case. “Everything you requested. Top quality. But we’ll see about the rest of the payment first.”

Chuuya chuckled, taking a step forward. “I don’t think you’re in a position to dictate terms, pal. You don’t get to work with us unless you play by our rules.”

The tension in the air was palpable.

As the dealer’s man unlocked the case, Chuuya’s sharp instincts kicked in. Something wasn’t right. The air felt heavier, the silence too calculated. He glanced over his shoulder at Hirotsu, Gin, and Tachihara, all of whom had subtly tensed, clearly picking up on the same unease.

The dealer’s smirk grew a fraction wider as he spoke. “Oh, don’t worry. I brought everything you asked for. In fact, you’re the first to experience it.”

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed, his smirk fading. “First to experience it?”

Before he could demand an explanation, the man nearest the dealer yanked the case open with a dramatic flourish. Inside, instead of the expected firearms or ammunition, there was a sleek, ominous device. It looked almost alien—gleaming black metal with faint red lights pulsating along its surface.

“What the hell is this?” Tachihara muttered from behind.

The dealer’s hood fell back as he broke into a full grin, his demeanor no longer restrained. “This? This is the future. A weapon designed specifically to neutralize ability users like you.”

Chuuya’s blood ran cold for a split second before the heat of anger took over. “You set this up?” he snarled, taking a step forward.

The dealer laughed, unperturbed. “Why sell weapons to the Port Mafia when I can prove my worth by showing I can destroy them? You think the balance of power in this city is untouchable? I’m about to rewrite it.”

Before Chuuya could lunge at him, the device activated. A low hum filled the air, growing louder with each passing second. The red lights on the weapon glowed brighter, casting an eerie hue over the scene.

Then, a pulse—a shockwave invisible but deafening—rippled outward, striking Chuuya and the others with crushing force. Chuuya staggered, his knees nearly buckling as his vision blurred. His whole body felt heavy, as though his strength had been drained in an instant.

Behind him, he heard Tachihara curse, Gin let out a pained gasp, and Hirotsu fall to one knee.

Chuuya gritted his teeth, clutching his head as Arahabaki stirred violently within him, roaring in protest. “What the—what the hell is this thing doing?” he hissed, struggling to stay on his feet.

The dealer’s grin widened, satisfaction radiating off him. “This pulse destabilizes the energy signature of ability users. Call it… a temporary severance. Without your abilities, you’re just like anyone else—weak. Mortal.”

Chuuya’s eyes burned with rage, his vision sharpening despite the weight pressing down on him. “You think I need my ability to crush you?” he growled, forcing himself to move.

One of the dealer’s men stepped forward, raising a weapon, but Chuuya reacted on instinct. Even without his gravity manipulation ability, his reflexes and sheer combat skill hadn’t left him. He dodged the shot, closing the distance and driving his fist into the man’s jaw with enough force to send him sprawling.

“Black Lizard, fall back!” Chuuya barked, his voice commanding despite the strain.

Hirotsu, Gin, and Tachihara scrambled to recover, their movements slower than usual but still coordinated.

The dealer, unfazed, waved his remaining man forward, but Chuuya was already moving. His fists connected with precision, his fury driving each blow. Without his ability, he felt the strain in his muscles more acutely, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to let some coward with a gadget take him down.

As the second guard fell, Chuuya turned his attention back to the dealer, who looked momentarily unsure of himself. “You really thought this would work?” Chuuya sneered, blood trickling from a cut on his lip.

The dealer’s hand hovered over the device, “Stay back! I’ll increase the pulse!”

Chuuya barely had time to process the chaos before another wave emanated from the device. This one was stronger, almost impossibly so. His body seized as a sharp pain pierced through his skull, the pressure so intense it felt as though his very existence was being crushed. Blood began to drip from his nose and ears, staining the ground beneath him.

He glanced back and saw Gin and Tachihara slumped on the ground, motionless, Hirotsu barely managing to prop himself up on one elbow, his face pale and drawn.

"Dammit..." Chuuya hissed through gritted teeth, his vision swimming. His knees buckled as the device's effects bore down on him. It wasn’t just his ability being suppressed now—his strength, his focus, even his will felt like they were being siphoned away.

The guards took advantage of his disorientation, rushing at him. Fists and boots slammed into him with brutal force, driving him to the ground. He tried to fight back, but his body was sluggish, his movements dulled by the relentless pressure.

“Get up!” Arahabaki's voice boomed in his mind, louder than the ringing in his ears. “Let me out! You’re not like the others—you can crush them all if you open the gate!”

Chuuya spat out blood, his breathing labored. “Shut it...” he muttered under his breath, his fists clenching weakly.

But as he struggled to rise, his gaze fell on Gin’s prone form, then Tachihara’s, then Hirotsu, who was still desperately clinging to consciousness. They’d all trusted him. He was supposed to lead them.

He felt a wave of despair crash over him. He’d already lost so many—so many comrades, so many people who had fought and bled for the Port Mafia. The thought of losing more was unbearable.

Arahabaki’s voice surged again, almost pleading. “They’ll die without you. You’ll die without me. Say the words, and I’ll end this!”

Chuuya’s vision blurred. His mind was clouded, his body broken. He was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. He couldn’t think straight anymore.

As the guards closed in again, the words began to spill from his lips, almost involuntarily. “O, grantors of dark disgrace...”

But just as he began to speak the chant, a hand grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t,” Hirotsu’s voice rasped, barely above a whisper. His grip was weak but insistent. “We need to fall back. Don’t do it, Chuuya. Not like this.”

Chuuya stared at the older man, his vision swimming. The desperation in Hirotsu’s eyes grounded him, if only for a moment.

Before Chuuya could respond, Hirotsu, summoning the last reserves of his strength, reached out with his ability. The debris from the destroyed vehicles groaned and shifted, rising into the air before hurtling toward the guards. It wasn’t enough to stop them, but it created enough of a distraction to buy them time.

As if on cue, the roar of an engine broke through the haze of the fight. A black car skidded to a halt nearby, doors swinging open. Reinforcements.

“Get in!” one of the backup operatives shouted, his gun already raised to provide cover fire.

Chuuya hesitated, his pride screaming at him to stay and fight. But he looked back at Gin, Tachihara, and Hirotsu. They wouldn’t survive if he let his stubbornness get the better of him.

With a guttural curse, he scooped up Gin and half-dragged, half-carried her to the car, Tachihara stumbling behind with Hirotsu leaning heavily on him. The guards shouted, their weapons firing, but the Port Mafia backup returned fire, creating just enough of an opening for them to retreat.

Chuuya collapsed into the backseat, his chest heaving, his body trembling with rage and humiliation. As the car sped away, he glanced out the window, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

He hated this—hated running, hated feeling powerless, hated the mocking voice of Arahabaki still echoing in his mind. But more than anything, he hated the fact that, for once, he’d had no choice but to retreat like a scared dog.

“We’ll be back,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and dangerous. “And when we are, I’ll destroy them all. With or without you .”

The lights of the city blurred past as the car sped toward safety, the weight of the failed mission settling heavily on his shoulders. But in the back of his mind, a quiet, gnawing thought took root: how close he’d come to letting Arahabaki loose—and how frighteningly tempting it had been.

Chapter Text

Back at the Port Mafia headquarters, the sleek, dimly lit corridors buzzed with the quiet hum of activity. Gin, Tachihara, and Hirotsu were immediately rushed to the infirmary, medics swarming around them to tend to their injuries. The sight of his battered comrades fueled the anger already simmering within Chuuya. He was bruised, bloodied, and unsteady on his feet, but he had no intention of heading to the infirmary just yet.

Instead, he stormed through the building, his boots echoing sharply against the marble floors. His destination was clear—Mori’s office.

By the time he reached the heavy double doors, his patience had worn thin. He didn’t bother knocking, shoving them open with enough force that the sound reverberated through the room.

Mori sat at his desk, as calm and composed as ever, a steaming cup of tea in his hand. Elise perched on the edge of the desk, swinging her legs idly. The picture of nonchalance.

“Ah, Chuuya,” Mori greeted, his usual closed-eye smile firmly in place. “I take it the meeting didn’t go as planned?”

“As planned?” Chuuya’s voice was sharp, his temper barely restrained. He slammed the folder containing the report onto Mori’s desk, causing Elise to flinch and glare at him. “That wasn’t a deal—that was a goddamn ambush!”

Mori’s eyes opened just slightly, the faintest flicker of intrigue crossing his features. “An ambush, you say? How unfortunate.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, boss,” Chuuya snapped, leaning forward, his palms pressed flat against the desk. “Who the hell sets up a weapons deal with someone who won’t even show their face? You sent us into a trap!”

Mori tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I had my suspicions, yes. But I trusted you to handle it, Chuuya. And it seems you did—you and the Black Lizard made it back, didn’t you?”

“Barely!” Chuuya’s voice rose, his frustration boiling over. “Gin, Tachihara, Hirotsu—they could’ve been killed! That thing they used on us—whatever it was—it wasn’t just a weapon. It was designed to take out ability users. You sent us in blind against something that could’ve wiped us out!”

Mori set his teacup down with deliberate care, the soft clink echoing in the tense silence. “And yet, you’re standing here now, alive and well. That tells me my faith in you wasn’t misplaced.”

Chuuya clenched his fists, his body trembling with barely contained rage. “This isn’t about your goddamn faith in me. You put the whole operation at risk, and for what? To test us? To see if we’d survive?”

Elise, who had been quietly watching the exchange, finally spoke up, her voice sharp and petulant. “You’re so loud, Chuuya! It’s not like the Rintarō didn’t know you’d make it back. You’re strong, aren’t you?”

“Stay out of this, kid,” Chuuya snapped, earning a huff from Elise as she crossed her arms.

Mori’s smile returned, but there was a dangerous edge to it now. “Enough, Chuuya. You’re angry, and I understand that. But don’t forget your place. I make decisions for the good of the organization, and sometimes that means taking risks. You’ve always been my strongest asset—I wouldn’t have sent you if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

Chuuya took a step back, his breathing heavy, his heart pounding in his chest. The rational part of him knew there was no point arguing with Mori. The man always had an answer, always had a justification.

“Next time,” Chuuya said through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous, “give me the full picture. If you don’t trust me with the details, don’t send me at all.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the doors shut behind him.

As he made his way down the corridor, the adrenaline from the confrontation began to wear off, leaving behind a throbbing headache and the dull ache of his injuries. He still needed medical attention, but for now, he wanted nothing more than to be alone.

~~~~~

Chuuya returned home, his body aching with every step as he closed the door behind him. The silence of his apartment was almost oppressive, but it was better than the noise of the infirmary or Mori's smug voice echoing in his head.

The first thing he did was head for the shower, stripping off his bloodied and torn clothes along the way. The hot water hit his skin, stinging the cuts and bruises that littered his body, but it was a relief nonetheless.

After a while, he stepped out, heading to the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back at him—tired, bruised, and far too weary for someone his age. He grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and started tending to his injuries, cleaning the deeper cuts and wrapping bandages around his arms and ribs where the bruises were most severe.

As he worked, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a time long past. Nostalgia seeped in, mixing with the anger and physical pain, creating a bitter cocktail of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

He remembered how Dazai used to help him after missions like these. It wasn’t often—Dazai wasn’t exactly the nurturing type—but there were moments, rare and fleeting, when they’d sit together in silence, patching each other up. Dazai’s hands were always steady, even when Chuuya winced or swore under his breath. And Chuuya, for his part, had learned to deal with the endless layers of bandages Dazai wrapped himself in, silently cursing him for being so reckless.

Those moments, as much as Chuuya hated to admit it, had been comforting in their own way. They were both vulnerable, battered from the fight but alive. It was in those moments, lying side by side on the floor or the couch, that the chaos of their lives seemed to quiet, if only for a little while. Even Arahabaki, who is now always lurking in the corners of Chuuya's mind, had been silent back then.

Chuuya sat on the edge of his bed, the roll of bandages still in his hand. The memories left a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t want to think about Dazai—not now, not when everything was already so raw. But the memories wouldn’t leave him alone, and with them came a wave of sadness he hadn’t been prepared for.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, tossing the bandages aside. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the weight of everything he’d been trying to hold back.

It was in moments like these, when he was most angry, most vulnerable, and most broken, that Arahabaki’s voice could so easily slip past his defenses.

“Is this all you are now?” Arahabaki’s voice was low and sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Chuuya didn’t respond, refusing to engage. He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. He hated this—hated feeling weak, hated that he couldn’t even have the luxury of silence.

But he couldn’t stop the memories from resurfacing. The faint sound of Dazai’s voice, the feeling of his hands carefully wrapping bandages, the warmth of having someone else there.

Chuuya closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. He wanted to let go of it all, but the past clung to him like a second skin, refusing to be shed.

~~~~~

Chuuya woke with a sharp gasp, his body jerking upright in bed as his chest heaved with uneven breaths. His skin was damp with sweat, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to him as the cold air of the room made him shiver. His head throbbed, and his heart pounded so fiercely it felt like it would burst out of his chest.

It wasn’t fear that woke him—it was anger. A searing, consuming anger that radiated through his entire body. It was familiar yet foreign, like a wildfire he couldn’t contain. He gritted his teeth, clutching the sheets tightly in his fists, trying to ground himself, but it was no use.

Arahabaki.

The name clawed its way into his mind, unbidden, as though it was the source of the rage. And perhaps it was. Chuuya couldn’t tell anymore. The line between his emotions and Arahabaki’s had blurred, and lately, it felt as if the god’s fury had become his own. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

His body trembled, his muscles tense as though bracing for a fight. It wasn’t just anger; it was a violent, primal need to act, to destroy, to let Arahabaki out and unleash everything building up inside him. His hands itched to grab something, anything, and crush it into oblivion.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his temples, shutting his eyes tightly as he tried to steady himself. “Shut up,” he growled under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Arahabaki or himself.

But the sensation wouldn’t go away. It felt like claws raking against his insides, a relentless pressure that threatened to consume him. His chest burned, and his breaths came out shallow and ragged. He doubled over, gripping the edge of the bed, his nails digging into the wood.

“You can’t contain me forever,” Arahabaki’s voice slithered into his mind, cold and cruel. “I am a part of you, Chuuya. You’re only human. How much longer can you keep me locked away?”

“Shut up!” Chuuya hissed louder this time, his voice echoing in the silence of his apartment. He slammed his fist against the wall, the sharp pain shooting up his arm serving as a temporary distraction.

But Arahabaki’s voice only laughed, low and mocking, sending chills down Chuuya’s spine. The anger wasn’t just in his mind; it was in his veins, his bones, his very being. It was unbearable.

He stumbled out of bed, pacing the room like a caged animal. His bare feet hit the cold floor with each step, but it did nothing to cool the heat coursing through him. He couldn’t stay still. His thoughts were a whirlwind of rage, frustration, and exhaustion.

“I’m in control,” he muttered to himself, though his voice wavered with doubt. “I’m in control.”

Arahabaki’s laughter grew quieter but didn’t disappear entirely. The pressure eased just enough for Chuuya to take a deep, shaky breath. His head still throbbed, and his hands still trembled, but the overwhelming urge to destroy had subsided, if only slightly.

As Chuuya paced the room, his foot accidentally caught the edge of the dresser, causing a box perched on top of it to tumble to the floor with a clatter. He paused mid-step, startled by the sudden noise, and turned his attention to the mess he’d inadvertently created.

The box had been sitting there for months, maybe years, left untouched amidst the chaos of his life. Its contents had spilled out across the floor—small trinkets, scraps of paper, and random items he’d collected over time. He knelt down with a groan, his head still pounding, and began shoving the scattered items back into the box.

That’s when he saw it.

A photograph, slightly crumpled at the edges, lay among the debris. He froze, his hand hovering above it as his chest tightened. Slowly, he picked it up, holding it delicately between his fingers as though it might shatter.

It was a picture of him as a child. Not the vessel of Arahabaki, not the “God of Calamity,” but just...a child. It was taken at a beach somewhere; the ocean was visible in the background. Chuuya was wearing a linen yukata and holding hands with a young man while walking toward the photographer. A child who had parents, went to school, had a home.

He barely recognized himself.

Chuuya’s breath hitched as he stared at the image, his fingers brushing over the worn surface. It was one of the few tangible reminders of a time before everything had gone to hell.

His heart clenched as he remembered the day this photo had been given to him. It had been his first anniversary with the Port Mafia, a day Mori had marked with cold praise and a new mission. But it was also the day the Flags—his comrades, his friends—had decided to surprise him with this gift.

They had gone behind Mori’s back, risking punishment to give him documents and mementos related to his past. "Weren't expecting something so valuable, huh?“ they had said, their voices filled with determination. "If anyone ever asks you if you’re human again, just show 'em this picture."

He clenched his jaw as a wave of emotion surged through him. The Flags were gone now, another set of lives lost to the endless violence of his world. But in this moment, they felt closer than ever.

The photograph grounded him, a fragile tether pulling him back from the storm raging in his mind. Arahabaki’s voice, which had been a constant murmur in his head, seemed to fade into the background.

For a brief moment, Chuuya felt a clarity he hadn’t experienced in months. He wasn’t just the vessel of a god, or a Mafia executive, or a killer. He was still Chuuya Nakahara—someone who had once been an ordinary child, someone who had loved and been loved in return.

His grip on the photograph tightened as he stood, placing it carefully back in the box. He set the box back on the dresser. The anger and frustration still simmered beneath the surface, but they felt less suffocating now.

He exhaled deeply. The photograph had reminded him of something he’d nearly forgotten: even amidst the chaos, there were pieces of himself worth holding onto. Pieces that no god, no enemy, and no organization could take away from him.

Chuuya sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring at the box on the dresser. The photograph lingered in his mind, a small spark of warmth in the storm of emotions he had been battling for days, weeks—maybe longer than he cared to admit.

He reached over to the nightstand and grabbed his MP3 player..

Sliding the headphones over his ears, he flicked through the playlists without much thought, eventually hitting play on whatever track the device landed on. A familiar tune filled his ears, and though he hadn’t chosen it consciously, it was one of those songs that always managed to calm him, even if only a little.

Lying back on the bed, Chuuya stared at the ceiling, his mind no longer racing as frantically as it had been. The anger that had threatened to consume him all night was still there, simmering under the surface, but it no longer felt as overwhelming.

His fingers tapped lightly against the side of the MP3 player in time with the music. He thought about the photograph, about the Flags and their quiet rebellion to remind him of who he was, about the way they had anchored him even in death.

“Even now,” he muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You bastards always knew how to get to me.”

The music played on, soft and steady, filling the silence that had once felt unbearable. Chuuya closed his eyes, not expecting to sleep but content to let the music wash over him. Even if the nightmares returned or the anger resurfaced, for now, he had this moment.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

When the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, Chuuya was already awake. His body was slumped against the headrest of his bed, headphones around his neck, and the MP3 player lying discarded on the nightstand. He stared blankly at the faint patterns of light cast on the ceiling, his thoughts heavy. The exhaustion in his limbs was a stark reminder of how little rest he had gotten—if any.

Dragging himself out of bed, Chuuya moved on autopilot. A quick rinse in the shower, a fresh set of clothes, and the usual motions of pulling his hair into its loose, messy waves. His body still ached, bandages stark against his skin where he’d hastily tended to his wounds the night before.

By the time he arrived at the Port Mafia headquarters, the conference room was already filled with low murmurs. The Black Lizard were seated at one end of the table, their injuries apparent. Hirotsu, his arm encased in a cast, carried his usual air of professionalism, but the strain on his face was visible. Gin, quieter than usual, sat beside him with a stitched-up wound on her temple, and Tachihara was slouched in his chair, his hand idly tapping the table as he winced every now and then from what appeared to be bruised ribs.

Chuuya entered the room, his presence commanding as always, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his inner turmoil. The murmurs died down as all eyes turned to him. Mori wasn’t present yet, so the executives took this time to exchange updates on the ambush and the elusive weapons dealer.

“The dealer’s been quiet,” Tachihara started, his tone laced with frustration. “No sign of activity since the ambush. If they’re smart, they’ll be laying low for a while.”

“Smart or not, they’re dangerous,” Hirotsu said, his voice calm but firm. “That weapon they tested on us—it’s no ordinary arsenal. We need to figure out how they got their hands on something like that and what their endgame is.”

The conversation shifted when Akutagawa, seated a few chairs down, finally spoke. His usual stoic expression was tinged with a sharp edge of intensity, his voice low but precise. “Do we know for sure if they were working alone? Or could they be backed by another organization?”

Akutagawa’s serious demeanor was impossible to ignore. His sharp black eyes fixed on Chuuya, though it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. The faint tightening of his jaw betrayed his emotions, as did the subtle way his gaze flickered toward Gin, sitting quietly across the table.

It wasn’t like Akutagawa to show outward frustration, but it was clear he was upset—more than upset. His sister, Gin, had been injured in the ambush, and though she bore it with the same quiet resilience she always did, it didn’t escape him.

“Whoever they were,” Akutagawa continued, his voice still steady but with an undercurrent of anger, “they had no hesitation in targeting us. If they’re not working alone, that raises bigger questions about who’s behind this—and what they plan to do next.”

Chuuya met his gaze, understanding the frustration bubbling beneath Akutagawa’s calm exterior. Chuuya couldn’t fault Akutagawa for: his unwavering loyalty to his sister.

“I get it,” Chuuya replied, his voice softer but no less firm. “But we don’t have answers yet. Not without more intel. And until we do, we’re not going to make any reckless moves that’ll get more of our people hurt.”

Akutagawa gave a small nod, though the tension in his posture remained. His hands clenched lightly into fists on the table, the only visible sign of the storm brewing within. Despite his calm exterior, his mind was likely racing, calculating potential leads and strategies to prevent something like this from happening again—especially if it meant protecting Gin.

Chuuya, leaning against the back of his chair, folded his arms across his chest. His face was unreadable, but his mind was racing. “If someone’s willing to target the Port Mafia and test a weapon like that on us, they’re either reckless or desperate—or both.” His voice was sharper than intended, the lack of sleep and residual anger creeping into his tone.

“We’re looking into any possible connections,” Hirotsu added, his eyes flickering to Chuuya. “But it’ll take time. There’s nothing concrete yet, and we’ve already sent word to our contacts to keep an ear out for any whispers about weapons trades.”

Tachihara sighed, his frustration evident. “Time’s not exactly on our side. What if they’re planning something bigger? We can’t just sit here waiting for them to make the next move.”

Chuuya’s gaze darkened. “We won’t. But rushing in blind won’t do us any good, either. Let’s give it a day—two at most. If we don’t get anything by then, we start digging deeper, and we hit back harder.”

When the meeting finally adjourned, Chuuya lingered for a moment, watching as the others left to tend to their duties. 

Chuuya had been feeling off all morning, a faint nausea clinging to him like a shadow. He had chalked it up to residual exhaustion, perhaps a side effect of the injuries he hadn’t fully healed from. But as the meeting dragged on, it became harder to ignore the mounting discomfort—his head buzzing like static and his muscles tightening with an almost electric pain.

It wasn’t until he found himself alone in the conference room that he finally let his guard drop.

The moment the door clicked shut, the burning sensation in his body surged, radiating from his core outward, like molten lava coursing through his veins. His legs nearly gave out as he staggered to the edge of the table, gripping it with trembling hands.

The voice came next. Arahabaki’s monstrous voice, roaring in his mind—not in words, but in guttural, unintelligible sounds that seemed to scrape against his very soul. Chuuya pressed his hands to his temples, as though that might help silence it, but it only made the pounding in his head worse.

His flask. He needed his flask.

Fumbling, he reached into his pocket and pulled it out, but his grip failed, and it clattered to the floor with a metallic ring.

Cursing under his breath, he crouched to pick it up, but before his fingers could close around it, another hand did.

Chuuya froze.

When he looked up, it was Kōyō, her expression calm but grave. She held the flask in one hand, her other resting lightly on her hip. Her presence was a stark contrast to the chaos storming within him.

“It’s Arahabaki, isn’t it?” she asked, her tone soft but solemn. Her cherry red eyes bore into him, not with judgment, but with understanding.

Chuuya’s jaw tightened, his breathing ragged. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to answer. Instead, he straightened, trying to compose himself despite the tremors racking his body. But Kōyō didn’t look away. She stood her ground, waiting for him to speak.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, “What else could it be?” he muttered, his voice strained, tinged with bitterness. He hated the vulnerability in that moment, hated that she had seen him like this.

Kōyō handed him the flask without another word, her fingers brushing his briefly.

“You can’t keep ignoring it,” she said quietly, her voice steady but carrying a weight that made Chuuya’s stomach twist.

Chuuya stared at the flask in his hand, the silver reflecting the dim light of the room. He didn’t reply.

Kōyō's voice broke the silence, soft but firm, like the gentle rustle of leaves before a storm. “You should reach out to Dazai.”

Chuuya’s head snapped up, his narrowed eyes locking onto her. “What?!”

“His ability,” Kōyō continued, unfazed by his sharp tone. “It’s the most effective way to silence Arahabaki. You know that better than anyone.”

Chuuya clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as her words sank in. Of course, he knew. No Longer Human. The one skill that could quiet the monster clawing its way out of him. The one thing that could let him rest, if only for a little while.

But the mention of him made Chuuya’s stomach twist with anger and something deeper, something he didn’t want to name.

He scoffed, shoving the flask back into his pocket. “And what makes you think I’d go crawling to Dazai?”

Kōyō’s gaze softened, but her voice remained firm. “Chuuya, this isn’t about him or you. It’s about keeping Arahabaki in check before it consumes you.”

Chuuya looked away, his jaw tightening. He thought back to one of the nights he had drunk dialed Dazai. His memory of it was hazy, but the sting of humiliation was crystal clear.

He had called him once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

He’d even sent messages—short, stupid ones, asking if Dazai was still alive or just pretending to be dead again. He’d waited hours, staring at his phone like an idiot, hoping for a reply.

Nothing.

Not even a single mocking word in return.

Chuuya let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “What makes you think he’d help? I called him, you know. More than once. I even sent him messages—pathetic, drunk messages.” He scoffed, the memory igniting a flicker of anger in his chest. “Not a word. Not even a stupid insult in return.”

Kōyō studied him for a moment, her eyes searching his face. She could see the hurt he tried so hard to bury beneath his pride.

“He’s a coward,” Chuuya muttered, more to himself than to her. “Always running from things that matter. I’m done chasing him.”

He leaned back against the table, arms crossed over his chest, his voice dropping to a low growl. “I’ve made it this far without him. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Kōyō stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Chuuya,” she said softly, “you don’t have to do this alone.”

“You don’t get it, Kōyō. I know I’m not alone.” His voice wavered slightly, betraying the raw emotion beneath. “But it’s like I’m slipping through my own fingers. Memories of the past, the Flags, the person I was before Arahabaki… they’re all fading. And the more I fight, the more I feel like I’m losing myself. Do you know what that’s like?”

Kōyō stayed silent, letting him pour out the feelings he so rarely shared.

Chuuya’s shoulders slumped as he let out a breath. “That’s what makes me feel lost, Kōyō. Not being alone. Losing who I am—who I was—piece by piece. And no amount of friends or loyalty can fix that.”

Kōyō stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Then fight to keep those pieces, Chuuya. Even if it’s hard. Even if it hurts. Because you’re not the only one holding onto them.”

Chuuya didn’t shrug her off this time. He stood there, staring at the table, her words weighing heavily on him.

“I’ll figure it out,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. “I always do.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” she reminded him gently.

He closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the table tightly before pushing away. “Maybe. But I’m not crawling back to Dazai. Not now, not ever.”

As he left the room, her parting words followed him like a shadow.

“You don’t have to crawl, Chuuya. Just don’t let yourself fall.”

Her voice lingered in his mind long after he’d shut the door behind him, walking down the dimly lit hallway with heavy steps.

Chuuya's boots echoed faintly against the hardwood floors as he walked away from the conference room, Kōyō's words hanging in the air like a lingering fog. His head pounded—not just from the strain of Arahabaki, but from the sheer effort it took to keep the god at bay.

The burning sensation coursing through his veins had dimmed to a low, relentless thrum, but it was still there, like embers glowing beneath ash, waiting for a spark. His muscles ached, and every step felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of Arahabaki itself was trying to drag him down.

“You don’t have to crawl, Chuuya. Just don’t let yourself fall.”

Her voice repeated itself in his mind, striking a nerve. He hated how well she could read him, how she could see the cracks he worked so hard to cover. And worse, he hated how Arahabaki seemed to mock him for it, the faint growl of the god’s presence rippling through his mind like distant thunder.

The hallway stretched out ahead of him, quiet and dimly lit, a stark contrast to the chaos roaring within. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the flask once more. He hated how much he relied on it. He hated that he couldn’t let go of it either.

By the time he returned home, his entire body was trembling, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The pain had started to spike again, Arahabaki’s clawing more insistent now, like it could sense his defenses weakening. Chuuya kicked the door shut behind him and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling shakily.

His gaze wandered to the clutter of his room: the empty glasses on the table, a bloodied coat slung over the chair, the disheveled bed where he’d spent too many nights trying—and failing—to sleep. The pressure in his head flared suddenly, a sharp spike of pain that made him wince and clutch the doorframe for support.

“Coward,” he muttered bitterly under his breath, pushing himself off the door. “That’s all you’ve ever been.”

Still, as much as he wanted to bury those memories, they clung to him, stubborn and persistent. And Arahabaki didn’t help, its presence surging in his mind like a tide, threatening to drown him in its power.

Chuuya crossed the room to his bed and sat down heavily, his movements stiff and strained. The burning sensation in his chest had spread again, radiating out to his limbs, making every muscle feel like it was on fire. He pulled the flask from his pocket, staring at the scratched surface for a long moment before setting it on the nightstand.

Kōyō was right. He couldn’t keep ignoring Arahabaki. But the thought of reaching out to Dazai… it felt like ripping open an old wound, one that had barely scabbed over.

His fists clenched in his lap, his nails digging into his palms as the god's guttural growl echoed faintly in his mind. It was relentless, a constant reminder that no matter how hard he tried to maintain control, Arahabaki was always there, waiting, watching.

~~~~~

Chuuya hadn’t slept a wink that night. He didn’t even bother trying. As the minutes dragged into hours, the darkness outside gave way to the pale hues of dawn, and still, he remained seated at the edge of his bed, staring at nothing in particular.

The ache in his body refused to ease, a constant reminder of the god clawing at the edges of his consciousness. Arahabaki never truly left him alone, but lately, it had been relentless, an unyielding force that wouldn’t let him rest, even for a moment.

He set his hat down and ran a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat, his fingers trembling slightly. His red-rimmed eyes shifted toward the window, where the dim morning light struggled to seep through the heavy curtains. The days and nights had started to blur together, each one bleeding into the next in a haze of exhaustion and frustration.

At first, he thought he could manage it, that he just needed a little more time to get back on his feet. But as the sleepless nights stretched on, his grip on reality started to slip. Conversations from days ago felt like they’d happened hours before. His mind wandered without direction, trapped in a loop of memories, regrets, and Arahabaki’s ever-present roar.

Even the mundane had started to feel surreal—his routines a series of mechanical movements, his surroundings distant and dreamlike. He barely noticed the mess accumulating in his apartment, the dishes left unwashed, the papers scattered across his desk.

Chuuya pushed himself off the bed, his legs unsteady beneath him. He crossed the room and threw open the curtains, letting the harsh morning light flood in. It didn’t help. The world outside felt just as suffocating as the one within these walls.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and almost didn’t recognize the person staring back. His face was pale, his cheekbones sharper than he remembered. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, giving him a hollow, almost haunted look.

He turned away, unable to stand the sight of himself any longer. Instead, he paced the room, his hands clenched at his sides, his mind racing. He couldn’t go on like this—he knew that much. But what was the alternative?

He scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. There was no alternative. This was his life, and he had to deal with it. There was no point in dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing something—something vital. The person he used to be, the life he used to have… it was slipping further and further out of reach, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Chuuya sighed, leaning against the windowsill as he watched the city come to life below. The distant hum of cars, the faint chatter of pedestrians… it all felt so far away, like a world he wasn’t part of anymore.

Then, suddenly, the ground beneath him shook. A sharp, deafening boom rang out in the distance, followed by the tremor of aftershocks that rattled the walls of his apartment. His body stiffened instinctively, a cold shiver running down his spine as the force of the explosion reverberated through the air, rattling the windows and vibrating the floor beneath his feet.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze—the city, the sounds, even his breath. And then, reality rushed back with the aftershocks, as his mind scrambled to make sense of the chaos unfolding just beyond his line of sight. The explosion had been massive, its force enough to send tremors rippling through the entire city.

Chapter Text

Chuuya gripped the windowsill tightly, his knuckles whitening as the vibrations subsided. His sharp eyes scanned the horizon, his heart racing as he tried to pinpoint the source of the explosion. A plume of thick, black smoke was already rising in the distance, twisting and curling against the pale morning sky.

For a moment, he remained frozen, caught between the remnants of exhaustion and the sudden rush of adrenaline flooding his veins. The city below seemed to pause alongside him, its usual rhythm shattered by the distant boom. Sirens began to wail, breaking through the eerie silence that had followed the explosion.

Snapping out of his daze, Chuuya pushed himself off the windowsill and grabbed his coat, his movements quick and precise despite the lingering ache in his body. The timing of this couldn’t be a coincidence. Not after the ambush. Not after the unsettling silence surrounding the weapons dealer.

“This better not be connected,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching as he slipped on his gloves.

Arahabaki stirred within him, its presence even more pronounced now, feeding off the tension in the air. Chuuya hissed under his breath, trying to push it back down, but the god’s voice rang in his head, its guttural tones laced with something almost… eager.

“This is what you are for,” it seemed to say, the words twisting in his mind like smoke. “ Destruction. Chaos.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya growled, his voice low and venomous as he grabbed his phone from the table.

He dialed swiftly, his fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the anticipation of what lay ahead. The line clicked, and a familiar voice answered on the other end.

“Chuuya-san,” Hirotsu’s calm tone carried a hint of urgency. “I assume you’ve felt it too?”

“I didn’t just feel it,” Chuuya snapped, his tone sharp. “I saw it. There’s smoke rising near the industrial district. What the hell’s going on?”

“We’re still gathering information,” Hirotsu replied. “But the location matches one of our supply storage facilities. It could be an attack.”

“Could be?” Chuuya spat, already pulling on his boots. “There’s no ‘could be’ about it. Someone’s making a statement.”

Hirotsu hesitated for a moment before continuing. “We’ve mobilized a team to assess the situation, but…”

“But what?”

“There’s a chance it’s connected to the weapons dealer,” Hirotsu admitted. “We received word of unusual activity in that area just yesterday, but nothing concrete.”

Chuuya’s grip on the phone tightened, his mind racing. He had known something was off after the ambush, but this? This was escalating faster than anyone had anticipated.

“I’ll head there myself,” Chuuya said, his voice firm. “Remain on standby until further notice.”

“Understood.”

Chuuya hung up without another word, shoving the phone into his pocket. As he grabbed his hat, he spared one last glance at the rising smoke in the distance.

His body ached, his mind was a mess, and Arahabaki was clawing at the edges of his control, but none of it mattered now.

Because someone had declared war on the Port Mafia.

~~~~~

Chuuya pulled up on his bike, the engine growling to a stop as he parked it just outside the perimeter of chaos. The flashing red and blue lights of police vehicles illuminated the thick, acrid smoke that hung in the air. Reporters and curious onlookers clamored behind hastily erected barriers, their cameras clicking incessantly as they tried to capture the devastation.

Chuuya barely acknowledged them, pushing past the crowd with a forceful determination that left no room for resistance. The police tried to intercept him, but a sharp glare from his piercing blue eyes was all it took for them to step aside. He wasn’t here to negotiate; he was here for answers.

The sight that greeted him was even worse than what he had expected.The warehouse was nothing more than a skeleton of twisted metal and scorched rubble, smoke still curling upward like the aftermath of some grotesque funeral pyre. The air was thick with the stench of burning, and the ground was littered with debris.

But it wasn’t the destruction that caught his attention—it was the group standing near what remained of the building's foundation.

Even from a distance, he recognized them. The Armed Detective Agency. His eyes immediately locked onto the tall man with the long ponytail and sharp features—Kunikida Doppo—and the young boy with short, messy blonde hair, wearing suspenders and a straw hat: Kenji Miyazawa. Kenji, usually so cheerful, now wore a grim expression that looked out of place on his typically bright and carefree face. His shirt was torn, and his arms were covered in cuts and bruises. And then there was her—Dr. Yosano, the infamous healer of the Agency, currently tending to Kenji’s wounds with calm precision.

For a moment, Chuuya froze, his mind racing. What the hell were they doing here? The Agency had no business in Port Mafia territory—unless they had been dragged into this mess the same way his people had.

As he approached, Kunikida noticed him first, his posture stiffening as his sharp gaze locked onto Chuuya. “Nakahara,” Kunikida said, his tone measured but laced with caution. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” Chuuya shot back, his voice cold and biting. “Looks like we’ve both been dragged into someone else’s game.”

Kunikida didn’t respond immediately, his expression unreadable. It was Yosano who broke the silence, glancing up from Kenji’s arm with a faint smirk. “Small world, isn’t it? Though I doubt this was a coincidence.”

Chuuya ignored her, his attention shifting to Kenji, who looked up from where he was seated on a chunk of broken concrete. Despite the bandages on his arms and the dirt streaked across his face, the boy gave a small, determined nod in acknowledgment of Chuuya.

“Let me guess,” Chuuya said, his voice low. “You were set up too.”

Kenji’s usual cheerful tone was absent as he replied, “Yeah. We were supposed to meet someone here—a source who claimed to have information about the Guild’s remaining activities in Yokohama. But by the time we got here, it was clear we’d been tricked.” His voice was steady, but his fists were clenched tightly in his lap, betraying his frustration. “The whole building exploded before we even had a chance to figure out what was going on.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. So it wasn’t just the Port Mafia being targeted. Whoever was behind this was playing both sides, trying to ignite a conflict that neither organization had sought.

“And…” Chuuya said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “...your ‘source’ disappeared the moment things went south?”

Kenji nodded, his expression darkening. “They must’ve been watching us the whole time. As soon as the explosion went off, they vanished.”

Chuuya let out a sharp exhale, his frustration mounting. This was bigger than he’d thought. If someone was bold enough to target both the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency, then this wasn’t just about weapons or territory. This was about sending a message—one written in blood and fire.

“Do you have any idea who’s behind this?” Chuuya asked, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

“Not yet,” said Kunikida. “But whoever it is, they’re meticulous. They knew exactly how to lure us here, just like they probably knew how to set you up.” He adjusted his glasses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded Chuuya. “If I had to guess, I’d say they’re trying to spark a war.”

Chuuya’s lips curled into a sneer. “Well, they’re doing a damn good job of it.”

Yosano straightened, wiping her hands on a cloth as she finished bandaging Kenji’s arm. “We’re not interested in a war,” she said pointedly, her gaze flicking to Chuuya. “But if they think we’re just going to sit back and take this, they’re sorely mistaken.”

Chuuya met her gaze, his eyes burning with the same fiery determination. “Good,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Because neither are we.”

Chuuya stood amidst the smoldering wreckage, his sharp gaze sweeping over the remains of the demolished warehouse. His jaw was clenched tightly, a storm of anger and frustration brewing behind his blue eyes. But as he interrogated the Armed Detective Agency, the toll of recent events began to show. The faint tremor in his hands, the pallor of his usually sharp features, and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his mounting exhaustion.

Yosano, ever perceptive, caught it immediately. She tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she leaned against the ruined wall beside Kenji. “You look like hell, Nakahara,” she remarked bluntly, her voice cutting through the heavy air. “Don’t tell me the great Port Mafia executive is finally losing his edge.”

Chuuya shot her a glare, his expression as sharp as a knife. “Mind your own business, doc,” he growled, but the usual bite in his words was dulled by his obvious fatigue.

“You might want to take your own advice,” Yosano replied evenly, crossing her arms. “Exhaustion doesn’t just disappear because you glare at it. You’re not much use to anyone if you collapse before this whole mess is over.”

Chuuya clicked his tongue in annoyance but didn’t respond. He hated that she was right, hated that his body was betraying him at a time like this. The fire inside him—Arahabaki’s rage—was still simmering, but his own strength was waning, leaving him barely hanging on.

Before Yosano could press further, footsteps approached, hurried and frantic. Chuuya turned his head just as Tanizaki and Kyōka appeared from around the corner, their expressions grim.

Tanizaki’s face was pale, his breathing uneven as if he’d run the whole way. Kyōka, though composed as always, had a shadow of worry in her crimson eyes. They stopped just short of the group, their presence immediately drawing everyone’s attention.

“Tanizaki? Kyōka?” Kunikida’s tone was sharp, concern evident in his voice. “What happened?”

Tanizaki swallowed hard, his voice strained. “We... we can’t find Dazai or Atsushi,” he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. “They were supposed to meet us here after gathering intel, but there’s no sign of them. We’ve searched everywhere nearby—nothing.”

Kyōka stepped forward, her voice calm but tinged with urgency. “We fear they may have been taken by the enemy.”

The words hung in the air like a bomb about to detonate. Chuuya’s eyes widened slightly, and for a split second, his carefully maintained composure faltered. He recovered quickly, but the flicker of emotion didn’t go unnoticed.

“Taken?” Chuuya repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “By who?”

“We don’t know,” Kyōka replied. “But given the scale of this attack, it’s clear whoever’s behind this is targeting both of us.”

Chuuya’s fists clenched at his sides, the tension in his body coiling tighter with every word. He could feel the heat of Arahabaki rising again, feeding on his anger and frustration. His exhaustion threatened to pull him under, but the thought of Dazai— that idiot —in the hands of their enemies ignited something else entirely.

He let out a sharp exhale, his hands flexing at his sides as he tried to rein in the firestorm of emotions threatening to consume him. “Fine,” he muttered under his breath. “Whatever mess Dazai’s gotten himself into, he’s probably planned for it. He’s done it before.”

But even as he spoke, the words rang hollow in his ears. The thought that Dazai might have let himself get caught on purpose was plausible, but it didn’t sit well with him—not this time. The scale of the ambush, the destruction, the stakes... it all felt too precarious.

Chuuya turned sharply on his heel, leaving the scene without another word. The voices of the others faded behind him as he pulled out his phone, the device feeling heavy in his hand. His thumb hovered over the keypad for a moment before he dialed Hirotsu’s number.

The line rang twice before the familiar, steady voice of Hirotsu answered. “Boss Nakahara.”

“Hirotsu, we’ve got a situation,” Chuuya said, his tone brisk but laced with weariness. “Dazai might’ve been taken, along with one of the Agency’s kids. Get me updates on anything you can find about the enemy’s movements. Now.”

“Understood,” Hirotsu replied, his tone calm and efficient. “I’ll mobilize the informants immediately.”

Chuuya ended the call, but his hand didn’t lower the phone. Instead, he scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he was looking for: Akutagawa.

He pressed the call button and held the phone to his ear. The line barely rang once before it was picked up. 

"Nakahara-san," came Akutagawa’s curt voice, tinged with tension.

"Listen carefully," Chuuya said, his tone sharp but strained. "Dazai’s missing. Ambushed. Probably taken by whoever’s behind the recent ambush."

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. Then, Akutagawa’s voice broke through, louder than usual, filled with an uncharacteristic urgency. "Dazai-san is missing?!" The rare display of strong emotion from Akutagawa wasn’t lost on Chuuya. He knew Akutagawa had been Dazai’s pupil.

Chuuya sighed. "Yeah, Dazai," he said, his voice softening slightly despite himself. “I know you won’t rest until we’ve found him. So, I’m counting on you to give this everything you’ve got."

Akutagawa’s breathing was audible, heavy with both determination and worry. "Understood," he said, his voice firm now, but the initial crack of concern still lingered. "I’ll begin immediately."

“Good,” Chuuya muttered, ending the call. He pocketed his phone and leaned against a nearby lamppost, his body sagging slightly as the exhaustion caught up to him once more.

He clenched his fists, willing himself to push through the fatigue. Dazai might be an infuriating enigma, but Chuuya couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in his gut that this time, things were different. And that scared him more than he cared to admit.

Chuuya's exhaustion forced him to return home, which only infuriated him. It wasn’t like he could actually rest either. Chuuya was angry, concerned, and worried—though he didn’t want to admit it—about Dazai being taken. These emotions churned within him, making him more vulnerable to Arahabaki's influence.

Sleep was out of the question. He couldn’t stomach food either, the mere thought of eating made him nauseous. Instead, he paced around his apartment like a caged animal, waiting for updates from Hirotsu, Akutagawa, or even the Agency. Anything about the explosion, the culprits, or more importantly, Dazai. The waiting clawed at him, each passing hour stretching unbearably long.

Arahabaki’s voice echoed mockingly in his mind, taunting him about his concern for Dazai. “Worried about that human?” it sneered, its tone dripping with derision. “You’re wasting your time pacing like a powerless fool. You could force the culprits to show themselves in an instant—with my power.”

The words hit a nerve, Arahabaki’s offer tempting in its brutal simplicity. Chuuya clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he tried to block out the voice. But it was insistent, whispering like a devil on his shoulder, reminding him of the destruction he could unleash if he just let go. If he just surrendered.

Restless and feeling utterly useless, Chuuya eventually grabbed his phone again. If waiting wasn’t enough, then he’d make something happen. He began arranging a hefty bounty for any information regarding the culprits responsible for the explosion. The calls were quick and clipped, his tone sharp and unyielding. Word of his offer would spread fast in the underworld, and Chuuya knew it would only be a matter of time before someone came forward—either with answers or falsehoods. He’d deal with the latter personally if needed.

But even as he tried to focus on action, a gnawing sense of helplessness clung to him. The minutes ticked by in deafening silence, and no matter how many calls he made, the anxiety eating at his core refused to fade.

To quiet Arahabaki’s incessant voice and the searing pain that radiated through him, Chuuya resorted to the only thing that seemed to help—drinking. He rummaged through his cabinet, pulling out bottle after bottle of liquor. One bottle became two, then three. The burning sensation in his throat was a welcome distraction from the chaos in his mind, dulling Arahabaki’s mocking laughter and easing the stinging pain that had threatened to overwhelm him earlier.

The alcohol didn’t solve anything, of course, but it granted him a temporary reprieve—a fragile barrier against the monster inside. As the bottles emptied and the hours dragged on, Chuuya slumped against the wall of his apartment, his head heavy and his vision blurred. The weight of his exhaustion pressed down on him, but even in this haze, sleep remained elusive. He was trapped in a vicious cycle, teetering on the edge of control, with no end in sight.

Chapter Text

Chuuya went out, he had gotten word of someone who might have had information on the weapons dealer. He didn’t know what time of day it was, but it was dark out. He headed to one of the Port Mafia's hidden buildings. There in the basement, a couple of mafia grunts were waiting. A beaten, disheveled man was tied up, ready for Chuuya to question.

The air in the basement was damp and suffocating, the dim light of a single bulb casting long shadows on the walls. Chuuya’s exhaustion hung over him like a heavy cloak, the alcohol still coursing through his system, dulling his senses but fueling his raw anger. The sting of Arahabaki’s presence in his mind was constant, a sharp reminder of the chaos bubbling within him.

The man in the chair flinched at the sight of Chuuya. His face was swollen and bloodied, his breaths shallow and labored. It was clear he had already endured a fair amount of persuasion before Chuuya's arrival.

He stepped forward, his boots echoing against the concrete floor, and crouched in front of the tied-up man. The man's swollen eyes barely opened, his face a mess of blood and bruises.

"Start talking," Chuuya growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Who’s behind the explosions? Who set us up?"

The man trembled, his eyes darting between Chuuya and the grunts. "I—I don’t know anything!" he stammered, his voice cracking. "I swear, I was just following orders!"

Chuuya’s patience was already paper-thin. He grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him upright, "Orders, huh? From who?"

The man coughed, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t respond quickly enough.

"I asked you a question!" he snarled, slamming him back into the chair. The man whimpered but managed to stammer out a few disjointed words about shipments and underground exchanges. 

Chuuya leaned in closer, his presence suffocating. "Listen, I’m not in the mood for games," he said, his tone dropping to something far more dangerous. "You’re going to tell me everything you know, or I’ll make you wish you had."

One of the grunts stepped forward, offering Chuuya a pair of brass knuckles. Chuuya waved him off, his piercing gaze fixed on the prisoner. "I don’t need those," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. The subtle motion alone made the man flinch.

"Alright! Alright!" the man blurted out, his voice desperate. "The weapons dealer... he’s working with someone! I—I don’t know their name, but they’re big! Influential! They’re the ones who set up the ambush!"

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. "And where can I find him? The dealer?!"

The man shook his head frantically. "I don’t know! They move around a lot! B-but I heard something—something about a shipment! It’s supposed to go down at the old docks! Tonight! That’s all I know, I swear!" 

Chuuya studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Chuuya’s concern for Dazai flared in his chest like a firestorm. He leaned in closer, his voice a harsh whisper. "What about Dazai? Where is he? Was he taken by your people? Talk!"

The man’s wide, panicked eyes told Chuuya everything he needed to know—he had no idea what Chuuya was talking about. But that didn’t stop the rage from consuming him.

With a snarl, Chuuya threw a punch, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw in a sickening crack. The man cried out, his head snapping to the side, but Chuuya didn’t stop. Another punch. Then another. His fists slammed into the man with a ferocity that shocked even the grunts standing guard. They exchanged uneasy glances, the fear in their eyes growing as they watched their boss unleash his anger with unrelenting force.

Chuuya didn’t use his gravity manipulation—he didn’t need to. This wasn’t calculated or precise; it was raw, brutal, and primal. His fists did the talking, his voice hoarse as he shouted at the man to give him answers.

"Tell me everything you know!" he roared, landing another blow to the man’s stomach. The chair screeched against the floor as the man slumped forward, coughing violently, blood dripping onto the concrete.

But Chuuya wasn’t done. He grabbed the man’s hair, forcing him to look up. "Talk!"

The man tried to speak, but the words came out as unintelligible moans. His eyes rolled back, his body limp and unresponsive. He wasn’t even conscious anymore.

Still, Chuuya stood over him, breathing heavily, his fists bloodied and trembling. The room was silent except for his ragged breaths. Even the mafia grunts had gone pale, their usual composure replaced with unease as they watched their commander lose control.

Chuuya finally let go, the man’s head lolling forward as he slumped in the chair, completely out cold. Chuuya stepped back, his chest heaving, the adrenaline and rage coursing through him like a storm. His mind was a tangled mess of anger, frustration, and guilt.

The pain in his head throbbed harder, Arahabaki’s mocking laughter echoing in his mind. "So much power... and yet you waste it," the voice sneered. "You could’ve ended this with a single thought. Why hold back?"

Chuuya gritted his teeth, ignoring the taunt. But deep down, he couldn’t deny the truth in those words. He turned to the grunts, his voice cold and sharp. "Clean this up," he ordered, not waiting for their response. He turned and headed for the stairs. "And keep him here," he added. "I might have more questions later."

As he ascended the steps, his mind raced. If the man’s information was accurate, the old docks could be the break he needed. But if it was a trap, he couldn’t afford to walk into it blindly. Either way, he had no intention of sitting idly by.

The cold night air greeted him as he stepped outside, his breath visible in the chill. He removed the bloodied gloves and put on a spare pair he kept in the seat on the bike. Pulling out his phone, he dialed Hirotsu, his voice sharp and commanding. "Get a team ready. We’re heading to the old docks. If there’s a shipment, I want it intercepted. If there’s a dealer, I want them alive."

Hanging up, Chuuya slipped his phone back into his pocket and adjusted his hat. Arahabaki stirred within him, its presence a simmering heat just beneath his skin, as if it were waiting for the moment to unleash its fury. He clenched his fists, determined to keep it at bay. This was his fight, not Arahabaki’s.

His hands were still shaking as he lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in the dark. The image of the beaten man, unconscious and broken, lingered in his mind. And for the first time in a long while, Chuuya wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of Arahabaki—or himself.

Chuuya took a moment to pull himself together again, then hopped on his bike and headed to the old docks. When he got there, the mafia had already secured a small ship and its crew with a shipment of weapons. The crates looked similar to what the guy from the ambush had described but smaller in scale. This had to be the shipment. While part of the mafia stayed on alert to see if anyone came to pick it up, Chuuya boarded the docked ship. He ordered the mafia to take the ship’s crew in for questioning, even though they looked like regular sailors and deckhands who had just been paid off to deliver the shipment.

Then, one of the grunts called desperately for Chuuya. Chuuya headed their way, his irritation mounting. And it became obvious this was another setup. In the ship’s cabin, on top of a table, there was a small box with a ribbon on it and a tag that read, "To Executive Nakahara."

Anger for having fallen for another trap—or whatever this was—boiled within the already unstable Chuuya. He could feel the familiar burn clawing at his insides as he reached for the box. Arahabaki’s voice, usually mocking or smug, now turned into rageful, guttural sounds that echoed in the back of his mind, threatening to consume him entirely.

With trembling hands, Chuuya lifted the lid of the box. His breath hitched, and for a moment, the world around him blurred. Inside the box was a pair of sliced fingers, parts of a pinky and ring finger, neatly placed next to each other. A nauseating wave of bile rose in his throat, but what made his blood run cold was the sickening realization—he recognized them.

Dazai’s.

The sight of them sent a jolt of rage and despair through Chuuya’s entire being. His vision blurred red, and his hands clenched the edges of the box so tightly that it threatened to crumble under his grip. Arahabaki roared within him, feeding off his emotions, urging him to let go, to unleash the destruction simmering beneath the surface. For a moment, Chuuya’s body trembled, caught in a violent battle between his own humanity and the monstrous power clawing to take over.

He staggered back, his breath ragged, his heart pounding against his ribs as if trying to escape the sheer weight of the realization. His mind reeled, torn between anger and the gnawing fear that maybe—just maybe—it was too late to save Dazai. But the thought of Dazai in pain, of him being mutilated and tortured, only fueled the storm within.

The mafia grunts around him exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak. They had seen Chuuya angry before, but this was different. The air around him felt suffocating, charged with an almost tangible fury that made them step back instinctively.

Chuuya’s voice, low and trembling with rage, broke the heavy silence. “Who left this here?”

No one answered immediately, and Chuuya snapped his gaze toward the nearest grunt, his eyes blazing. “I said, WHO?!”

The grunt stammered, “W-we don’t know, sir! It was just there when we searched the cabin!”

Chuuya growled, his patience long gone. He slammed the box back onto the table, the contents shifting slightly inside, though he couldn’t bear to look at it again. His fists clenched at his sides as he fought to keep himself grounded, to keep Arahabaki from taking over completely.

“Get me every shred of evidence from this ship,” Chuuya hissed through gritted teeth. “I want to know who sent this and where they are. And I want it now. ”

The grunts scrambled to obey, their fear propelling them into action. Chuuya stood there for a moment, staring down at the box as his breathing came in sharp, uneven bursts. Arahabaki’s voice continued to claw at him, tempting him with promises of power and vengeance.

His body trembled with rage and something deeper, something he refused to name. The sight of Dazai’s severed fingers in that box burned itself into his mind, an image he knew he would never be able to forget. But now wasn’t the time to fall apart. Not yet.

Chuuya grabbed the box containing the gruesome token and stormed out, his steps heavy with barely-contained fury. As he reached the dock, he fumbled for his flask, his hands shaking. He tilted it back, but only a few drops trickled out. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

That was the last straw.

He shoved the flask back into his pocket and swung onto his bike, the metallic hum of Arahabaki’s voice now a roar in the back of his mind, feeding off his rage, his helplessness. The burn inside him intensified, each thrum of power coursing through his veins a cruel reminder of how unstable he was becoming.

Buzzed from the alcohol still in his veins but far from drunk enough to numb the anger, the pain, the hurt—everything—Chuuya made a bar club his next stop. The ride there blurred in his mind, his focus honed only on drowning out the chaos inside him.

Chapter Text

Chuuya was welcomed with a drink as soon as he walked into the club, as if they had already prepared for his arrival. And from then on, there wasn’t a single minute a drink was missing from his hand. Glass after glass, he downed them without hesitation—whiskey, vodka, whatever they handed him. He didn’t stop there.

The haze of alcohol was fast but not enough. It numbed the edges but couldn’t drown out the burn inside him. When someone offered him a small line of coke on the table, he didn’t hesitate. He leaned down, inhaled, and let it mix with the alcohol already coursing through his system. The rush hit instantly, sharp and bright, sending a wave of false clarity through his mind. But it wasn’t enough.

He kept going. More drinks, another line. The music pounded in his ears, the dim lights flashing in a dizzying blur. Everything felt distant yet painfully raw at the same time. He needed to forget. Just for a little while.

But Arahabaki wasn’t silent. The god inside him stirred, its rage growing with each passing moment.

Chuuya let himself sink deeper, surrounded by a haze of bodies, laughter, and the bitter bite of liquor. Random people clung to him, all just as wasted as he was, almost melting into one another in the dim glow of the club lights. They took turns doing lines of coke, heads dipping down over mirrored surfaces, pupils blown wide with the rush. Shots passed from hand to hand, sometimes straight from each other’s mouths—reckless, mindless, exactly what Chuuya was looking for.

The danger bells in his head were blaring now, but he ignored them. He was nearing a limit, a line he had always been careful not to cross before. But right now? He didn’t care. He just wanted to drown it all out, shut it all down—his anger, his fear, Arahabaki’s voice clawing at his skull.

His body buzzed with a mixture of substances, heart racing too fast, thoughts too jumbled to make sense of. But at least, for now, he didn’t have to think.

Someone crashed into him, lips pressing hard against his, the taste of alcohol and something sweeter mixing in the heat of the moment. Then, a pill slipped past his lips, rolling down his throat before he could even process it. Oh, he noticed. He felt it. But he didn’t care. Judgment and caution had long since been abandoned.

Chuuya returned the kiss without hesitation, without even bothering to see who it was. Hands tangled in his hair, fingers grazing over his shoulders, but none of it mattered. The burn of whatever he'd just swallowed started to spread, a slow, creeping numbness that felt almost like relief.

Letting himself be consumed by this—by the drinks, the drugs, the strangers—was easier than being consumed by Arahabaki. Easier than letting the anger fester. Easier than facing the pit of helplessness inside him.

So he let it take him.

The stranger didn’t let go. Their grip was firm, almost possessive, as they easily pulled Chuuya away from the crowd. Normally, he would’ve hated being handled like this, would’ve fought back immediately. But in this haze—buzzed, high, and detached—he found himself strangely compliant. Lenient. Obedient, even.

He followed without resistance, his legs moving on their own. The music pounded through his skull, the flashing lights blurring everything together into a mess of colors and movement.

“I’ve got some friends that want to meet you,” the stranger murmured, lips brushing against his ear.

Chuuya barely processed the words, barely cared. He just let himself be dragged along.

Mocking laughter erupted as Chuuya stumbled his way up the stairs, his footing unsteady, his mind fogged beyond recognition. Another pair of arms grabbed him roughly, hastening the process, pushing and pulling him along like he was nothing more than a ragdoll. He barely registered it.

He was shoved into a room—a VIP room, maybe, though it was hard to tell. Even away from the main dance floor, the space was suffocatingly loud. Their own music blared through the speakers, ugly laughter and the clinking of glasses mixing into the chaos.

Chuuya was forced down onto a seat, unfamiliar arms immediately draping over his shoulders like an old friend. Someone was speaking to him—close, too close—but the words were lost to the deafening roar in his head. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t understand. And, most of all, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

His tunnel vision honed in on one thing only: more. More to drink, more to numb the raw ache clawing at his insides. Without bothering to take in his surroundings, without sparing a glance at the strangers surrounding him, he reached out blindly toward the center table, aiming for the vodka-filled glass sitting there.

But his hand barely brushed against it before his own drunkenness betrayed him. His knees buckled, his body tilted, and he slipped forward, collapsing onto the floor. The glass tumbled from the table, vodka spilling over the floor, over his hands, over his clothes.

Laughter followed. Louder this time. Crueler.

Chuuya tried to push himself back up, but the same hands from before shoved him down again, knocking him off balance.

“Look at you, the strong and untouchable,” the voice sneered, laced with amusement.

A flicker of clarity cut through the haze, just enough for Chuuya to recognize that voice. His hand instinctively reached for his hat, a grounding habit, but it was gone. His stomach twisted.

Struggling, he tried to stand, his movements sluggish, uncoordinated—he almost had to crawl. But before he could move an inch, a hand gripped his jaw, fingers digging into his skin, forcing his head up.

“Bet someone like you needs to unwind,” the voice murmured, close enough that Chuuya could feel the warmth of their breath. “Let me take care of that.”

That confirmed it.

The man from that other night.

Panic flared inside him, but his body refused to respond. The pill—whatever it was—must have taken full effect. He was trying, desperately, to order his limbs to move, to shove the bastard away, to stand, but it was as if his body had finally disconnected from his mind.

It was what he had been chasing all night, wasn’t it? The feeling of shutting everything off. But now, now it was happening at the worst time.

His body wasn’t listening to him .

It was listening to them .

“I think it’s time to apologize and make it up to me,” the man purred, grip tightening.

Laughter erupted around them, more mocking snickers in the background.

Chuuya barely registered the hands on him anymore. His head swam, his body slumped, and the last shreds of lucidness slipped away, leaving only a blank stare.

The black-haired man yanked his head forward by the hair, forcing Chuuya’s face between his thighs. Another pair of hands pinned his arms back, holding him in place. He barely had the strength to resist.

A zipper came undone.

Fingers traced over his lips, mockingly, possessively.

“Now, just watch the teeth,” the man murmured.

And then—

A crash.

The pressure on his arms disappeared as the man restraining him was yanked away, landing with a heavy thud against the floor.

Before Chuuya could react, the black-haired man was suddenly lifted off his seat. A startled shout barely escaped him before a fist collided with his face, sending him reeling. The sound of brutal, methodical strikes echoed through the room, followed by pained grunts and gasps.

Chuuya swayed to the side, barely keeping himself upright. His glazed eyes landed on the table. There was a glass there. He reached for it sluggishly, intent on taking another drink, but his fingers failed him. The glass slipped from his grasp, shattering against the floor.

Before he could slump forward, strong arms caught him from behind, holding him carefully to keep him from falling. The touch was firm but gentle, steadying him in a way nothing else had all night.

Chuuya groaned, a feeble complaint about yet another spilled drink, his mind too fogged to process anything else.

Then, a voice—smooth, familiar, dripping with exasperation and something else—spoke close to his ear.

“Haven’t I told you before how dangerous it is for you to go drinking on your own? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re doing it on purpose, eh? Chibi? ”

Even through the thick haze clouding his senses, something about that voice made Chuuya’s breath hitch. It was sweet, like honey—warm, teasing, and infuriatingly familiar.

Dazai.

Chapter Text

Dazai took Chuuya home, using the spare key he never returned. As he stepped inside, his nose wrinkled at the stale scent of alcohol and cigarettes clinging to the air. The apartment was a mess—empty bottles scattered across the floor and countertops, dirty ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, and clothes tossed haphazardly over furniture. The usually tidy space now looked more like a rundown hideout than the home of a Mafia executive.

Dazai exhaled through his nose, locking the door behind him before shifting his focus back to Chuuya, who was barely standing on his own.

Chuuya drifted in and out of consciousness as Dazai hauled him to the bathroom, holding his hair back while he vomited into the toilet. The acidic stench filled the space, but Dazai remained unfazed, rubbing slow circles into Chuuya’s back as his body rejected all the poison he had drowned himself in.

“Shitty… Dazai…” Chuuya slurred between dry heaves, voice hoarse and weak. His feeble attempts at swinging at Dazai were laughable, arms barely lifting before flopping back down uselessly.

Dazai huffed, dodging the nonexistent hits effortlessly. “Tch. Your alcohol tolerance is still embarrassing, Chuuya. What kind of executive gets this drunk, hm?” He sighed, a mocking lilt to his voice. “Can’t even leave you alone for a moment without you needing me to come rescue you. You’re so needy.”

Chuuya grumbled something incoherent, but Dazai only smirked.

He didn’t bother waiting for permission before undressing Chuuya, peeling off his ruined clothes and hauling him into the shower. Chuuya weakly protested, grunting and slurring insults in between attempts to push him away, but Dazai ignored them all.

“Still as impulsive and reckless as ever, you slug,” Dazai muttered, adjusting the water to the right temperature.

As he lathered soap over Chuuya’s battered body, his fingers ghosted over bruises and cuts—ones that hadn’t been there the last time he saw him. A deep frown tugged at Dazai’s lips, but he quickly wiped his expression clean. He pretended not to notice the fresh wounds. Pretended not to notice how much weight Chuuya had lost.

Once he was satisfied that Chuuya was clean, Dazai pulled him out of the shower and wrapped him in a towel, patting him dry with gentle, practiced movements. Chuuya was barely responsive now, too exhausted and dazed to fight back.

Dazai dressed him in fresh clothes and guided him to bed, maneuvering him onto the mattress with ease. He tucked the blanket over him, brushing damp strands of ginger hair out of his face.

Dazai’s gaze drifted over the empty bottles, the cigarette butts, the mess that littered every corner of the apartment. He should’ve expected this.

No—he did expect this. He just didn’t want to admit it.

Running a hand through his hair, he let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no humor in it.

I should've accounted for you reacting this way.

Dazai sat there for a moment, watching Chuuya’s chest rise and fall in the steady rhythm of sleep. Even now, his brows were slightly furrowed, as if whatever haunted him in waking hours refused to let go even in his unconscious state.

With a quiet sigh, Dazai moved to lie down next to him, slipping under the covers with practiced ease. He placed a bandaged hand on Chuuya’s shoulder, the warmth of his touch grounding the smaller man. Almost immediately, Chuuya's breathing evened out, his body relaxing as if some invisible weight had been lifted. No Longer Human worked its quiet magic, easing the tension knotted deep in Chuuya’s muscles.

Dazai stayed like that for a moment, watching the way Chuuya finally— finally —seemed to rest.

~~~~~

Chuuya regretted opening his eyes the moment the room spun violently around him. His head throbbed, his body heavy with exhaustion as he lay motionless, staring at the ceiling, caught in that hazy space between sleep and regret. For a moment, he simply existed, his mind sluggish—until flashes of last night slammed into him all at once.

Dazai.

His breath hitched as he turned his head, checking the space beside him. Empty. A strange unease crept in as he forced himself upright, his muscles protesting. He staggered to the bathroom first—empty, but spotless. His brows furrowed. That wasn’t right.

His steps quickened as he moved to the living room. The bottles, the ashtrays, the mess that had built up over weeks of self-destruction—gone. Everything was clean. Too clean.

What the hell?

Dazai wasn’t the type to tidy up after himself, let alone someone else. Doubt gnawed at him. Had he imagined it all? Had his mind, in some desperate attempt at comfort, fabricated the entire thing?

Then, from the kitchen, he heard it.

The faint sound of something sizzling, followed by the clatter of dishes. Chuuya froze, his headache momentarily forgotten as he turned toward the kitchen.

He stepped forward cautiously, half expecting some kind of hallucination. But as he reached the doorway, there he was.

Dazai stood by the stove, sleeves rolled up, casually flipping something in a pan. His bandaged hands moved with ease, and the scent of coffee mixed with whatever he was cooking filled the air.

Chuuya blinked. No way.

“You’re awake, finally,” Dazai said without turning around. “I was starting to think you’d sleep the whole day away, but I suppose even slugs need to move eventually.”

Chuuya scowled, pressing his fingers against his temple as a sharp pulse of pain reminded him of his hangover. “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was rough, and he hated the way it cracked slightly.

Dazai turned then, smirking as he held up a spatula like a goddamn trophy. “Making breakfast, obviously. You’re practically a corpse right now, and I doubt your body can handle another night of self-destruction without some real food.”

Chuuya just stared. Between the fact that Dazai was here, in his kitchen, cooking as if this was the most normal thing in the world, and the pounding in his skull, he wasn’t sure what to address first.

His eyes flickered over the kitchen counter—neatly arranged dishes, a fresh pot of coffee, and plates that were actually clean. 

So it wasn’t a dream.

A heavy, suffocating weight started to settle in Chuuya’s chest, twisting something deep inside him. Just yesterday, he had nearly believed Dazai to be mutilated, possibly dead. And yet, here he was—standing in his kitchen like nothing had changed, like he had never left.

It was too much.

Amidst the absurdity of the situation and the whirlwind of confusion, Chuuya acted on instinct. With a low growl, he lunged, slamming into Dazai with full force. They crashed to the floor, the impact rattling through them both, but Dazai barely made a sound as the air left his lungs.

"Are you fucking kidding?!" Chuuya snarled, his voice shaking with rage. "You fuck—" His hands fisted into Dazai’s collar, yanking him up before slamming his fist into his face.

"Breakfast?! That’s all you’ve got to say?! You shitty bastard!" 

Chuuya was furious. He wanted to demand answers—to ask Dazai why. Why he had abandoned him. Why he had ignored his calls. Why he had disappeared without a word. But Chuuya had never been one to express his feelings in a healthy way. So instead, he let his fists speak for him.

Dazai didn’t fight back. Didn’t block. Didn’t even flinch.

That only made Chuuya angrier.

He struck Dazai again and again—for leaving without so much as a note, for putting him through hell. And yet, beneath the fury, a bitter truth gnawed at him. He knew he couldn’t blame Dazai for everything. His anger, his pain, his inability to cope—that was on him. But none of that changed the fact that he was still desperately, deeply hurt. And now, Dazai had the audacity to reappear, as if he hadn’t shattered him, as if his absence hadn’t left scars

His knuckles split against Dazai’s cheekbone, the sting barely registering through the flood of emotions crashing over him. Why didn’t he say anything? Why was he just lying there, taking it?

He hit him again. And again.

But something was different.

There was no roaring in the back of Chuuya's mind, no guttural growl threatening to consume him. No searing heat from the inside out, no Arahabaki clawing at his veins, demanding more destruction.

This anger was his .

It was his rage, his frustration, his own human emotions—not the byproduct of a god sealed inside his body. Just him, Chuuya Nakahara, taking out the fury of abandonment, the pain of uncertainty, the suffocating confusion that had been eating him alive.

His fist hovered in the air for a moment before finally lowering.

His own breathing was ragged, his pulse hammering in his ears. Dazai’s face was a mess of fresh bruises and blood, but his expression remained eerily neutral, his half-lidded eyes watching Chuuya with something he couldn't place. Dazai turned his head, spitting blood to the side, before his fingers curled around Chuuya’s wrist, weak but steady.

"Are you done now?" Dazai murmured, voice annoyingly casual despite everything.

Chuuya opened his mouth to snap back, but then—his gaze drifted downward.

And he saw it.

Dazai’s hand.

Two fingers. Missing.

The air left Chuuya’s lungs all at once. His anger cracked, giving way to something colder, something sickening. His stomach twisted violently as realization dawned.

Chuuya's fingers trembled where they still clutched Dazai’s collar. His lips parted, but only one word escaped, quiet and shaken.

"Dazai—"

Before Chuuya could say anything else, a violent wave of nausea crashed over him. His body seized, and before he could even brace himself, he doubled over. A sickening retch tore through him, and vomit and last night’s mistakes spilled out, landing mere inches from Dazai’s head.

Chuuya groaned, trembling as he barely managed to keep himself upright. His arms shook from the effort, his body exhausted from the abuse he had put it through.

"Ah, Chuuya," Dazai sighed dramatically, tilting his head to the side to avoid the mess. "If you wanted me dead, there are more dignified ways to do it."

Chuuya barely had the strength to glare at him, his face pale as another wave of nausea rolled through him. Dazai clicked his tongue, gently pushing Chuuya off of him before sitting up.

"Come on," Dazai muttered, grabbing Chuuya by the arm and pulling him up with ease. "Let’s get you cleaned up. Again."

Chuuya groaned in protest, but this time, he didn’t fight Dazai’s grip.

Chapter Text

Chuuya let Dazai guide him to the bathroom, his legs heavy, his body sluggish—but he forced himself to move. The moment they reached the doorway, he shoved off of Dazai, standing on his own with a stubborn determination.

Dazai watched as Chuuya clumsily tugged at his own shirt, only for it to get caught over his head. He reached out to help, but Chuuya slapped his hand away without hesitation.

“I can do it myself,” Chuuya grumbled, his voice raw from last night’s excess.

Dazai raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No need for more violence, Chuuya.”

Satisfied, Chuuya turned his back on him and finished undressing, assuming Dazai had finally decided to mind his own business. Chuuya stepped into the shower, exhaling a heavy sigh as the warm water cascaded over him, soothing his battered body. 

His mind kept circling back, trying to make sense of everything. Last night at the club. Dazai showed up out of nowhere. He’s missing his fingers. That meant Dazai had been taken by the enemy. And Chuuya hadn’t been the one to save him. The realization burned, frustration curling in his chest like a vice.

Despite the confusion and anger, one fact remained. Dazai was here. He was alive. He was with him.

The heat dulled the pounding in his head, numbing him just enough to relax—until he felt the distinct sensation of the shower door sliding open.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Chuuya snapped, spinning around just in time to shove Dazai back.

Still standing just outside the glass, Dazai barely budged, his arms crossed, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I need to clean up too. Look at the mess you made of me.”

Chuuya scowled. “Use the damn sink.”

Dazai's grin widened. “Come on, Chuuya, it’s not like there’s anything I haven’t seen before.”

“Fuck off!” Chuuya barked, shoving the glass door shut so forcefully it rattled in its frame.

“Fine.” Dazai shrugged, stepping back. “But if you slip and crack your skull in there, don’t blame me. How many times do I have to save your reckless ass, huh?”

“Shut up. Nobody asked you to,” Chuuya muttered under his breath.

“Huh?” Dazai cupped a hand around his ear. “What was that?”

Chuuya bit his tongue, refusing to repeat himself. He wasn’t about to admit that, despite everything, he felt a little more at ease knowing Dazai was there.

When no response came, Dazai simply turned on the sink and began washing his bloodied face. He wiped away the crimson streaks, dabbing at his split lip with an almost lazy indifference. By the time he finished, Chuuya was still in the shower.

A moment later, the bathroom door creaked open slightly, and Chuuya poked just half of his body out, gripping the frame with wet fingers. His torso was bare, droplets of water dripping from his damp hair onto his flushed skin, but the rest of him remained hidden behind the door.

“Where the hell are all the towels?” he grumbled. “I can’t find a single—”

A towel smacked him in the face.

Chuuya ripped it away with an irritated growl, shooting a glare at Dazai, who only smirked in response. He was about to snap when he noticed Dazai inspecting his own reflection, touching the corner of his mouth where Chuuya’s fist had split his lip. The sight sent an odd sensation crawling up Chuuya’s spine—something that wasn’t quite guilt, but close enough to irritate him further. He wasn’t going to apologize. Dazai deserved it.

Catching the glare Chuuya sent his way, Dazai sighed dramatically. “Are you gonna kick me out of the room too? So cruel, Chuuya.”

Chuuya wrapped the towel securely around his waist before stepping closer to Dazai, who had turned away after his last remark. Without thinking, Chuuya reached out, catching Dazai’s chin between his fingers and turning his face to inspect the split lip.

“You’ll need actual antibiotics, or that’s gonna get infected,” he said bluntly.

Dazai let his gaze linger, watching as water dripped from Chuuya’s damp hair, tracing familiar paths along his skin. The sight was almost exactly as he remembered—the lean, taut muscles of his shoulders and torso, the sharp definition of his collarbones, the V-line disappearing beneath the towel at his waist. A little thinner, a few new bruises, but still unmistakably Chuuya .

Dazai reached out with his unharmed hand, his fingers curled around Chuuya’s wrist, then slid lower, settling on his waist, playfully moving his fingers to touch Chuuya's skin under the towel. When Chuuya didn’t immediately shove him off, he took his chances, wrapping both arms around him, pulling him in slowly. Without a word, he leaned forward, resting his head against Chuuya’s abdomen. He felt the sharp lines of muscle press against his cheek, the rise and fall of Chuuya’s breath. A hitch. But no resistance. The dampness of Chuuya’s skin soaked into his hair.

Chuuya didn’t hug him back. He wasn’t ready for that—not yet. The warmth of Dazai’s touch, the familiarity of it, was something he had missed more than he cared to admit. A part of him wanted to give in, to return the embrace, to let himself sink into it, maybe even press their lips together just to confirm Dazai was really there. But beneath the longing, anger still simmered, hurt still gnawed at the edges of his restraint.

So he let Dazai stay there, allowed the contact, but nothing more.

A long silence passed before Chuuya finally exhaled, reluctant. “Thanks for last night.”

Dazai huffed a quiet laugh, breath warm against Chuuya’s skin. “Tell me, Chuuya, were you so worried about me that you had to go on a reckless bender just to avoid admitting it?” His voice was teasing, but there was something softer in the way he held him.

Chuuya scoffed, shoving him away as if the physical contact had burned him. “As if! I was just fine when you left the Mafia—no annoying antics, no headache every damn day. It wasn’t until you got yourself caught like a dumbass that I had to pick up the slack. Even your stupid Detective Agency wouldn’t stop bugging me about it.”

Dazai smirked, something glinting in his eyes. “Oh? So you were thinking about me.”

“Shut up, bastard.” Chuuya turned on his heel, storming toward his closet.

Dazai watched him go, a slow, knowing grin curling at the edges of his lips.

While Chuuya was in his walk-in closet getting dressed, Dazai called out casually, “Hurry up and get back to the kitchen when you’re done. You need to eat something before you drop dead. I’m not carrying you again.” His tone was dripping with mockery.

“Like I’d ask you to, asshole,” Chuuya shot back from inside the closet, irritation clear in his voice.

Dazai huffed a soft laugh. “You’re pretty heavy for how tiny you look. I’d rather avoid the hassle.”

Chuuya scoffed. “Go to hell.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ve found out about this weapons dealer if you at least sit at the table with me,” Dazai added, ignoring the insult.

A pause. Then a low grunt of acknowledgment. Dazai smirked—he’d take that as a win.

Inside the closet, Chuuya sighed, too exhausted to care about what he grabbed. He pulled on the first things within reach—loose shorts and an oversized hoodie, prioritizing comfort over anything else. As he reached for his choker out of habit, his fingers met nothing but bare skin. His brows furrowed. It wasn’t around. Dazai must have taken it off last night when he brought him home.

The thought made his irritation spike. If he really wanted it back, he’d have to ask Dazai about it, and the idea alone pissed him off. With an annoyed huff, he finished dressing, shoved his feet into a pair of slippers, and made his way to the kitchen.

Dazai leaned back against the kitchen counter, watching as Chuuya begrudgingly took a seat at the table, arms crossed and still dripping faint traces of water from his damp hair. With a dramatic sigh, Dazai slid a plate of food in front of him. "Eat first. Talk later."

Chuuya scowled. "I don't need you babying me, shitty Dazai. Just tell me what you know."

Dazai merely shrugged, settling into the seat across from him. "Alright, alright. But don't blame me when you pass out from hunger before I get to the important parts."

Chuuya grumbled something under his breath but begrudgingly picked up his fork. Satisfied, Dazai folded his arms over the table.

Not that breakfast was much of a meal. Chuuya knew Dazai was a terrible cook—he could barely manage toast and eggs, and even that was a disaster. He had to poke around his plate with a fork, searching for the parts that looked remotely edible, but his stomach was still too queasy from the hangover to eat much. Instead, he focused on drinking water. Dazai, on the other hand, didn’t touch his food at all, sipping lazily at his coffee as if he had all the time in the world.

Chuuya had no patience for that. He set his glass down with a quiet thud, fixing Dazai with a sharp glare. “Alright, spit it out.”

Dazai blinked at him, feigning innocence. “Spit what out?”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened. “Don’t play dumb. Why don’t you start with that?” He nodded toward Dazai’s missing fingers. “What the hell happened?”

Dazai held up his hand, flexing what remained of his fingers as if just noticing them for the first time. “Oh, this?” His voice was light, almost amused. “Collateral damage. Hated the pain, but the outcome was useful .” He took a sip of coffee before adding, “Atsushi had to go through the same thing. Lucky bastard’s grew back.”

He said it so casually, as if discussing the weather. As if the sight of his own maimed hand was nothing more than an afterthought. 

Chuuya’s grip tightened around his glass. “Who took you? And how did you escape?” he asked, his voice steady but heavy with something he didn’t want to name.

"The Agency had agreed to meet with an unknown source for intel on the Guild. It was all a little too suspicious for my liking, so I took the liberty of arriving early," Dazai said, reclining lazily in his chair, utterly unfazed. "Didn’t take long to notice a few unfriendly mercenaries lurking around the perimeter. So, naturally, I let myself get caught snooping—figured it was the quickest way to get close to the real players behind the setup."

He tapped his fingers idly against the table with his injured hand. "And it worked. Atsushi got dragged into it too—poor thing couldn't help but follow me."

While Dazai spoke, Chuuya became aware of something strange—silence. Arahabaki, the ever-present chaos within him, had gone still. It wasn’t just quiet. It had completely subsided. His gut twisted at the realization, at the unspoken truth of how much Dazai’s absence had affected him. He hated it.

His gaze flickered with amusement as he continued, "They didn’t waste any time roughing us up, following orders to cut us into pieces if we didn’t start talking. Very dedicated to their jobs, I must say."

Dazai let out a breathy chuckle. "They still had us at their mercy when the explosion went off. Now that was loud."

Dazai caught the frown on Chuuya’s face. "Yeah, we were right there when the Agency—and you—showed up," he continued, his tone light, almost indifferent. "Not that we could do much to alert you with the way they had us restrained."

He exhaled as if bored, idly tapping his fingers against the table. "It wasn’t until they got a call from our dear weapons dealer that they let their guard down. Lucky for us, I managed to undo the restraints with the fingers I had left, and Atsushi handled the rest just fine."

His lips curled slightly. "Though some of them did take off with our fingers. Which they were kind enough to deliver to the Agency… and to you."

His words were casual, almost conversational, but the weight behind them settled thick in the air.

"With Ranpo’s Super Deduction, it didn’t take long to identify our mystery supplier," Dazai added, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small photograph and slid it across the table. A mugshot.

Chuuya’s eyes widened, recognition striking like a bolt of lightning.

“Looks familiar?” Dazai asked, tilting his head. “He should. He’s the man the Mafia apprehended for you to question. The one you almost beat to death.”

"Jack Barham. Weapons dealer. Arms supplier. But not just any supplier—he’s been working for the highest bidders in the underworld. His inventory? Some of the most sophisticated tech we’ve ever seen on the market. And now, he’s making his move in Yokohama."

Chuuya’s expression darkened.

"Jack isn’t just a criminal," said Dazai, "He’s a dangerous ability user."

Dazai leaned forward slightly. "He’s far more complex than we assumed. He escaped the Mafia’s grasp almost immediately after your interrogation, and he made sure no one who could warn you survived."

Chuuya’s hands curled into fists. "I’m gonna make that bastard pay—"

"Don’t waste your energy." Dazai cut him off, his voice sharp, leaving no room for argument. "He’s not the feeble, pathetic man you questioned. He let you beat him up. He wanted you angry, reckless, vulnerable."

Chuuya scoffed, ready to call bullshit, but Dazai wasn’t finished.

"You mentioned my name to him, didn’t you?"

Chuuya’s breath caught as the memory resurfaced—the interrogation, Jack’s body slumped over after Chuuya had mindlessly beaten him, the slip of his tongue when frustration had gotten the better of him. A mistake so basic, so careless. He should’ve known better.

"That’s why he sent my fingers to you," Dazai said, his gaze sharp, unreadable. "The moment he slipped from the Mafia’s grasp, he made sure that message reached you. Not for any grand reason—just to tip the scales a little further, to throw one of the Mafia’s top executives off balance."

Chuuya exhaled sharply.

This wasn’t just a mistake. It was a failure—one an executive of the Port Mafia had no excuse for. If he had been more careful, if he had done his damn job right…

Dazai might still have all of his fingers.

Chuuya clenched his jaw, glancing away. “Why now? Does he really think he can shake up the Tripartite Alliance just by selling weapons and stirring up trouble?”

Dazai’s usual playful mask faded, replaced by something sharper, more serious. “Because he’s not just an arms dealer. He’s an instigator. He doesn’t just sell weapons—he sells wars.”

Chuuya stiffened.

“He’s been fueling conflicts between rival organizations, arming both Gifted and non-Gifted alike, pushing them toward destruction,” Dazai continued. “Yokohama’s balance is already on a knife’s edge. All Barham has to do is add fuel to the fire. It won’t be long before everything spirals into chaos.”

“Chaos? Is that what Jack wants?” Chuuya asked, his voice steady despite the tension simmering beneath it. “During the interrogation, he mentioned someone above him—someone more influential. Or was that just more bullshit?”

Dazai exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Jack is a master manipulator. Lies and half-truths are second nature to him. But according to what Ranpo managed to piece together… Jack’s only been responsible for gathering people—Gifted and non-Gifted alike—selling high-tech weaponry, distributing experimental drugs. Stuff that shouldn’t even be in circulation yet. More than likely, yes, someone else is pulling the strings.”

Chuuya’s jaw clenched as memories flickered—his meeting with the weapons dealer, the explosion, the boat.

“What the hell are we waiting for?” he demanded. “Can’t your detective friend just tell us where to find Jack and whoever’s behind all this?”

Dazai tilted his head, feigning boredom. “You think we haven’t tried that already?” His expression darkened. “Ranpo was taken out of action. A nights ago, someone ambushed him. We don’t know what kind of weapon—or drug—they used, but Ranpo is in a coma. Not even Yosano could figure out what happened.”

Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “And what’s your plan, then?”

Dazai smirked, propping his chin on his hand. “Oh, I have a few ideas. But first, you’re going to finish eating.” His tone was light, but there was no room for argument. “If Ranpo’s deduction is correct—and let’s be honest, it always is—we still have a little time before they make their next move.”

He tilted his head, gaze flicking over Chuuya with something annoyingly smug. “Besides, you don’t look like you’re in any condition to fight right now.”

Chuuya was offended, but Dazai was right. Days of self-neglect and an imprudent bender had thrown him off his game. His body felt sluggish, his head still pounded faintly from last night’s drinking, and the lack of proper meals had left his strength waning—not that he’d ever admit it.

“Tch.” Chuuya clicked his tongue, stabbing his fork into the sad excuse for breakfast on his plate. “I don’t need you lecturing me, Dazai. I’m fine.”

Dazai hummed, unconvinced. “Oh? Then stand up.”

Chuuya scowled. “What?”

Dazai gestured lazily. “Stand up. Walk across the room. If you don’t stumble even once , I’ll drop it.”

Chuuya’s grip tightened around his fork, irritation sparking in his veins. He wasn’t some weakling, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to let Dazai have the satisfaction of proving a point. With a sharp exhale, he pushed back his chair and stood—only for a brief wave of dizziness to wash over him. His balance wavered, barely noticeable, but of course, Dazai noticed .

Dazai’s smirk grew impossibly smug. “Ah. There it is.”

“Shut up, ” Chuuya growled, forcing himself upright. His pride wouldn’t let him falter further.

Dazai sighed, tapping a lazy finger against his mug. "Face it, Chuuya. If you show up to a fight like this, you’re just going to be in the way." His voice was light, almost indifferent, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. "Hungover, dehydrated, running on fumes—you'd be more of a liability than an asset. And I don’t have time to babysit you on the battlefield."

Chuuya bristled, his grip tightening around his fork. "The hell did you just say?"

Before he could launch into an argument, the doorbell rang. Instinct kicked in, and Chuuya stiffened like a dog on guard, eyes sharp as he turned toward the entrance. Meanwhile, Dazai—completely unfazed—rose to his feet with a hum.

"Ah, that must be the food I ordered."

Chuuya narrowed his eyes, still tense as he watched Dazai stroll to the door without a single ounce of caution. "You’re seriously ordering takeout at a time like this?"

Dazai shot him a sidelong glance, amusement flickering in his gaze. "What? Worried it’s an assassin?"

Chuuya didn’t dignify that with an answer, but his expression said enough.

Dazai chuckled, waving him off. "Relax, Chuuya. If anyone was stupid enough to try and kill me through the front door, I'd be flattered by their optimism."

Chuuya scoffed but stayed on alert as Dazai opened the door, revealing a delivery bag in the hands of a very unbothered courier. Dazai exchanged a few words, took the food, and shut the door behind him, carrying the bag over to the table.

As he set it down, Chuuya crossed his arms, eyeing him with suspicion. "So, you didn’t actually expect me to eat your food."

Dazai smirked. "Oh, of course not. I just served you that poor excuse of a meal to see if you’d actually eat." His tone was utterly smug, mocking. "And look at that—you barely touched it."

Chuuya felt his eye twitch. "You bastard—"

Dazai only grinned, unbothered, already reaching into the bag. "Now, this —this is what you call a proper meal."

As Dazai set out the plates, Chuuya ran a hand through his still-damp hair, mind racing. But I can't just take the whole day off—.

The thought barely left his mouth before panic struck him like a bolt of lightning. Shit. His phone. Did he lose it last night at the club? Or worse—was it stolen? He patted the pockets of his shorts, pulse quickening. And his hat—

Before full-blown panic could set in, Dazai casually tossed something toward him. Chuuya caught it reflexively, fingers closing around his phone.

"Relax," Dazai drawled, leaning against the counter. "It was off, but it still works. You left it at the bar, by the way. Good thing I have an eye for abandoned, pathetic things."

Chuuya shot him a glare but wasted no time plugging it into the nearest outlet. The moment it had enough charge, the screen lit up with a flood of notifications. Shit. Several missed calls—Akutagawa, Hirotsu, Tachihara, and others. Just as he was processing that, his phone vibrated again.

An incoming call. Hirotsu.

Chuuya took a steadying breath and answered.

"Young Master," Hirotsu’s voice was calm but carried an unmistakable concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Chuuya muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me what's going on."

Hirotsu gave him a brief update. It seemed that, for now, the Port Mafia and the Detective Agency were temporarily sharing intel, both after the same target—Jack Barham. The Mafia was already aware that Dazai had been found and were maintaining a constant watch for any sign of Jack or his people.

For the first time in hours, Chuuya exhaled, relieved—at least for now. "Got it," he said before ending the call.

But one concern still lingered.

"Here it is."

Chuuya turned just in time to see Dazai holding something out to him—his hat.

"I dusted it off as much as I could," Dazai said with mock sincerity, twirling the familiar black fedora between his fingers. "But really, what can you do with such a tacky, outdated hat?"

Chuuya didn’t respond, just took the hat from his hands. He turned it over, checking for any damage, running his fingers over the material. It was fine. He was fine.

But Dazai caught it—the faint brightness in Chuuya’s eyes. The way he held onto it just a little tighter.

"Shut up," Chuuya muttered, placing it on his head as if it belonged there and nowhere else.

Dazai only smirked, watching him with something unreadable in his gaze.

Chapter Text

After actually having a proper meal, Chuuya felt himself winding down, his body finally relaxing after days of self-neglect. His muscles loosened, and a heaviness settled over him, making his eyelids droop. He almost considered heading to bed—until Dazai interrupted his thoughts by gulping down the last spoonful of food, letting out an exaggerated yawn.

“Man, all this taking care of you sure has tired me out,” Dazai said, stretching his arms above his head. He stood up lazily, already heading out of the kitchen. “Try not to get yourself hurt while I go and take a nap, will you, Chuuya?”

“What?” Chuuya’s eyes widened, irritation boiling up. He barely knew what to address first—that he didn’t ask for Dazai’s help, that he could look after himself just fine, or that this was his house and Dazai was casually strolling off to his bedroom.

“Oi! Who the hell said you could sleep in my bed?!” Chuuya snapped, practically leaping from his chair.

Dazai waved him off without even turning around. “You wouldn’t be such a terrible host as to throw out your guest, would you?”

“You—! You’re not even a guest! You just showed up and made yourself at home!” Chuuya’s fists clenched, but his body was too exhausted to give chase.

“Exactly,” Dazai chimed, his voice echoing down the hallway. “So I’ll be borrowing your bed. Goodnight~”

Chuuya gritted his teeth, a vein throbbing at his temple. “It’s still the middle of the day, you bastard!”

But Dazai was already gone, the faint creak of the bedroom door closing echoing mockingly through the apartment. Chuuya stood there, seething, but as the minutes dragged on, his shoulders slumped. Damn it. He was tired. And his bed was…

Chuuya grumbled under his breath, rubbing his face with both hands before trudging to the couch. Fine. If that idiot was going to hog his bed, then he’d sleep right here. Not because he was giving in—no way. He was just too exhausted to argue.

With a heavy sigh, he flopped onto the couch, arm draped over his eyes. But as his body sank into the cushions, he couldn’t help but feel the faintest trace of relief. At least Dazai was safe.

Not that he’d ever admit that out loud.

Chuuya didn’t realize when he had drifted off to sleep, but a shiver roused him. Night had fallen, and a chilly breeze seeped through the window cracks, pricking at his skin. He instinctively hugged himself tighter, trying to preserve his body heat. Just as he considered getting up for a blanket, he sensed someone approaching.

His body tensed, but he kept his eyes closed, his breaths steady and even, pretending to still be asleep. Soft footsteps padded closer, followed by the subtle rustle of fabric. A warmth settled behind him, the couch dipping under the added weight. Then, a blanket was draped over him, enveloping him in warmth that carried the faint scent of Dazai.

Chuuya’s heart started pounding, a sharp contrast to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. He fought to keep his breathing steady as Dazai nestled into the narrow space between him and the back of the sofa, his movements slow and deliberate. Chuuya shifted just slightly, wordlessly giving Dazai more room, allowing his back to press into Dazai’s chest.

He tried to maintain the illusion of sleep, but his body betrayed him—muscles taut, pulse erratic, heat rising to his cheeks. Damn it. He wondered if Dazai could hear his heartbeat thudding like a jackhammer.

Dazai’s arm slipped over his waist, settling lightly, as if testing the waters. Chuuya’s breath hitched, his fingers curling into the blanket. He didn’t protest. He didn’t shove him away. He just... lay there, letting Dazai’s warmth seep into him, the steady rhythm of Dazai’s breathing gradually coaxing his own into a calmer pace.

They stayed like that, tangled under the blanket, the dim light of the lights from outside casting soft shadows across the room. Chuuya’s head dipped forward slightly, his hair brushing Dazai’s arm. Dazai didn’t move, didn’t speak, just held him there, his grip firm but gentle.

Chuuya couldn’t quite pinpoint why he let it happen, why he allowed Dazai to close the space between them. Maybe he was too tired to argue. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone. Maybe he missed him…

Sleep crept back in, heavier this time, and Chuuya let himself sink into it, his body unconsciously relaxing against Dazai’s. If Dazai noticed—and of course he did—he didn’t say a word. He just stayed there, silent and steady, as if keeping the nightmares at bay.

And, for the second night in a row, Chuuya slept soundly.

Creeping light from dawn spilled through the window, brushing softly against the tangle of limbs on the couch. Chuuya’s eyelids fluttered, waking to the gentle vibration of a hum. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from Dazai, still half-asleep, a low, contented sound resonating from his chest.

Chuuya’s body was enveloped by warmth, and he quickly became aware that he was no longer facing away from Dazai. In fact, his face was tucked into the crook of Dazai’s neck, his arms loosely curled between them, his leg draped over Dazai’s. They were tangled together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His cheeks tingled, a rush of heat flooding his face as he fought the urge to jerk away. His body, however, refused to move, too comfortable and warm to break the delicate spell of dawn. His mind wandered back to a time long ago, back when this sort of thing wasn’t unusual. Back when Dazai hadn’t left.

Back then, after a hard-won battle or a mission gone sideways, it was almost routine to end up tangled together like this—winding down after the adrenaline rush, bruises blooming beneath their skin, muscles sore and exhausted. They’d crash at Chuuya’s place more often than not, his apartment cleaner and more organized, more of a home than Dazai’s ever was. And then, inevitably, this would happen. The lazy mornings, the quiet moments where words were unnecessary. And sometimes more...

But that was then. And this was now. And the man holding him was no longer the same. How could he be, after all he’d done? After he walked out on the Port Mafia—on Chuuya—without a word of warning, abandoning the life they both knew. He betrayed them. He betrayed him .

Chuuya’s gaze narrowed, his chest tightening as he looked up at Dazai’s sleeping face. How could he just sleep so peacefully, as if nothing had happened? How could he lose his fingers—literally lose parts of himself—and still look so damned unbothered? What was going on in that twisted head of his?

Just as Chuuya’s thoughts began to spiral, Dazai’s eyes cracked open, a lazy, drowsy gleam in their depths. His lips curved into a sleepy smirk as he murmured, “Stop staring at me like that, chibi, or I’ll think you’re up to no good.”

Chuuya’s face flushed with heat, anger and embarrassment battling within him. He shoved at Dazai’s chest, finally breaking free of his warmth as he sat up, yanking the blanket off with him. “Who’s staring? You’re imagining things, dumbass!”

Dazai merely stretched, his smirk never wavering. “Mmhm. Sure.” He folded his arms behind his head, still sprawled out on the couch, looking infuriatingly comfortable. “If you wanted to cuddle all night, you just had to ask, chibi.”

Chuuya’s fingers twitched with the urge to strangle him. “Don’t get cocky! You’re the one who wormed his way into my bed—”

“Your couch, technically.”

“Shut up!” Chuuya’s cheeks were burning now, his heart pounding at the memory of how naturally he’d let Dazai fit behind him. How easily he’d fallen back into old habits. He gritted his teeth, scowling. “And don’t call me chibi, you jerk.”

Dazai only hummed, his eyes drifting shut again, a lazy, satisfied smile playing on his lips. “Whatever you say... Chuuya .”

Chuuya huffed, his fists clenching. How was it that Dazai could be so infuriating, so damn smug, even after all this time? Even after everything he’d done? Even after breaking his trust... and his heart.

As Chuuya made a move to stand and put distance between himself and the tangled mess of feelings Dazai stirred within him, Dazai’s hand shot out, wrapping around his arm. The motion was so quick and effortless that Chuuya lost his balance, stumbling back onto the couch—straight into Dazai’s lap.

“No need to rush off so soon,” Dazai drawled, his voice annoyingly casual as his arms snaked around Chuuya, holding him in place. “You keep insisting you don’t want to cuddle, but your actions say otherwise. And you know... I don’t mind at all, Chuuya. You can be honest with me.” His lips curled into that infuriatingly smug grin, even with the busted lip from the punch Chuuya had given him earlier.

“You piece of shit...” Chuuya gritted through his teeth, his fists clenching, but for some reason, he didn’t push Dazai away. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. Instead, he pulled back just enough to put a breath of space between them but stayed close, his thighs now straddling Dazai’s lap.

“Hm?” Dazai’s eyes gleamed with playful curiosity, noticing Chuuya’s hesitation but choosing not to comment on it. Instead, he sat up, his hands resting lightly on Chuuya’s hips, and by doing so, Chuuya found himself sitting saddle on Dazai, faces close, breaths mingling.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Dazai just looked at him, his gaze unwavering, the barest hint of softness flickering in his brown eyes. It was rare, seeing him this... quiet, this vulnerable. Chuuya’s initial anger wavered, and his own expression softened, almost unconsciously, as his eyes traced Dazai’s features.

Dazai’s face was different without the bandages. Both of his chocolate-brown eyes were visible, framed by long lashes that gave him an almost gentle appearance. His busted lip was split at the corner, a stark contrast to the smoothness Chuuya remembered, but it did little to diminish his beauty. If anything, it just reminded Chuuya of all the times they’d fought and ended up in similar positions—close, breathless, and far too aware of each other.

Caught up in his thoughts, Chuuya barely registered the slight hitch in his own breath as Dazai’s gaze grew more intense, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth curving into that familiar, lazy smirk. But before the moment could spiral further, Dazai spoke, his tone abruptly casual, as if trying to break the tension. “Oh, right. Almost forgot to give this back to you.”

He reached into his pocket, shifting slightly beneath Chuuya, who felt a sudden warmth spread across his face at how close they were. When Dazai’s hand reemerged, he was holding Chuuya’s choker necklace.

Chuuya’s breath caught in his throat. Relief flooded through him at the sight of it, but his chest tightened for a different reason entirely. That choker meant more than just a piece of jewelry—it was a reminder of their past, of a bond that went deeper than any partnership in the Mafia.

But Chuuya’s pride wouldn’t let him show how much it meant to him. He scoffed, forcing himself to look away, feigning disinterest. “What? That thing? I’d already forgotten about it. I don’t need it.”

Dazai’s fingers slid up, catching Chuuya’s chin and forcing him to look back at him. His touch was gentle, but firm, his eyes gleaming with something mischievous. “You might’ve forgotten about it during your drunken bender, but I know you haven’t forgotten about our little bet... seven years ago.” His thumb traced along Chuuya’s jaw, then down the column of his neck, lingering over the spot where the choker usually rested.

Chuuya’s breath hitched, his pulse quickening as he remembered exactly what Dazai was talking about. A stupid, childish bet. Battling each other at an arcade. And Chuuya’s narrow defeat, followed by Dazai’s infuriatingly smug claim: “If I win, you’re my dog for life .” 

Dazai’s smirk grew, his fingers curling around the choker, holding it up just inches from Chuuya’s neck. “You lost that bet... Besides, the choker looks good on you, Chuuya. Keep wearing it. After all... you’re still my dog.” His voice dipped, low and teasing, his eyes darkening with that familiar, dangerous gleam. “Or did you think I’d let you off the hook just because we’ve been apart for a while?”

Chuuya’s heart thudded in his chest, his face burning. “You... bastard...” he whispered, his voice caught somewhere between anger and something else he didn’t want to name. But he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t move away.

Dazai’s fingers brushed his skin, ghosting over his throat as he leaned in, his lips so close that Chuuya could feel his breath. “Admit it, Chuuya... you never took it off, did you? Even after I left.”

Chuuya’s eyes widened, his anger bubbling up, but the denial died in his throat. He had worn it. Every day. Even when he hated Dazai. Even when he swore he’d never forgive him. Because he couldn’t bring himself to take it off. Because it was proof of a bond he couldn’t sever, no matter how hard he tried.

Dazai’s grin softened into something almost gentle, his fingers lingering at the hollow of Chuuya’s throat. “Good boy.”

Chuuya’s entire body burned with fury and embarrassment, his pride roaring in protest, but his heart... his heart raced, his pulse throbbing beneath Dazai’s fingers. He swallowed hard, his body refusing to move away, his voice a defiant growl. “Go to hell, Dazai.”

Dazai’s laughter was soft, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something deeper. “Only if you come with me, Chuuya.”

His fingers tightened around the choker, pulling Chuuya just a fraction closer.

They remained close like that, the air between them heavy with unspoken words and lingering tension. Dazai’s fingers moved deftly, placing the choker around Chuuya’s neck, his touch light yet deliberate. With practiced ease, he adjusted the small buckle despite his missing fingers, his eyes never leaving Chuuya's.

Chuuya stood frozen, his pulse thundering in his ears as he fought to keep his breathing steady. Dazai’s gaze was intense, unwavering, his face so close that Chuuya could feel the faint warmth of his breath. As Dazai’s fingers lingered, their faces leaned closer, slowly, instinctively, until their noses were nearly touching.

For a brief, dangerous moment, Chuuya felt himself leaning in, drawn in by the pull that Dazai always seemed to have on him, a gravitational force that defied logic and reason. But just as their lips were a breath apart, Chuuya snapped out of it, his senses flooding back in a rush of panic and anger.

He slapped Dazai’s hands away, breaking the spell. “Enough,” he hissed, but the choker was already in place, snug around his neck, right where it belonged.

Dazai didn’t resist, his hands falling away easily, his lips curving into that infuriatingly calm smile. Chuuya’s hands went to Dazai’s shoulders, pinning him in place, his face a mixture of anger and... something else he couldn’t name. His breaths were ragged, his chest rising and falling sharply. “What the hell are you playing at?”

Dazai simply smiled, his eyes glinting with that familiar playfulness, his hands raised in mock surrender. But as his wrists turned, Chuuya’s eyes caught sight of the bandages. His heart sank, and his grip faltered. His fingers...

“Fuck,” Chuuya growled, his jaw tightening as a wave of frustration crashed over him. It wasn’t just the damn choker, or Dazai’s infuriating grin, or even the way his body reacted to Dazai’s closeness. It was everything. His missing fingers. The betrayal. The years of silence. And the feelings—the goddamn feelings that refused to die no matter how hard he tried to bury them.

Without another word, Chuuya shoved himself off Dazai, his movements harsh, angry, but his hands trembled as he stormed down the hall and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the walls.

Left alone on the couch, Dazai let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging just a little as he leaned back, his eyes drifting to the closed door. He looked almost defeated, the playful mask slipping for just a second before his expression softened. A small, resigned smile tugged at his lips as his eyes fell to his own hands, the bandaged stubs where his fingers used to be.

His thumb brushed the fabric absentmindedly, his mind swirling with fragmented memories—of battles fought, bonds broken, and a redhead who had always been too stubborn for his own good.

“Still as fiery as ever, Chuuya,” Dazai whispered to the empty room, his voice low and tinged with melancholy. But despite the aching throb where his fingers used to be, a flicker of hope danced in his eyes.

Because Chuuya hadn’t taken off the choker. And that meant something.

Chapter Text

Chuuya slammed the door behind him, the force rattling the frame. He stalked over to the bed and sank onto the edge, his muscles tense, his jaw clenched. Frustration bubbled over, and he lashed out, kicking the nightstand. It shuddered but stayed upright, the impact only making his foot throb. He buried his face in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp as he took a shuddering breath.

Chuuya had been foolish enough to believe that with Arahabaki’s silence, he’d finally find some peace of mind. But being around Dazai was almost just as exhausting. Emotionally draining in a way that left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. Dazai had always known how to get under his skin, how to twist his emotions without even trying. And even now, after everything, that hadn’t changed one bit.

He hated Dazai. Every damn thing about him. The smug smile, the careless attitude, the way he never seemed to take anything seriously. How he floated through life as if nothing mattered, as if no one mattered. Not the Mafia, not the Agency... not him.

Chuuya’s shoulders tensed, a bitter laugh slipping out. Of course Dazai didn’t change. Leaving the Mafia didn’t make him a better person. It just gave him a new playground, a new set of people to toy with. And now he was back, acting like no time had passed, like he could still waltz in and out of Chuuya’s life whenever he pleased.

It made Chuuya’s blood boil. He felt his hands shake, and he gripped his hair tighter, trying to steady himself. How dare Dazai look at him with those eyes, touch him so easily, throw that damn choker back in his face. How dare he act so familiar, as if he didn’t tear everything apart when he left. As if he didn’t abandon Chuuya.

His chest tightened, anger twisting into something more painful. Why did he let him in? Why did he always let him in? Chuuya’s fingers drifted to his neck, brushing against the choker. It felt warm, heavy, grounding him to a past he thought he’d buried. A past that Dazai is dragging back up, piece by piece.

A tremor ran through him, his eyes burning. He clenched his jaw, refusing to let himself fall apart. Not because of him . Not because of that bastard. But the anger was cracking, giving way to something else. Something Chuuya didn’t want to admit.

Because the truth was... if Dazai hadn’t shown up that night, if he hadn’t pulled Chuuya out of that night club, out of his own reckless spiral... Chuuya might’ve...

He shut his eyes, squeezing them tight. No. He wouldn’t go there. He wouldn’t let himself be weak, especially not over Dazai. But the thought lingered, refusing to leave. No matter how much he hated him, no matter how much he wanted to punch that smug look off his face, Dazai was still... still...

Chuuya’s shoulders slumped, his head hanging low. His fingers curled tighter around the choker, feeling the leather dig into his skin. It was stupid, pathetic, but even now, he didn’t want to take it off. Even now, he couldn’t let go.

His anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. But it wasn’t enough to drown out the ache in his chest. It wasn’t enough to make him forget how safe he felt when he woke up in Dazai’s arms.

And that was the cruelest part of all. Because no matter how much he hated him... a part of him still wanted him to stay.

Determined to stop overthinking, Chuuya shot up from the bed and went straight to his closet. He hurriedly threw on his vest and slacks, the familiar feel of the tailored fabric grounding him. He paused at the door, taking a deep breath, making sure his expression was firm, collected—a mask of anger he planned to wear when he faced Dazai again. But when he stepped out of his bedroom, the living room was empty.

The air felt colder, the space too quiet. His heart sank, a knot of worry tightening in his chest. Did he leave? It was an irrational thought, but the familiar sting of abandonment clawed at him. Then he saw it—a note on the coffee table.

His eyes scanned the familiar, lazy scrawl:

Seems you’re well enough to look after yourself. About time. I should get back to the Agency (Kunikida will surely have my head—if I’m lucky). Try not to get yourself into trouble while I’m away, chibi~

Chuuya gritted his teeth, crumpling the note in his fist. “Bastard,” he muttered under his breath, the knot in his chest loosening but leaving behind a hollow ache. Even now, Dazai could leave without so much as a goodbye. Even now, he could make Chuuya feel like this.

Chuuya’s eyes fell on his hat, resting neatly beside the crumpled note. He must’ve dropped it last night. Of course, Dazai would remember to leave it behind, perfectly placed, as if mocking Chuuya’s moment of weakness.

He snatched the hat, his fingers brushing over the familiar fabric before placing it on his head, pulling the brim low to hide his expression. Without another glance at the empty room, he grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

Outside, the Mafia’s car was already waiting, engine idling. He opened the door and slid inside, his face set in a grim line. “Take me to headquarters,” he ordered, his voice cold and steady, betraying none of the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. The driver nodded without a word, pulling away from the curb.

Chuuya leaned back, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the passing cityscape. His fingers unconsciously tightened around the brim of his hat. He wouldn’t let Dazai get to him—not again.

Chuuya strode through the halls of the Mafia headquarters, his presence commanding attention. Every step echoed his determination, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his eyes. He found them in the meeting room—Hirotsu, Tachihara, Higuchi, Akutagawa, and Gin—all huddled around a table scattered with maps and reports. Their faces were tense, voices low and serious.

The room fell silent as he approached. A flicker of surprise passed through Tachihara’s eyes before he quickly masked it. Higuchi’s lips parted as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it. Even Akutagawa’s usual stoic expression faltered for a moment, his gaze lingering on Chuuya before looking away.

Chuuya knew why. Word always flew quickly in the Mafia. They must’ve heard about Dazai reappearing. They must’ve also noticed how Chuuya looked… different. No dark circles under his eyes, no sluggishness in his steps. He looked well-rested, sharper than he had in weeks.

Tachihara’s mouth twitched, his eyes narrowing just a bit. He looked like he was about to ask where Chuuya had been the past two nights, why he hadn’t answered any calls, or why he looked like he actually slept for once. But Hirotsu cleared his throat, the veteran’s gaze steady and composed. “Welcome back, Chuuya-sama.”

Business as usual. They continued on, just like that.

“What’s going on?” Chuuya’s voice was sharp, cutting straight to the point. He didn’t have the patience for formalities.

Tachihara quickly adjusted his stance, his expression returning to its usual seriousness. “It’s been escalating. Not just in Yokohama but all across central Japan. Non-gifted people are attacking the gifted. No rhyme or reason—just random, violent outbursts.”

Higuchi chimed in, crossing her arms. “It started small—isolated incidents. But it’s spreading fast. People are turning on the gifted without provocation, as if they’re under some kind of influence.”

Akutagawa’s eyes narrowed, his voice as cold as ever. “It’s chaos. They’re not just attacking civilians but targeting anyone with an ability. It doesn’t matter if they’re Port Mafia, Armed Detective Agency, or unaffiliated.”

Chuuya’s eyes flickered with understanding, his jaw tightening. “So, this isn’t just some anti-gifted hate group. It’s coordinated.”

Hirotsu nodded gravely. “We believe it’s connected to the weapons dealer—Jack. There’s no concrete proof, but the timing is too convenient to be a coincidence.” He paused, his gaze shifting to the map. “The riots are concentrated in cities close to Yokohama but are spreading outward. If we don’t stop this soon, the unrest could destabilize the entire region.”

Chuuya’s fists clenched. This was bigger than he thought. And if Jack was behind this… “Any word from the Detective Agency?” he asked, his voice steady, not betraying the irritation he felt.

“No,” Gin answered quietly, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “Apparently, they’re just as in the dark as we are.”

Chuuya clicked his tongue in annoyance. Of course, Dazai would leave him to clean up the mess. “Alright,” he said, his voice firm. “We’ll need to divide our forces. Higuchi, work with Gin and Akutagawa on gathering intel. I want to know how they’re coordinating these attacks and who’s pulling the strings. Tachihara, keep an eye on the streets. We need to maintain order in Yokohama.”

They all nodded in unison, determination evident on their faces.

“And if you find any leads on this Jack,” Chuuya added, his eyes burning with intensity, “I want to know immediately. This ends now.”

As they moved to carry out his orders, Chuuya felt their lingering glances. Questions were swirling in their minds, unspoken but palpable. But they knew better than to ask. 

Chuuya’s phone buzzed before he could even take a step out of the meeting room. He glanced at the screen—Kōyō. Of course, she’d heard he was back.

He answered, barely getting out a greeting before her voice cut through, cool and composed as ever. “So, you’ve finally decided to stop sulking and return to work. I was beginning to think you’d lost your edge.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice even. “I was handling things.”

“Mm, yes. I’m sure that’s exactly what you were doing.” Her tone was laced with knowing amusement. “I’m at headquarters as well. Come to my office. We need to talk.”

The line went dead before he could respond. Typical.

Chuuya slipped his phone back into his pocket, his eyes narrowing. He didn’t miss the way Tachihara and Higuchi exchanged a quick glance. Even Gin’s eyes flicked in his direction, curiosity clearly written on her face. But none of them said a word.

“Get to work,” he ordered, his voice cold and sharp, leaving no room for argument. They all straightened immediately, moving to carry out his commands.

Without another word, Chuuya turned on his heel, his coat sweeping behind him as he made his way to Kōyō’s office. Of course, she’d want answers—about his absence, about Dazai. And knowing her, she wouldn’t settle for anything less than the full truth.

Chuuya knocked twice before pushing the door open, stepping into Kōyō’s office. “Alright, I’m here. What’s so important you had to drag me in immediately? If this is about that weapons dealer—”

Kōyō didn’t even let him finish. She leaned back in her chair, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Mm-hmm... I knew all you needed to get back on track was a little quality time with that man .”

Chuuya’s face went red in an instant, a mix of embarrassment and indignation washing over him. “The hell are you talking about?! I don’t know what you think happened, but it’s nothing like that!”

She simply raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? Nothing like that, you say?”

Chuuya’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. “I just needed to clear my head, alright? And he... just happened to be there.” He looked away, his scowl deepening. “Don’t go getting any weird ideas.”

Kōyō’s grin only widened, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Of course. Perish the thought.”

Kōyō’s expression grew more serious as she continued, “Call it whatever you want, but your absence didn’t go unnoticed. News travels fast within the mafia, and Verlaine wasted no time setting a bounty on Dazai’s head.” Her fingers tapped rhythmically against her desk. “It was posted as anonymous, but it’s painfully obvious who’s behind it.”

Chuuya’s eyes widened, his body tensing. “That fucker…What the hell is he thinking?”

“We tried to stop him,” Kōyō said with a resigned sigh. “Mori and I both advised against it. We’ve got more than enough chaos on our hands already. But you know how Verlaine is. Once he’s made up his mind, not even Mori can rein him in.”

Chuuya’s fists tightened at his sides, the anger bubbling up. “Of course he’d pull a stunt like this...” He took a breath, trying to keep his emotions in check. “How much is the bounty?”

Kōyō’s eyes narrowed. “High enough to attract every lowlife and assassin within a hundred miles. You’d better prepare yourself, Chuuya. Things are about to get even more messy.”

“Most in the mafia are steering clear of the bounty, knowing full well that Mori and I had no part in it,” Kōyō continued, her voice calm but laced with irritation. “And those who know you, Chuuya, are wise enough to back off as well.” She let out a dry scoff, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest of her chair. “But there are always a few stragglers... ambitious fools looking to make a name for themselves. This kind of stunt is bound to cause a civil war. As if we didn’t already have civilians tearing each other apart in the streets....” Her lips curled in a disdainful scoff.

Chuuya’s jaw clenched, his fists trembling at his sides. Anger boiled within him, but at least it was his own fury and not Arahabaki’s. Verlaine, that twisted fuck... Chuuya could already hear Verlaine’s self-righteous voice justifying it, claiming it was for his own good —that Chuuya shouldn’t be involved with a traitor. But Chuuya knew better. It had nothing to do with his well-being and everything to do with Verlaine’s own violent impulses.

His fists tightened. “That son of a bitch... he always has to make everything about himself,” he muttered bitterly.

Kōyō’s eyes softened, just slightly. “I know, but you’re stronger than he gives you credit for.”

Chuuya’s gaze hardened, his resolve solidifying. “Damn right, I am.”

Kōyō studied him for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile. “Regardless, it’s good to see you looking better.” Her tone remained light, but the implication was clear. Chuuya’s face twitched in annoyance.

She continued before he could protest, “Even Mori is glad to see his Double Black on the case of the weapons dealer.”

Chuuya flinched at that— his Double Black, like he and Dazai somehow belonged to Mori. The possessiveness in those words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Sensing his irritation, Kōyō smoothly changed the subject. “Mori expects us to catch this miscreant soon. He doesn’t take kindly to his city being brought to ruin.”

“I know,” Chuuya muttered, already turning to leave. “I’m on it. It’s my city, too.”

~~~~~

Chuuya set out on his own, determined to track down the weapons dealer whose actions were clearly aimed at upsetting the balance of power in Yokohama. If the attacks were meant to destabilize the city's forces, then the next logical target was obvious—the Special Division for Unusual Powers, the last pillar of the Tripartite System.

He knew the building well enough. He had been there before, summoned by government agent Ango Sakaguchi, though their meetings were never exactly pleasant. Finding the Division’s headquarters wasn’t difficult, but getting inside was another story. Security had been ramped up, no doubt in response to the recent chaos in the city. Chuuya figured dropping Ango’s name might help, but the guards at the entrance weren’t impressed.

After failing to talk his way in— as if that was ever going to work —Chuuya resorted to what he did best. A quick burst of his ability sent the guards scrambling, though he made sure not to actually hurt anyone.

Among them stood a young government worker—nerdy-looking, scruffy, and not particularly imposing. Even the ill-fitted suit he wore did little to make him appear more official. Unlike the others who reached for their weapons the moment they saw Chuuya, the kid actually stepped forward and bowed slightly. “So sorry, sir, but Sakaguchi-san is not seeing anyone at the moment. I can give him a message for you.”

Chuuya eyed him for a moment, unimpressed. At least he was polite, unlike the rest of these uptight bureaucrats.

“No, thanks, kid,” Chuuya said, rolling his shoulders. “This I have to deal with in person.”

Before the worker could stammer a response, Chuuya shoved him aside—not too roughly, just enough to make way. The kid stumbled back, adjusting his glasses, while the rest of security reacted immediately, trying to block Chuuya’s path.

A few well-placed kicks later, and he was making his way through the building, dodging more security personnel who clearly weren’t expecting a Port Mafia executive to show up unannounced.

He finally spotted Ango in a long hallway lined with tall, clear windows. The bespectacled agent was on the phone, holding up a single finger in a silent command for Chuuya to wait.

Chuuya scoffed. Like hell. “Oi, what the hell—”

“I’m listening,” Ango interrupted, ignoring Chuuya’s glare. “Just dealing with a small interruption.” He turned slightly, continuing his call. “Yes, you would know. You two were partners, after all.”

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed. Was he talking to Dazai?

“Are you talking to that shithead?” Chuuya demanded, stepping closer.

Ango shot him a sharp look, still holding a finger up. “Quiet.”

That only pissed Chuuya off more.

“I told you, security has been tightened. Aside from A-5158, we’ve had zero incidents,” Ango continued. “What's this all of a sudden? Evacuate?”

Before he could say more, Chuuya’s body tensed. A glint of light outside the window caught his eye—something fast, something unnatural. His breath hitched as the realization hit him like a freight train.

A missile.

“Get the fuck down!” Chuuya shouted, lunging at Ango.

His ability surged to life as he grabbed the agent, twisting midair as the glass behind them shattered. The shockwave from the explosion roared through the building, and the phone call cut off abruptly.

Chapter Text

The deafening roar of the explosion faded into a ringing silence, broken only by the distant wails of alarms and the crackling of debris. Smoke curled through the shattered hallway, glass shards littering the floor like deadly confetti.

Chuuya exhaled sharply, his body thrumming from the aftershock. His ability had held, and he and Ango were untouched. He released the agent from his grip, pushing himself upright as Ango adjusted his broken glasses with a shaking hand.

No time to dwell on it.

Chuuya scanned the ruined corridor, stepping over wreckage, eyes sharp for movement. Survivors. They needed to check for survivors. Ango seemed to have the same thought, immediately reaching for his radio to call for a damage report while following in Chuuya’s footsteps.

“The impact came from the west side,” Ango muttered, already calculating. “We need to—”

“I know,” Chuuya cut in, voice tense. They couldn’t afford another strike. Whoever was behind this could still be watching, waiting.

They moved quickly through the wreckage, checking bodies—some shifting, groaning in pain, others disturbingly still.

And then Chuuya saw him.

The scruffy worker from earlier.

He lay sprawled across the floor, crushed under fallen debris, his ill-fitted suit stained dark with blood. His glasses, cracked and bent, lay just inches from his outstretched hand.

Chuuya stopped. He knew— he knew —before even checking that it was too late. The kid was gone.

Something burned hot in his chest.

He wasn't new to this. People died. People always died. But this wasn’t some battlefield, and the kid wasn’t some enemy. He was just a worker, some poor bastard who probably thought his biggest problem today would be paperwork.

Chuuya’s jaw clenched.

Time and time again, they had been ambushed, outplayed, made fools of . And this— this —was the result. Their lack of progress, their failure to pin down the weapons dealer, their inability to act before things escalated. Every second wasted had led to this.

His hands curled into fists.

And then—

That filth needs to be destroyed.

Chuuya stiffened.

That voice.

Arahabaki.

A whisper, slithering into his mind like a phantom. He hadn’t heard it in days . Not since—

Not since Dazai showed up.

His breath came sharper now, more uneven. His anger burned hotter. And the whisper—

Chuuya shoved the voice down, forcing himself to focus on the destruction around him. He and Ango picked their way through the wreckage, descending the ruined stairwell as cautiously as they could. Every step kicked up dust and loose debris, the building groaning under its own weight.

Outside, the chaos was worse. Smoke billowed from the upper floors, sirens wailed in the distance, and civilians—some injured, some unscathed—were either rushing to help or desperately searching for their loved ones. It was an all-too-familiar scene, and it made Chuuya’s stomach twist.

Arahabaki growled.

Destroy the rest of this sorry city. Force that craven out from wherever he is hiding.

Arahabaki's voice slithered through his mind, an insidious hum growing louder with every pulse of frustration in his chest. His hands twitched at his sides. His ability responded to his emotions, and right now, it was reacting to his anger.

Someone in the crowd yelled, frantic and panicked:

“This is the fault of the gifted! Look at what they’ve done!”

A new wave of anger churned in his chest, rising alongside the pounding in his skull. His headache—the one that had vanished when Dazai appeared—came back in full force. It felt like something clawing at the inside of his skull, and no matter how much he tried to push it down, Arahabaki only growled louder.

They blame you. They will always blame you. So show them what they should fear.

No. No, he wasn’t going to listen to this.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his vision blurring for a second as the pain in his head spiked. The voices—both inside and out—were getting too loud, too close, pressing against him, pushing at something unstable.

Chuuya exhaled harshly through his nose, pressing his fingers to his temple. Not now. Not here.

“Chuuya.”

A firm voice snapped him back. Ango stood beside him, watching him closely. He wasn’t asking what was wrong, wasn’t pushing for an explanation. He had seen this before—maybe not this exactly, but enough to know.

Chuuya forced a breath, grounding himself in the now. In the destruction, in the people scrambling to recover. In his city, one that had seen too much ruin already.

“We need to find out where that missile came from,” he muttered, shoving Arahabaki’s voice down, shoving everything down . “Before whoever sent it decides one strike wasn’t enough.”

Ango crouched down near a twisted piece of metal that had been part of the missile’s casing. "If I can get a reading from this," he muttered, brushing dust off the broken fragment, "I might be able to trace it back to its source."

Chuuya forced himself to focus. "You better hurry," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Ango shot him a glance but didn’t question it. He pressed his bare fingertips to the jagged edge of the missile fragment.

His breath hitched, his pupils dilating. For a moment, he was utterly still. Then his expression darkened.

Chuuya, despite the dull pounding in his skull, straightened. "What is it?"

Ango exhaled sharply. “We have a problem.”

Ango stayed crouched, his fingers pressed against the missile fragment as his ability unraveled its past. His breath was uneven, eyes flickering behind his glasses as he sifted through memories embedded in the metal.

Chuuya watched impatiently, his headache gnawing at his focus. “Well?”

Ango exhaled sharply, breaking contact with the debris as if burned. He adjusted his glasses, his face grim. “The missile was fired from outside Yokohama, about 50 kilometers west. The launch site was abandoned almost immediately after, no trace left behind except tire tracks heading further inland.”

Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “And who launched it?”

Ango hesitated. Then, with a deep breath, he answered. “I saw men—military-trained, armed to the teeth—but they weren’t government. At least, not ours.”

Chuuya’s fingers twitched at his sides. “Foreign?”

Ango shook his head. “No. Private contractors.”

Chuuya scoffed. “Mercenaries.”

Ango nodded. “Someone’s paying them well. And from what I saw, this wasn’t just a one-time hit. They have more.”

A fresh wave of anger surged through Chuuya. His headache pulsed with it, and Arahabaki’s voice curled in his ears again.

Let them burn.

Chuuya clenched his fists, jaw tight. “Do you have a name? Anything?”

Ango was quiet for a beat. Then, reluctantly, he answered. “One of the men—just before the missile launched—he was talking to someone on the radio. He called them by name.”

Chuuya’s eyes bore into him. “And?”

Ango hesitated again, then spoke the name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Golding. William Golding”

Chuuya stiffened. His headache flared violently.

So, he must be the one orchestrating this whole mess.

Chuuya exhaled slowly, his rage bubbling just beneath his skin. “Where is he?”

Ango shook his head. “I didn’t see. But I know one thing for sure—he’s not finished.”

Chuuya turned, his coat whipping around him as he scanned the destruction around them. The voices of terrified civilians, the sirens in the distance, the scent of smoke in the air—Yokohama was being turned into a battleground.

And now, he had a name.

“Then we find him.”

Chuuya left the wreckage behind, his presence no longer needed—or wanted—now that paramedics and government forces had swarmed the area. His fists clenched as he walked, frustration simmering just beneath his skin. The murmurs of the crowd, the distant wails of sirens, and the weight of Arahabaki’s voice all pressed against his skull like a vice.They had been too slow—again. People were dead because they still didn’t have a grip on this situation. 

William Golding.

The name was unfamiliar, yet it carried too much weight for Chuuya to ignore. He pulled out his phone, dialing Hirotsu.

“I need you to relay something to the others,” Chuuya said as soon as the old man picked up. “Golding—William Golding. That’s our guy. Make sure the Agency gets the name too.” If the Agency knows, Dazai will surely hear about it.

“Understood,” Hirotsu responded without question.

“Also,” Chuuya continued, pressing his fingers to his temple as his headache flared again, “That four-eyes agent found something. A location on the outskirts of Yokohama, I’ll send you the details of the location—might be where the weapons dealer is operating. Send some men, but tell them to stay on guard. I don’t want anyone walking into another goddamn ambush.”

“Acknowledged. We’ll proceed with caution.”

Chuuya ended the call with a sigh, rolling his shoulders as if that would ease the tightness in his head. The dull throbbing hadn’t subsided. His patience was thinning, and yet his mind refused to slow down.

Then, suddenly, something clicked—Ango. He had been on the phone with Dazai right before the missile hit.

Chuuya pulled out his phone and dialed without thinking.

Straight to voicemail.

Chuuya gritted his teeth. Typical. Just so Dazai to be unreachable at the worst possible time.

But annoyance aside, a deeper concern lingered at the edges of his thoughts. With Verlaine’s bounty still in play, and now Golding in the mix, Dazai was in more danger than usual. 

He knew Dazai wasn’t foolish enough to get himself caught again. And as much as the bastard joked about dying, he was too unlucky to actually get the death he claimed to want.

Still, Chuuya worried.

He’s a distraction. He makes you weak, Arahabaki growled, its voice seeping into his bones

Chuuya exhaled slowly through his nose, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his temple. 

He wasn’t doing this right now.

Chuuya instinctively reached into his coat pocket for his flask. His fingers met nothing but fabric.

He frowned, patting the other side. Not there either.

Shit. Must’ve lost it.

—or Dazai took it.

The thought was irritatingly plausible. 

There was still another priority— Jack .

The weapons dealer was the key to everything. If they could get to Jack, they could get to Golding. And if they got to Golding, then maybe—just maybe—they could finally end this before another goddamn missile came flying out of the sky.

Chuuya shoved his phone back into his pocket and picked up his pace.

It was time to move.

Just as Chuuya considered using his ability to get to the outskirts of Yokohama faster, a familiar, sing-song voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Looking for something, Chuuya?”

Chuuya turned sharply, already scowling. Dazai stood a few feet away, casually twirling Chuuya’s flask between his fingers, an infuriating smirk on his lips.

“The hell you come from?” Chuuya snapped, reaching for the flask.

But before Dazai could even think of a snarky reply, a sharp ping rang through the air as a bullet struck the flask, sending it clattering to the ground.

Chuuya’s instincts kicked in immediately. He activated his ability, a shimmering force surrounding him just as more gunfire erupted. Dazai barely had time to dodge, dropping into a crouch as bullets ricocheted off the pavement where he had been standing.

“Tch. Rude,” Dazai muttered.

Chuuya didn’t respond, his sharp eyes already scanning the surroundings. The shooters—three, no, four of them—had taken position on the rooftops and alleyways nearby.

Bounty hunters.

And judging by the way they were aiming directly at Dazai, Chuuya didn’t need to guess whose head they were after.

Chuuya clicked his tongue. “You’re popular today.”

Dazai, still crouched, peeked up from behind a parked car. “Well, I do have a rather charming face. Can’t blame them for wanting a piece of me.”

“Yeah? I’ll let them have you, then.”

Dazai sighed dramatically. “You’re so cold, Chuuya.”

But neither of them had time for banter. Another round of bullets rained down, forcing Dazai to duck and Chuuya to leap forward, using his ability to deflect the shots aimed at him.

“Think we should deal with this first?” Dazai called out.

Chuuya cracked his knuckles, his expression darkening. “Oh, I plan to.”

"Operation The Fake Flower’s Deceit —what do you think, Chuuya?" Dazai mused, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

Chuuya scoffed, crossing his arms. "Hah, so you actually know what you're doing for once?"

Their eyes met, a flicker of unspoken understanding passing between them. No more words were needed—they were already in sync.

Dazai grinned, brushing nonexistent dust off his coat as he stood up. "Of course, I always know what I’m doing. You just fail to keep up, Chuuya."

Chuuya scoffed. "Yeah, sure. That’s why we’re getting shot at right now, right?"

But despite the jab, there was no hesitation in his movements as he launched himself forward, already in sync with Dazai’s movements.

The bounty hunters were repositioning, realizing their targets weren’t going to fall so easily. One took aim at Chuuya from above, but before he could fire, Dazai raised a hand in mock surrender, stepping out from behind cover.

“Now, now, let’s not be hasty,” Dazai drawled.

A split second was all Chuuya needed. With a burst of gravitational force, he propelled himself upward, slamming his boot into the sniper’s chest. The man let out a choked gasp before crashing into the alley below.

Dazai didn’t waste time, darting through the shadows to get closer to the other assailants. Another gunshot rang out, but the moment the bullet entered his field, it was rendered useless.

“Really now,” Dazai sighed, dusting off his coat. “You’d think bounty hunters would do their research.”

Chuuya, meanwhile, landed gracefully on the pavement, eyes already scanning for the next threat. The remaining three were regrouping, hesitating now that they realized they were up against Double Black .

“What’s wrong?” Chuuya taunted, cracking his knuckles. “Not so confident anymore?”

Dazai tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “You know, Chuuya, I almost feel bad for them.”

Chuuya rolled his shoulders, preparing for another attack. “Don’t. They knew what they were signing up for.”

Dazai and Chuuya stood side by side, wordlessly falling into step—each knowing exactly what they had to do.

Chapter Text

Another bullet whizzed past them, barely missing Chuuya’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch, but his irritation flared. Without missing a beat, he lifted a hand, and with a crackle of gravity, sent a slab of broken pavement flying upward, forcing one of the snipers to scramble away.

Dazai watched the hunter nearly tumble from their perch and sighed dramatically. “Ah, so violent. What if they had families?”

“They should’ve thought of that before taking this shitty job,” Chuuya muttered, eyes locked on their enemies.

Dazai hummed in amusement, then suddenly tapped Chuuya’s arm. “Then let’s make this quick, partner. I assume you’re taking the rooftops?”

Chuuya smirked, rolling his shoulders as his gravity pulsed beneath his feet. “Damn right.”

Dazai gave him a lazy salute before darting toward the alleyways, vanishing into the shadows. Chuuya wasted no time, launching himself skyward with a single stomp, landing on a rooftop in a blur of motion.

The bounty hunters had barely registered what happened before Chuuya was upon them, eyes glowing red, gravity twisting around him like a storm.

“Too late to run now,” he growled, cracking his knuckles.

One raised his rifle, but Chuuya was faster. His boot slammed into the barrel, sending the weapon flying as he grabbed the man by the collar and hurled him off the edge—letting gravity do the rest. Another lunged at him with a knife. Chuuya sidestepped, catching the attacker’s wrist mid-swing, twisting it until the knife clattered onto the rooftop. A well-placed punch to the gut sent the man sprawling.

From the corner of his eye, Chuuya caught the last rooftop hunter taking aim. Before the trigger could be pulled, Chuuya reached out, crushing the rifle with sheer force. The bounty hunter stumbled back in horror, but it was too late. In the next instant, Chuuya sent him flying with a precise, gravity-enhanced kick.

Meanwhile, on the ground, Dazai moved like a shadow. He weaved between the alleyways, his footsteps silent. The bounty hunters never saw him coming.

One felt a presence behind him just as an arm wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air supply before he could make a sound. He crumpled within seconds. Another turned, sensing movement, only for Dazai to step in close, a smirk on his lips as he tapped the muzzle of the man’s pistol with a finger. “Bang,” he whispered before twisting the weapon from the hunter’s grip and slamming the butt of it against his temple.

The last one panicked, raising his gun. “D-Don’t move!” he barked.

Dazai just sighed. “Really? This again?”

The bounty hunter's hands trembled. His finger twitched on the trigger, but before he could shoot, Dazai closed the distance in an instant, striking a precise nerve point in his wrist. The gun fell to the ground with a dull clunk . Dazai’s knee followed up into the man’s stomach, knocking him out cold.

Chuuya landed lightly beside him, not a single scratch on him, the last unconscious bounty hunter slumped behind him. He adjusted his hat, eyeing Dazai.

Dazai, ever smug, dusted off his coat and shot Chuuya a knowing look. “Still as reckless as ever, I see.”

Chuuya scoffed. “Says the guy who took out three armed men without breaking a sweat.”

They stood side by side, the last of their enemies unconscious at their feet. No words needed to be exchanged. 

As Dazai and Chuuya stood there, the murmurs of bystanders grew louder.

"The gifted! There’s more of them!" someone shouted.

"They were just done destroying a building, and now they're wrecking the streets!" another voice accused.

At first, neither of them reacted. It wasn’t anything new—blame often found its way to the gifted. But then, something shifted in the crowd. A man, face twisted with rage, stepped forward and slammed a briefcase onto the ground.

Chuuya’s eyes instantly locked onto it. Just like the one from before. The ambush.

The case flipped open with a metallic click , and a sharp, mechanical whirring sound filled the air. Chuuya's pulse spiked.

"Dazai, watch out!" he bellowed, launching himself forward in an attempt to shield Dazai.

But he was too late.

The device inside the briefcase surged with a violent pulse, sending out vibrations so intense they rattled through Chuuya’s bones. A deafening, high-pitched frequency followed—a piercing sound that scrambled his focus and shattered his ability to react in time. It was as if the entire world warped around him, his instincts dulled just for a second—just long enough for the explosion to detonate at point-blank range.

The shockwave hit like a sledgehammer, a deafening roar ripping through the alleyway.

Chuuya barely had time to register the impact before he felt himself flung backward, body twisting uncontrollably midair. The world blurred, a chaotic mix of dust, light, and fire.

Dazai was caught in the blast too, sent hurtling through the air. For a moment, it felt like the ground had vanished beneath them, like gravity itself had betrayed them.

Then—impact.

Chuuya hit the ground with a brutal impact, tumbling through the scattered debris before crashing into a crumbling brick wall. His ability formed a protective barrier, but the sheer force still stole the breath from his lungs, leaving his vision swimming for a moment.

But through the haze, another sound made his stomach drop.

More explosions.

In the distance, he could hear them—similar detonations echoing across the city, one after another. It wasn’t just here. It wasn’t just them.

Golding and Jack had armed more civilians, turning them into unwilling weapons. More attacks. More destruction. More brainwashed citizens striking out at the gifted.

Chuuya’s head throbbed. His muscles burned as he forced himself up, coughing against the dust clogging his throat. His first instinct was to look for Dazai.

He spotted him a few feet away, sprawled on the ground, motionless. A wave of unease curled within Chuuya.

"Dazai!" he shouted, as he stumbled forward. His head was pounding again, but he shoved the thought aside.

Dazai looked up, coughing up blood, and Chuuya felt a wave of relief. He was hurt, but he was alive. It seemed Chuuya had managed to shield him from the worst of the explosion, though not completely.

Wasting no time, Chuuya pushed through the debris, reaching Dazai and grabbing him by the arm to pull him out of the rubble. His grip was firm—too firm, maybe—and the concern on his face was painfully obvious.

"Aagh, I'm alive," Dazai groaned, his usual dramatics dimmed by the real pain lacing his voice.

"You ass," Chuuya snapped, irritation barely masking his worry. "You thought you'd get the death you want? Don't forget—I’ll be the one to kill you."

He slung Dazai’s arm over his shoulder and hoisted him up, his touch rough but steady.

Dazai chuckled, breathless. "How romantic, Chuuya. You always know just what to say."

"Shut up." Chuuya tightened his grip, jaw clenched. "We don’t have time for your bullshit. More explosions are going off across the city. This isn’t just about us anymore."

For a moment, Chuuya froze, torn between choices. He had to get to the rendezvous point—his men were heading there, and the city itself was in chaos. But Dazai was too injured to move with him, and leaving him here, vulnerable, wasn’t an option either. His mind raced, trying to force logic through the mess of urgency and destruction.

The detonators—there could be more. The city needed help. The others needed him.

His fingers curled into fists, frustration bubbling under his skin. What was the smartest move here?

Then, as if reading his spiraling thoughts, Dazai coughed and spoke, voice strained but steady.

"Yosano… her ability won’t work on me, but she’s still a doctor." He shifted slightly, wincing. "She and the others were heading this way. Luckily, they weren’t caught in the blast. Get my phone."

Chuuya hesitated for half a second before reaching into Dazai’s coat. The device was cracked, its screen splintered from the impact, but still functional.

"Tch. You really don’t take care of your shit, huh?" Chuuya muttered, more to keep himself grounded than anything else.

Dazai huffed a weak laugh. "Says the guy who throws himself headfirst into explosions."

Chuuya ignored him, already dialing. There wasn’t time for this.

But Dazai was right—Yosano, Tanizaki, and Atsushi were in the area.

Tanizaki and Atsushi were the first to arrive, their expressions tense as they took in the wreckage and Dazai’s condition. Yosano was still tending to civilians caught in the blast, leaving them to handle the situation for now.

"Dazai-san!" Atsushi’s voice was thick with concern as he knelt beside him. "You need a hospital, but Yosano should be able to stabilize you until we get there."

"We’ll take Dazai with us," Tanizaki offered, scanning their surroundings. "Atsushi can carry him, and I’ll use Light Snow to try to keep us hidden."

Chuuya clenched his jaw. It made sense—it was the best option. But something in him bristled at the idea of leaving Dazai in their hands. They’re good guys , he reminded himself. That should have reassured him, yet it didn’t. And that pissed him off more than anything.

Dazai groaned dramatically, but Chuuya could tell he was in real pain.

Chuuya exhaled sharply, torn. He needed to go—Hirotsu and the others were already en route to the outskirts of Yokohama, and if they were walking into a trap, he wouldn’t be there to back them up. There was no time to hesitate.

"Alright," he said, though the word felt foreign in his mouth.

Then he turned to Dazai, glaring down at him. "You better not die before I can kill you, you shithead."

Dazai grinned, weak but still insufferable. "As if I’d let myself be killed by such an angry little stupid slug."

Chuuya clicked his tongue, shoving his hands in his pockets. Damn idiot.

Atsushi looked between them, the usual confusion on his face at their brand of interaction, but there was no time to question it. He moved to Dazai’s side, carefully lifting him onto his back. Dazai let out a sharp breath at the motion but didn’t complain, only resting his chin on Atsushi’s shoulder with exaggerated laziness.

"Try not to jostle me too much, Atsushi-kun," Dazai murmured, voice half-teasing but strained underneath. "I am in a rather delicate state, you know."

"You just got blown up. Of course, you’re in a delicate state!" Atsushi shot back, exasperated but careful with his hold.

Tanizaki nodded toward Chuuya. "We’ll get him to Yosano safely. You focus on what you need to do."

Chuuya clicked his tongue, arms crossed, clearly still agitated. His gut twisted at the thought of leaving Dazai behind. He didn’t completely trust the Detective Agency, but this was his only choice. And right now, there were bigger problems—Hirotsu and the others needed him.

He turned sharply on his heel. "Tch. I’m going. But don’t think for a second this means I trust you bastards."

"Noted," Tanizaki replied, eyes steady.

Chuuya started walking away, but before he could get too far, Dazai called after him.

"Oi, Chuuya."

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

"Try not to get yourself killed, alright?" Dazai’s voice was still light, still teasing, but there was something else beneath it.

Chuuya scoffed. "Don’t tell me what to do."

And then he was gone, vanishing into the city’s ruins, heading toward the outskirts of Yokohama—toward whatever came next.

Chapter Text

Chuuya soared through the ruined cityscape, using gravity manipulation to propel himself forward. The wind howled past him, carrying the distant echoes of sirens and panicked voices, but his focus remained locked on his destination—the outskirts of Yokohama, where the missile had been launched. If they were going to stop another attack, this was where they had to start.

The barren stretch of land he landed on was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the chaos behind him. Nothing but empty terrain and an abandoned military-grade canopy stood before him. It was unsettling. The place reeked of something off .

A moment later, Hirotsu and the others arrived, their footsteps crunching against the dirt as they spread out, weapons drawn. Chuuya adjusted his gloves, scanning the area. Too quiet. No sign of enemy presence, no guards, no movement, only the leftover remnants of something already carried out.

That was when Chuuya noticed it.

Behind the canopy, a stake jutted out from the ground. His stomach twisted when his eyes landed on what was impaled upon it, a hog’s head, its lifeless eyes staring out into the void.

The stench of rot was fresh, blood still dripping down the wooden stake, staining the dirt below. The head had been deliberately placed there, a twisted, theatrical display. Something about it gnawed at Chuuya.

He exhaled sharply. Sick bastards.

But something else caught his attention, a military storage box beneath the stake. It wasn’t just left there by accident. A faint noise emitted from within, mechanical, rhythmic.

A radio.

Chuuya crouched, flipping the latch open. The walkie-talkie inside crackled, static giving way to a distorted voice.

“You made it, huh?”

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed. His grip on the device tightened. Was this William Golding?

“How does it feel to stand in the ruins of your own world?”  The voice was calm, almost amused. “How long until you see what we see, Chuuya Nakahara?”

Chuuya’s fingers twitched. It was definitely not the weapons dealer’s voice.

Hirotsu stepped closer, his gaze flickering between the radio and the grotesque display above it. "This isn’t just a message," he murmured. "It’s an invitation."

The radio crackled again, the voice smooth yet mocking.

“You’ve made it this far, executive Nakahara. Now, if you want to see your first objective, just keep walking ahead.”

Chuuya’s grip on the radio tightened. "Let me guess, Jack’s waiting for me?"

“Correct. But there’s one condition: this has to be a one-on-one fight.”

A scoff left Chuuya’s lips. “Oh yeah? And why the hell should I play by your rules?”

Golding’s voice hummed, patient, as if he had already anticipated Chuuya’s defiance. “Because I am not interested in unnecessary bloodshed. Keep your men out of this, and I’ll ensure there’s no more… collateral damage.”

Chuuya’s eye twitched. His thoughts flickered back to the civilian casualties, the government worker now dead in the rubble. Golding knew exactly what buttons to push.

Hirotsu stepped forward, concern etched on his face. “This could be a trap, Chuuya-sama.”

"Of course, it’s a damn trap," Chuuya muttered. "But if we take down Jack, we’ll be one step closer to Golding."

Before Hirotsu could argue, Golding spoke again. “Still don’t trust me? Look.”

A rustle in the distance, Chuuya’s gaze snapped ahead as a lone figure emerged from the shadows.

Jack.

The infamous weapons dealer stood relaxed, rolling his shoulders as if he were preparing for a warm-up rather than a fight. No backup, no hidden reinforcements. Just him.

“Satisfied?” Golding’s voice teased through the radio. “Go ahead, Nakahara. Show me what you're capable of.”

Chuuya exhaled through his nose, cracking his knuckles as he stepped forward. “Tch. Whatever. Just don’t start crying when this bastard ends up face-first in the dirt.”

Everything seemed normal, until Chuuya walked past the hog’s head on the spike. The moment he crossed the invisible boundary between them, the radio in his hand fizzled and died.

The air around him warped, shifting like a mirage under intense heat. The colors of the world bled together, and for a split second, Chuuya felt as if he had stepped through something wrong. A heavy, crushing sensation wrapped around his body, an unnatural pressure that had nothing to do with his own ability.

His head pounded. Not again…

Chuuya clenched his jaw, gripping his head as a sharp, burning pain ran through his skull. It was different from the usual throbbing Arahabaki left him with, it wasn’t just the god in his blood whispering now.

Was this Golding’s doing?

A distorted echo rang in his ears, distant voices whispering, laughing, screaming. His vision blurred for just a moment, and in that moment, he swore the hog’s dead eyes glowed.

Then—silence.

Chuuya exhaled, grounding himself. He forced his feet forward, shaking off the headache. Whatever the hell Golding was playing at, it wouldn’t stop him. He had fought through worse.

The landscape beyond the stake was eerily still, the world settling into a strange, muted quiet. Jack stood ahead, waiting, as if completely unaffected by the warped shift in reality Chuuya had just experienced.

Chuuya rolled his shoulders, his fingers twitching in anticipation. “Alright, freak. Let’s get this over with.”

Jack smirked, stepping forward. “You’re finally here. I was starting to think you wouldn’t come, but Golding assured me you’d be too stubborn to resist.”

Chuuya smirked back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Damn right. Now, let’s see if you’re worth my time.”

Chuuya’s boots skidded against the dirt as he came to a halt, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. Hirotsu and the others—they were gone.

His breath hitched. “What the hell did you do to them?” he barked, turning to Jack, fists clenched.

Jack simply smiled, tilting his head slightly, as if amused. “You’re asking the wrong question.”

An odd sensation rolled over Chuuya, waves of something he couldn’t quite name—anger, confusion, something else that gnawed at the edge of his mind. He ignored it. Deal with Jack first. Everything will go back to normal once he’s dealt with.

Chuuya lunged, his fist rocketed toward Jack’s jaw, the sheer force behind it strong enough to shatter bone. But just as it should have connected—Jack was gone.

Chuuya’s punch met empty air. What the—?

A flicker in his peripheral vision, Jack was standing several feet away, untouched, still smirking.

Snarling, Chuuya twisted his body mid-motion, using his gravity to propel himself forward with even more speed. He kicked out, Jack should have been sent flying. Should have.

Instead, his foot sliced through nothing.

Jack flickered again, now behind him.

Chuuya turned sharply, his frustration boiling over. This time, he didn’t hold back. He struck with relentless force—punches, kicks, launches from every angle. He was going all out. And yet, every hit missed. No— every hit landed. He could see Jack’s body snap back from the blows, blood flying from his mouth. He watched Jack crumple to the ground, broken, unmoving.

Then, a blink—Jack was standing again, unscathed.

“Tch—” Chuuya growled, grinding his teeth. He attacked again, fists colliding with Jack’s ribs, his knee slamming into his stomach. Jack fell, hacking up blood, his limbs twisting at odd angles.

Another blink.

Jack was standing across the clearing. Perfectly fine.

Chuuya’s breathing hitched. His mind reeled.

The strange, dizzying feeling intensified, clawing at his skull. It wasn’t just in his head—it was everywhere. His vision warped, like ink bleeding through water. The air felt too thick , pressing in on him like unseen hands, suffocating, twisting. His movements grew erratic, not from fatigue, but from something else, something pulling at him, warping his senses.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears, mixing with a growing static.

What the fuck is this—?

A voice—no, voices —chuckled around him, distant and overlapping, their laughter hollow, warped.

Chuuya staggered, his hand flying to his temple as a searing pain split through his skull. Arahabaki. Even it was struggling, its chaotic energy lashing violently inside him, unable to break through whatever force was smothering them.

His vision blurred. The world flickered between moments, Jack broken, bleeding, Jack standing, untouched, Jack broken again. His mind couldn’t keep up. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his control slipping.

The descent was slow, savage.

The more he fought, the worse it got.

And Jack, Jack just stood there. Watching. Smiling. Waiting for Chuuya to break.

Chuuya’s scream tore through the air, raw and visceral, blending with the guttural roar of Arahabaki inside him. It wasn’t just a voice anymore, it was a force.

Arahabaki shrieked, thrashing against its cage, hammering against the walls of Chuuya’s mind like an avalanche of raw, ancient fury. The echoes of its rage filled his skull, blending with the twisted voices around him, an unrelenting storm trying to drown him, consume him.

His nails dug into his scalp as he clenched his head, the pain unbearable, too much —like something was trying to rip out of him, shredding through his mind and body. His vision blurred, the world tilting in a nauseating spiral.

Jack’s boot slammed into his chest, knocking him onto his back. Chuuya gasped, his lungs seizing as the wind was forced out of him.

Jack loomed over him, pressing down on the hem of his vest, pinning him in place. His smirk was almost gentle , as if he pitied Chuuya. “Stop holding back,” he murmured, his voice sickeningly smooth. “You feel it, don’t you? That raw, endless power clawing to be unleashed? Why deny it?”

Chuuya grit his teeth, his entire body trembling. “Shut up—”

Jack ignored him, kneeling beside him, fingers curling under his chin and forcing him to look up. “If such a monster exists, then let it roam free in this pitiful world. Isn’t that why you were made ?”

Chuuya recoiled, a violent shudder running through him. No. No, no, no—

But Arahabaki wanted it.

The ancient god shrieked inside him, its rage surging, its chaos rattling every fiber of his being. It pounded against its cage, harder, harder , splintering the barriers Chuuya barely held together.

Chuuya’s breaths turned ragged, his fingers twitching against the ground. His veins felt like they were burning , like liquid fire was coursing through them, suffocating.

Jack’s grip on his vest tightened, his lips curving into something triumphant.

His surroundings warped again—Jack flickering between standing and broken, reality twisting, distorting. The voices, the echoes—they laughed , taunting him, feeding the madness.

A red haze clouded Chuuya’s vision. His muscles tensed. He had to fight it—he had to stay himself .

But the ground beneath him quivered.

The air grew heavier.

Amidst the chaos clawing at his mind, he tried to focus—on something, anything —that could tether him to himself. The others. They needed him. Hirotsu, the Black Lizard—what if they had been trapped, too? What if he failed them again? What if—

Kōyō. He could almost hear her voice, scolding him for being reckless, for falling for something so blatantly obvious . He could picture the way her stern expression would soften, the way she always looked at him with something like concern—like family.

And then, Dazai.

The thought of him came suddenly, unbidden. His warmth, his touch—the way he would always grab Chuuya by the wrist, the shoulder, the collar, pulling him back before he could go too far. That infuriating smugness, that unbearable calm. The way Dazai had looked at him earlier— real concern buried beneath layers of teasing.

Where was he now?

Would he even get the chance to see him again?

A desperate, shameful part of Chuuya wished Dazai were here, right now. That steady, annoying presence, always so sure, so unshaken, the only thing in this world that could pull him back from the edge. He needed to hear his voice—needed him to ground him.

The thought barely formed before it was swallowed whole. Because Dazai wasn’t here. There was no hand reaching for him this time. There was only Arahabaki , and this foreign madness, devouring him.

The last thread of resistance inside him frayed.

Arahabaki roared, the sound splitting through his skull like a thousand voices screaming at once. His limbs felt weightless, his body no longer his own. The air around him twisted, bending under a force too great for human comprehension.

And then—he heard it.

His own voice.

But it wasn’t his. He didn’t feel himself speaking, didn’t want to speak, and yet the words spilled forth, low and resolute, carrying the weight of a power that should have never been unleashed.

"O grantors of dark disgrace..."

No—no, stop! Chuuya wanted to clamp his mouth shut, to bite down on his tongue if it meant silencing the incantation clawing its way out. But he couldn’t.

The words had already taken hold.

Jack’s expression flickered, shifting from confidence to something unreadable—something almost like awe. The wind around them howled, dust and debris rising into the air, as if the very world was bracing for what was to come.

And still, Chuuya spoke.

"Do not wake me again!"

The last thing he registered was Jack’s widening grin—before everything turned black.

Chapter Text

Pain. A deep, dull ache radiating through his ribs, his head, his everything .

Dazai groaned dramatically as he slumped further into the cot, one arm draped over his eyes. “Ahh, Yosano-san, I’m dying. My vision is blurry, my breathing is shallow—how much time do I have left of this torment?”

Yosano barely spared him a glance as she sterilized a pair of surgical scissors. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t treat whiny men who refuse to die properly.”

Atsushi, hovering nearby like a nervous cat, fidgeted with his sleeves. “Um, Dazai-san, you really shouldn’t be moving around so much. You hit your head pretty hard, and Yosano-san said you probably broke a rib.”

Dazai sighed, peeking at him from beneath his arm. “Atsushi-kun, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you care about me.”

Atsushi frowned. “Of course I do! We all do.”

Yosano scoffed. “Not all of us.”

Dazai pouted. “How cruel.” He shifted slightly, wincing when a sharp pain shot through his ribs. “But really, Yosano, what’s the verdict? Will I live to see another miserable day?”

Yosano rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately.” She leaned over, prodding at his side a little harder than necessary, smirking when he hissed in pain. “Your injuries aren’t life-threatening , but you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”

Dazai sighed, staring at the ceiling. Normally, he’d make another joke, but his mind was elsewhere— on Chuuya .

The last time he saw him, Chuuya had been covered in dust, wearing that ever-present scowl that never quite masked the worry underneath. He had wanted to say something before they parted, something real , but what was there to say?

Still… something felt wrong .

He didn’t like this. Being here , trapped in a room, when Chuuya was out there, facing whatever twisted plan Golding had set in motion.

He tried to push the thought away, but it lingered, nagging at the back of his mind like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Then—his phone buzzed.

Atsushi immediately grabbed it from the table, eyes widening at the cracked screen. “Ah—should I answer it?”

Dazai held out a hand expectantly. Atsushi hesitated before handing it over.

“Give him space,” Yosano said, nodding for Atsushi to follow. “Let him take the call.”

Atsushi looked reluctant but obeyed, casting Dazai one last glance before stepping out and shutting the door behind them.

The caller ID was a number he didn’t recognize, but something in his gut told him to answer.

Pressing it to his ear, he forced his usual light tone. “Moshi moshi~ you’ve reached Dazai, lover of beautiful women and—”

A voice cut him off.

A voice he hadn’t heard in years.

“Dazai,” the man on the other end said smoothly. “It’s been a while.”

Dazai sat up straighter despite the pain stabbing at his ribs. His grip on the phone tightened.

"Verlaine," he said smoothly, masking the sudden shift in his gut. "I’d ask what I owe the pleasure to, but I’m guessing this is about that bounty on my pretty little head, isn't it?"

Verlaine let out a low chuckle, deep and knowing. “Partly.”

Dazai’s brows furrowed. Verlaine wasn’t the type to waste time on pleasantries. If he was calling, there was something else. Something more.

"Then why don’t you enlighten me?” Dazai drawled.

There was a pause. Then, Verlaine spoke again, voice sharp and deliberate.

"Surely, you felt it too."

Dazai frowned. "Felt what?"

Verlaine scoffed. “Even without Guivre ,” he said, referring to his ability, "I can sense it. The sheer madness pouring out of him… It’s unlike anything I’ve felt before.”

A strange sensation trickled down Dazai’s spine, a familiar unease creeping in.

“What exactly are you sensing, Verlaine?"

“Chuuya.”

The name alone sent a pulse of something bitter through Dazai’s chest.

Verlaine continued. "Golding’s ability— Lord of the Flies —taps into the primal instincts lurking beneath the surface, bringing out the real violent nature of people, their madness, their savagery. The more susceptible the mind, the worse the descent into bloodlust.”

Dazai said nothing.

Verlaine’s voice was almost clinical, detached. “You must have noticed it already, how Yokohama is falling apart at the seams. The riots, the explosions—it’s not just fear driving them. Golding is turning people into monsters.”

“It doesn't just bring out the worst in people. It frees it. Strips away all the fragile restraints society forces onto them and leaves them with nothing but their raw, primal instincts. And in Chuuya’s case… that means Arahabaki.” 

Dazai’s fingers twitched against the fabric of the sheets. That doesn’t sound like Chuuya at all.

Sure, Chuuya had a temper. Sure, he was reckless. Sure, he fought like a demon on the battlefield.

But violent ? A savage ? No.

There was a difference between being a fighter and being a mindless beast. And Chuuya—no matter how much blood he had on his hands—wasn’t the latter.

But then Dazai thought back to the last time he saw him. The headache. The way Chuuya had looked almost haunted for a brief second.

Something was wrong .

Dazai kept his voice casual. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

"Because," Verlaine said, "if Chuuya loses himself to this, even your ability might not be enough to stop him."

Dazai’s heart stilled. Just for a second.

Then he smiled, lazy and unbothered. “You really underestimate me, Verlaine.”

Verlaine let out a low hum. “This isn’t your usual Double Black operation, in which Chuuya releases Arahabaki just enough to take care of the enemy and for you to bring him back to normal.” A pause. “This is the kind of situation that ends with bodies piled up and nothing left to salvage.”

Dazai sucked in a slow breath. No. That’s not going to happen.

“You’re worried,” Verlaine mused, sounding almost pleased. “That’s rare.”

Dazai forced his voice to stay steady. “I don’t worry , Verlaine. I assess.”

“Right. And what’s your assessment ?”

Dazai’s eyes darkened. “That you’re wasting time.”

A short chuckle. “Touché.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken implications.

“I’ll put the bounty on hold for now,” Verlaine said. “I’ll let you take care of Chuuya first.”

Dazai let out a short laugh, though there was little amusement in it. “How generous of you.”

“I’m not doing this for you,” Verlaine said flatly. “If Golding’s ability has twisted Chuuya this much…” Another pause. “He’s still my brother, after all. The only one I have left alive who truly understands me.”

Dazai’s fingers curled around the phone. Verlaine’s words should have been reassuring, but they weren’t.

“You should be worried, Dazai.”

Dazai let his head rest back against the pillow, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. He refused to let any of his concern slip through his voice. “Chuuya’s a stubborn idiot, but he’s not some mindless animal.”

Verlaine didn’t reply immediately. Then, with something almost amused, he said, “Then I hope you’re right. Because if you’re not, you’ll be facing Corruption in its purest, most uncontrolled form.”

Dazai's smirk remained, but his fingers curled against the blanket.

"Let me worry about Chuuya."

“So practical. You almost sound like me,” Verlaine commented.

“You wish,” and with that, Dazai ended the call.

Dazai exhaled slowly, his grip loosening on the phone. His gaze turned toward the darkened window, his thoughts already far beyond the agency’s walls.

Don’t tell me what to do. That was the last thing Chuuya had said to him. A familiar exchange, nothing unusual. But the way he had looked at Dazai then—frustrated, reluctant to leave, worried —stuck with him more than he cared to admit. He hated this. 

Hated feeling this much.

Hated the way his chest tightened at the thought of Chuuya losing himself. Hated the way his mind was already spiraling through worst-case scenarios. Hated that, for all his calculated reasoning, the thought of Chuuya not coming back from this made his stomach twist in a way that was too human, too real.

Dazai cared . And he hated that most of all.

He had spent years training himself to detach, to think logically, to keep his emotions buried under layers of calculated indifference. Yet, when it came to Chuuya, it was like every defense he had built meant nothing .

Chuuya was strong. There was no doubt about that. But strength wasn’t the issue here. Golding was no ordinary enemy—his tactics were insidious, preying on human nature itself. And Chuuya—hotheaded, determined, loyal to a fault—walked straight into it.

If Golding’s ability was anything like what he suspected, it wouldn’t be some physical fight Chuuya could brute-force his way through. It would be a battle of control. Of restraint.

Chuuya was impulsive, reckless, yet always managed to scrape by with sheer force of will. It frustrated Dazai. It fascinated him.

And it terrified him.

Because Chuuya could survive anything—except himself.

If Chuuya had already activated Corruption—if he had already spoken the chant—then that meant…

He wasn’t just fighting an enemy. He was fighting himself .

Dazai had seen it before. That moment where Chuuya teetered on the edge of losing himself, where the lines blurred between his will and the thing caged inside him.

Dazai was afraid that Verlaine was right.

Because he could feel it.

It wasn’t something tangible, nothing as obvious as a tremor in the earth or a shift in the air—but it was there, gnawing at the edge of his awareness. A wrongness , a suffocating pressure that clawed at the back of his mind, something only those attuned to Chuuya could recognize.

Chuuya had unleashed Arahabaki.

And Dazai wasn’t there to stop it.

Chapter Text

Atsushi knocked lightly on the door, waiting for a response. When none came, he hesitated, then pushed it open cautiously.

“Dazai-san?”

The sight that greeted him made him stop in his tracks. Dazai, still bruised and bandaged, was standing by the desk, slipping his coat back on. Dazai tried to move casually, like he hadn’t just been lying on that cot moments ago, complaining about his impending demise .

Except, this time, there was nothing casual about the way Dazai struggled to slide his arm into the sleeve of his coat. His movements were slower, and not with his usual ease. Atsushi’s gaze dropped to Dazai’s left hand, or rather, to the bandaged stumps where his missing fingers should have been. Each attempt to adjust the coat’s fabric seemed to frustrate him, but Dazai kept his expression as neutral as always, hiding whatever frustration he felt behind a mask of indifference.

Atsushi’s heart ached as he watched. The sight of Dazai, usually so composed and untouchable, struggling with something as simple as putting on a coat was almost too much to bear. He wanted to offer to help but stopped himself. He knew Dazai well enough to know he’d refuse, brushing it off with some joke or sarcastic remark.

Dazai finally managed to get his arm through the sleeve, his movements stiff and slightly awkward. He gave a small, satisfied sigh.

“Ah, Atsushi-kun!” Dazai’s tone was light as he adjusted the lapels of his coat. “Perfect timing. Do you know if Kunikida’s in? I’m going to need him to give me a ride.”

Atsushi blinked, his brain scrambling to catch up. “A ride? Wait—what? Dazai-san, what are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m leaving.” Dazai turned to him with a wry smile, his hands slipping into his coat pockets. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

“B-but—” Atsushi gestured toward the cot, his voice rising slightly. “Yosano-san said you are in no condition to be moving around! You’re still hurt! Where are you even planning to go?”

Dazai tilted his head, his smile never faltering. “Atsushi-kun, the Mafia may be handling some of the chaos in the city, but you know as well as I do—they can’t take care of everything. Someone has to step in, or Yokohama will tear itself apart.”

Atsushi frowned, still trying to piece together Dazai’s intentions. “So you’re going to help the Mafia?”

Dazai chuckled softly. “Help is a strong word. Let’s just say I’ll be making sure things don’t spiral further out of control.”

“But—” Atsushi started again, only for Dazai to cut him off with a raised hand.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Dazai said lightly, his tone betraying none of the urgency he felt. “I’m injured, I shouldn’t be moving around, I should leave it to someone else—yada yada. But here’s the thing, Atsushi-kun: sometimes there isn’t anyone else.”

Atsushi’s eyes widened as the weight of Dazai’s words sank in. “You’re going to find Chuuya, aren’t you?”

Dazai’s smile faded, his expression softening into something unreadable. “Someone has to.”

“But—” Atsushi started again, only for Dazai to cut him off with a raised hand.

“There’s no one else who can do what I do. Not for him.”

Atsushi stared at him, conflicted, his confusion deepening. “But… the city is in chaos. Between the explosions, the riots, and everything else—Dazai-san, you’re hurt. Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Dazai offered him a lopsided grin, but his eyes lacked their usual mischievous spark. “Exactly why you need to stay here and help. The Agency is the city’s last line of defense. People need heroes right now, Atsushi-kun, and you fit the role far better than I ever could.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Dazai’s voice was firm, though not unkind. “You’re strong, Atsushi. You’ve proven that time and time again. Stay here, help Yosano, Tanizaki, and the others. Keep the city from falling apart.”

Atsushi wanted to argue, to tell Dazai to listen to Yosano and rest, but deep down, he knew Dazai was right.

Dazai sighed, running a hand through his hair. “So, Kunikida—where is he? I need him to drive me. Dying in a car accident is an unpleasant way to go, and I can’t go just yet.”

“He’s… yeah, he’s here,” Atsushi admitted reluctantly. “But he’s not going to be happy about this.”

Dazai chuckled. “When is Kunikida ever happy about anything I do?”

Atsushi could only watch as Dazai walked out. The humor in Dazai’s tone didn’t quite mask the determination in his movements, the sharp focus in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Atsushi-kun,” Dazai said over his shoulder as he made his way to the door. 

Atsushi’s hand tightened into a fist at his side. He didn’t like this, Dazai pushing himself when he was already so clearly battered. But he also couldn’t shake the feeling that, no matter how reckless it seemed, this was something Dazai had to do.

“Be careful,” Atsushi said quietly.

Dazai paused in the doorway, glancing back with a small, almost genuine smile. 

After a lot of arguing, yelling, and the usual exasperated tirade from Kunikida, he and Dazai found themselves in the agency’s car, speeding through streets that now resembled a battlefield. Smoke rose in thick columns, painting the sky an ominous gray, and the air vibrated with the sounds of chaos—shouts, breaking glass, and distant explosions.

Golding’s ability had infected much of the city, twisting it into a living nightmare. Everywhere they looked, people were locked in brutal fights, driven by nothing but violence and aggression. Kunikida gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles white as he swerved to avoid the frenzied civilians spilling onto the streets.

“This is insane,” Kunikida muttered, his eyes darting between the road and the carnage unfolding around them. He slammed the brakes to avoid hitting a man swinging a metal pipe, his face twisted in rage as he chased someone down. Kunikida honked the horn, but it barely registered in the chaos.

“I hope you know what you’re heading into, Dazai,” he said, his voice taut with frustration and concern.

Dazai, leaning back in the passenger seat with his usual air of nonchalance, glanced out the window at the mayhem. His expression, however, was uncharacteristically grim.

“Do I ever really know what I’m heading into?” Dazai said, his voice lighter than his face betrayed. “But I’d say it’s less about knowing and more about… adapting.”

Kunikida shot him a sharp look, his grip on the steering wheel tightening even further. “This isn’t some game, Dazai. You’ve dragged me into a citywide disaster zone without a proper plan, without telling me what we’re even heading toward. And for what? Some impulsive half-baked scheme?”

Why hadn’t Kunikida been affected by Golding’s ability? Nearly every civilian they’d encountered had fallen victim to its influence, driven into savagery and violence. Was it because Kunikida had been close to Dazai? Perhaps No Longer Human provided some passive protection to those within proximity. Or maybe… it was something else. Maybe Kunikida’s unwavering ideals, his strict adherence to his moral code, had shielded him from the madness. Dazai wasn’t sure.

His thoughts tangled in a web of worry and strategy. There was so much they didn’t know. How exactly did Golding’s ability work? How far did its effects reach? What triggered it? And, most importantly, how could they stop it?

Dazai knew the answer, at least partially. His No Longer Human was the perfect counter to any ability—perfect, but not convenient. It required direct contact to nullify an opponent’s power. The only possible way to stop Golding would be for Dazai to get close enough to touch him, and in this chaos, finding the man himself was already a monumental task.

But before that—there was Chuuya.

Chuuya, who had released Arahabaki. Chuuya, who was somewhere in the midst of this madness. Dazai clenched his fist in his lap, unseen by Kunikida.

“Dazai!” Kunikida barked, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Are you even listening?!”

“Yes, yes,” Dazai said, waving his right hand dismissively. “I heard you, Kunikida. No plan, dragging you into chaos, impulsive heroics. Same old, same old.”

Kunikida scowled, swerving to avoid another group of brawling civilians. “This is serious, Dazai. If you’re going to get us both killed, at least tell me why!”

Dazai finally turned to him, his expression unreadable. “Because the Mafia can’t handle this alone. And if we don’t stop it now, there won’t be a city left to save.”

Kunikida stared at him for a moment before letting out a frustrated sigh. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Dazai offered him a faint, almost weary smile. “You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

As they continued weaving through the chaos, Kunikida muttered under his breath, “I just hope you’re not leading us into a death trap.”

Dazai didn’t respond. For once, he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t.

They kept going, speeding past the chaos in the city center, past the wreckage of the suburbs, until the outskirts of the city loomed ahead. The air seemed heavier here, oppressive and thick with static, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Then they saw it.

The homes and streets were the first things they noticed—nearly wiped clean, as though some immense force had torn through, erasing everything in its path. The skies had darkened to an ominous shade, rolling clouds casting jagged shadows over the destruction.

And then the shockwaves hit.

The ground trembled violently, sending cracks spiderwebbing across the road. A deafening boom reverberated through the air, forcing Kunikida to slam on the brakes.

“What the hell was that?!” Kunikida shouted, gripping the wheel as the car skidded to a halt.

They barely had a second to breathe before the next wave hit, rippling through the ground and sending electricity poles and trees hurtling into the air. The shockwaves rolled outward, growing stronger with each pulse, scattering debris like toys in a storm.

Dazai leaned forward, bracing himself against the dashboard, his sharp gaze scanning the area.

“We can’t stay here!” Kunikida yelled, trying to edge the car forward, but the road was already torn apart. The tires groaned as they fought for traction, the car lurching unsteadily.

“It’s not going to work!” Dazai shouted over the noise, his voice tinged with urgency. “We need some cover!”

Kunikida gritted his teeth, scanning their surroundings. “Where?! There’s nothing left—”

“There!” Dazai suddenly pointed, his sharp eyes catching movement amidst the destruction.

Kunikida followed his gaze and spotted them, figures slumped against the remnants of a half-collapsed wall, barely visible in the chaos. Even from a distance, it was clear they were in bad shape.

Kunikida’s jaw tightened. “They’re Mafia.”

“Exactly,” Dazai said, his voice cold and steady. “And they’ll know what’s happening. Get us there.”

Kunikida hesitated for only a moment before jerking the wheel, steering the car toward the group. The vehicle struggled over the uneven ground, bouncing with each jolt, but Kunikida managed to pull up just short of the injured Mafia members.

It was Hirotsu, bloodied and gravely injured, flanked by Gin, Tachihara, and a few other battered members of the Mafia. One of them was cradling his arm, clearly broken, while another leaned heavily against Hirotsu, their uniform torn and stained with blood.

Dazai was out of the car before it even fully stopped, his coat flaring behind him as he strode toward Hirotsu. Kunikida followed reluctantly, hand hovering near his weapon as his eyes darted around for any threats.

“Hirotsu,” Dazai called out, crouching down beside the older man. Hirotsu’s eyes fluttered open, his face pale and slick with sweat.

“Dazai-kun…,” he rasped, his voice barely audible.

“What happened here?” Dazai demanded, his tone sharp and unrelenting.

Hirotsu coughed, wincing as he tried to sit up. “It’s… Chuuya. Arahabaki’s gone out of control. Golding—he’s using something, manipulating it. We couldn’t stop him.”

“How?” Dazai pressed. “What did he do?”

Hirotsu’s eyes flickered, haunted. “There was a… a hog’s head. On a spike. Some kind of… grotesque display. As soon as Chuuya walked past it to confront Jack, it was like something snapped. He wasn’t himself anymore.”

Dazai’s brow furrowed, his expression unreadable. “And Golding?”

“We never saw him,” Hirotsu admitted weakly. “He’s controlling this from the shadows. His ability… it’s spreading like a plague. Turning everyone… violent. Savage.”

Hirotsu’s hand trembled as he gestured weakly toward the ground. “We… we had to shoot them… our own men. Golding’s ability… it infected them. Turned them against us. They… they weren’t themselves anymore.”

Dazai said nothing, letting Hirotsu continue.

“And Chuuya-sama…” Hirotsu’s voice faltered, his eyes glistening with a mix of pain and guilt. “When Arahabaki was unleashed… he… he killed some of them. They didn’t stand a chance.”

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, even Kunikida was silent.

Dazai exhaled slowly, his gaze distant. “I see,” he murmured, his tone unreadable, his sharp eyes snapping back to Hirotsu.

“Where is Chuuya now?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

Hirotsu shook his head weakly. “He’s—he’s at the center of it all.. But the destruction… it’s him. Arahabaki.”

Dazai straightened, his jaw tightening.

Hirotsu gestured weakly toward the horizon, where the shockwaves seemed to originate.

Dazai turned to Kunikida, his voice calm but commanding. "I need you to cover me. Get me as close as possible to the center of the storm."

Kunikida’s face turned grim. “This is a suicide mission, Dazai. You can’t just walk into that.”

Dazai glanced over his shoulder at him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “When has that ever stopped me?”

Kunikida groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”

Dazai turned back to Hirotsu, his voice softening slightly. “Stay here. We’ll send help once we can.”

Hirotsu nodded weakly, his eyes already fluttering shut again. Dazai stood, his coat whipping in the wind as he turned toward the distant chaos.

“Let’s go,” Dazai said simply, striding back toward the car.

Kunikida hesitated, glancing back at the injured Mafia members before sighing and following. “I swear, Dazai, if we don’t make it out of this alive, I’m haunting you.”

Dazai chuckled, sliding into the passenger seat. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Kunikida-kun.”

Kunikida shot him another look of disbelief but quickly nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. 

The car jerked forward, its tires skidding slightly on the battered road as Kunikida maneuvered through the chaos. Using his ability, The Matchless Poet, Kunikida tore pages from his notebook, transforming them into grenades and other gadgets. Explosions cleared the wreckage and flying debris in their path. Barricades formed to shield the car from incoming projectiles, a mix of shattered trees and broken streetlights.

Even with Kunikida's quick thinking and precise use of his ability, the destructive storm ahead proved too much. As they drew closer, the car rocked violently, shockwaves from the epicenter sending tremors through the ground. Electricity poles and chunks of pavement flew past them, one crashing mere meters away.

Kunikida cursed under his breath, slamming the brakes as the car slid to a screeching halt. "We can’t get any closer! This is insane!"

Dazai looked out the window, his gaze fixed on the dark, chaotic storm that was unmistakably Chuuya. “That’s far enough,” he said, already opening the door.

Kunikida grabbed his arm. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re injured—hell, you can barely stand!”

Dazai turned to him, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Listen, Kunikida. You need to get back and warn the rest of the Agency. Tell them to prepare for the worst. If I don’t make it out of this, you’ll have to be ready to evacuate the city.”

Kunikida’s grip tightened. “Don’t talk like that! You’ll make it back—”

“I don’t have time for speeches,” Dazai interrupted, his voice low but firm. “I know what I’m walking into, and it’s not just Chuuya. It’s him. Golding. If I fail…” He trailed off, his eyes glinting with unspoken resolve. “You’ll need to protect what’s left.”

Kunikida stared at him for a long moment, his jaw clenched tightly. Finally, he released Dazai’s arm with a reluctant nod. “You better not die, Dazai, there's still paperwork with your name on it back at the office,” he said, his voice sharp with frustration and worry.

Dazai stepped out of the car, the wind from the shockwaves hitting him like a wall. He steadied himself, adjusting his coat, and without another word, began walking toward the storm. Behind him, Kunikida watched, his fists clenched at his sides. Then, gritting his teeth, he spun the car around, heading back toward the others.

As the storm roared louder, Dazai whispered to himself, “Don’t make me regret this, Chuuya.”

Dazai walked limply, his steps uneven as he held his side with his left arm, the broken rib sending sharp jolts of pain through his body. His free hand reached out, grabbing a nearby pipe sticking out of the wreckage for support. He leaned heavily against it, using it to push himself forward.

The closer he got, the darker it became, the storm swallowing the world around him. The wind howled like a feral beast, growing stronger with each step, forcing Dazai to dig his heels into the ground to keep from being blown backward.

Each shockwave rippled through the air, sending debris flying in chaotic spirals. Dust and rubble scraped against his face, stinging his skin. His coat flapped violently around him, and he was forced to hunch over, lowering his center of gravity to avoid being completely knocked off his feet.

His legs trembled with effort, and the pipe in his hand groaned under his weight. Dazai’s body screamed at him to stop, to turn back, but he clenched his jaw, ignoring the pain. He couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when Chuuya was at the center of this chaos.

Another shockwave surged, more powerful than the last, slamming into him like a tidal wave. Dazai was forced to drop to his knees, one hand gripping the ground while the other still clutched the pipe. The wind was deafening now, a relentless roar that drowned out even his own thoughts.

He crawled forward, dragging himself inch by inch as the storm intensified. The weight of the air felt oppressive, pressing down on him like an invisible force. His breaths came in shallow gasps, every inhale burning his lungs.

“Chuuya…” he muttered under his breath, barely audible even to himself. 

The ground beneath him trembled, cracks spidering out in all directions as the epicenter loomed closer. Dazai’s vision blurred, the chaos surrounding him threatening to consume everything in its path.

And yet, despite the overwhelming force of the storm, he pressed on, his determination unwavering. Whatever it took, however much pain he had to endure, he wasn’t going to let Chuuya slip away.

Dazai stopped, realizing he didn’t need to move forward anymore, the storm was coming to him. Like the eye of a hurricane, the chaos at the center began to subside, leaving an eerie calm in its wake. The winds died down slightly, but the air remained heavy, suffocating, as if the very atmosphere held its breath.  

He squinted through the debris and darkness, trying to make out what lay ahead. His heart nearly stopped when his eyes caught a glint of metal hurtling toward him, a massive steel beam, spinning violently, coming straight at him.  

“Shit!” Dazai barely managed to throw himself out of the way, the impact of his body hitting the ground sending a fresh surge of pain through his ribs. He landed hard, coughing violently, blood splattering onto the ground as the effort fractured his ribs further.  

Before he could even catch his breath, more projectiles ripped through the air, dark, compressed spheres of gravity, black holes swallowing everything in their path. He rolled out of the way, the ground where he had just been collapsing. 

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin as he sat up, wheezing. “Damn it, Chuuya… this has got to be the greatest tantrum you’ve thrown yet.” His voice was strained, tinged with pain, though he forced a wry smile.  

His gaze shifted to the mass of darkness moving toward him, tendrils of raw power twisting and rippling in the air. His heart sank, but he let out a disheartened sigh, trying to maintain his composure. Slowly, the figure at the center came into focus.  

A quadrupedal beast emerged from the swirling chaos. Its black fur shimmered like obsidian, its tail lashing violently, and its fiery, smoke-filled eyes radiating destruction. The creature exuded an overwhelming presence, primal and unrelenting.  

You’ll be facing Corruption in its purest, most uncontrolled form.

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I said you’re my dog, Chuuya,” Dazai muttered, his smile faltering, replaced by something closer to defeat.  

As the beast stalked closer, they locked eyes—or at least, Dazai tried to. But there were no blue eyes to meet his brown ones this time, no spark of humanity left.  

The creature lunged at him with terrifying speed. Dazai barely had time to react before it slammed into him, pinning him to the ground with bone-crushing force. He screamed as the weight bore down on his broken body, his ribs threatening to shatter entirely under the pressure.  

His arms, trembling with effort, reached up and clung to the beast. But even as his fingers gripped the creature’s dark fur, his ability, No Longer Human, failed to take effect. Nothing happened.  

Dazai’s heart sank further. It was just as he feared. The output of Chuuya’s singularity had been pushed far beyond the ceiling of his nullification ability. He wasn’t enough to stop it.  

“I hate dogs,” Dazai rasped, blood filling his mouth again, “especially the disobedient ones.”  

The creature loomed over him, its fiery eyes staring down into his broken form. For a moment, something flickered in those eyes—was it recognition? Dazai clung to that fleeting hope, even as his vision began to blur.  

Slowly, shakily, Dazai lifted his good hand and reached for the beast’s face. His palm cupped its snout, trembling as he made contact. The fur was matted and sticky with blood. He felt the deep ridges of claw marks beneath his fingers and realized with horror that there were tears etched across the creature’s face.

Had he done it to himself?

“Ch-Chuuya…” he croaked, barely able to form the words. “I’m still breathing… barely. So… you must still be in there. Chibi…”  

Chuuya’s monstrous form loomed over him, but Dazai didn’t move. He couldn’t. 

This was Chuuya. His Chuuya.

And now, he was… this.

Dazai’s heart clenched painfully as he took in the sight before him. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen Chuuya consumed by the godly power of Arahabaki, his humanity stripped away by the overwhelming force within him. But it was different this time. It wasn’t just Corruption—it was something worse, something that had pushed Chuuya past the point of no return.

How many times must I watch this?

Dazai’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable, but his thoughts were a storm. He hated this. Hated how the world seemed intent on taking away everything he cared about. Hated how powerless he felt, watching Chuuya lose himself. Hated how, no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he always ended up here, in the wreckage of his own failures, watching the people he cared for slip through his fingers like sand.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Another failure. Another reminder that no matter how clever he was, how much he planned and schemed, he couldn’t stop the inevitable. He couldn’t save Chuuya.

And it broke something inside him.

Dazai let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and hollow in the oppressive silence. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic, didn’t you, Chuuya?” he said, his voice shaking despite the smirk on his lips.

The beast didn’t react, its fiery eyes burning with unrelenting intensity.

“Do you know how much it hurts, seeing you like this?” Dazai continued, his voice softening, the cracks in his mask beginning to show. “You’d probably call me a sentimental idiot for saying this, but… I miss you, Chibi. The real you. The stubborn, loud, reckless idiot who always had something to prove.”

His left hand trembled slightly, the phantom ache of his missing fingers reminding him of everything he’d already lost.

“I’m tired, Chuuya,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m tired of losing. Of watching the people I care about fall apart in front of me.”

He closed his eyes, his thumb brushing gently over the ridges of scars and claw marks. The tears carved into the beast’s face felt almost too human, and it made Dazai’s chest ache.

The beast growled lowly, and leaned harder on him, forcing another scream from Dazai’s lips as the last of his strength began to waver. His vision dimmed, the world fading to black at the edges. 

“I’ve always wanted to save you,” he admitted quietly. “But maybe I’m not the one who can. Maybe I’m just meant to watch as everything I want slips away, over and over again.”

HIs shoulders slumped, the weight of his grief finally too much to bear. He watched as the creature tensed, ready to strike.

“If this is how it ends, then so be it,” he said softly, closing his eyes. “But if there’s any part of you still in there, Chuuya… don’t let it end like this. Not like this.”

The beast reared back, its claws rising high into the air, poised to strike. Dazai’s gaze didn’t waver, though his body screamed for mercy.

His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, “Chuuya…” he murmured, his voice breaking. "Partner…  It’s time to wake up, darling …” 

The last words barely left his mouth as the claw descended toward him.

Chapter Text

Chuuya’s thoughts had always been darker than he let on, even when he masked them with a smirk or a sharp remark. Beneath his confidence and strength was an ever-present, gnawing doubt, a constant battle with the question of his own humanity. It wasn’t something he spoke about. He doubted anyone would understand, much less care.

But there were quiet moments, when the thoughts crept in, unrelenting and cruel. He often wondered about the consequences of wielding his power, about the price of Corruption. What would happen if one day, he unleashed it and never came back?

Would he die? Would his body simply collapse under the strain, leaving nothing but a lifeless shell? Or would he become some kind of ghost, a helpless spectator doomed to watch Arahabaki’s destruction unfold from the shadows, powerless to stop it?

Or worse, what if Arahabaki consumed him completely? Would there even be anything left of him?

Chuuya didn’t know. He’d never known. He didn’t even know if he was human enough to possess something as intangible as a soul. That thought was perhaps the most terrifying of all, that there might be nothing to return to. No afterlife, no trace, no legacy. Just a void.

His worst fears might already be coming true.

Chuuya was in darkness and the air was suffocating, heavy with the scent of rage and fear. Arahabaki’s power surged through Chuuya’s body, relentless and overwhelming, a tide of energy that crashed against every barrier he tried to put up. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled, clutching his head, the lines between himself and the godlike entity within him twisting and blurring beyond recognition.

Golding’s ability had infected him like a virus, a cruel, unrelenting force that brought out the darkness buried deep within. The whispers of savagery it planted in his mind were deafening, growing louder and louder until they drowned out everything else.

“Shut up,” Chuuya growled, his voice trembling as he fell to his knees. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

The despair clawed at him, deeper and deeper, until he could no longer tell where his thoughts ended and Arahabaki’s began. Was it him who wanted to tear the world apart, or was it the god inside him? Or had they already become the same thing?

No. No, no, no… He couldn’t lose himself. Not now. Not ever.

But it was slipping away, his sense of self, his control. Arahabaki wasn’t a caged beast anymore. The gate had broken. Chuuya couldn’t hold it back. His hands trembled violently as he clawed at his own face, his nails scraping against his skin, desperate to ground himself in some way.

“Stay… stay with me,” he whispered to himself, his voice breaking as tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood he’d drawn from his own scratches. “I’m still here… I’m still—”

The madness surged again, a wave of anger and violence so overwhelming that he screamed. He slammed his fists into the ground, the impact absorbed by the darkness below. The raw power coursing through him made his veins burn, his body trembling under the weight of it all.

But what terrified him more than the pain was the silence creeping in.

Chuuya realized, with a horrifying clarity, that he couldn’t feel himself anymore. His own thoughts, his emotions, his memories, they were fading, smothered by Arahabaki’s relentless roar.

“No!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the empty space around him. He clawed at his chest now, as if tearing at his skin could somehow keep himself from slipping away completely. “I… I can’t… I can’t—”

His voice cracked into a sob. His legs buckled, and he collapsed onto the ground, trembling as he felt Arahabaki take over fully.

There will be nothing left of me, he thought, despair washing over him like a cold wave. No soul. No self. Just… destruction.

And then, the darkness consumed him.

Vast, impenetrable, and infinite darkness. Was he falling? Lying down? He couldn’t tell. There was no sense of up or down, no frame of reference, nothing to ground him.

He tried to move, but there was no response. He couldn’t feel his limbs. Did he still have a body? The question lingered in his mind, but even that thought felt like it didn’t belong to him.

He didn’t feel anything. No warmth, no pain, no cold. Nothing.

And it wasn’t just his body, his thoughts felt distant, disjointed. Was he thinking at all, or were these just fragments of something that once resembled consciousness?

What is this place? The thought drifted by, but there was no weight to it, no urgency. It was as if he were detached from it entirely.

He tried again, to move, to find something, anything, but there was only the void.

Am I dead?

The question surfaced, but it didn’t spark fear or panic. It just was, floating aimlessly in the emptiness.

Then came a flicker, a sensation, faint and fleeting, like a spark in the pitch black. It wasn’t something he could see or hear, but it felt familiar, a thread of light weaving its way through the dark.

And with it came the smallest, faintest whisper:

“Chuuya…”

The sound—or was it a memory?—sent ripples through the void, though they faded almost as soon as they began. Chuuya reached out instinctively, or at least he thought he did. His awareness strained toward the voice, toward the familiarity it carried.

But then the void pushed back, pulling him deeper into its cold embrace. The faint flicker vanished, leaving him alone again.

He wanted to call out, to fight against the suffocating nothingness. But his voice, his strength, whatever was left of him, was waning.

Is this it? Am I just… gone?

The thought sank into the void, unanswered, as the darkness enveloped him once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~

Chuuya blinked, adjusting to the brightness, and found himself at a table in a cozy, charming restaurant. The atmosphere was perfect, warm wooden furniture, soft jazz playing in the background, and the inviting scent of perfectly cooked meals wafting through the air.

Across from him sat Dazai, and for once, he wasn’t smirking like a cat who had just cornered a mouse. He was dressed impeccably, a crisp white shirt with delicate gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs. His hair was neatly combed, with one side tucked behind his ear, giving him a refined, almost princely look. His expression was warm, almost fond, as he leaned casually back in his chair, a half-filled wine glass in his hand.

Chuuya frowned, confused.

“What the hell is this?” Chuuya demanded, his voice sharper than he intended.

Dazai sighed dramatically, resting his chin on his hand. “Dinner, obviously. Don’t tell me you forgot. You’re the one who insisted on steak.”

Chuuya’s brow furrowed. None of this made sense. He didn’t remember agreeing to dinner, hell, he didn’t even remember how he got here.

“Finally decided to dress up for me, huh, Chuuya?” Dazai teased, raising his glass in a mock toast.

The compliment caused Chuuya to overlook his confusion. He rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight back the small smile that crept onto his face. He glanced down at himself, surprised to see he was dressed in an immaculately tailored suit, deep crimson with subtle black accents that suited him perfectly. Even his hat was resting on the table beside him, looking pristine.

“Well, at least one of us has class,” Chuuya shot back, his tone teasing.

Dazai feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest. “You wound me, Chuuya. I happen to be a paragon of sophistication.”

Chuuya snorted. “Sure, and I’m the tooth fairy.”

Dazai grinned but didn’t argue further. Instead, he raised his glass in a mock toast. “To us, then. The tooth fairy and his loyal sidekick.”

"Dumbass," Chuuya laughed, the sound genuine and unrestrained. It felt good to laugh, to be sitting here, to feel... at peace.

Their meals arrived, served by a waiter who moved with practiced elegance. Chuuya’s plate held a perfectly cooked steak, paired with a rich red wine and delicate sides that looked like they belonged in a gourmet magazine.

As he took his first bite, his eyes widened. “Damn, this is good.”

“Only the best for you, my dear Chuuya,” Dazai said, his tone dripping with mock sincerity.

Chuuya rolled his eyes again but couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him.

The door to the restaurant jingled as it opened, and Chuuya glanced up, surprised to see familiar faces entering. Atsushi, Kenji, and Kunikida walked in first. Right behind them were Akutagawa and Higuchi, the former as stoic as ever while the latter smiled nervously.

But then, more faces joined them, faces that sent a pang through Chuuya’s chest before it was replaced by warmth. The Flags. Albatross led the group, grinning like he owned the place, his boisterous laughter filling the room. Doc trailed behind, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos Albatross brought with him. Lippmann followed as well, animatedly talking about the restaurant’s decor, gesturing grandly.

“Is this a Mafia-Agency summit or something?” Chuuya muttered, watching as the group made their way over.

“It’s a celebration,” Dazai said simply, gesturing for them to join the table.

Chuuya frowned. “Celebration of what?”

“Does it matter?” Dazai replied with a shrug. “Just enjoy it.”

And, somehow, Chuuya did.

Hirotsu, Tachihara, and Gin also arrived, along with Yosano, Tanizaki, and Ranpo. Everyone was there, even Mori and Fukuzawa, and later Kōyō and Kyoka, too. The table expanded to accommodate everyone, and soon it was filled with laughter, banter, and the clinking of glasses. Even Kunikida, who was usually so serious, seemed to relax as he joined the conversation. Atsushi and Akutagawa bickered playfully over dessert choices, while Higuchi tried to mediate with an apologetic smile.

Meanwhile, Albatross was already making a scene, loudly insisting he could finish three desserts in one sitting, much to the exasperation of Doc, who muttered something about “indigestion waiting to happen.” 

“Chuuya,” Albatross said suddenly, his voice cutting through the chatter. “Do you intend to finish that steak, or shall I—”

“Don’t even think about it,” Chuuya snapped, pulling his plate closer with a glare.

“Your steak does look rather impeccable, Chuuya,” Lippmann said with a mischievous glint in his eye. He leaned forward dramatically. “But let’s not forget, that suit of yours? Divine. You could’ve been a model, you know. Wasted potential if you ask me.”

Chuuya scoffed, though his ears turned faintly red. “Yeah, yeah. Eat your food, Lippmann.”

“I’m just saying,” Lippmann continued, gesturing grandly with his fork. “Look at you! Fashion icon and enforcer extraordinaire.”

While Lippmann carried on, Chuuya’s eyes caught Iceman, who was sitting quietly, looking as stoic as ever. Yet, as he took a bite of his steak, Chuuya saw it, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

“The music’s nice,” Piano commented suddenly, his voice soft but content. “I like it.”

Chuuya looked at him, nodding in agreement. The jazz notes seemed to weave into the atmosphere, making everything feel surreal yet perfect.

Dazai laughed, leaning back in his chair with a contented smile. “See? Isn’t this nice? All of us together.”

Chuuya found himself smiling more, laughing more, savoring every moment. The worries, the doubts, the darkness, they didn’t exist here. There was only good food, good company, and the strange but undeniable sense that, for once, everything was as it should be.

The night carried on with that vibrant energy until eventually, the Flags stood to go. One by one, they said their goodbyes, each in their own way. Albatross gave Chuuya a heavy slap on the back and told him to stop being such a grump all the time. Iceman offered a respectful nod. Lippmann adjusted Chuuya’s collar like a doting older brother and winked.

“Don’t forget to enjoy yourself,” said Piano Man. “And the gift we gave you for your one-year anniversary with the Mafia, remember?”

Chuuya smiled, nodding, wondering why he’d bring that up now. It caused him a strange ache in his chest. Why did this feel so final? He’d see them tomorrow, at the usual place. And yet…

He watched as the group walked out into the soft night, their silhouettes disappearing one by one. A wave of nostalgia and sadness washed over him.

He didn’t understand why.

After that, Chuuya found himself back at home. He didn’t remember how they got there from the restaurant, but it didn’t seem to matter. He felt pleased with himself, his heart light, his mind calm.

As Chuuya stepped inside, Dazai followed close behind, his refined appearance oddly fitting in the warmth of their shared space. Without a word, Dazai stepped forward, his movements almost gentlemanly. He reached for Chuuya’s coat, carefully slipping it off his shoulders with an ease that caught Chuuya off guard.

Before Chuuya could say anything, Dazai shrugged off his own coat and hung it neatly on the rack. His movements were fluid, carefree, yet strangely soft, as if handling something delicate.

Chuuya stood there, watching him, a faint warmth blooming in his chest. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he was happy.

Later that evening, Chuuya found himself seated with Dazai on the couch in their shared living room. The fireplace crackled softly before them, casting warm, golden light across the room. A glass of wine rested in each of their hands, though neither seemed particularly focused on the drink. The silence between them was comfortable, filled only with the occasional popping of the fire and the soft hum of the jazz record spinning in the corner.

“You’re unusually quiet,” Dazai commented, tilting his head to look at Chuuya. His features were softer in the firelight, and the gold embroidery on his shirt caught the glow, making him appear almost ethereal.

Chuuya smirked faintly, swirling the wine in his glass. “Just enjoying the peace. Don’t ruin it with your usual nonsense.”

Dazai chuckled, leaning back into the couch. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

They sat there for a while, letting the stillness wrap around them like a warm blanket. Eventually, Dazai spoke again, his voice quieter, more serious.

“Chuuya… you know, I’ve always admired you.”

Chuuya blinked, turning to look at him. “Admired me? You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not,” Dazai said, his gaze fixed on the fire. “You’ve got this strength about you, this determination. No matter how heavy the burden, you carry it. You don’t give up.” He glanced at Chuuya, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. “It’s something I’ve always envied.”

Chuuya was caught off guard by the honesty in Dazai’s tone. He stared at him for a moment, then looked away, feeling a faint warmth creep into his cheeks. “You’re saying this now? After all these years of calling me names and driving me crazy?”

“Maybe I’m just full of surprises,” Dazai teased, but there was a softness in his eyes that contradicted the humor.

They fell into another comfortable silence, the kind that only years of companionship could create.

“I’ll always be by your side, you know,” Dazai said suddenly, his voice almost a whisper.

Chuuya looked at him, his chest tightening at the sincerity in those words. Slowly, he reached out and took Dazai’s hand in his own, holding it tightly. “You’d better keep that promise,” he murmured, his tone laced with an unusual gentleness.

Dazai’s smile widened, and he gave Chuuya’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

The two of them sat like that for a long time, the fire burning low, the wine forgotten. Slowly, Chuuya’s eyelids grew heavy, and before he knew it, he had drifted off, his hand still clasped tightly around Dazai’s.

When Chuuya woke the next morning, the soft light of dawn streamed through the curtains. For a moment, he lay there, his body sinking into the warmth of the bed, and he felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He was still home.

From the kitchen, he could hear Dazai’s voice, soft and playful, singing that ridiculous “double suicide” song of his. Chuuya rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Dazai was still here, just as he had promised.

Footsteps approached, and Chuuya quickly shut his eyes, pretending to still be asleep. The door creaked open, and he felt Dazai’s presence enter the room.

“Oi, sleepyhead,” Dazai called out, his voice teasing. “Are you planning to sleep the whole day away?”

Chuuya remained still, fighting to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching.

“Come on, Chibi,” Dazai said, closer now. He sat on the edge of the bed, nudging Chuuya gently. “You can’t stay in bed forever. I’ve got plans to annoy you, and I can’t do that if you’re unconscious.”

Chuuya continued to feign sleep, enjoying the moment.

Dazai sighed dramatically. 

“Chuuya… partner…” Dazai’s voice softened, the teasing edge melting away. His hand rested lightly on Chuuya’s shoulder. “It’s time to wake up, darling …”

Before Chuuya could react, a sudden, overwhelming pull yanked him back into the darkness.

The warmth of the room, the sound of Dazai’s voice, the soft weight of the bed, all of it vanished in an instant, leaving him floating in the cold, endless void.

~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beast's claws gleamed in the fractured light of the storm as it loomed over Dazai, ready to strike. Dazai, battered and bloodied, stared up at the creature, his body too broken to move. His lips parted to speak one final time, but before the words could leave his mouth, a sudden metallic crash resounded through the chaos.

An electrical post slammed into the beast’s side, sending it stumbling backward with a deafening roar.

“Kenji!” Dazai recognized the boy’s voice before he even saw him. Kenji gave a casual wave, holding the bent remains of the electrical post as though it weighed nothing at all.

But Kenji wasn’t alone.

Atsushi darted forward with incredible speed, leaping onto the beast’s back, his tiger claws digging into its dark, matted fur. “We’ve got your back, Dazai-san!” he shouted, determination burning in his eyes.

Kunikida followed close behind, his expression grim but resolute as he pulled out his notebook. In a flash of blue light, a reinforced chain materialized, wrapping itself around the beast’s front legs, trying to pin it down. “Hold it steady! We need to buy time!”

From the other side of the battlefield, Rashomon erupted in a flurry of black tendrils, coiling around the beast’s hind legs. Akutagawa stood tall and unwavering, his gaze fixed on the creature. “Dazai-san, you must bring back Chuuya-san!”

The combined efforts of the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia began to take effect, slowing the beast’s movements as it struggled against the restraints.

“Dazai!”

Yosano appeared at Dazai’s side, kneeling beside him with an emergency medical kit. Her hands moved quickly and efficiently, assessing his injuries. “You’re a mess, as usual,” she muttered, but her voice was laced with concern. “Just hang on. I’ll patch you up enough to keep you breathing.”

Dazai coughed, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the pain. “I knew you’d come. Took you long enough, though.”

Yosano ignored his quip, already working to stabilize his ribs and stop the bleeding.

Dazai’s gaze shifted back to the battle. Atsushi was clinging to the beast’s back, his tiger claws allowing him to hold on despite the creature’s thrashing. Kenji was helping Kunikida reinforce the chains, driving heavy objects into the ground to anchor them. Even Higuchi and Tachihara had joined the fray, firing rounds into the storm to create distractions.

Amidst the chaos, Dazai noticed something strange. The storm was weaker now, the fierce winds that had torn through the city were beginning to calm, and the oppressive weight in the air was lifting. The beast’s movements, too, were less feral, less overwhelming.

“Is it…?” Dazai whispered, his eyes narrowing. He glanced at the creature’s fiery gaze and saw it: a flicker of blue, faint but unmistakable.

Chuuya…

His voice must have reached him after all.

Even though Chuuya hadn’t reverted yet, Dazai could feel it, his No Longer Human did take effect, managing to dull the worst of the beast’s power. And inside, somewhere deep within, Chuuya was fighting. He hadn’t been consumed completely.

Chuuya, Dazai thought, I knew you wouldn’t give in. You’re still there, aren’t you?

The beast roared again, but there was less fury in it now. It was almost… pained.

Atsushi, still atop the creature, looked down at Dazai. “What do we do now, Dazai-san? It’s still too strong to stop completely!”

Dazai’s mind raced. 

“Keep holding it back!” he called out, his voice stronger now. “Don’t let up! Chuuya’s fighting from the inside, we just need to give him the time he needs!”

The others nodded, their resolve unshaken as they tightened their efforts.

Chuuya was still there.

The air was thick with tension, Atsushi’s claws tearing through the air as he held onto the beast’s back, Akutagawa’s Rashomon snaking around its limbs, and the determined shouts of the others trying to hold it down. The beast roared in defiance, its monstrous strength pushing against every attempt to restrain it.

Dazai stirred on the ground, his body screaming in protest as he tried to push himself up. Yosano knelt beside him, her hands steady as she applied pressure to the wound at his side.

“Don’t,” Yosano said firmly, her voice cutting through the chaos. “You’re in no condition to move, Dazai. If you keep this up, you’ll bleed out before I can even patch you up.”

But Dazai’s eyes weren’t on her, they were fixed on the raging storm ahead, on the beast that had once been his Chuuya. He wiped at the blood dripping from his mouth, his expression set in grim determination.

“I’m not done yet,” Dazai rasped, his voice hoarse but unwavering. “He’s still in there.”

Yosano sighed, frustration and understanding mingling in her gaze. “You’re an idiot,” she muttered, but she shifted, crouching to let him lean on her shoulder. 

With her support, Dazai managed to get to his feet, his entire body trembling with the effort. Each step was agony, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to move forward. The closer he got to the beast, the heavier the air felt, the sheer pressure of Arahabaki’s presence pressing down on him like a physical weight.

“Dazai!” Kunikida’s voice rang out as he noticed him approaching. “What are you doing? You’ll get yourself killed!”

Dazai didn’t answer. He kept moving, his eyes locked on the beast. Atsushi glanced back, his expression filled with worry.

Dazai knew what he had to do.

For No Longer Human to work, to nullify the ability of the god-like entity within Chuuya, he needed prolonged direct physical contact. There was no other way. He had to get close. No matter the cost.

“Dazai-san, wait! It’s too dangerous—”

“Hold it down,” Dazai interrupted, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Keep it still. Just for a moment.”

Akutagawa, his face a mask of concentration, tightened Rashomon’s grip around the beast’s legs. The dark tendrils strained against the creature’s immense strength, but he didn’t falter. “Hurry,” Akutagawa growled through gritted teeth.

The beast thrashed violently, roaring as it tried to shake off its attackers. Atsushi dug his claws into its back, holding on with all his might, while Kunikida fired off another round of explosives to distract it.

Yosano helped Dazai take another step forward, her arm steady around his waist. “You’re insane, you know that?” she muttered.

“Probably,” Dazai replied, his voice weak but laced with dry humor. 

They stopped a few feet away from the beast. Dazai straightened as much as his battered body would allow, pushing off Yosano’s support to stand on his own. His gaze softened as he looked at the creature, and for a moment, the chaos around him seemed to fade.

“Chuuya,” Dazai called out, his voice low but steady. “It’s me. I’m here.”

The beast’s fiery eyes snapped toward him, its movements faltering for a brief moment.

“That’s right,” Dazai continued, taking another step forward despite the pain. “You’re not gone yet. I know you’re still in there, Chibi.”

The storm around them began to weaken, the winds dying down as Dazai’s words seemed to reach the beast. Atsushi and Akutagawa exchanged a glance, their grip on the creature steady but less strained.

“Dazai-san,” Atsushi murmured, his voice filled with cautious hope.

The beast let out a low growl, its massive frame trembling as if it were fighting against itself. Dazai’s heart clenched at the sight.

“Come back to me, Chuuya,” Dazai whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “You promised, didn’t you? That you’d be the one to kill me one day, not the other way around.”

The creature roared again, but this time, there was something different in its cry, something almost human.

Dazai took another step forward, his hand reaching out despite the pain.

“You’re not Arahabaki,” Dazai said firmly. “You’re Chuuya Nakahara. My partner. My…” His voice caught. My everything.

He glanced back at Yosano, Atsushi, and the others, their faces filled with determination. Together, they were holding the line, giving him the chance he needed.

The beast snarled, thrashing violently as it tried to break free. Its burning eyes locked onto Dazai with an intensity that sent a chill down the spines of everyone present. If it weren’t for Atsushi’s claws and Akutagawa’s Rashomon holding it down, the creature would have already charged at him.

He stood his ground, his body trembling but his gaze unwavering. 

As he stepped forward through the crushing weight of the storm, Dazai could feel the monster reacting. As if sensing that Chuuya was slipping through its grasp, the beast roared, a guttural, anguished sound that vibrated through the air. But this time, the roar carried something different. A crack in the facade. A tremor of humanity.

An immense force erupted around the beast, a violent gust of wind and crushing gravity that sent everyone else hurtling backward. Atsushi, Akutagawa, Kunikida, and the others barely had time to react before they were flung outside the raging storm, their bodies skidding across the ground as if an invisible hand had swiped them away.

With the restraints now gone, the beast lunged at Dazai.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s time to wake up, darling…”

The voice echoed through the endless darkness, threading through the void like a lifeline. Chuuya latched onto it instinctively, his mind clawing its way back from the abyss.

Dazai.

The realization struck like a bolt of lightning. Awareness crashed into him, memories flooding back in a chaotic torrent, the hog’s head, Golding, Jack, the suffocating rage of Arahabaki surging through his veins. He had lost himself. He had let go.

But none of that mattered now, because Dazai was calling him. The darkness wasn’t absolute anymore. There was something, a flicker, a crack where light bled through. Chuuya reached for it, grasping blindly, willing himself toward the sound of that voice. He could feel again. The weight of his body. The heat of something solid pressing against him. Arms. Holding him. Dazai?

The storm inside him roared in defiance, but for the first time, it wasn’t all-consuming. It was weaker. The destruction, the raw unfiltered chaos, trembled, hesitated. Chuuya clenched his fists. He wasn’t done yet. He wasn’t going to let this end with him being a mindless beast.

He refused.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pressure was suffocating, an overwhelming weight pressing down on Atsushi and the others, making it impossible to push forward again. They could feel it in their bones, the intense gravity trying to crush them into the ground. Every breath felt like dragging air through concrete. Their limbs refused to move, held down by the sheer force emanating from the monster. The swirling darkness coiled like a living thing, a barrier between them and the two figures left at its center.

Dazai was left alone against the monster.

It crashed into Dazai with the force of a tidal wave, pinning him to the ground in a single, devastating motion. Clawed hands dug into his sides, and before he could even gasp, sharp fangs tore into his shoulder, white-hot pain flaring through his entire being. A scream ripped from his throat, raw and unbidden, but Dazai didn’t fight back. Instead, his arms moved on their own, wrapping around the beast’s thick neck, holding on with what little strength he had left. He pressed his forehead against its snout, ignoring the pain, ignoring the blood.

“Chuuya,” he whispered, voice barely audible over the storm.

The beast shuddered. Dazai’s fingers, slick with blood, traced along the contours of the beast’s face, searching, pleading.

“You’re still in there,” he murmured, conviction bleeding into his voice. “I know you are.”

The storm flickered. The monstrous body trembled. The glow in its eyes wavered. Dazai tightened his hold, his voice turning from a whisper into something firm, unshakable.

“You’re not Arahabaki. You’re not a monster.”

A deep, strangled sound rumbled in the beast’s throat, part snarl, part something else. Something breaking.

“You’re Chuuya Nakahara.”

Dazai’s breath hitched, his body screaming in pain, but he didn’t let go.

“My partner.”

The beast froze.

“My Chuuya. My everything,” he said it aloud this time. 

The beast let out one final, guttural roar, its entire body shaking violently. But this time, it wasn’t anger, it was pain, anguish, and something deeply human.

Dazai’s arms didn’t waver. He stayed where he was, holding on with everything he had.

“Come back,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Come back to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the other side, somewhere deep within the abyss, Chuuya grasped onto that voice. Dazai’s voice.

It was the only thing cutting through the void, the only thing tethering him to something real. The storm, the destruction, the pain, none of it mattered. Not anymore.

“My everything.”

Chuuya’s consciousness trembled, the darkness around him rippling like disturbed water. His own existence felt fractured, unsteady, like he was drifting between two realities.

“Come back to me.”

The weight of those words crushed him, made something deep inside him ache.

Dazai still believed he could come back. That he was still here. And if Dazai believed it, if Dazai wanted him back, how could he not fight for it?

Chuuya clenched his hands into fists, willing himself to move, to fight. The abyss wasn’t endless. It wasn’t inescapable. If Dazai’s voice could reach him, then maybe, just maybe, he could reach back. From the depths of the void, Chuuya called back.

“Dazai!”

His voice tore through the abyss, raw and desperate. It was the only thing he could do, the only thing he knew to do. He was struggling, fighting against the relentless force of Arahabaki, the god trying to pull him under, to erase him. It was a tug-of-war for his very existence, his very self.

“Dazai, you’re also my—”

He stopped. Something shifted. He felt.

Not just the weight of the power trying to consume him. Not just the suffocating darkness of the void.

He felt too much .

Warmth. Sorrow. The unbearable ache in his chest, the kind that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with being human.

His voice cracked.

“Osamu!”

For the first time since the abyss swallowed him, Chuuya felt real.

Memories surged through Chuuya’s mind like flashes of light cutting through the darkness. Dazai, always there. At the last second, at the breaking point, just before Chuuya lost himself entirely, he was always there to pull him back. Whether it was from the brink of destruction, the weight of his own ability, or the abyss of loneliness, that damn bastard never let go.

“That bastard…” The words slipped from his lips, breathless. But there was no malice, no anger, just something aching in his chest.

Chuuya clenched his fists, his entire being trembling as he felt himself feel again. The god trying to consume him wasn’t what defined him. The chaos, the destruction, that wasn’t him.

“You never really left, huh, Dazai?”

His voice wavered, thick with something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t just relief. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was yearning.

The instant he felt the weight lift off him, he forced his eyes open.

With a ragged gasp, Chuuya’s consciousness snapped back into place. Cold air rushed into his lungs like he had been drowning, and now, finally, he had broken through the surface. His vision was hazy, the world tilting as if reality itself was unsure whether to let him go. His body burned, every nerve alight with the remnants of Arahabaki’s rage, but through it all, he felt something else. Something warm. Something human.

Dazai.

Chuuya’s vision cleared enough to see the mess beneath him, blood smeared against battered skin, a crumpled coat torn and scorched. Dazai lay there, his body bruised and broken, his shoulder bitten and neck slick with blood, but his gaze… his gaze remained steady.

Dazai looked up at him and smiled. That stupid, infuriating, gentle smile.

“Hey,” Dazai rasped, voice hoarse but laced with something softer, something that made Chuuya's chest ache. “You came back.”

Chuuya’s mouth opened, but no words came. His throat felt raw, and his heart beat so loudly it drowned out everything else. He blinked down at Dazai, dazed, unsure if this moment was real or just some dying illusion.

“I always knew you would,” Dazai added, his smile faltering for just a second before he lifted a trembling hand toward Chuuya’s bloodied face. “You never give up, do you… partner?”

Chuuya’s breath hitched. The world could’ve ended right then, and he wouldn’t have noticed. His body shook, not from Arahabaki’s power anymore, but from something deeper, grief, relief, love, rage, all tangled together.

“You idiot…” he whispered, his voice rough. “You could’ve died…”

Dazai’s fingers brushed his cheek. “But I didn’t. Because you stopped it. Because you came back to me.”

Chuuya swallowed hard. His vision blurred with tears he hadn’t realized were forming. For a second, he let himself lean into the touch, his face resting gently against Dazai’s hand.

“I didn’t–,” Chuuya muttered. “I didn’t think I could.”

“But you did.”

Chuuya, body trembling and battered beyond measure, finally reached his limit. The adrenaline was gone, the storm within and without had faded, and the strength that had fueled him, anger, desperation, Arahabaki, had drained entirely from his limbs. He couldn’t hold himself up anymore. With a soft, pained exhale, he let his weight fall to the side, slumping down until he was lying beside Dazai. The ground felt cold against his back, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now except the slow rise and fall of Dazai’s chest beside him. Above them, the sky was clearing. The last remnants of the storm, the swirling darkness, the unnatural winds, faded like mist touched by sunlight. The clouds parted just enough for a few stars to peek through, timid and flickering, but real. Chuuya’s gaze lingered on the sky for a moment longer, watching the way the night reclaimed its calm. Then he turned his head.

Dazai was already looking at him. That same quiet, stubborn gaze, half-lidded from pain, but so full of something tender, something grounding, that Chuuya didn’t know what to do with. Dazai’s eyes moved gently across Chuuya’s scratched face and torn clothes, pausing on the angry red gashes Chuuya had clawed into his own skin during the struggle.

“That’s gonna leave a scar,” Dazai said quietly, his tone dipping into something that sounded far too much like worry.

Chuuya scoffed, voice hoarse. “Still worried about me? Look at you.”

Dazai gave him a faint, crooked smile. “Always worry about your reckless ass.”

Chuuya let out a breath. “Look who’s talking.”

Dazai gave a soft laugh, the sound strained but real. 

Chuuya closed his eyes briefly, before forcing them back open so he could keep looking at him. 

Dazai reached out, hand brushing lightly against Chuuya’s fingers, not quite holding, just there. Present.

Chuuya let his hand turn, his fingers curling to meet Dazai’s, it was his good hand, with all of his fingers…

They lay side by side, the world around them quieter now, just the faint crackle of dying embers in the distance, the soft rustling of the breeze over the wreckage, and their shallow breathing. After a while, Chuuya broke the silence.

“…I dreamt about us,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the dark sky overhead. “I think it was a dream. I don’t know. I thought I couldn’t dream.”

Dazai hummed faintly beside him. “Yeah? What kind of dream?”

Chuuya gave a breath of a laugh. “We were having dinner. All dressed up. You looked ridiculous in this fancy-ass shirt with gold crap on it.” He paused. “But… you looked happy. We both were. Everyone was there.”

Dazai’s eyes slowly drifted toward him. “Sounds nice,” he murmured, voice faint. “Maybe we can… do that sometime. For real.”

Chuuya’s lips curved into a soft smile. “Yeah… maybe.”

He kept talking, about the food, the music, Albatross being a loud pain in the ass, even Akutagawa arguing with Atsushi. But then he noticed something, Dazai wasn’t responding anymore. His words trailed off.

Chuuya turned his head sharply.

“Oi…” he muttered, suddenly alert. Dazai’s eyes were barely open, his chest rising shallowly.

“Dazai, hey! Don’t pull this crap on me now!” Chuuya’s voice cracked as panic crept into his tone. “You better not die here, you hear me?! Dammit!”

He tried to push himself up, to reach him, to shake him, but his body gave out, everything crashing down on him again all at once. His own vision blurred. 

“Don’t you dare… make me wake up alone again…”

But his strength was gone, and before he could say anything else, the world slipped away.

Chapter Text

Chuuya woke with a gasp, his body jolting upright as if pulled from drowning. The sudden motion sent a wave of pain crashing through him, but he barely noticed. His heart pounded. Where was he? Why couldn't he move properly? The sterile scent, the steady beep of machines, the tug of IV lines. He was in the hospital.

Panic surged. He clawed at the wires, ripping them away, ignoring the sting and the alarmed shrieks of monitors. His chest burned. His limbs felt heavy and stiff, bandaged tightly. The edges of his vision blurred, but none of that mattered. 

“Chuuya, stop!” a voice snapped.

He turned sharply, too sharply, and nearly collapsed from the effort. Kōyō stood beside the bed, rising from a nearby chair where she’d clearly been sitting vigil. Her usually composed face was tight with worry. She moved to stop him, hands outstretched.

“You’re in no condition to—”

Chuuya shoved her weakly, his feet touching the cold floor. His legs nearly buckled, but he caught himself on the edge of the bed, breathing hard. Then he saw his reflection in the darkened window. His body was wrapped in bandages, one arm in a sling, most of his face covered in gauze. Still, he didn’t care.

“Ane-san…” he rasped, voice low, desperate, using his nickname for Kōyō he rarely used anymore, not since he was fifteen. “Where is Dazai?”

Kōyō hesitated.

Chuuya turned to her, his blue eyes fierce despite the exhaustion and pain. “Where is he?”

Her expression faltered. She stepped closer, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, guiding him gently back to sit on the bed. “He’s alive,” she said softly. “But he’s in intensive care. He went through several surgeries… there was damage to his organs, internal bleeding. They… they didn’t think he’d survive.”

Chuuya's world slowed. The machines around him faded to a dull hum. He stared down at his hands, wrapped and trembling.

“But he made it,” she added, almost as if daring him to believe it. 

Chuuya shoved her aside again, pushing himself to stand. Pain lanced through his entire body, but that didn’t matter. He needed to see him. He needed to see with his own eyes that Dazai was alive. 

Somewhere in his broken body, adrenaline perhaps, he found the energy to storm out of the room. The hallway was busy, probably still dealing with the chaos left in the city. He limped forward, unwavering. Kōyō didn’t go after him. She knew he wouldn’t listen, not the way he was now. His eyes scanned wildly, locking onto the signs for the intensive care unit. That’s where he had to be.

He passed several rooms, ignoring every ache, every pull of his wounds, until his eyes caught a familiar silhouette through a tinted window, brown tousled hair and bandages.

Right outside the door stood Atsushi. He barely registered Chuuya storming toward him until the red-head was just a few steps away.

"Chuuya-san! Wait, you can't—visitors aren’t allo—"

But Chuuya shoved him aside too, without a second thought, marching straight into the room. A nurse inside turned in alarm, trying to stop him, but she got the same treatment, Chuuya brushing past her like a force of nature. He stopped only once he reached the side of the bed, eyes locking on Dazai. His heart nearly stopped.

There he was, bruised, bandaged, unmoving. Machines beeped in time with his heartbeat. Tubes snaked out from under the blankets. But he was breathing. Dazai was alive.

Sorrow crept in like a tide as Chuuya stepped closer, his breath catching in his throat the moment he saw Dazai lying motionless on the hospital bed. An oxygen mask covered most of his face, and the machines beeped steadily beside him, he was alive, but barely.

“He’s stable, but—” the nurse began gently, but Chuuya's voice tore through the room.

“Leave.”

The nurse paused. “Sir, I just need to—”

“I said out.” His voice dropped further, gravel grinding behind his words. His teeth were clenched so tightly it made his jaw twitch, his entire posture screaming tension, like a dog guarding its food bowl or a child clutching something too dear to part with.

The force of his voice made the nurse flinch. She hesitated for only a second before quietly nodding and slipping out, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Silence fell.

Chuuya staggered forward and sank onto the edge of the bed. His eyes were locked onto Dazai’s pale hand resting on the sheets, wrapped in gauze, save for the exposed stubs where his fingers used to be. Without thinking, Chuuya reached out and cradled that hand in both of his. Warm. Still warm.

A ragged breath escaped him as his vision blurred, a couple of  tears he hadn’t noticed spilling down his cheeks. 

“You idiot…” Chuuya whispered, voice cracking. “You always do this. Always push it too far.”

He gripped Dazai’s hand tighter, as though he could will him to wake up.

“You and your stupid games,” Chuuya muttered, voice trembling as he bowed his head, shoulders shaking. He pressed Dazai’s hand to his forehead, trying to hold himself together. A choked breath slipped out, half a laugh, half a sob.

 “You promised you'd always be by my side…”

But that was just a dream, wasn’t it? The image of the two of them lounging by the fireplace flickered in his mind, warm, peaceful, almost real. A fleeting illusion. A beautiful lie he wished had been true.

“Stupid…” he whispered again, tears slipping past clenched lids. “That wasn’t even really you, was it?”

He felt ridiculous for holding onto something so fragile, so unreal. And yet it felt real. Dazai’s voice, his warmth, his hand in his. He wanted it to be real.

“If you brought me back just to leave me again,” Chuuya said, his voice rising, raw and cracked, “I swear, I will never forgive you.”

The words broke as he cried, no longer able to hold it in, sitting there with Dazai’s hand in his own, the weight of everything pressing down at once. Chuuya wiped at his eyes furiously, his movements rough, like he could scrub the emotion away if he just tried hard enough.

“Damn you, Dazai…” he muttered, low and shaking. “You always do this. Always pulling something reckless, always walking that line between life and death like it’s some kind of game.”

His grip on Dazai’s hand tightened. “And I’m the one left to deal with it. Left to wonder if this time is the one you don’t come back from.”

His voice rose, filled with that signature bite, that edge of heat he needed to maintain some composure.

“You think this is funny? Huh? Lying here like some self-sacrificing idiot while the rest of us crawl out of hell?” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You bastard. I should knock your teeth in the second you wake up. If you ever do…”

His voice cracked again. He stared down at Dazai’s still form, that familiar image pale and bandaged, eerily quiet. Chuuya looked away, jaw clenched tight, trying to swallow the scream building in his throat.

“I hate this,” he breathed, barely audible. “I hate this more than anything.”

Chuuya couldn’t hold it in anymore. The pressure inside him cracked wide open, and with a strangled cry, he leaned over Dazai and collapsed against his chest, the weight of everything finally crashing down on him.

“You piece of shit,” he choked out, his fingers clenching into the bedsheet over Dazai’s torso. “You’re such a damn bastard, you hear me?”

His body shook with a sob, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, pain and frustration and fear boiling over all at once.

“You always do this,” he whispered brokenly. “You always leave me to clean up your mess. You said—” His voice cracked. “You promised, even if it was just a damn dream, you promised you’d stay.”

Tears soaked into the fabric under him as he buried his face there, breathing in sharply, like he was trying to hold onto Dazai’s scent, like the familiarity of it might anchor him.

“Don’t leave me again,” he whispered, then louder, “Don’t you fucking leave me again.”

He slammed a fist weakly against the bed, then fisted the sheet like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His cries ebbed and rose again, caught in a spiral of grief and rage and desperation. And then, a groggy voice broke through the quiet.

"You’re so damn loud… trying to die here, you know..."

The voice was barely there. Weak. 

Chuuya froze.

“What…?”

Dazai’s eyes were only barely open, bleary and unfocused, but they were open. And they found Chuuya immediately. He gave a small, weak smile beneath the oxygen mask. A long pause. Then, softly, with the ghost of that old teasing drawl…

"As much as I want to die," Dazai rasped, voice muffled and dry, "I’d prefer it be next to a beautiful woman." 

Chuuya’s breath caught. He lifted his head, eyes wide and glassy, looking down at Dazai’s face. He stared at him in stunned silence.

“…You asshole… you stupid, suicidal bastard…” he whispered, and his voice broke again, but this time, it held something else too. Relief.

If Dazai heard everything Chuuya had said, he didn’t mention it. But he gave Chuuya’s hand a weak squeeze, the corners of his mouth lifting behind the oxygen mask.

“We both made it, huh?” he rasped.

Chuuya blinked back the tears, hastily wiping his face with the back of his arm. Dazai slowly pulled off the oxygen mask, just enough to speak properly, his voice raw but laced with familiar mischief.

“Guess I can’t leave just yet,” Dazai murmured, his voice soft with a faint smile. “You’d miss me too much, wouldn’t you, Chuuya?”

Chuuya let out a tired huff. “You really are the worst.” Still, he squeezed Dazai’s hand in return, gently this time.

Dazai glanced over at him and smirked. “You look awful, Chuuya. Like a mummy some kid tried to patch up with duct tape.”

“You’re one to talk,” Chuuya shot back.

“I know a guy who does bulk discounts on bandages. I can introduce you, after I recover from being half-dead, of course.”

Chuuya smiled. “Tch. You’d better.”

With what little strength he had left, Dazai lifted his free hand and gently cupped Chuuya’s face, his thumb brushing along the line of his jaw.

Chuuya froze, eyes widening. They rarely crossed into tenderness like this, not without sarcasm or a fight first. But this time, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t joke, didn’t deflect.

Instead, he leaned into the touch ever so slightly, as if giving himself permission. With effort, he slipped his arm from the sling, fingers trembling as he reached up to cover Dazai’s hand. His thumb traced the place where skin and bandage met, soft and grounding.

“You’re warm,” Chuuya murmured, like he needed to remind himself Dazai was still here, still alive.

Dazai gave a tired smile, one that barely curved his lips but carried more weight than any words could. And for a brief moment, there was no war, no monsters, no shadows, just the two of them, bruised, broken, but breathing. Together.

Chuuya stayed there, his hand resting over Dazai’s, anchoring them both in the moment. The hum of the machines faded into the background, drowned out by the sound of their breath, uneven, but shared.

“Not exactly how I thought we’d spend the weekend,” Dazai murmured, voice raspy and laced with exhaustion.

Chuuya let out a small, dry chuckle. “You mean bleeding out in some sterile room? Sounds about right for us.”

Dazai huffed softly, wincing a bit. “You’re still a ray of sunshine, I see.”

Chuuya didn’t respond right away. He just watched Dazai’s face, more pale than usual, bruised, but alive. His thumb moved absentmindedly, stroking over the back of Dazai’s hand.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he admitted quietly.

Dazai blinked at him slowly, eyes lidded with exhaustion but still sharp, still watching. “I know.” There was no teasing in his voice this time. No smugness. Just quiet understanding.

Chuuya looked away for a moment, jaw tight. “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t throw yourself into death thinking I’ll be fine with it.”

“I never thought you’d be fine with it,” Dazai murmured, his voice barely a breath. “But I couldn’t lose you.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed.

Chuuya blinked, caught off guard. Dazai wasn’t one to speak so plainly, especially not about feelings, and especially not about them. For a moment, he just stared at him, waiting for the inevitable sarcasm, the smug grin, the joke that would undercut it all.

But it never came.

Instead, Dazai gave him a weak, sincere smile, warm and raw in a way Chuuya had only seen in fleeting moments.

“I wouldn’t be fine with losing you either,” Chuuya said quietly, the words tugging at his own chest as he spoke them. He lowered his gaze for a second, then looked back up. “Just… don’t pull shit like that again, will ya?”

A beat passed. His voice softened.

“Please…”

Dazai blinked, a little taken aback. He’d half-expected a punch to the shoulder, some barked insult about being an idiot, maybe even a threat laced with profanity. That was usually how Chuuya handled things, how they handled things. But nothing came. No sharp retort. No scolding. Just Chuuya, looking at him with those tired, red-rimmed eyes, still holding onto the fragile thread of emotion between them.

Dazai had a bad habit of breaking moments like this, throwing in a careless joke or a flippant remark before it all got too real. He almost said something. Almost let the words slip just to ease the weight in his chest. But not this time.

Instead, he let the silence linger.

Then, softly, with a gentleness he rarely used, he said, “It’s okay, Chuuya.”

And for once, he meant it.

Another long silence followed. Chuuya swallowed thickly, the fight draining out of him again.

“I’m so tired,” he said at last.

Dazai’s hand curled slightly against his. “Then rest. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“Yeah… okay,” Chuuya whispered.

He looked down at Dazai, taking in the honesty of the moment, something they both usually danced around. Then, with a deep breath, he leaned down and rested his head gently against Dazai’s chest.

The silence that followed was louder than any words they could have said. But it wasn’t meant to last. The door burst open with a sharp clack, and Chuuya pulled away.

“Dazai-san!” Atsushi called out, eyes wide with both relief and panic. He rushed in, only to stop short at the sight of Dazai awake and conscious, though pale and weak.

Right behind him, Kunikida strode in, stern as ever. “You should have called the nurse as soon as you regained consciousness!”

Then came Kōyō, her sandals clicking sharply against the floor. “There you are, Chuuya,” she said, her voice softer than expected. “You need to get back to bed before you make your condition worse.”

Chuuya gritted his teeth, annoyed.

Two nurses followed closely behind, clearly called in by the alert triggered when Dazai removed the oxygen mask. They hesitated by the door, unsure whether to interrupt or wait for an order.

Dazai gave a weak, lopsided smile. “It’s gotten awfully crowded in here.”

“You did go through surgery, dumbass,” Chuuya muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

One of the nurses stepped forward cautiously. “We need to check his vitals and reattach the oxygen if necessary, please, just give us a moment.”

Chuuya hesitated, but he stood up slowly, as if peeling himself away from the only thing keeping him grounded. He gave Dazai one last look, before walking over to stand next to Kōyō, who gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve seen he’s alive,” Kōyō said, not unkindly. “Now let them take care of him. You must look after yourself as well.” 

Dazai’s eyes didn’t leave Chuuya as he and Kōyō walked out of the room. He wanted to say something else before he left. Something clever, something familiar, something to soften the raw edge of everything that's happened.

Their hands had just been touching, warmth traded between their broken bodies in a rare moment of honesty. For once, Dazai didn’t want to ruin it with a jab or a joke. And the words caught in his throat anyway, tangled up in the oxygen and pain and the unbearable vulnerability of it all. So he let him go.

The room, once theirs alone, was now crowded, nurses adjusting monitors, Kunikida issuing firm instructions, Atsushi still lingering by the door with worry etched into every line of his face.

With Kōyō’s help, Chuuya limped back toward his room, the weight of exhaustion and his injuries finally catching up to him. The hallway lights seemed brighter now, almost sterile, buzzing faintly above him as Chuuya was helped back toward his room. Every step felt heavier than the last. His body was screaming, not just in pain, but in fatigue, in grief, in relief. Kōyō stayed close, silent. She knew better than to press him with words right now, 

Back in the room, the bed looked impossibly far away. Chuuya paused at the edge of it, gripping the frame until his knuckles turned white. “I’ve got it,” he muttered, shaking off Kōyō’s hands as gently as he could. With a grunt, he pulled himself back onto the bed, teeth clenched hard enough to draw blood.

Once he was settled, Kōyō reached over to adjust the IV tube that had come loose. A nurse appeared a second later to finish reconnecting it, working quickly but carefully. Chuuya didn’t flinch, he barely even noticed. He stared at the ceiling, his breathing uneven. His fingers twitched restlessly on the blanket. Kōyō brushed some hair back from his forehead like she used to when they were younger. “He’s alive, Chuuya.”

“I know,” he replied hoarsely. But that didn’t stop the aching coil in his chest from twisting tighter.

He closed his eyes, but instead of sleep, images flooded him. The abyss. Golding. Dazai broken beneath him. That dream by the fire.

“I thought he—That it was for real this time,” he admitted, voice almost inaudible.

“But it wasn’t. You didn’t lose him.” Her voice was firm. “And you didn’t lose yourself either.”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you… want me to bring you anything?”

Chuuya shook his head slowly. “Nah. Just… make sure to let me know if something comes up.”

“I’ll be sure to let you know,” Kōyō said, “Get some rest. Now, while you can”

Chuuya didn’t argue. He wanted to ask about Jack and Golding. His mind was still fighting even as his body surrendered. His last thought was of Dazai’s hand in his, and that half-smile behind the oxygen mask.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn’t until later, when the hospital hallways had quieted, that Chuuya got the news.

It was Tachihara who brought him the update. Hirotsu was also hospitalized, recovering from the injuries he'd sustained during the chaos. The image flashed in Chuuya’s mind, Hirotsu, standing firm even as Arahabaki was unleashed, trying to keep things together when everything else was falling apart. Chuuya felt a sharp pang of guilt settle in his chest.

“He’ll be alright,” Tachihara added, as if reading his thoughts. “Doc says it’s nothing permanent. He just needs rest.”

Chuuya gave a small nod, but it did little to ease the weight pressing down on him.

“Jack Barham didn’t make it,” he said. “They found his body during the cleanup. A boulder, likely thrown during the destruction, smashed his skull. Instant.”

Chuuya didn’t say anything at first. He just stared past them, lips pressed into a thin line. That bastard had been a thorn in their side for weeks, stirring chaos, manipulating shadows. And now he was gone, just like that.

“That’s one less problem,” he muttered eventually, though there was no satisfaction in his voice.

Tachihara nodded. “Yes, but he was also the only solid lead we had on William Golding.”

A bitter taste filled Chuuya’s mouth. Of course. Golding, the real mastermind. Jack was just a pawn, a mad dog on a leash, and now the leash was severed. The trail had gone cold. Again. Chuuya sank deeper into the pillows, the bandages around his chest pulling uncomfortably with the motion. His mind was already working, trying to retrace steps, rebuild a lead from ash. But with Jack’s demise, at least one thing had become clear, Golding had pulled back.

The city, once choking in chaos, had finally begun to breathe again. The riots that had turned streets into battlegrounds faded as suddenly as they’d begun. Whatever method Golding was using to infect people’s minds, stirring them into violence and madness, had vanished with Jack’s death. For now, at least, the nightmare had quieted. It was a fragile peace, one that could shatter at any moment, but it was peace nonetheless.

Chuuya stared out the hospital window, the skyline still scarred with smoke trails and crumbling rooftops. There were no sirens for once. No screams. Just a cold wind brushing against the glass. A pause. A breath. Temporary or not, he’d take it.

A few days later, once his condition was deemed no longer life-threatening, Chuuya was discharged from the hospital and allowed to return home. The familiarity of his apartment felt hollow after everything that had happened. The walls were the same, the air still carried that faint scent of bourbon and leather, but something had shifted in him.

He hadn’t seen much of Dazai since their brief reunion. Dazai’s injuries were far more severe, and he remained hospitalized under constant care. Chuuya, meanwhile, had no way of reaching out, not without a phone. His had vanished during the chaos, likely lost somewhere between collapsing buildings and rampaging monsters. It would take a couple of days before he got a new one.

He thought about sneaking out, slipping back to the hospital just to see for himself that Dazai was still breathing. But Kōyō had made that nearly impossible. She was always around, under the guise of changing his bandages or cleaning his wounds, but really, she was there to make sure he didn’t do exactly what he was planning.

When she couldn’t be there, she made sure to send someone else in her place. Tachihara. Akutagawa. Even Higuchi, once or twice. A rotating cast of babysitters, all trying to keep Yokohama’s most volatile gravity manipulator from slipping out the front door.

Higuchi and the others from the Mafia kept him in the loop, trickling in bits of intel whenever there was something worth mentioning. Golding, it seemed, had vanished with the smoke.

There had been no incidents, no signs of his influence stirring up the streets again. Yokohama had begun to breathe easier, the city slowly stitching itself back together in the absence of chaos. But no new leads had surfaced either. It was as if Golding had never existed, no trace, no message, nothing. Just a silence that felt too calculated to be comforting. And Chuuya knew better than to trust silence.

Still, each night, as Chuuya lay back against his pillows and stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifted toward that day Arahabaki was let loose. To Dazai. To the way his hand had felt in his. To the things they’d said at the hospital, and the things they hadn’t.

As restless as he felt, his thoughts constantly circling back to Dazai and Golding, Chuuya couldn’t ignore the other presence that had gone quiet inside him. Arahabaki. Since the storm, the chaos, the destruction, it had been utterly silent. Dormant.

Chuuya sat by the window one evening, bandages still fresh on his arms, the city lights flickering below like a distant constellation. He stared out, wondering if the god of destruction was simply licking its wounds somewhere deep inside him. Recovering. Waiting. Not that he cared.

In truth, the silence was a relief. A heavy weight lifted, even if only temporarily. If the damn thing wanted to sleep forever, that was fine by him. The last thing he needed was more noise in his head. Not now. Not when everything already felt so loud.

Still, part of him couldn’t help but wonder… Had it retreated because of Dazai? Because of what he said, what they felt in that moment? Or was it just biding its time?

Chapter Text

Days bled into weeks, and Chuuya found himself waking to the stillness of his apartment, the early morning sun spilling through half-drawn curtains. Dust swirled lazily in the golden light as he sat up, the bedsheets tangled around his legs.

He rose without much thought, muscles sore but familiar with the ache by now. The warmth of the shower did little to wash away the heaviness clinging to him. When he stepped out and caught his reflection in the foggy mirror, he stopped. For a moment, he just stared.

The condensation clung to the glass like breath held too long, but he could still see the scars. Faint pinks and reds slashed across his chest and up his neck, raw reminders of a battle not entirely his own. His gaze lingered on the ones tracing the left side of his face, jagged, uneven, brutal. His own claws had done that.

He didn’t feel shame. Not exactly. But the memory, Arahabaki, the gravity pulling everything inward, Dazai’s voice, the way he'd almost gotten Dazai killed, that sat like a stone in his gut.

It hadn’t been rage, not really. Not even hatred. Just the weight of something ancient and broken taking the wheel while his mind screamed against it.

He raised a hand to his face, fingers brushing the marks. The skin had begun to smooth, but the past doesn’t heal as easily.

Chuuya had replaced his phone not long after coming home, but even with it, Dazai remained frustratingly out of reach. Maybe he’d lost his own during the chaos, or maybe, in typical Dazai fashion, he was ignoring him again. Chuuya grumbled under his breath as he scrolled through the empty message thread. It wasn’t like he was worried or anything. He just... wanted to know the idiot was still breathing.

The last time he dared to ask, Kōyō had reassured him that Dazai was recovering well, and would likely be discharged soon. She spoke in that calm, even voice of hers, but Chuuya caught the careful way she watched him, like she knew exactly why he was asking. He hadn’t pressed for more after that. Better to pretend he didn’t care, to keep his concern folded tight inside where no one could see it. Especially not Kōyō. Especially not when he already felt like he was walking around with his chest cracked open, the pieces barely held together. For now, he just shoved the phone into his pocket.

Chuuya was half-heartedly tying his boots when a sharp knock rattled his front door. He frowned. It was too early for Kōyō's usual check-ins, and Akutagawa never bothered to knock like that. Cautious, Chuuya pushed himself up and walked to the door, still sore despite the weeks of healing.

When he opened it, he nearly lost his balance.

Dazai stood there, a crooked, lazy smile on his face. His coat hung awkwardly off his thin frame, and though his usual sharpness was dulled by exhaustion, the familiar glint was still alive in his eyes.

"Miss me?" Dazai drawled, voice rough but teasing.

For a moment, Chuuya just stared. No phone call, no warning, just him , showing up like it was nothing.

"You—" Chuuya started, but the words died in his throat. His hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling with an emotion he didn’t want to name.

Dazai’s smile softened a little. "I figured if I waited for you to come find me, you’d die of stubbornness first."

Without thinking, Chuuya grabbed him, not roughly, but not gently either, and yanked him inside, letting the door slam shut behind them.

“You shitty mackerel," Chuuya growled, but he didn’t let go. Didn’t want to let go.

"I missed you too, Chuuya," Dazai said, and this time, it wasn’t a tease.

For a few seconds, they just stood there, tired but a little less alone.

Chuuya finally pulled back, scowling up at him.

"You asshole ," he barked, voice rough with the effort it took not to yell. "You couldn’t answer your damn phone? Or send a damn message? You know how easy it is to tell someone you’re not dead?"

Dazai chuckled weakly and raised both hands in mock surrender. "I would have, but I lost my phone... and my spare key to your apartment. Tragic, really," he added with a light grin, though there was a real sheepishness in his eyes.

Chuuya stared at him, deadpan. "You lost your key ?"

"Along with everything else, apparently," Dazai said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. "Cut me some slack, partner. I was kinda busy, you know... almost dying and all."

Chuuya exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "You're unbelievable," he muttered. "Do you know how close I was to breaking into the damn hospital just to make sure you were breathing?"

Dazai smiled at that, a little softer. "Were you gonna wear a nurse’s uniform and sneak inside, chibi?"

" Shut up, " Chuuya snapped, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. "Next time, lose your arm, not your damn phone."

The words slipped out too easily, and as soon as they did, Chuuya regretted them, as he remembered the sight of Dazai’s hand, the bandaged stubs where two fingers used to be.

Dazai, for once, didn’t shoot back a snarky remark. His smile wavered, just a little, before settling into something softer.

Chuuya looked away, jaw clenching. "...Tch. Forget it," he muttered under his breath.

"Already forgotten," Dazai said lightly, like it really didn’t bother him. 

Dazai kicked off his shoes lazily and wandered further into the apartment like he owned the place. Chuuya crossed his arms, watching him warily. Despite the casual air Dazai tried to put up, he could tell the idiot was still moving stiffly, slower than usual, his injuries were far from healed.

"Make yourself at home, why don’t you," Chuuya grumbled under his breath.

Dazai ignored the sarcasm. His gaze swept over the living room before it settled, really settled, on Chuuya again. The bandages were gone now, but the scars remained, peeking from under the collar of Chuuya’s shirt, crawling up the left side of his neck. Dazai's playful grin faltered.

Chuuya noticed the shift instantly, scowling as he tugged at his shirt like it would hide the marks better. "Don’t look at me like that," he said roughly. "They’re just scars."

Dazai said nothing for a moment, stepping closer until he was standing right in front of Chuuya. His hands itched to reach out, to touch, but he didn’t dare, not without permission.

"You shouldn’t have had to get them," Dazai said quietly.

Chuuya rolled his eyes, trying to deflect the weight of the moment like Dazai often did. "Yeah, well. You shouldn’t have almost died either. Guess we’re even, huh?"

Dazai let out a small, almost pained laugh. "You always did make everything into a competition."

Chuuya huffed, a breathless sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. "Someone’s gotta keep you in line."

Chuuya eventually motioned toward the kitchen with a tilt of his head, muttering something about needing coffee to deal with Dazai's nonsense. Dazai only chuckled and followed him, moving slower than usual.

They sat across from each other at the small kitchen table. Chuuya sipped his coffee, Dazai lazily stirring his own but barely drinking it. They talked, or rather, skirted around the things they didn’t want to say.

"Golding’s been quiet," Chuuya said after a while, breaking the silence. He glanced at Dazai over the rim of his mug. "He didn’t seem the type to just give up."

Dazai nodded thoughtfully, resting his chin on his hand. "He’s probably regrouping. Planning something nastier. We can’t afford to relax."

"Yeah," Chuuya said, voice low. "I know."

It was a conversation for the sake of conversation, a flimsy wall thrown up between them and the memories pressing at their backs, the hospital bed, the broken pleas, the near-death confessions they hadn’t meant to make. The words eventually ran out, leaving only the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city outside.

Chuuya fidgeted with his cup, pretending not to notice the way Dazai was watching him, not lazily, not teasingly, but with something far heavier in his gaze.

Then, Dazai moved.

Pushing his chair back slowly, he crossed the short distance between them. Chuuya stiffened instinctively but didn’t move away as Dazai bowed slightly, reaching out to trace the scars once again where they climbed from Chuuya’s choker collar up the side of his neck.

"They don’t change anything," Dazai said, voice soft and steady. His thumb brushed a particularly harsh mark. "You’re still beautiful."

Chuuya’s breath hitched. He looked down sharply, ears burning, fingers tightening around his coffee cup until he thought it might crack. He didn’t know what to do with the tenderness in Dazai’s voice, with the way he was being touched like something precious instead of something broken. 

Chuuya’s throat worked to swallow the sudden lump that rose. "You’re such a sap," he muttered, voice thick despite himself.

Dazai smiled, really smiled this time, tired but sincere. "Only for you."

"...Idiot," Chuuya muttered under his breath, but it lacked any real venom. He stayed where he was, silent, trembling slightly, but not pulling away.

Dazai smiled, just barely, his hand still hovering lightly against Chuuya's skin, as if waiting to be allowed to stay. Chuuya clenched his jaw, staring hard at the surface of the table. Part of him wanted to shove Dazai away, to tell him he hadn’t forgiven him, that there were things you couldn’t just brush over with a soft smile and sweet words. Because no matter what, Dazai had left him. Had disappeared when Chuuya needed him most, had made him believe he was alone against everything he couldn’t control. He could still remember the bitterness, the anger that had festered for so long it had nearly eaten him alive. 

And yet...

Dazai is here now.

Not joking, not running, not hiding behind riddles.

Here Dazai was, looking at him like he mattered, not as a weapon, not as a tool, not even as a partner. But as Chuuya.

His fingers twitched, his whole body tense with the effort of holding himself together.

"You’re such a bastard," Chuuya finally said, his voice thick. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, hating how raw he sounded. "You're the reason everything went to shit... and you’re the reason I'm still here."

Dazai said nothing, didn’t try to defend himself, didn’t look away.

Chuuya slowly, reluctantly lifted his gaze, meeting Dazai’s eyes. There was something steady there, something real that Chuuya wasn’t sure he'd ever seen from him before. 

"I can’t just forget, Dazai," Chuuya muttered, voice low. "I can’t just pretend like it didn’t fucking hurt."

"I know," Dazai said simply.

"And yet..." Chuuya exhaled shakily. "And yet you’re here. You came back. You stayed."

Dazai smiled faintly, tiredly. "I'm not planning on running this time."

The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn't as sharp, not cutting Chuuya apart the way he feared it would. He was still angry. Still hurt. But there was something else now too, something tentative and fragile blooming between the cracks of everything broken. Chuuya glanced away, cheeks burning.

 "...Tch. Don’t think this means I’m letting you off easy," he grumbled.

Dazai's smile widened slightly, almost boyish in its softness. "I know you won’t, Chuuya."

Chuuya didn’t shove him away, but the air between them felt too heavy, too exposed. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the burn of everything unsaid under his skin.

Before the weight of it all could pull him deeper, Chuuya cleared his throat roughly and pushed away from the table, grabbing his jacket from where it hung off the back of a chair.

"I've got work," he said, his voice coming out gruffer than intended. "Gotta head to the Port Mafia building. They're probably up to their ears in reports and bullshit."

Dazai blinked at him, something flickering in his expression, maybe disappointment, maybe understanding. But he didn’t argue.

Chuuya avoided Dazai’s eyes for a beat longer before muttering, almost reluctantly, "You can stay if you want."

Dazai’s brows lifted slightly, a rare moment of surprise breaking across his face.

"Even stay the night, if you need to," Chuuya added quickly, almost defensively. "Not like you're in any shape to be running around the damn city."

The corner of Dazai’s mouth quirked up in a faint smile, but he didn’t tease him for it. Didn’t ruin the moment.

"Thanks, Chuuya," he said simply, sincerely.

Chuuya shrugged it off, reaching for his keys. "Just don’t snoop around my shit, got it?"

Dazai chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair, that familiar mischief dimmed but not gone. "No promises."

Chuuya snorted and finally let himself glance back at him before heading for the door.

Maybe he wasn’t ready yet. Maybe the scars inside would take longer to heal than the ones on his skin. But maybe...maybe Dazai was trying too.

Without another word, Chuuya walked out the door, letting it close behind him with a soft click. Downstairs, a black Port Mafia car was already parked outside his building, waiting to take him to headquarters. He slid into the back seat without a word, arms crossed, gaze distant.

At the Port Mafia building, the atmosphere was heavy but familiar. Chuuya moved through the halls with purpose, nodding once at the guards as he passed. In the conference room, his usual crew had already gathered. Hirotsu was there too, looking thinner than before but otherwise recovered from his injuries. Chuuya felt a pang of guilt when their eyes met, remembering how Hirotsu had been there when everything went to hell with Arahabaki. Still, business was business. Chuuya took his seat at the head of the table, arms resting casually along the chair.

The room buzzed quietly. Some of the lower-ranking members kept throwing him awkward glances, their eyes lingering a little too long on the scars that now traced up the left side of his face and neck. He caught them staring once or twice but said nothing.

Tachihara, never the type to dance around things, clapped him on the back as he passed and grinned. "Hey, boss, those scars make you look even more badass."

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, yeah, settle down…"

The meeting started as it usually did, a routine update on the city's underworld activities, new recruits, minor territorial disputes. Chuuya listened half-heartedly, already preparing himself for another useless session ending in 'no updates' about Golding.

But today was different.

Before they could move on to the next item on the agenda, a sharp knock echoed against the conference room door. It opened slightly, and one of the guards stationed outside leaned in.

"Apologies for the interruption," he said briskly, "but we've just received confirmation. We managed to track down one of Jack Barham’s hideouts, it's been secured. Our team on-site reports that the place is clear, but it’s bigger than we thought. It’s a full armory," the man continued. "Weapons, supplies, everything. And more than that, there's a lab attached. Experimental gear. Chemicals. Stuff we haven't seen before."

A murmur passed through the room. Chuuya’s fingers stilled against the table’s surface.

"Did you say a lab?" Hirotsu asked, frowning.

"Yes, sir. They’re prepping to breach it now. Waiting for further orders."

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Tell them to hold off breaching until I get there," he said, his voice firm.

The guard nodded and withdrew quickly.

Chuuya looked around at the others. "I'll handle this one personally."

Tachihara immediately stood as well. "I'll come with."

"Good," Chuuya said. His mind was already racing ahead.

He thought about what Dazai had told him, that Ranpo had been put to sleep somehow, not just attacked. Maybe whatever was done to him... started in that place.

Chuuya crossed his arms, scowling thoughtfully. If there’s a lab, they might be able to find something to help reverse whatever was done to Ranpo. Not that he gave a damn about some Detective Agency brat on a personal level, but Ranpo’s ability might be their only real chance of tracking down Golding before he strikes again.

"Whatever they were making there... I don't want even a whisper of it leaking into the city. Understand?"

A chorus of "Yes, sir" echoed behind him as he left the room.

As they moved quickly through the halls toward the waiting cars, Chuuya found himself wishing, just for a second, that he could call Dazai, let him know. He knew Dazai would want to hear about this. Might even want to drag the Agency into it, to get their help. But Dazai still didn’t have a phone. It would have to wait.

If they could help wake Ranpo, if they could bring back their best chance at putting an end to this for good. And maybe he could finally make sure no one else got hurt because of the chaos he couldn’t stop last time.

Just before they reached the exit, Hirotsu caught up to Chuuya, pulling him aside for a brief moment. His voice was low, almost hesitant.

"Chuuya-san," Hirotsu said, "this will be your first time back in the field since... everything. Are you sure you're ready?"

Chuuya glanced at him, then past him, toward the doors leading out. For a heartbeat, he considered it, the scars, the memories, the weight he carried now.

Then he shrugged, offering Hirotsu a small, almost reckless smile.

"I'm fine. Besides, someone's gotta finish what Jack and Golding started. Might as well be me."

Hirotsu nodded, though the concern in his eyes didn't fade completely. Chuuya clapped him once on the shoulder before heading out, Tachihara close behind. His pulse quickened, not from fear, but from the need to finally move, finally strike back. This time, they'd find something. They had to.

Chuuya arrived at the location where Jack Barham’s hideout had been found. A few black cars were already parked along the side streets, and Port Mafia operatives in dark uniforms were stationed around the perimeter, keeping the area secured.

As he stepped out of the vehicle, a sharp gust of wind whipped through the abandoned industrial area. The building itself was nothing special, just another run-down warehouse among many in this part of the city, but Chuuya could feel it in his gut, there was something here.

Tachihara approached him quickly, giving a curt nod.  "Boss. We've got the perimeter secured. No signs of any movement inside since the initial sweep."

"Good," Chuuya said, his voice steady. "Anyone go in yet?"

"Only the first team. They cleared it for traps. Found a hell of a lot of weapons stashed inside... and a lab. Looks like Jack wasn’t just hoarding guns." Tachihara paused, glancing at Chuuya meaningfully. "Thought you'd wanna see it for yourself."

Chuuya nodded and adjusted the gloves on his hands. "Show me."

He followed Tachihara through the broken side entrance. Inside, the warehouse was dim, lit only by the high, grimy windows and a few portable lights the Mafia operatives had set up. Rows upon rows of crates were stacked along the walls, many stamped with foreign logos and codes. Guns, explosives, even military-grade tech Chuuya didn’t immediately recognize. But it was the far corner that drew his attention.

The "lab" was little more than a cluster of tables and strange equipment, computers, chemical supplies, syringes, vials. Notes scribbled in hurried handwriting were scattered across the surface. Chuuya frowned, stepping closer.

This was no ordinary weapons cache.

"Get everything packed up and sent to headquarters," Chuuya ordered sharply. "I want a team to start analyzing it all right away. And bring in the tech specialists."

"Got it, boss," Tachihara said, already signaling to the others.

Chuuya turned his gaze back to the cluttered lab, unease gnawing at him. This was progress. But it was also a reminder, Golding was still out there.

As the rest of the Port Mafia operatives combed through the warehouse above, Chuuya lingered near the far wall. Something didn’t sit right. His instincts prickled. While pretending to inspect a crate, he noticed faint scratch marks on the floor near a shelving unit. Curious, he nudged it aside to reveal a heavy steel door, almost completely concealed behind stacked debris.

It had a thick, rusted lock bolted shut.

Chuuya scoffed. "Amateurs."

With a flick of his wrist and a small surge of gravitational energy, the lock twisted and cracked apart, falling to the ground with a metallic thud. He opened the door and slipped in unnoticed, the hinges creaking as he descended the stairwell alone.

The corridor below was narrow and stale, the air thick with the scent of chemicals and metal. But then, something worse hit him. A foul, rotten stench clung to the walls, growing stronger the deeper he went. It was the stench of death, old and pungent, like something had been rotting undisturbed for weeks.

Only his footsteps echoed against the concrete walls. He walked in silence until he saw a faint light bleeding from a partially ajar door at the end. Cautiously, Chuuya pushed it open.

The corridor opened up into a laboratory, far more advanced than the makeshift setup upstairs. At first glance, it looked clinical, methodical. Shelves lined with labeled vials. Monitors and machines humming in quiet idleness. But something didn’t sit right. A sheet draped over a table in the center of the room caught his eye. Chuuya hesitated, then stepped closer. He yanked it off, and immediately recoiled.

Dead animals. Dozens. Maybe more. Their bodies mangled, deformed by injections, wires, and tubes threaded through flesh. Notes scribbled in a frantic hand lay nearby, some stained in dried blood or ink.

“What the—”

Pain spiked through his skull like a blade. He stumbled, vision swimming. The lab around him melted, twisted, and suddenly, he wasn’t there anymore.

He was standing at the edge of a cliff.

The sky above was stormy and dark, thunder rolling like distant drums. Wind tore at his coat as he stared down into the abyss. Panic surged in his chest.

“Not again…” he whispered, voice trembling.

He felt his body begin to tilt forward, drawn to the edge by something unseen. Just as he lost his balance, a hand grabbed him and yanked him back. Reality snapped. He was back in the lab, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Someone else was in the room.

Two men, one quickly draping the sheet back over the grotesque display. The other was staring at him with concern.

“You alright there?” the taller one asked cautiously.

Chuuya’s instincts kicked in. He surged forward and grabbed the man by the collar, slamming him against the nearest shelf.

“Who the hell are you? You with Golding?!”

The shorter man, young, round-faced, wearing a stained lab coat and thick glasses, gasped and backed into a table, hands raised.

“N-No! We’re not! Please!” the taller man said, struggling under Chuuya’s grip. He wore a torn, weathered military jacket, his eyes worn but not hostile. “We were trapped here. Just listen!”

Chuuya narrowed his eyes, breathing hard. “Then what kind of sick shit are you doing here? What's with the animals? What kind of sick—”

“Please,” the man said again, gently. “Let us explain.”

After a beat, Chuuya cursed under his breath and released him, stepping back but not dropping his guard.

“Start talking. Who the hell are you?”

The men exchanged a nervous look.

“I’m Ralph,” said the man in the military jacket, straightening his collar. He gestured to his companion. “And that’s Dr. P.”

Chuuya folded his arms, jaw clenched. “Well, Ralph and Dr. P, you better start explaining fast. Or I’ll show you what else I can do besides opening doors.”

Chapter Text

Chuuya had Dr. P and Ralph quietly escorted to Port Mafia headquarters. They didn’t resist, didn’t even ask where they were being taken. After everything, it seemed they were too exhausted to care. Or maybe they knew they had nowhere else to go.

The truth came out in pieces, like something they’d been carrying for far too long.

They hadn’t stayed in that basement lab out of loyalty. The facility had been abandoned by everyone else after things went south. Golding disappeared, and the others fled. But the two of them, whether by force or fear, they’d remained behind, buried with the wreckage of their own regrets. In a quiet side room at headquarters, under Chuuya’s sharp gaze, they admitted to it, the experiments, the rituals, and whatever it was that had taken Ranpo down, they had helped build it.

"We didn’t know what it would do at first,” Dr. P said, eyes hollow. “It started as neurological research. We thought… maybe it could help people. Repair damage. Unlock things.”

“But it wasn’t just science,” Ralph added. “It was Golding’s ability. Some kind of… blood-based activation. A ritual, more than a formula.”

Chuuya leaned forward, expression cold but focused. “Explain.”

Dr. P swallowed. “It’s his blood. Golding’s. Mixed with… animals. Sacrifices.When combined, it triggers something in a specific radius. Like a psychic detonation.”

“He can target individuals, too,” Ralph murmured. “It’s not random. He focuses, somehow. That’s the part we never cracked.”

“And Ranpo?”

“We think we can wake him,” Dr. P said quietly. “Whatever we did to put him under, we can undo it. If you’ll let us try.”

Chuuya studied them, expression unreadable. They looked like men on the edge of guilt, of exhaustion, of a desperate need for redemption. Whether they deserved it was another question entirely. He said nothing for a long moment. Then… “We’ll see.” He turned and walked out of the room, the door hissing shut behind him.

Once outside, Chuuya leaned against a car, breathing in the cold night air. The vision from earlier, the cliff, the pull, still clung to his skull like smoke. He pressed a hand to his temple. He wasn’t back to full strength, and his body didn’t let him forget it. Every step felt heavier. When he opened the door to his apartment, Dazai was lounging on the couch, a book open in his lap. He looked up with a grin that barely masked the worry behind his eyes.

“Well, well. Thought maybe you’d died in a ditch somewhere. You look like hell.”

Chuuya removed his boots and tossed his coat over the back of a chair and flopped onto the couch.

“Oh, thanks,” he said dryly.

Dazai frowned. “I’m serious. You’re pale.”

“Yeah, well..,” Chuuya muttered. 

Before Dazai could prod further, Chuuya cut in.

“We found one of Jack Barham’s hideouts. Lab underneath it. Weapons. Probes. Experiments. Golding wasn’t there, but...” 

Dazai straightened, his demeanor shifting. “What kind of experiments?”

“Neurological,” Chuuya said. “The kind that messes with your head. Turns out Golding doesn’t even need to be present for his ability to work. He uses his blood”

Dazai’s eyes darkened.

Chuuya leaned back, still rubbing at the ache behind his eyes. “His ability, Lord of the Flies … The more vulnerable the mind, the faster it breaks,” he paused, realizing that meant he had been more vulnerable than he’d like to admit. “But we could’ve guessed all that without seeing the lab,” Chuuya continued, scrubbing a hand down his face. “The important thing is, we might be able to help your detective friend wake up.”

Dazai’s posture shifted instantly. The teasing in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something focused and intent.

“Dr. P. a neurologist, and his assistant, Ralph. Golding dragged them into this crap under the guise of medical research. They didn’t know what he was really after until it was too late. But they saw what his ability did, up close. They’re the ones behind what happened to Ranpo, and should be able to reverse it.”

Dazai sat forward, the slouch vanishing. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.”

He held out his hand, expectant. “Phone.”

Chuuya raised a brow but tossed it to him anyway.

Dazai dialed Kunikida like it was second nature. Chuuya didn’t expect much. The Agency had every reason to refuse the Mafia’s help. But as Dazai listened to the voice on the other end, his expression eased, and he nodded to himself.

“They’re worried,” he said after hanging up. “More than I expected. They’ll take any lead we’ve got, even if it comes from... your charming company.”

Chuuya snorted. “You’re welcome.”

Dazai sauntered back to the couch, eyeing Chuuya like he was assessing the damage after a long hike through the rain.

“You really do look like hell,” he said with a sigh. “And wow, Chuuya. You smell like something that crawled out of a dumpster and lost a fight with a dead fish.”

Chuuya glared.

Dazai’s grin turned gleeful. “Should I draw you a bath? Or should I just hose you down out back? Maybe scrub you with a wire brush? You’re shedding, too.”

“I swear to god..”

“I’ll use the shea butter-scented soap,” Dazai offered, voice lilting like he was talking to a dog that just rolled in mud. “Or maybe the flea shampoo. You seem itchy.”

Chuuya grabbed a pillow and launched it at his head. “Say one more thing and I’ll put you through the damn wall.”

Dazai laughed and caught it one-handed. “See? That’s the spirit. You’re already looking better.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but behind the glare was a weariness too heavy to carry alone. Dazai’s teasing, irritating as it was, chipped away at the weight. 

He walked to his room without a word. He could still feel the grime of the lab on his skin, the scent of rot clinging to his hair, his clothes, his thoughts. The weight of everything they’d found, what Golding had done, what he was still capable of, sat on his shoulders like lead. He tugged his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor with little care. From the corner of his eye, he glanced toward the living room. Dazai hadn’t followed.

Chuuya stood there for a second, caught in that small pause. Part of him… expected it. Wanted it, maybe. Just a little. That familiar way Dazai would annoy him, lean against the doorframe with some dumb quip. But nothing.

And that was good. That was… how it should be.

He grabbed a towel and stepped into the bathroom, flicking the light on. The door remained ajar. Unlocked. Intentionally.

The water came on hot, steam curling in the mirror. He stepped under it and let the heat burn the day off his skin. He was annoyed with himself. Irritated that he’d left the door like that. Like he was hoping for something. Like part of him hadn’t meant what he said that morning. But he had. He meant every word. He hadn’t forgiven Dazai. Not really. Not yet. Not for everything. And even now, standing under scalding water, it still wasn’t simple. Nothing with Dazai ever was.

Chuuya stepped out of the bathroom, towel draped around his neck as he patted the last of the water from his hair. His skin was flushed from the heat, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He’d thrown on a pair of loose joggers and an old, worn scoop-neck crop top that hung comfortably off one shoulder, something he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in front of anyone but Dazai. Which annoyed him, honestly. But not enough to change.

The apartment smelled faintly of cork and spice. He rounded the corner and paused. Dazai was at the counter, one hand resting on a bottle of red wine, the other already pouring into two stemless glasses. The soft glug of the pour echoed in the quiet space.

“Figured you’d need your usual to wind down,” Dazai said without turning around. His tone was light, teasing, but not overdone.

Chuuya didn’t say anything right away. Just walked over, barefoot and still damp around the edges. He eyed the glass as Dazai slid it across the counter toward him.

“For once,” Chuuya muttered, taking it, “you’re not wrong.”

Dazai smiled at that, that small, familiar thing that always seemed to mean more than it let on. He raised his glass in a lazy toast. Chuuya clinked his glass against Dazai’s a bit harder than necessary. They drank in a moment of silence, the tension between them not gone, but softened, muted like the evening light outside the window.

Dazai watched Chuuya over the rim of his glass, noting the slow way his shoulders had finally started to relax. “You smell better.”

“Shut up,” Chuuya muttered, but didn’t bother to hide the twitch of a smirk.

They sank into the couch together, Chuuya pulling his knees up slightly, glass cradled in one hand. Dazai swirled his wine, watching it catch the light.

“So,” he said, not quite teasing now, “when Golding’s ability hit you. When Arahabaki came out. What was it like?”

Chuuya didn’t answer immediately. His grip on the wineglass tightened just slightly.

“I’ve had things mess with my head before,” he said eventually. “Hallucinations. Dreams. But this, this wasn’t just seeing something. It was like… everything inside me flipped. Like the worst parts of myself got turned up so loud I couldn’t hear anything else.” He turned his head slightly, eyes shadowed. “I didn’t even feel like a person. Just a pressure ready to explode.”

“Arahabaki,” Dazai said.

Chuuya nodded. “It was more than just Arahabaki.” He looked down into his glass again, the wine dark as blood. “I hate that thing. But for a second… I.” A pause. “When Arahabaki came out…” he began, voice quiet but steady, “I felt like I let go of everything.”

Dazai looked at him, attentive, silent.

“My doubts, my restraint, even my fear, it all just burned off. Like none of it mattered. Like I could finally stop trying to be in control. Then that dream with you and everyone…” Chuuya gave a humorless huff. “For a second, that kind of freedom felt almost… good.”

He paused, eyes distant.

“But I didn’t just let go of the fear. I let go of everything else too. My reason. My self . That thing… it doesn’t fight with me. It fights instead of me. And in that moment, I couldn’t tell the difference.” He glanced sideways at Dazai. “I don’t think I was human at all when Arahabaki was out. Not really.”

Dazai’s expression softened, his usual smirk absent. “You think humanity is something you lose the moment you’re out of control?”

Chuuya looked at him for a long moment before answering.

“I think it’s something you lose the moment you stop caring about what gets destroyed.”

The room was silent except for the faint tick of the kitchen clock and the hum of the city outside. Dazai didn’t fill the space with words. He just nodded, once, as if to say I get it. That silenced them both for a long beat.

Dazai set his glass down carefully. “...He’s trying to reproduce that kind of power.”

Chuuya finally looked at him, tired and sharp. “But without having to carry it. Without becoming it.”

Dazai leaned back, fingers steepled lightly beneath his chin. “He wants to manufacture monsters. Detached. Remote.”

“I won’t let him,” Chuuya said flatly.

“You don’t have to,” Dazai said, voice calm. “Not alone.”

That hung in the air, suspended between them. Not just about Golding. Not just about the mission.

Chuuya stared into his glass, swirling the red again, then set it down. “You’re lucky I haven’t kicked your ass for what you pulled.”

Dazai gave him a small smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”

Chuuya glanced at him sidelong. “Don’t get used to it.”

He started to stand, but Dazai caught his wrist, gently, just two fingers around the cuff of his sleeve.

“Hey,” Dazai said, voice low. “I’m sorry.”

Chuuya hesitated. His eyes dropped to Dazai’s hand, then to the floor.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m still angry.”

“I know that too.”

Another pause. Chuuya pulled his wrist free, but not roughly. He stood, taking his wine with him, moving toward the window.

His voice came quieter now, not turning back.

“I don’t know if I can trust you the way I used to.”

Behind him, Dazai didn’t answer right away. “Then let me stay until you can.”

Chuuya didn’t say no.

The silence lingered a beat longer before Dazai, ever the master of timing, exhaled and reached for the wine. He tilted the bottle toward Chuuya’s glass.

“Well,” he said with a crooked smile, “if we’re already losing our humanity, might as well lose our sobriety too.”

Chuuya snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the guy who practically monologues with every sip of vintage.” Dazai poured generously, then topped off his own glass. “So. What tragic poetry are you writing in your head now, wine boy?”

Chuuya gave him a side glance, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Just thinking that this bottle’s older than you act.”

They drank. The conversation drifted after that, away from Golding, away from Arahabaki and power and fear. They talked instead about lighter nonsense. Time slipped by. At some point, Dazai opened a second bottle, dramatically declaring it “for research purposes.”

Chuuya, now comfortably slouched sideways on the couch, didn’t object. His shirt had slid slightly off one shoulder, and his expression had lost its sharp edge. Dazai sprawled beside him, one leg folded up, head lazily tilted against the back cushion.

They laughed a little more freely. The wine made their words slower, softer. There were moments where their hands brushed, once when Chuuya reached for the bottle, another when Dazai gestured too wide, and neither pulled away quite as quickly as they might’ve a few hours ago.

At one point, Chuuya tilted his head, eyes half-lidded from the alcohol and exhaustion. “You always talk this much, or am I just more patient when I’m buzzed?”

Dazai grinned. “You’re always patient with me, Chuuya. Somewhere deep, deep down.”

Chuuya clicked his tongue. “Don’t push your luck.”

But there wasn’t bite in his voice. Not anymore.

For tonight, at least, the war was set aside. The questions could wait. The world outside could keep spinning. Here, in the hush between two people who'd once known each other too well, there was a pause. And in it, something like peace.

Chuuya was mid-sentence, already a little flushed from the wine, eyes lit with the kind of fire he only got when telling a story he really wanted Dazai to hear.

“...and then you had the nerve to let them drag you off, blood all over your shirt like some tragic little damsel…”

Dazai chuckled, but said nothing.

Chuuya leaned back, grinning wide. “I was three seconds away from blowing the whole damn floor apart when you just appeared , like a smug bastard, with half the guards unconscious behind you. You even winked at me.”

Silence followed.

Chuuya turned his head to look at Dazai, only to find those dark eyes already fixed on him, half-lidded, unreadable. The smile had faded from Dazai’s lips. He leaned closer.

“Dazai?” Chuuya said softly, but the air was already different. Closer. Heavier.

Then Dazai kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. Just a quiet press of lips, like breathing out a memory. Chuuya froze, startled, but only for a moment.

Chuuya inhaled sharply, his breath catching in his chest. The world around them seemed to narrow to a single point of warmth where their mouths met. Dazai tasted faintly of wine and something bittersweet, regret, maybe. Hope. His hand came up, slow and trembling, to cradle the back of Chuuya’s neck, fingers threading gently into red hair like he was afraid to break the moment. Chuuya’s body responded before his mind caught up.

He leaned into it.

Into him .

His heart ached at the familiarity, the way Dazai kissed like he was remembering how to feel. How to live . It made something inside Chuuya splinter and swell at the same time, a tidal wave of longing he didn’t know he’d kept dammed up until now.

God, he wanted this. He wanted him . Every unspoken thing between them surged into that kiss, years of anger and yearning and half-formed apologies.

And still, it was too soon.

Too raw.

Chuuya’s breath stuttered against Dazai’s mouth. His hand rose, fingers curling around Dazai’s wrist. Not to stop. Just… to slow.

He broke the kiss, gently, forehead lingering close to Dazai’s, both of them breathing unsteadily. The air felt charged, fragile.

“…Dazai,” Chuuya whispered.

Dazai’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t retreat, didn’t smirk. His voice was quiet, steady.

“I’m not just messing around, Chuuya.”

That hurt the most, how serious he sounded. How true it felt.

Chuuya looked at him for a long moment, heart beating fast, unsure what he saw there, guilt, longing, something that maybe never quite left.

“…I know,” Chuuya said, almost a whisper. “But I’m not ready.”

Dazai’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, his hand dropping slowly from Chuuya’s neck.

And they sat there like that, close, but not touching. A heartbeat apart. Everything unspoken still between them.

But this time, there was no running. No walls. Just the space they both needed.

And the silent understanding that maybe, just maybe, there was still time.

Dazai just nodded, softly, and leaned back.

Letting Chuuya breathe.

Letting him choose.

Chapter Text

Chuuya didn’t remember falling asleep. One minute he was staring at the ceiling, and the next, he was waking up, stiff and curled awkwardly on the couch. 

He blinked, groggy, and shifted slightly. Dazai was still there, lying on the opposite end of the sofa with a pillow balanced over his face, one arm dangling off the edge like he’d melted into sleep mid-sentence. Chuuya stared for a moment, heart caught somewhere between surprise and something softer, relief. He hadn’t expected him to stay.

Dazai was always leaving. Always slipping away without warning and showing up again like he’d never been gone. That had been the rhythm of them for years, appearances, disappearances, half-truths, unfinished sentences. So when Chuuya had pulled away last night, when he’d rejected the heat of that kiss, the intimacy of it, he’d half-expected Dazai to be gone by morning. But he wasn’t. He was still here, even after being turned down, even after Chuuya had reminded him that some wounds didn’t heal with a kiss or a bottle of wine.

Maybe… maybe this time Dazai meant it when he said he was sorry. When he said he wanted this, whatever this was. The thought stirred something fragile in Chuuya’s chest, and he hated how much it mattered. Still, he reminded himself, there were bigger things to deal with. Golding’s ability. Ranpo. His duties as Port Mafia Executive. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by wishful thinking or maybe’s. Not now. 

He let out a quiet breath and draped his arm over his eyes, willing his mind to empty out. But it didn’t. Not until he let his thoughts drift to the quiet sound of Dazai’s breathing, slow and even, a gentle snore barely audible beneath the pillow. It was that sound, oddly enough, that soothed him. That made the knot in his chest ease, just a little. He let himself listen to it, focus on it, and somewhere in that soft rhythm, he found sleep again. This time, it came easier.

~~~~~

Morning light spilled lazily through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow on the countertops as Chuuya moved around the space in comfortable silence. He wore the same loose joggers and cropped shirt from the night before, the fabric clinging softly to his frame. The place smelled like fresh coffee and toasted bread, the soft bubbling of a pot of miso soup on the stove filling in the quiet. He cracked an egg into a pan, brow furrowed in thought. It was strange, this calm, domestic stillness. Dazai was in the shower, humming some old, off-key tune through the thin wall. And here Chuuya was, making breakfast like this was something they did every morning. It felt… oddly intimate. Like something they could have had. Maybe once. Maybe still.

He reached up to grab the soy sauce from the top shelf, cursing whoever designed cabinets for people taller than him. His fingers barely grazed the bottle when, suddenly, an arm reached over his shoulder, lean, damp, and familiar.

Chuuya froze.

Dazai’s body brushed up behind him, warm from the shower, smelling like sandalwood and musk and something else faintly sweet, soap, maybe. Chuuya’s breath caught for a fraction of a second, heart skipping before he could stop it.

"Here," Dazai said, voice low and teasing as he handed him the bottle with an infuriating smirk.

Chuuya snatched it from his hand and stepped aside quickly, willing the heat on his cheeks to calm down.

“Don’t think being all helpful around the house is gonna make up for what you’ve done,” he said, trying to sound sharp but not quite pulling it off.

Dazai only smiled wider, leaning casually against the counter, towel draped around his neck. “Well, then, Chuuya… why don’t you tell me what will ?”

That earned a glare and a grin. Chuuya turned back to the stove, flipping the egg onto the plate with more force than necessary, but his smirk betrayed him.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered, eyes still on the pan. “And let you know.”

“Anything for my dear Chuuya,” Dazai said with mock reverence, clasping his hands over his heart.

“Oh yeah?” Chuuya shot back, incredulous but amused. “Anything, huh?”

“Mmhm,” Dazai nodded, stepping closer again with that lazy elegance only he could make look so practiced. “As long as it’s not wearing any of your tacky hats, I can do it.”

Chuuya barked a laugh despite himself. “Tacky? I should’ve poisoned your tea.”

Dazai tilted his head, grin still in place. They stood there for a beat, the air lighter than it had been in days. Even if things weren’t fixed, not completely, there was something good in this moment. Then Chuuya shoved a plate into Dazai’s hands and said, “Sit down before I change my mind.”

Breakfast passed quietly.

The earlier banter had faded into a more comfortable silence, the kind that settles between two people who know each other too well. Chuuya focused on his food, grateful for the stillness, even if a part of him remained wary. Dazai didn’t push conversation either. He just ate slowly, occasionally glancing Chuuya’s way like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

Afterward, Chuuya grabbed his coat and his hat. “I’m heading to headquarters,” he said while pulling on his gloves. Dazai was lounging on the couch again, flipping through one of Chuuya’s poetry books.

“I’ll drop by the Agency,” Dazai replied. “Kunikida’s probably already losing hair waiting to hear about Ranpo.”

Chuuya gave a small nod and left without another word.

~~~~~

The Port Mafia headquarters was the same as ever. Chuuya headed straight to where Dr. P and Ralph had been placed under heavy watch. Dr. P looked up as he entered, removing his glasses and rubbing tired eyes. “We think we might be able to develop an antidote,” he said. “Something to counteract the neurological pattern that’s keeping your friend unconscious.”

Ranpo wasn’t Chuuya’s friend, but he did not bother correcting Dr. P.

“But we’ll need a blood sample,” Ralph added from his seat, “to analyze the spread of Golding’s influence through his nervous system. Ranpo’s, I mean.”

Chuuya didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

The call went through quickly.

“Dazai.”

“Miss me already?” came the usual reply.

“We need to arrange a visit to Ranpo. One of the doctors says they can help, but they need a blood sample.”

The teasing vanished from Dazai’s voice. “We’ll make it happen.”

A few hours later, Chuuya walked through the halls of Yokohama General Hospital with Dr. P in tow. It was a tense sort of arrangement at first, the Agency and Mafia weren’t known for easy cooperation, but the detectives have shown time and time again that they would do anything for their friends. Waiting in the room were Kunikida, standing with arms crossed and expression tight, Yosano, adjusting the IV line with a practiced frown,  and Tachihara, who lingered near the door. Chuuya entered first, followed by the doctor.

“Who is he?” Kunikida asked sharply, already on edge.

Chuuya didn’t flinch. “He made the damn thing. He might be able to undo it.”

Yosano glanced over her shoulder, meeting Dr. P’s gaze with a clinical curiosity. “You have experience with the compound?”

“More than I’d like,” Dr. P replied, stepping forward slowly. “I just need a blood sample to begin running tests. I believe we can craft an antidote, if we’re careful.”

Kunikida looked between them all, clearly fighting the urge to object again, but Yosano spoke before he could.

“Do it,” she said. “We’re running out of options.”

Chuuya watched silently as they collected the blood sample under Yosano’s supervision. Ranpo lay motionless on the bed, his usually sharp expression slack, breath soft but steady. The sight twisted something deep in Chuuya’s gut, he hated the idea of anyone seeing a friend like this.

Once it was done, Chuuya stepped out into the hallway, flipping his phone open to text Dazai

"We got the sample. They're starting tests. Let’s hope this works."

The reply came a moment later.

"We’ll make it work. Ranpo’s tough. So are you."

Chuuya stared at the message a second longer than necessary before slipping the phone back into his pocket.

Back at Port Mafia headquarters, Chuuya settled into the rhythm of executive work. His desk was stacked with more paper than he remembered leaving it, and more than once he found himself rubbing the bridge of his nose, the weight of everything pressing harder than usual. Still, it was better than sitting still, waiting helplessly for news.

Meanwhile, Dr. P and Ralph worked around the clock in a designated room they were using as a lab. Samples were spun in centrifuges, charts cross-referenced, and formulas scribbled across whiteboards with growing urgency. Chuuya made sure they were provided with any tools and equipment they needed. Despite the silence between Chuuya and the doctors since the hospital visit, there was a shared, unspoken understanding, they had a limited window, and Ranpo didn’t have forever.

A soft knock on his office door broke his focus.

“Boss,” said one of the younger Mafioso, peeking in nervously. “The doctors need to speak with you. Said it was important.”

Chuuya pushed his chair back with a sigh and followed him down the hall.

Dr. P met with him, sleeves rolled up, fatigue etched in every line of his face. Ralph stood by a tray of samples, arms crossed, clearly just as exhausted.

“We’ve made progress,” Dr. P began, “but we’ve hit a wall.”

Chuuya crossed his arms. “What kind of wall?”

“There’s a final reagent we need to stabilize the neurological inhibitor,” Ralph explained. “We thought we could substitute with something synthetic, but the results keep failing. The real thing is the only way.”

Dr. P held up a photo on his tablet, a crimson blossom nestled in frost, petals like silk against the snow. “The Red Camellia. Very rare. Grows only in the frozen highlands of Northern Europe. And it has to be fresh. Dried or preserved won’t work. The flower secretes an enzyme within a short window after blooming, essential for the formula.”

Chuuya exhaled through his nose, turning the image over in his mind. Of course it couldn’t be easy. Still, he didn’t waste time. After weighing his options and checking the Port Mafia’s logistics network, he stepped aside and pulled out his phone.

Dazai picked up on the second ring. “Miss me again already?”

Chuuya didn’t bite. “How’s your friend?”

“Same. Agency’s restless. They want news.”

“Well, we hit a bit of a hurdle,” Chuuya admitted, voice lower now. “Doctors need something rare to finish the antidote. Can’t get it here.”

Dazai was silent for a second. “How rare?”

Chuuya smirked despite himself. “Rare enough that we’re going to need our coats. Pack your bags.”

“…We’re taking a trip?”

“Yeah,” Chuuya said. “Europe.”

He heard the grin in Dazai’s voice, even though he didn’t say a word at first.

“Don’t suppose I should ask if we’re flying first class?”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “If I have to listen to you whine for ten hours, I’m tranquilizing you in customs.”

“Oh, Chuuya… You do know how to make a man feel special.”

“Just get ready,” Chuuya said, already dialing the Port Mafia’s private aviation line. “We leave at dawn.”

~~~~~~

The apartment was quiet that night.

Too quiet, Chuuya thought, as he stood in the kitchen rinsing out a mug. The city buzzed faintly beyond the windows, muted by the glass and distance. Dazai hadn’t said much since Chuuya told him about the trip, just nodded, packed, and now lounged on the couch flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading. The air between them had settled into something warm but uncertain. Not tense. Just... cautious. Like they were both waiting for something to shift.

Chuuya dried his hands, then wandered toward the living room. Dazai’s eyes flicked up from the book, catching him as he hovered nearby.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice soft.

Chuuya shrugged and sat beside him, not too close but not far either. “Not tired.”

They were quiet again for a while.

“Hey,” Dazai said eventually, tilting his head, “you’ve been carrying all this pretty damn well.”

Chuuya glanced at him. “Not like I have a choice.”

“Still.” Dazai’s voice was gentle now. “You’ve never been the type to back down without a fight, but you really have been looking out for everyone. The mafia, those doctors, me, hell, even Ranpo. Just remember you’re not alone.”

Chuuya didn’t answer. Not right away. He looked down at his hands, knuckles faintly red from stress or maybe frustration. Then he looked up again, into Dazai’s eyes.

“You staying last night,” he said slowly, “meant more than I thought it would.”

Dazai didn’t smile this time. He just nodded. “I know.”

There was a weight in the silence that followed, unspoken apologies, old wounds, trust still being rebuilt from ash and memory. Chuuya leaned back, exhaling. “I keep thinking about what’ll happen if we find the flower, if we wake your friend up… What if it’s not enough? What if he’s still not able to locate Golding and he will just come back and cause even greater damage?”

“Then we deal with it,” Dazai replied, tone steady. “Together.”

Chuuya looked over, brow slightly furrowed. “You keep saying things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not going to disappear again.”

Dazai’s expression softened, and for once, the teasing veil dropped completely.

“I’m not,” he said simply.

“Why now?” Chuuya asked, voice quieter. “Why not all those other times?”

Dazai turned to face him fully. “Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not running. I’m trying to fix something I broke. And you… being with you still feels like a home and more.”

Chuuya stared at him, caught between a thousand things he wanted to say and none he trusted to come out right. But he didn’t need to speak. Dazai reached out, brushing his good hand gently over Chuuya’s fingers, light, tentative, like asking permission. Chuuya didn’t pull away. Instead, he let himself lean into the warmth, just for a moment. They sat like that in the soft lamplight, no grand declarations, no plans, just a shared pause before the next storm.