Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ring… Ring… 

The drumming of an incoming call rang throughout his ears, buzzing Atsushi awake as he peeped through half-closed lids. 

“Good evening, sir," a voice began, its tone measured and polite, speaking into the warm receptor of his phone. 

Ah, it’s Kunikida-san, Atsushi thought to himself, having turned to watch the abruption, instantly recognizing the man’s tied hair and stringed manner. 

"Is it safe to assume that the operation hasn’t changed since our last talk?"

“Yes, it would seem so,” replied another man. Atsushi couldn’t quite place who it was, given that he couldn’t see who was speaking, but the man spoke calmly, as if he were the embodiment of an ocean breeze. He imagined it to be all the more soothing in person, a tinge of static tainting the man’s timbre as his words channeled through the device, slightly lowering the quality of his speech.

“As I thought.” Kunikida let out a quiet sigh, slumping into his seat. As he watched him, Atsushi couldn’t help but think that the leather belt wrapped around the blonde was strung a string too tight. “How unfortunate...” the man muttered into the speaker, his brows subtly drooping, scrunching his eyelids.

“Unfortunate indeed. And I do apologise for this sudden inconvenience, Kunikida. I know it must be difficult for you two.”

A sudden inconvenience? Had something gone wrong? He took a moment to look around, trying to discern where he could be, reasoning that he might be at a job site of sorts. But he didn’t recognise anything in particular, just blank walls in a haze of white mist. 

“Um… Kunikida-san, are we?” Atsushi fumbled out, but his words didn’t come out the way he wanted, coming out as gibberish, his tongue still heavy with sleep, a slight rawness prickling at his throat. 

Kunikida stared at him, a certain sense of bewilderment clinging to his narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

And, honestly, he shared the sentiment. He wouldn’t have been able to discern what he’d said either, had he not been the one voicing his thoughts. It was embarrassing just listening to himself, tripping over his words, tumbling out incoherent phrases. Atsushi would’ve facepalmed, but he was too tired to care. He wiped at his eyes, slowly erasing the thin buildup of crust that’d found its way into his tear duct. He took a deep breath, trying his best to compose himself. ”Kunikida-san, I’m lost. Where are we?” 

Atsushi gave himself a pat on the back. It might not have been his biggest achievement, but it was nonetheless a victory, especially in comparison to his earlier attempt.

“That’s better,” the man straightened his figure, turning to face Atsushi. “To state things briefly, you’ve been incapacitated for the past few hours, and I decided to take you with me on this mission.”

Kunikida turned to resume his phone call, motioning for him to do… something. Whatever he’d been asking of him was far beyond him. So, Atsushi just tilted his head to the side in an owlish confusion, a quiet “huh?” escaping him.

Letting out a quiet groan, Kunikida whispered through gritted teeth something about being on call with… someone. Atsushi hadn’t caught that part either.

His mentor stared at him for a long moment, barely bothering to blink. Atsushi reckoned that he might’ve grown a second head of some sort, but he tossed the thought aside, reasoning that it wasn’t plausible. The man was probably just trying to get a read on him.

The blonde rubbed at his temples for a moment. 

He mused that the man was trying to soothe his temper, judging by the throbbing vein above his forehead. 

“Apologies for the sudden interruption, sir,” Kunikida began, clearing his throat. “Atsushi has just awoken from his ‘nap,’ and I haven’t had time to inform him of our current mission, so he’s fairly disoriented. And, given that he’s still quite groggy, it might take a while for him to catch up. That said, could we postpone this conversation and resume it once he’s up-to-date?” 

“Very well then,” the man replied, sipping through a liquid drink, an audible clash of porcelain casting a hushed clink through the call. “Dial me back whenever you two are ready.” 

Ending the call with a calculated thank you, Kunikida turned his attention back to Atsushi. He couldn’t help but shudder. The man’s gaze was always so bone-chilling and terribly focused. His mentor should really try blinking more; not doing so is a trait of sociopaths after all. He imagined that his mentor didn’t want to be inadvertently associating himself with the socially crippled… though, no one apart of the Armed Detective Agency is perfectly sane, are they?

“Alright, kid, so you want to know where we are? Try looking around.” Atsushi couldn’t help but notice that while Kunikida was speaking to him, the man took the time to examine his glasses, realise that they had become blurred with a layer of debris, take them off, and begin cleaning his lenses with the inside of his vest. He was probably making a mental note to wash them properly the next time he happened upon a sink and towel, too. 

His mentor really was something, huh?

Turning away from him, he took to scanning his surroundings, again noticing that they were in a mostly white room save for a few mauve accents. He could hear a static buzz drumming around them, one he vaguely registered as perhaps the hum of an AC unit. Aside from that, he saw that quite a few people were present, most of whom were sitting side by side in rows of three in the same manner as Atsushi and Kunikida. Although a few white collar workers were up and about, attending to what he assumed to be clients. 

Unsure of how to piece this all together, he took a wild guess. "Are we… in a high-end real estate office?" 

“Of course not,” replied Kunikida, clicking his tongue. “If that were true, why would I bring you here? It’d be pure chaos. How about you try looking out of your window, hotshot.” He pointed to the window behind him.

Giving the man a quiet thumbs up, Atsushi turned to face the window, having missed it earlier. Though in his offence, it wasn’t exactly easy to spot, given that it was sheltered by a pair of twin curtains. Sliding the fabric aside, he winced at the intense blare of the afternoon sun—a harsh difference from the dimmed room. He adjusted quickly, though, dual-toned eyes squinting open, peeping through a gloved hand. To his surprise, staring back at him wasn’t the familiar terrain of the Yokohama streets or the welcoming grain of passing fields, but the endless expanse of an infinitely large city thousands of meters below him, rolling by in an array of grey clouds and blue skies as though a flash in a storm, moving away from him faster and faster. 

“Kunikida-san…” He whispered, his eyes slowly widening, the colour in his face draining at an exponential pace. “I hate to tell you this, but… I— I think we’ve been abducted by Aliens.” 

“No, you're so wrong it's not even amusing.” Kunikida nudged his glasses forward, shaking his head. “We’re on a plane, dumbass.” 

“A plane…?” He looked around, re-examining what he could now testify as, in fact, a plane. His mouth made a subtle ‘o’ shape as he turned to face his mentor in abject realisation. 

“Alright, I’ll cut it to you briefly,” replied the blonde, jumping away from the subject. “Still, pay close attention. I’m not repeating myself, is that clear?”

Atsushi responded with an enthusiastic nod, clapping his hands together and bowing his head in thanks, murmuring a few dozen thank-yous. And, in all truth, he was thankful. His mentor didn’t show it, but he went out of his way to care for him, always finding ways to shelter and protect him. He reminded him of Oda-san… Atsushi couldn’t help but wonder where his teacher had run off to. He just couldn’t fathom the man dead, not yet. It didn’t matter if he had the autopsy report or not; he wouldn’t believe it until he saw a barren corpse. But that’s a topic for another day. 

Of course, he knows Kunikida isn’t one for dramatic displays of affection, but he couldn’t help it. He just wanted to indulge in some much-needed excitement, something to keep the mood as light as it could be, even if he knew Kunikida would move right past it, ignoring him entirely. 

And, of course, the man followed up on his assumption, not even bothering to pay him so much as a glance before he completely moved on from the sight. “Alright, this morning, about half-past four, the Agency received an urgent call dictating that we meet with them immediately, and refused to give any further details until we met in person. Of course, we declined and told the man off, for we do have a Code-of-Conduct when it comes to accepting bizarre requests, such being that, at minimum, we require a reasonable description of a job and a relative assessment of what needs to be investigated, of which the man refused to comply.  Well, that was until he mentioned the considerable sum he was willing to pay and, in reassurance, casually dropped seven hundred thousand yen into our account—”

“Seven-hundred thousand??!" he gapes, jaw ajar.

Kunikida stared at him for a long moment, perhaps contemplating how he should proceed. 

Atsushi looked at him in the same light, unsure of how to progress the situation. Embarrassed, to say the least.

“As I was saying,” Kunikida went on, a slight hesitancy touching his lips. Atsushi thanked the heavens that the man decided to ignore it; he didn’t think he’d ever be able to live it down if he hadn’t. “Due to our relatively poor financial circumstances, we accepted the job offer and agreed to meet with him. That about catches you up with the main part of things. Oh, and just so you know, we’ll arrive at the Pulkovo Airport in an hour or two, so don’t get too comfortable.”

“Wait a minute…” There was something about that name, ‘Pulkovo,’ that came across as strange to him. What was it? What was off about it? He knew he’d never gone to any airports called that; in fact, this was his first time flying. So why did it ring a bell?

It was the word. 

“Pulkovo,” he repeated to himself, trying to summon what was so off about it into his mind.

Pulkovo, Pulkovo… It was a Russian word. That’s what was wrong. But if they were going to an airport named in Russian, wouldn’t that mean that their destination was in Russia?

“Kunikida-san, where are we going… it isn’t by any chance in Russia, is it?” 

“Russia? Why, yes. I thought that was clear.” 

“No… You never said anything about Russia, you only said that we were travelling to meet a client.”

“Ah, my apologies. Though, why on earth would we take a plane of all things if where we were travelling within our own country, Atsushi?”

“I don’t know, I figured it was for a convenience of some sort. Or maybe I thought we were heading to an offshore island?” 

“Neither of those makes sense,” Kunikida shook his head, taking a deep breath. “If we were flying somewhere in Japan, purely for convenience, then we’d be travelling by wheel, given that if you fly with a party greater than that of two via airline with other modes of transportation available, you will (most likely) spend more money than if you’d chosen otherwise. On the contrary, if we were flying to an island, we’d take a boat—there are no airlines planted along the islands. And, as far as communicating where we were going, I explicitly stated that we would be arriving at the Pulkovo airport shortly. Which, mind you, is located in St. Petersburg, Russia, A.K.A., Russia's second largest city. So, excuse me for thinking that you were intelligent enough to realise that yourself and have enough common knowledge to recognise a famous airport and put together that we’re travelling to Russia, more precisely, St. Petersburg.” 

Atsushi blinked once, then twice, trying his best to comprehend what his mentor had just flung at him in a flurry. He decided it was best just not to comment on it. 

Though it did occur to him in mild self-contemplation that there would be an extreme language barrier between him and basically everyone besides Kunikida. Because he couldn’t understand a word of Russian, the orphanage offered a fairly basic and rudimentary education after all.

Kunikida took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair before collectively straightening himself. “Now, can we please return our boss’s call? Your impudent babbling is going to give me a migraine.”

Atsushi slammed a clenched fist into his palm, a quiet thwack flying out in result. “Oh, so that’s who you were talking to. That makes sense. How did I not get that earlier?” He thought aloud, internally slapping himself in the face. “Oh, yeah, we can move on, Kunikida-san.”

Rubbing his temples yet again, Kunikida opened his phone, unlocking the device, and clicked on what Atsushi assumed to be his contact tab so that he could redial Fukuzawa’s number. 

The man stopped, hovering over a contact. 

“Kunikida-san? Is there something wrong?” asked Atsushi, addressing Kunikida’s sudden pause.

“Well…” the blonde began, an uncharacteristically hesitant air plaguing the edges of his typically straightforward and demanding tone. “It’s just that I forgot to tell you something.” 

Atsushi frowned, wondering what order his mentor would fling at him next.

“So to speak,” he paused once again, a nervous sweat trickling down his neck, “I… drugged you.” 

Atsushi’s brows furrowed in disbelief, unsure of whether he’d heard the man correctly, “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. What did you say, again?” 

“I said,” Kunikida seemed a bit more confident with his answer now, his words leaving at a slightly slower, more leisure pace, and his tone a tinge more dominating and sure of himself. There was no room for tripped words. “I drugged you.” 

It was true then; he hadn’t misheard him. “Kunikida-san… you… Why?” 

He trusted Kunikida with all his heart, truly. He relied on him for almost everything, and he deeply cared for him. Atsushi would do anything for him. His mentor was like a second father to him. But, druggery? How could he trust someone who would so easily put something like that into him, without his consent? And if he could do something like that so effortlessly, what’s to stop him from doing something more? He tried to shake the thoughts out of his head, but they just wouldn’t go away. It was as if some vile serpent had decided to wrap around his heart, squeezing it tighter and tighter, slowly eating away at all of the intricate bonds he’d made, all plagued by the stupid and imbecilic question of ‘what if?’

“Y’know…” Kunikida started after a lengthy pause, drawing him from his mind. The man’s eyes weren’t facing him, though, hooded and planted to the ground; he was clasping his hands together, too, resting them in his lap, legs drawn apart. “You were fast asleep when we arranged this mission. And, considering that we were leaving on such short notice, I didn’t have enough time to explain things to you then. But that’s no excuse for what I did.  I took the easy way out. I gave you a benzodiazepine, not a high dosage, nothing that’d hurt you, but… I should’ve at least woken you and asked if it was all right to give you one. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen your medical records. I’m only thankful that disaster didn’t ensue, though, I suppose your ability would’ve kicked in if things had gotten out of hand… no? Or does it not work that way? Regardless, I sincerely apologise.” 

Atsushi doesn’t respond. He knows that Kunikida means well, and he should be used to this sort of extravaganza by now, but he can’t shake the looming sense of unease that someone had so easily drugged and abducted him, even if it was Kunikida. Maybe he’s just being paranoid, but he’s afraid. Afraid that if such a simple, minor touch could so easily shake his world into disorder, what would happen if someone did something big? Something catastrophic. Would it ruin everything? He’s not mad. He’s not disappointed. He loves his mentor dearly, even if he is a little harsh around the edges. 

It occurred to him then, as though a beaming light through a curtained room, that the man hadn’t asked for his forgiveness, nor his acceptance. But, simply for his ears. All Kunikida had asked of him was to listen . Nothing more.

That was proof enough to settle his mind, to clog the endless pit of darkness he’d been falling through, his parachute in a mindless abyss. Kunikida was a good man. He’d had no bad intentions.

Atsushi slowly looked up, turning to face his mentor. He sported a subtle grin, barely noticeable, but one that he knew Kunikida would pick up on. Sure, Kunikida wasn’t Ranpo, but the man was observant. He was certain of it. 

Kunikida must’ve seen it. For he gave him a rare, gentle, almost delicate smile. He doesn’t think he’d ever seen Kunikida look so soft before, like the light of a warm sunset brushing against his cheeks, just bright enough not to be ominous, just dark enough not to be blinding, a pale shade of orange gleaming through the rising sun. 

The man tapped his phone, awakening the dimmed device. 

A quiet melody rang through the air as he waited for his boss to answer. “Yes? Fukuzawa Yukichi of the Armed Detective Agency speaking.”

“Ah, my apologies, President. I seem to have dialled your client contact rather than the one provided for our personal communication. Anyhow, Atsushi is caught up now; we can resume our previous topic.”

“That’s quite all right, Kunikida. There’s no need to apologise for such a minor inconvenience. Atsushi, ” replied Fukuzawa, jumping to the next subject. “I take it you know where you're headed?”

“Yes, sir.” he blurted.

“Good. Oh, and don’t worry about translation issues with our client; they’ve arranged for an efficient bilingual to communicate between you three. He’s also paid for the translator to escort you; you should thank him. ”

“That’s great to hear, boss! I’m relieved, I was starting to get worried… Russian is not my forte.” Atsushi doesn’t know why, but the presence of another person who spoke the same language as him in a foreign country was oddly comforting. He wondered if Kunikida felt the same way. 

On second thought, he doubted it.

“Well, how else do you suppose he’d communicate with us? The additional support is nice and all, I’ll admit, but it wasn’t ‘kind’ of him to do so—it was a necessary investment if our client wanted to do efficient business with a foreign party.”

“Of course… Kunikida-san,” he replied, a slight tinge of disappointment tainting his features, a subtle frown occupying his typical smile. 

“Apart from that, I know that this job offer is sudden and inconvenient for both of you, but we couldn’t exactly refuse such a large sum, especially on our current funds. Rest assured, you’re following missions won’t be nearly as spontaneous.” 

“Ah, there’s no need to apologize to him, sir. We’re ready to take on any and all jobs you give us, regardless of whether they’re instantaneous or given in well over a month’s notice.”

“How considerate of you, Kunikida. Alright, now, onto business. Once you two arrive in St. Petersburg, you will check into your hotel, for which I’ve already pre-registered you, and then you will meet our client at a fairly high-end pub. Its coordinates should be arriving in your inbox anytime now.”  

Fukuzawa’s notation was confirmed by a quiet ding! from Kunikida’s phone, signalling an email of sorts. “Understood, sir. Has our client confirmed what time he would like to meet yet? Or is that still up for debate?” It’d be well into the afternoon by the time they arrived… Kunikida-san’s already trying to make another schedule for our trip! Nononononoooo, there goes my chance to have fun… Atsushi thought to himself, silently wailing, recalling just how much of an OCD freak his mentor was, and that he’d be stuck with him nonstop for who knows how long. 

He loves his mentor, but even he can only endure the man’s endless prattling for so long.

“Good question. I was just about to discuss that myself. However, our client has yet to confirm a proper meeting time, and I doubt he’ll supply us one. I reckon he wants to meet sometime late evening. Thereby, by that presumption, you can speculate to arrive there around 19:00 or so; you can order some food and drink to pass the time if you like. Wait there for an hour. Minimum. If it doesn’t appear that he’ll make his appearance after that, you can leave on your own behalf.”

“That makes sense. Thanks, boss. But what are we supposed to do if he doesn’t show up?” asked Atsushi, twiddling his thumbs. 

“He makes a good point, boss,” added Kunikida.

“Well, let’s see. I’ve pre-paid for a one-week, non-renewable hotel-stay for the both of you and paid the hefty fine of two last-minute, overseas, third-class plane tickets—which will be doubled when I inevitably have to pay for your return—so, in that unfortunate scenario, you’ll be left with a one-week vacation .”

A week? Only a week? He could do that. He could survive with Kunikida for a week. The boy let out an audible sigh of relief.

Atsushi turned to see how Kunikida was faring with the news,

He couldn’t help but snicker, looking at the repulsed look of disgust on Kunikida’s face after hearing what his boss had just said. Promptly, however, he shuts up. Taking a fearful gulp, he turned to look at the man, crossing his fingers that he didn’t notice his slight exhibition of laughter and was deep-diving into an analytical field of how he could avoid such a tragedy entirely. It was practically a death sentence for the man, after all.

Gradually, and with increasing confidence, he turned to look at Kunikida dead on. And, boy, was he ever a summer-kissed child for actually thinking that that was a possible scenario.

To cut things short, Kunikida was glaring daggers at him, the stench of murderous intent practically reeking off of the man. Atsushi takes a moment to thank every god he can think of that they’re on call with their boss right now because he’s almost certain that, if otherwise, he’d be six feet under.

“Anyhow, you’ll be there within two hours, no? I wish you a safe rest of your flight. Good luck, you two.” 

“Thank you, sir…” Atsushi bid the man farewell, albeit he sounded more like a child slowly walking home, silently preparing himself for the strict scolding he was sure to get, after getting in trouble at school, than an eighteen-year-old ending a phone call with his boss.

The call ended with a static beep. “Well,” Kunikida offered, refraining from berating him, “what do you suppose we do now?” 

Atsushi lets out a more than audible sigh of relief, throwing his head back against the leather cushion behind him, clutching his hand to his chest, his heart pounding like a frantic rabbit. After composing himself, he makes to suggest that they call over one of the flight attendants for some food and drink, but, just as he makes to voice his thoughts, he’s interrupted by the loud ramblings of the passenger behind him.

“Now, now. I told you exactly what to do if you fell under that circumstance; it’s your own fault you were stabbed. I am in no way obliged to pay for your medical expenses, which only resulted as a consequence of you failure to follow my instructions. If you are so deliberately inscrutable that you cannot come to realise this fact, you can meet me in court. That said, you’re fired. Good day, number seventy-nine.” 

Atsushi is pretty sure they weren’t supposed to hear that… whatever the man was talking about sounded rather… harsh, though he tries his best not to make assumptions, given that speech is obsolete without context. After a moment, he attempts to resume his proposition with Kunikida. “Hey, what if we ordered some—” 

“Oh my, what a stunning lass you are!” The man from before suddenly singsonged, taking to one knee. 

Atsushi rolls his eyes. Nonetheless, he turned to watch whatever was about to go down. Kunikida followed suit.

The man had a curled mop of brown hair.

“Sir, we need you to keep it—”

The man took the flight attendant’s hand in his own, caressing the soft flesh before planting a chaste kiss. “What delicate hands you have, ah, they’re so beautiful… My, how you could strangle my neck with these slender fingers of yours. The very thought brings me to ecstasy!” The man took to an extravagant swoon, throwing his head back with an angel’s grace. Springing up just as fast, he took the woman’s hand again, his eyes sparkling with an exuberant anticipation. “Say, would you be so kind as to join me in a double-suicide?” he pleaded, a hushed breeze blowing through his hair. 

For a moment, everything seemed to have been brought to a standstill; the flight attendant, Atsushi Kunikida, in fact, almost every passenger who’d happened to have been listening in on the conversation paused, stunned by the request. 

“So…?” the man tried again, breaking the silence, reassuring the flight attendant with a tender caress. 

She clenched the man’s hand, her smile faltering for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I can’t partake in that request of yours.”

“Awh…” the man pouted, puckering his lips, but he didn’t appear bothered in the slightest. Well, at least to Atsushi, that is. No one else seemed to notice the static quality of his voice. “I see. Well, that’s too bad for me, I guess, and here I’d thought I’d finally found someone to end it all with...” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Better luck next time, as they say!” the brunette shook his head, offering the woman a cheeky grin, “Back to you, what was it you were trying to say earlier? I interrupted you, didn’t I? My sincerest apologies.”

She looked at him with a fond gaze, watching as he rubbed soothing circles along her pulse points. Truthfully, the woman probably couldn’t help but lean into the warmth of it. She caught herself before long, though, pulling her hand back, drafting it to her side. “Oh, don’t worry about that, dear. It’s in the past now. But what I came over here to tell you was to please keep it down when you're on call. You know, there are a great many people here, and a peaceful flight without loud interruptions is preferred for safe travel. That said, please keep it down for future notice.” At that, she bid him farewell, offering him a curtsy and a bow of her head as she left.

“Ah,” the man sighed, a dreamy hint clutching his throat, returning to his seat. “What a sweetheart…”

There was something odd about that man. 

Weird. 

No, wrong. 

Something was wrong with that man. Atsushi felt like he’d witnessed this before, either that or an event almost identical to it. But he couldn’t recall a single occurrence of such a thing, still, it felt like he’d already experienced this.

“Hey, Atsushi,” Kunikida called out from behind him, placing an almost concerned hand on his back. “Are you alright? You seem a little out of it.”

Atsushi sighed, marking the thought off as just another odd phenomenon. “Ah, there’s no need to worry, Kunikida-san. I was just a bit vexed, is all. The way that man was talking earlier sounded kind of fishy, y’know?” 

“Fishy, you say? Me? I think not.” A brown head exclaimed from behind him, terrifying the young boy, a choked scream slipping past his throat. Atsushi placed a protective hand over his chest, panting. 

The man raised an inquisitive brow at the sight. “What? Is it really that bad?” Preemptively, he took to sniffing himself, making sure that he didn’t smell like fish. “Oh, come on, I smell just fine. Don’t you think you’re over exaggerating things a bit?” he stepped past Kunikida, sliding into the seat between them.

“Hey! What on earth do you think you're doing?” fumed Kunikida, stomping his foot. “Do you honestly think that it’s socially acceptable behaviour to blatantly barge into someone else's seat, of which you have no idea if it is or will be occupied by another person, let alone that you’ve yet to pay for?” 

The man turned to Kunikida, crossing his legs with a sly grin. “Hmph! Well, I believe it’s perfectly legal to access a different seat on an airplane, especially seeing as I have paid for this seat prior to your coming here.” 

“Well, that sounds believable,” Atsushi mumbled to himself. He didn’t like this man, even if he did remind him of something… the way he acted was odd and, frankly, annoying. 

Catching his remark, the brunette went on to retort otherwise. “No, I’m being perfectly honest. You can check with the flight manager if you’d like. I’ve paid for this seat, along with the one a few seats behind you. I switched because I heard you talking about me, so I thought I’d join in.”

“And I think that’s a load of bull shit.” Kunikida bawled his fists, unimpressed with the man’s slick tongue. 

“Well,” Atsushi returned, propping his head with his elbow. “Sir, I’m sorry to say, but would you please leave? I’m sorry for commenting on your phone call earlier, but you have to realise that you practically broadcasted your rather concerning conversation throughout the entire aeroplane with how loudly you were speaking. And while I do apologise for commenting on your private conversation, my intentions were most definitely not meant to offend you in any way, and I certainly did not mean to imply that you ‘smelled like a fish’ with my, mind you, figurative statement. That said, you’re not exactly entitled to sit with us because you’ve supposedly paid for this seat,” Atsushi pointed to where the man was currently sitting. “If you continue to interrupt us, we have no choice but to call the authorities. You’ve already caused multiple disruptions; you’re lucky no one’s done that yet. That said, would you please leave?”

The man let out an exasperated sigh, chuckling slightly, “I see, feisty aren’t we? Very well then, I’ll leave you two be. Oh, just one thing, and do forgive me for asking this, but what’s your name?” 

“Atsushi. You can call me Atsushi.”

“Wonderful! Well, Atsushi-kun, you’ve certainly wounded me with that ferocious feedback of yours. Keep it up, and you’d make a mean dorm manager. But, I suppose I have no choice but to go weep in my lonely little corner over there,” he motioned to the indeed empty three seats behind them. “And you are?” he turned to Kunikida, who’d begun looking over his schedule again. 

“Oh? You’re not gone yet? I’m Kunikida. Goodbye.” 

“Argh! How cruel you two are!” the man clicked his tongue, shaking his head in distaste. The man was awfully dramatic. “But I suppose I have other things to attend to. Oh, but Atsushi-kun, do look into my career advice, alright?” he got up from his seat, offering an enthusiastic wave. 

“And good riddens,” Kunikida muttered under his breath once the man had finished skipping back to his seat.

The young detective simply accepted defeat, opting that they could fill their stomachs once they arrived at the pub they’d be meeting at. Slouching, he rested his cheek against the window frame, closing his eyes, giving in to the urge to bask in the evening rays of the sun. It felt like he was being held in the arms of a mother, pressed against her plush breasts, gently being rocked into a blissful sleep. He couldn’t help but lean into the comforting warmth, snuggling himself against the window, burying his head as deep as he could into the slight dips of the material, his hair brushing against the silken fabric of the curtains. Slowly, he drifted off into slumber, the bustle of the passengers around him fading out into the distant waves of an ocean breeze.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

“Atsushi-kun, don’t sleep now, you’ve got paperwork to do,” an odd, yet familiar voice whispered into his ear, sliding a considerable stack of paper to him. He turned to look at the man. Deep brown, almost umber, hair. Unkept. Messy. Yet, strangely fixed in a way that caused it to appear cordial. Paired with it was a set of auburn eyes, gleaming with something unworldly, though one was a tad dimmer than the other. If he looked close enough, he thought they would swallow him whole, as though, instead of eyes, the man had two black holes glued to his face, sucking up all the colour and joy around them. His skin was pale… unnaturally so. It was as if he were a vampire—allergic to the sun. Shifting his gaze down to the male’s neck, what alarmed him wasn’t the bandages in themselves, for that was an entirely different matter, but the slight, near-unnoticeable trail of crimson peeking out from them. He couldn’t smell anything, so it must’ve been a stain, its stench not fresh enough to detect. Atsushi knew that it was most likely from an old paper cut or a scratch of some sort, but he couldn’t help but wonder if it was something else. 

Something more.

Aside from that, his eyes were really the only thing that stood out from his bright and bubbly persona. It was as if, despite the man’s desperate attempts to blanket himself under a sheet of fallacy, he just couldn’t hide it, the one thing—the dead giveaway—that he wasn’t what he was supposed to be. It occurred to the boy in brief thought that the man was just a child clinging to a mask. No more, no less. He pitied him.

“Oh, Atsushi-kun~” the man called again, “if I’m really so handsome that you can’t stop looking at me, then by all means, do this paperwork for me. Come on now, you promised you’d do it, remember?” he spoke teasingly, but he couldn’t help but notice that it sounded terribly fake.

Still, he tried to go along with the brunette’s quaint antics, allowing a sheepish smile to press against his cheeks. “Ah, that’s right,” Atsushi replied, even though he had no recollection of such a promise. “My apologies. I’ll get right to it.” 

The man returned his smile, a fanciful grin of his own beaming across his face. Atsushi couldn’t help but wonder who he’d stolen it from. “Excellent. I’m glad I can count on you to get things done around here. Those coworkers of yours never seem to leave the morgue.”

“Wait,” he returned, ignoring the man's odd humour. “I’m sorry for asking, but what’s your name?” The question had been lingering on his mind for some time. He recognised the man’s face and his voice, despite their overtly fake qualities—and really, he felt like he’d known this man for a long, long time—but when it came to placing a name, his mind drew blank. Perhaps he’s just being paranoid, but he can’t help but think it a tad uncanny that he knew so much about this man already, even though he’s barely interacted with him. Atsushi isn’t stupid; he knows his own capabilities. He’s not that good at reading people. So why does he know so much about this person? Who even is he?

“Ah, don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten,” the man replied, his tone almost dejected. “What happened to that year we spent at each other’s sides?” 

“I’m sorry… I don’t know who you are.”

“I guess that’s to be expected. Never mind then, there’s no use dwelling on what can’t be fixed. Alright then, Atsushi, make sure you don’t bore Kunikida-kun. He doesn’t show it, but he quite enjoys a tease every now and then.” 

“How do you know Kunikida-san…?” he faltered, something didn’t feel quite right. 

The bookshelf behind the brunette seemed to swirl. Watching it, Atsushi couldn’t help but think it strange because, to his knowledge, the Agency didn’t have any bookshelves. So why was there a bookshelf? How did this man know Kunikida? Was he an old friend? An acquaintance of his? Or something more…?

The man’s smile didn’t waver, but a sort of melancholy couldn’t help but touch his lips. “You don’t remember all of our silly little gags?”

Atsushi tried his best to recall a memory of him doing so to the best of his ability. But, alas, he failed and took to an abject silence, a foreign sense of guilt clawing at him like some cruel snake, wrapped around his gut, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter. 

He could barely breathe.

“It’s probably better that way, Atsushi-kun. Just make sure to give him some laughs here and there, okay?” the male assured him, running a hand through Atsushi’s hair, twisting soft strands between his fingers, untangling knotted nets. It was a calming sensation, one he couldn’t help leaning into.

The man’s hands were odd, though. They weren’t warm, but they weren’t cold either. It felt almost as if… the hands, rubbing his head so tenderly, had no pulse at all. 

“We used to work together, didn’t we?” he asked after some time. But his words sounded slurred, even though he was fully awake. And the ceiling seemed to spin, too.

Maybe he’s just imagining things.

“Yes,” the man looked down, staring at the cracked tile along the floor, an almost fond smile touching his lips. “We most certainly did.” 

Atsushi watched the man, his golden eyes gleaming in an amethyst haze, burning with something akin to desire, pupils dilated. Maybe it was better if he remained clueless, if he didn’t seek answers, if he hadn’t a clue of who this man was, only that he was a superficial imitation of a human being. His life would probably be better if he didn’t know anything. But he wanted to know. He felt like a piece of his life was missing—like a broken puzzle. “Why aren’t you here with us now?”

“Well, it’s fairly simple,” the man brushed his fingers along the desk, curling around bits of chipped wood. He closed his eyes, dark lashes sealing them away, lingering for just a moment too long. “You see, Atsushi…” he began, a breathless gasp escaping his throat. “It’s not that I’m not there, it’s that I’ve never been there. What I mean is, despite all appearances,” he gestured to himself, “this life that I’ve been questioning you of… isn’t real. You can’t remember what I’ve said or what I’ve done because it hasn’t happened. It’s all been a lie. Those fuzzy memories you think you have but can’t remember aren’t false, but they're not yours. You haven’t lived through them, and you never will. The world you live in is another reality, one where I’m not in the picture. Your brain isn’t playing tricks on you; it’s simply human function to struggle when tasked with discerning between reality and fantasy.” 

“Have you lost your head?” Atsushi replied after a moment, eyebrows furrowing. ”What on earth are you talking about?”

The man put a hand to where his heart should be, as though wounded. “My, how cruel you humans are sometimes. You don’t even hear half the things you're saying, do you? Imagine if this was an actual conversation. I think I’d be a tad offended. Maybe even hurt. Why, you might drive a man to kill himself if you keep it up with that manner of speech. But you're lucky. See, I find those vibrant emotions of yours compelling—entrancing, even.” 

Atsushi stared at him, bewildered and ashamed. “I didn't mean to offend you, sir… Well, I did, but I shouldn’t have said that. However, you have to admit, what you're saying isn’t exactly easy to believe. That said, what do you mean when you say that these blurred memories of mine aren’t real? How do you know I have them?”

“Oh? Curious, aren’t you? They say curiosity killed the cat; I hope you don’t die, I quite like you. But, to answer your question, this is an alternative reality.” 

He paused, even more confused than before he’d asked his question. “Why is this happening?” 

“Well, to put it simply, someone you loved died in that world.” The man replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Actually,” the man continued, “everyone’s dead in that reality. Kunikida… Fukuzawa… Yosano… Ranpo… pretty much all of our coworkers. Well, besides you, of course.” 

Atsushi stared in disbelief, his lips quivering. “You… you can’t mean that. You’re lying! Y—you, you have to be lying!” 

The bandaged man raised a brow. “Oh? Is it possible that you’ve forgotten that as well?”

He didn’t answer him. He just slowly shook his head back and forth. A thousand times. Over and over again. Because it wasn’t true. There was simply no way that everyone had died. It was impossible. This man was a liar. He was lying. Lying. Lying. Lying.

“Atsushi. If you’re not going to do your paperwork, you have a mission to attend to. Get up.” 

“Fine,” the boy snapped, sounding more aggravated than he’d of liked. It was pathetic, the way one could fall so easily with only the slightest of disturbance. 

Everything seemed heavy and sluggish; the man’s lips didn’t sync with his voice. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Atsushi repeated the request in his head, trying to decipher what was so fundamentally wrong about the statement. He turned to look around the office. He couldn’t help but notice that no one else was there. It was just him and this mysterious man. The usual clicks of keyboards weren’t there at all; he didn’t even hear the strides of rolling cars or the idle chatter of passersby. Atsushi glanced back over to the bookshelf and the cracked floors. 

Suddenly, what seemed so wrong about what the man had said hit him. 

“Hey, mister,” a sense of unease couldn’t help but cling to his voice, “why did you only ask for me to start working? Shouldn’t someone else be here to assist me? Where is everyone?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. I just told you.” The man’s voice seemed oddly distorted, as if he were just hearing the static readings of a radio. There was something else too, something strangely amiss. The air was heavy, near suffocating. He felt trapped.

He wanted out of this place.

Atsushi tilted his head, a nervous sweat dampening his skin. “...what did I forget?”

The man seemed to glitch, the warm atmosphere darkening. “We’re all dead. Remember?” 

Chapter Text

Poe was sitting at his desk, Karl curled up into his lap as he browsed through an old book of sorts, the cover a hazy grey, half-torn and brittle. The chill of the night air drifted in from his open window, red curtains slowly brushing against delicate fog, thin fabric dancing in the wind.

The man had opened the window quite some time ago, absentmindedly gazing as the evening faded into the night, thin wisps of clouds now evanesce, long overthrown by the burning blazes of faraway cosmos.

It was well past midnight by the time of the crime, the sky a deep obsidian. It was quiet, too, almost too quiet—for, in itself, it possessed a sort of tension, as if a quaint cord pulled taut, strangled by its own constitution, slowly tearing apart in absent concentration, breath drawn tight as it fervently waits for the fatal moment in which it is to snap.

The poet tried to convince himself that he enjoyed the subtle tension. He told himself that he was shaking from pleasure, that his body wasn’t juddering, that it didn’t convulse in spasticity, abruptly tensing at the slightest of sounds, only to have been the fault of innocent motion—a quiet snore from the raccoon positioned in his lap, a fallen limb crashing to the ground in the distance, the silent creaks of decrepit floorboards. His teeth dug into the juncture of his lips, silver fangs biting into the trembling flesh, slowly making quiet indents as he fought to uphold a smile.

Confused—lost within his own mind, breaths drenched with trepidation—Poe could only ponder, too stressed to merely read in idle thought, but too fearful to simply stare in horrid anticipation.

The Guild had disbanded quite some time ago, but Poe had still lingered in Yokohama. The man wasn’t precisely sure as to why he’d stayed—rather, just that he had. Maybe it was because, somewhere deep in mind, he was still dreamedly pursuing the idea that one day he’d finally best his rival, or maybe it was because he was still clinging to the once prosperous reign of his king, silently praying that one day, somehow, his kingdom would rise from its grave and ascend high above submersion, digging its claws far into the delves of wealth once again. He wasn’t sure.

Nor would he ever be, forever trapped in a mansion of darkness.

Poe could do whatever he wanted here, stationed at his desk, unsupervised, unfettered. It almost felt like he could just run away and never look back, as if the door confining him was left wide open, as if the window breezing behind him was of glass and not of iron bars and bloodied curtains, as if sitting beside him was the personification of freedom.

Was it foolish to say he reached out at the thought, as if trying to reach out for the silly, stupid, little illusion? Perhaps. Nonetheless, as if in a frenzy, he desperately tried to grab onto it—to grab ahold of it, nurse it—even as it fell from his grasp like falling sand.

He feels his breath catch in his throat as his mind spirals, vision starting to blur as his eyes water with unshed tears.

Maybe he could’ve been someone, he thinks, maybe he could’ve had it all, maybe he could’ve lived and found a purpose, found something to put his everything into.

‘Could’ve,’ it echoes in his mind, a quiet mantra of unsaid goodbyes, barely suppressing a sob as his hands fervently grasp at Karl’s fur, heart rate gradually spreading up as he registers the hollow knock against his door.

Dread suddenly fills his mind as he shifts to look at the aperture, a wrecked hiccup clawing at his throat as he chokes on ugly tears. Frozen, he watches as the doorknob slowly turns, air coming in shallow, frantic breaths as the door shifts to reveal a familiar curtain of white hair.

Maybe he doesn’t have anyone, maybe he’s worthless, maybe he’ll always come in second place, maybe he’ll never amount to anything.

But maybe, just maybe, he could be someone.

And now, all of a sudden, he doesn’t want it to end like this.

He doesn’t want to leave like this.

He doesn’t want to die.

The white-haired man just giggles as he ties his hands behind his back, an overly large, almost giddy smile plastered on his face.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Fukuzawa sits at his desk, hands folded neatly in his lap as he enjoys a fresh cup of herbal tea. The window is closed. Even so, the slight chill of the evening air still manages to seep into the room, a small shiver pulling at his frame.

“President?” calls the voice of a raven mop, sliding in with a lollipop clamped between his teeth.

Fukuzawa lifts his gaze from his work, turning to look at Ranpo as the man pulls a chair to his desk. He’s about to greet the man, but the salutation falls flat on his tongue as soon as he lays eyes on the detective.

“Is everything alright?” the elder asks after a moment, eyeing Ranpo’s expression, boyish lips hardly pulled into a line, its usual smugness universes adrift.

Ranpo doesn’t reply to him, though, eyes trained on the floor as he places a thin stack of papers onto his desk, sliding it over to him with a ghostly touch.

“Ranpo?” Fukuzawa calls again, concern edging into his voice as he glances over the newly placed papers. It was a report of people— no, suspects.

Why was Ranpo giving him a list of suspects?

The man still doesn’t answer him, body cold and devoid of motion. The room is quiet, fueled only by the muted mingling of their breaths, as though a faint record in a faraway ball.

Silently, he feels his arm stretch out toward the boy, only falling short when he realises that Ranpo was trying to speak, his fingers clenching in and out against the hardwood of his desk as though holding—actually holding—something, as if he weren’t just grasping at thin air.

Suddenly, the man stiffens, head whipping up to face him.

“Last night, half-past twelve,” Ranpo starts, voice mumbled, just barely audible as he takes a deep breath, clearing his throat. “Edgar Allen Poe, a former member of The Guild, was murdered.”

His eyes widen almost immediately, pupils dilating as he turns to look at the man now facing him, expression serious and stricken with grief.

“Ranpo…” he hears himself call, chewing on his lip as he fights the impulse to offer the man a hug—because, in his mind, regardless of age, Ranpo was always a child to him— his child. And it hurt to see him in pain like this, to not be able to comfort him— to just watch as Ranpo silently crumbled before him. Even just looking at him, Fukuzawa felt something inside of himself break.

The elder doesn’t know what to say for the longest time, shoulders tense and smile contrived.

Ranpo had been close with Poe… so very close. Maybe, in another life, they could’ve even been friends. It wasn’t like he could offer any words of condolence, not with how grim the situation was. It’d just serve to deepen the wound.

And so, he doesn’t. It’s not because he’s inconsiderate or uncaring, but because he knows Ranpo. He knows that the man didn’t come here for comfort or consolation. No, the detective came to him because he wanted action—

—wanted retribution.

Ranpo takes a deep breath, folding his arms along the desk as he runs his hands along the texture of the wood, fingers exploring the slight indentations of it. “I’ve come to peace with the fact that Edgar has died. I’ve realised that I cannot do anything to change this matter. He has committed countless crimes and played a role in the terrorist reign of The Guild, but—” and at that something in the boy’s voice seems to crack, breaking in a way that even he wasn’t sure he could mend, “—that doesn’t mean he deserved to die. He’d already been atoning for his crimes, repenting himself day by day, putting everything he could into becoming something more—someone better.”

The man runs his fingers through his hair, tightening the hat around his head as Fukuzawa sorts through Ranpo’s words.

“Do you remember all of those times he’d helped us?” Ranpo says in between shaky breaths, voice having fallen back into a steady whisper.

All he did was nod, head slowly moving up and down as he blinked steady lashes, but the slight shimmer in Ranpo’s eyes as he did so was enough to replace a thousand words.

“He was a good man at heart,” Fukuzawa says after a long while, voice resolute. And he doesn’t know why he says what he says next, but he does it anyway. Maybe there was something in his tea, maybe he’d been drugged, maybe the fragile sight of his kin slowly falling apart in front of him was enough to drive him to do it—regardless of reason—he says it. And for some terrible, terrible reason, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

“He deserved better.”

And that was it. It was done. There was no going back now. Not after what he’d just said— what he’d just prompted.

When Ranpo looks up at him, eyes wide and full of emotion, he already knows exactly what he’s about to reply with. And yet… he still can’t find it in himself to say no, to stop this before it gets too far. He hated it.

“President,” the voice starts, dangerously innocent. “That, after everything he’s done for the world—after everything he’s down for us—that, at the very least, he deserves justice for once?”

Fukuzawa had seen this coming, knew exactly what kind of favour Ranpo was asking to return and knew that it would only end in pain. Still, he nodded, eyes trained on the papers in front of him. It was sickening. He doesn’t do this kind of thing; it’s not right. It’s not justice, just some sick sort of revenge. It might’ve been disguised as an investigation, but he was fully aware of what it really was.

He wants to scream, to cry, to hurt, to do anything to relieve the pain of his subordinate, but not this.

This wasn’t retribution.

This was murder. And he’d just willingly agreed to it.

The soft smile that follows is kind, and he hates that it doesn’t make him regret his decision.

Ranpo clears his throat, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “I’ve already collected all of the circumstantial evidence available. Several eyewitnesses report seeing a man dressed in black and white checks heading towards the scene of the crime just after dark, where he was presumed to have been kidnapped before his eventual death. We’re unsure as to whether this man is responsible for the killing; however, CCTV cameras confirm his appearance, and DNA evidence is currently being examined. That aside, another man, you’ll see his name in the suspect sheet, was reported to have taken a flight with this man from the expanse of Russia, and took a flight back to Russia this morning at the Tokyo Airport. I have reason to believe this is the same plane that Atsushi and Kunikida boarded. I do not suspect him of the murder of Edgar; however, oddly enough, multiple witnesses of the hanging swear that he was the one who hung him. Given his odd flight behaviour, potential contact (regardless of intentions) with our two subordinates, association with our primary suspect, as well as sworn connection to the case, I’ve listed him as a suspected accomplice in the murder. Moving past forensic evidence, the scene of the kidnapping, the place in which the victim was held hostage, and the scene of the murder are entirely different places. With brevity, the victim was kidnapped at roughly 8:00 this morning east of the Nihonbashi Bridge in Tokyo, was taken westward in the direction of rural territory, and later found publicly hanged in a small, English district in Ikebukuro.”

“Publicly hanged?” Fukuzawa repeats, slightly taken aback by the medieval practice, pushing back his thoughts on what he’d just done.

“Yes, the entire process was captured on camera, much to my own distaste,” replies the younger, voice slightly lower.

He feels himself silently recoil at the prospect of having to watch, disgusted by how sick this person must be, by the lengths to which they were willing to go, but almost immediately pauses upon processing the man’s words, eyes widening. “Wait, you didn’t— did you?”

‘Watch’ goes unsaid.

The silence that follows is more than enough to make him shiver.

“I’ve matched this man’s physical appearance with Nikolai Gogal, of whom is currently our primary suspect. Other witnesses report seeing men of varying appearances, all of which, oddly enough, happen to line up with the appearance of the man’s coworkers. That stated, although Gogal is the only individual we have visual evidence of, due to auditory and personal speculations, I’ve enlisted all members of the Decay of Angels—an underground, criminal organisation based in Russia—as potential suspects. Witness reports are listed with the corresponding member.”

Fukuzawa takes a steady breath, fingers wrapping tightly around his forgotten beverage.

“I see…” he eventually replies, voice uncertain, an uncomfortable feeling swirling in his gut. He decides to switch the topic. “Atsushi and Kunikida will be unable to help you, as I’ve already assigned them to a foreign case several hours away from here. They’ll be arriving in St. Petersburg shortly. That stated, the rest of the ADA is authorised to work on this case with you; however, explicit consent is required.”

“Of course, President.” Ranpo returns, a placid smile tucked between his lips, quite the contrast to how he’d come in. The man turns to leave, but just as he’s making his way through the door, he sticks his head back around. “Oh, do tell Atsushi and Kunikida-kun to be careful. If the Decay of Angels really is responsible for the murder (and, really, even if they aren’t), they’re beyond a typical crime syndicate, sir. You’ll see what I mean when you read about them in those files, however,” Ranpo gestures to the stack of papers he’d placed on his desk, tucked away to his left. “St. Petersburg is most definitely a city to be wary of because of them.”

Fukuzawa furrows his brows. What could be so bad about the DOA that could make them a threat to two of his top detectives?

Patiently, he waits for Ranpo to expand upon his statement, feeling slightly uneasy.

“From what I’ve gathered,” continues the man, hands fumbling in his pocket for a stray candy. “Almost all of their archbishops, that is, their highest ranking authorities beyond the executive leader, are currently stationed there. I don’t believe they’ll become a danger to those two so long as they refrain from doing anything that may attract their attention; however, just be sure to give them a brief warning in the scenario that they come into contact with them.”

At that, he nods, watching as the boy slides the rest of his body through the door and out of sight. He takes a moment to breathe, rubbing his temples as he tries to comprehend all that’s happened.

With a heavy head, Fukuzawa shuffles to hold the stack of paper that’d been placed on his desk just moments ago, though it felt like hours upon hours had passed.

He examines its contents first before zeroing in on any particular suspect, finding that it was fairly quaint in girth and only spanned a few centimetres thick, as previously speculated. Similar to its width, he found that it was fairly light in weight and didn’t appear to be very dense in information.

Just a brief overview, then, he notes.

Each page is thin in information, only possessing the bare minimum of legal statistics. The prime suspect, on the other hand, appears fuller, with a fairly hefty constitution.

He found it rather odd, seeing as Ranpo usually dug up the same amount of information for each suspect regardless of the evidential circumstances. Was he really so certain of Gogol?

He flips through the papers, quickly taking note of each suspect.

Nikolai Gogol and Dazai Osamu of the Decay of Angels.

He flips to the page detailing the organisation. At first, it seems normal. There isn’t much known about the network in itself, but rather the violence it carries out. Fukuzawa shifts his gaze over to the group’s criminal charges, bile quickly rising up his throat as he reads in abject horror.

“This is…” he can barely speak, jaw slackening against his tongue.

They’ve been accused of countless crimes: illegal drug trades, gambling, conspiracy, prostitution, terrorism, murder— the list goes on. He wants to hurl just thinking about it, that he’d just sent two of his most trusted men into the den of such a vicious group. He knows they can handle themselves—heck, Atsushi’s taken on half of the Port Mafia by himself—but this? The mafia was brutal, but they weren’t monsters. They had a moral code, an unbroken creed to protect Yokohama and its citizens. That, and they functioned less as a mafia and more as a business nowadays, focusing on financial gain and prosperity over underground dealings. He knew next to nothing about what this organisation would and wouldn’t do— what if they didn’t even have a goal? What if they were just wreaking havoc however they liked? Did they even have morals?

Fukuzawa knows his subordinates are capable, but he just can’t shake the feeling that something bad will happen to them.

Tea cup tight in his grip, he moves back to the listed suspects.

Examining it closer, it appears that all of the information they’ve been able to gather is vague and useless, only depicting basic intel on the executive members of the Decay of Angels.

The first of which, as discussed, is a man by the name of Nikolai Gogol. He is of high standing within the Decay, presenting as an executive and bishop of the secondary court.

Looking at his photo, he can’t help but think of a clown, dressed up as though a deck of cards in human form, blacks and whites halving his frame like an elaborate painting. The man had a long braid of silver hair, cascading down his body in an elegant stretch, reaching just past his collarbone, tied in a fluffed knot. Other than his clothing and hairstyle, his face was of unusual quality as well, with a diamond card positioned just over his left eye and an age-old scar striking through his right.

Aside from photos of him, however, he quickly realises that, contrary to prior belief, there wasn’t much actual information about him at all, as with the other members.

He briefly ponders why this would be the case, given that, despite their infamy, the Decay didn’t appear in the media beyond literary report, with most incidents with visual features focusing more on the DOA’s acts as a whole rather than its individual constituents.

The CCTV cameras, his brain supplies.

Ranpo mentioned during his report that Nikolai had directly appeared, uncloaked, in front of them, allowing the detective to discern his appearance and link him (as well as his corresponding organisation via witness reports) to Edgar’s murder.

Moving back to the general statistics section, he finds that basic things such as the man’s height and weight are listed, but most anything of actual value—at least, from a circumstantial perspective—was scarce and far between.

He finds himself with creased brows. Why, despite their infamy, was the information on the Decay of Angels so painfully scarce? Surely, they hadn’t become a worldwide terror overnight.

Confusion bubbling at his throat, Fukuzawa flips the page.

This man’s name is Dazai. Oddly enough, the man isn’t actually listed as a member of the Decay in police reports—rather, an executive party, presumed to be in charge of local dealings rather than primary reports—an affiliate of sorts. Fukuzawa ponders why such a man was even listed here, let alone as a secondary suspect. That is, until he reads the small, bolded print just above his legal information.

Police Reports Suspected of Document Tampering - Information may be Subject to Fallacy

Document tampering of… police reports? How would that even—

Did the Decay of Angels have a mole in the police force?

It was a queer thought, more a quiet guess than anything else. Casual. Uncertain. But the more he thought about it, the longer he contemplated its veracity.

It would explain how practically no information about the Decay of Angels had been documented, why their members (or, at least their executives) were almost nonexistent to the legal world, and how they could get away with document tampering without getting caught.

But, then again, if the DOA was an openly prosecuted criminal organisation, whose leaders’ identities were publicly known, why would there be a need to tamper with police reports?

Fukuzawa ponders it over and over again, but can’t seem to draw any conclusions.

Defeated, he resigns to discuss it with Ranpo. Given the lad’s intelligence, it wasn’t unlikely that he’d come to a similar conclusion. Perhaps he’d drawn some additional information from it.

Filing the thought away, he turns to examine Dazai’s photo. There’s only one: a quaint, low-quality image of the man staring into the camera lens. Looking at it, it’s almost unsettling. It felt as though he were staring deep into his soul.

Definitely not just an affiliate, he determines. He was never someone to judge people based on their appearances or their past mistakes, instead examining them by their present actions and moral code—it was simply how he understood life. But, when presented with those deep, hollow eyes, boring into his person as though leaping through the frame, he knew exactly what he was looking at. He wasn’t looking at someone with mild criminal associations; he was looking at someone deeply rooted in the heart of crime. Dazai looked like he’d suffered, looked like he’d been through the wringer, looked three steps away from being thrown in the loony bin. That was just how Fukuzawa worked; he could look at someone’s eyes and read them perfectly. And Dazai’s? Dazai had the eyes of a hardened criminal.

Aside from his eyes, though, Dazai looked average—beyond average actually. It felt like he was looking into a mantra of bland colours, as though the figure of a cockroach and an apple had been crudely blended together to form a man. Although at the same time… there was something about his appearance that drew him in. In a way, it was familiar, nostalgic even.

Other than those things, however, there wasn’t anything particularly eye-catching about the man. Things like personality traits, family life, date of birth, age, origins, job history, legal records, education—everything besides the absolute essential was missing, even his crime records, beyond gang affiliation, were nonexistent. It was as if the man didn’t even exist at all.

Even if this was the result of document tampering, the amount of information provided was pitiful.

He hasn’t even gone through half of their members, and he’s already found a number of inconsistencies. There was no way the Russian authorities hadn’t caught wind of this. This was beyond a simple mole.

What was going on?

Why would members of a Russian crime syndicate suddenly kill the person of Edgar Allen Poe?

Most importantly, just what exactly has he just sent Atsushi and Kunikida into?