Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dazai Osamu was a ghost long before he ever died.

At least, that’s how it felt tonight.

He staggered down the now-empty streets of Yokohama, feet dragging like his bones weighed more than his body. The city, usually pulsing with life and neon noise, had gone still. It was around four in the morning, he thought—but time had long stopped mattering to him. The only thing he could be sure of was that the sky hadn’t yet cracked into dawn. That twilight stretch where the world hung between sleep and consciousness, shadow and clarity. Just like him.

The darkness was comforting. Familiar. Like a friend who didn’t ask questions or make him smile when he didn’t want to.

A cold breeze slipped past, brushing against the back of his neck like a warning. Or maybe an invitation.

He didn’t know anymore.

He kept walking.

Each step echoed in the silence, like a whisper he couldn’t quite make out. The wind tugged at the ends of his coat, ruffled his hair, tried to carry him somewhere—but he stayed grounded, boots scraping against pavement. He didn’t know where he was going. He never really did.

Dazai wasn’t drunk, though his gait might’ve fooled a stranger. He hadn’t had anything to drink in hours. Maybe days. There had been blood earlier—he remembered that much. It still clung to his bandages, to the inside of his coat, to the backs of his teeth. A sharp, metallic taste that no amount of water could wash away.

His arms throbbed beneath the gauze. Cuts he’d inflicted hours ago during a moment of weakness—or maybe clarity. He was never quite sure which.

The world around him buzzed, soft and distant. The hum of streetlights. The dance of flies near his ears. A lone taxi passed, not slowing down. Not noticing him. Just as well.

He wasn’t made to be noticed. Not anymore.

He was made to fade.

But the worst part wasn’t the pain. Or the cold. Or even the soul-deep exhaustion gnawing at his chest. The worst part was the emptiness inside him—a void so vast it felt like it could swallow the city whole. He had once likened it to a black hole. But even black holes were born from stars.

He had never been a star.

Odasaku had said he was broken. A little faulty. Like a puzzle missing too many pieces. And Dazai had smiled and nodded, because he agreed. Because it was easier to accept your flaws when someone else pointed them out gently, like they didn’t mind them.

But it still hurt. In that quiet, aching way that stayed with you even when the memory faded.

Because he wanted to be whole.

He just didn’t know how.

The memories were coming in waves now. That night—the one where he had collapsed on a stranger’s doorstep, half-dead and half-hoping someone would finish the job. He didn’t remember what street it had been, or even what led him there. He just remembered that for once, he had felt… content.

He had thought maybe that would be it. Maybe that would be the end. A quiet death. No theatrics. No notes.

Just stillness.

But alas.

He had survived.

And fate, in its twisted sense of humor, had placed Odasaku in his path not long after. A man who gave without asking. Who listened without judging. Who smiled like the world wasn’t as terrible as Dazai knew it to be.

Dazai had watched him. Studied him. Tried to understand what made him different.

And somehow, in all his calculations and observations, he had gotten too close. He had grown attached.

He hated himself for it.

Because Odasaku had become the variable. The one thing Dazai couldn’t predict. Couldn’t control. The one thing he cared about.

They spent hours together. Days. Nights. Time bled between the cracks of mafia missions and secret bar meetings. Lupin became a second home. Silence became bearable.

Dazai used to fear the quiet. It was when his thoughts were loudest. When the shadows whispered things he didn’t want to hear. But with Odasaku, silence felt… safe. Like maybe the world could pause for a second and just be.

He remembered one evening so vividly it felt like a scar. They had sat on a bench near a park, the swing set creaking behind them. No talking. No planning. Just the wind in the trees and the low hum of life.

And Dazai hadn’t wanted to run.

He hadn’t needed to wear a mask.

He had just been himself.

And that was the greatest gift Odasaku ever gave him.

But now—he was gone.

Dead.

And it was Dazai’s fault.

He had been too slow. Too naive. Too arrogant.

He thought he could save Odasaku from the fate they all danced with in the underworld. Thought he could rewrite the script. But in the end, Odasaku had chosen death. Because Dazai hadn’t given him another option.

And now, here he was. Stumbling through the city like a ghost, retracing steps he never wanted to walk again.

His feet led him to a park. Their park.

He paused when the swing sets came into view, their shadows long and reaching.

That bench.

He almost laughed.

Of course it would be that bench.

He sat down slowly, limbs aching, coat catching on the wood. He was careful not to jostle his arms—he didn’t need more blood right now. Just air. Just… stillness.

His eyes rose to the sky, scanning the stars above.

So far. So free.

They mocked him with their glow. Burning bright, millions of miles away, completely untouched by the pain of human lives. He wondered what it would feel like to be a star. To burn out gloriously. To die in beauty.

But he was no star.

He was a man. Or something like one.

Something close.

And he was tired.

A voice echoed in his mind—soft and haunting.

“If both sides are the same…”

And weren’t they?

He’d killed. Saved. Fed orphans. Broken enemies. Smiled at a stranger and poisoned a traitor. And in all of it, he felt nothing. He knew what was considered good and evil. He just didn’t feel the difference.

Everything blurred together eventually.

Everything except three things.

Three anchors in the storm.

Odasaku—gone. Dead because of him.

Chuuya—so alive, so bright, and too far out of reach. Dazai had ruined that relationship long ago. Sabotaged it before it could bloom. Because that’s what he did. He broke things. He broke people.

And the last thing—his oldest friend.

Death.

Always waiting. Always patient. Always there.

It never asked anything of him. Never lied. Never left.

It was his one constant. His one escape.

And so he chose it, again and again.

It hurt less than trying to be human.

Less than trying to love.

His breathing slowed. His eyes fell shut. The night wrapped around him like a blanket soaked in regrets. The stars blinked above, unbothered.

For the first time in days, Dazai slept.

And in his sleep, he dreamed.

Of laughter in bars. Of quiet benches. Of Chuuya yelling at him in frustration. Of Odasaku, smiling that infuriating, peaceful smile.

And when he woke, the sun had begun to rise.

He blinked against the light, disoriented. His body ached. His arms throbbed. His mouth was dry. But he was alive.

He cursed under his breath.

Why was he still here?

Why did he always wake up?

He sat up slowly, wincing, and looked around. The city was stirring. Birds chirping. Cars in the distance. A soft breeze brushing his face.

It was another day.

And somehow, against all logic, he was still part of it.

He exhaled shakily, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t cry. Couldn’t. The tears had dried up long ago.

But the pain hadn’t.

The swing beside him creaked, and he didn’t look up. Probably the wind.

Probably.

He whispered, voice hoarse from disuse.

“…You really left me, Odasaku.”

He didn’t expect a reply.

Didn’t get one.

But something inside him shifted.

A tremor. A ripple in the void.

Something small.

Like a promise.

Like maybe, just maybe, he could try again tomorrow.

Not because he wanted to.

But because Odasaku had asked him to.

And Dazai… he was a lot of things. But he never broke a promise to the only man who ever saw him clearly.

The city warmed around him.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

"The world is quieter when you're dead.
Dazai liked the idea of that.
Silence was easier to control than people."

It didn’t happen overnight, of course. Faking your own death wasn’t just some magic trick you pulled on a rainy Tuesday. No, Dazai Osamu was many things—idiot, bastard, dramatic menace—but impulsive he was not.

He planned it. Carefully. Painstakingly. Like a man crafting his own coffin with hands too steady to be sane.

And the only person who knew—the only person he trusted—was Chuuya.

He told him on a Thursday.

It was raining, as always. Yokohama never seemed to cry unless Dazai was involved.

Chuuya had stared at him like he was joking, lips twitching into a scowl that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re what?”

“I’m going to die,” Dazai said simply, voice steady, eyes fixed on the city lights below them.

He stood at the edge of a rooftop, coat whipping in the wind, hair damp from drizzle. Chuuya was behind him, fists clenched, teeth grinding.

“Dazai,” he snapped, “Don’t pull this suicidal crap with me again—”

“It’s not suicide.”

Chuuya froze.

“It’s… freedom,” Dazai continued, tone too calm. “If I disappear, I can finally work in the shadows. No ties. No rules. No expectations. No pain.”

“And what?” Chuuya scoffed, “You think faking your death will fix you?”

Dazai turned to face him then, brown eyes glassy but sharp. A man on the edge of something deeper than madness.

“No,” he whispered. “But at least it won’t break anyone else.”

Silence.

Chuuya wanted to scream. Wanted to punch him. Hold him. Anything.

But he just nodded, jaw locked.

Because he knew Dazai.
And Dazai never said anything he didn’t mean.

A week later, Dazai Osamu "died."

The body was burned beyond recognition—found on the outskirts of the city after an explosion at an abandoned building. The DNA matched. The coat was unmistakable. The bandages, the blood, all accounted for.

The agency was shocked. Atsushi cried. Yosano screamed. Kunikida went silent.

Even Fukuzawa flinched.

But Ranpo—oh, Ranpo didn’t believe it for a second.

Three days after the funeral, Ranpo called an emergency meeting.

“Dazai’s not dead,” he said, popping a lollipop into his mouth like he hadn’t just dropped the biggest conspiracy theory in Agency history.

Everyone stared.

“…Ranpo,” Kunikida muttered, rubbing his temples, “Please, not this again.”

“No, really,” Ranpo insisted, swinging his legs from his chair. “I know it. He planned it. I’ve got proof.”

“Where?”

Ranpo grinned. “My desk.”

They all groaned.

Atsushi looked heartbroken. “But… we saw the body.”

“You saw what you were meant to see,” Ranpo snapped. “The body was a fake. Well, not fake, but… not him. He paid someone. Bribed the morgue. The dental records were changed. I’ve got it all documented. Notes. Photos. Timeline. Everything.”

Kunikida’s patience was thinning. “Ranpo. I know you’re grieving in your own… way. But—”

“Just come with me.”

He stood, storming out. And reluctantly, the rest followed.

Ranpo’s desk looked like the inside of a tornado.

But he wasn’t bluffing.

He moved a few books, yanked a folder from beneath a half-eaten box of Pocky, and slammed it down.

“There.”

Atsushi peeked inside first.

Photos. A diagram of the explosion site. Notes in Ranpo’s chicken scratch handwriting. Burn patterns. Time stamps. Even a blurry security cam screenshot of a shadowy figure slipping out of the building ten minutes before the blast.

“I told you,” Ranpo said quietly, eyes unreadable for once. “He’s not dead.”

Chuuya, standing in the corner, said nothing.

He hadn’t told them.

He had kept the secret, just like Dazai asked.

But Ranpo was too damn smart. Too sharp for smoke and mirrors.

And Chuuya had hoped—hoped someone would believe him. That they’d see it, put it together, help him find Dazai before it was too late.

But hope is a fragile thing.

Because just as Kunikida leaned in to read a page, a strange smell hit the air.

Smoke.

Chuuya’s nose twitched. “Do you guys smell—?”

FWOOOM.

The folder ignited.

Panic erupted.

Ranpo jumped back, but it was too late.

The desk exploded into flame. Someone grabbed a fire extinguisher. The sprinklers kicked on. Papers dissolved into ash.

Every. Last. Proof.

Gone.

Burned.

And when the smoke cleared, the folder lay in blackened tatters.

Ranpo stared at it like it had betrayed him. His face pale. Eyes wide. Silent.

“…No,” he whispered. “No, no, no—someone burned it. That wasn’t an accident.”

Everyone stared at each other.

Kunikida stepped forward, cautious. “Are you saying one of us—?”

“I’m saying someone doesn’t want you to know the truth.”

Later that night, Chuuya found Ranpo alone in the hallway.

Soaked. Tired. Shaking with rage.

He handed him a towel.

Ranpo didn’t take it.

“You knew,” he muttered.

Chuuya didn’t deny it.

Ranpo looked up at him with betrayed eyes. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it wasn’t my choice to make.”

“He’s hurting.”

“I know.”

“You let him walk into the dark. Alone.”

Chuuya flinched.

“…No,” he whispered. “I followed him.”

Ranpo went quiet.

“…Then let me help.”

Meanwhile—deep underground, far away from city lights—Dazai Osamu sat in silence.

Alone.

Watching a cracked monitor flicker in the corner.

He saw the Agency building—courtesy of a hacked camera system he never deleted.

He saw the fire.

He saw Ranpo.

And he saw Chuuya.

He sighed.

“…I should’ve known Ranpo would ruin everything.”

The screen flickered again.

He closed his eyes.

The world believed he was dead.

But someone wanted to make sure he stayed that way.

And now the game had changed.

Chapter Text

The thing about betrayal is—it always starts with silence.
A hand behind your back.
A whisper too soft to hear.
A choice made in a room you were never invited to.

And Dazai Osamu… had made that choice long ago.

But no one knew the whole story.

Not the Armed Detective Agency.
Not Chuuya.
Not even Ranpo, who prided himself on knowing everything.

Because Dazai wasn’t just pretending to be dead.
He was pretending to be a traitor.

It began with Fyodor.

Or rather, with his death.

The news had been a shock. The underground lit up with rumors. Some said it was suicide. Others claimed poison. Some whispered of a double agent. A few believed Dazai himself had done it—after all, if anyone could outwit the Demon of Russia, it would be the Demon of Yokohama.

But what no one knew was this:

Fyodor never died.

And Dazai never killed him.

They’d been working together since the fall of the Decay of Angels. When everything burned, when enemies scattered, they found each other not in hatred—but in understanding.

Two men who knew the weight of genius.
The cost of pain.
And the unbearable loneliness of seeing too far ahead.

So they struck a deal.

Not to destroy the world.
But to fix it.

In their own twisted way.

Chuuya didn’t know.
Not at first.

But he felt it.

The shift. The absence. The wrongness in the air.

He had buried Dazai with his own hands.
He had watched the smoke rise from the crematorium.
He had wept in secret, clenched-fisted in alleyways.
He had screamed at the night for taking the only person who ever saw him.

And then Ranpo told him Dazai was alive.
And then the folder burned.
And then everything went sideways.

But nothing—nothing—hurt more than what came next.

Because one rainy night, as the city drowned in thunder, the Armed Detective Agency received a message.

It wasn’t a letter. It wasn’t a phone call.

It was a broadcast.

Every screen flickered. Every speaker hummed.

And there he was.

Dazai.

Alive.

But not the Dazai they remembered.

He wore black now—no coat, no bandages, just a simple turtleneck and gloves. His hair was slicked back. His eyes—those warm, tired, mischievous eyes—were cold.

“Hello, Yokohama,” he said softly.

Gasps echoed in the Agency office.

Kunikida stood. “What the hell—”

“I imagine this is… surprising,” Dazai continued, voice calm. “I’m alive. As you can see. And before anyone gets too emotional—”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“—yes. I’ve joined Fyodor Dostoevsky. We’re working together now. The decay of your world has begun.”

And then the screen cut to black.

They didn’t believe it.
They couldn’t believe it.

Ranpo was screaming. “NO! He’s bluffing, it’s a lie—it’s a setup—”

Atsushi was shaking. Yosano’s fists were clenched. Kunikida looked like someone had just ripped the world out from under him.

Chuuya didn’t say a word.

He just turned and walked out.

That night, he found Dazai.

He knew where to look. Of course he did.

The rooftop.
The one where they always met.
Where promises had been whispered and broken in equal measure.

Dazai stood at the edge again, hands in his pockets.

Just like before.

Only this time, Chuuya didn’t hesitate.

He stormed forward, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him against the wall.

“You bastard.”

Dazai didn’t flinch.

“Chuuya.”

“Don’t you Chuuya me! What the hell is this?! What are you doing with Fyodor?! After everything?! You lied to me!”

“I didn’t lie,” Dazai said quietly. “I left things out.”

“You let me think you were DEAD!”

Dazai looked away. “It was safer that way.”

“For WHO?!”

Dazai didn’t answer.

So Chuuya punched him.

Hard.

Right in the face.

Dazai stumbled, blood on his lip, but he didn’t fight back. He never did—not with Chuuya.

“You used me,” Chuuya whispered, voice cracking. “You used all of us.”

“I had to.”

“WHY?!”

Silence.

Then:

“…Because if anyone knew what I was really planning, they’d try to stop me.”

The truth spilled like blood on tile.

Dazai hadn’t turned against them.

He had turned against someone else.

A greater threat.

One that neither the ADA nor the Port Mafia even knew about yet.

There were players deeper in the shadows. Old enemies. New weapons. Abilities that bent the rules of life and death.
And Fyodor—unhinged, brilliant Fyodor—had uncovered them.

So Dazai made a deal.

He’d fake his death. Pretend to join Fyodor. Build an alliance.

While secretly planning their destruction from within.

It was the only way to stop what was coming.

“But you didn’t trust us,” Chuuya said. “You didn’t trust me.”

Dazai finally looked at him.

And for the first time in months—maybe years—his mask cracked.

“…I couldn’t.”

Chuuya stared. “Why?”

“Because I knew you’d follow me.”

And then he smiled.

“Because I knew you’d get yourself killed trying to save me.”

They stood there, drenched in rain and memory.

Breathing. Silent.

And then Chuuya, in a rare moment of weakness, pressed his forehead against Dazai’s.

“You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“I know.”

“You better win, Dazai.”

“I don’t lose.”

Meanwhile, back at the ADA, Ranpo was working overtime.

Now that he knew it was all a cover, he was determined to uncover the deeper plot.

But he wasn’t the only one watching.

Because someone had burned the folder.

Someone inside.

And as Ranpo dug deeper, the walls of the Agency itself began to shift.

Trust frayed. Eyes narrowed. Secrets piled like snow.

The real enemy wasn’t Dazai.

It was already inside their walls.

To be continued...

Chapter Text

Two Years Later

Yokohama had changed.

Not in the physical sense—the same buildings, the same shadows, the same sea that seemed to sigh with every wave. But everything else… everything had been ripped apart the day Dazai Osamu betrayed the Agency. Or so it seemed.

In those two years, Chuuya Nakahara had become a ghost of who he once was. No longer the explosive executive of the Port Mafia. He wore white now, the color of those he once called enemies, now teammates. The ADA welcomed him cautiously, uneasily. He hadn’t come for redemption.

He came for revenge.

Revenge for being used. Revenge for the years wasted. Revenge for loving someone who would stab them all in the back and disappear into silence.

But Dazai... Dazai hadn't been idle.

He had been orchestrating something from the depths. Disguises, fake betrayals, convoluted webs only he could untangle. He made sure the Agency, the Mafia, and even Fyodor himself couldn’t interfere. Because the only way to kill a disease like Fyodor... was from the inside.

What he hadn’t expected was for Fyodor to find out.

The Confrontation

The room was silent—unnaturally so. The air held a breath that hadn’t been exhaled. A broken lightbulb swung slowly overhead, flickering dim yellow against the dark.

Fyodor stood at the center. Thin fingers curled around a handgun, the barrel aimed directly at Dazai’s forehead. His expression was unreadable—calm, chilling.

“You planned this from the beginning, didn’t you?” Fyodor’s voice cut through the tension like a wire pulled too tight. “You thought you could outsmart me. You thought hiding behind betrayal and shadows would keep you safe.”

Dazai didn’t move. His face was unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes were alive. No jokes. No smug smiles. Just stillness. Heavy, ancient stillness.

“I did,” Dazai finally said, voice soft. “Because I knew the only way to bring you down... was to become the very monster you feared.”

Fyodor’s finger moved to the trigger. “Then you will die like one.”

Click. The hammer cocked.

And for once, Chuuya wasn’t there.

There was no one to knock the gun away. No one to blur through gravity and stop the bullet. No one to yell, “Dazai, you damn idiot!”

Just silence.

Just inevitability.

But Dazai had already moved.

The Twist

A sudden blur—a flicker of movement as the shadows themselves seemed to rise.

Fyodor staggered.

He looked down.

The knife had sunk deep into his abdomen, warm blood staining his pristine coat. His eyes widened—not in fear, but in shock. His brain, so brilliant, so sure, couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.

Dazai leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. “You never noticed... I was always willing to die. But you? You were always afraid of losing.”

Fyodor’s lips parted, perhaps to curse, perhaps to plead—but nothing came out. Only blood.

He collapsed, limp, gone.

No tricks this time. No wires. No stand-ins. No saves.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky was dead.

Aftermath

Dazai sat back on the cold floor, covered in blood—his and Fyodor’s. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. His hands trembled only slightly.

He didn’t feel relief.

He didn’t feel anything.

Two years of planning. Two years of isolation. Two years of watching Chuuya hate him, watching the Agency suffer, watching everyone turn their backs—all for this.

But still... he was alone.

Ranpo had tried to warn them. He found the plans—blueprints, notes, recordings—but someone had burned the evidence before the truth could be revealed.

Only Chuuya had known, and even then, just the surface of it.

Dazai’s breathing slowed.

Somewhere outside, the city moved on. Cars passed. Lights flickered. But here, in this room where betrayal and redemption had bled together, time stood still.

Back at the Agency

The door to the ADA creaked open. It had been months since Ranpo had spoken of Dazai again. Everyone had assumed he was rambling. They didn’t believe him—couldn’t believe him.

Until now.

“Guys...” Ranpo said, walking in slowly, holding something in his hands. A photo—crumpled, half-burned. A photo of Dazai in a warehouse. The timestamp? From two nights ago.

“Dazai’s alive.”

And somewhere in the room, Chuuya froze.

Chuuya’s Reaction

He stormed out before anyone could stop him. Heart pounding, head spinning. His boots slammed against pavement as he ran—ran faster than he ever had.

He didn’t know where Dazai would be. He didn’t even know if it was true.

But for two years, he’d hated Dazai with every breath.

And yet...

And yet a part of him never stopped hoping.

And if he was alive...

If he had really killed Fyodor...

If everything had been a lie just to protect them all...

Then Chuuya had wasted two years drowning in rage—

—when he should’ve been there.

To be continued...

Chapter Text

“OSAMU DAZAI IS ALIVE,” Ranpo declared, standing triumphantly on top of his desk, holding the burnt photo like it was a sacred artifact. “I. TOLD. YOU. IDIOTS.”

Yosano sighed, arms crossed. “Okay, you were right. Again. Can you get down now?”

“Nope!” Ranpo grinned, practically vibrating with smugness. “I want this moment framed in time. Engraved in stone. Tattooed on your foreheads.”

“Don’t push it,” Kunikida muttered, flipping through a report with tight brows. “He’s alive, but that doesn’t change what he did.”

“He betrayed the Agency, helped Fyodor, and vanished for two years,” Atsushi said quietly. His fists were clenched at his sides. “We almost died... because of him.”

“But he also killed Fyodor,” Kenji offered from the corner, chewing on a piece of grass. “That’s gotta count for something, right?”

“It doesn’t erase what he did,” Kunikida snapped, slamming the folder shut. “We trusted him.”

There was a moment of silence.

Even now, no one could really say how they felt. It was like getting punched in the chest and kissed on the forehead at the same time. Dazai had lied, betrayed them, disappeared.

And yet...

He’d also saved them.

Again.

ADA Launches Operation: Find Dazai

“Whether we hate him or not,” Fukuzawa finally spoke, quiet but firm, “he’s out there. With everything he knows... we have no choice. We investigate. We find him.”

Atsushi nodded slowly, determination burning in his eyes. “And if we do?”

Fukuzawa looked away. “Then we decide what to do with him.”

“Good luck catching him,” Ranpo hummed, pulling out a candy lollipop and slapping it in his mouth. “He’s always five steps ahead. Which means we’re gonna need a little help~”

“You’re not seriously suggesting—”

“Yup,” Ranpo said, grinning. “Let’s bring in the Mafia.”

Meanwhile: Dazai on the Run

Dazai tugged the hood of his coat up as he stepped through a crowd in the slums of Yokohama, slipping between shadows like smoke.

Every move he made was tracked. Every hideout he had was compromised. He was hunted now—not by enemies, but by the people he once called his family.

The ADA.

They were getting close. Too close.

Ranpo had definitely figured it out, which meant time was running out.

But Dazai didn’t run because he was guilty. No, he ran because he wasn’t done yet.

There were still players on the board. Still pieces of Fyodor’s old network active. Still threats hidden in the dark.

If the ADA caught him now—if they brought him in before it was over—everything would collapse.

Back at the ADA HQ

“His last known location was here,” Kunikida said, pointing to a map riddled with pins and red strings.

“And before that,” Atsushi added, “someone spotted him outside an old Lupin’s location.”

“That’s the second time he’s been seen near Lupin’s,” Yosano noted, raising a brow. “Coincidence?”

“No such thing,” Ranpo said, smug as ever, leaning back in his chair. “He’s leaving breadcrumbs.”

“Why?” Chuuya finally spoke, voice colder than ice. He leaned in against the wall, arms crossed, hat shadowing his eyes. “If he didn’t want to be found, we wouldn’t even have a trail. So why now?”

Ranpo’s grin dropped for a second.

“Because he wants you to find him.”

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed. “He’s playing with me.”

“No,” Ranpo said softly. “He’s asking for your help.”

Dazai sat alone in an abandoned room—dusty, full of cobwebs and memories.

He opened a black notebook, flipping through hand-drawn maps, coded messages, a list of names. At the bottom of one page, scribbled in almost childlike handwriting, was a single line:

"If they hate me, good. It means they’re safe."

And just below it:

"But if Chuuya finds me first… I won’t run."

Chapter Text

Two days before the mission officially began.

It was midnight in Yokohama, fog rolling in like silk over the cracked pavement. Somewhere in the east docks district, a man leaned against the rusting hull of an old cargo ship, his face hidden by a long coat and the shadows of his wide hood.

Ranpo appeared beside him without a sound, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, mouth chewing lazily on a candy stick.

“I knew you’d be here,” Ranpo said, not even looking at him yet. “You always liked dramatic meeting spots.”

Dazai didn’t look up. “You got better at finding people.”

“You got worse at hiding,” Ranpo replied casually, turning to face him fully. “Or maybe you wanted to be found.”

There was a pause.

And then Dazai chuckled, low and quiet.

“...Maybe,” he murmured. His voice was familiar—so familiar—but Ranpo’s ears pricked at something strange. Just the tiniest slip in syllables. A softened vowel. A hard consonant.

A Russian accent.

“...You sound different,” Ranpo said, watching him carefully.

“Do I?” Dazai tilted his head just slightly, and his eyes caught the glow of the moon. “I suppose spending time around Fyodor rubs off.”

Ranpo's smirk faltered. “You say that like he was your roommate, not your enemy.”

“He was both,” Dazai replied. “A threat… and a mirror.”

Ranpo didn’t answer that. The silence stretched between them.

Then finally, “You’re still alive. And no one else knows but me.”

Dazai gave the ghost of a smile. “And yet, here you are. Talking to me like old friends.”

“I wouldn’t say friends.” Ranpo tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “More like... detectives with very conflicting ethics.”

Dazai laughed again. “Touché.”

Flash Forward: ADA x Mafia Alliance

Current day.

The briefing room was filled with tension so thick it could crush a brick wall.

Chuuya stood with arms crossed, flanked by Akutagawa and Higuchi. Atsushi was across from him, fists clenched at his sides, while Kunikida and Yosano sat stiffly nearby. Kenji offered everyone tea like a nervous little peacekeeper.

Fukuzawa stood tall beside Mori. Yes, Mori. The Agency and Mafia side-by-side.

“A temporary alliance,” Fukuzawa began, “to locate Osamu Dazai.”

“Temporary,” Chuuya repeated dryly. “Because if I find him first, he’s not getting a pat on the head.”

“I hope not,” Kunikida muttered under his breath. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

Ranpo was sitting on the edge of the desk, spinning a pen around his fingers. His eyes twitched toward the window, distant.

He’d already seen Dazai. He’d already talked to him. But he couldn’t tell the others yet—not until he was sure Dazai’s plan wasn’t about to explode in everyone’s faces.

Back at the Docks – Two Days Ago (continued)

Ranpo leaned closer, looking into Dazai’s eyes, sharp as knives under sleepy lashes.

“You’re faking everything again,” he said. “Even your betrayal.”

Dazai didn’t answer.

“Why?” Ranpo pressed. “Why not just ask us to help?”

“Because none of you would’ve been safe,” Dazai replied, a little more bitterly than expected. “Fyodor’s web goes deeper than even I thought. If any of you were close to me, you’d be targets. That’s why I had to disappear. That’s why Chuuya—”

He cut himself off.

Ranpo arched a brow. “So you do still care about him.”

Dazai’s silence was heavy.

“I care about all of you,” he finally said, voice tight and quiet. “That’s the problem.”

Back in the Present: Chuuya Starts to Suspect

Chuuya was pacing like a caged lion in the ADA briefing room. “He killed Fyodor. We have confirmation. So if he was really working with the guy, why kill him?”

“Maybe things went south,” Akutagawa suggested.

“Maybe it was just survival,” Atsushi added.

“Maybe,” Chuuya growled, “he’s not as much of a traitor as we think.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Excuse me?” Kunikida said, jaw clenched.

Chuuya huffed and looked away. “I know Dazai. Better than most. If he really wanted to destroy the ADA, we wouldn’t even be alive right now.”

Atsushi frowned. “...Do you think there’s more to it?”

“I think,” Chuuya said slowly, “there’s something we’re missing.”

Ranpo just smirked from the corner. Oh, you’re all so close.

Later that night, Ranpo sat alone in his office, the lights dimmed and the rain pattering softly on the windows.

He pulled a black notebook from his coat—one he’d lifted from Dazai during their secret meeting.

Inside, it was full of messy handwriting, code symbols, and unfinished thoughts. But there was one sentence written in plain ink, over and over again.

“Protect them, even if they hate me.”

And on the final page, scribbled like a whispered prayer:

“Chuuya… I’m sorry.”

Ranpo closed the notebook and sighed, the weight of the truth starting to crush even him.

Chapter Text

The rain from the night before still clung to the pavement in little puddles, sunlight just beginning to filter through the Yokohama skyline. In a rare and chaotic twist of fate, the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia were not just coexisting—they were sitting together, drinking bitter vending machine coffee like coworkers who hated their jobs but knew they had to get it done.

Ranpo sat cross-legged on top of a desk, biting into a donut with absolutely no urgency. Across from him, Chuuya was leaning against the wall with crossed arms and zero patience.

“Well?” Chuuya asked, glaring at Ranpo like he wanted to strangle him. “You dragged us into this big ‘team-up’ and gave us nothing yesterday. You said we'd start finding answers today.”

Ranpo grinned, powdered sugar on his lips. “And we are. I left a little trail for our mystery man.”

“Dazai?” Atsushi perked up. “You knew where he was again?”

Ranpo raised a finger. “Knew. Past tense. I figured he wouldn’t stay in one place too long, but I left a bug in the warehouse he was using. I listened to it all night.”

Kunikida nearly choked on his drink. “You did what?!”

“I knew we couldn’t act on it yesterday,” Ranpo shrugged. “He would’ve bolted. But now? He’s gone, and he left stuff behind. Notes. Files. A burner phone. Enough to start building the real picture.”

They all froze.

“You mean…” Yosano leaned forward. “He wants us to find him.”

“He wants us to know something,” Ranpo confirmed. “The question is—what?”

Scene Change: Dazai’s Temporary Hideout, Morning

The old building was crumbling on the outside, but inside it was weirdly clean—like someone had been living there, hiding in plain sight. The Mafia and ADA squad rolled in together like a very weird family reunion.

Atsushi stepped cautiously over a broken floorboard and found a thin stack of papers tucked under a loose tile. “Guys… I got something.”

“Same here,” Higuchi called from the other side. “There’s photos taped to the back of this closet. Surveillance shots. Blueprints. Fyodor’s base of operations.”

“Blueprints of what, though?” Kenji asked, tilting his head.

“Looks like…an underground bunker,” Kunikida muttered, scanning it quickly. “Far out past the port. Probably where he was storing files—and people.”

“People?” Chuuya growled. “You think there were prisoners?”

“I don’t think,” Ranpo said suddenly, eyes narrowed. “I know.”

They turned to him.

“He wasn’t just fighting Fyodor,” Ranpo said, tapping the side of his temple. “He was infiltrating everything. Mimicking him. Replacing him in the dark. Fyodor’s death wasn’t just survival—it was a power shift. And Dazai's been covering his tracks while controlling the enemy’s systems.”

“That doesn’t explain why he left us behind!” Chuuya shouted, his voice cracking a little at the edges. “Why not just tell me? Or you? Or anyone?!”

Ranpo didn’t answer right away. He just sighed and held out a piece of paper—an old, water-damaged photo with scribbled notes on the back.

Chuuya took it with trembling hands.

It was a photo of the ADA. All of them. Standing in front of the building, arms around each other, smiling.

Behind it were four words in Dazai’s messy handwriting:

“Protect them from me.”

Chuuya’s breath caught.

Ranpo spoke gently this time. “He didn’t want anyone close enough to get caught in the crossfire. And that includes you, Chuuya.”

Meanwhile: Somewhere Else in Yokohama

Dazai stood in the shadows of an alleyway, his coat whipping slightly in the morning breeze. A small bandage wrapped around his hand from where he'd stabbed Fyodor, but otherwise he looked the same as always. Calm. Collected. Tired.

He slipped a small USB into a public locker, locking it and taping a note to the inside:

To Ranpo. You'll know what to do.

As he stepped out into the street, he caught a glimpse of a street mirror and paused.

His reflection stared back at him… and he almost didn’t recognize the man there.

His hair had grown a little longer. There were subtle changes—sharper angles in his face, the faintest echo of Fyodor’s expression. His voice still sometimes trailed into Russian syllables if he wasn’t careful.

He looked like a ghost of a man he had once killed.

Was that what he'd become?

Back at the ADA Headquarters

Ranpo was pinning photos and papers up on a whiteboard like some crazy conspiracy guy. Red string. Notes. Pins. The whole nine yards.

Chuuya paced like a madman, Akutagawa and Atsushi occasionally shouting over each other, and Kenji was giving everyone stress fruit.

“Okay,” Ranpo said finally, clapping his hands. “Here’s what we know:

Dazai was never actually Fyodor’s ally. He faked it.

He did kill Fyodor—for real—but only after using him to find the location of whatever Fyodor was planning next.

Dazai isolated himself to keep us safe, knowing Fyodor’s influence would’ve endangered everyone around him.

He still cares. Clearly. He left behind enough evidence to make sure we could follow the trail.”

“But we don’t know his endgame,” Kunikida said, flipping through the files. “We still don’t know why.”

“We’re about to,” Ranpo grinned.

“Why?” Atsushi blinked.

“Because,” Ranpo pulled out his phone, holding up a GPS map. “I just got a ping. He left a USB drive in a train station locker.”

Everyone collectively stood up.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Chuuya snapped, already halfway to the door. “Let’s move.”

Chapter Text

The next morning rolled in with a strange quiet over Yokohama.

Too quiet.

Even the birds seemed to know something was wrong, because not one dared to chirp as the Agency and Port Mafia met again — this time not with bullets or blood, but files, scrawled notes, and hushed words.

Atsushi paced the floor, biting the edge of his thumb. “It’s been two years… Two whole years, and now we’re working with the Mafia to find him.”

Chuuya didn’t look up from the papers he was scanning, posture stiff like a coiled spring. “Trust me, brat. I’m not exactly doing this for fun. But if that bastard’s alive, I’m gonna find him. Then I’ll kill him. Then I’ll ask questions.”

“Careful,” Yosano muttered, her scalpel twirling between her fingers. “You might find out you still care.”

Ranpo stood nearby, arms crossed, wearing the smuggest expression in Japan. “Told you guys. Told all of you. But nooo, Ranpo, Dazai’s dead! Ranpo, that’s impossible! Ranpo, he would never betray the Agency!” He grinned like a kid on his birthday. “Who's laughing now? Me.”

“No one’s laughing,” Kunikida muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then something strange happened. Just as everyone was drowning in old reports and surveillance footage, Gin entered — silent as always — and placed a small, silver USB drive on the table.

“We found this,” she said. “In an abandoned safehouse near the docks. Hidden under floorboards. Triple encrypted. Mori thinks it’s from Dazai.”

“Think?” Chuuya echoed, standing so fast his chair screeched. “You think?”

“It’s his,” Ranpo said before anyone else could speak. His voice was unusually serious. “It’s been sitting there since before the betrayal even happened.”

Silence dropped over the room.

Yosano connected the USB to the projector.

“Let’s see what the bastard left behind.”

The screen flickered to life.

First: nothing but static. Then a darkened video, grainy and pixelated — Dazai’s face appeared.

It was unmistakably him, but... different.

His hair was longer, swept slightly back, and his bandages had been redone with surgical precision. His posture was slouched, as usual, but the expression on his face wasn’t playful — it was exhausted. Sharp.

A cigarette burned between his fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice was the same… but there was a slight drawl to it.

Russian.

“Hello, my dear friends,” he said with a tired smile. “And enemies. And to you, Ranpo — I know you found this first.”

Ranpo tilted his head. “He knows me too well. It’s annoying.”

The video continued.

“If you’re watching this, then congratulations. You’re smarter than most, or very persistent. Either way, I’m impressed. Which, you know, is rare.”

Chuuya’s jaw clenched so hard it clicked.

“I faked my death because I had to,” Dazai said. “The world wasn’t ready for what Fyodor and I were planning — and neither were you. I needed to vanish. And in doing so, protect all of you.”

A pause. He flicked ash off-screen.

“But if I’m honest, part of me did it to escape. Being me is… complicated. You all know that. The lines between good and evil don’t exist to me. They never have. And that made me dangerous.”

He looked up, straight into the camera.

“So I leaned into it.”

Chuuya swallowed hard. His fists were shaking.

“But then Fyodor got greedy. He wanted more. Power. Control. And when I started working against him, he noticed.”

There was a cut — static again. Then the feed returned.

“By now, you’ve likely realized I’m not the villain. Not entirely. But I had to become one to keep you safe. To make sure the pieces moved how I needed them to.”

Behind him, diagrams were pinned to a wall. Photos. Maps. Strings of red yarn.

He continued.

“I needed you all to think I’d gone rogue. I needed Chuuya to hate me. Because if anyone believed I had a heart in this, it could’ve cost lives.”

The room was dead silent.

Even Mori, who had been leaning lazily against a wall, had straightened up. “That little devil…”

Dazai smirked slightly in the video. “Hi, Mori. Surprised?”

More footage.

Timestamps. Surveillance data. Secret conversations between Fyodor and world leaders. Documents proving corruption so high up it made even Kunikida pale.

This wasn’t just Dazai’s plan.

It was a conspiracy. A war.

He had infiltrated Fyodor’s plan from the inside — at the cost of everything: his identity, his relationships, his entire life.

A few moments later, a second file began.

It was an audio log.

Date: Three weeks before Fyodor’s death.

Dazai’s voice, recorded: “He doesn’t suspect me yet. But he’s close. If anything happens, I left the trigger in the hands of Gin. She’ll know when the time is right.”

Gin blinked. “I didn’t…”

Ranpo smiled. “Not yet. But you will.”

The screen flickered one last time, and Dazai’s face returned.

“I know what I’ve done is unforgivable. I know I’ve hurt all of you. But if you’re still listening — I hope it means you understand. I couldn’t tell you everything. It would’ve ruined the mission.”

He leaned forward, closer to the lens.

“But you’ll need to finish what I started. Fyodor wasn’t the only threat. There’s another — worse than him. And they’re already watching.”

Static again.

Then the screen went black.

For a moment, no one said anything.

Then Mori turned slowly to Ranpo. “Well… I’ll admit. That was impressive.”

Chuuya was still staring at the screen like he’d been shot. “He… he did all that? Alone?”

Ranpo nodded. “Dazai never does anything halfway. He knew you’d find this. He wanted you to. He just didn’t want anyone to get in his way.”

“Then what now?” Atsushi asked. “Do we… forgive him?”

“I think,” Kunikida said slowly, “we find him.”

“And when we do?” Chuuya muttered.

Ranpo gave a grin. “Then we decide if we’re punching him in the face or thanking him.”

Chuuya cracked his knuckles. “I vote for both.”

Chapter Text

The air was thick in the Agency’s briefing room. The USB still sat in the port, warm from use, humming with data. Ranpo’s fingers flew over the keyboard, faster than humanly possible — only stopping for the occasional dramatic sip of his Ramune.

“I’m in,” he muttered.

Chuuya leaned over his shoulder, arms crossed. “Took you long enough, genius.”

“You try decrypting thirty-six firewalls wrapped in a paradoxical encryption loop coded by someone with the brain of a war god and the emotional intelligence of a used teabag.”

“...So you mean Dazai,” Kunikida said flatly.

“Exactly.”

Then: Ping.

Ranpo’s eyes lit up.

“There it is. Final file. Auto-deleted if it wasn’t accessed in the exact sequence. Inside it? Coordinates.”

“Coordinates to what?” Atsushi asked.

“Not a what,” Ranpo said. “A who.”

A string of numbers appeared on the screen, followed by a small, blinking map.

Location: Kamchatka Peninsula, Eastern Russia.

Gin raised a brow. “...He’s in Russia? Still?”

“Remote. Cold. Isolated. And surrounded by volcanic terrain,” Mori added. “Classic Dazai. Of course he’d pick the most annoyingly impossible place to hide in.”

Chuuya stared at the blinking red dot. “Let’s go get him.”

“Wait,” Yosano said, eyes narrowing. “It won’t be that simple. He left this in the USB knowing we’d find it. He’s trying to lead us somewhere. Maybe to him. Maybe to something else.”

“Or someone,” Kunikida added. “He mentioned a bigger threat. Maybe this is where it starts.”

“Or ends,” Chuuya said, cracking his neck. “Either way, I’m done waiting.”

Ranpo stood and dramatically shoved the chair back with his hip. “I’m flying first class. I’m not going to Russia in economy with you gremlins.”

“I will sedate you,” Yosano warned.

Ranpo grinned. “Kinky.”

A collective groan followed.

48 hours later...

A helicopter tore through the skies over Russia, its blades slicing the wind like knives. Below, snow-blanketed cliffs stretched for miles, wild and silent.

Inside, the gang was squished together in tactical gear. Chuuya was already regretting agreeing to share a ride with the Agency, especially because Atsushi kept asking if there would be polar bears.

“Honestly, I hope there are,” Chuuya muttered. “Maybe they’ll eat me so I don’t have to deal with Dazai again.”

Kunikida checked his gear, eyes scanning the terrain. “We’re close. Ranpo, what does the location tracker say?”

Ranpo tapped the monitor. “Right beneath us. There’s a bunker built into the mountainside. Hidden heat signatures, cloaking tech. He’s not just living here. He’s hiding something big.”

The chopper landed hard on a frozen plateau. The wind screamed around them, flurries stabbing at their faces.

The crew jumped out — ADA and Mafia, shoulder to shoulder, stomping through the snow like they were about to break into Dazai’s evil lair. (Honestly? They kinda were.)

Gin led the way, her steps silent despite the snow.

Then — hidden beneath a small rock overhang — she found it: a steel door, frost-covered and sealed with a digital lock.

“Let me,” Ranpo said, brushing snow off the control panel. “Five minutes.”

“Three,” Chuuya warned.

Ranpo smirked. “Please. I cracked this the moment I saw it.”

Click.

The door hissed and groaned open.

And then?

Nothing.

Just silence.

A long, cold hallway stretched out ahead of them, lit only by pale, flickering overheads. The kind of place that screamed I have secrets.

They walked in slowly, cautiously, weapons drawn.

Then a voice echoed through the chamber.

“You finally made it.”

Everyone froze.

The lights buzzed to life, one by one — revealing a single room at the end of the hallway.

And in that room—

There he was.

Osamu Dazai.

Standing in the center, arms tucked in his long coat, hair longer and wilder than before. His face was more hollow, dark shadows under his eyes, but that lazy, smug smile?

Unchanged.

Except now...

There was a faint accent in his voice. Russian. Subtle. Barely there.

“About time,” Dazai said, letting his arms drop to his sides. “I was starting to think you all didn’t love me anymore.”

Chuuya’s fists clenched. “You’re alive.”

Dazai raised a brow. “Obviously.”

“You traitor! You let me think— You let all of us think—”

“I had to,” Dazai said quietly.

The room fell silent.

Even Mori had nothing to say.

Because standing in front of them wasn’t a criminal.

Or a mastermind.

Or even a member of the Mafia or ADA.

He was a ghost.

Alive.

But still haunting them

Chapter Text

The room went silent for a beat.

Then—

BAM.

Chuuya didn’t wait.

His coat flared behind him as he launched forward, feet cracking into the steel floor, gravity-enhanced strength sending a shockwave through the bunker. He didn’t care about logic or plans or what the hell Dazai was about to say.

All he knew was: Dazai left. Dazai lied. Dazai betrayed them.

And now he was standing there like nothing happened.

“You bastard!” Chuuya roared, his fist igniting with red energy. “You think you can just show your face like it’s all good?!”

But before the punch landed—

Dazai moved.

It wasn’t even dramatic. No exaggerated motion. Just… quick.

Clean.

Effortless.

A blur of a sidestep, a twist, and in the next second Chuuya’s arm was behind his back, his entire body slammed against the cold wall of the bunker.

“Nice to see you too,” Dazai murmured, his voice like ice. “Still leading with your emotions, I see.”

Chuuya hissed. “Let. Go. Of. Me.”

“You would’ve broken your wrist if I hadn’t stopped that punch. You’re welcome.”

The others were stunned into stillness. Even Mori, even Kunikida, even Yosano — none of them had seen Dazai move like that before. Faster. Stronger. Sharper.

“What the hell did Fyodor do to you…” Atsushi whispered, clutching the hilt of his transformation mid-shift.

Dazai slowly released Chuuya, letting him drop to the floor with a grunt. His face was unreadable. No smile. No teasing. Just… empty.

Ranpo narrowed his eyes, studying him like a puzzle.

“Your voice,” he said. “It’s changed.”

“A little frostbite in my tone, perhaps,” Dazai replied dryly. “Two years in Russia will do that to a man.”

“You’re different,” Kunikida muttered. “Colder.”

“Efficient,” Dazai corrected. “And alive. Which none of you would be if you’d known what I was really doing.”

Chuuya stood up and wiped blood from his lip. “You think that excuses any of it? You let me grieve you. You let me think you died.”

“You were safer grieving a corpse than chasing a ghost.” Dazai’s voice cracked—just a hairline fracture, a flicker in his stone-cold mask. “If anyone found out the truth too soon… Fyodor would’ve erased the entire city.”

“And you?” Chuuya snapped. “You would've let him?”

“I led him straight into the trap,” Dazai said. “Everything he touched was feeding back to me. All the data. The plans. The network. I pretended to betray the Agency, the Mafia — you — just long enough to dismantle him from the inside.”

“Then why not come back after he died?” Yosano demanded.

Dazai hesitated.

And for a second — a second — they all saw it.

The exhaustion.

The weight.

The unbearable burden he’d carried.

“I didn’t know if I was still someone worth coming back as,” he said softly.

Ranpo blinked. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Everyone turned.

Ranpo stepped forward, hands on his hips. “You’re not Dazai because of how many jokes you crack or how many plans you cook up. You’re Dazai because you care. In that messed-up, annoying, impossible-to-understand way, you care. That guy’s still in there. I saw it the second you dodged Chuuya’s punch without breaking his wrist.”

Dazai didn’t speak.

Just stared at the floor.

And then…

A sigh.

That classic Dazai sigh.

Low. Tired. Full of regret.

“I’m not who I used to be,” he murmured. “But I think… I want to remember how to be him again.”

Chuuya looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

Because that — that broken little line of honesty — was more painful than anything else Dazai could’ve said.

He crossed the room, and this time when he stood face to face with Dazai, he didn’t punch him.

He just said, “You better start trying. Fast.”

Dazai looked up.

And for the first time in two years—

He smiled.

Barely.

But it was real.

Chapter Text

The moment the faint flicker of a smile disappeared from Dazai’s face, the room grew colder—almost literally.

No one said a word. Even Chuuya, who was usually fiery and quick to react, swallowed down his confusion. The old familiar spark was gone, replaced by a mask of calculated calm, sharp as broken glass.

Dazai’s eyes scanned the room, dark and unreadable. His voice, when it came, was flat—almost detached.

“Enough sentimentality,” he said, voice low and steady. “If you want proof, I have it. Follow me.”

The words hit like an order, no trace of hesitation. Everyone exchanged uneasy glances but knew better than to argue. The man they had chased, cursed, and mourned for two years was standing right in front of them—and now he was ready to reveal the depths of his secret.

Ranpo was the first to move, his detective instincts flaring. “Lead the way.”

The group followed Dazai through the dim corridors of their base, footsteps echoing in the silence. Even the usually chatty Atsushi stayed quiet, eyes narrowing as he tried to read the emotionless man beside him.

The air was thick with tension—expectation mixed with the sting of betrayal.

Dazai stopped at a heavy steel door, punched in a code on the keypad, and it slid open with a low hiss. The room beyond was a small, cold chamber illuminated by pale fluorescent lights, walls lined with screens and rows of encrypted drives and files—a command center buried deep underground.

“This is where I’ve been working in secret,” Dazai said, voice as crisp as winter frost. “Everything you thought you knew about my absence—my ‘betrayal’—was a carefully constructed illusion.”

He turned to face them, expression unreadable. “I dismantled Fyodor’s operation piece by piece, but I needed to stay invisible. To do that, I had to become a ghost—a criminal, a target, a traitor.”

Kunikida stepped forward, eyes sharp. “Show us everything.”

Without hesitation, Dazai tapped a screen. Files began to scroll rapidly—encrypted emails between Fyodor and his operatives, blueprints for weapons hidden in the city’s infrastructure, secret financial transactions that linked Fyodor to international crime syndicates.

The room went silent again, eyes glued to the flood of data.

Mori, usually composed, took a sharp breath. “This… this is bigger than we imagined.”

Yosano’s brow furrowed. “If Fyodor had this much reach, it’s a miracle we survived.”

Dazai’s voice cut through the awe. “And it’s why I had to let the Agency and Mafia believe I was gone. Fyodor’s network was too dangerous. If I had tried to fight him openly, he would have destroyed everything—us, the city, everyone we care about.”

Ranpo’s eyes darted over the evidence, mind racing. “But how? How did you manage this without anyone noticing?”

A ghost of that old grin flickered for a heartbeat. “Patience, observation, and the perfect mask. The more I vanished, the deeper I could infiltrate Fyodor’s ranks. No one suspected the traitor was right under their noses.”

Chuuya clenched his fists, anger and confusion warring on his face. “So, you weren’t just running away.”

“No,” Dazai said flatly. “I was running towards the enemy.”

Atsushi stepped closer. “And now? What happens to the Mafia? To the Agency?”

“Now,” Dazai said, turning back to the screen, “we finish what we started. Fyodor’s empire is crippled, but not destroyed. His remnants are scattered, hiding in the cracks. We need to root them out. Together.”

Kunikida’s jaw tightened. “After all you’ve done, why should we trust you?”

Dazai’s eyes met his, cold and unwavering. “Because I’m the only one who knows the whole plan. I’m the only one who can stop what’s left. And if I fail…” He let the sentence hang in the air, heavy as a guillotine’s blade.

Silence.

Mori finally spoke, voice low and serious. “Then we follow your lead.”

Chuuya’s eyes searched Dazai’s face, searching for that spark of the friend he once knew. The cold expression didn’t falter, but something flickered deep within—an unspoken promise.

“Let’s move,” Chuuya said, voice rough but determined.

As the group dispersed to prepare, Ranpo lingered behind Dazai, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“You said your voice changed because of Russia,” Ranpo mused aloud, “but I think you’ve changed more than that. You’ve hardened.”

Dazai shrugged, almost casually. “Hardening is necessary. Emotions cloud judgment. And right now, survival is the priority.”

Ranpo smirked. “Always so pragmatic. But don’t forget—sometimes, it’s the cracks in the armor that save us.”

Dazai glanced at him, a flicker of something—maybe gratitude—passing through his unreadable gaze.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But for now, I need to keep moving.”

And with that, Dazai walked out of the chamber, leaving the cold behind but carrying the weight of countless secrets with every step.

Chapter Text

The cold precision in Dazai’s expression faltered for the first time since they entered the underground chamber. A subtle shift in the air—a vibration beneath their feet barely noticeable, yet unmistakably ominous—snagged his attention. His senses, honed by years of dodging death, flared instantly.

Earthquake.

Not just any quake. One with the same telltale tremors as the catastrophic one from 2024—the one that had scarred the city and nearly shredded the fragile peace they were fighting to protect.

Dazai didn’t hesitate. He barked the order sharp as a whip.

“Everyone, to the helicopter. Now.”

The group scrambled, adrenaline snapping through their veins. The underground chamber doors slammed open as they burst into the cold night air, the city skyline stretched out beneath them—a city unaware of the approaching terror.

Dazai’s eyes scanned frantically, counting heads. Kunikida, Ranpo, Mori, Yosano, Atsushi—all there.

Chuuya was already halfway to the helicopter, the fire in his eyes sharp despite the urgency.

But then, something snagged at Dazai’s gut.

Kyouka.

She wasn’t with them.

Not in the helicopter.

Not anywhere near.

Instead, there she was—frozen, standing alone a few meters away, eyes wide, face pale, confusion writ plain across her features.

Dazai’s heartbeat skipped. “Kyouka!” His voice cut through the mounting rumble of the earth like a lifeline.

The tremors escalated suddenly, a deafening roar as concrete groaned and glass shattered.

The world tilted violently beneath them.

“Get to the helicopter!” Dazai shouted, but his voice was half-lost in the chaos.

His eyes never left Kyouka’s.

The ground cracked near her feet, a jagged scar splitting the asphalt wide open. She stumbled, terror finally breaking through her confusion.

Without thinking, Dazai launched himself forward.

“Hold on!” he called, reaching out just in time to catch her before she fell.

His grip was tight but gentle, steadying her amidst the shaking earth.

The city around them seemed to shudder in protest, buildings swaying like reeds in a storm.

Behind them, the rest of the team rushed toward the helicopter, faces masks of determination mixed with dread.

Dazai pulled Kyouka closer, shielding her body as the tremors rocked the ground beneath them.

His voice was low, urgent.

“Stay close to me.”

She nodded, swallowing her fear as she clung to the man who—despite everything—still felt like the anchor in this swirling madness.

The helicopter’s blades began to spin, a shrill whine cutting through the quake’s roar.

“Now!” Dazai ordered.

As the chopper lifted, the ground below convulsed violently, a building nearby crumbling with a thunderous crash that shook the very air.

Dazai’s eyes flicked to Kyouka’s, and in that glance, a silent promise passed between them:

No matter the chaos, no matter

Chapter Text

The ground beneath them still groaned and cracked, threatening to swallow them whole as the earthquake tore through the city like an angry beast.

Dazai’s grip on Kyouka tightened as they stumbled toward the edge of the cracked pavement. His eyes scanned frantically, searching for a way out—a lifeline.

From above, Chuuya’s voice cut through the chaos, steady and commanding despite the panic that twisted in the air.

“Dazai! Kyouka! Grab the rope!”

Ranpo and Atsushi appeared at the edge of the rubble, their hands gripping a thick, sturdy rope swinging down toward them like a beacon of hope.

Kyouka’s eyes were wide with fear, her breath coming in short gasps, but she clung to Dazai without hesitation.

Dazai nodded once and reached out, his fingers closing around the rough fibers of the rope.

With a grunt, he pulled himself and Kyouka up, muscles straining against the shaking earth.

Chuuya’s steady hands grabbed Kyouka first, pulling her up onto solid ground.

One by one, the rest followed—Dazai last, his usual smirk nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a grim mask of exhaustion and something darker.

The team stood huddled together, the helicopter’s blades whipping the dust and debris around them like a storm.

The air was thick with tension, but what really froze them all was the look on each other’s faces.

Terror.

Pure, unfiltered terror.

Because this quake wasn’t natural.

They all knew it.

It was a warning.

And deep down, they all feared what was coming next.

Chuuya’s jaw clenched, eyes blazing with the fierce protectiveness that had never left him.

Kunikida’s brows furrowed in determination, but even he looked shaken.

Ranpo’s usually sharp gaze was clouded with worry, a rare sight that sent ripples through the group.

Yosano whispered a prayer under her breath, hands trembling ever so slightly.

And Dazai... Dazai stood silently, his eyes distant, hiding something none of them dared to ask about.

Kyouka, still shaky, glanced around at the faces she’d come to trust, the family she’d found amidst the chaos.

None of them spoke, but the weight of that silence pressed down like the aftershocks beneath their feet.

This was only the beginning.

And whatever plan Dazai had—whatever storm they thought they were weathering—it was about to become a hurricane.

Chapter Text

The flight back to the ADA base was silent—too silent.

The thrum of the helicopter blades above them sounded like a clock ticking down to judgment day.

Dazai sat across from the others, wrists cuffed in front of him with specially reinforced material Yosano insisted on, “just in case he tried anything funny.” His legs were crossed casually, like he was waiting for afternoon tea. But his eyes… those eyes weren’t playing. Cold, unreadable, emotionless.

Like he’d been carved from marble.

Chuuya sat beside him, eyes flicking between the cuffs and Dazai’s face with an expression that could kill if stares were bullets. His fingers were twitching at his sides. Not because he was going to attack—no, it was worse. He wanted to believe this was all part of Dazai’s “plan.”

But damn it, after two years of betrayal and radio silence?

He didn’t know anymore.

When they landed, the ADA didn’t say a word. Atsushi kept throwing glances at Dazai like he was looking at a ghost. Kunikida had his clipboard hugged tight to his chest, rage simmering beneath his skin. Even Kenji wasn’t smiling.

Only Ranpo seemed smug, munching on his lollipop like he had known the entire time. Because he had.

And he was gonna make sure everyone knew it.

10 minutes later: ADA HQ, Underground Interrogation Room

The lights flickered on with a heavy hum, illuminating the cold metal table in the center of the room. Dazai sat at one end, still cuffed, the fluorescent lighting casting shadows over his too-calm features.

Across from him, Kunikida stood with arms crossed, Ranpo lounging against the wall beside him, and Yosano, clipboard in hand, sat in the corner—silent, surgical, waiting.

And then came the one everyone had been dreading.

Chuuya walked in, shutting the door behind him. The click of the lock echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Dazai didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Well?” Chuuya snapped, slamming his hands onto the table. “Say something. ANYTHING.”

Dazai tilted his head, his voice as smooth and cold as a winter wind. “About what?”

Chuuya gritted his teeth. “You disappeared for two years. You let everyone believe you betrayed us. You worked with Fyodor—FYODOR. You left me. You left all of us. And now you want to pretend like it’s just another Tuesday?!”

Dazai’s expression didn’t change. “I had to.”

“That’s not a real answer!” Chuuya’s voice cracked, raw with fury—and pain.

Ranpo stepped forward, tapping the USB drive that was now in the room’s center. “We already saw your plan, Dazai. You should’ve just told us from the start. Instead, you made yourself the enemy.”

“Because if I hadn’t,” Dazai murmured, “you all would’ve died.”

Silence fell.

No one moved. Not even Chuuya.

Dazai sighed, leaning back in his chair like this wasn’t the tensest moment of his life. “Fyodor was planning something bigger than any of you realized. The only way I could beat him was by pretending I had joined him. Gaining his trust. Getting close.”

“And the Agency?” Kunikida asked tightly. “Were we just… collateral?”

“You were bait,” Dazai said, calm as ice. “The more he believed I didn’t care about you, the more he let his guard down.”

“And all the people who got hurt in the process?” Yosano spoke now, her voice low. Dangerous. “You think that’s justifiable?”

Dazai’s eyes flicked toward her for just a second. “I’m not justifying anything. I’m telling you how I won.”

Ranpo chuckled, dark and amused. “Not gonna lie, the USB drive was wild. The fake double betrayal, the planted files, the coded messages… classic you. But you really left us in the dark, huh?”

Dazai’s lips twitched just slightly. “Had to. If even one of you knew too much, Fyodor would’ve found out. He had eyes everywhere. And before you ask, yes—even in the ADA.”

Chuuya sucked in a breath. “So… who?”

Dazai’s smile faded. “I’m not sure. But I was close to finding out when everything… collapsed.”

Ranpo exchanged a glance with Kunikida. “So what now?” he asked. “You gonna tell us the rest?”

“I will,” Dazai said slowly, “but not here.”

Kunikida frowned. “Why not?”

“Because someone is still listening.”

Everyone tensed.

Chuuya moved first, stepping in front of Dazai and leaning in so close their foreheads nearly touched. “You better start talking real soon, Dazai. Or I swear, I’ll—”

“Kill me?” Dazai asked, expression unreadable. “Do it. If it’ll make you feel better.”

“Damn it—!” Chuuya’s fists shook at his sides, but he didn’t strike.

Because deep down, no matter how furious he was… that was still his Dazai.

Buried under layers of lies, pain, and secrets—but he was in there.

And Chuuya wasn’t ready to give up on him yet.

Ranpo cleared his throat, stepping forward again with his hands behind his back. “He’s not lying. Not about this. Someone is listening. The USB drive had traces of remote data activity. Someone tried to access it after we viewed it.”

Yosano cursed softly under her breath.

“So,” Dazai said, standing slowly, still cuffed but unshaken, “if you want the rest of the story…”

He turned toward the mirrored wall.

“…you’ll have to follow me.”The tension in the room was so thick it could’ve been sliced with one of Akiko’s scalpels.

All eyes were on Dazai as he stood up, calm as ever with his cuffed wrists, staring directly into the mirrored wall like he knew someone was behind it. Like he dared them to come out.

And that’s when it happened.

The door opened with a click.

Everyone turned at once, expecting a guard or maybe someone like Tanizaki.

But instead… in walked President Fukuzawa.

Silent. Controlled. Regal, even in his old age.

His presence alone chilled the room. Even Dazai’s ever-smug smirk dropped slightly.

“…President,” Kunikida said stiffly, nodding with full formality. Ranpo just gave a lazy two-fingered salute like he hadn’t just been ready to throw hands seconds ago.

The president’s sharp gaze slowly scanned the room.

Ranpo. Yosano. Kunikida.

Chuuya—who stood in front of Dazai like a firecracker ready to explode.

And finally… Dazai.

There was a silence so long, you could hear the faint buzzing of the overhead lights.

And then Fukuzawa spoke.

“You’ve put us through a lot, Dazai.”

Low. Calm. Disappointed—but not surprised.

Dazai gave a short, respectful bow of his head. “I know.”

“And you endangered the agency. Damaged our trust. Nearly got your friends killed.”

“I know,” Dazai said again, quieter this time.

“You’ve also single-handedly taken down Fyodor Dostoyevsky,” Fukuzawa continued, folding his arms behind his back. “Uncovered a mole, revealed a conspiracy years in the making… and saved lives.”

He looked up, straight into Dazai’s unreadable face.

“And now, you’re going to finish what you started.”

Ranpo’s eyes flicked to Kunikida like, oh, so we’re doing THIS now?

Kunikida opened his mouth to protest, but the president raised a hand.

“We will not forgive your actions easily,” Fukuzawa said sharply. “But the safety of Yokohama comes first. If there is more you know—if there are more threats—you will reveal everything.”

“…And if I don’t?” Dazai said carefully.

Fukuzawa’s stare sharpened. “Then I’ll leave you to Chuuya.”

Dazai blinked.

Chuuya cracked his knuckles.

“Damn straight you will.”

Ranpo snorted in the corner, “Honestly? I'd pay to see that.”

Dazai’s lips twitched, almost into a smile. “Very well.”

He stepped forward—still cuffed—and turned slightly so he faced all of them.

“There’s a facility. Hidden. Offshore. It’s where Fyodor kept his real files. Plans. Enemies. And allies.”

“Ally files?” Yosano narrowed her eyes. “Why would he keep those?”

Dazai nodded slowly. “Because he was working with people who have nothing to do with the Mafia or the ADA. Outsiders. People who’ve been watching us from the start.”

Fukuzawa’s face darkened.

Chuuya took a sharp step forward. “Then what the hell are we waiting for?”

And finally, Dazai lifted his head again. The flicker of the old him showed, just for a second.

That spark. That genius. That danger.

“We’re not,” he said simply. “But you’re going to need more than just me for this.”

“Like who?” Ranpo asked.

Dazai turned to him, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“The Port Mafia.”

Chapter Text

okay so het guys so one of my folders of the next chapter got deleted so if this next chapter doesn't add up then make up your own little version so yeah plssssss forgive me, but this is a chance to show me your writing skills so just send me something or yeah bye-bye <3

Chapter Text

Ranpo’s footsteps echoed through the ADA’s underground corridor like rapid-fire thunder. He practically launched himself up the stairs, two steps at a time, ignoring how his hat slipped off his head and nearly went flying behind him.

“Ranpo?” Kunikida’s voice called out from the conference room above. “What happened—?”

Ranpo slammed open the door like a whole anime character mid-breakdown.

“HE SAID HE WANTS TO BE PUT ON DEATH ROW!”

Everyone in the room froze.

Yosano blinked, nearly dropping her clipboard.

Atsushi looked up from the table with a quiet gasp.

Kunikida dropped his pen mid-sentence.

Even Chuuya—leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed in that permanent “I hate everyone but especially Dazai” face—went still.

“…You’re joking,” he said first, voice low.

Ranpo, panting and disheveled, shoved his hair back and stomped into the room like he was about to give a full courtroom monologue. “Do I LOOK like I’m joking, trench coat #2?! He wasn’t kidding. No smirks. No sarcasm. He just said it. Straight up: ‘Put me on Death Row.’ Just like that!”

Yosano sat down slowly. “But… Dazai’s always made comments about dying. It’s kind of his whole… thing.”

“No, no, no,” Ranpo said, shaking his head, pointing to his brain like it was gospel. “You don’t get it. This wasn’t one of his ‘teehee I wanna die’ flirty suicide lines. This was serious. He’s giving up.”

Atsushi’s voice came out soft. “But why? He survived so much. Faked his death. Lied to everyone. All for some big plan.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Ranpo huffed, throwing his hands up. “He spent YEARS orchestrating this chessboard—playing Fyodor, protecting Chuuya, covering every base. And now that it’s over? He thinks dying’s the final move.”

Kunikida stood up slowly, his brows furrowed. “Did he give any reason?”

Ranpo’s smirk faltered. For once, the Great Detective didn’t seem like he had all the answers.

“He said… he’s done what he needed to do,” Ranpo muttered. “He said there’s nothing left to play anymore.”

The room was silent again. Like the entire building was holding its breath.

Chuuya pushed off the wall, his boots thudding against the floor. “Tch. That coward.”

Ranpo turned to him, eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare call him that.”

Chuuya’s jaw clenched.

“He stabbed Fyodor to protect everyone,” Ranpo continued. “He sacrificed his own reputation, made himself a villain, and STILL thought none of us would understand.”

Chuuya’s fists curled.

“He thought you wouldn’t understand.”

That made Chuuya flinch. Visibly.

Yosano stood up. “So what now? Are we seriously considering putting Dazai on Death Row? Just like that?”

“No,” Kunikida said firmly, setting his notebook down. “Not until we hear everything. Not until he tells all of us what happened. Start to finish.”

“Then we better get ready,” Ranpo muttered. “Because if we’re going to convince Dazai to live, we’re gonna need more than facts.”

He looked around the room, eyes intense.

“We’re gonna need each other.”

LATER THAT NIGHT…

Chuuya stood alone in the hallway outside Dazai’s cell.

His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, jaw tight, heart pounding.

He hadn’t seen Dazai face-to-face since the helicopter. Since the earthquake. Since Dazai saved Kyouka and acted like it meant nothing.

But now… now he knew.

He knew what Dazai wanted.

To die.

To finally end the pain, the guilt, the weight of it all.

And Chuuya hated it.

He hated that he understood.

The door creaked open behind him.

Ranpo stepped up beside him, surprisingly quiet for once.

“He’s still in there. Silent.”

Chuuya didn’t look at him.

“Don’t let him do this,” Ranpo said, voice soft but steady.

Chuuya let out a bitter laugh. “Tch. Since when did I ever have a say in what that bastard does?”

“You’re the only one who ever did.”

Chuuya didn’t answer.

He just turned, pulled open the door, and stepped into the room.The hallway buzzed with dim fluorescent lights and tension so thick it could choke. Everything about this part of the Agency’s underground prison felt heavy — the cold concrete walls, the echo of each boot step, the silence behind every locked door.

Chuuya stopped in front of Cell 13.

His hand hovered over the door handle, fingers twitching with nerves he refused to admit to. For two years, he’d chased the shadow of the man inside this room — hated him, loved him, mourned him, and screamed his name into dreams that ended in fire and silence.

Now Dazai was back.

And Chuuya wasn’t ready. But he never was. Not when it came to him.

He pushed the door open.

The small room was dim, the light flickering above like it was afraid of Dazai too. The man sat on the edge of the bed, still in the black outfit they’d caught him in, legs crossed, hands calm in his lap like he hadn’t just asked to be executed twelve hours ago.

His hair was longer. His body leaner, but stronger. A faint scar ran down the edge of his jaw.

And his eyes — God, his eyes.

They looked empty.

Emotionless.

“Hey, Chuuya.”

His voice was like ice dipped in honey. Flat, but still smooth. And yeah… there was a hint of something—an accent, maybe? Russian.

Chuuya slammed the door behind him. Hard. Loud. He wanted it to hurt. He needed it to hurt.

“You really said it, huh?” Chuuya growled, walking forward like a storm. “You told Ranpo to put you on Death Row?”

Dazai didn’t move. “He told you.”

“No shit he told me.” Chuuya stood right in front of him, fists clenched. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Dazai tilted his head slightly. “What isn’t wrong with me?”

Wrong answer.

Chuuya grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet in one motion, slamming him against the wall. The chains on Dazai’s wrists rattled, but he didn’t resist. He barely even blinked.

Chuuya’s voice cracked. “I waited two damn years, Dazai. Two years of not knowing if you were dead, if I could’ve saved you, if you even— even cared. And now you’re back and the first thing you wanna do is DIE?!”

Dazai looked at him then.

Really looked at him.

And for the briefest second, something flickered in those eyes. Regret? Grief? Love?

Gone.

“I’m tired, Chuuya.”

The words were simple. Quiet. But they hit harder than any punch.

“I’m tired of being the villain. Of pretending to smile. Of protecting people who’ll never understand what I had to do. Fyodor’s dead. The plan worked. No one else has to get hurt now.”

“You think killing yourself won’t hurt people?!” Chuuya shouted.

Dazai blinked.

“You think I wouldn’t care?! You think Atsushi, or Kunikida, or even Ranpo wouldn't feel it?!” His voice cracked. “You think Kyouka’s not gonna remember you dragging her to the chopper while the building collapsed?!”

Dazai’s jaw clenched. His eyes dropped.

“…I don’t want to be forgiven.”

“Good,” Chuuya hissed, stepping closer. “Because I’m not forgiving you.”

Dazai didn’t respond.

“I’m not forgiving you for lying. For breaking the Agency’s trust. For letting me think— for letting us all think you were dead.”

Still no response.

“But you don’t get to run away now.”

That made Dazai glance up again.

“You don’t get to destroy everything, crawl out of the rubble, and ask to disappear. Not after all the crap you dragged us through.”

Chuuya stepped back, arms crossed.

“You’re gonna sit your ass down. You’re gonna tell the Agency everything. And when it’s over, then we decide what happens to you.”

Dazai tilted his head again. “We?”

Chuuya smirked bitterly. “Yeah. We. Because whether you like it or not, you’re still one of us. And if you think I’m gonna let you go out like that…”

He shook his head.

“…you’ve really gone soft.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Dazai’s mouth. Barely there. Barely real.

“You’ve changed,” he said softly.

“I had to,” Chuuya replied. “You weren’t around to keep breaking things for me to fix.”

Dazai looked down at his wrists. At the chains. The bruises. The silence.

“I was trying to protect everyone.”

“You always are.”

“It’s all I know how to do.”

Chuuya stepped toward him again. Not with anger this time — but something gentler. Warmer. Sadder.

“You’re not alone, Dazai.”

And for once… he believed him.

Even if just for a second.

Chapter Text

The documents showed up like ghosts. One second, nothing—then suddenly, the ADA server buzzed with a red file marked: “Project: Crime & Punishment.” No sender. No trace. No source.

Kunikida had nearly dropped his coffee when he opened it.

Within seconds, the ADA war room was packed. Laptops lit up with text, diagrams, coded messages, and internal memos that no one outside Dazai and maybe Fyodor should've ever seen.

Plans. Secrets. The full blueprint of the chaos that had unfolded the last two years. From Dazai faking his death, to Fyodor’s real goals, to the power plays between criminal syndicates, the Port Mafia, government pawns, and underground abilities brokers.

And the worst part?

It was all true.

Everything lined up. Every move. Every betrayal. Every explosion. Every calculated risk Dazai had taken.

They thought they were dealing with a rogue agent.

They were pawns in a war game.

“Who sent this?” Fukuzawa asked, voice low and tense.

Ranpo leaned back in his chair, sucking on a lollipop, brow furrowed. “No IP tag. No fingerprint. It didn’t come from anywhere. It just appeared.”

“Then how can we be sure it’s real?” Kunikida muttered, flipping through pages with trembling fingers.

Chuuya stood off to the side, arms crossed so hard it hurt. His heart was beating like a war drum in his chest. Because he recognized this writing. That smooth calculation. That obsessive need to control every variable. That cruelty wrapped in twisted kindness.

This wasn’t an outsider’s perspective.

This was Dazai’s own mind spilled onto the page.

And he had given it to them.

“They’re real,” Chuuya muttered.

Everyone turned to him.

Chuuya didn’t blink. “This is Dazai’s. All of it. I’ve seen him write strategies like this before. It’s got his fingerprints all over it.”

“But why would he expose himself like that?” Atsushi asked. “Why now?”

Ranpo leaned forward, the edge of his lollipop digging into his cheek. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

They all stared at the glowing screen. The truth was right in front of them, and it was ugly. Cold. Strategic.

Dazai hadn’t just played the game.

He was the game.

And now the pieces were being laid bare.

Meanwhile… back in Cell 13.

Dazai stared at the wall like it held the secrets of the universe.

He’d heard the commotion upstairs. The scrambling. The shouting. The sudden drop in pressure when the weight of everything finally hit them.

Good.

He needed them to see it.

To know what he’d done. What he’d stopped. What he’d risked.

Because telling them outright? That would’ve meant owning it.

Letting it out slowly through a "leak" though? That gave him control.

He didn't need their praise. He didn’t want their apologies.

He just needed the world to move on.

And this way, it would.

The soft clink of footsteps echoed again. He didn’t bother looking up.

“You dropped something,” came Ranpo’s voice. Mocking, but tired.

“Oh?” Dazai replied, still not facing him. “What was it?”

“About two years of your soul and every shred of plausible deniability.”

Dazai smirked faintly.

“You always were a show-off,” Ranpo added, stepping inside. “Even your confessions come dressed up in disguises.”

“They wouldn’t have listened if I told them.”

“Maybe,” Ranpo said. “Or maybe you just didn’t want to explain why you let everyone think you’d gone full villain.”

Dazai shrugged. “Easier that way.”

Ranpo stepped closer. “You leaked it yourself, didn’t you?”

Dazai’s expression didn’t change.

But something behind his eyes twitched.

“…I wonder,” he replied, voice like velvet over glass.

Ranpo stared for a long moment. Then turned around.

“Anyway. Nice trick.”

He paused at the door.

“Oh, and Dazai?”

“Hm?”

“You’re not gonna die. So don’t even try it.”

Click.

The door closed behind him.

Back in the war room…

Atsushi’s voice cracked as he asked, “So… what now?”

Fukuzawa stood still. Processing. Judging. Calculating.

Kunikida still hadn’t stopped flipping pages, his hands shaking with disbelief.

Chuuya didn’t move. Not yet. Not until he figured out why. Why Dazai would go this far. Why he would drop the match and the gasoline. Why he’d hand them the truth like it was a resignation letter written in blood.

“Now?” Ranpo said, rejoining them.

He popped the last of his lollipop into his mouth.

“…Now we deal with the aftermath of Dazai being smarter than all of us.”

The city below flickered with orange lights, the kind that blurred like wet paint in the fog. Chuuya stepped onto the rooftop, his boots clicking against the cold cement. He hadn’t seen Dazai since they’d locked him up—since he asked to be locked up.

Now there he was, sitting on the ledge like he used to years ago, legs dangling like he didn’t have a death wish the size of Hokkaido. His coat was thinner now, standard issue from holding, but the weight on his shoulders looked exactly the same.

Heavy.

“You know they’re gonna put you on trial, right?” Chuuya asked, stepping closer.

Dazai didn’t turn around. “Mmm. Let them.”

Chuuya clenched his fists. “You really leaked your own plans? You wanted them to find out?”

Silence.

“You could’ve just told us. Me. Me, Dazai.”

Still nothing.

Chuuya walked up behind him, anger in his throat like acid. “I joined the ADA for you! I wanted to get close just to rip your head off! And now I find out you were playing 5D chess with the world and couldn’t even throw me a hint?”

Dazai’s voice finally came, quiet. “If I told you, you wouldn’t have acted real.”

“Oh screw you,” Chuuya snapped. “You don’t get to decide how I should’ve reacted. I could’ve helped—”

“No,” Dazai said, and turned. His face was blank. Eyes empty. A ghost of himself. “You would've gotten hurt. That’s why.”

That stopped Chuuya cold.

He blinked. “What?”

“I’m not letting anyone die for me again. Not you. Not Atsushi. Not even Kunikida with his stupid planner and explosive temper.”

“…Dazai—”

“I leaked it because they needed to know. But they also needed to think they found it. Otherwise, they’d never believe me. I’ve lied too much, hurt too many people. You don’t trust someone like me just because he says something’s true.”

He smiled then, but it was a cracked thing. Like glass that forgot how to shine.

“I never stopped planning,” he whispered. “Even when I disappeared. Especially when I disappeared.”

Chuuya stared. “And now what? You’re just gonna rot in a cell?”

Dazai shrugged. “Was always the plan.”

“Bullshit.”

Dazai blinked.

Chuuya’s voice shook. “You don’t get to blow up everyone’s lives and then crawl into a hole like it’s penance. You don’t get to ask to die and think that’s some poetic redemption arc. You wanna talk about pain? I spent two years thinking you were gone. I grieved you. I hated you. I almost killed myself trying to stop you.”

The wind blew between them, sharp and cold.

“I don’t care how emotionless you act,” Chuuya spat. “I know you. You didn’t leak those plans to protect us. You leaked them because you were scared you’d die without anyone understanding what the hell you were doing.”

Dazai’s eyes widened, just barely.

“You want someone to stop you, huh?” Chuuya stepped forward. “Fine. Here I am. You’re not dying, and you’re sure as hell not disappearing again.”

“…What do you want from me?” Dazai asked, finally looking at him with something raw.

Chuuya’s voice dropped.

“I want the real you. The one who laughs too loud, and acts like a menace, and pretends he doesn’t care when he actually cares more than anyone. I want you to fight, Dazai. Not vanish.”

For a moment, Dazai said nothing.

Then he looked down at the city. At the lights.

“…You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel real,” he whispered.

Chuuya’s breath caught.

“…Then let’s be real together,” he said, softer this time. “Start over. Fix this. You still have time.”

The rooftop was quiet now.

No sirens, no wind, no mission or emergency or master plan.

Just Dazai.

Just Chuuya.

And the weight of everything they hadn’t said for years pressing down on their shoulders like concrete.

Dazai stood with his hands in his pockets, back turned, but Chuuya could see the tension in his shoulders—tight, trembling, like he was barely holding himself up.

“You’ve always been like this,” Chuuya muttered, stepping closer. “You let everyone believe the worst. You pretend like it doesn’t hurt.”

He stopped a few feet behind him. “But I know you, Dazai. I know it kills you.”

“…What if I deserve it?” Dazai said quietly.

Chuuya blinked. “What?”

“I betrayed the Agency. I let you think I was dead. I worked with Fyodor, of all people. I’ve killed. Lied. Manipulated. Do you really think I get to cry and be forgiven like some tragic hero?”

He turned then, finally.

And Chuuya’s heart cracked.

Because Dazai wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t smug or sarcastic or hiding behind some clever quip.

He looked shattered.

Dark circles under his eyes. Hollow cheeks. A ghost of a smile that didn’t even try to reach his eyes.

“I’ve always wanted to die,” he said. “You know that. But I thought… maybe if I did enough good before the end, maybe I’d earn it. Maybe if I gave my life for something bigger, it would make it okay.”

He laughed, but it was hoarse and broken. “But I didn’t die. And now everyone sees me for what I am. A monster. A traitor.”

Chuuya swallowed thickly. His vision blurred.

“Is that what you think I see?” he asked, voice low. “A monster?”

“You should.”

“No, you should shut the hell up,” Chuuya snapped, stepping closer. “Because yeah, you did a lot of messed-up shit. And yeah, I wanted to break your damn face when I found out you were alive. But you know what I really saw, Dazai?”

He jabbed a finger at his chest. “Someone who still made sure the world didn’t burn. Someone who leaked his own plans to save people who would never trust him again. Someone who still, somehow, gave a damn.”

He choked on the next word. “You. I saw you.”

Silence.

Then…

Dazai’s eyes filled. Slowly, like he didn’t even realize it was happening.

“I don’t know how to be loved anymore,” he whispered. “I don’t even know if I want to be.”

Chuuya’s throat tightened.

He reached forward, hesitated… then rested a hand on Dazai’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to know,” he said softly. “You just have to let someone try.”

And then—

Dazai broke.

The tears started silently. No sobbing, no gasping. Just wet streaks down his cheeks as his expression crumbled, shoulders shaking like he was collapsing from the inside out.

Chuuya pulled him in.

No words. Just arms around him, tight, grounding, holding together whatever pieces were still left.

And to his own surprise… Chuuya started crying too.

Not for Dazai.

For both of them. For the years they’d wasted. For the pain. The grief. The guilt. For the two boys who’d grown up too fast and lost too much and never really learned how to heal.

“I hate you sometimes,” Chuuya whispered into his shoulder. “But I still… I still love you too, you idiot.”

Dazai clung tighter.

“…I’m scared,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to come back from this.”

Chuuya squeezed his eyes shut. “Then let me help you.”

They stood like that for a long time. Two enemies. Two friends. Two halves of a war that never really ended. Crying quietly under the stars like the world hadn’t completely fallen apart.

Because maybe—just maybe—it hadn’t.

Not yet.

Not if they still had each other.

Chapter Text

The ADA headquarters had never felt so heavy with tension.

Everyone was gathered in the conference room. Kunikida was pacing like his nerves were at war with gravity, Atsushi sat stiff as a board with his fists clenched in his lap, Yosano leaned against the wall arms crossed, and Kenji chewed quietly on a rice cracker. Even Tanizaki wasn’t cracking jokes, and Naomi wasn’t fawning. The silence in the room was a pressure on their lungs.

The only one who looked relaxed was Ranpo, sprawled in a chair with one leg crossed dramatically over the other, spinning a pen between his fingers. He already knew what was coming, and he was soaking in the suspense like a cat in the sun.

Then, finally, the president walked in.

He didn’t speak right away. He walked with his usual authority, hands behind his back, his face unreadable. When he reached the front of the room, he stopped, looked over his people, and spoke in a voice that left no room for argument.

“I’ve made my decision regarding Dazai.”

Eyes snapped up. Backs straightened. Ranpo smirked.

“Until we have everything we need—every file, name, and connection—Dazai will work with the Armed Detective Agency under direct supervision.”

Dead. Silence.

“…What?” Atsushi was the first to break it, voice shaking with disbelief. “After everything he’s done? He’s a criminal now!”

“I didn’t say he’s forgiven,” the President said calmly. “He’s a resource. One with crucial information no one else has.”

“He betrayed us!” Kunikida exploded, slamming a palm against the table. “He faked his death. Abandoned us. Worked with Fyodor, of all people. What makes you think we can trust anything he says?”

“We don’t,” the President replied coldly. “Which is why his cooperation comes with conditions.”

Yosano narrowed her eyes. “Conditions?”

“He will be kept in secured housing. Watched at all times. He’ll be under full surveillance. Any deviation, any attempt to run, and he’ll be detained permanently.”

Ranpo finally sat up straight. “You really think shackling him’s gonna stop Dazai? The guy’s a walking escape room.”

The President gave Ranpo a sharp look. “That’s why I’ve chosen you to keep him in line.”

Ranpo blinked. “Oh. That’s fair, actually.”

Naomi raised a hand. “So… what exactly do we need from him?”

“Everything,” the President replied. “There are still missing parts of the puzzle. Fyodor’s last known associates. The weapons he planted. The surveillance system he tried to build. And most of all…”

He looked toward the closed file on the table in front of him. The one marked: “The Dead Apple Protocol: Dazai’s Final Phase.”

“…we need to know why he did it.”

The room fell into a strange silence.

Because none of them—not even the ones closest to Dazai—really knew. They had seen the aftermath, the damage, the trail of bodies and betrayal. But the reasons? The fear, the desperation, the raw logic that led to him faking his death and using the enemy?

That remained locked inside Dazai’s fractured mind.

Atsushi spoke again, softer this time. “And… after he gives us what we need? What then?”

The President didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the window. Out across the city that Dazai had helped save—and almost destroyed.

“…Then we’ll decide if he can stay.”

Meanwhile, somewhere under ADA surveillance…

Dazai sat cross-legged on the floor of his new containment suite—a repurposed records room three stories underground.

No windows. No wires. Only a small desk, a bed, and a single tablet to submit reports and messages. Two guards posted outside. One of them was secretly a gifted.

He didn’t mind. It was better than a cell.

He reached for the tablet, opened a new document, and started typing slowly:

Operation: Morality Collapse
Summary: Phase 1 - Fyodor's alliance. Phase 2 - Controlled betrayal. Phase 3 - Controlled exposure.
Current Phase: Clean-Up & Truth.

The door buzzed. He didn’t look up.

Ranpo stepped inside, a lollipop in his mouth and a file in hand.

“Roomy,” Ranpo said, glancing around. “Looks like a haunted kindergarten.”

“I like the ambiance,” Dazai murmured. “Very vintage."

Ranpo dropped the file on the desk beside him. “They’re giving you a chance.”

Dazai still didn’t look up. “Do you think I deserve one?”

“…Doesn’t matter what I think,” Ranpo said after a long pause. “But I do know this. You screw this up, and they’ll bury you so deep not even I could find you.”

Finally, Dazai smiled.

“Good. That’s the plan.”

The next day at the ADA started like any other.

Sort of.

Except not really.

Because while the building looked the same, and Kenji was still cheerfully humming as he watered the windowsill plants, and Naomi was still flirting with Tanizaki loud enough to make Yosano roll her eyes, there was one huge difference that made everyone glance sideways more often than usual.

Osamu Dazai was sitting at a desk in the back corner of the room. Typing. Calmly. Like nothing ever happened.

Like he hadn’t faked his death.
Like he hadn’t teamed up with Fyodor.
Like he hadn’t shattered the ADA’s trust into a thousand tiny, jagged little pieces.

He even had his usual lazy expression back, like he was just an employee clocking in for another nine-to-five. The man had a coffee mug that said “World’s Okayest Coworker” on it. No one knew where he got it. Atsushi swore it wasn’t there yesterday.

Kunikida was gripping his clipboard so hard it looked like it might snap in half.

Atsushi sat at his own desk, stealing glances toward Dazai like Dazai might suddenly vanish again if he looked away for too long. But then when Dazai did look up and lock eyes with him, Atsushi immediately turned red and started typing total gibberish into a blank document.

Ranpo, on the other hand, was thriving. He had kicked his feet up on his desk, gleefully watching the chaos like a reality show host. He kept popping lollipops and going, “I told you soooo~” to literally no one, just loud enough to be annoying.

“Is it just me,” Yosano said, her voice sharp as a scalpel, “or is it a little too quiet with him back?”

Kunikida didn’t answer. His eye twitched.

Even the president, who had stopped by for a few quick files, had barely muttered a “Good morning” before disappearing into his office with a click of the door.

And yet, Dazai just… kept working.

He typed with surprising speed and precision. Occasionally he’d pause, hum a quiet tune to himself—something Russian, Ranpo noted—and then go back to typing like this was just another Tuesday.

The weirdest part?

He hadn’t cracked a single joke.

No dramatic fainting.
No “Atsushi-kun, let’s go double suicide~”
Not even a “Kunikida, your idealism is giving me hives.”

Just… silence. Cold. Focused. Eerily normal.

Too normal.

The elephant in the room wasn’t just alive—it was breakdancing on the ceiling.

Atsushi eventually couldn’t take it anymore.

He walked stiffly to the break room to “get water” but mostly just to breathe. He leaned against the sink and stared at the wall like it might explain things to him.

But then a voice behind him said:

“You can ask, you know.”

Atsushi flinched.

Dazai was standing in the doorway. His hands were in his coat pockets. His expression unreadable.

“I-I wasn’t—” Atsushi started.

“Yes, you were,” Dazai replied calmly, stepping inside. “You’ve been dying to ask something since yesterday.”

Atsushi looked at the floor. “...Why?”

There it was. One word. But so heavy it nearly cracked the tile.

Dazai didn’t answer right away. He walked over to the counter, picked up a disposable cup, and poured himself water like they were having a normal conversation.

“Because sometimes,” he said finally, “you have to become the monster to understand where the real monsters hide.”

Atsushi frowned. “That doesn’t answer anything.”

“No,” Dazai agreed. “But it’s true.”

He looked over his shoulder. That signature tired half-smile finally appeared.

“I didn’t come back to be forgiven, Atsushi. I came back to finish what I started.”

He left before Atsushi could say anything else.

Back in the main room, Chuuya had just arrived.

Yeah. That Chuuya. Dressed in ADA black. With a badge.

The second he walked in and saw Dazai typing quietly in the corner, his face twisted into something unreadable—somewhere between “I’m going to kill you” and “...Why do you look like a divorced ghost?”

He stomped past everyone, grabbed a file from the table like he was not making this a thing, and marched to his desk.

Everyone braced for impact.

But Dazai didn’t look up.

Not once.

And somehow… that was worse.

The ADA had returned to “normal.” But it was a strange kind of normal. The kind where everyone was holding their breath. Waiting. Watching. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, their Dazai—the one who laughed and joked and annoyed the hell out of everyone—might still be in there somewhere.

Even if he now typed in Russian sometimes.
Even if he smiled like a ghost.
Even if no one knew what he was planning anymore.

They just… waited.

And the clock ticked on.It all started when Kenji, innocent little ray of sunshine that he is, looked up from his sandwich and asked:

“Hey! How old is Dazai-san anyway?”

The whole room froze like someone had dropped a live grenade in the middle of the floor.

Even Dazai looked up for half a second before going right back to typing like he hadn’t just heard the question that would start a full-blown ADA civil war.

Atsushi blinked. “Wait… wait, you’re right. No one knows.”

Kunikida adjusted his glasses with a dangerous glint in his eye. “There’s no recorded birthday. No solid files. Even his mafia records are vague.”

“Of course they are,” Yosano muttered, sipping her coffee. “He’s a walking red flag, not a LinkedIn profile.”

“GUYS.” Ranpo sat up in his chair like he just solved the Zodiac Killer. “What if—hear me out—he’s secretly fifty.”

Dazai finally raised his head. “Excuse me?”

“You’re shady enough,” Ranpo said with a grin. “You dress like a historical reenactor. You could be ancient for all we know.”

Dazai tilted his head, his voice deadpan: “Well, I am timeless.”

“See?!?” Ranpo waved his arms like this was courtroom evidence. “He’s not denying it!”

“I think he’s just being dramatic,” Tanizaki offered, side-eyeing the chaos building in the room.

Naomi gasped. “Do you think he’s a vampire?!”

“Okay,” Kunikida interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is getting ridiculous. Dazai, just tell us how old you are.”

Dazai gave him that classic unreadable look. “Age is a social construct.”

Atsushi leaned in, whispering, “...He definitely forgot his birthday.”

“I heard if you forget your own age, it means you’re over 30,” Yosano added casually, sharpening a scalpel for no reason.

“Fine!” Chuuya shouted from the doorway, arms crossed and already exhausted. “He’s the same age as me, okay?!”

Everyone turned.

“Oh?” Ranpo leaned in. “And how old is that, Short Stack?”

“Twenty-two,” Chuuya snapped.

“Really?” Yosano raised a brow. “Because I swear you two act like you’ve been married for seventy-five years.”

“That’s just the trauma,” Dazai mumbled.

“Shut up, Dazai!”

“Okay, okay,” Atsushi held up his hands. “So Dazai and Chuuya are both twenty-two?”

“Correct,” Chuuya said, looking way too done with this already.

Dazai slouched in his chair, deadpan again. “I was twenty-two when I faked my death. Technically, I’m twenty-four now.”

Everyone went silent.

Tanizaki: “Wait, so that means you’ve been gone for… two years??”

Dazai blinked. “Yes. That’s math, Tanizaki-kun.”

Kenji, still smiling: “Oh! So Chuuya, that makes you twenty-four too!”

“YEAH. THANK YOU,” Chuuya groaned. “That’s literally what I said five minutes ago.”

“I just didn’t believe you had the same birthday,” Ranpo said smugly. “You’re so mature compared to him.”

Dazai turned, slowly. “Ranpo.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to unplug your desk fan while you sleep.”

“Try me.”

Meanwhile, the President was in his office, sipping tea and reviewing files as muffled shouting echoed through the walls.

He paused.

Listened.

And sighed.

“Ah,” he muttered. “They’ve reached the ‘What age is Dazai’ stage. Took longer than I expected.”

Back in the office, Atsushi scribbled something on the whiteboard labeled: "Dazai Lore Chart"
Under it, he wrote:

Age: 24

Height: Unconfirmed, but emotionally 5’2” (is actully 5’10)

Species: Maybe a vampire

Chaos Level: Dangerous

Can he cry? Possibly (see: Chapter 27)

Birthday: UNKNOWN

“Guys,” Kunikida muttered, staring at the board. “We are a national detective agency. Why are we like this?”

Naomi giggled. “Because we’re fun.”

Ranpo threw a lollipop at Dazai’s head. “And because he refuses to act normal.”

Dazai, still typing with a completely blank expression, responded without looking: “Normal is for people without trauma, Ranpo-kun.”

Ranpo: “Oh my god just say you forgot your birthday and move on—”

The sun was barely up when the agency regrouped outside the mission site—a dusty old warehouse on the outskirts of Yokohama that practically screamed “I’m hiding illegal things.”

Everyone was tense. Not because of the mission.

Because Dazai was coming.

“Okay,” Kunikida began, flipping through his massive clipboard. “We go in, we search for documents and hostages. Absolutely no casualties. Got it?”

Heads nodded. Everyone was in agreement.

Then Dazai stepped off the van in a long coat, black gloves, and an expression that said “I haven’t slept in 42 hours and I might make that your problem.”

Ranpo immediately pointed at him.

“HIM. That’s the one you need to say it to.”

Kunikida sighed deeply, already on the verge of a migraine. “Dazai.”

“Yes, my angel of light?” Dazai replied, already loading his revolver with the kind of dramatic slowness only he could pull off.

“No killing.”

Dazai paused. “Not even one?”

“No.”

“Not even like… hypothetically—”

“NO.”

The rest of the team chorused it with him, even Kenji, who looked like he was mentally prepping to wrestle Dazai to the ground if needed.

Atsushi leaned over to Chuuya and whispered, “Does he ever listen to that rule?”

Chuuya groaned. “Oh, he listens, alright. Then he ignores it.”

Yosano smirked. “At least he’s predictable.”

Dazai was now spinning his gun on his finger like it was a fidget toy. “I’ll behave.”

“Define ‘behave,’” Kunikida muttered.

“I won’t kill anyone important,” Dazai said, smiling sweetly.

Kunikida visibly aged five years in one second.

Mission Start: 08:47 AM.

The warehouse was dusty, echoey, and empty… mostly. Everyone split up in teams: Ranpo and Yosano, Atsushi and Kenji, Kunikida and Tanizaki, and of course—Chuuya and Dazai.

Because life is cruel.

Chuuya immediately slammed Dazai into a wall. “Listen here, you smug little freak. One step out of line and I will personally throw you into the sun.”

Dazai blinked. “Kinky.”

“NOT THE TIME.”

They searched in mostly awkward silence, the kind only ex-partners/enemies/complicated past lovers (??? TBD) can have. Chuuya tried not to glance at Dazai too much, but the man was so suspiciously calm it made Chuuya more nervous.

That is, until they heard a loud crash from one of the back rooms.

Chuuya immediately bolted. Dazai followed.

Inside, a group of shady men were ransacking old crates—and clearly not expecting a bunch of detectives to crash the party.

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!” Chuuya barked.

One of the goons smirked. “Or what?”

Dazai stepped forward, gloves tightening.

Chuuya stepped in front of him. “NO. Remember what Kunikida said!”

“I remember,” Dazai muttered.

And to his credit—he did try. For like… ten seconds.

But then one of the guys tried to stab Chuuya.

And Dazai snapped.

He moved like a shadow, slamming one of the men into a wall and twisting the knife out of his hand so fast it was practically a magic trick. He didn’t kill anyone—technically—but the way he knocked two of them out cold was definitely not in the mission plan.

When it was over, Chuuya stood over the pile of unconscious bodies and sighed.

“You have a problem,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dazai just wiped some dust off his coat. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“You broke a guy’s arm!”

“He tried to stab you.”

“Yeah, and?!”

Dazai stared at him. “Am I not allowed to protect the people I care about anymore?”

Chuuya blinked.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“…I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Too late,” Dazai smiled faintly, walking past him. “You heard it.”

Back outside:

Ranpo squinted as Chuuya and Dazai came walking out, Dazai looking smug, Chuuya looking ten seconds away from filing a complaint to HR that doesn’t exist.

Yosano raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“Dazai did a thing,” Chuuya said, kicking a rock.

“He always does a thing,” Kunikida muttered. “Did anyone die?”

Chuuya sighed. “No.”

Everyone looked shocked.

Dazai saluted. “Progress!”

Atsushi patted his shoulder. “That’s… actually impressive, Dazai-san.”

Dazai just shrugged. “What can I say? I’m growing.”

Ranpo grinned. “Yeah, growing more unhinged.”

Chapter Text

The meeting room was silent.

Too silent.

For once, even Ranpo wasn’t chewing snacks or running his mouth. The projector flickered in the dim lighting, casting ghostly shadows over the ADA members’ faces.

Kunikida sat with his jaw clenched, knuckles white around a pen that had long since snapped in half. Atsushi had his hands in his lap, fists shaking. Yosano had stopped twirling her scalpel. And the President… the President looked like he’d aged twenty years in ten minutes.

Because on the screen… was Dazai.

His voice echoed through the speakers. It was a recording. One he’d made long before his “betrayal.” The file had been hidden deep in an encrypted folder, only accessible with a password that took Ranpo two days to crack—a personal best for him, and a red flag for everyone else.

Dazai’s voice was tired. Not the usual, sing-songy sarcasm they all knew. This voice was raw, cracked, haunted.

“If you’re seeing this… then I probably don’t exist to you anymore. That’s fine. That was the plan.”

Chuuya stared at the screen, unmoving. His eyes didn’t even blink. He looked carved from stone.

“I didn’t betray you. Not really. Everything I did… was to keep you safe. Fyodor had plans. Not just for Yokohama. For all of you. Everyone I—”
brief pause, throat clearing
“Everyone I care about.”

Gasps were held. Yosano clutched her arm. Kunikida’s broken pen dropped to the floor with a soft clack.

“You think I joined him willingly? He had the means to destroy all of you. Blackmail, abilities, bombs. You name it. So I played the part. The villain. The traitor. I let you all hate me because it was the only way to stop him from going after the agency. He promised he’d leave you alone if I worked with him. And I believed him.”

Another pause.

“I believed him until I didn’t.”

Suddenly, the recording shifted to a video. Footage from inside Fyodor’s hideout. Dazai at a desk. Surveillance cam-style. Fyodor walking in. A conversation played—one everyone wished they could unhear.

“You think they’ll ever take you back, Dazai?”
“I don’t want them to.”
“Liar.”
“...Even if I do, I can’t. Not after this.”
“That’s the beauty of it. You’re too far gone. You gave them up for me. You’re mine now.”

And then—it happened. The fight. Fyodor raising the gun. Dazai lunging. The fatal stab. The camera crackled, cutting out.

The room was silent again.

Until Ranpo stood.

He didn’t say a word at first. He just slowly took off his cap, holding it in his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wet.

Not crying. But close.

“…I was right. He never betrayed us.”

No one even had the energy to shove it in his face. Not this time.

Chuuya stood too, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were red. “He let me hate him,” he said, voice low. “He let all of us hate him. For two years.”

The President finally exhaled. “It was the only way to keep us out of it.”

Atsushi stood, shaking. “We have to bring him back.”

“He’s already back,” Yosano whispered.

“But he’s not really here,” Kenji added, frowning. “Not yet.”

Everyone turned to look at the empty chair in the corner. The one where Dazai had been sitting just yesterday. Where he had smiled, joked, deflected… but never once explained himself.

Because now they knew. He didn’t think he deserved to.

But the truth had changed everything.

And for the first time in a long time—Dazai Osamu was forgiven.

The static buzzed as the old, dust-coated monitor flickered to life. Atsushi had found the box hidden behind a false wall in an abandoned safehouse Dazai and Fyodor had once used. Inside were tapes—labeled only with numbers, no dates, no names.

Ranpo sat cross-legged in front of the screen like it was a puzzle he was born to solve. Chuuya stood with his arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek, antsy. The rest of the ADA and Port Mafia agents filled the room, the tension thick enough to choke on.

The tape clicked in.

And silence fell.

Onscreen, Dazai sat in a chair, stiff and pale. His coat was gone, and the once-bandaged arms were bare, revealing dark purple bruises shaped like fingers wrapping around his biceps.

His eyes were… dull. Not bored like usual—no teasing glint, no mischief, no life. Just distant, almost fearful.

Then Fyodor appeared in frame, calm, composed… and terrifying.

“I asked you to file the data last night,” Fyodor said, tilting his head. “Why wasn’t it done?”

Dazai didn’t answer right away.

Fyodor’s hand slapped the desk beside him. Everyone in the room jumped.

“I asked you a question.”

“I… didn’t sleep,” Dazai muttered, barely audible. “I was watching the gate. You said—”

“I said to do both.”

Chuuya’s breath hitched.

Onscreen, Fyodor stepped forward—and Dazai flinched.

It was tiny. Barely a twitch.

But it shattered everything.

Because Dazai Osamu never flinched. Not from danger. Not from death. Not from Chuuya yelling in his face or bullets flying past his head.

But here—he looked like a kicked dog.

The camera angle shifted slightly—there had been more than one set up. And this one caught it all: Fyodor’s hand wrapping tight around Dazai’s arm, yanking him up, spitting words no one wanted to repeat.

Then it cut. Just like that.

The silence in the room was unbearable.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

“…He was scared,” Kunikida finally said, voice soft. “He was actually scared.”

Chuuya’s hands trembled. “And he never told anyone. Not even me…”

Ranpo stood slowly, eyes shadowed beneath his bangs. “Because he knew none of us would’ve let him stay. And he had to stay to protect us. That’s why he played the villain. That’s why he burned the evidence I had. That’s why he pretended he betrayed us.”

Yosano swallowed hard. “He let Fyodor treat him like that… just to keep the agency safe?”

“Worse,” Ranpo muttered. “He probably thought he deserved it.”

That sentence hit like a brick to the chest.

The next tape rolled automatically.

This one was different. Darker. Dazai sat on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. His face was bruised, lower lip split, and he was mumbling to himself.

“…no, it’s okay… this is fine… just a little longer… I’m almost done…”

Chuuya stepped forward toward the screen like he wanted to rip the TV out of the wall.

“That’s enough,” he growled.

But the tape kept playing.

“Almost done. Almost there. Just gotta survive. Just gotta finish. Then they’ll be safe.”

That was when Atsushi turned away, wiping his eyes. Kenji silently took his hat off. Kunikida looked like he was going to be sick.

And Chuuya? Chuuya was already gone—storming out the door, fist clenched, shaking with anger and grief and something more painful than all of it: guilt.

Because the whole time… he had hated Dazai. Cursed him. Yelled about betrayal. All while Dazai was rotting in a private hell for them.

Ranpo’s voice broke the silence, quiet but firm.

“We’re bringing him back.”

Everyone looked at him.

“He’s not our enemy. Not now. Not ever.”

Kunikida finally nodded. “Let’s bring him home.”

And maybe—just maybe—this time, they’d help him carry his pain.The hallway leading to Dazai’s cell was dead quiet.

No footsteps. No talking. Just tension hanging in the air like smoke.

They walked in a loose, unspoken line: Kunikida in front, Ranpo slightly behind, Chuuya trailing the back with clenched fists. Atsushi’s shoulders were tense, eyes locked on the floor. Yosano, Kenji, even Tanizaki and Naomi—they were all there.

Because they had to be.

After what they saw? There was no going back.

They reached the cell.

Inside, Dazai sat cross-legged on the cot, hands cuffed in front of him, eyes staring blankly at the wall like he hadn’t moved in hours. His expression was flat. Expressionless. Not his usual lazy grin, not even his tired eyes. Just... empty.

Ranpo stepped forward first, arms crossed.

“We saw the tapes.”

Dazai blinked slowly.

Silence.

Yosano was next. Her voice cracked, but her words were firm.

“You let him hurt you.”

Still, Dazai said nothing. His fingers flexed slightly around the cuffs, but he kept his gaze to the side.

Atsushi’s voice was small. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Finally, Dazai looked up. His eyes met theirs—slowly, carefully—as if measuring how much they knew. And when he saw the truth in their faces, he sighed.

“I didn’t want you to get in the way.”

Chuuya stepped forward, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt.

“In the way of what? Of being tortured? Of slowly wasting away in some sick power game you let happen?”

“It wasn’t just a power game,” Dazai said, voice low, like he was already tired of the conversation. “It was chess. Fyodor doesn’t think in pieces. He thinks in pawns. I had to be one of them or the board would flip.”

Ranpo squinted. “And you thought being a broken, half-starved puppet was the best strategy?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

The sentence landed wrong. Like a joke with no punchline.

Kunikida took a sharp breath.

“Barely.”

Dazai tilted his head. “Barely is enough.”

“Not for us,” Yosano snapped, stepping closer to the bars. “Not when we had to watch you sit there like some scared—”

She stopped herself, clamping her hand over her mouth.

The room went silent again.

Dazai chuckled. Bitter. Cold. “Like a scared little dog, right? Go on. Say it. It’s what I looked like, isn’t it?”

“No,” Atsushi said softly. “It’s what you were.”

That shut him up.

Chuuya’s eyes were glassy now, his voice shaking. “You flinched. Dazai, you flinched. You’ve never flinched. Not when Mori threatened to kill you. Not when I almost dropped a building on you. But him? You didn’t even fight back.”

Dazai looked down at his lap.

“I couldn’t. If I did, everything would fall apart.”

“And you think we wanted this?!” Chuuya snapped. “You think we’d rather see you crawling around under his boot than with us? You think this was what Oda would’ve wanted?”

That name—Oda—hit like a bullet.

Dazai’s lip twitched. His voice cracked.

“Don’t you dare bring him into this.”

“Why not?” Chuuya stepped closer to the cell, face inches from the bars. “He died to give you a second chance. And you spent it letting someone else control you again.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dazai hissed suddenly, standing up so fast the chains rattled. His voice broke, sharp and uneven. “You think I don’t wake up every single day wishing I’d died in that damn explosion? That I hadn’t dragged myself out of that hell just to end up in another one?”

Silence.

His chest heaved once. Twice. Then he sat back down slowly, burying his head in his hands.

“…I never wanted you to find out,” he whispered. “I thought if you hated me… it would be easier.”

Ranpo, for once, said nothing.

Atsushi stepped up, eyes wide, still wet with tears.

“…You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

Kunikida nodded, adjusting his glasses with trembling hands. “We were wrong about you. But we’re going to make it right.”

Dazai looked up.

And for a split second—just a second—there was something in his expression that hadn’t been there for a long, long time.

Hope.

But he shook his head.

“You’re going to forgive me after all that?”

Chuuya finally unlocked the cell door.

And without a word, he stepped in, walked straight up to Dazai—

—and hugged him.

Tightly. Fiercely. Like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You idiot,” Chuuya whispered, his voice cracking. “You’re not a monster. You never were.”

Dazai didn't hug back.

But his eyes—his eyes—welled up.

And then, slowly, shakily, he reached out...

And clung to Chuuya like he might fall apart.

Chapter Text

The first few days after Dazai was temporarily released from the cell were…awkward.

Not because anyone hated him—no, that wasn’t it. If anything, everyone was trying too hard to make things feel normal. But the air still had that weird aftertaste of past betrayals and secrets no one knew how to bring up.

It didn’t help that Dazai was acting… off.

Not in a “scheming to blow something up” kind of way. No, this was a new kind of Dazai.

A softer, quieter one.

A version of him that sometimes blanked out during conversations, or froze when someone spoke too fast, or—most notably—slipped into Russian. Like, constantly.

“Hey, Dazai,” Atsushi said gently one morning, passing him a warm cup of tea, “I figured you’d like this. It’s jasmine.”

Dazai blinked at him slowly.

“Spasibo.”

Atsushi stared. “...That’s not Japanese.”

Dazai’s eyes widened a little. “Oh. Right. Thank you.”

Naomi, sitting across the room, giggled. “It’s like teaching a foreign exchange student how to exist.”

Yosano snorted from her seat. “Well, to be fair, the guy did spend two years being brainwashed by a cryptic Russian gremlin.”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “You mean Fyodor?”

“Who else?” Yosano said, rolling her eyes.

Dazai was sitting cross-legged on the couch, blanket draped over his shoulders like some tragic 19th-century poet. He stared at his cup, then slowly lifted it to his lips.

And missed.

Tea sloshed all over his lap.

“Chto za—” Dazai muttered, blinking like the betrayal of hot tea had personally offended him.

“Don’t say it—” Ranpo cut in.

“—chert,” Dazai finished with a dramatic sigh.

Ranpo groaned. “Do you even remember how to curse in Japanese?”

Dazai smirked. “Oh, I remember. I just choose the more elegant language now.”

“Elegant my ass,” Chuuya said from across the room. “You sound like a confused mob boss who’s trying too hard to sound intimidating.”

Dazai didn’t respond. He just gave a tiny shrug, like he wasn’t sure how to answer that without proving Chuuya right.

Kenji, cheerful as ever, walked over with a clipboard. “We’re gonna help you re-learn everything, Dazai-san! Like how to say ‘yes’ in the right language, how to eat, how to blink like a human—”

“I remember how to blink, thank you.”

“Do you, though?” Tanizaki chimed in. “Because you’ve been staring at that one corner of the ceiling for twenty minutes.”

“I was thinking,” Dazai replied smoothly. “Something you should try sometime.”

Tanizaki narrowed his eyes. “He’s back.”

Chuuya, despite himself, chuckled. “Yeah. There’s the bastard we know.”

But even then, no one missed how Dazai flinched just a little when Tanizaki jokingly tossed a pillow toward him. Or how he curled into the couch like he wasn’t sure if it was safe to sit normally. It was subtle, but it was there.

And none of them ignored it.

So they made it a game.

Atsushi kept slipping sticky notes with Japanese phrases into Dazai’s coat pockets. Naomi left him lists like, “Say ‘thank you’ not ‘spasibo,’” with doodles of angry chibi people. Kunikida printed out full daily schedule templates titled: “How to be Functionally Normal Again: A Guide for War Criminals.”

Dazai laughed at that one. Genuinely.

“Thanks, Kunikida,” he said one day, glancing down at the neat, bullet-pointed itinerary. “You really know how to say ‘I hate you’ without saying it.”

Kunikida gave him a tight smile. “It’s either this or I sedate you.”

Ranpo even wrote a quiz titled “Are You Fluent in Basic Japanese or Just a Pretentious Polyglot with Issues?” and made Dazai take it during lunch.

He failed.

But the point wasn’t to shame him.

It was to bring him back.

Chuuya knew this better than anyone. He’d been quiet about it, letting the others tease and help in their own ways. But when it was just the two of them—when the lights were low and the voices were gone—he’d sit beside Dazai on the Agency rooftop and ask him soft things like:

“Do you remember your favorite snack?”
“Do you still hum when you're bored?”
“Do you still know who you are?”

And slowly—painfully—Dazai started to.

By the end of the week, Dazai sat at his desk, squinting at the sticky note Atsushi left that morning.

It read:

“Just say ‘yeah’ not ‘da.’ Love u, team chaos.”

He chuckled softly.

Then, when Chuuya passed by and handed him a report, Dazai looked up with a tired smile and said,

“...Yeah. Thanks.”

No accent. No slips. Just him.

And everyone froze like they’d seen a unicorn.

Chuuya blinked. “Was that…”

“Japanese?” Dazai asked innocently. “Shocking, I know.”

Ranpo stood up dramatically. “Hold my tea, I need to record this moment in the history books.”

Naomi shrieked. Kenji clapped. Atsushi fist-pumped in the corner like he’d just won an Olympic medal.

And Dazai?

He just sat there, sipping his tea without spilling it this time.

Slowly but surely...

He was coming back.

The morning started peaceful—too peaceful, honestly.

Dazai was sipping coffee like a suspicious little gremlin in the corner of the ADA office while Chuuya flipped through reports with his usual dramatic sighs.

Then.

Kunikida slammed the door open.

“WE’VE LOST THEM.”

Everyone blinked.

“Lost who?” Dazai asked slowly, already half-smiling like he was ready to start a game of Clue.

“Atsushi. Kyouka. Kenji. Tanizaki. ALL. MISSING. They left for recon in the city and never came back!”

Everyone froze.

“What do you mean lost? Like… lost lost?” Chuuya squinted.

“They said they were going to ‘just check out this big bookstore’—then radio silence.”

“Oh gods,” Chuuya muttered, standing. “And YOU didn’t think to keep track of the CHILDREN?”

“They’re not children—!”

“They ARE when they’re in a city that’s bigger than Yokohama and more confusing than Dazai’s moral compass!”

Dazai choked on his coffee.

“He’s got a point,” Dazai coughed. “This city is a maze. Remember last time you got lost and screamed at a bus for ten minutes?”

“You said it was a robot!!”

“And it wasn’t.”

So of course, the only logical solution…

Was to send Mama Chuuya and Dad-zai to go find them.

Cue the montage of Chuuya angrily marching through the city holding a picture of Atsushi to strangers while Dazai wandered beside him, eating mochi and pretending this was a vacation.

“How do you lose FOUR people, Dazai?! FOUR!”

“You’d be surprised how sneaky our kids are. I bet Kyouka’s leading them. She has that energy.”

“If she led them into a mall again I swear—”

Meanwhile, cut to the Lost Four…

They’re in the middle of a HUGE mega-mall, holding bubble tea, a bag of plushies, and zero idea where the exit is.

“Kyouka, are we… lost?” Atsushi asked.

“No. We’re just... wandering with intensity.”

“I like this place,” Kenji smiled. “It has free air-conditioning.”

“We’ve passed the same anime store six times!” Tanizaki whined.

Back to our search party:

Dazai was walking backwards while singing a song he just made up about “losing your agency juniors in a scary giant city” and Chuuya was SO done.

“Dazai, we need to focus!”

“I am focused. I’m emotionally connected to the chaos. I’m channeling them.”

“What does that even mean?!”

Just then, Chuuya spotted a familiar white tuft of hair.

“THERE!”

Atsushi turned, blinked—then screamed:

“IT’S MAMA CHUUYA AND DAD-ZAI!”

Kyouka calmly waved. Tanizaki dropped his plushies. Kenji just smiled like he was on a field trip.

Chuuya stormed up.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED WE WERE?!”

“Sorry…” Atsushi mumbled.

“We got bubble tea,” Kyouka offered, holding out a cup.

Dazai, looking smug:

“See? I told you I’d emotionally sense them.”

Chuuya:

“You were literally stuck in a claw machine thirty minutes ago.”

“Details~”

Later that evening, back at the ADA:

Ranpo was dying laughing after hearing the whole story. Kunikida was trying not to implode. Yosano was already joking about printing “Lost Child” posters next time.

And Chuuya?

He flopped onto the couch and looked at Dazai, deadpan.

“You’re never allowed to call yourself the responsible one again.”

“But I got us home, didn’t I~?”

“You bribed a taxi driver with bubble tea.”

“It worked, didn’t it~?”It started with one word.

“Spasibo,” Dazai muttered one morning when Yosano passed him a folder.

Everyone froze.

Ranpo dropped his snack. Atsushi dropped his pen. Kunikida squinted like Dazai had just committed tax fraud.

“Was that…” Yosano blinked. “Did you just say thank you… in Russian?”

Dazai blinked, confused.

“Oh. Huh. Guess I did.”

“HE SAID IT AGAIN!!” Tanizaki shouted.

“GET HIM!!!”

Atsushi literally dove over the table while Kenji bear-hugged him from behind.

“STOP!! THIS IS HUG ABUSE!!” Dazai screeched as he got absolutely dogpiled by the entire ADA.

From that day on, the rule was born.

📜 Rule #13: If Dazai speaks Russian, he gets a hug. Immediately. No exceptions. 📜

“He can speak normal again,” Yosano argued during the team vote, “So this is fair punishment.”

“And he hates hugs,” Kunikida added. “So it’s even more effective than yelling.”

Ranpo grinned.

“This is the best day of my life.”

Even Fukuzawa approved. Barely. With a raised eyebrow and the tiniest of smirks.

“Agreed. Use with discretion.”

Day 1 of the Rule

Dazai: “Dobroye utro—”

Everyone: TACKLE MODE ENGAGED

Dazai: “NO. I MEANT GOOD MORNING—KYOUKA LET GO OF MY ARM—KENJI STOP HUGGING MY KNEES—”

Chuuya (passing by): “What the hell—why are you all mauling him?”

“Russian.”

“Say no more.”

Chuuya joined in.

Day 2

Dazai tried to be slick.

He sneezed in Russian. Or at least, that’s what Atsushi claimed.

“He went ‘apchí’ with an accent!”

“It counts!”

“TACKLE THE MAN!”

Day 3: The Breakdown

Dazai was suffering. Absolutely feral.

He couldn’t mutter “idiot” under his breath in Russian. Couldn’t joke about “the gulag.” Couldn’t even count out loud past “dva” without getting hugged so violently he lost circulation.

“I feel violated,” he groaned, collapsed on the couch, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled from too much human contact.

Ranpo snacked on chips nearby, smug.

“You could just stop using Russian, you know~”

Dazai glared.

“That’s like asking me to stop being mysterious.”

“So… you mean annoying?”

“SHUT UP, RANPO.”

Bonus: The Twist

One day, Dazai intentionally muttered a full sentence in Russian.

“Я надеюсь, ты споткнёшься о Lego.”
(I hope you trip on a Lego.)

Everyone: “RUSSIAN!!”

Cue the mega group hug.

But this time…

Dazai didn’t squirm.

He didn’t screech.

He didn’t even smirk.

He just… sighed. A tiny, soft breath.

“You guys are relentless,” he mumbled. “But…”

“But what?” Atsushi asked.

“But I guess it’s not the worst thing.”

Everyone blinked.

Kenji gasped. Kunikida almost dropped his clipboard.

“Did… did Dazai just accept a hug?”

“No, no, no, that’s ILLEGAL.”

“He’s BROKEN.”

Dazai just smiled faintly.

And for the first time in a while, it wasn’t fake.

Chapter Text

It was Ranpo who noticed first—something off.

Chuuya hadn’t come back from a routine walk to pick up tea.

“He’s not answering his phone,” Yosano muttered, eyes narrowing.

“And he’s not the type to ghost people,” Atsushi added.

Dazai sat still, head slowly rising. There was a tension in his jaw no one had seen in a long time.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“About 30 minutes ago,” Kenji said. “Said he wanted fresh air.”

But fresh air didn’t take this long.

Suddenly, the lights flickered.

Ranpo froze. His eyes widened like he’d been punched in the gut.

“No… no no no no—he wouldn’t—”

“Ranpo?” Tanizaki asked nervously.

“He’s back.”

Cut to: Chuuya.

He woke up to ropes digging into his wrists, the scent of copper and cold metal thick in the air.

And laughter.

That voice. That awful, fake-laughing voice that never quite reached his eyes.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty~” Nikolai Gogol sang, dangling upside down from the ceiling like a nightmare ballerina.

Chuuya growled. “What the hell do you want?”

“Oh, nothing~ Just wanted to borrow something precious to our dear friend, Dazai Osamu.”

“You—”

“See, I’ve been watching, Chuuya. And I’ve been waiting. I was so bored. But then I saw the news. Dazai, the great Dazai, hiding out in that boring little building with his cute little detective friends?”

Nikolai flipped and landed gracefully on his feet, face right in front of Chuuya’s.

“Disgusting. You humans are so predictable. So emotional. I wonder what he’ll do when I take the one thing he didn’t plan for.”

He twirled a knife between his fingers, humming a circus tune.

Back at the ADA—

Ranpo and Dazai stood in the office, staring at the grainy security footage someone had emailed to them.

A low-quality, shaky camera. A street corner. And Chuuya… being yanked into a black van by an all too familiar white-gloved hand.

“Gogol,” Dazai said, voice flat.

Ranpo nodded.

“He's back. And he’s playing with your weaknesses.”

Dazai’s hands curled into fists.

“Then I’ll play back.”

But this time… no fake smiles. No dramatic flair.

This was personal.

It was late.

The ADA’s lights had dimmed for the night. Everyone had gone home except for Dazai, who sat alone in the dark conference room, staring at a map of the city. His reflection on the glass window was tired, unshaven, and a little bit broken.

That was when his phone buzzed.

A video message. No caller ID.

He opened it. A flicker of static. Then a very familiar voice filled the air like poison.

“Ahhhh~ Dazai~”

Nikolai Gogol’s face appeared on screen, grinning so wide it nearly split his cheeks.

Behind him was Chuuya, unconscious, tied to a chair with his head hanging forward.

“You’re probably wondering what I want, right? Maybe I want to kill Chuuya. Maybe I want to paint your precious ADA red. Or maybe…”

He paused.

“Maybe I want to tell him the truth.”

Dazai’s heart dropped.

Gogol tilted the camera, whispering:

“The real truth. About you. About why you’re always ten steps ahead. Why you knew Fyodor’s plan. Why you can’t die. About how you are—”

Dazai gritted his teeth and whispered before Gogol could finish, “…the Book.”

Gogol’s laughter echoed louder than ever.

“Oh, he knows, folks! But I bet Chuuya doesn’t. I bet the ADA doesn’t. I bet even Mori would lose his damn mind if he found out that the most powerful object in the world isn’t some leather-bound thing in a vault—it’s you.”

The screen glitched again, and then came the final words:

“You’ve got 24 hours before I spill the ink, my dear Osamu. Tick tock.”

Then—static.

Dazai dropped the phone.

He sat back in the chair, eyes wide, hands shaking.

Because the truth? The truth was worse than anything Gogol could do to Chuuya.

He was the Book.

Not holding it. Not reading it. He was made from it.

Born from its pages. Living, breathing potential to change reality.

Every plan, every “miracle,” every perfect twist of fate—it wasn’t just luck.

It was him.

And no one knew. Not Mori. Not Ranpo. Not even Chuuya.

Because how do you tell someone you were never really a person to begin with?

Later that night, in a different part of the city, Ranpo paced across the rooftop of the ADA HQ.

Dazai joined him quietly, the wind cold on his face.

“He knows,” Dazai said simply.

Ranpo stopped.

“So it’s true.”

Dazai nodded.

Ranpo didn’t look surprised. Just tired.

“I always had a hunch. You always knew too much. Too fast. The only thing that didn’t make sense was why you were so sad.”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to be sad,” Dazai muttered. “I wasn’t supposed to feel. Just… rewrite the story.”

“But you do feel.”

“Unfortunately.”

There was a pause.

“What are you going to do?” Ranpo asked.

“Protect Chuuya. No matter what it costs.”

Meanwhile, in the place Gogol was hiding Chuuya, the redhead slowly started to come to.

He lifted his head weakly.

“You’re a freakin’ clown,” he muttered to Gogol, who was now doing cartwheels.

“Aw, thanks~ I get that a lot!” Nikolai chirped. “But hey, Chuuya, wanna know something fun?”

He crouched beside him, voice lowering.

“Did you know your boyfriend isn’t real?”

Chuuya blinked.

“...What?”

“Yep! Dazai Osamu—your precious partner, your bitter ex, your lifelong headache—is the Book! You know, the Book? That stupid magical object everyone’s been chasing for years?”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

Gogol pulled out a small projector and hit play. A clip began to play. Footage. Old. Fuzzy. A lab.

And in the middle… a child.

With bandaged arms, eyes too knowing for his age. Doctors whispered:

“The Book's powers... manifested in human form…”

Chuuya watched in horror. His eyes shook.

Gogol grinned.

“And now you know. So what are you gonna do?”

It happened all at once.

One second, everything was calm at ADA HQ—Atsushi and Kenji were arguing over snacks, Kunikida was writing a new schedule for Dazai’s behavior-modification hugs, and Chuuya was still recovering from the emotional trauma of his Gogol-induced kidnapping.

Then—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Every computer in the Agency started flashing.

ALERT: Global Broadcast — Emergency-Level Transmission

Ranpo bolted into the room, eyes wide. “Turn on the news. Now.”

Fukuzawa clicked the screen on the wall. Static. Then—Gogol.

His face filled every screen in every agency. Every Port Mafia monitor. Even foreign organizations like the Guild, the European mafia branches, and probably a few shady pizza chains. Gogol had hacked them all.

He was wearing a glittery top hat this time. Insane as always. But serious.

“HELLOOOOOOO WORLD! It’s your friendly chaos ambassador Gogol~! And today’s juicy scoop is: the Book has been found. Surprise! It was never missing. Because…”

He stepped aside.

A holographic image of Dazai Osamu appeared behind him. Calm. Blank. Cold.

“It is him.”

The footage played. The lab. The child-Dazai. Medical documents. Clips of him surviving things no normal person should survive. Clips of him speaking words and watching reality shift. His fights with Fyodor. His silence in interrogation. His stare when the ADA found out.

“He’s not just smart. He’s not just lucky. He’s everything rewritten into human form. The power of the Book… is in his veins.”

“And all of you were played.”

Gogol gave a mocking bow.

“So~ whatcha gonna do now, world?”

The screens went black.

There was silence.

No one spoke.

Atsushi’s claws were halfway out. Kyouka looked sick. Kenji had dropped his rice cracker. Tanizaki and Naomi stared blankly at the floor. Even Kunikida… his hands trembled.

And Chuuya?

He stood up.

Walked straight to the holding cell hallway.

And found Dazai already sitting up in his cot, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Like he already knew.

Chuuya didn’t say anything. He just opened the door.

“...Well?” Dazai said, voice hoarse. “Say it.”

Chuuya looked at him.

Then whispered:

“Is it true?”

Dazai didn’t look up. He just nodded once.

“They made me from it. I don’t know how. I just remember waking up, covered in wires and questions. Every time I wanted something to go right, it did. Every time I begged the world to end, it tried. I thought… maybe if I became someone useful, they’d stop being scared of me.”

Chuuya sat down.

“You could’ve told me.”

“And say what? ‘Hey, Chuuya, I’m literally not real. Also I might rewrite your memories if I think about it too hard’?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Dazai finally looked up, eyes glassy. “No. I wouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t.”

Back in the main room, everyone was spiraling.

Mori had called in. So had Ango. And even Fitzgerald wanted to schedule a conference.

Ranpo sat in the middle of it all, rubbing his temples. “They’re gonna want him dead,” he muttered. “Every single one of them. Not because he’s evil—but because they’re scared.”

Fukuzawa stayed silent. Until he stood up.

“Then we protect him.”

Atsushi looked up. “But… what if Gogol’s right?”

“Even if he is,” Ranpo said, “Dazai chose to save us. Over and over again. That’s real.”

But then—

Another alert.

This time, a direct message.

From Gogol.

One line of text:

“I’m not done. He has one more secret. One even he doesn’t know yet.”

The air in the conference room was thick.

Everyone had been shouting—about Gogol, about Dazai, about the Book, the betrayal, the truth, the fact that the whole damn world was now aiming missiles at Yokohama. Kunikida was yelling. Atsushi’s hands were shaking. Chuuya looked like he was stuck somewhere between rage and heartbreak.

Then—

SLAM.

The door burst open.

Dazai stood there, breathing hard, shoulders tense. His coat was still half-off his shoulders. Eyes hollow. Voice steady.

“I can make everyone forget me.”

The entire room froze.

Kenji slowly turned his head. “Huh?”

Kunikida stood up. “What the hell are you talking about, Dazai?”

“It’s not a theory. I’ve done it before,” he said quietly, stepping into the room. “A long time ago. When I first realized what I was. I erased memories. Small ones at first. Then larger. I made people forget me… because it was easier than being feared.”

Atsushi looked horrified. “You mean—like mind wiping?!”

“No, not that clean,” Dazai muttered. “More like… I take the pieces I’m a part of, and I dissolve. I bend the narrative. To them, I was never born. The Book just… never included me.”

Chuuya stood up fast. “You’re NOT doing that again.”

“Chuuya—”

“NO. You don’t get to erase yourself just because you think it’ll fix things!”

“People are dying because of me,” Dazai snapped. “They’re going to hunt me until this whole city burns to the ground. I thought I could outmaneuver Gogol. I did. But I didn’t expect him to tell the world. I didn’t expect to be known.”

The president leaned forward. “And what would that fix, Dazai? If you disappear, we lose your plans. Your mind. Your power.”

“Then take what you need. While I’m still here.”

Ranpo stood up, slamming his hands on the table.

“You’re not disposable, you idiot. You’re not some walking reset button. You think we’ve all been through this much just to let you walk away?”

“You all don’t get it,” Dazai hissed. “I was never supposed to exist. I was written into this world. I’m not a character—I’m a mistake the Book made. And now it’s unraveling. People are scared. And when people are scared of me, they die.”

Chuuya walked up, grabbed his collar.

“You don’t get to die again. Not for us. Not for me.”

“You’re still mad at me.”

“I am mad. But I also still—”

He didn’t say it.

But Dazai knew. He saw it in the way Chuuya's voice cracked. The way his hands trembled.

In the hallway, after the meeting exploded into chaos, Dazai stood alone.

The city outside was bathed in gold. Sunlight hit the windows like something divine. It should’ve felt warm. It didn’t.

His fingers twitched.

He could feel it. That pull. That raw, terrifying power inside him whispering:
“Let me rewrite the world again.”

He knew he could. He could walk into every government server. Every criminal organization memory. Every soul and every database.

He could make it all vanish.

Make him vanish.

But…

“Hey.”

Chuuya’s voice.

Dazai turned slowly.

“You're not going anywhere without me.”

Dazai swallowed. “If I do it, you won’t remember me.”

Chuuya shoved his hands in his pockets. “You think I give a damn?”

“Chuuya—”

“No. You listen to me. You made your choice back then. With Fyodor. With the mafia. With the ADA. And even when it hurt like hell, you always chose to keep us safe—even if it meant pretending you were the villain.”

Chuuya stepped closer.

“But now? You don’t get to choose alone. You’ve got a family. People who love you. Idiots who’d run through fire for you. And yeah—maybe the whole world is scared. Maybe it’ll get worse. But if you try to disappear again…”

He grabbed Dazai’s hand. Held it tightly.

“I’ll find you. Even if I forget your name. I’ll find you again. Because that’s what we do.”

Dazai didn’t speak.

Not right away.

Then—

“That’s not fair.”

His voice broke. Just slightly.

“Yeah,” Chuuya whispered. “Neither is life.”

In the meeting room, Kunikida was muttering to himself.

“We’ll find a way to fix this. We will. Even if we have to stand against every damn organization that comes for him.”

Ranpo nodded. “We protect our own.”

Atsushi, wide-eyed and trembling, added, “I’ll fight for him.”

Even Kyouka whispered, “He saved me. I’ll return that.”

Dazai, that night, didn’t sleep.

He stared at the ceiling.

Not planning. Not thinking.

Just feeling.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t trying to outsmart death. Or fate. Or Gogol.

He was trying to live with himself.

And maybe, just maybe…

Let others live with him too.

Dazai stood beneath the sunset, wind curling through his coat, the city bathed in dying gold. The end of everything he knew was quiet.

He had made his decision.

The world knew now. The secret was out.

He was the Book.
He was never meant to exist.

Countries were already making plans. Armies were positioning. The mere concept of a human being who could bend reality? That was enough to set the world ablaze.

And the only way to stop it... was to make them forget.

All of them.

Even the ones he loved most.

Dazai had 48 hours. That was all the power would allow—just enough time to seal off every trace of himself from the Book, from history, from the minds of every soul he’d touched.

Except for his own.

Because forgetting himself? Would mean leaving the world defenseless.

And he wasn’t going to let that happen.

Not again.

He started small.

Kunikida.
He found him in the library, scribbling in his notebook, lips tight in frustration. Dazai pulled up a chair across from him.

“You know, your ideals are insufferable,” he said with a soft smirk. “But they kept me alive more than once.”

Kunikida looked up, startled.

“What are you—”

“You’ll forget this soon,” Dazai said gently. “But I wanted to say thank you. For believing in the idea of me, even when you hated me.”

Kunikida frowned. “Dazai, what the hell are you talking about—?”

But Dazai just smiled.

And Kunikida blinked.

Paused.

Then turned back to his notebook with confusion, as if someone had just left the room... but he didn’t know who.

Kenji and Kyouka were easier.

He brought them melon bread. They laughed, sitting at the park, Kenji running after pigeons and Kyouka watching the clouds with her chin in her hand.

“You two,” Dazai said softly. “You remind me what innocence looks like.”

“You’re weird,” Kenji giggled, mouth full.

“I know.”

“Are you sad?” Kyouka asked, staring at him too directly.

“Only a little,” he lied.

Then he reached out—touched their foreheads, just lightly.

And when they blinked again, he was gone.

The bench was empty.

They didn’t know why they felt sad.

Atsushi.
This one hurt.

He found the boy on the rooftop, watching the lights of the city below.

“Dazai-san!” Atsushi turned, smiling. “I was just thinking about—”

“You’re going to be okay,” Dazai interrupted. “You don’t need me anymore.”

“Wha— What? Why would you say that? Dazai—”

“Because I’m proud of you.”

Dazai stepped forward, arms slightly open, unsure.

“And I wanted to say that at least once.”

Atsushi stood there, confused… until Dazai hugged him.

A real, strong, brotherly hug.

“You saved me,” Dazai whispered. “More than I ever saved you.”

And when Atsushi opened his eyes again—

He was standing alone.

Ranpo.
He knew.

Of course he knew.

He cornered Dazai in the office at 2 a.m., eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

“So you’re doing it, huh?” he muttered.

“You figured it out,” Dazai said quietly.

Ranpo scowled. “You think I’d forget you? I’m me. You think my brain’s that easy to wipe?”

“You might forget the name,” Dazai said. “But not the feeling. Not the irritation of being constantly outsmarted.”

Ranpo sighed, eyes misting over even as he chuckled.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah.”

Ranpo hugged him. Tight.

And said nothing more.

And then there was Chuuya.

Dazai found him on the bridge, leaning over the railing, city lights flickering below.

“Hey,” Dazai said softly.

Chuuya turned.

He knew. Of course he knew. The look in his eyes was hollow.

“You really gonna do it, huh?”

Dazai nodded. “They’ll kill everyone to get to me, Chuuya. Kids. Families. The ADA. The Mafia. Even you.”

Chuuya’s hands clenched into fists.

“Then let them try. Let me protect you.”

“You already did. You always did.”

Dazai walked closer, heart pounding harder than it ever had. He looked up at the man he’d once hated. Once loved. Still loved.

“I’m scared,” he admitted.

“Then don’t go.”

“I have to.”

Silence.

Then—

Chuuya grabbed him. Crushed him in a hug. Pressed their foreheads together.

“I’ll find you,” Chuuya whispered, voice cracking. “Even if I don’t know who you are. I’ll find you.”

Dazai laughed—quiet, broken, and full of everything he couldn’t say.

“I’ll be waiting.”

The last memory he gave was his own.

He stood in the mirror, alone, and stared.

“Osamu Dazai. Twenty-two. Member of the Armed Detective Agency. Former executive of the Port Mafia. Genius. Monster. Friend.”

He blinked.

Smiled.

“Maybe now... you’ll finally be at peace.”

The next morning, Yokohama woke up.

And no one remembered him.

There were strange moments—awkward pauses, fragments of missions with missing players. Holes in memories that couldn't be explained. A name that lingered on the tip of the tongue.

But no one remembered his face.

Except Chuuya.

Chuuya didn’t know why, but he felt like something had been carved out of him. Like the wind was whispering a name he should know. Like every time he walked past a bookstore, his chest ached.

“I’ll find you,” he muttered one night, staring at the stars.
“I promise.”

Chapter Text

He stood in front of the ADA building, wind brushing past his coat. It was strange being here again.
So familiar.
So different.

This was a new era. A clean slate.

No one knew who he was.

Not Kunikida. Not Atsushi. Not even Ranpo.

And Chuuya…
God, Chuuya.

He didn’t remember a thing.

Dazai walked inside with his trademark calm smile, though his fingers were shaking in his pockets. The bell over the door chimed.

Kunikida looked up from his clipboard. “You must be the new recruit,” he said briskly, standing up to shake his hand. “Osamu Dazai, right?”

He nodded, quietly. “Yes. Thank you for having me.”

Atsushi popped up next to them with a wide grin. “Hey, I’m Atsushi! You’re gonna love it here. The president usually gives new people a day to get used to things, but there’s melon bread in the break room—”

Dazai laughed under his breath. Soft. Too soft. Like it hurt.

They’re all so kind to me.
And none of them know what I gave up for them.

Throughout the day, he played the role.

The “awkwardly funny,” charming new guy. The intelligent one with too much mystery in his eyes. He smiled at Tanizaki, praised Kenji’s strength, complimented Ranpo’s intellect—and all of them beamed at him, like they had no idea they’d known him their whole lives before.

Because they hadn’t.

Not anymore.

And then it happened.

The elevator doors opened with a ding.

Boots clicked on tile.

And in walked the reason he was doing any of this.

Chuuya.

Black gloves. Crimson coat. Eyes that could freeze time. He had his usual scowl—grumbling about being called in on his day off—but his voice…

God, Dazai had missed his voice.

Chuuya glanced at him as he passed by. Just a casual once-over.

“This the new guy?” he muttered to Kunikida.

“Yeah. Osamu Dazai. Supposed to be some kind of genius.”

“Tch. He better be.”

And just like that, he walked past him.

No glare. No insult. No calling him “bandage freak” or “suicidal maniac.”
No spark of recognition.

Dazai clenched his jaw.

He didn’t show it—of course not. But his throat burned like fire. His vision blurred for one second.
He almost cried.

He doesn’t know me.
He doesn’t remember anything. Not the rooftop. Not the promises. Not the rain. Not even the way we danced through hell together.

But Chuuya suddenly slowed.

He looked back.

Just for a second. Brow furrowing, like a puzzle piece wasn’t quite fitting.

“Have we met before?” he asked suddenly.

Dazai’s heart jumped.

He shook his head, too fast. “No. First time.”

Chuuya looked at him for a long second.
Then shrugged.

“Weird. You just feel… familiar.”

“Maybe I just have one of those faces.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Tch. Great. Another smooth-talker.”

But he turned back around.

And didn’t say anything more.

Later that night, Dazai sat alone in the office, lights dim, moonlight pouring in through the window.

He pulled a photo out of his coat. A blurry image. A stolen moment. All of them—together—laughing, before the world turned on him. Before he chose to be forgotten.

“I’m back,” he whispered.

He smiled.

And cried.

Just a little.

The office was unusually peaceful that morning.

Sunlight trickled through the windows of the Armed Detective Agency like golden threads, brushing against the hardwood floors and bouncing off scattered papers and half-finished cups of tea. Laughter drifted through the air from Kenji and Tanizaki bickering over who had stolen the last rice cracker, and Kyouka sat curled on the couch beside Yosano, eating mochi and flipping through a light novel.

At a desk tucked away in the corner, Dazai Osamu sat quietly, fingers rhythmically tapping the keyboard in front of him. No dramatic sighs. No outlandish schemes. No attempts to throw himself out a window. Just... quiet.

You’d never guess he was the infamous Dazai. Not anymore.

Still, everyone loved him.

Kunikida, though suspicious at first, would occasionally leave a perfectly sharpened pencil on Dazai’s desk. Atsushi always invited him to lunch. Kyouka gave him her spare keychain shaped like a rabbit. Even Fukuzawa, who never said much, began to nod when he passed Dazai in the halls—an unspoken acceptance.

And somehow, it was enough.

Dazai played his role well. The quiet coworker. The smart but distant one. No longer center-stage but always included, always invited. He chuckled softly when Ranpo made jokes, nodded when Yosano told him to pass the sugar, and even once volunteered to refill the coffee pot. (It shocked everyone, of course.)

But none of them knew.

None of them remembered the life he left behind.

None of them knew he was the Book.

And that was the point.

He walked through his new life like a man wrapped in glass, fragile and watching. Careful not to get too close. Careful not to shatter.

Because if anyone touched him too deeply, they'd see it—the truth underneath. And the world couldn't survive that again.

That afternoon, when the sunlight had shifted to a warm gold, and the office began to settle into quiet hums and soft footsteps, Dazai slipped away. He moved soundlessly down the hall, into the supply closet no one used, the one behind the dusty filing cabinets. He clicked the lock shut.

The silence inside was thick.

He leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor, knees pulled to his chest.

No one saw this version of him. Not anymore.

He didn’t wear bandages now—he didn’t need to. But the scars were still there, etched deep in the marrow of his bones, twisting through muscle and thought like ink in water.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he spoke to himself out loud.

"You're good at lying, aren’t you?" he whispered.

His voice was hoarse, strained. Not with emotion—but with wear.

"They all look at you like you’re just another agent now. Some quiet new guy who smiles politely and says thank you. Someone normal.”

He laughed quietly. Bitter.

“But you’re not.”

He paused, breath catching.

“You’re the Book. You always were.”

The words slipped out like a curse. Like a confession.

"The one thing everyone wanted... and I never even asked for it."

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

He wasn’t crying because of what he was. He was crying because no matter how much he gave up—his past, his name, his family—he still couldn’t run away from it.

He rested his head back against the wall.

"They all think I died to protect them... and I did. But what does that even matter now? They don’t remember. Not really. Just fuzzy dreams. Familiar feelings."

His voice grew softer.

"Chuuya looked at me the other day… and for a second, I thought he knew. That maybe he remembered. But he just smiled and asked if I wanted to come with him to the bakery."

He shut his eyes.

"And I said yes."

For a moment, everything was quiet again.

Until Dazai stood. Slowly. Purposefully.

He unlocked the door.

Stepped out into the hallway—

And didn’t notice the wide eyes peeking from behind the bookshelf just across the corridor.

Atsushi.

Frozen. Mouth covered with his hand, trying not to make a sound. His mind was racing—shaking—trying to process what he’d just heard.

Dazai...

Was the Book.

And suddenly, everything started to make sense.

[TO BE CONTINUED IN BOOK TWO]

Chapter Text

📢 Hey my beloved chaos crew and emotional masochists 💀💘

It’s me again… the one who made you cry, scream, and question everything in Book One: To Rewrite the World.

Guess what?

Book Two is officially happening.

The silence is over. The dust hasn’t even settled.
And somewhere in the back room of the Agency, someone is listening.

🧥 A coat left behind.
🐅 A tiger pacing the truth.
🕰 A timeline that never belonged to him.
🖋 And a Book… that never stopped writing.

Are you paying attention?

— Because not everyone forgot.

This new arc is going to dive even deeper into Dazai’s true role in the world’s balance, Atsushi’s slow obsession with the truth, and a few… familiar faces that might not be as gone as they seemed.

Expect:

Mori being scarier than ever ☠

A USB drive that doesn’t belong in this timeline 💻

Chuuya losing everything (or is he?) 💔

Dazai hiding secrets from even himself 🫥

Atsushi finally saying “I KNOW WHAT I SAW” with his whole chest 🗣

And maybe—just maybe—you’ll understand why Dazai made the choice he did.

The world needs to be rewritten again… and this time, it might break the author.

🗓 Book Two drops: JUNE 20, 2025.

Mark your calendars. Re-read the clues.

—Karlee 🖤
(The chaos never ended, it just evolved.)

Chapter Text

Atsushi stood frozen, back pressed against the cold wall of the hallway. His breath caught in his throat, and his hands trembled as he slowly pulled them down from his mouth. Dazai’s words echoed in his skull:

“I am the Book.”

What did that even mean? The Book? The Book?? The one everyone had been looking for? Fighting over?? People had died trying to find it—and it was Dazai this whole time?

He didn’t sleep that night.

And when morning came, Atsushi was already waiting at the ADA office before even Kunikida showed up. As everyone filtered in with sleepy grumbles and coffee cups, he blurted it out.

“Dazai is the Book!”

Everyone turned.

Silence.

Then Tanizaki blinked. “…The Book?”

Kenji tilted his head. “What book? Like a library one?”

Even Ranpo snorted from the couch. “Nice theory, detective number two, but Dazai? Nah. He’s weird, not that weird.”

Atsushi’s stomach sank.

“I’m serious! I heard him say it—last night. He said it out loud. He was talking to himself. He said ‘I’m the Book.’”

Yosano looked up from her clipboard. “You’re sure you didn’t imagine it, sweetie? Maybe it was just one of his dramatic monologues again.”

“No—I heard him—”

But no one believed him.

Except maybe Kyouka, who gave him a long glance and didn’t say anything. But it wasn’t enough.

So he did the only thing he could do—he started investigating.

Atsushi had no idea what he was doing.

He’d been tailing Dazai for over an hour now. Through Yokohama’s twisting streets, past busy intersections, around alleys that smelled like cigarettes and spilled secrets. It was like trying to follow a ghost. Dazai never moved in a straight line. He wandered like he was chasing something only he could see.

But Atsushi was determined. No one believed him, but he knew what he heard. If Dazai really was the Book… then whatever Dazai was doing now might prove it.

Eventually, Dazai stopped in front of an abandoned shrine tucked between two apartment buildings. Atsushi ducked behind a vending machine, pretending to examine a juice can while watching him.

Dazai stepped inside.

And didn’t come back out.

Atsushi waited a few minutes, then crept to the entrance. The shrine was… nothing special. Dusty, cracked wood, a few broken statues. Definitely not holy vibes. But there was something weird. A faint glow… behind the altar.

Atsushi tiptoed forward and—

click.

The floorboard dropped under him.

“AAAH—”

He barely had time to scream before the floor collapsed, and he tumbled into complete darkness.

⸻

He hit the ground hard, groaning, surrounded by stone walls and damp air. It was some kind of underground tunnel. Was this part of the shrine? No… it felt ancient. Unmapped.

Torchlight flickered up ahead.

Atsushi crept forward, heart pounding, until he reached a massive chamber.

And there, at the center—

Was Dazai. Standing in front of a wall covered in notes, strings, photographs… and pages from the Book.

But that wasn’t the wild part.

The wild part was this:

Dazai wasn’t alone.

He was talking to a man Atsushi knew was dead.

“Nakahara…?” Atsushi whispered.

It was Fyodor. His image was faint. Transparent. Like a projection. But it was him. The man who’d haunted their lives, brought chaos and pain—and died by Dazai’s own hand.

And he was laughing.

“Still using me like a puppet, Osamu? You’ve gotten even colder.”

Dazai didn’t answer. He just stared at the screen, the data, the web of clues he’d built.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Dazai muttered. “I’m doing this so no one ever uses me again.”

Atsushi’s eyes widened.

He backed away—crack.

A stone shifted under his foot.

Dazai’s head turned.

“Who’s there?”

Atsushi’s blood ran cold.

Chapter Text

Atsushi stood frozen, back pressed against the cold wall of the hallway. His breath caught in his throat, and his hands trembled as he slowly pulled them down from his mouth. Dazai’s words echoed in his skull:

“I am the Book.”

What did that even mean? The Book? The Book?? The one everyone had been looking for? Fighting over?? People had died trying to find it—and it was Dazai this whole time?

He didn’t sleep that night.

And when morning came, Atsushi was already waiting at the ADA office before even Kunikida showed up. As everyone filtered in with sleepy grumbles and coffee cups, he blurted it out.

“Dazai is the Book!”

Everyone turned.

Silence.

Then Tanizaki blinked. “…The Book?”

Kenji tilted his head. “What book? Like a library one?”

Even Ranpo snorted from the couch. “Nice theory, detective number two, but Dazai? Nah. He’s weird, not that weird.”

Atsushi’s stomach sank.

“I’m serious! I heard him say it—last night. He said it out loud. He was talking to himself. He said ‘I’m the Book.’”

Yosano looked up from her clipboard. “You’re sure you didn’t imagine it, sweetie? Maybe it was just one of his dramatic monologues again.”

“No—I heard him—”

But no one believed him.

Except maybe Kyouka, who gave him a long glance and didn’t say anything. But it wasn’t enough.

So he did the only thing he could do—he started investigating.

Atsushi had no idea what he was doing.

He'd been tailing Dazai for over an hour now. Through Yokohama’s twisting streets, past busy intersections, around alleys that smelled like cigarettes and spilled secrets. It was like trying to follow a ghost. Dazai never moved in a straight line. He wandered like he was chasing something only he could see.

But Atsushi was determined. No one believed him, but he knew what he heard. If Dazai really was the Book… then whatever Dazai was doing now might prove it.

Eventually, Dazai stopped in front of an abandoned shrine tucked between two apartment buildings. Atsushi ducked behind a vending machine, pretending to examine a juice can while watching him.

Dazai stepped inside.

And didn’t come back out.

Atsushi waited a few minutes, then crept to the entrance. The shrine was… nothing special. Dusty, cracked wood, a few broken statues. Definitely not holy vibes. But there was something weird. A faint glow… behind the altar.

Atsushi tiptoed forward and—

click.

The floorboard dropped under him.

“AAAH—”

He barely had time to scream before the floor collapsed, and he tumbled into complete darkness.

He hit the ground hard, groaning, surrounded by stone walls and damp air. It was some kind of underground tunnel. Was this part of the shrine? No… it felt ancient. Unmapped.

Torchlight flickered up ahead.

Atsushi crept forward, heart pounding, until he reached a massive chamber.

And there, at the center—

Was Dazai. Standing in front of a wall covered in notes, strings, photographs… and pages from the Book.

But that wasn’t the wild part.

The wild part was this:

Dazai wasn’t alone.

He was talking to a man Atsushi knew was dead.

“Nakahara...?” Atsushi whispered.

It was Fyodor. His image was faint. Transparent. Like a projection. But it was him. The man who’d haunted their lives, brought chaos and pain—and died by Dazai’s own hand.

And he was laughing.

“Still using me like a puppet, Osamu? You’ve gotten even colder.”

Dazai didn’t answer. He just stared at the screen, the data, the web of clues he’d built.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Dazai muttered. “I’m doing this so no one ever uses me again.”

Atsushi’s eyes widened.

He backed away—crack.

A stone shifted under his foot.

Dazai’s head turned.

“Who’s there?”

Atsushi’s blood ran cold.

Atsushi froze.
One second he was standing in shock, the next—

WHAM.

A blur of movement.

A hand clamped around his throat.

He gasped, choking, as his back slammed into the cold wall of the underground chamber. His claws came out instinctively, eyes glowing gold in the dark—he could see clearly. But Dazai’s strength was like a storm. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Who’s there?” Dazai’s voice was ice. “Speak.”

Atsushi clawed at the hand around his neck. “D-Dazai—i-it’s me—!”

The flicker of a candle caught his face just in time.

Dazai’s eyes narrowed, recognizing the white hair. The trembling hands. The terror.

“Atsushi…?”

He loosened his grip. Just a bit.

Atsushi collapsed, coughing, claw marks scratched into the stone from the panic. His hand pressed to his throat, and he looked up with wide, watery eyes.

“W-why would you—?!”

Dazai crouched in front of him, eyes unreadable in the firelight. That once-familiar smirk? Gone. His expression was blank. Cold. Russian-touched in tone. Detached.

“What did you see?”

Atsushi flinched. “I—I saw you talking to—Fyodor—and the wall and—are you really—?!”

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Dazai's voice dropped into a venomous whisper. His hand gripped Atsushi’s shoulder.

“If you tell anyone what you saw, I will disappear again. This time for good.”

Atsushi’s breath hitched. “Y-You wouldn’t…”

“Try me.”

But Atsushi, trembling fingers and all, managed to slyly tap his phone hidden in his jacket.

Sent to: Kunikida 📗
Atsushi: “He’s hiding something. Fyodor. Secret lair. He choked me. He’s dangerous.”

He hit send.

Right before Dazai knocked the phone out of his hand and crushed it underfoot.

The screen cracked.

Too late.

Dazai stared down at the broken phone, then back at Atsushi. A ghost of something—hurt? guilt?—flashed in his eyes. But only for a second.

“They won’t believe you anyway.”

Elsewhere – ADA Office

Kunikida checked his phone during paperwork. He read the message.

Paused.

Laughed.

“Atsushi, seriously?” he muttered. “That’s your excuse for sneaking out of the dorms?”

He didn’t reply.

He didn’t take it seriously.

And the thing was?

Dazai knew he wouldn’t.

Back Underground

Dazai sighed and turned away from Atsushi, who was still on the floor, eyes filled with betrayal and fear.

“I didn’t want you to get involved in this,” Dazai said, quietly. “But now you’re a variable. I’ll have to adjust.”

“Dazai—what are you?!”

He didn’t answer. He just looked back at Atsushi, shadows dancing across his face, and said:

“You’ll understand soon. I promise. Just... stay alive long enough to see it.”

Then he disappeared into the dark tunnels, footsteps vanishing like a ghost in the wind.

Atsushi’s breath caught in his throat.
He stared at Dazai’s retreating figure, fury and panic boiling in his chest.

No.
I’m not just letting him walk away again!

With a growl, Atsushi summoned every drop of strength he had left. His legs pushed off the ground and he lunged forward, claws gleaming, fangs gritted—

“RAAAH—!”

But Dazai had already turned. Already predicted it.

CLACK.

Cold metal snapped onto Atsushi’s wrist mid-air.

Then—another.

Handcuffs.

Special ones. Reinforced with some kind of nullification tech that temporarily messed with his ability. Atsushi gasped—his balance thrown, strength fading for a second.

“Wha—what are these?!”

Dazai didn’t answer.

He raised a gloved hand. Thud.

Everything went black.

The Next Morning – ADA Dorms

Atsushi jolted upright in bed.

His heart pounded. His throat felt raw.

He looked around frantically. His phone was on the desk. His notebook on the floor. The dorm window open just slightly, letting in soft morning light.

Was it… a dream?

He touched his neck. Bruises.
His wrists. Slight indentations.

Not a dream.

“What the hell…?”

He scrambled out of bed, rushing to his desk. The phone? Factory reset. All data wiped.

He wiped the message I sent Kunikida?!

The panic clawed up his chest. He ran into the hallway, bare feet slapping against the floor, and burst into the ADA lounge where Kenji and Tanizaki were snacking like it was any normal day.

“Guys—Dazai—he—he handcuffed me and knocked me out and—”

Kenji looked up mid-bite of a rice ball. “Huh?? Mr. Dazai did what now?”

Tanizaki raised a brow. “Wait, Atsushi, you okay? You look like hell.”

“He knocked me out! I tried to tackle him after he threatened me! I’m telling you—he’s hiding something HUGE! I think—I think he’s—!”

The others blinked at him.

“...Are you sure it wasn’t just a nightmare?” Tanizaki asked carefully.

“No! It wasn’t—! Check my neck! My wrists!”

Tanizaki stood and gently grabbed Atsushi’s arm, inspecting it. “…Okay, yeah, that’s… kind of weird.”

“You’re just stressed,” Kenji said with a sunny smile. “Maybe you sleep-fought someone.”

Atsushi’s eye twitched. “I SLEEP-FIGHTED DAZAI INTO HANDCUFFING ME???”

The lounge went quiet.

Then someone cleared their throat.

“What’s this about handcuffs?” Dazai’s voice.

Atsushi whipped around.

He was standing in the doorway.

Calm. Casual. Smiling.

Wearing a stupid hoodie and sipping black coffee like he didn’t just commit a war crime.

“Good morning, sunshine~” he said lazily. “You’re loud today.”

Atsushi stepped back. “Y-You—!”

Dazai tilted his head. “Did you have another one of those weird dreams? You always get dramatic after nightmares.”

The others chuckled awkwardly.

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” Atsushi hissed.

Dazai leaned in slightly. “Then why doesn’t anyone believe you?”

Atsushi’s hands clenched into fists.

Dazai’s voice dropped lower—just enough so only he could hear.

“Keep talking, and I won’t be so nice next time.”

Then he winked and walked off like it was just another Tuesday.

Later – In Atsushi’s Room

He slammed the door shut behind him.

His heart thundered. His chest ached.

Why don’t they believe me?!

He sat at his desk, furiously flipping through the broken remains of his reset phone, looking for anything he could recover.

A single photo. Corrupted.

But it was from the underground—he recognized the stone.

I’ll prove it. I don’t care what it takes.

Then he opened his notebook and began writing down every memory. Every detail.

Names. Locations. Dialogues. What Dazai said. His tone. His eyes.

He’s hiding something so much bigger than just Fyodor.

He’s hiding who he truly is.

Chapter Text

“He’s not just some new guy!”
“Atsushi, please calm down—”
“You all KNEW him before! You loved him before! He’s not new! He’s Dazai!”

Silence fell in the room.

Yosano put her clipboard down. “Atsushi. Listen to yourself. None of us here have any memories of this man except that he joined the Agency a few weeks ago.”

“Because he erased them!” Atsushi yelled.

Kunikida sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That's... a big claim. And you have no proof. Are you hearing how that sounds?”

“YES. YES, I KNOW. It sounds insane!” Atsushi snapped, eyes wide. “But I’m not wrong!”

The worst part? He could feel that it wasn’t just them brushing him off.

They truly believed he was mistaken. Their eyes didn’t hold doubt. They held pity.

Even Kyouka, who used to trust him blindly, looked hesitant.

“I… don’t remember him,” she whispered. “I wish I did.”

Atsushi’s voice broke. “I swear… he was one of us. He was everything.”

And now? He was just Dazai Osamu.
Age: mid-20s.
Position: Agency rookie.
History: Transferred in with forged papers, supposedly “highly recommended.”

Lies. All of it.

But no one else remembered the way Dazai used to laugh.

The way he teased Chuuya or winked at Yosano or annoyed Kunikida with his entire existence.

It was all gone.

Back in the Office – That Afternoon

Dazai sat at his desk in the corner, spinning a pen with practiced fingers.

A soft smirk tugged at his lips.

Atsushi glared from across the room, hunched over some paperwork, trying to act normal while fighting the urge to flip the entire desk.

He’s pretending so well.
Even his tone’s changed. He lowered his energy. Speaks more professionally.
It’s fake. It’s all fake.

And I’m the only one who knows.

Dazai glanced up for a moment, caught Atsushi’s eye—

—and winked.

A chill ran down Atsushi’s spine.

He knew. He remembered. He was just choosing to pretend.

“Mr. Dazai!” Kenji called cheerfully. “Wanna join us for snacks?”

“Of course,” Dazai said, rising with that casual, lighthearted voice.

Monster, Atsushi thought.

Later That Night – Atsushi’s Notebook

The Dazai we once knew… he erased everything.
And somehow, he even made it feel normal.
But not to me. I remember. I REMEMBER.

And I’m not stopping until I figure out how to bring it all back.

The argument had already peaked.

Atsushi stood in the center of the office, face flushed, hair disheveled, voice hoarse from yelling.

“You’re all BLIND. You don’t see what he’s doing—!”

“Bro, we’re literally just trying to eat lunch,” Tanizaki mumbled, chewing.

“Yeah,” Kenji added helpfully, “and he brought rice crackers today. So he can’t be evil!”

Kunikida groaned into his notebook. “I am begging you to stop yelling.”

“HE ERASED YOUR MEMORIES!” Atsushi snapped, pointing right at Dazai.

And Dazai?

He just blinked lazily from his seat, legs crossed, hand under his chin like a polite little Victorian lady sipping murder tea.

“Atsushi-kun,” he said calmly. “I think you’re tired. Maybe you should lie down.”

Like hell I’m tired, Atsushi thought. I’m awake for the first time.

That’s when the door creaked open.

Boots hit the floor. Slow. Rhythmic. Confident.

A long sigh echoed through the room.

“Atsushi,” said a familiar voice, low and unimpressed, “what the actual hell are you screaming about now?”

Everyone turned. And there he was:

Chuuya Nakahara.

Long coat swaying. Red hair tied up. Eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man. And he looked done.

Atsushi froze.

Dazai’s eyes twitched—only a little, but enough.

“Oh!” Kyouka perked up. “Chuuya, you’re here early!”

He nodded once. “Mission briefing changed.”

Then he looked at Atsushi again. “Why does it sound like a therapy session gone wrong in here?”

“Because I’m trying to tell them the truth!” Atsushi shouted, finally pushing through the crowd. “Chuuya—you remember Dazai, right?!”

Chuuya blinked. His expression flickered—but only for a second. And then he looked confused.

“Dazai who?” he asked.

Atsushi’s heart dropped.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, not you too…”

Chuuya furrowed his brows. “I mean—yeah, I work with the guy,” he nodded over to Dazai in the corner, “but I don’t know him. We’ve only said like five words.”

Atsushi’s hands shook. “But you used to—! You two—you loved each other!”

The room went silent.

Dazai gave a small cough. “That’s incredibly inappropriate to say in the workplace, Atsushi-kun.”

Atsushi ignored him. “Chuuya, please. Please. You used to fight side by side. You called each other names. You were partners. You saved each other.”

And for a moment…

Just a moment…

Chuuya paused.

His jaw clenched. A glimmer of something flickered in his eyes.

“Tch,” he muttered, turning toward the hallway. “You need a nap.”

And he walked away.

Atsushi stood there, broken, shoulders trembling.

Dazai rose from his chair.

He crossed the room slowly, leaned in close to Atsushi’s ear, and whispered—

“Nice try, little tiger.”

Then he walked off, smile still soft, voice still warm.

But his eyes…?

Colder than ever.

The rest of the day was kinda… awful.

Atsushi kept walking into walls. Spilling coffee. Muttering “he erased your memories” under his breath like a mad scientist. Kyouka told him to go outside and touch grass. Kenji offered him a carrot.

But nothing helped.

Not even Tanizaki’s “comfort playlist” which, for some ungodly reason, was just a loop of lo-fi beats and that one TikTok audio of “Your honor, he's just a silly little guy.”

By 4 p.m., Atsushi was pacing in circles around the office couch. His hair was messier than ever. His phone battery was at 2%. And nobody took him seriously anymore—except the vending machine, which stole his money with the kind of evil Dazai could probably vibe with.

“Okay, think, Atsushi. You can’t keep screaming about Dazai being evil. You’re gonna get labeled ‘unhinged junior agent of the month.’ Again.”

So he decided to play it smart.

Operation: “Gaslight the Man Who Was Gaslit First” was now in effect.

And step one?

Chuuya.

Atsushi spotted him by the window, sipping coffee and looking like a Pinterest board for “grumpy-with-a-heart-of-gold aesthetic.”

“Hey,” Atsushi asked, voice a little shaky, “what do you think about Dazai?”

Chuuya glanced up. One brow lifted. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“Didn’t you yell about him being Satan earlier?”

“Shhh, that was old Atsushi. This is evolved Atsushi. Enlightened Atsushi.”

Chuuya made a face. “You sound like Dazai.”

Atsushi clutched his chest dramatically. “I’M OFFENDED.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes but eventually shrugged. He looked down into his coffee for a second—longer than he needed to.

“I dunno,” he muttered. “He’s… nice. Kind.”

Atsushi blinked. “You think he’s nice???”

Chuuya squinted at the window. “Well, yeah. He’s polite. Always offers help. Stupid jokes. Weird smiles. I dunno, it’s not a crime to be nice.”

Atsushi leaned in closer, his curiosity turning into pure ✨drama gremlin✨ energy.

“Sooo… you like him?”

Chuuya scoffed, cheeks definitely turning pink. “What? No. I just—he’s hot.”

…

The world. Went. Silent.

Atsushi blinked once. Twice.

“I’m sorry—what?”

Chuuya coughed into his sleeve. “I said he’s hot. Or whatever. Like… objectively. You know. Like the way people think that guy from the weather channel is hot. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“You think Dazai’s like the weather guy?!”

Chuuya turned to him, eyes wide. “FORGET I SAID ANYTHING—”

“OH MY GOD YOU TOTALLY THINK HE’S HOT—”

“I’LL DROP KICK YOU INTO NEXT WEEK—”

The two of them started arguing and flailing in the middle of the ADA like they were in a sitcom and everyone else just stared at them like:

Kunikida: “I hate all of you.”

Kenji: “Are we playing tag?”

Dazai (from the corner, sipping tea): Smirks in mysterious, definitely-heard-that, Russian-coded silence.

Chapter Text

🖤 Don’t Try Suicide 🖤

The day was dragging. Atsushi had been pacing the halls of the Agency, ears buzzing, nerves fried. Everyone kept looking at him like he was losing it—and maybe he was. No one believed him. Not Kunikida, not Kenji, not even the always-sus Chuuya. It was like the world had moved on and left him behind.

Dazai was still there. Sitting at his desk. Smiling that fake, neutral, “I’m just a background character” kind of smile.

But Atsushi knew.

He knew something wasn’t right. And the worst part? The memory of why was gone. Just a haze of screams, of fighting, of blood on rooftops and shadowy halls. Of tears and betrayal and—

"Don't try suicide... nobody's worth it."

It came from the hallway radio. Some old playlist playing in the background. Atsushi froze mid-step.

The words punched through the fog in his mind like a bullet through glass.

"Don't try suicide... you're just gonna hate it."

Atsushi's knees buckled. His head spun. He could hear the rain—that rain—from that night. Dazai’s voice, drenched and desperate. "You really think I’m worth saving?"
That empty stare. The blood. The hospital lights flashing red.

And then—

BAM. Memory flood. Like a dam snapping under pressure.

Dazai on the floor, bleeding and broken.
Dazai stabbing Fyodor.
Dazai dragging himself out of rubble to throw Kyouka onto the helicopter.
Dazai, whispering, "I’m sorry I made you forget."
And Ranpo—Ranpo—screaming that he was right all along.
The meetings. The USB drive. The tape. The fact that…

Dazai was the Book.

Atsushi let out a gasp, staggering to the wall as everything crashed in all at once. He could see it—feel it. Every moment they’d shared. Every time Dazai smiled when he was in pain. Every time he saved them all, only to make it look like he hadn’t.

His heart was racing. His eyes were wet.

"Don’t try suicide... nobody gives a damn..."

He bolted. Like full anime sprint down the hallway. He didn’t know where he was going, but he needed to see him. Dazai. Right now.

He burst into the break room, nearly slamming the door off its hinges.

There he was.

Sipping tea like he hadn’t just shattered the whole universe two years ago.

“Atsushi,” Dazai said softly. “You look pale. Did you see a ghost?”

“No,” Atsushi breathed. His voice cracked. “I remember.”

Dazai’s eyes twitched. Just for a second. Like a storm passed through them.

And then? That damn smile.

“Do you now?” he said, voice cool, calm, Russian-laced.

Atsushi didn’t move. “Why did you do it?”

Dazai blinked. “Do what?”

“Don’t do that,” Atsushi whispered. “Don’t pretend. I remember. Everything. Fyodor. The mindwipe. The Book. You.”

Dazai stared at him for a long, long moment. The room felt cold.

And then he set his cup down. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to remember.”

“You used Queen to brain-unlock me?” Atsushi asked, like he couldn’t decide whether to be mad or impressed.

Dazai smirked. “It was either that or the Doraemon theme song. I figured this would be more dramatic.”

“You absolute maniac.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

The room was quiet.

Atsushi sat down, eyes never leaving him. “Are you really going to keep pretending you’re just some guy working here?”

Dazai leaned back in the chair, gaze tilting up to the ceiling.

“I’m not pretending. I am just some guy working here,” he said softly. “Everyone else thinks so. Isn’t that what I wanted?”

“But you’re not,” Atsushi whispered. “You never were.”

Dazai smiled again. This time? It was tired.

And Atsushi knew.

Dazai had never stopped being their shield. Their ghost. Their weapon.

And now? He was back.
But not whole. Not really.
Just enough to save them one more time if he had to.“You never were just a man working here.”

Atsushi’s voice echoed in the stillness of the breakroom.

Dazai didn’t flinch. Just gave a tired chuckle, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. “That’s the point, Atsushi.”

But something inside Atsushi snapped.

Like a rubber band pulled way too tight.

“You RUINED everything!” he shouted, tears stinging his eyes. “You made us forget! You made Chuuya forget! You let us believe you were dead—you let me believe you were—!”

He lunged.

The chair Dazai sat in scraped violently against the tile as Atsushi tackled him. They slammed into the floor with a heavy THUD, the air knocked out of both of them. But Atsushi didn’t hesitate—he punched, shoved, kicked.

“You were supposed to protect us—not control us!”

Dazai wasn’t defenseless. His hands caught Atsushi’s wrists mid-swing, flipping him fast with practiced ease. They rolled, tangled, fists flying.

It wasn’t training.

This was real.

Anger. Regret. Betrayal.

And it was LOUD.

The crashing. The yelling. The sound of bodies hitting walls.

Within seconds, footsteps thundered down the hall.

Kunikida burst in first. “What the—Atsushi?! DAZAI?!”

Kenji and Kyouka followed. Then Tanizaki. Then Chuuya, who froze at the doorway, wide-eyed and silent.

And finally—FUKUZAWA.

The air went still.

Fukuzawa rarely entered the fray. His presence alone usually ended conflict. But this time?

He yelled.

“ENOUGH.”

His voice cracked through the chaos like lightning. Everyone froze—Atsushi mid-punch, Dazai’s arm halfway up in defense. Breathing hard. Sweaty. Angry.

And then?

Silence.

“…What the hell is going on here?” Fukuzawa growled, stepping forward with more force than anyone had ever seen.

Tanizaki blinked. “I’ve never heard him yell before…”

“Same,” Kenji whispered, clutching his hat.

Atsushi pulled away from Dazai, panting. His lip was bleeding. His shirt was ripped. His hands were shaking.

Dazai sat up slowly, wiping a trail of blood from his cheek. Still calm. Still frustratingly blank.

“I tried to talk to him,” Atsushi said, voice rough. “He didn’t listen. He never listens.”

Fukuzawa’s eyes narrowed. “Atsushi… explain.”

Atsushi’s mouth opened… but nothing came out. Everyone was staring at him. And none of them remembered. None of them knew.

He looked at Dazai.

Dazai stood, brushing himself off like he hadn’t just been in a full-on brawl.

“I provoked him,” Dazai said flatly. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave for the day.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Fukuzawa snapped.

Dazai paused. That caught him off guard.

“…Sir?”

“You’re part of this Agency,” Fukuzawa said. “If there’s something going on between the two of you, we’ll solve it together.”

“But I’m—” Dazai hesitated. “I’m just the new recruit.”

That was when Fukuzawa’s eyes really sharpened.

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re not. And I’ve known it for a while. I just haven’t said anything.”

The room collectively gasped.

Dazai blinked. “You...?”

“You’re hiding something. I don’t know what yet. But I’ve been watching,” Fukuzawa said. “And now I want the truth.”

Dazai’s shoulders tensed. The mask cracked—just barely.

Atsushi looked up, hope sparking. “Please. Someone listen to me. He’s not just some guy. He’s… he’s…”

Fukuzawa raised a hand. “We’ll get the truth. All of it.”

Dazai sighed. “You won’t believe it.”

“Try us,” said Chuuya, finally stepping into the room, his eyes locked on Dazai with something unreadable.

Dazai looked around. All eyes on him. Some angry. Some confused. One or two scared.

“…Fine,” he murmured. “Let’s start the show.”

Chapter Text

They had to move to one of the special Agency sublevels for this.

A quiet, cold, fluorescent-lit room with a single metal chair bolted to the floor, a long table, and cameras watching from every angle. It was the kind of place nobody in the Agency even knew existed—except for emergency situations.

And this?

Yeah. This counted.

Dazai sat down casually, as if he was being offered a cup of tea. “Ooh. So ominous. You didn’t even bring snacks for this little bonding moment?”

Chuuya, standing stiffly near the wall, muttered, “Shut up.”

Fukuzawa stood off to the side with Kunikida and Ranpo. Atsushi was there too, biting the inside of his cheek nervously.

A tech agent rolled in the old government-style lie detector. Wires. Electrodes. A small monitor. A tiny LED screen glowing red. And next to it?

The Shock Button.

“Ohh,” Dazai smirked, eyes gleaming mischievously. “We’re going classic torture, huh? How vintage.”

“It only shocks you if you lie,” Kunikida said bluntly. “So unless you’re planning on being dishonest, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Ranpo snorted. “So he’s definitely gonna get shocked.”

They strapped the electrodes to Dazai’s wrists, his heart rate already steady as a damn rock. No flinching. No sign of fear. That smirk didn’t drop.

The machine beeped once.

“Baseline established,” the tech said. “We’re ready.”

Fukuzawa stepped forward. “Let’s begin.”

First Question:

“Is your name Osamu Dazai?”

“…Yes.”

The screen stayed green. No shock. All good.

“Are you currently employed at the Armed Detective Agency?”

“Yes.”

Still green. Okay, okay, basic stuff.

Fukuzawa’s eyes narrowed.

“Did you intentionally make the Agency forget you existed two years ago?”

Silence.

Dazai’s smile faded just a little. He tilted his head.

“…Yes.”

ZAP!!! 💥

Dazai twitched. His jaw clenched as the shock hit. Not a huge one—like an electric jolt up the arm—but enough. Everyone flinched.

Ranpo practically cheered. “HA! GOT HIM!”

“Wait—wait—” Atsushi stepped forward, stunned. “But he said yes! Why did it shock him?”

Dazai looked up through his bangs, smile bitter now. “Because I didn’t just make you forget.”

“…Then what?” Fukuzawa asked calmly.

Dazai licked his lips. “I rewrote you.”

Kunikida blinked. “What do you mean rewrote—?”

“I used the Book.”

ZAPPPP!!!

Dazai flinched hard. The machine hummed with energy. He hissed between his teeth, but didn’t stop.

“I used it to erase myself from your memories, and then… then I inserted a false one.”

The room was quiet except for the low mechanical beep of the machine stabilizing again.

“…You inserted a fake version of yourself into our lives?” Chuuya said softly.

Dazai glanced at him. “It was the only way. If you remembered everything, it would’ve killed you. Or made you hate me.”

“Too late,” Atsushi muttered under his breath.

Fukuzawa’s voice was calm but tight: “Have you lied to us about your intentions since returning?”

Dazai paused.

“…No.”

No zap.

Ranpo’s eyes narrowed. “He’s telling the truth.”

“Are you still hiding information from us?” Fukuzawa asked again.

“…Yes.”

ZAPPPP!!!

A sharp, biting jolt again. Dazai winced harder this time, fingers twitching.

“WHY?” Atsushi cried out, fists clenched. “WHY ARE YOU STILL HIDING THINGS FROM US?!”

Dazai looked down at the table.

“…Because if I told you, it would make you choose between me and the world. And I already made that choice.”

That one?

No zap.

The machine buzzed a steady green glow.

The truth.

They all just stared.

No one said a word.

Chuuya leaned forward slightly. “…What choice?”

Dazai didn’t answer.

Fukuzawa gave a slow nod to the tech. “That’s enough for now. Disconnect him.”

“No,” Dazai said suddenly.

Everyone turned.

His eyes burned.

“If you want the full truth… I’ll take the shocks. All of them. But you’ll regret hearing it.”

The room went still.

Atsushi didn’t move.

Fukuzawa just said quietly, “Then keep going.”

The silence after the footage played still hung in the room like heavy fog. Dazai sat slumped in the metal chair, his face unreadable—except for the single tear that clung stubbornly to his jaw before dropping to the floor.

Then came the thought. The realization.

It hit them all at once.

Ranpo's eyes widened, but for once, he didn’t speak.
Kunikida’s notebook slipped from his hand.
Atsushi stepped back, bumping into the wall.
Chuuya stiffened.

“…Wait,” Yosano murmured, almost to herself. “If he’s the Book… if he’s really the Book…”

Her sentence didn’t need finishing.

Because it was true. If Dazai is the Book—
That meant he had the power to change reality.
Memories. Appearances. Lives. Deaths.

The only limit… was his thoughts.

Kunikida shook his head slowly, his face pale. “Are you saying… if he wanted to… he could make me forget my own ideals? Rewrite my personality?”

“He could turn you into a florist,” Ranpo said, voice disturbingly calm. “Or a serial killer. Or make the world think you’ve always been one.”

“That's insane—” Kenji started, but even he faltered.

Atsushi clenched his fists. “Then… when he made everyone forget him… he really made it like he never existed. He didn’t just erase memories—he rewrote the universe.”

Chuuya’s breath caught in his throat.

Because now that he was really thinking about it—
He couldn’t remember Dazai’s laugh.
He couldn’t remember their last fight.
Or their first.

It was all fabricated.

His memories—maybe even his feelings—had been built on illusions.

Everyone slowly turned toward the chair.

Dazai lifted his gaze.

That same calm, unreadable look. But now, knowing what they knew, it wasn’t sadness behind his eyes. It was control.

“…I’m not going to hurt any of you,” he said quietly.

No one answered.

He smiled. Bitter. Cold. “But you’re scared now, right?”

Ranpo didn’t speak, but the way his fingers clenched into the edge of the table was answer enough.

“Dazai,” Fukuzawa finally spoke, “Is there a limit to your ability?”

He shrugged. “Not really. Maybe if I die, it ends. Maybe not. I don’t even know anymore.”

Silence again.

Then—

“You didn’t tell us,” Atsushi said suddenly. “You lied to us—again and again—and we trusted you.”

“I never asked you to trust me,” Dazai replied, voice low. “I asked you to let me burn for it. You chose to forgive me.”

“But we didn’t know you were a literal goddamn reality bender,” Kunikida snapped.

Chuuya stepped forward. “So… what? You could snap your fingers and make me hate you? Love you? Forget I ever knew you again?”

Dazai looked at him for a long moment.

Then whispered, “I already have.”

Chuuya’s breath caught.

Everyone froze.

“…What did you say?” he asked, his voice tight.

“I’ve rewritten your mind before,” Dazai said calmly. “When you were going to kill me during the final mission. I made you hesitate. Just enough.”

Chuuya’s hands were trembling.

“You’re lying,” he hissed.

Dazai smiled. “Try really remembering what happened that day. If you can.”

The room dropped into a pit of shock.

Ranpo took a half-step back.

“Okay,” he said, voice small. “Okay. So. We just found out the most powerful being in existence is sitting in our office chair, looking like an unpaid intern and casually revealing he’s basically rewritten everything we know and love.”

Everyone stared at Dazai like he had just become something unrecognizable.

And for the first time, they were scared.

And Dazai?

He just looked down at his own hands.

“…I never wanted this.”

But now…
It didn’t matter what he wanted.

Because the truth was out.
And there was no going back.

The room was dead silent—again. It was becoming a pattern, honestly. Like silence was its own cursed character now.

Dazai sat in the center, bound by metal cuffs that he didn’t really need to be in. Everyone knew if he wanted out, he’d be out. But the cuffs were symbolic. Like, “Hey look, I’m chill. I’m not gonna reality-warp your mom into a tree.”

Ranpo leaned forward. “Okay, Dazai. You wanna show us you’re really The Book?”

“Not particularly,” Dazai said, calm as ever. “But if it helps you sleep at night.”

Chuuya folded his arms, his jaw tight. “Do something small. Nothing freaky. Nothing like ‘turn Atsushi into a goldfish’ or whatever the hell you're capable of.”

Dazai’s gaze drifted to the ceiling for a second.

“Okay. Something small,” he murmured. “Fine.”

Kunikida spoke up, skeptical as ever, “Change something in this room. Something only we’d notice.”

Without saying another word, Dazai blinked slowly.

Just one blink.

Then Atsushi gasped.

“…Wait. Wait, what?! WHAT THE—”

Everyone turned.

Kunikida’s notebook… was different.

The leather cover had changed color—from its usual brown to a deep crimson red.

He slowly picked it up, hands trembling. “This… I never bought a red notebook. I don’t even like red notebooks—”

“Flip to page 7,” Dazai said casually.

Kunikida did.

And his eyes went wide.

Because there, in his perfect handwriting, was a new page.

One he definitely never wrote.

It read:

“Trust the man with the dead eyes. He carries the world in his hands. And he’s so, so tired.”

Everyone stared.

Yosano walked over and carefully took the notebook, inspecting it. “There’s no way this is fake. The ink’s dried, like it's been here for days.”

Dazai rested his chin on his hand, smiling faintly.

Ranpo whistled. “Okay… okay. That’s actually terrifying.”

Kenji tilted his head. “Wait… can you, like, make me taller?”

Dazai: "Yes."

Kenji: “WAIT REALLY—”

“No,” Kunikida growled, pulling him back by the collar.

But Atsushi? Oh, he was frozen. Because something clicked in his mind.

“If you could do this the whole time… why didn’t you just change everything back? Why not fix the world?”

Dazai’s smile fell. Slowly. Carefully.

“Because,” he said softly, “rewriting reality doesn’t fix people. And if I keep changing everything, I lose more of myself every time.”

The room got quiet again.

Even Ranpo didn’t make a joke.

Fukuzawa nodded slowly. “That’s enough proof.”

But then—

A voice.

A flicker.

The lights went off, just for a second. Static crackled in the speakers.

And a laugh echoed in the walls.

A laugh they knew.

Gogol.

“Ohhh~ I see you’ve been playing show-and-tell with your little reality cheat code! So fun! But what happens, Dazai, when everyone else wants a turn holding the pen?”

The screens around the room flickered.

One by one, images of government officials, enemies, and forgotten allies appeared.

All watching.

All listening.

The secret?

Was out.

And Dazai’s face?

Completely blank.

Because even though they were finally starting to believe him, it was too late.

The world was watching now.

And they all wanted a piece of The Book.