Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kunikida Doppo had always prided himself on efficiency. His desk was a temple of order: files sorted by case priority, pens aligned by color, the air tinged faintly with the crisp scent of coffee and worn paper. Everything had a place, everything had a time.

The blinking notification on his phone, however, was most definitely out of place.

He almost ignored it—assuming it to be another meaningless text from the bank or a reminder for subscription renewals. But the preview caught his eye:

From: Unknown Number
Kunikida-sensei!! It’s been years! We’re organizing a reunion for the old Shin-Tsuruya batch you used to teach—please say you’ll come this time! Everyone would be so happy to see you again!

Kunikida froze, thumb hovering above the screen.
For a brief moment, the room seemed quieter. The hum of the ceiling fan faded into the background, replaced by the faint echo of chalk tapping against a blackboard, and the distant laughter of students that no longer existed in this time.

He read it again. Reunion… this time?

Across the office, Dazai shifted on the couch, peering up from his lazing sprawl like a cat disturbed midnap. “Oh? What’s that, Kunikida-kun? You’re making that face you always make when nostalgia and panic collide~”

Kunikida glared. “I do not make that sort of face.”

“You do. You’re doing it right now,” Dazai said, grinning lazily. “So, what is it? A secret admirer from your school days? A fan letter from the PTA?”

“It’s from one of my former students,” Kunikida replied, slipping his phone into his pocket. “A reunion invitation.”

Dazai perked up. “You? A school reunion? Ah, I can already picture it! You, in a spotless classroom, lecturing your poor students about the moral obligations of punctuality—”

“Don’t mock my teaching methods,” Kunikida cut in, slamming his notebook shut. “And I was merely a part-time instructor, nothing more.”

“Ah, but you think that.” Dazai’s voice took on that teasing lilt that always managed to slip past Kunikida’s walls. “I bet they remember you as the tall, strict, unshakable sensei with a secret soft side~!”

Kunikida’s jaw twitched. “I had no such side.”

“Sure, sure you don't!”

Silence stretched for a moment after that, filled only by the scratching of Kunikida’s pen as he attempted to return to his report. But his concentration had already fractured. The message lingered at the edge of his thoughts like a ghost refusing to be dismissed.

He hadn’t been to Shin-Tsuruya Institute in over two years. He remembered the echo of corridors at dusk, the scent of old textbooks, the flicker of fluorescent lights humming overhead. He remembered the faces of his students—young, bright, endlessly talkative.

Rina, always the first to answer questions, her enthusiasm outpacing her handwriting.
Hiroto, who’d tried to nap during lessons but still scored top of the class.
Makoto, quiet and timid, who once brought him a notebook as a gift, saying she admired how he never wasted a page.

A memory of a certain student comes up, but his mind burries it.

He could still recall their chatter echoing across the room: “Sensei, do you ever relax?”
And his reply, automatic as breathing: “Not during lesson hours.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips before he caught himself.

Maybe... it wouldn’t hurt to see how they’d grown.

Still, he hadn’t heard from the Institute since leaving to fully dedicate himself to the Armed Detective Agency. He’d changed his number for security reasons, meaning he probably missed their first invitation. That explained the “this time” in the message. Simple enough.

He reached for his phone again, intending to reply—but before he could, a familiar voice spoke from the doorway.

“Still here, Kunikida-kun?”

Ranpo Edogawa leaned against the doorframe, hands in his coat pockets, a faint smirk playing at his lips. His tone was casual, but his eyes—sharp and glimmering behind his glasses—carried the same quiet knowing they always did.

Kunikida straightened. “Yes. Is there something you need, Ranpo-san?”

“Just passing by,” Ranpo replied, walking in with an unhurried gait. “I heard something about a reunion?”

Kunikida frowned slightly. “Word travels fast.”

“Well, Dazai talks loudly,” Ranpo said with a shrug. “So? You going?”

“I haven’t decided,” Kunikida answered, though the certainty in his voice was already thinning.

Ranpo tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You should.”

Kunikida blinked. “Pardon?”

“Go,” Ranpo repeated, tone flat but sure. “It’ll be... useful.”

That phrasing gave Kunikida pause. “Useful?”

Ranpo reached into his coat and produced a small object—a slim, silver penlight, engraved subtly with the Agency’s insignia near the clip. He placed it on Kunikida’s desk without explanation.

“What’s this for?”

“You’ll know when you need it,” Ranpo said simply.

Kunikida’s brow furrowed. “If this is related to another case—”

“It’s not a case,” Ranpo interrupted smoothly, though the glint in his eyes told a different story. “Just trust me.”

Those words settled the matter more firmly than any explanation could have. Because Ranpo rarely gave orders—but when he did, they were never meaningless.

After Ranpo left, Kunikida sat alone again, staring at the small light in his palm.
He turned it over once, twice, studying the craftsmanship. Typical of Ranpo to be cryptic. Typical of him, too, to be right.

He opened his notebook, flipping to a blank page. At the top, in neat, bold handwriting, he wrote:

Objective: Attend reunion. Observe, reconnect, and ensure safety of event (precautionary).

He hesitated a moment, then added underneath, almost as an afterthought:

Note: Remember to bring Ranpo’s item. Trust his instincts.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly.

Two years, he thought. Two years since he’d left the Institute behind, since he traded blackboard chalk for revolvers and reports, lesson plans for missions.

Those were simpler times—quieter, more predictable. But perhaps, just for one evening, he could allow himself to return to them.

He typed out a reply at last.

:Reply

“I’ll attend. Thank you for reaching out. Please send me the details”

Then, with his usual precision, he set a reminder on his calendar and tucked the penlight neatly into his inner coat pocket.

Order restored. Routine maintained.

And yet, as he left the office that night, Kunikida couldn’t quite shake the faint, unfamiliar warmth that lingered in his chest.

The morning of the reunion dawned with soft sunlight spilling across Yokohama’s rooftops, tinting the clouds a delicate gold. The city stirred with its usual hum — trams clattering, birds darting past the window, the faint scent of rain still lingering from the night before.

Kunikida Doppo, however, was already awake.
He’d woken precisely fifteen minutes earlier than necessary — not out of excitement, of course, but “to ensure proper preparation time,” as he mentally phrased it while buttoning his shirt.

He approached the day as though it were a mission.
Shirt ironed to perfection, tie aligned precisely with his collar, jacket brushed and spotless. He’d even taken the time to polish his shoes until they reflected the ceiling lamp like a mirror.

And yet... for all the immaculate order, there was a quiet, persistent unease tapping at the back of his mind.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered, adjusting his tie again. “It’s merely a gathering of former colleagues and students. There’s no reason to be—”

“Nervous?” Dazai’s voice cut in lazily from behind.

Kunikida nearly dropped his tie. “What—how did you even get in here?!”

“Window was open!” Dazai said cheerfully, balancing a piece of toast in his mouth. “You look like you’re about to attend an interview for a job you already have.”

“I am not nervous,” Kunikida snapped, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “And unlike some people, I take social obligations seriously.”

Dazai hummed, amused. “Ah, yes. The mighty Kunikida Doppo, attending a high school reunion with the same energy he brings to hostage negotiations. Truly inspiring!”

“Get out of my apartment.”

“Don’t forget to smile, Kunikida-kun~!”

The door slammed behind him.

Alright, lets just ignore what happened.

The Shin-Tsuruya Institute sat on the city’s western edge, tucked between residential blocks and a row of gingko trees just beginning to shed their leaves. Kunikida remembered the walk vividly — the faint rustle of branches, the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves and dappled the pavement.
It felt almost smaller now, or perhaps he had simply grown taller in ways that couldn’t be measured by height.

As he passed through the gates, his steps slowed. The schoolyard stretched before him, lined with neatly painted benches and the faint smell of chalk and pine resin. For a moment, he could almost see it as it used to be: Rina chasing after Hiroto with a notebook, Makoto sitting quietly by the window, humming while she worked. A few more students came to his mind. Yet again, a thought of a certain someone lingered.

A warm voice called out, snapping him back to the present.

“Sensei!”

He turned just in time to see a blur of brown hair and bright energy rush toward him.

Rina — now taller, more mature, but unmistakably the same — waved enthusiastically, her grin wide enough to bridge the years between them.

“It really is you! We weren’t sure you’d come!” she exclaimed. “You look exactly the same, sensei!”

Kunikida blinked, startled by her sheer enthusiasm. “...Rina. It’s good to see you again.”

“Still as stiff as ever~” she teased. “Come on! The others are inside!”

He followed her through the hallways, his shoes echoing faintly against the polished floors. The air smelled faintly of cleaning detergent and nostalgia. Posters lined the bulletin boards — different faces now, but the same atmosphere of restless youth.

They entered one of the old classrooms — Room 3-B — and for a moment, Kunikida stopped at the threshold.

The desks had been rearranged into a circle, the blackboard freshly wiped clean. Laughter filled the room, light and easy, like a melody he hadn’t heard in years.
A dozen familiar faces turned toward him — older, more confident, but still carrying traces of the teenagers they once were.

“Whoa, is that really him?”
“No way—Kunikida-sensei!”
“He actually came this year!”

Kunikida raised a hand, awkward but composed. “Good afternoon, everyone. It’s been some time.”

He hadn’t expected applause, yet that’s what greeted him — a ripple of delighted claps and cheers that made him flush despite himself.

“Still got that notebook, sensei?” Hiroto called from the back. “The one you never let anyone touch?”

“Of course,” Kunikida replied automatically, patting the familiar weight in his coat. “Organization is a virtue.”

The class laughed. It was such a simple thing, yet somehow the sound loosened something tight in his chest.

They spent the first hour reminiscing.

Rina brought photos — grainy, slightly faded snapshots of classroom moments: Kunikida at the board, serious as always; Hiroto asleep mid-lesson; Makoto holding up a crooked group project with a proud grin.
Someone joked about how his lectures were so intense that the whiteboard markers trembled under his grip.
Someone else recalled the time he’d confiscated a phone mid-class and returned it fully reorganized by the next day.

“I still don’t know how you did that,” one said.
“I simply found the correct settings,” Kunikida replied, as though that explained everything.

Between laughter, they asked him about his current work — which he deflected carefully.

“I handle investigative tasks.” he said.
“Detective work?!” Rina gasped.
“In a manner of speaking,” Kunikida allowed, clearing his throat. “It’s... a demanding job, but fulfilling.”

They nodded, impressed but none the wiser.

As the conversations flowed, Kunikida found his gaze drawn to one student sitting a little apart from the group.

A young man with black hair and steady eyes — Yamane, if he recalled correctly.
Back then, Yamane had struggled with anxiety and temper issues, often lashing out when overwhelmed. Kunikida had spent long hours after class helping him find a balance — patience, order, breathing exercises, structure.

Now, Yamane approached him with quiet confidence.

“Sensei,” he greeted with a respectful bow. “It’s really good to see you again.”

“You’ve changed,” Kunikida noted with a faint smile. “For the better, I see.”

Yamane nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh... actually wanted to tell you something. I got into Shinmei University last year. I’m majoring in education.”

Kunikida blinked. “...Education?”

“Yeah,” Yamane said, smiling a little shyly. “I want to be a teacher. Like you.”

For a long moment, Kunikida couldn’t find his voice.

He remembered the boy trembling in frustration over a failed exam, the way his hands shook when he couldn’t focus, the way he’d once said, “I just make everything worse, Sensei.”

And now, standing before him, was the same boy—grown, composed, determined.

“I see,” Kunikida said softly, his tone gentler than usual. “That is... commendable. You’ll make an excellent teacher.”

Yamane laughed lightly. “I don’t know about that yet. But I’ll try to live up to your example.”

Kunikida’s throat felt strangely tight. “Then you’ve already started well.”

The warmth that spread through him was unfamiliar and yet deeply grounding — the rare satisfaction of realizing one’s efforts had reached someone’s heart.

Later, as the afternoon sun dipped lower, the teachers joined in.
Mrs. Takamori — the literature instructor who always had a novel tucked under her arm — greeted him with a laugh.
“Doppo! I told you you’d come back to visit one day. The staff room still has that dent on the kettle from when you tried to ‘improve’ the tea dispenser.”

Kunikida sighed. “That was a structural reinforcement.”

Mr. Hayase, the physics teacher, chimed in with a grin. “And it exploded. Twice.”

The room burst into laughter again, and Kunikida found himself smiling despite the embarrassment.
It was chaotic, warm, alive — a far cry from the sharp tension of Agency meetings or the danger-laced calm of missions. For once, he was just Kunikida-sensei again.

“Do you remember,” Rina said, scrolling through her photos, “the time we all tried to surprise you on your birthday, but you arrived fifteen minutes early?”

Kunikida groaned softly. “I told you, punctuality—”

“—is a virtue, yes, yes~” they all chorused in unison.

The collective laughter that followed was so full, so genuine, it left him momentarily speechless.

As the reunion stretched toward evening, soft music played from a small speaker. Some students had brought snacks; others traded stories of jobs and universities. The air carried that bittersweet mix of familiarity and change.

Kunikida stood by the window, watching the sunset bleed gold across the courtyard. The penlight Ranpo had given him sat quietly in his pocket — its weight subtle but constant.

He didn’t know what awaited him that evening, or why Ranpo had insisted he bring it. But for now, as he looked around the room filled with laughter, the thought drifted somewhere far behind the warmth in his chest.

Rina waved at him from across the room. “Sensei! You’re smiling!”

“I am not.”

“You totally are!”

“...Perhaps.” he conceded.

She beamed. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Kunikida looked at them all — older, brighter, moving toward their own ideals — and for the first time in a long while, he felt a quiet peace settle in his heart.

They’re growing into fine adults, he thought.

By the time the sun began to sink behind the Shin-Tsuruya Institute, the air had softened into that golden hour hue — light spilling through the classroom windows in long, quiet streaks.
The laughter of his former students faded gradually as they drifted toward the courtyard for photos, leaving the room scattered with empty cups, half-folded napkins, and the warm residue of shared memories.

Kunikida stayed behind for a moment, collecting the stray papers left on the desks. Old habits die hard. He stacked them neatly, aligning every corner until the pile stood square and even.

It was then he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

“Still tidying up after everyone, I see.” came Mrs. Takamori’s amused voice. “Some things never change.”

Kunikida turned. The literature instructor stood in the doorway, arms folded, her reading glasses pushed up into her hair. Behind her, Mr. Hayase leaned against the frame, holding two cups of tea.

“Thought you might want this,” Hayase said, handing him one. “Figured the great Kunikida-sensei doesn’t leave a battlefield — or a classroom — without closing the day properly.”

Kunikida accepted the cup with a nod. “Thank you. Though I’d hardly call this a battlefield.”

Takamori chuckled. “Oh, I would. Have you forgotten? You used to duel our students with algebra problems.”

“That was called educational engagement,” Kunikida replied evenly, but the corners of his mouth softened.

The three of them settled by the window, the classroom quiet now except for the soft chirp of cicadas outside. For a while, they sipped in companionable silence — teachers again, sharing the same space but in a different time.

It was Takamori who broke the quiet first.

“You know, when I heard you joined some sort of detective organization, I wasn’t surprised.”

Kunikida blinked. “..You weren’t?”

“Not one bit,” she said, smiling faintly. “You were already solving mysteries here before anyone realized it.”

Hayase nodded. “Remember that kid — Shun, from Class 2-A? Always came to school with bruises and refused to explain them? You were the one who got him to talk.”

Kunikida’s expression softened with recognition. “Yes… I recall. His family had a difficult situation. I only did what any teacher should.”

“Maybe,” Hayase said, “but most teachers wouldn’t have noticed so soon. You caught it before it turned worse. His mother came to thank the staff months later — said your intervention changed everything.”

Kunikida didn’t reply immediately. His gaze drifted toward the empty desks.
He hadn’t thought about that case in years. Back then, it hadn’t felt like heroism — just responsibility. Something that needed to be done. Yet hearing it now, framed in another’s words, carried a weight he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge.

Takamori leaned on her elbow. “And then there was Natsuko. Remember her? Bright girl, quiet, but under a lot of pressure at home.”

“Yes. The one who always stayed behind to clean the chalkboard,” Kunikida murmured.

“She told me once,” Takamori continued, her tone thoughtful, “that she only kept coming to class because she admired your sense of direction. Said you always seemed to know what was right — and it made her feel like she could find her own ‘right’ someday too.”

Kunikida blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He set his cup down, the porcelain clinking softly.
“She… said that?”

“She did,” Takamori confirmed gently. “And she wasn’t the only one.”

For a long moment, Kunikida didn’t know what to say. Compliments always sat awkwardly on him — like ill-fitted suits. He was more accustomed to duty than to gratitude.

Hayase smirked. “Heh. Don’t look so shocked. You had an effect on everyone, even the staff. You know I used to be late every other week until you lectured me about ‘professional accountability’? I’ve never been late since.”

“That was hardly a lecture,” Kunikida said, though the memory tugged at his lips. “It was a reminder of workplace ethics.”

“Whatever it was, it worked.” Hayase raised his cup in mock salute. “You didn’t just teach math, Kunikida. You taught discipline.”

Takamori laughed softly. “And maybe a bit of decency, too. Remember Mr. Kido? The chemistry teacher? Quit smoking after you scolded him for lighting up near the courtyard.”

“He was endangering the students’ health.” Kunikida said automatically.

“Exactly,” she replied, her tone warm. “You made him realize it. He’s still working here, by the way. Says every time he thinks about lighting one, he hears your voice saying, ‘Self-control is a reflection of one’s values.’”

Kunikida groaned softly. “He remembers that verbatim?”

“Word for word!” Hayase said, grinning.

Their laughter filled the quiet, light and genuine. It was strange, hearing his own ideals echoed back at him like this. He’d spent so long enforcing order and righteousness that he’d rarely stopped to wonder if those words lingered after he left the room.

Maybe they had.

The sky outside darkened to rose and violet, casting long shadows across the floor. The cicadas had quieted now, replaced by the hum of distant traffic.

Kunikida folded his hands, resting them on the window ledge. “I never considered myself that remarkable,” he said quietly. “I only wanted to ensure my students had structure, that they learned to stand on their own feet. But hearing this… I suppose even small things can leave traces.”

Takamori smiled. “That’s teaching for you. You never really know where your lessons land — until they come back years later.”

He thought of Yamane, who wanted to become a teacher. Of Natsuko, of Shun, of countless faces blurred by time yet still vivid in his mind’s eye. A certain student linger, but pays no mind so as to not ruin this feeling. And yet, all those small moments — a word here, a scolding there, a quiet act of listening — each one had planted something.

It hit him quietly, without fanfare, that maybe he’d been saving people long before the Agency gave him a badge for it.

He exhaled slowly, a breath that felt like release. “Perhaps I did choose the right path after all.”

“You always did,” Hayase said simply. “You just took it in a different direction.”

For a while, none of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable — it was reflective, like the pause at the end of a well-written sentence.

Then, Takamori chuckled. “You know, when you left the Institute, we all made bets about what you’d do next.”

Kunikida raised an eyebrow. “Bets?”

“Oh yes! I said you’d become a professor at a university, or maybe run for public office. Hayase said you’d write a book.”

“I was rooting for ‘government reformer,’” Hayase said proudly. “The man’s got speeches for days!”

Kunikida pinched the bridge of his nose. “You were all mistaken.”

“Apparently,” Takamori said. “A detective, huh? Still fighting for justice, just… in more dangerous ways.”

Kunikida’s gaze softened, the faintest smile playing on his lips. “Justice doesn’t change with the battlefield.”

“That sounds like you,” Hayase said, chuckling. “Still quoting yourself from the faculty meetings.”

Takamori reached for her bag and pulled out a small photo — the old faculty group picture. She handed it to him.
He looked down. There he was — younger, in his early twenties, expression stern and upright even then. Surrounded by smiling teachers, he stood slightly apart, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

“You never realized it, did you?” she said. “Even back then, you were our one of our anchors. Whenever things got too hectic, we’d say, ‘Let’s check what Kunikida thinks.’ You gave everyone around you direction.”

He stared at the photo a moment longer, tracing the edges with his thumb.
Direction.
That was always what he wanted to give — to his students, his colleagues, himself. A path worth following. A structure to contain the chaos of the world.

The laughter faded gradually, replaced by the hum of cicadas. The sky outside had turned violet, streaked with orange and rose.

They all knew they forgot to mention something, or maybe they refused to remember.

Then, Hayase’s tone shifted — softer, cautious.
“You.. remember Hanako, right?”

Kunikida froze.

For a second, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The golden light from the window painted dust motes in the air, floating in slow motion.

“…Yes,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before. “I.. remember.”

Hanako.

A boy from Takamori’s class — delicate-featured, polite, with a dry wit that masked the exhaustion behind his smile. Always bandaged on one arm or another, always insisting it was “just a fall.”
He had been bright. Too bright, perhaps — the kind that shone so hard it burnt itself out.

Takamori set her cup down. “We all tried, Kunikida. You, most of all.”

“I.. should’ve seen it sooner.” Kunikida said, his voice firm but trembling at the edges. “He smiled every day, He said he was.. fine, that the bandages were for ‘a scraped elbow.’ I believed him– I—”

He stopped. The words wouldn’t come.

He could still remember the day the news came — how quiet the faculty room became, the way the rain had hit the windows like a thousand muted accusations. He’d stood there for a long time, hand hovering over the attendance book, staring at the empty line where Hanako’s name would never be checked again.

“I told myself there must’ve been something I missed,” Kunikida continued after a moment, his tone low. “A word, a sign, anything. I searched through my notes — his assignments, his essays. Nothing. As if he’d made sure not to leave any trace of sorrow behind.”

Hayase’s eyes softened. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have known,” Kunikida said, too sharply. Then softer, “That’s what I was supposed to be— the adult who notices.”

Silence hung for a moment, heavy and fragile.

Takamori sighed, gaze distant. “You know, after… after that, I looked through my own journals too. Tried to find something that could’ve told me. But there wasn’t. He didn’t want us to see it.”

She looked toward Kunikida, her expression gentling. “You gave him more than you think. You gave him a place to feel seen — even if it wasn’t enough to save him.”

Her words struck something inside him that ached.
He wanted to argue — to reject comfort as weakness — but for once, he couldn’t. Because deep down, a small, raw part of him had always wondered if that was true: if Hanako, in those fleeting months, had at least felt understood.

Hayase spoke next, carefully. “Kunikida… not everyone who smiles is asking to be saved. Some just want to be believed when they say they’re alright. You did that for him.”

The math teacher’s throat tightened. “And yet, it wasn’t enough.”

Takamori reached out, resting a hand on his sleeve. “Maybe not. But maybe, just maybe, it kept him here a little longer. Sometimes.. sometimes that’s all we can give.”

Kunikida looked down at her hand, then back toward the window — where the golden light had shifted into dusk. For a moment, his reflection stared back at him in the glass: older now, sharper, but still carrying that same, quiet ache.

He whispered, more to himself than them,

“I.. still see him sometimes. When I look at certain students. When I meet people who smile too easily. There’s always a shadow behind their laughter, and I wonder— if I’d have.. have said one more thing, stayed one more hour—”

The words trailed off.

But Takamori didn’t interrupt this time. She only said, softly,
“You’ve carried him with you all this time, haven’t you?”

He nodded once. Slowly.

Hayase’s voice broke the quiet. “Then maybe that’s enough. Maybe remembering him — learning from him — is what saving him means now.”

Something in Kunikida’s chest eased at that, though faintly.
He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again—

The classroom was gone.

White. Endless.

Not blinding, but soft — like sunlight filtered through cloud and memory.

The desks, the windows, the very floor beneath him had dissolved into light, yet he felt grounded.
Around him, faint figures flickered — faces he knew: students he’d taught, teachers he’d guided, voices from years long past.

“Sensei!” one whispered, bowing slightly.
“Thank you.” said another, smiling.
“Thank you for caring.”

They shimmered in and out like starlight — warm, ephemeral, infinite.

Kunikida turned slowly, heart heavy and full all at once.
And there, a little ways off, stood a figure he hadn’t seen in years.

Hanako.

His uniform was neat as ever, his brown hair catching the soft light. He looked almost the same — maybe a bit older, calmer. The faint bandages still wrapped his wrist, though they were clean now, unbroken. His smile was quiet, serene — and in the curve of his lips, the slant of his eyes, Kunikida saw someone else too.

Dazai.

That same mask of cheer, that same hollow laughter behind it.
Only now he could see — really see — what lay beneath.

Hanako raised a hand in greeting, voice gentle. “Sensei.”

Kunikida’s throat tightened. “…Hanako.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Hanako said, “I wanted to thank you.”

Kunikida shook his head. “There’s nothing to thank me for. I failed you.”

Hanako’s smile deepened, sad and kind. “No. You didn’t. You noticed I was tired, even when I tried to hide it. You stayed late to help me with my essays. You told me I had potential — even when I didn’t believe it. You saw me. That’s more than most ever did.”

Kunikida’s voice wavered. “Then why—”

“Because I.. I didn’t know how to ask for help,” Hanako said softly. “And that’s not your fault. You taught me what kindness looks like, even if I couldn’t stay long enough to return it.”

The space around them seemed to hum faintly, the warmth of memory folding like a quiet hymn.
Kunikida stepped forward, but every step felt suspended, as though the air itself was holding him in place.

Hanako tilted his head, that familiar hint of mischief still in his smile. “You still try to save everyone, don’t you, Sensei?”

Kunikida exhaled shakily. “Someone.. someone has to.”

“Maybe,” Hanako murmured. “But you should remember — you save people just by being who you are, you always did.”

The boy’s outline began to blur, dissolving back into light.
Before he vanished completely, he bowed once — a deep, grateful bow.

"From the bottom of my heart-" he exhaled.

“Thank you, thank you for caring about me!” he whispered.
“Even when I pretended I didn’t need it.”

And then he was gone.

The whiteness dimmed.

Kunikida blinked — and he was back in the classroom, seated by the window. His tea was cold. The cicadas sang again. Takamori and Hayase were still beside him, speaking softly, grounding him back into the world.

“..You alright?” Hayase asked, noticing his faraway look.

Kunikida inhaled slowly, the breath deep and steady.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I think I am.”

He looked toward the window again — at the sun now half-sunk behind the school’s rooftops.
Somewhere, between the past and the present, between grief and grace, something inside him had settled.

Perhaps, he thought, not every life can be saved.
But every kindness — every act of seeing, every word spoken sincerely — can still matter.
And that, too, is salvation in its own way.

The air was cooling now, tinged with evening.
Outside, students laughed, teachers called farewells, and the sound of life moved forward — endlessly, beautifully ordinary.

Kunikida stood, straightened his coat, and picked up the stack of papers again.

There would always be more to do.
More to teach. More to protect.

But for the first time in a long while, he felt light enough to begin again.

When they finally left the classroom, the corridor lights had dimmed to soft gold. The others were still outside, chatting and taking pictures under the gingko trees.
Kunikida walked beside Takamori and Hayase, listening as they spoke of new students, curriculum changes, the endless rhythm of school life.

It all felt so ordinary — yet in that ordinariness was something profoundly grounding.

Before parting ways, Takamori touched his sleeve. “You.. you should visit again sometime, you know. You don’t need a reunion for that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Kunikida said with a rare, genuine smile.

As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the penlight in his pocket pressed lightly against his chest — a quiet reminder that this peace, too, existed alongside danger. But tonight, for once, he allowed himself to simply be sensei again.

He looked back once at the glowing windows of the Institute, then turned toward the road.

Even back then, he thought, I was already walking this path.

And as the first stars blinked into view above Yokohama, Kunikida Doppo — teacher, detective, and man of ideals — continued down the quiet street, unaware of the ripple his presence still left behind.

The night breeze carried a gentle chill through the courtyard, rustling the gingko leaves above. The reunion had shifted outdoors now — laughter, flash photography, a few nostalgic tears. Someone had started playing old songs from a portable speaker. The world felt still, almost too still, like the pause before a storm.

Kunikida stood near the old oak bench by the gates, exchanging polite farewells with a few of his former students. Yamane, the one who’d wanted to become a teacher, bowed deeply before him.

“Thank you again, sensei.” he said earnestly. “If it weren’t for your guidance back then, I don’t think I’d ever believe I could do this.”

Kunikida gave a small smile. “You did the work yourself, Yamane. I only pointed the way.”

Yamane beamed — then turned to wave at his friends. The chatter filled the courtyard again, warm and alive. Kunikida felt something unclench in his chest. He’d been right to come.

He glanced down at the slim, metal penlight Ranpo had handed him earlier that morning.

“Just keep this with you tonight,” Ranpo had said, his voice oddly serious. “You’ll know when to use it.”

No further explanation, no smirk. Just that look Ranpo had — the one that meant he already knew something.

Kunikida, of course, trusted him. He’d slipped it into his jacket pocket, not thinking much more of it.

Until now.

Because just as he turned to leave, a low rumble reverberated beneath his feet.

At first, he thought it was distant thunder. Then came the sharp crack — glass shattering from one of the upper floors — followed by the sudden, panicked scream of a student.

The music cut off.

Kunikida’s instincts activated before thought could. His body moved with trained precision — the kind honed from years under Fukuzawa’s silent observation and Dazai’s chaos-infused lessons.
He scanned the area. Smoke. Sparks. The flickering smell of something electrical burning.

“Everyone, move back!” he ordered, voice ringing sharp and steady. “Away from the building — now!”

Students froze for a second — that familiar paralysis of fear — until his tone cut through them like a commandment. Yamane and two others immediately stepped up to help direct people.

Takamori shouted from behind him, “It’s the science wing! Something’s exploded!”

Kunikida’s gaze snapped to the third floor. Flames licked from one of the windows — not spreading yet, but enough to suggest a chemical reaction.
And inside, through the faint flicker of light, he caught movement.
A figure. Trapped.
He recognized the silhouette instantly — Mr. Hayase.

Kunikida didn’t hesitate.

“Takamori, take charge of evacuation. Get everyone to the gymnasium. Call the fire department.”
“Wha— Kunikida, what are you—”
“Go!”

He was already moving, his long strides cutting through the courtyard. His mind ran calculations as he went — structure layout, chemical hazards, ventilation routes, pressure estimates. Every variable lined up into a plan.

He reached the stairwell in seconds. Smoke was spilling downward now, thick and acrid. He tied his jacket sleeve over his mouth and ascended, two steps at a time.
His phone buzzed — a message.

From Ranpo:

“Third floor, right hall. You’ll need the penlight.”

Ranpo.
Of course.

He reached the landing. The corridor was half-dark, emergency lights flickering. The smell of burning ammonia clung to the air. He swept the area — debris, glass, fallen ceiling tiles. He could hear Hayase coughing somewhere ahead.

“Hayase!” he called, voice steady. “Can you hear me?”

A weak voice answered, “K-Kunikida—!”

He turned the corner — and froze.

The source wasn’t a simple chemical fire. A black scorch mark spread along the wall, patterns too precise to be accidental. His sharp eyes caught it instantly — the residue shimmered faintly, almost alive.

An Ability.

Hayase stumbled backward from a broken lab counter, eyes wide. “There was someone here — a man, he— he threw something, and—!”

Kunikida grabbed his arm and pulled him back just as a pulse of red light erupted down the hall — a concussive wave tearing through the air. He dove behind a toppled desk, shielding Hayase.

When the dust cleared, he rose.

A man stood in the haze ahead — long coat, face half-covered by a bandana, eyes gleaming unnaturally in the low light.
His hand sparked faintly, electricity dancing across his knuckles.

“Who are you?” Kunikida demanded.

The man tilted his head. “You’re not police.”

“No,” Kunikida replied evenly, loosening his tie, his tone like a line of steel. “I’m with the Armed Detective Agency.”

Shock flickered across the intruder’s face. “Then my information was right…”

Kunikida didn’t wait for him to finish. He was already moving.

He closed the distance in seconds — a blur of trained precision. The man swung his arm, releasing a burst of static discharge. Kunikida ducked beneath it, pivoted sharply, and struck with a perfectly measured kick to the ribs.
The intruder staggered back, surprised — clearly not expecting this level of combat from a schoolteacher.

“Your ability endangers civilians,” Kunikida said, voice calm even as he blocked another attack. “You won’t escape this building until every hostage is safe.”

“Hostage?” The man sneered. “No hostages, detective. Just leverage.”

He snapped his fingers — and the lights blew out completely.
Darkness swallowed the corridor.

For an instant, Kunikida’s world narrowed to the smell of smoke, the sound of crackling electricity, and the faint, disoriented cough of Hayase behind him. His mind ran through possibilities — if the ability required visibility, if it could arc through metal, if—

Then his hand brushed the penlight in his pocket.

Ranpo’s words echoed in his mind: You’ll know when to use it.

He pressed the switch.

A soft blue beam cut through the smoke — but this was no ordinary light. As it passed through the air, faint symbols appeared — invisible trails of circuitry painted on the walls, glowing faintly under ultraviolet.
Kunikida’s analytical mind clicked instantly. A trap — a field set with conductive powder or gas. Invisible under normal light, but now revealed.

“Ranpo…” he murmured. “I see.”

He adjusted his stance and reached into his notebook. The pages fluttered under his fingers until he found what he needed — a sketched formula he’d once created for shock absorption barriers. He tore it free, the page igniting in gold light.

“Thou Shalt Not Pass: Kinetic Countermeasure Type-7.”

The ability flared around him, forming a shimmering wall just as another blast came. The electric wave hit — and dispersed harmlessly, redirected back through the field lines Ranpo had exposed.

The intruder barely had time to register before Kunikida lunged forward, striking with mechanical precision.
One, two — disarm, pivot, elbow to the diaphragm.
The man crumpled, gasping, and Kunikida pinned him to the floor, arm twisted behind his back.

“On behalf of the Armed Detective Agency,” Kunikida said evenly, “you’re under investigation for illegal Ability use and endangering civilians.”

The man snarled, but the fight was gone from him. The electric current flickered out.

Kunikida held his grip steady a moment longer, waiting until the residual energy fully dissipated. His pulse thundered in his ears, but his breathing was controlled — slow, measured, like every combat drill Fukuzawa had ever made him repeat until it became instinct.

Only when he was certain the threat was neutralized did he release the man and stand.

The corridor was silent except for the occasional crackle of dying sparks. Smoke still hung in the air, glowing faintly under the emergency lights. The sharp scent of burnt chemicals stung his throat.

He turned, scanning for Hayase.

“Mr. Hayase?”
A small sound answered — a weak cough from behind the overturned lab table.

Kunikida strode over, crouching beside him. The older teacher looked dazed, his face streaked with soot, eyes wide behind his crooked glasses.

“K-Kunikida—what—what just happened—?” His voice trembled.

Kunikida didn’t answer immediately. He tore a strip of fabric from his ruined jacket sleeve and wrapped it quickly around a cut on Hayase’s arm. His motions were precise, efficient — the same discipline he applied to paperwork, but with a surprising gentleness.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“N-No—no, I—” Hayase glanced past him at the unconscious man on the floor, confusion dawning. “That man—was he—?”

“He’s no longer a threat.” Kunikida’s tone was clipped, firm but calm. “Can you walk?”

Hayase nodded shakily.

“Good. Then stay behind me. We’re leaving.”

They moved carefully down the smoke-filled hall. The ceiling panels above creaked, dust falling with each step. Every few meters, Kunikida stopped to check the stability of the floor before proceeding — his sharp eyes scanning for any signs of structural collapse.

The third-floor stairwell had partially caved in, blocking their usual exit route. Kunikida frowned, running a quick mental map of the building layout.

“Fire escape,” he muttered to himself. “South corridor.”

He led the way, guiding Hayase through the haze. The corridor felt longer now — eerily quiet except for the distant murmur of voices from outside. Somewhere below, he could faintly hear students calling names, footsteps pounding across the courtyard.

When they reached the window at the end of the hall, the cool night air hit them like a promise. The smoke curled out into the open, revealing the courtyard lights below. Students were gathered there, small groups huddled anxiously, teachers counting heads.

Kunikida forced the window open, the old frame groaning in protest. “Go, now.” he instructed.

Hayase hesitated. “W-What about you?”

“I’ll follow right after.” He gestured toward the small landing. “Climb down carefully. Don’t look back.”

Hayase swallowed, then nodded and began his descent.

Kunikida waited until he was halfway down before exhaling, allowing his shoulders to relax for the first time since the explosion. He glanced around the empty hall once more, confirming no one else remained. Then he followed.

By the time his feet touched the ground, several students had already spotted them.

“Sensei!”
“Mr. Kunikida—he’s okay!”
“Someone get water—!”

The sound swelled around him, frantic but full of relief. Yamane rushed forward first, his face pale. “Sensei, are you hurt? You—your arm—!”

Kunikida looked down — blood smeared across his sleeve, the edges singed. He hadn’t even noticed. “It’s superficial.” he said automatically.

But the words didn’t soothe anyone. The students crowded closer, worry spilling from them in waves.

Rina, the once-chatterbox who’d grown into a calm, collected young woman, pressed a damp handkerchief into his hand. “You’re shaking,” she murmured. “Please, sit down.”

“I’m fine.” he started — then paused. They were all staring at him. Faces he hadn’t seen in years, now filled with the same fear and gratitude he used to see after difficult lessons or heartfelt advice.

In that instant, the years between teacher and detective folded in on themselves.

“…Alright.” he relented quietly.

They guided him to a bench beneath the gingko tree. The air outside was crisp, the faint smell of smoke still clinging to his coat. From here, he could see the cracked window on the third floor glowing orange, though the flames had already died down.

Hayase sat a few feet away, coughing weakly into his sleeve. One of the students brought him water, while others fussed over Kunikida — pressing towels, offering coats, speaking all at once.

“Mr. Kunikida, that was— you were— you just ran in there!”
“You could’ve gotten hurt—!”
“Is the guy still inside—?”

He raised a hand, and the noise stilled almost immediately. The teacher’s voice still carried weight, even now.

“Everyone’s safe. That’s all that matters.”

Yamane’s voice came out soft, trembling slightly. “You didn’t even hesitate, sensei. You just—went in. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Kunikida looked at him, something quiet flickering behind his eyes. “It was. Protecting others should always come naturally.”

Silence followed. Then Rina spoke, barely above a whisper: “That’s-.. that's just like you..”

He blinked, taken aback.

“Back then,” she continued, “whenever one of us had a problem — you were there. You.. you didn’t make it dramatic, you didn’t ask for thanks, you just fixed things. Like it was- it was simply part of your schedule,” She smiled, teary-eyed. “E-Even now… it’s still the same..”

Kunikida didn’t answer. His throat felt strangely tight.
He wanted to tell her she was exaggerating — that he’d only done what any teacher should.
But looking at them, seeing how much they’d grown, how they stood around him now not as children but as adults shaped in part by his guidance — the words refused to come.

Hayase cleared his throat. “I- I don’t know what kind of training you’ve had since leaving us,” he said, voice hoarse but genuine. “But… I’m grateful. You saved my life tonight, Kunikida.”

Kunikida’s eyes softened. “I only did what was necessary.”

“And yet,” Hayase added quietly, “it seems you’ve always done exactly that — necessary things, for all of us.”

Kunikida didn’t reply. Instead, he looked out at the school grounds — the faintly glowing windows, the familiar layout of the field, the sound of his former students whispering to each other, still in disbelief.
The memory of simpler days brushed against him like the ghost of chalk dust.

Turns out, he thought, even back then, I was already trying huh.

He let the thought linger for a moment — quiet, unspoken, true.

Then, somewhere in the distance, a faint siren began to wail.

The students turned toward the sound. Red and blue lights flickered far down the street, drawing closer.

Kunikida stood, his expression settling back into calm focus. “Everyone,” he said, tone steady once more, “move to the field and keep clear of the building. The fire department will be here any moment.”

He looked back at the group — at the worried faces, the trembling smiles, the unspoken admiration.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “For listening. For staying safe.”

Yamane nodded, swallowing hard. “..And thank you, for- for coming back, sensei!”

Kunikida allowed himself a faint smile — rare, quiet, genuine.
“I’m glad I did.”

The sirens grew louder.
And as their glow painted the courtyard in shifting light, the students moved as instructed, staying together — safe, unharmed, alive.

Kunikida stood alone beneath the gingko tree, smoke curling upward into the night sky.
For now, the danger was gone. The chaos would return soon — with police questions, Ranpo’s knowing grin, and paperwork waiting back at the Agency.

But for this brief moment, there was peace.

And in that peace, Kunikida realized something simple, something grounding:
Even when the world changed, his duty never had.

The air outside still smelled faintly of burnt ozone and the tang of melted circuitry. A thin trail of smoke curled from what used to be the display counter, the red lights of the fire trucks painting the night in flickering shades of urgency. Students huddled near the cordoned line, wrapped in blankets, their faces pale under the glow. The sirens had died down, replaced by murmurs and the scratch of pens on notepads as officers took statements.

Kunikida stood off to the side, his coat dusted with ash. His glasses had slipped halfway down his nose, and a shallow cut ran along his cheekbone where the explosion had caught him. The paramedic who had tried to patch him up had been waved away twice — politely, but firmly.

He had always been a difficult patient.

“Sir,” a police officer approached, straightening as if subconsciously picking up on Kunikida’s disciplined posture. “You were one of the first on the scene?”

“Yes,” Kunikida replied, voice even despite the fatigue in it. “I was a former instructor at Shin-Tsuruya Institute. I happened to be present when the incident began.”

The officer nodded, jotting something down. “We’ll need your statement, as well as your ID.”

Kunikida reached for his wallet—his movements precise, though his arm ached from where the debris had hit it. Before he could unclip the badge inside, a familiar voice cut through the crackle of radio static.

“Ah, no need for that!”

The crowd parted as if pushed by a quiet force of nature. Ranpo Edogawa strolled through, hands tucked casually in his pockets, his coat swinging lightly at his knees. The faint grin on his lips carried the kind of self-assurance that made even the uniformed officers instinctively step aside.

“Ranpo,” Kunikida said, both weary and resigned. “You—”

“—got here just in time!” Ranpo finished for him, flashing a lazy salute toward the officer. “He’s with me. My colleague, Kunikida Doppo — Armed Detective Agency.”

The officer blinked, visibly startled. “Ah… ADA? You mean that agency? I—”

Ranpo’s grin sharpened. “The one and only!”
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “You might want to tell your chief that the case you’ve been scratching your heads over for three days just got wrapped up by this very teacher-looking gentleman here.”

The officer stared between them, utterly bewildered. “So… this was—?”

“A case, yes,” Ranpo interrupted smoothly, taking Kunikida by the arm and tugging him a few steps away from the group. “Handled beautifully, I might add.”

Once they were out of earshot, Kunikida adjusted his glasses, exhaling. “You could have called ahead.”

“And ruin the surprise?” Ranpo beamed. “Never. Besides, you followed my advice, didn’t you? I told you to bring that miniature voltage suppressor.”

Kunikida’s hand brushed the gadget clipped to his belt. “I thought it was a strange request for a reunion.”

“Strange, sure,” Ranpo said, lowering his voice, “but it saved lives. That little device stopped the trigger when the secondary charge tried to go off, you’re lucky I sensed something off in the reports near that district.”

“You knew there would be an attempt?” Kunikida asked.

“I suspected,” Ranpo shrugged, eyes glinting under the streetlights. “But I also knew you’d be there — and that you’d handle it without losing a single civilian, You didn’t disappoint!”

Kunikida’s sigh came out half-gruff, half-touched. “You could have given me details, Ranpo.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

For a moment, the edge of tension dissolved — replaced by the easy, infuriating familiarity that had built itself over years of comradery. Ranpo’s grin softened, genuine this time. “You did good, Kunikida. Real good.”

Before Kunikida could respond, a voice called from the sidelines.

“Mr. Kunikida!”

He turned. His students — now grown — were watching him, eyes wide, faces lit by disbelief and something like awe. The teachers from earlier huddled behind them, whispering in confusion.

Ranpo raised an eyebrow, stepping back just slightly, mischief brewing. “Ah, your fan club awaits!”

“Ranpo,” Kunikida warned quietly. “Not. A. Word.”

“Of course~!” Ranpo said with a perfectly innocent smile — which immediately meant trouble.

As Kunikida walked toward the group, the murmurs grew.
“Sensei, what—what was that?”
“You fought that man! And that… thing you used—”
“A- Are you still hurt?"
“Mr. Kunikida, were you trained for that?!”

Kunikida’s hand twitched toward his temple. He had faced supernatural assassins and terrorist organizations, but the earnest concern of his former students (who probably came because they heard the whole story from the police) seemed to disarm him in a way bullets never could. “I’m fine. Please, don’t worry yourselves. It’s—”

Ranpo appeared behind him in a flash. “You know you can tell them, Kunikida~”

Kunikida shot him a warning glance, but Ranpo continued as if giving a press conference. “After all, it’s not every day your beloved former teacher turns out to be a hero, right?”

The crowd collectively froze.

“Eh?” one student squeaked.

Ranpo spread his arms dramatically. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present — Detective Kunikida Doppo of the Armed Detective Agency! My very own diligent, justice-obsessed subordinate!”

The reaction was immediate.

“The… Armed Detective Agency?”
“No way—”
“THAT Armed Detective Agency?!”
“The one in Yokohama that handles ability-related cases?!”

A younger teacher clutched their clipboard like a lifeline. “They… they solve supernatural crimes! The Agency’s employees are— they’re ability users!”

Ranpo gave a mock bow, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re all quite informed! Yes, indeed — we’re the ones you call when the police can’t handle the extraordinary.”

He leaned sideways toward Kunikida, whispering just loud enough for the nearest few to hear. “And your teacher here? One of the best. Meticulous! Brave! A little uptight, maybe, but—”

“Ranpo.”

“—utterly reliable in a crisis!”

The whispers spread like wildfire. Some of the students looked utterly thunderstruck; others broke into nervous laughter, trying to reconcile the strict, idealistic teacher they’d once known with the man who had just subdued a criminal and shielded them with supernatural precision.

A girl near the front — Hina, the one Kunikida remembered used to doodle in the margins of her math notebook — was the first to speak again.

“So… all that time… you really were amazing, huh, Sensei?”

Kunikida blinked. “I— what?”

She smiled through tears she hadn’t realized were forming. “Back then, you used to tell us that being an adult meant living by one’s ideals no matter how hard the world tries to change you. Hehe, you still do that, don’t you?”

The words hit deeper than any applause could. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Ranpo watched quietly now, expression softer. “See?” he murmured. “Told you showing up was worth it!”

Another student, taller now and wearing a trainee teacher’s badge, stepped forward. “I became a teacher because of you,” he said, voice trembling just a little. “When I was failing everything — grades, attitude, even myself — you were the only one who didn’t give up on me. You told me, ‘A man’s worth is measured not by his failures, but by how he corrects them.’”

He laughed shakily, rubbing at his eyes. “I wrote that down and taped it on my desk. I… still have it there.”

Kunikida blinked rapidly behind his glasses. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if it was the sting of the lingering smoke or something deeper. The student bowed low, and several others followed — awkwardly, earnestly — forming a ripple of gratitude that made the whole street go still.

Ranpo tilted his head, smirking but quiet now, letting the moment belong entirely to him.

Kunikida cleared his throat, his voice steadier than his heart. “You- you shouldn’t cling to the past,” he said, though his tone gentled. “If anything I did helped you, then use it to walk forward. Don’t look back for too long.”

A chuckle escaped one of the older teachers. “Still lecturing, even after saving half the reunion!”

Another teacher — a woman with her hair pinned neatly but with soot smudged on her cheek — stepped closer. “You know, Kunikida-san, when you left two years ago, we thought it was a waste. You were the kind of teacher who actually believed his students could become better.”

“..I still do.” he replied quietly.

Her smile deepened. “And you still sound exactly like that twenty-year-old idealist who quoted poetry at staff meetings!”

The crowd’s tension broke into soft laughter. Someone sniffled. A few students murmured to each other — he hasn’t changed a bit.

Ranpo folded his arms, watching as the firelight flickered against Kunikida’s silhouette. He looked utterly out of place in the wreckage — coat torn, sleeve stained with dust — yet somehow, he fit perfectly among them. Like the world had just caught a rare glimpse of who he really was beneath all that strict composure: the man who lived what he preached.

“Alright, everyone,” an officer called out gently, breaking the atmosphere. “We’ll need statements from you all soon. Please remain behind the barrier.”

As the group dispersed slightly, murmuring in awe and fatigue, Ranpo clapped Kunikida lightly on the back. “You handled that beautifully, sensei!”

Kunikida groaned. “Ranpo, must you—”

“Of course I must,” Ranpo grinned, bright and merciless. “You should’ve seen their faces! The pride! The tears! You’re practically a folk hero now!”

“Ranpo,” he warned again.

Ranpo leaned closer, smirk dropping just slightly. “Seriously, though… I meant what I said, you did good. You saved them — like you always do.”

The words hung in the air longer than either expected. Kunikida’s shoulders eased. “You shouldn’t flatter me, I simply did my duty.”

Ranpo’s laugh was soft, knowing. “Your ‘duty’ saves lives, Kunikida. That’s something worth acknowledging.”

Before Kunikida could form a reply, a small commotion rose from the group again.

One of the younger teachers, a man in a loose jacket, approached nervously, fiddling with his phone. “Um… so, about the Armed Detective Agency—is it really true? You all deal with—what do you call it—‘abilities’? As in, actual supernatural powers?”

Ranpo turned smoothly, hands behind his back, eyes gleaming. “Mhm~. Real as the nose on your face. Though the work is less glamorous than the papers make it sound.”

The teacher blinked, half in awe, half in disbelief. “Then… you too, Mr. Kunikida?”

Ranpo didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Oh, absolutely! He’s got a very handy ability — Doppo Poet. Writes things into existence. Literal words of power!”

A loud gasp rippled through the small crowd. “WHAT—”

Kunikida’s composure cracked just a little. “Ranpo!”

“What? It’s public record!” Ranpo said innocently, sidestepping a swing of Kunikida’s glare. “Besides, it’s not like they’re going to start handing you pens and paper demanding miracles.”

Several students laughed shakily, the tension fading. Someone whispered, “That explains how he stopped that explosion—!” Another muttered, “No wonder he was always carrying notebooks!”

Kunikida pressed a hand to his forehead, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a nightmare to explain to the Agency’s PR department.”

Ranpo grinned. “You’re welcome!”

The younger teacher who’d spoken up earlier stepped forward again. “Mr. Kunikida… we always knew you were a little too extraordinary for this place..”

The words, meant as lighthearted, hit him harder than expected. His throat tightened. “No- I was simply… fortunate to have students who believed in me.”

One girl, trembling slightly but smiling, spoke up from behind the crowd. “You believed in us first, sensei!”

That silenced him completely.

Ranpo let out a low hum, watching Kunikida’s expression soften in a way few ever saw — that mix of pride, disbelief, and something close to quiet gratitude. “See? You’ve been saving people long before the Agency, Kunikida.”

Kunikida turned toward him, and though his voice stayed calm, his eyes betrayed the warmth beneath. “Perhaps. But that doesn’t excuse your unnecessary dramatics.”

“Unnecessary?” Ranpo gasped, hand to his chest. “I gave them closure! A little inspiration! You’re welcome for the character development!”

“Ranpo.”

“Alright, alright~” Ranpo laughed, stepping away, the mischief back in full force. “Let’s just say your reunion turned out electrifying.”

“That pun was beneath you.”

“Nothing’s beneath me!”

Kunikida sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Despite everything, I've never, ever you.”

“Because I’m brilliant, and you absolutely enjoy my company!” Ranpo said cheerfully, already striding toward the police line. “Now come on. The President’s going to want the report before dawn.”

Kunikida glanced back one last time. His students were still watching, some waving, some bowing — their faces illuminated by the flashing lights.

For a brief, golden instant, he saw them as they once were: bright-eyed, uncertain, full of dreams he’d once guided with chalk-stained hands.

He allowed himself a small smile. “Take care of yourselves.” he murmured.

Ranpo, waiting just ahead, caught the tone and grinned. “Sentimental, are we?”

“Simply concluding a chapter.” Kunikida replied, his stride evening out beside him.

As they walked toward the waiting patrol car, the murmur of voices trailed behind them — awe, gratitude, wonder.

Ranpo stretched, yawning exaggeratedly. “You know, Kunikida-kun, you’re really terrible at reunions.”

“I didn’t attend for entertainment.”

“Good thing I did, then.”

Kunikida gave him a sidelong look, the faintest curve of amusement tugging at his lips. “Next time, I’m disabling my phone before you can track me.”

Ranpo chuckled, tapping his temple. “Oh, you can’t hide from genius.”

The night breeze carried away the remnants of smoke, leaving behind only faint laughter and the lingering hum of sirens.

And though the chaos had ended, Kunikida found himself walking lighter — as if, somewhere in that ruin, he’d rediscovered the quiet purpose that had once begun in a classroom full of hope.

The train ride back to Yokohama was unusually quiet.
The rhythmic clatter of the tracks, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead — they filled the silence that neither man felt the need to break.

Ranpo sat opposite him, legs crossed, hat tilted low as he nibbled the last crumbs of a lollipop. His eyes, half-lidded, flicked open every so often to glance at Kunikida — who sat perfectly upright despite the hour, notebook resting on his lap.

He wasn’t writing. Not yet.

He was just… thinking.

Through the glass, the night scenery blurred — neon and shadow bleeding together into an abstract wash of motion.
In his reflection, Kunikida caught glimpses of both his selves: the teacher who’d lectured about ideals, and the detective who’d learned what it meant to uphold them under fire.

His fingers traced the notebook’s edge.

Those students… they’d grown stronger. He remembered Hina’s tearful smile, the trainee teacher’s trembling words, the laughter of the staff who had once teased him for being too idealistic.

He had thought leaving the Institute was turning his back on that life. But now, he realized — he never truly left teaching.

He just changed classrooms.

The Agency was, in its own way, full of students — each with their flaws and strengths, their mistakes and potential.
Atsushi, earnest and uncertain but bright.
Ranpo, infuriatingly confident yet perceptive.
Even Dazai — the greatest paradox of all — reckless, brilliant, and utterly frustrating.

He remembered the way Dazai sometimes fell silent after missions — how his gaze would flick toward the windows, seeing something Kunikida couldn’t. How he joked too easily, how laughter became armor.

Kunikida knew that pattern too well.

It was the same kind of silence Hanako used to wear after long days — that half-smile masking exhaustion, that tendency to deflect concern with humor.

A small breath caught in his throat. He’d failed to notice back then. He refused to make the same mistake again.

Ranpo glanced at him. “You’re thinking loud again.” he said softly.

Kunikida blinked, almost startled. “...Am I?”

“Louder than usual,” Ranpo said, but there was no teasing this time. “You did well today.”

Kunikida nodded once, grateful for the quiet understanding between them.

By the time they reached Yokohama Station, the sky was paling to grey-blue. The Agency was still asleep when they entered — or should’ve been.

But the moment Kunikida opened the door, a familiar, gleeful voice shattered the calm.

“Kunikida-kun~! You’re famous!”

Dazai was perched atop his desk, holding up a tablet that displayed a news headline in garish bold letters:
“Mysterious Explosion at Shin-Tsuruya Institute Reunion Foiled — Witnesses Praise ‘Heroic Former Teacher.’”

“Oh for—” Kunikida snatched the tablet before Dazai could dramatize further. “You’ve been monitoring local news again, haven’t you?”

“Of course!” Dazai chirped, eyes sparkling. “Imagine my surprise seeing you on the screen, looking all gallant with that tiny cut on your cheek! Truly, the nation’s model sensei!”

“Don’t start.”

Atsushi peeked from his desk, half-asleep but instantly alert. “Wait, that was you, Kunikida-san? I saw that on TV! The announcer said you subdued the suspect with some kind of electrical—”

Ranpo, never missing his cue, threw himself onto the couch. “He did! With flawless precision. You should’ve seen it — textbook heroism!”

“Don’t encourage him-” Kunikida muttered.

Yosano strolled in, folding her arms with a smirk. “You look fine, but that cut could get infected. Sit before I make you.”

He sighed — there was no winning with her — and obeyed.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“And scratches lead to infections, infections lead to me having to knock you out.” Yosano said sweetly, brandishing antiseptic. “Now, hold still.”

As she patched him up, Dazai leaned close, grinning like a cat.
“So tell us, Kunikida-kun~! How does it feel to be the nation’s beloved ‘hero teacher’? You’re trending! Someone even drew fanart.”

Kunikida visibly paled. “They what?”

Atsushi tried to muffle a laugh. “Uh… actually, I think there’s a fanpage too.”

“I.. I am not checking that.” Kunikida said flatly, rubbing his temple. “This is precisely why I avoid reunions.”

Ranpo yawned. “You say that like the world won’t drag you into them anyway.”

Before Kunikida could retort, a quiet step sounded from the stairs.

“Welcome back.” Fukuzawa said.

Everyone straightened immediately — except Dazai, who waved lazily. “Kunikida made headlines, boss!”

“I saw,” Fukuzawa replied, his calm gaze settling on Kunikida.

Kunikida rose from the chair instinctively. “Sir. The incident was contained. No civilian casualties. The suspect’s in custody.”

Fukuzawa gave a slight nod. “I read the report. You handled it well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“..You once told me,” Fukuzawa said, pausing near the window, “that you left teaching to dedicate yourself fully to protecting others. Seems you’ve done that — even when fate sent you back to the classroom.”

Something in Kunikida stilled.
Ranpo’s quiet smile flickered in the corner of his eye, but Kunikida barely noticed. The words struck a chord he hadn’t expected.

“It appears,” he said after a moment, “that my ideals haven’t changed. Only their… application.”

Fukuzawa’s tone softened. “That is what it means to live by them.”

And just like that, the serenity was shattered — gloriously — by Dazai flinging an arm around him.

“Aww, look at our righteous role model, having a character arc!”

Kunikida immediately tried to shove him off. “Get. Off. Me.”

Dazai clung tighter. “Oh, come now, Kunikida-kun! Don’t be shy! You’re practically a celebrity! Sensei of Justice!”

Ranpo snorted from the couch. “They’ll probably make a drama about it.”

Atsushi giggled. “Wouldn’t that mean someone has to play all of us too?”

“Oh, I want to be portrayed by someone tall, mysterious, and handsome,” Dazai mused, striking a pose. “Maybe I’ll call the producers—”

“Enough!”

Kunikida’s voice cut through the office. The room froze for half a second — then promptly dissolved into laughter.

Even Yosano smiled, patting the last of the bandage into place. “There. All better. Now you can yell properly again.”

He sighed, defeated, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “You’re all impossible.”

Ranpo popped a candy into his mouth. “And yet, you stay.”

Kunikida exhaled through his nose — that quiet sound he made when trying not to admit fondness.
“Because someone has to keep you all in order.”

Dazai gasped dramatically. “How noble of our teacher!”

“I swear, Dazai—”

“—who inspires us daily to live by his impossible ideals!”

Laughter erupted again — and Kunikida felt it: that warmth. That impossible, maddening warmth.

The Agency was chaotic, exasperating… but alive. A place where people grew — like students under his watch, in their own strange ways.

He let himself breathe.

As dawn spilled across Yokohama, brushing the Agency’s windows in gold, Kunikida looked toward it — and for a moment, saw the faint reflection of a classroom. Chalk dust floating in the sunlight. A young boy’s laugh.
You always worry too much, Sensei.

His chest tightened — not painfully, just softly, like an old wound remembering how it healed.

Then, beside him, Dazai’s voice drifted lightly:
“Really, Kunikida-kun… you worry too much.”

Kunikida froze.

It was the same cadence. The same teasing gentleness. The same kind of truth that slipped past his guard before he could stop it.

He looked at Dazai, who was pretending to browse the fanart on his phone, but something in his expression — fleeting, unguarded — made Kunikida’s throat feel strangely tight.

“…I suppose someone has to..” Kunikida said quietly. “Someone has to keep you alive long enough to see those ideals through.”

Dazai blinked, caught off-guard.

For a second, something unspoken flickered between them — recognition, maybe, or gratitude. Then, as always, Dazai smoothed it over with a grin.

“My, my~ How sentimental! You do care about me!”

Kunikida flushed, glaring. “Don’t twist my words.”

“Oh, I don’t need to twist them,” Dazai said with mock innocence. “They’re already very heartwarming! Next you’ll be tucking me in at night~

“I’ll tuck you into an early grave if you don’t shut up.”

“See? Affection~!”

Ranpo wheezed laughing from the couch. “Careful, Dazai, he’s got that ‘worried mom’ tone again.”

Yosano rolled her eyes. “He always does, some things never change.”

Kunikida gave up with a groan, rubbing the bridge of his nose — but there was no real heat in it.
When the laughter faded, he sat back at his desk, the noise of the office like a heartbeat around him.

He opened his notebook.

There it was — the familiar entry.
Call Dazai twice a day.

He stared at it for a long moment, the ink steady and deliberate, the kind of handwriting that refused to waver even when the heart behind it did.

Then, slowly, he wrote beneath it:

• Remind Dazai to eat properly.
  
  
• Check if he’s sleeping enough (unlikely).
  
  
• Encourage him. Even if he acts like he doesn’t need it.
  
  
• Don’t fail to notice again.
  
  

The words sat neatly on the page, precise and calm — and yet, they warmed the air around him.

He closed the notebook, satisfied.

Behind him, Dazai’s voice rang out again:
“Kunikida-kun, what are you writing now? Your memoirs? ‘The Virtues of a Perfect Man,’ perhaps?’”

The pen hit Dazai squarely in the forehead.

“Ow! Violence isn’t very virtuous, you know!”

“Neither is your existence!” Kunikida muttered.

The laughter that followed filled the Agency — bright, reckless, and alive.

Later, when the day had stretched into quiet evening, Kunikida found himself alone again — the city outside awash in gold and silver. He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, watching the faint dance of dust motes in the slanting light.

They drifted, weightless — tiny remnants of all that had once been written and erased. Lessons taught. Promises made. Lives changed.

Maybe that was what it meant to live by ideals — not to keep them fixed, but to let them settle, gently, into the corners of one’s soul.

He could still see the chalkboard from that old classroom — still hear the soft laughter, the sound of dreams being built.
And beneath it all, the echo of a young voice teasing through time:

You always worry too much, Sensei.

Kunikida smiled faintly. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But someone has to.”

Outside, the wind carried the scent of rain, and the chalk dust settled — quietly, like a memory choosing to rest.