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Being back in the Armed Detective Agency’s headquarters felt surreal for the detectives that called it home. They’d been through hell and back when the Agency was framed as the perpetrators of evil acts committed by the homicidal group, the Decay of Angels, and went on the run from the government special task force, the Hunting Dogs. The Agency’s own Dazai allowed himself to be arrested, so he could share a cell across from Fyodor Dostoevsky, mastermind behind the Decay of Angels plot. With him leading the Agency from behind bars, they were able to undo the evil wrought by tracking down the tool Dostoevsky’s people were using to manipulate events, a page from a mysterious Book that turned whatever was written on its pages into reality.
Recovering the page and restoring the Agency’s reputation had been a victory for the detectives, but it came at a cost. Dostoevsky had broken out of his holding cell and, according to the Agency’s top minds, Dazai and Ranpo, had already put into motion his next plan. Both predicted that his next move would be one of desperation, he was running out of options, and that they could expect it to be personal. They needed to be ready for him, and while the other detectives were hard at work attempting to determine what Dostoevsky had up his sleeve, Dazai napped on their waiting room couch, much to the chagrin of his straight-lace partner, Kunikida.
“Are you going to do any actual work? Ranpo’s been pouring over documents and reviewing everything we know about Dostoevsky, but the person who’s spent the most time with him is slacking off,” Kunikida ranted.
“But Kunikida, doesn’t Dazai deserve a rest? It’s thanks to him that we were able to restore the Agency this time, wasn’t it?” Atsushi spoke up, with his usual bright eyed, overly innocent gumption. He stood at Kunikida’s shoulder, both looking down at Dazai’s lump on the couch.
“You’re a sweet boy, Atsushi, and Kunikida could learn a thing or two from you…but I am working,” Dazai murmured groggily from his position on the couch. They gave him a skeptical look and he sat up, grinning at the two, “I know Dostoevsky best, right? What could I accomplish looking over files and reports? There’s nothing new for me in them. The only thing I need to do is think…what would I do next?”
“You’re just sitting here dreaming about committing double suicide with a beautiful woman,” Kunikida grumbled.
Dazai blinked at him, “Can’t it be both?”
Kunikida bit back his sharp retort and stalked back into the office to oversee his subordinate’s work. There came a knock at the door. Atsushi shook his head at his mentor’s antics and went to answer it. At the same time, Dazai’s phone rang. He looked at the number, it didn’t have caller ID. He smirked.
“So, it’s finally time for the next game,” he muttered, clicking to answer. “Hello, hello!”
“Congratulations on reinstating the Agency. How is everyone settling back into their work?” came the reply, in a voice lilting with dark intention.
Dazai maintained his smile as he replied with a bored tone, “Oh, you know, they’re all happy to be home, but eager, excited over nothing. That was quite the adventure. What about you? Where have you settled down, Fyodor?”
“Now, now, if I told you that, Dazai, where would the fun be?”
“You’re right. Had to try, of course, I can’t play with you forever, I do have other things on my agenda,” Dazai teased, even as every other sense was on alert. Fyodor wouldn’t have called without reason. What’s more, calling was personal, and it opened Dazai up to hearing Fyodor’s surroundings. Any little outside noise, like a train engine or a boat’s horn, right down to the echo of Fyodor’s voice were clues to his location. It meant that Fyodor wanted to listen to Dazai, his voice and his reactions to their exchange.
“Who was at the door?” Kenji called as Atsushi returned to the office with an envelope in his hands.
“Delivery man. It’s not marked,” he answered, there was a rustle of paper as he handed the envelope over to Kunikida and Ranpo.
“An adventure…that was quite an adventure. I must say, you delight me, Dazai. I don’t think I’ve ever met an adversary that’s given me such a challenge. It’s invigorating,” Fyodor continued, his gushing had Dazai’s hair standing on end and instinct guided his feet to the office area where his colleagues were turning over the mystery envelope, “In fact, I was so moved by our last encounter, I decided to get you a gift.”
“It’s from Dostoevsky, there’s no doubt,” Ranpo said, opening the envelope despite Kunikida’s horrified protests. He calmed down and became curious when Ranpo upturned the envelope and a tiny digital storage device tumbled into his hand.
“Gift? You shouldn’t have,” Dazai replied, watching his co-workers exchange while being mindful of the person with whom he was conversing.
“What is it?” Junichirou asked, peering over Kunikida’s shoulder. Kenji leaned across the desk for a better look.
Atsushi glanced curiously at Dazai, “A message?”
“I turmoiled over the best thing to give you. What to get the man who longs for nothing but the sweet release of death? I had to reflect back on all of our adventures together for ideas: the virus sent to your current and former bosses, exchanging hidden code in the holding cells…ah, I felt like a child again…and how could I forget our fun in the tower with Shibusawa. That’s when it came to me,” Fyodor gushed, and Dazai could just imagine the twisted grin on that man’s face like a perverted clown.
Ranpo handed the storage device over to Kunikida, and at the behest of their Agency’s ultimate detective, plugged it into a computer and opened the file. He wrinkled his brow at what he saw on the screen.
“It’s a video,” Kunikida said. Except for Ranpo and Dazai, the others in the room looked surprised.
“I’m going to get the president,” Naomi announced, hurrying from the room.
“My gift to you, dear Dazai, is the person you hate most in the world,” Fyodor practically purred. That knocked Dazai off guard.
“…person I hate…” he frowned, struggling to conjure an idea of who Fyodor could mean. He ran through the list of his public enemies, of which Fyodor himself topped, but drew a blank until…his heart skipped in his chest and he let out a regrettable murmur, “…impossible.”
Dazai strode to Kunikida’s side and opened the video.
“What are you doing? We should wait for Fuzukawa,” Kunikida said. He faltered when he caught sight of Dazai’s intense face.
The video began to play and the others gathered around. The image was angled like a security camera but the footage was crisp and clear. It revealed a closed off room with silver walls and no furniture. A familiar figure stood in the center of the room. His clothes were rumpled, his signature hat and coat were missing. His red hair framed a tense expression, eyes squeezed closed and jaw locked. Around his ankles, wrists, and neck were thick, black, metal bracelets. They didn’t appear to be attached to anything. There wasn’t any movement in the video.
“I see,” Dazai whispered, recovering from his initial shock, even as his colleagues stumbled through their own.
“Is that…one of Port Mafia’s people, right?” Atsushi recognized from previous encounters with the group. He couldn’t recall the name, but he knew the man was higher up in the criminal organization. His eyes went to Dazai, as a former Executive of Port Mafia, he would know their members best. But Dazai’s gaze was fixed on the screen, he gripped his phone to his ear tight enough to turn his knuckles white.
“Their gravity manipulator, Nakahara Chuuya,” Ranpo confirmed.
“Why are we being sent this? Isn’t this more of a message for the mafia?” Junichirou wondered, “Fyodor’s taken him hostage, huh?”
“Maybe it’s Dostoevsky’s sick version of a peace offering?” Yosano mused, “Enemy of my enemy…I’m no fan of the mafia, but I’d choose them over his Rats any day.”
“Dazai,” Fukuzawa’s voice came from the office entry. The others turned their attention to their supervisor, but Dazai’s eyes were glued to the screen. Fukuzawa frowned, he exchanged a look with Ranpo, a silent conversation between them, and nodded, turning to leave again as he said, “Right. I’ll contact Dr. Mori.”
“I’m dying to know what you think, Dazai?” Fyodor teased on the other end of the line.
Dazai steadied his breathing and forced a smile. “It’s lovely, Fyodor. Can I trust it’s real, though? He’s not an easy man to contain.”
“You’re on the phone with Dostoevsky now? Dazai, why didn’t you say anything,” Kunikida hissed.
“Has my gift really surprised you to such a point you haven’t even figured that much out? I’m delighted. You’re right. His ability does prove a conundrum, doesn’t it? If I’m honest, I’ve dreamt of giving you this for some time now, ever since he came to ruin my plans with that dragon, but I had to specially build the cage that could hold him. Each side of the room is fit with a super magnet,” Fyodor said.
“We’re not going to rescue this person, are we?” Kyouka asked, her face upturned to Atsushi. Until that moment, she had been watching the screen with the same mesmerized fixation as Dazai. Although she hadn’t encountered Chuuya often, he expressed distaste for using children as assassins and much preferred to do the dirty work himself, but she knew his reputation. Members of Port Mafia spoke of him as though he were a god, an untouchable force in combat, yet there he stood, in the video playing on Kunikida’s computer screen, demurely in the center of a holding cell like an admonished dog. What kind of power did this Fyodor possess to pull off such a feat?
“The bracelets,” Dazai realized, his heart pulsing in his ears. Focus, he commanded himself, every word Fyodor spoke was information he would need if he was to get Chuuya out of there, “Tell me, is each wall there individually polarized to a specific bracelet?”
“Of course. Would it work any other way?” Fyodor gleefully agreed, “It was hard to determine the strength of magnetism I’d need. Understandably, he tries to keep the true extent of his power hidden, but the events at Shibusawa’s tower gave me a starting point. From there, I just had to estimate what might hold him and amplify it a hundredfold. Even despite my precautions, well…you can see.”
Damn it, Dazai thought, noting the strain in Chuuya’s features, as he said aloud with measured admiration, “He’s forced to focus all his energy on not being torn apart by the room.”
…
In the Fukuzawa’s office, the president managed to get a hold of Mori after a third attempt.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m busy at the moment,” Mori bit out. His stress was immediately evident in his tone.
“Dostoevsky has contacted you too, then?” Fukuzawa surmised.
“Yes, yes…wait. Too?” Mori’s tone shifted, somber and distant, “We received a letter this morning.”
“And we, a video,” Fukuzawa replied, pressed his lips together into a tight frown, and explained, “My detectives are confused why Dostoevsky would send us footage of your captured Executive but I suspect we both know...”
…
“Ingenious. Yes?” Fyodor pressed.
“Yes,” Dazai wondered how long Chuuya could keep up his strength against that kind of force. If he could find the location, let Chuuya know some how he was close enough, Chuuya could unleash the full potential of his power and rip out of that cage on his own with the assurance Dazai would wake him from the Corruption before it consumed him, but they needed to find him first. In the video, not much appeared to be happening, just Chuuya standing in the middle of the room. Dazai couldn’t even understand how his typically paranoid ex-partner managed to end up in such a predicament, “I must admit, I’m curious how you even got him to put those on. I know Chuuya lacks a keen fashion sense but…”
“But how did I capture him? True, he’s hard to contain and harder to reach. His position in the mafia means he commands an army and has access to their safest locations, his whereabouts are often unknown to anyone outside of his team and the top members of the mafia, and his powers and martial skills make him one of the deadliest individuals to ever exist in this world. One’s only hope is to outsmart him, handily done by masterminds like yourself and I, but he takes his orders from Oogai Mori, a man decidedly more difficult to trick,” Fyodor chuckled, “A plot to draw him out would require him to go against orders, but he’s loyal to a fault. He would never act without or against Mori’s approval. Correct?”
On the screen, the door to the holding cell opened and a new figure walked in. Thin and dressed in an overcoat and fur lined hat. Chuuya’s eyes opened, a grimace was etched on his face. Beside Dazai, Kunikida caught his breath.
“Dostoevsky,” he recognized.
“Chuuya, go against the mafia boss…never,” Dazai’s mouth felt dry. Dostoevsky somehow tricked Mori, it was the only explanation that made sense, and that idiot, Chuuya, just went along with his orders like a good dog. Dazai wouldn’t admit it out loud, but those years of watching the street punk that traded his freedom to protect a bunch of kids despite betraying him and leaving him for dead transform into the perfect soldier for the organization he’d fought against filled Dazai with disgust. He knew when he left, that one day the mafia would get Chuuya killed. He was too stupidly trusting that he’d let them hand him over to his death, no questions asked.
On the screen, Dostoevsky was saying something to Chuuya. Chuuya smiled, that same arrogant smile that had crawled under Dazai’s skin when they were fifteen and never left. Chuuya said something to Dostoevsky, waited at another response, then his smile faded and his gaze trailed up to look into the camera. His bright blue eyes shimmering with some emotion that Dazai couldn’t pinpoint, but it was akin to the look he’d wear in those moments of battle, whenever he believed Dazai might be injured or in grave danger.
“Loyal to a fault, if it were true, right? Except…he does have one weakness,” Fyodor said without irony.
“One? He has many weaknesses: expensive wine, gaudy clothes, ugly hats…” Dazai returned, his stomach knotting around itself, “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“You, Dazai,” Fyodor said. Dazai’s eyes widened and his heart stopped momentarily, “You’re his weakness.”
…
In Fukuzawa’s office, Mori drew his breath in sharply at Fukuzawa’s revelation about the video they’d received.
“Have you…have you watched it yet?” the stammer in his voice didn’t suit the mafia boss. It put Fukuzawa on full alert.
“My detectives are reviewing the footage now.”
“Dazai, too?”
“Of course. He’s our best defense against this enemy. What was in the letter, Mori?” Fukuzawa demanded.
“You have to stop that video. You have to do it now.”
“Mori, what…what are you talking about?”
“Trust me, old friend! Don’t let him see how it ends,” Mori hissed.
…
In the video, it was clear that Chuuya was becoming increasingly agitated over whatever Dostoevsky was saying. The Detectives were watching with a disturbing fascination. Dazai listened to Dostoevsky speak on the phone, an icy chill running through his veins.
“Once I understood your connection, all I needed to do was think like you and since we’re practically the same person…there were times I worried he’d guessed the game, but in the end, he believed that you needed him and he trusted in your cunning. It was so beautiful to watch it unfold, I wish you could’ve been there, only you could appreciate it,” Fyodor gloated, “He went against his boss, his organization, his instincts…all for you, Dazai. All for the person that hates him most in the world.”
“What’s happening?” Atsushi whispered to his mentor.
Chuuya was saying something again in the video. His eyes were cast with an eerie glow, sweat dripped from his brow. If only there was audio, Dazai cursed, as he wracked his brain for what to say or do next. It was obvious that Chuuya wouldn’t last forever against the pull of those magnets. How long ago was this video recorded? If they could figure that out, they’d know how much time they had before he was beyond rescue.
“Even now, you’re plotting and scheming, Dazai,” Fyodor’s tone shifted, and Dazai startled, “Weighing all your options. Do you act to save him or rely on his own abilities to get himself out? Mobilize your friends against their interest for your own personal desires, pursue his location alone, or discard all the progress you’ve made to better yourself and coordinate with the mafia? So many questions turning through your mind. I’m truly disappointed.”
“Isn’t that the reaction you wanted?” Dazai demanded, losing his patience with Fyodor. Fyodor was giving nothing away and Dazai was giving Fyodor everything. At that same moment Fukuzawa hurried back into the office.
In the video, Chuuya’s eyes darkened over and features tightened into a grim expression. Fear, Dazai realized. That was the emotion, an unfamiliar sight on the most powerful mafioso’s countenance. In the video, Fyodor reached out a hand, placed it over Chuuya’s face, covering his eyes.
“Stop that video,” Fukuzawa shouted.
“You think that I would give you half a present?” Fyodor whispered but Dazai couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. In the video, blood burst from beneath Fyodor’s hand. Chuuya’s body seized, muscles constricted, convulsed, and then relaxed under that touch. A flurry of memories rushed through Dazai, distant images of years gone by, small glimpses of what it felt to truly be alive that he’d locked away and told himself he didn’t cherish.
…suicidal brat…
…little hat rack…
…because I trusted you…
…that was a violent way to wake snow white…
…Dazai, this isn’t your place to die….
…Chuuya, you’re my dog…
…for life…
The grisly scene was too much, even Yosano looked away. In the video, Fyodor’s hand pulled back, dropped to his side, and Dazai could see the exact instant that life flicker out in Chuuya’s eyes. Fyodor stepped back, and Chuuya collapsed to the blood-soaked floor. His murderer turned an evil smile at the camera, white coat stained red.
“Do you want to know what his last words were?” Fyodor said softly in Dazai’s ear, “He said, ‘if Dazai is your enemy, you’ve already lost’. Even to his final breath, he trusted you.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he send this to us? Is it a threat? Dazai, what should we…?” Atsushi’s words caught in his throat as he looked at his mentor in stun, “Dazai…?”
Dazai’s eyes were locked on the grisly scene glowing on the monitor. His expression was blank, and tears streamed freely down his cheeks. Ranpo frowned at the ground and the others watched Dazai with concern. They’d never seen him show that much emotion. Fukuzawa stepped around the desk and closed the video.
“The Port Mafia received a letter with a location in it this morning. After determining it not to be a trap, they went in to investigate,” Fukuzawa said. He hesitated on his next words, “They’ve recovered his body.”
“Ah…my gift has left you speechless. Exactly as I hoped, I can feel your gratitude,” Fyodor exclaimed, giggling giddily.
Atsushi had always believed Dazai was invincible and somehow above it all, a guiding light that he could lean on in times of trouble and darkness. Dazai would never waver and nothing could faze him. The man they’d watched die had been an enemy, a criminal with no morals, willing to kill anyone that got in the mafia’s way. As far as Atsushi knew, he wasn’t a good man, by any measure, and Dazai never revealed a connection between them beside working in the same criminal organization for a few years. Yet, Atsushi watch at moment as something snapped inside of his invincible, above-it-all, guiding light mentor.
“Dostoevsky, that was a mistake. There won’t be any more games the next time we meet,” Dazai said in a dead voice, “I’m just going to rip you apart. Piece by piece. With my bare hands.”
“I look forward to it,” Fyodor said.
The line disconnected.
Dazai lowered the phone from his ear and set it on the desk. He was still staring at the screen as though he could see the ghost of the image of his murdered ex-partner. A dry, half-depraved, chuckle escaped his lips.
“Dazai…are you okay?” Atsushi tentatively asked. The others in the room sat with bated breath or avoided looking at Dazai altogether. Dazai couldn’t hear him, he was too far out of reach.
“Chuuya,” Dazai murmured, as though the other man stood before him, “He figured it out…”
Dazai had always been so careful, even Chuuya himself wouldn’t have guessed. At what point did he slip? He’d made sure that everything fit that carefully crafted image of two boys that despised one another. He’d worked hard to cover his own trail, and Chuuya’s, until they’d exchanged so many insults, taunts, and threats, he wasn’t sure anymore what their true feelings were for one another.
For years, they’d traded proclamations of hate back and forth like school boys passing notes to their crush. He’d become so used to the dance that he’d thought maybe he really did forget the feel of that other boy’s firm hand in his own, fingers interlocked, sealing their unspoken promise of what they were to each other.
Not friends.
Not lovers.
Not enemies.
Not partners.
No. Something more, something indescribable, something beyond rationale and understanding. Something that remained unyielding, despite changing loyalties, years of separation, and moments drawn out until they swore that they would rather kill each other than stand in the same space any longer.
The person Dazai hated the most in this world? Of course, he hated Chuuya most. When all he dreamed of was to die, how could he not hate most the one person that gave him will to live?
“He figured is out…” Dazai mumbled breathlessly, as he turned and walked from the room, after all, he had work to do, he couldn’t lie down and follow Chuuya. Not yet. Not while Fyodor still breathed, “…you’re my weakness, too.”