Chapter Text
The lamp on the desk flickered as the detective tried to finish writing his overdue report. Recently, one of his coworkers died at the hands of one he once called a friend. The details were purposely vague and Edogawa Ranpo knew the report made no sense to anyone other than himself. After all, he had been there. Although… he couldn't help but wonder how something so unpredictably tragic occurred in the first place.
He turned to the raccoon for answers. “So, Karl,” he began, “tell me how an idiotic, manipulative, suicidal freak, and a player,” the detective took off his glasses and stood, demanding the nonexistent attention of his late husband, and continued, “grew to become the one who would ruin my name?”
Of course, Ranpo received no answer from Karl. The raccoon had been uncharacteristically silent ever since the death of Ranpo’s husband.
To the detective, the entire city felt empty of any and all emotion. If he weren’t already lost, the streets would feel as if they were foreign and entirely unrecognizable.
The media was about to drive itself to the ground in an attempt to cover the story. So much took place in Yokohama that it would be nearly impossible to understand, unless you had a front row seat to the show. Most who were able to achieve such a feat no longer remained in the living world to recall the events. The city’s life itself felt as if it had died right beside…
For the lights never shined as bright anymore. Whether it be the lights coming from the ferris wheel, his lamp, or the light behind the detective’s eyes.
A slim figure emerged from the office’s dark entrance, red-orange waves shining in the dim light from the detective’s desk. “You know, he got a lot farther by working a lot harder than others,” replied the newcomer, causing Ranpo to look up. Obviously, the detective had been expecting company. His coworker died only mere days ago, after all. The mafia executive continued, “even though it never looked like it. He used his brains rather than brawn.”
Ranpo hummed in agreement, intelligent green eyes meeting a betrayed blue. “You know, I was reading through his file here,” he said as he tossed a folder on the desk opposite of his own, “and by the time he was fourteen, your boss had him testifying for an assassination.” Of course, Ranpo had already known this. But, even in the face of such tragedy, the detective couldn't pass up the chance to flaunt his knowledge.
Glancing at the folder, Nakahara Chuuya opted to leave one well enough alone. He had to trust that, even in death, the bond he had with the deceased still held strong. There was no use in exposing the past of a dead man. Instead, the redhead turned to examine the charred remains of a desk that he knew belonged to his former partner.
“I take it that was your coworker’s doing,” he asked Ranpo. The man in question folded his hands and looked down at his desk, at the report that he was supposed to be writing. He couldn’t finish it. He heard Chuuya scoff in response to his silence, accompanied by the sound of receding footsteps. For the first time in his life, Ranpo found himself wondering what to do. The footsteps stopped.
“For the record, he always considered you a friend,” the executive added in a harsh whisper that made Ranpo’s stomach churn. An almost jealous whisper. Almost as if Chuuya had felt forgotten by the now-deceased man. Karl looked up at the detective and tilted his head in confusion. Ranpo paid no such attention to the creature, only feeding the guilt growing deep inside his mind and soul.
Ranpo found himself wondering if it was too late to reverse his mistakes, for he was no saint and he had made many. But what would Tanizaki think? The image manipulator hadn’t been the same since…
The Armed Detective Agency hadn’t been the same since… Ranpo could barely stand to think about it.
If he apologized now, could Fukuzawa forgive him for what he did? Would Kunikida? Ranpo chuckled darkly at the thought, he wouldn’t even forgive himself. Not for this, at least. If only his husband were still with him… surely Poe would help him see things through when no one else could. Unfortunately, some are too good to remain in such a cruel world, one that did nothing for them.
Ranpo looked back on where he failed, trying to find the common threads. He quickly discovered that he could never really blame the ghost lingering in the room. His own paranoia became his downfall. For a bitter moment, born of hatred and denial, Ranpo wondered how no one saw the signs. How come no one bothered to catch him before he fell? No, he had no one to blame but the person in the mirror.
How could someone as smart as himself not predict how things would end?
Barely half an hour had passed when the detective heard a pair of heels clicking down the hall, the sound deafening him and nearly causing a migraine. Panic bubbled up inside as he processed how this next interaction would play out. His heart, one of the few parts of the detective that still held life, was nearly beating out of his chest.
“Have you finished that report yet?” A new voice asked, devoid of any of its usual fondness. The woman Ranpo once called a friend could not stand to even look at him. He remained silent. Did he deserve to speak to her anymore? He shook his head in response to both the question Yosano asked and the question repeating itself in his mind.
“Tanizaki and his husband are back in Yokohama, and they both want to talk to you,” she added, trying to get some sort of verbal response from the detective. Ranpo knew what she wanted, and wanted so desperately to give her that, but could not trust his own voice. He could tell that she wanted to roll her eyes, to tell him exactly what she was thinking, but she kept her true emotions suppressed.
“Can you even say his name?” She sounded cold. Unforgiving. If Ranpo dug a little further, he would find a deep betrayal. The emotion knew no bounds, for it had rooted itself in the hearts and minds of everyone whose life he dared touch with his actions and words.
“His name,” Ranpo managed, voice cracking. He tried again.
“Dazai Osamu.”