Chapter Text
Dazai's head hung low as he attempted to shake off the drowsiness muddling his vision. An empty ache burned everywhere in his bones. He’s used to sleepless nights but they started getting worse again recently, unable to complete simple tasks sometimes.
The metal against Dazai’s wrists caved in his skin, almost threatening to tear but he’ll manage. He’s prone to situations like this, or well...used to be.
He couldn't recall being held captive by an enemy during his time at the detective agency at all.
Unless doing paperwork counts, grimacing at the thought of a certain co-worker’s scoldings.
Still, when did he last feel handcuffs around his wrists?
A past memory tugged at the back of his mind. When he experienced the high adrenaline of being trapped in the hands of the enemy. And knowing he was one step ahead of them.
He looked up at the ceiling, shifting through murky memories but surprisingly got nothing.
How strange...why couldn't he remember anything?
His nose crinkled at the smell of gasoline, or maybe it was gunpowder. A distant static buzzied through a radio transceiver in his right ear and a flicker of a gruesome bloodbath and flying bullets overcame his vision.
Crackle. “Piss off, scrub.” A raspy voice on the other end sniped. It was familiar.
“Hi, C̶h̶u̶u̶y̶a̶. You’re in the range of the enemy. Take some bullets and die, thanks,” he believed he said himself into the intercom.
The same familiar voice muttered something else over the transceiver but the rushing wind drowned it out.
Dazai blinked, the wind disappearing and he was still handcuffed in one of the Port Mafia’s torturing cells.
The harsh smells replaced with rusted metal; there was no rubble, no bullets, no static in his right ear.
He yawned from the exertion of his swarming thoughts, swaying a bit. He was unsure why that memory came to mind, if it was one.
Anyways, back to the plan.
“It’s about time,” he said to himself.
If he predicted correctly, by now they—Atsushi and Kyouka—should be...
He perked up at the steady clack of boots on concrete.
“Plotting as usual?” A voice rang out.
Dazai froze. “That voice...?”
The footsteps grew louder until they ceded at the foot above the staircase leading to the entrance of the cell. A reddish light leaked in the dark room.
“This is nice. This is a great view. It rivals even a masterpiece worth 10 billion yen. Wouldn’t you agree, Dazai?”
Everything clicked together then.
Another rush of distorted memories flooded his vision. Dazai squinted at the silhouette before him, forcing himself to focus on the mafioso.
That voice belonged to his ex-partner.
Nakahara Chuuya.