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When the famed war hero, Fukuchi Ouchi took the young and beautiful Fyodor Dostoevsky as his spouse, many strongly opposed the match believing that Fukuchi née Dostoevsky Fyodor was only targeting the military leader's wealth. However that belief would certainly be shaken if they could but see Fukuchi Fyodor's reaction upon learning his honoured husband has been most cruelly murdered...
"No! Not my husband!"
Fukuchi Fyodor gasps, dainty hands raised to his rosebud lips right after Detective Kunikida regretfully informed the young socialite of his late husband's demise.
"I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Mr Fukuchi..."
"No, no! I beseech you, do not utter his name! Oh, the wound in my heart! Nothing can equal the pain I feel, but for the stomach wound my dear late husband had died from!"
Fyodor dramatically lifts a hand to rest on his forehead, exposing his shapely white forearm on which delicate bluish veins may be traced. At the same time his silk kimono-like robe, as black as his soul hair with hydrangea pattern, slowly, enticingly but no doubt unintentionally slides down, revealing one side of a swan-like neck and a slim shoulder. Partially leaning on a wall of the traditional mansion that is easily Japan's most expensive heritage building, the very newly widowed Fukuchi Fyodor presents a tragic picture of grief.
Detective Kunikida is touched metaphorically. Averting his eyes, he adjusts Fyodor's kimono to cover him up again.
(Inwardly, Fyodor clicks his tongue. Come on, Detective, is he not seductive enough?)
Outwardly, he casts Detective Kunikida a soft, tender, tearful look. There's the faintest brush of his soft fingers against the detective's own much calloused yet gentle hand—followed by a surprisingly strong grip around that hand as Detective Kunikida attempts to pull back.
Pretending Detective Kunikida isn't wincing in pain, Fyodor sniffs, dabbing his dry eye with a perfumed lace handkerchief in his other hand before speaking up, "Please, Detective... I beg of you. Promise—nay, vow to me, that you will not drop the case until the murderer is found. My poor Ouchi's soul would not rest in peace, knowing I'm left bereft with no protection and only all his fortune as his will dictates."
Once again, Detective Kunikida is moved. The socialite must have been feeling afraid much, seeing he deems it necessary to carry around a tanto dagger hidden in his robe... How cruel of that murderer offing Fukuchi Ouchi using a yet-to-be-found weapon just like it!
Unhesitatingly—in spite of acknowledging the utter impropriety of this action—the detective places his free hand over Fyodor's own, much smaller yet deceptively strong ones. He looks dead into Fyodor's eyes and replies, softly yet firmly, "I swear it, Mr Fuku... No, Mr Fyodor."
With another sniff and dabbing of his dry eye, Fyodor smirks smiles. "Thank you, Detective."
Scarcely after the controversy surrounding his second marriage died down, a second tragedy struck and happiness left Fyodor Gogol's life... Even those opposing the still young and pretty socialite's decision to remarry but two months after his first husband's death—and to the fun-loving playboy millionaire Nikolai Gogol at that—could not help feeling pity for the now twice-widowed socialite.
"Oh, Kolya!"
Fyodor Gogol wails, burying his beautiful face in his hands as he collapses—most elegantly, almost falsely—on the scarlet-and-gold velvet carpet over the marble floor of the three-story ballroom. Wearing a white-feathered dressing gown which barely shields his figure he looks like an angel cast from heaven.
That means a fallen angel that now works for Satan.
Silently Detective Kunikida drops on one knee before Fyodor. Feeling a lump in his throat, he finds himself unsure how to comfort the poor widower. Fyodor spares him from deciding by unexpectedly grabbing his biceps, clinging on him doubtless due to having lost his strength, gazing up with mute fear and a plea for help.
"Oh, Detective," Fyodor trembles, black lashes fluttering. "I cannot believe it... My dear Kolya, surely it must be only a jest of his? He cannot be dead, especially in such a tragic way being stabbed by swords, while he was trapped in a box! I declare I can still see his grin... hear his laugh... recite his latest will leaving all that he has to me, his only spouse... My darling Kolya cannot be gone!"
Detective Kunikida carefully pats the socialite on his covered shoulder. "My condolences Mr Fyodor," the detective murmurs into dark silky tresses, Fyodor basically headbutting his way under the detective's chin.
"Pray, Detective, don't leave me alone," Fyodor whispers, eyes darting around in evident fake fear. "Who knows whether the cruel murderer would target me also? Though I do not loathe the thought of joining my Kolya in the after-"
"Mr Fyodor...!" Detective Kunikida instinctively seeks Fyodor's eyes, thus pushing him off his own body and making Fyodor tsk. "Please, do not say such a thing! Your late husband could not possibly wish that you join him so soon!"
Fyodor nods and sends an enchanting tearful smile. "As you say, Detective."
High society tonight was at first shocked, then grief-stricken by the death of Sigma—owner of the world-famous Sky Casino. Yet it is obvious that no grief could equal that of Sigma's lovely young husband, Fyodor (original name: Fyodor Dostoevsky)...
"Not my precious Sigma!"
Fyodor sobs as he throws himself lengthwise on the crystal-tufted, silver-framed, white silk-upholstered antique chaise in his boudoir; his own sheer black dressing gown—adorned not with rhinestones but real diamonds, arranged as constellations with silver threads—a direct contrast to the whiteness of the room.
"And to think he got pushed off when I was at the bar on the other side of the casino, visible to hundreds of guests who can testify for me; oh! What wouldn't I give to turn back the time, if only so my precious Sigma could spend his last moment with me, his husband as well as sole beneficiary!"
Detective Kunikida sighs sadly. Why must the poor in luck, regardless of how rich in money, beautiful socialite suffer so?
Being very kind and, at least in this story, very oblivious, the detective does not wonder why he keeps being the one assigned to break the news whenever this happens.
"Stay strong, Mr Fyodor." The detective gently cradles the small, pale hand conveniently left nearby for him to pick up.
Mutely, Fyodor wipes a tear—from his reliable eye-drops—more invaluable than even the 50-carat diamond on his hand. It's only after half a minute, savoring the sensation of Detective Kunikida touching his hand, that the beautiful socialite 'shyly' replies, "I shall, Detective... As long as you remain with me."
The nerveracking vigil following the abduction of one Ivan Goncharov—largest shareholder of The Precipice—sadly had no happy end, as his widowed spouse Fyodor Goncharov found out this morning...
"WHY?! Why my Vanya?! He's done nothing to deserve this!"
Fyodor Goncharov clasps shaking hands over his emotionally nonexistent heart. He casts a compellingly upset look at Detective Kunikida who can but grimly shake his head in reply.
"And for the murderer to—oh, I cannot endure; did my husband truly have his brain surgically removed by this murderer, at the very evening he transferred all his assets to me?"
With a heavy heart, Detective Kunikida nods.
Fyodor seizes the chance and throws himself in the detective's arms, while furtively tugging down one shoulder strap of his crimson satin negligee and rearranging his legs so his thigh shows between the high slit. Without needing to look, he also snatches Detective Kunikida's hand that approaches him not to grope but to thoughtfully cover his body with a warm quilt.
Bringing that snatched hand that instinctively struggles to get away up to his cheek, Fyodor whispers into Detective Kunikida's ear.
"Detective... oh Detective, please do not leave me on this dark day of mine."
Detective Kunikida solemnly promises.
"I won't, Mr Fyodor."
The body fished from the port turned out to be a government-associated virologist, Alexander Pushkin, husband to the socialite Fyodor...
"My teddy bear Sasha!"
Fyodor Pushkin—a picture of loveliness in the black fur-lined violet robe—has only sufficient energy to shriek before he swoons, thankfully in time for Detective Kunikida to catch him.
"Mr Fyodor! Please hang in there!"
"No, I cannot... This world is so hard and cold, I cannot go on..." Fyodor daintily coughs, as if he were a consumptive Victorian lady, though physically speaking he is perfectly healthy.
Detective Kunikida's breath hitches—not at all in lust at having such a defenseless beauty in his lap, but in genuine guilt, over having failed to protect the socialite's happiness yet again. Subconsciously, he tightens his arms holding Fyodor, pressing him to his chest and making his breath hitch entirely in lust.
Quite dizzily, Fyodor says, "Oh, Detective, how soft and warm you feel... It reminds me of my feeling when my teddy Sasha imparted to me the point of his research, which I could patent for millions."
Detective Kunikida—incorrectly assuming the socialite is simply rambling instead of almost accidentally outing himself—responds, "While I know Mr Pushkin would rather stay with you for much longer, Mr Fyodor, I am sure that the knowledge that you would not be penniless is a relief to him."
Fyodor bats his lashes. "You really know how to comfort me, Detective."
"I can no longer endure this."
Fyodor Dostoevsky, clothed in an ultra-limited edition designer black dress with a black lace veil over his head, solemnly announces. From behind the veil his face is grim with dark lines under the eyes.
"There is hatred within me, Detective," Fyodor drawls, stepping closer to the worried-looking detective. "There is a burning rage. There is a cold desire for vengeance... All in my heart."
He touches his own chest with one hand, and Detective Kunikida's chest with the other. Not exactly groping, but not just lightly touching it either.
"I'm craving revenge, Detective," rasps Fyodor. "The desire has taken its hold of my mind, my soul... I fear for myself; I am losing myself. At night I cannot sleep in peace, desiring blood."
"Mr Fyodor...!"
Detective Kunikida steps closer too, lifting his hands yet only hovering, hesitant to touch the fragile man. Fyodor, of course, initiates again; clutching those hands and arranging them so that they cup his face as he seductively looks up.
"I need a good man, Detective—a strong, kind, morally upright man—to help me to do and be good."
At last abandoning subtlety, Fyodor wraps his arms around the detective's neck...
...and gets pushed away?
Gently so, but still?
Unable to keep the utter confusion, surprise—and not a little offense—off his face, he looks up once again.
Blushing guiltily, Detective Kunikida tells him;
"My apologies, Mr Fyodor. I'm happily married already."
"...likewise, Detective. Please inform me what the name of this most fortunate individual is." So I can arrange for them to experience a very unfortunate accident.
Detective Kunikida blushes again, but happily, at 'most fortunate individual'. "You might have heard of my husband, Mr Fyodor. His name is Dazai Osamu."
*Record scratch*
*Freeze frame*
"Dazai... Osamu," Fyodor repeats; blinks once, twice. The genius brain hidden by black satin-smooth hair whirls furiously to a certain man, a man just like him in many ways, who knows how alike they can be as well... A man named Dazai Osamu, whose parting words to Fyodor two years ago were:
"You know, your plans can get so complicated. Too complicated, I'd say! By the time you have reached the last step of your plan, who knows if another has accomplished your objective?"
Fyodor's Objective: Taking Detective Kunikida Doppo as His Husband
Fyodor's Objective: Accomplished Not by Him But Dazai Osamu
Smiling without a shred of positive emotions, Fyodor tells Kunikida, "I am delighted that you have achieved marital happiness, Detective. I sincerely hope that no harm befalls your dear husband."
That a whole building collapse on him will do, though.