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The blade is already breaking skin when she realizes, belatedly, that she is about to die.
A reaction delayed by a millisecond, a dodge a few millimeters shy of safe, and then there is cold steel sinking into the side of her neck, cleaving through an artery. Fire shoots through her nerves. For a second, everything is white. A heartbeat later, her vision floods back, spotted with blooms of black and red, like the hot blood gushing out of her neck. The small figure before her pulls back, tantō retracted, face frozen in shock.
She surges forth before the blood has time to cool, wisps of black hair and butterflies whipping past her. Her heels clack sharply against the tiling. The burning heat in the side of her neck dwindles to a mild warmth as she swings her nata downwards.
“Too deep! One more time!” she shouts, and her opponent snaps out of her daze.
The tantō comes up to parry the blow, a screech echoing through the small training room as blades clash. The deadlock holds for a few seconds at most. Then they’re separating—her student retreating, while she relentlessly pursues. Swing after swing, each attack pushing her student back another half step. The thin blade of the tantō strains beneath the broad nata’s heft.
Her student is the one to put some distance between them, leaping back several meters to regain her bearings. Long strands of hair spill out in disarray over her shoulders as she resumes a fighting stance. Sometime during the struggle, the girl’s hair tie had snapped, but she pays it no mind. Her student merely looks forward with clear-eyed determination.
Lifting her nata, she grins. No matter how grievous the injuries they sustain, it will all heal without leaving a single trace. Here, they can fight as wildly as they like. They can fail as many times as they like. Adrenaline dances through her veins.
“That’s more like it!”
***
“You move well, but you need to hold back a bit more.”
With her back facing Yosano, Kyouka’s expression is a mystery, only the slight nod of her head showing any acknowledgment of the statement. The hair in Yosano’s hands shifts with the action. Adjusting her grip, she continues threading her fingers through the girl’s locks, breaking up the small clumps of blood that speck them.
“Still, your knife work is impressive,” she adds. Was it Oda who once said that praise is just as important as criticism in nurturing a student’s growth? “But that’s not surprising, considering your former occupation.”
Kyouka makes no comment. Yosano doesn’t expect one. Having former ties to the mafia isn’t exactly an enviable position, and Yosano can think of few people who would openly talk about such an experience. She herself had only been associated with Mori for a couple of months, but she can barely even look back on those memories without feeling the urge to wretch.
That thread of commonality might be why she had volunteered to mentor Kyouka in the first place. When Dazai had shown up at the agency that day (and what a shocker that had been, though at least she could cross slapping the boss of the Port Mafia off her bucket list), Yosano had half-jokingly offered to take one of his kids under her wing.
As soon as she saw Kyouka, that joke quickly turned into real conviction. It must have been the look in her eyes, directionless and hungry for something to latch onto—a reason to live, perhaps. Yosano had felt as if she were witnessing a tightrope performance. The slightest breeze could tip that girl in either direction—towards an awakening, or plunging back beneath the depths.
Oda already had his own brat to deal with. Kunikida was a capable fighter, but combat techniques couldn’t stave off Kyouka’s darkness. Her blade was sharp enough—what she needed to learn was how to sheath it.
So Yosano had volunteered to mentor her, and with only a vague notion of what she was doing, their days of training had begun. Casework, first aid, knife-handling, surgical techniques—they went over it all. If, someday, Kyouka were able to tie a tourniquet as easily as she could disarm an assailant, then, maybe she could transform her guilt from living into a way to save others.
Yosano wanted to give her that much, at least. The same way two kind-hearted people had given her a second chance at life.
Having finished smoothing out the knots, Yosano parts Kyouka’s hair into three sections. Her fingers move with practiced ease, folding strand over strand. Kyouka sits perfectly still as she works, like a doll. It’s a saddening trait to see in a child.
Tying off the braid with an elastic, Yosano wraps it into a bun and fixes it in place with some pins. Kyouka rises to her feet and gives her head an experimental shake. The stray strands of hair at the nape of her neck bob with the movement, but her bun stays firmly in place. She touches a hand to it in quiet fascination.
Yosano cracks a smile at the first child-like action she’s seen from the girl. “Say, are you free next Saturday?”
“For training?” Kyouka asks, quickly tempering her expression into something more neutral.
That diligence is praiseworthy, but such dull thinking won’t do.
Shaking her head, Yosano only grins playfully. “Shopping, of course.”
***
Children, as it turns out, have boundless energy.
Yosano wouldn’t have expected it from someone as reserved as Kyouka, but today, her student is flitting between display stands with wide-eyed curiosity. For once, Yosano is the one having trouble keeping up on a shopping trip. No doubt, if Ranpo were here, he’d laugh at this instance of karmic retribution.
“Interested?” she asks, coming up behind Kyouka. She gestures towards the assortment of scrunchies, hair clips and ribbons covering all the available wall space before them. It’s an explosion of colors loud enough to rival a Tokyo Pride parade.
Kyouka tears her eyes away from the accessories to give a small shake of her head. “It’s not very practical.”
There it is again—that self-imposed austerity. A carryover from her time in the mafia, no doubt. It’s a fact of this world that children with abilities are the most coveted, and also the most vulnerable. Knowing that doesn’t lessen Yosano’s contempt for those who would exploit them a single bit.
The urge to slap Dazai is coming back, but that would reflect badly on their alliance, so she focuses on the smidge of sympathy she feels for a fellow Mori survivor and squashes the temptation.
“Does it need to be?” she counters. “People do all sorts of things that have no practical value. We’re only alive for a short while, so we might as well enjoy it. Besides—” Reaching over, she plucks a hair pin decorated in blue hydrangeas off the wall and tucks it behind Kyouka’s ear. “You’re strong enough to handle a little bit of impracticality, aren’t you?”
Kyouka mulls over the words for a bit. Whatever she read in Yosano’s expression, she must have found convincing, because she eventually lets a smile ghost along her features. “Yes.”
They spend a good chunk of time trying on different accessories and laughing at their own reflections in the shop mirror. Yosano does a detailed review of the kanzashi selection, while Kyouka seems more interested in the decorative hair ties. They both agree that the oversized bows are ridiculously tacky, and proceed to pick one out for each of their chosen victims.
At the checkout counter, Yosano holds up a hand, stopping Kyouka from taking out her wallet.
“My treat,” she says with a wink, passing her card to the cashier before Kyouka can process the transaction.
The look of awe directed towards her is worth every yen of that measly agency salary.
More excitement is packed into that one afternoon than either of them have experienced in a while. Yosano watches with an indulgent smile as Kyouka tugs her along, urging her to look at some display or another. Clothing, home improvement, toys, desserts—whatever shop catches their fancy becomes the next stop on their trip. They end up doing more looking than buying, owing to budget constraints, but it’s entertaining nonetheless.
In the furniture section, Kyouka walks up to an ornate, gilded hatrack and says, “It’s taller than the one at home.”
Yosano is confused at first, until Kyouka explains the cryptic statement, and then she’s laughing so hard her stomach hurts. The mafia’s former strongest, reduced to a piece of sentient furniture—oh, how the mighty have fallen.
After that, there’s a scuffle with a claw machine that ends in a bucket’s worth of spent coins and a hard-earned bunny plushie, a clothes shopping spree that devolves into a critique of Nakahara Chuuya’s hideous fashion sense, and enough desserts to put anyone but Ranpo out of commission.
By the time they plop down on a bench facing a large water fountain in the center of the mall, Yosano’s feet ache from all the walking. It’s been a while since she’s felt this drained from an outing—usually it’s her unwilling companion who tires out first. Next to her, Kyouka watches the water cascade down the fountain’s spiral frame with a serene expression, ice cream dripping down one side of the cone in her hand.
That image of her, soft and unguarded, existing as is without the need to prove herself, is what Yosano will always remember of that day.
She wonders if Kyouka ever feels stifled, living with Dazai and the others. Kyouka doesn’t talk about her home life—not that she talks much at all, unless prompted—so it’s hard to tell if she’s staying there simply because she has nowhere else to go.
“Y’know, we can get you a place at the agency dorms if you want,” Yosano offers. “We can just make Akutagawa double up with someone. Or, if you’re uncomfortable living by yourself, I don’t mind sharing a space.”
To her surprise, Kyouka immediately turns her down. “I like it where I am,” she says, turning to face Yosano. Her usually stoic expression is colored with fondness. “My home is with them.”
The sureness of the response catches Yosano off guard. While she’d felt sympathy for Kyouka and Atsushi’s situation, she’d always been wary of their guardians. Those two were traitors to the mafia, sure, but they had also stood at the very top once. The Boss and his personal guard. She’d found it hard to believe that a simple change of heart was what had made them leave it all behind.
Now, seeing the trust her student has in them, the lingering contempt Yosano feels towards the remnants of Mori’s legacy lessens just a little. There’s no evidence, of course, that they’re to be trusted. All she has to go by is that spark of light in Kyouka’s eyes.
But it’s enough for her. She’ll accept those two for what they mean to someone dear to her. After all, a mentor’s greatest wish is for their student to flourish.
“If that’s your home, then it was pointless of me to ask.” She smiles, mind flashing to green eyes and cheeky self-indulgence. Family, huh? “Mind telling me more about them?”
***
The kitchen is in perfect condition. That should have been Chuuya’s first clue that something was seriously wrong. Usually when he comes home late, the fate of the apartment lies upon the very arbitrary decision of whether Dazai wants to order takeout or attempt to cook. If Atsushi is there, he’ll at least make sure Dazai doesn’t go anywhere near the stove. But neither of them are around—not in the kitchen, nor in the living room.
That’s the second clue—the suspicious lack of bandaged menaces. Chuuya should have taken these warnings to heart and stepped out of the apartment. It would have been easy to hop on his motorcycle and drive far far away from this devil’s lair, never to return.
Instead, like a fool, he makes his way down the hall to check the bedrooms. That’s when he hears something that makes him stop in his tracks.
“Kyo-Kyouka-chan, I’m scared…I don’t wanna die…”
“It’ll all be over soon. Just don’t move.”
Atsushi makes a muffled sobbing sound, and then Chuuya is throwing open the door to Kyouka’s room, heart racing. How many times does he have to tell her not to use other people as guinea pigs for her first aid practice? Dazai is fair game—that piece of shit deserves whatever comes his way—but Atsushi is already traumatized as is—
The lecture on his tongue dies as he catches sight of Atsushi sitting in a chair by the dresser, Kyouka leaning over him with an eyelash curler over his eye.
Startled by the sound of the door slamming against the wall, Kyouka jumps back, yanking the eyelash curler with her. Atsushi yelps as the lashes on his left eye are ripped clean off. His hand comes up to cup the injured area, and Chuuya has never been more grateful that the kid has regenerative abilities, because that was technically his fault, and he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Atsushi had to walk around entirely lashless on one side of his face.
“Not your best move, Chibikko,” Dazai drawls, and that’s when Chuuya notices the bastard lounging about on a cushion in the corner, a magazine in hand.
Aside from the fact that he looks like he actually showered and put on fresh clothes for once, there’s something different about him. His hair is slightly curled at the ends, a small braid secured behind his ear by a white flower pin. He has a bit more color in his face than usual, there are hints of gold around his eyes, and is that…lip tint?
“What in the flying fuck is happening here?” Chuuya points from this weirdly sparkly version of Dazai to Atsushi, who’s recovered from his sudden loss of eyelashes and just looks apprehensive now. (On closer inspection, his hair has also been styled and adorned with a kanzashi in the shape of blue and white lilies of the valley.)
“Idol makeover,” Kyouka declares, looking far too pleased with herself.
Dazai continues flipping through his magazine as if none of this is his concern. “Apparently Yosano-sensei took her shopping and got her some beauty supplies. She wanted to test them out, so why not?” Lowering the magazine, he raises a sculpted brow at Chuuya. “Well? What do you think?”
“You look like fucking Donald McDonald.”
A disappointed sigh escapes Dazai. “How could I forget? For you to think an atrocious hat like that is fashionable, of course your eyes must be rotten. Apologies. It was unfair of me to ask such a question to the aesthetically challenged.”
A tug on Chuuya’s shirt stops him short of adding some more red to that stupidly glammed up face.
“I worked hard on that,” Kyouka says. “Don’t ruin it.”
“Don’t mind him.” Atsushi inserts himself between Chuuya and the would-be victim of Chuuya’s fist, tone placating. “Why don’t you take a seat? Your turn will come soon.”
Chuuya stares at him uncomprehendingly. “My what?”
He looks to Kyouka, who holds up a comb and a pink ribbon in response.
“Oh, hell no—”
Five minutes later, he’s grumbling in his seat while Kyouka braids his hair.