Chapter Text
The sun hung bright over Yokohoma city, casting tall, rectangular shadows over the large skyscrapers while making the glass of the port mafia headquarters windows glisten and sparkle as it basked in all of the sunlight’s glory. Two figures as small as ants from such a high view when zoomed-in would reveal a ginger-haired man sporting a V-neck sweatshirt with a sage green leather jacket and his signature bandaid on the nose leaning onto the brick wall of the alleyway devoid of the glorious rays of God’s eye and a younger man wearing a long trench coat of jet black. His hands were in his pockets as they conversed, occasionally coughing once or twice for the dust fragments of the alleyway formed between two giant skyscrapers’ gaps were a paradise of lost filth. Some of the particles invaded his nostrils once again before the boy finally chose to summon Rashomon to swat around the air, getting a good look of the sunlit dust.
“Akutagawa,” the ginger spoke, peeling the old bandage off his nose for as unwise a choice of that is, exposing a bruise or wound in such an unsanitary environment.“I just finished clearing out the streets this morning, do you have any idea where Boss went?” He asked, crossing his arms as the boy leaned onto the brick wall just outside of the port mafia headquarters skyscraper. What followed was a few coughs, a black-haired man’s fist up to his lips as he struggled to make out a coherent phrase. “You know, we can always switch locations if the dust here is too strong for you-
“No, thank you.” An almost cracking voice made out, and after coughing after attempting to clear his throat again, he elaborated “I have not.”
The men’s gazes meet, suspicions aligning. It is currently a typical noon of mid-June, the weather’s hot as ever with the sunlight seeping through every corner visible, intense, and as frustrating as ever. Usually, the executives were the ones that assigned rather more…menial tasks to the men, though they’re currently extremely down on members, even after their cunning Boss had requested a member exchange. After Demon Prodigy Dazai Osamu left the mafia, Randou, or rather, Arahabki investigator Transcendents member Arthur Rimbaud died, and Ace resorted to a pursuit of suicide after being led by the founder of Rats of the House of the Dead Fyodor M. Dostoevsky, all of those that remain would only be Kouyou Ozaki and Nakahara Chuuya. Theoretically speaking, Mori would be more alert and intolerant of laziness than ever, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
“It’s been two days now since Kouyou-san checked in with Boss, what could he be so engrossed in?” the ginger tilted his head, and for a spy he was, he certainly had a great way of dealing out and finding valuable information for the Hunting Dogs. He’s just worried about the person he cared about the most in the mafia after his elder brother’s death, and he was aware that to have an official chat with Akutagawa Ryunosuke out of the headquarters would mean his assigned duties were finished too.
“I’ll give Chuuya-san a call,” the boy spoke, this time his throat was finally cleared after a good few minutes of pathetic coughing.
Reaching into his pockets to bring out his phone, his nails clicked on the numbers of the flip phone until the ringtone blasted out that people from a mile away could probably hear the edited voice of the renowned suicidal detective- and to no one’s surprise, it was a ringtone of Dazai Osamu’s voice saying “Good, Akutagawa”- and the blush crept up to the black-cloaked mafioso faster then he squeezed the phone shut to stop the ringtone. Looking away as his face darkened with both anger and chagrin, he could roughly make out the muffled breathing of Tachihara Michizo. Tachihara was practically biting his lip to not break down in laughter right now, for Akutagawa Ryunosuke’s desperation for Dazai’s approval was almost borderlinding obsession. Eyes wide, cheeks puffed, his posture crooked as he tried to look away “Stop-”
Akutagawa’s ‘stop’ cut it, for Tachihara banged his fist on the wall and bursted out laughing. “Nahh, you did not-” before scrambling to hug his stomach as he kept cackling. It was evident that Akutagawa was also close, pondering over whether he should use Rashomon to punch the man in the face so that no amount of bandages could cover the wound as his teeth ground. It was this feeling of home that made Tachihara Michizo so attached to the mafia…so incredibly grateful towards Mori Ougai for shaping this family.
“S-Stop this-”
“Akutagawa-senpai.” A soft, feminine voice called out, grabbing ahold of Akutagawa’s arms as she turned to look at the laughing Tachihara, currently holding onto the brick wall for support as he cackled his heart out in an expression both filled with concern, confusion, and a hint of entertainment. Her keen observation of Akutagawa had never once failed her, so now with his face all flushed, she began to ask- “What’s wrong? How can I help?”
A blonde young woman, with silky blonde hair tied up neatly into a high ponytail, spoke, her every word laced with concern for her senpai as she thoughtfully waved her hand to swat the filth of the alleyway away from Akutagawa’s face so he could talk more clearly. Higuchi Ichiyo, a loyal servant of the port mafia, might as well also be wondering how she managed to go about an entire two days, two solid days without ever hearing from the mafia boss who was not lenient in the slightest when it came to productivity. Practically everyone in the mafia knew he had suffered an attack just three days prior by what was theorized to be a member of the Rats of the House of the Dead for having a hair that was believed and analyzed to be notorious genius felon Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky for a motivation of…perhaps to seek outside information as he’s currently spending his days in Mersault.
Dostoevsky’s plans have the potential to be perfect, and so every flaw, imperfection, or ‘accident’ was carefully planned out and thought through, causing practically every piece of useful information left behind to be purposeful, for Mori Ougai knew that if they were to put the pieces together and follow the cheese, they would ultimately be lead into a trap. According to Nakahara, the assassin had- once again- brutally exploded from an attached bomb right when the ginger executive was about to even touch him. Nakahara’s hand was injured after this, which only prompted Mori to harass the agency president even more about the member exchange. “Why not Yosano-kun? Fukuzawa-dono~”
Tachihara had finally managed to muster up the courage to reply to Higuchi’s concerns, for the laughing spree was nearly over and he had burnt enough calories for sitting around and eating snacks all day without the Boss’ orders. “I-It’s…H-His…” Tachihara spat out, still pounding his fist onto the wall, “His ringtone-”
“Ringtone?” The blonde woman stopped, tilting her head to sort through her thoughts just as he froze still. She, apparently, had never heard of Akutagawa’s ringtone before even knowing even the tiniest details about him as this realization caused her entire body to freeze up in an awkward smile as her right eyelid twitched. How come she didn’t know about her Akutagawa-senpai’s ringtone? This couldn’t be… “T-Tachihara-san, what ringtone? Did you mean Akutagawa-senpai’s phone ringtone? Is it the ringtone where he dials or receives calls? Did he change his ringtone or install a new one?”
“A-ah, so you see, his ringtone’s-” Just as Tachihara was about to finish his sentence, Akutagawa glared at him with such intensity that it felt like his eyeballs were going to burst out of the socket and pound into his. Struggling to catch his breath, Tachihara glanced over at Higuchi, her brows furrowed and even wrinkles popping out on her forehead. Such a beautiful maiden’s seriously going to waste her youth on this punk who coughs every two seconds from a lung disease…
“What…Akutagwa-senpai’s ringtone…” Higuchi mumbled, her expression still stuck in place with her lips curled up and head tilted to the right. “Y-You…Your phone had a ringtone…?”
Of course, he had, though he always had the settings down to a pin-drop quiet so it was almost as if Dazai was whispering to him, straight to his ear that he was proud of Akutagawa, the feeling both warm and calming and motivating…and so that no one else heard and have an outburst like Tachihara is right now. Sighing, he shook his head, pressing his fingers up to his forehead. He was torn between beating the shit out of Tachihara, just calling Nakahara and getting it over with, calling Mori or trying to contact Dazai to see if he knew where Mori went…or what happened to him for he was never even seen leaving the office. “Useless cunt.. Just…Will you listen to me?”
“O-Of course!”
“D-Don’t even bother-” Tachihara was now holding his stomach as he spoke in gasps of air, the laugh was sure a tedious but entertaining exercise for him. “Ahhhhhh, his obsession with Dazai Osamu is just insane, hey, Hey! If Dazai knew you’re this devoted, maybe he wouldn’t have left the mafia!”
A line was crossed, and so all Higuchi could do was watch Akutagwa fiercely punch Tachihara in the face.
The three stayed silent for a bit, just staring at each other as Akutagawa held back a cough, wanting not to humiliate himself even more before opening his mouth to speak, inhaling a sharp breath, and then coughing. It sparked something within Tachihara and the last of his constraint also snapped, breaking down in tears as he laughed now. Higuchi tried her best to not laugh along, bringing her arm to wrap around Akutagawa’s to attempt to calm him down.
“We should try to contact Boss first, shouldn’t we?” Higuchi asked, reaching over her head to take off her elastic hairband for her lush, blonde hair to fall and seem more ‘feminine’ to her senpai as he finally backed away.
That bit was true, no one had heard from Mori in about two days, not a word, an order, or even saw him. The executives practically see him every day if not out on missions and further tasks, but now with their dangers cleared and only having to watch the detective agency slowly burn from terrorist accusations, Mori should be decently lively like he always was. Always whining to Nakahara about his longing for Dazai’s presence, attempting to matchmake them together, bringing up his past with Fukuzawa Yukichi, and obsessing over Elise like the very demure, very mindful father figure he is…
This was unlike him. To went silent for days, not even leaving a trace behind with the front door to his office locked.
Akutagawa, now calm and adjusted the volume, dialed mafia executive Nakahara Chuuya’s number again, waiting for an answer…
It wasn’t long before Nakahara answered in a breathless, cracked voice-
“The Boss’ office…h-he…he’s gone…”
“Hey, Boss, you need to stop obsessing over Dazai. He isn’t going to return anytime soon-”
The cup dropped, and the gravity manipulator didn’t even bother to shield the fragile glass cup from the hard, metal floor. His bright orange locks swayed and only served to cover his vision as he stumbled, before frantically searching the office- pulling out drawers three at a time and shutting them in some pathetic, desperate hope to find clues of where the mafia boss went, flipping over the chair and stepping on the collapsed table with a thud, ripping down the curtains as he breathed heavily and loudly in frustration, using the shattered glass pieces to cut open every visible object within the office and even himself, the window glass bursting with a cry of pain as it shattered into hundreds of thousands of pieces, he stomped hard, down on the finely switched carpet, his heel pressed down on the damp area where the water he brought to set.
What was this? Sure, He hadn’t checked up on Mori in a few days, but he never even saw Mori exit his office even once, heard no news or information about Mori leaving or traveling, engaging in conversations with anyone noteworthy except that damned agency president Fukuzawa Yukichi on calls, and yes, trashing the Boss’ office would never be a wise decision, but his gut told him something was horribly wrong…Elise’s dress was on the floor, right next to the wall, along with her socks, shoes, and bow, all fallen collectively on top of each other like the girl was forcefully summoned elsewhere-
Kouyou Ozaki gasped as she saw the horrors of the destroyed office “What on earth did you do?!”
Nakahara didn’t answer, his entire body trembling as he collapsed onto the carpet, the remaining tiny glass shards cutting and ripping the fabric of his trousers apart, drawing blood as it dug into his flesh. Kouyou immediately rushed forward, careful of her sleeves to not get stained by the blood as she grabbed Nakahara’s wrists, her eyes wide with surprise. “Ane-san…Have you seen-”
“No, unfortunately, I haven’t, Chuuya-kun. But you have to explain, why did you tear his office apart?”
“Elise isn’t here either. Boss never left the room, do you see where I’m coming from?!” He asked, scrambling over his words as his gaze bore into hers, his usually well-kept ginger hair now messy and loose, even the hat he always wore had fallen down and was now a good ten feet away. Of course, Kouyou was the one who managed to somewhat remain calm after this entire ordeal. She took Nakahara’s cheek and caressed it down to his chin with her well-manicured fingers as she tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear, remaining silent as the other men of the mafia searched the office for traces of his disappearance.
The suited men looked back in the drawers, traced call histories, conversed, and theorized to no avail. They had their arms crossed and usual dark-shade sunglasses taken down, folded up, and stuffed into the pockets of their trousers as they shook their head. Even Hirotsu Ryuro stopped smoking indoors as he examined the remnants of Elise’s clothes, trying his best to comprehend the physics and draw up a visual of the situation. Their best guess was that Mori either managed to teleport out or got teleported out of the mafia headquarters before proceeding to examine documents of ability summaries and potential motives or locations where Mori could be.
Soon, Nakahara’s phone rang. Originally planning to ignore it as his mind swirled with potential scenarios, the vibration in his pockets was too annoying to ignore as he roughly grabbed it and pulled it out. Akutagawa, the screen displayed- and his face almost lit up immediately. Perhaps his Akutagawa had valuable information on where the boss went-
The call’s details left his mind, all the executive could register was Higuchi Ichiyo, Tachihara, and Akutagwa running into the wide open doors of Mori’s office after Chuuya kicked them down. The looks of terror on their faces did little to ease the nerves of Nakahara, their endless questions as if disrespecting the boss and questioning his competence in agility only fueled the ginger’s irritation, that is, until Tachihara spoke up as he glanced out the broken window at a multi-floor skyscraper display screen- “ARMED DETECTIVE AGENCY PRESIDENT GETTING PUBLICALLY EXECUTED FOR KIDNAPPING, TORTURING, AND MURDERING YOKOHOMA PORT MAFIA BOSS MORI OUGAI” on the news headlines. The live stream immediately cut to Hunting Dogs leader and the Japanese millitary representative Fukuchi Ochi announcing the report, before displaying a video of what seemed like their boss tied up in a chair-
The final straw snapped as Chuuya ran forward, his cape and bright, orange hair being lifted by the crisp summer breeze as he jumped down from the skyscraper through the broken glass windows and into the sunlight- everyone knew where he was going.
Fukuchi Ochi.
Or, more specifically, the containment center that held the person mafia executive Nakahara Chuuya now resented most in his life- Fukuzawa Yukichi.
The video on the news played:
Crimson blood beautifully painted the walls in scattered, chaotic, messy strokes, the feathered splatter of arterial spray. It dripped down the walls, pooling darkly into the floor. As a white-haired warrior with a black cloak draped over his shoulders approached the scene, he soon realized that this was it. This was the sight- raven black hair messily stuck to the scarred scalp by the droplets of dried blood, what were once beautiful amethyst eyes now closed though most likely blind due to the assault. Dry, pale lips stained with cold red, were also found on the man’s familiar scarlet scarf that embodied his status laid by the collars of the black trench coat with torn scratches revealing tender skin. His upper body was slumped back against the wooden chair, the lower half, sliced diagonally over his abdomen, was collapsed over the floor as blood pooled onto the floor…and even with the slight possibility of him still holding onto his last breath, he would not manage to utter a word again—finally, silence. The silence the former government assassin so desperately wished for was deafening as realization overwhelmed him, only to now haunt him. Possessed by the passion and poison of curiosity, he stepped closer to the man. The floor made a subtle and damp squelch noise, like water being pressed from a damp sponge, and viscous dark burgundy-red liquid welled up warmly between those wooden sandals and pearl white fabric of the socks he wore, the slimy substance now pressed and stained the socks, forcing its way to drench the pair until contact with the skin of the toes.
The recording cuts.
“As presented by the footage, This announcement was delayed, delayed by quite a few days than necessary due to the execution of the president of the Armed Detective Agency- Fukuzawa Yukichi.”
He remembers his eyes wandering over to his then-best friend, the expression he displayed on his face was awfully stern. He had won. For all his life, the anger and rage pent up and collected within his overly empathetic and ambitious heart finally got satisfied. It wasn't with begging, apologies, or acknowledgment, though he was sure he'd preferred it, yet at the end of the day, he got what he wanted. For the Armed Detective Agency, precisely the president, to crumble. To be reduced to nothing but ashes that he could step on under the heel. Oh, fucking god it felt good. For someone as humorous and cheerful as the officer pretended to act, it did nothing but fuel the vexation and jealousy inside him.
It painted such a breathtaking and alluring picture, of the man he hated the most committing the crime that defined him. All bloodied up. He was the only one with the perfect, set of hair, clean clothing, and sanity. The detective's blade was now immersed in a pool of its sworn enemy's ichor, with his own sage green cloth of the yukata. The eyes Fukuchi met were lifeless- filled with either wishes of vengeance or the heartbreaking pain of betrayal.
Fukuchi stood, his eyes closing for about half a second as the blinding lights of the room hanging on the ceiling assaulted his vision to a point of pain when devoid of such light- perfect. He didn’t glare at the bright light for nothing, and now a tear had dropped. A tear would be formed due to the pain, but the public wouldn’t know that. To them, he was crying, genuinely crying. To them, he was crying because he was shocked, in denial of the horrible atrocities his best friend committed- that way, such an angel, an accomplished hero would seem more human, wouldn’t he? Ah, such foolish sheep. To be slaughtered and led by the nose by their supposed hero. By a hero that did indeed wear a cape. A cape stained with the blood of countless innocent lives, just trying to serve their purpose.
He was their hero.
Said hero had his sleeves rolled up and was holding onto the wooden lectern, the oak almost glistening from the reflections of the brightly lit lighting striking the hero, for all eyes were on him. Every news channel, every broadcasting service and screen- his face, his cape, his words, and the lectern that commanded submission to authority. The audience, more or less, calm or frightened, included the most important political figures in the entire world as cameras snapped and clicked, the flash of phones or cameras’ lights seemed to compete for the information blasted above, it would not be short of an understatement to call the entire ordeal both expected and abrupt.
Fukuzawa Yukichi, the leader, the mastermind behind the countless scandals of terrorism under the name of the renowned Armed Detective Agency tortured and released his pent-up aggression on a hostage as he continued to provoke its’ captor, before finally dying. The video was explicit, highly explicit for every little detail and movement of the dark room was caught and enhanced by the sensitive camera that was installed in the very corner, recording every last detail to its finest render. There were more gasps, more murmurs, and speculations. It would seem that the violent and gory video not only managed to traumatize a vast sea of inexperienced interns and assistants accompanying their managers or clients to said announcement but also broke the sheer minds of countless supporters and benefactors of the Armed Detective Agency, rendering their carefully orchestrated speculations and desperate attempts to clear the name of the agency hopeless.
Yes, Ougai Mori was a criminal, though he had the authorities' permission, he was allowed, even sought after to do what he do best, he was looked after and turned a blind eye towards, he was Yokohoma’s protector from the night, fuck, he even had relations towards the Transcendents of Europe and Agatha Christie herself. He had Arahabaki, for god’s sake, he had Rimbaud, Arahabki, the port mafia cleared the soldiers of Mimic, drove it out of Europe before wiping the traces clean- had cases and have been on the eye and survived the wrath of Fyodor M. Dostoevsky of the Rats of the House of the Dead. The new mafia boss, the one that won the previous members’ hertz after “succeeding” the throne of his predecessor. The man who trained the very demon prodigy Dazai Osamu who was locked up in Mersault prison right now- ah.
He was dead.
“Sir Fukuchi! Please! Answer us, how did the mafia boss get abducted by the agency president?” A deep voice called out, pointing a camera to his face. Ah, Fukuchi had almost forgotten, in his daze of pretending to be deeply emotionally affected, he had skimmed over the prior script and now had progressed into the interview section of this announcement. Oh, how adorable were these people, the sheep…It’s all coming together.
“Oh, after rounds and rounds of interrogating, we have theorized that Fukuzawa Yukichi’s men managed to use the Cannibalism incident as a decoy to break into the hospital room of Mori Ougai after placing decoys to distract his mafia executives.” He answered, careful not to reveal more than he allowed. Each syllable out of that mouth of his was laced with a pinch of sorrow, a melancholy that he practiced to coat his words in as his tone softened, “It was a shame I did not suspect my dear friend to be such a bloodthirsty criminal.”
“How come Mori Ougai’s ability, Vita Sexualis unharmed as its owner died?”
“As Jules Gabriel Vern proved, a direct manifestation of ability could be preserved even after its owner’s death, and that is no exception for Vita Sexualis. Unfortunately, Fukuzawa Yukichi has chosen to end her life as well.”
Cameras clicked, news streamed, questions asked and breaths gasped. What difference would this make? Oh, how hilarious, even if Elise did survive, and it would only be capable of being resurrected, or rather…being re-summoned by its host, the new mafia boss Mori Ougai, her vendetta would be erased as soon as Fukuchi even sees her along with its life. And as the warrior’s mind became clouded with intrusive thoughts about Vita Sexualis, he soon realized the cold, sweat droplets glistening on his forehead. He was sure everything would be alright, after all, he had already cut the footage, and things would return to normal. As normal as he can get, after owing N.V. Gogol and F.M. Dostoevsky such a large favor for the kidnapping that assembled this grand chagrin for the Armed Detective Agency.
Another reporter, in his early twenties and somehow, surprisingly not too visibly intimated by Fukuchi spoke, pointing to the camera that had just been cleaned with the edges of the exterior lens still glistening with spray spoke- “May I please ask when exactly did you find out about the incident? After all, such a model of the camera has a bright spark that would be almost impossible to ignore if the President was cautious enough, so-”
“He was clouded by emotion,” answered a deep voice with a cold and dominant tone, his gaze filled with a hint of guilt and much more fury and almost…fear. Fukuchi wasn’t one to cut someone off from their speech, but with how he was almost drilling his words into the young man’s soul with a gaze so piercing and commanding, he realized his fatal mistake- making up a story on why Fukuzawa was so emotion and irrational in that very moment of the attack to ignore the sign of the camera, that clearly did not match up with his explanation story of Fukuzawa kidnapping and planning the attack himself, following through and then torturing as well as killing with ease. “My childhood friend was never one to let his emotions control his actions, though once he is immersed in the moment of such intense feelings, he cannot stop. He’s like a starving wolf who smelled the sweet fragrance of blood of fresh-kill.”
If Dostoevsky could see him right now, and he was sure the genius strategist had his unholy ways of seeing everything like a puppet master pulling the strings from the heavens, the Russian would likely much chuckle at the reference to Armed Detective Agency President’s shameful past of the Silver Wolf, a renowned government assassin of Japan. From his conversations with junior detective Edogawa Ranpo, Edogawa was able to guess the outline of Fukuzawa’s past with a few key observations, so Dostoevsky with an entire organization of rats that scavenge for useful information would know as well.
The young reporter was a sharp tool, might even be the brightest in the shed for he commented a “Then when did you arrive?” and quickly shifted the route of the interview. Judging by his suit, Fukuchi could tell this young man wasn’t simple, a generic haircut wearing such luxurious fabric…he would know well. He narrowed his eyes and could tell that this man had the confidence to even stare him down. A mistake. His mistake. To, purposefully or not, catch the attention of Fukuchi Ochi.
“I’d assume soon, for I saw the corpse of Vita Sexualis fading away myself.” Ah, yes, he saw Elise’s fragments fading away into oblivion himself, as Mori could only summon her when he was still alive, no? Perhaps none of them anticipated that Fukuzawa would have the guts to actually kill-
“And so, we must execute this felon!”
The crowd of politicians, reporters, journalists, and white-collars cheered, They were blinded by the charisma of this man, this war hero, their hero who saved them from countless disasters, who formed the loyal Hunting Dogs, as the officers were standing on the back of the stage, their hands behind their back, the fingers of their hands intertwined as they stood straight, strong, still and tall- or, as tall as the red-haired age manipulator in her twelve-year-old body could get, even under the high heels of the boots of the traditional uniform could. In her eyes, there was a droplet or two of unshed tears that reeks of pity and empathy for her leader, she wished to comfort her leader and suck all of his pain away…little did she know the man, the warrior she blindly trusts and hopelessly loves is actually a ruthless murderer driven by hatred and vengeance.
Dostoevsky was humanity’s savior…or striving to be, with an ambition to purify and cleanse humanity of their sins even literal God cannot achieve no matter which religion one believed in. Orchestrating this plan, Fukuchi was sure he saw him as petty. FUkuchi was petty, was that why he couldn’t be as ambitious, as all-seeing, as divine as Dostoevsky? Who would obliterate those of weakness and misfortune, forsake loved ones, and even sacrifice oneself just for his vision that was carefully fragmented and tailored to fit all of mankind’s wishes- he would be a hero.
Gogol was a hero in his own right, an angel in his own light, wasn’t he? He doesn’t kill for fun, he does so for his tasks. He isn’t a sadist, he feels guilt and shame for what he does, but he acknowledges it and strives to transcend his human skin. He was the one who even brought the unconscious mafia boss to Fukuchi to tie up, he was the main executive, the weapon, and the comedic relief. As free and unpredictable as a bird, why can’t Fukuchi also just feel like a hero for once in his life? He did everything for the people when even though they had wronged him so many times, he devoted his life to saving and protecting and fighting for the people that have abandoned him, betrayed him, left him, and prospered without him without a care in the world, he might as well be the most selfless person alive.
Fukuzawa Yukichi was a hero too. A hero that he would spend his life with, and not execute. Fuck, he was the hero. The hero abandoned him, betrayed him, left him, and prospered without him without a care in the world. Fukuchi’s attempts to cheer him up, serve him a nice occupation, bond, and reconnect had all been in vain for the Silver Wolf wanted to “work alone” and yet still chose to form a detective agency with some mentally deranged fourteen-year-old after training under some cat man for three years- Fukuchi was petty.
He wasn’t selfless for the people, he was selfless to prove himself.
If heroes are motivated by a need to serve justice, why do some feel so wronged?