Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

October, three months before the public execution.

It was a not so lively day inside of the agency. Without having much to do— putting aside an endless amounts of undone paperwork that just kept piling up more and more each day— all else was just fine. In fact, those same piles of unread documents just happen to haunt him every night right after he leaves his office, yet somehow he still prefers to see them left untouched on his depressing desk, rather than going through them. It wasn’t so much so that he didn’t have the skills to do it, but rather it was because he despised doing it all together— and one thing Chuuya Nakahara learned since joining the ADA is that he’ll always have a choice in what he will do and what he will not.

Today, lady luck seems to be on his side: as she had decided to send him a client to work with, instead of leaving his afternoon entirely open for paperwork run-through.

However, unfortunately for Chuuya, the said client was a complete imbecile, who only came in to waste his time, and to play with his already declining nerves. The man persistently claims he was being followed by the ‘upper class’ throughout the day. The manic nagging was not lost on him, in fact, it made the redhead wonder when did local folks start referring to beasts as ‘upper class.’ 

Against his better judgment— smashing his fist into the guys jaw— he intended to follow as protocol said, and to: “Escort empty cases of weak suspicions to the police department,” when something about this guy really ticked Chuuya off. 

It could have been the way the guy was sitting: with his legs crossed, leaning back on the chair far enough that it had begun to tip over (infuriatingly so, Chuuya was following after every creak of it), eyes arrogantly closed and chin held high, inflated sense of deserving written all over his middle-aged face. Despite the sheer annoyance the redhead felt from just listening to this guy rant on and on about the flow of his day, what truly struck Chuuya the wrong way, more than any of these other boiling factors, was the way the man’s black hat laid crookedly over his overly big, bald head. 

That was the final drop of water that overflowed the glass, making it spill. 

But just as Chuuya was about to shatter the glass of water he was holding into million tiny pieces, and potentially earn himself another written complaint, his office door busts open, hitting the wall behind it and piercing it’s faded paint even further. He’ll eventually have to repaint it— was the first thing that crossed his mind the moment the door bounced back from it.

Instead of shattering, the glass was safely returned back down on the desk, with the redhead’s nerves settled in an instant, relieved by the sudden interruption he’d otherwise curse out. Meanwhile, his client jumps up from the chair he was so comfortable on only a moment ago, before picking up his, possibly, empty briefcase in distress, before turning towards the intruder. Chuuya watches in pure satisfaction as the guy starts to scold the ‘kid’ who busted inside without any prior-made announcement, yelling about a violation of ‘professional confidentiality’ and just the lack of mannerisms in general. 

However, the so called ‘kid’ standing before him didn’t seem to be paying the guy’s words much heed, let alone attempt to show any regret over his actions like they were generally supposed to here in the agency— “Because the clients are always right, or some bullshit…” Chuuya thinks inside his head. 

The man stomps his foot after finishing up his speech, waiting for the expected apology with an ugly frown.

The redhead grins after a moment of infuriating silence that follows after.

Another moment passes. The man’s ears grow reddish in impatience.

After another moment had passed, the shorter one huffs in annoyance before tilting his head to the side and crossing his arms over his chest, “Chuuya!”, he calls over, with both of his eyes closed, and with a lollipop intimidatingly pointed at him, “What’re you doing?”, he asks.

Suddenly, the door bangs open the second time, even louder than the first.

’Now I’ll really have to repaint it,’ Chuuya thinks, watching the door bounce back after hitting the wall again. 

The client, now both freaked out of his polished shoes and greatly embarrassed, bows his bold head at the redhead, before saying something in the lines of: “I’ll go to the police station instead!”, and rushing outside, passing the two standing at his door frame without looking back. This was the easiest he had ever closed a case. 

“Damn it,” a tall blond curses almost breathlessly, with his hands on his knees, posture bent in half— seemingly after running up the staircase and chasing someone down the halls. After a few seconds of catching his breath, he straightens up, adjusting his glasses all the way back up the bridge of his nose. He shoots the shorter one a glare, “This was not a chase, Ranpo.” He declares, annoyed.

The other doesn’t open his eyes, but his blank expression rolls them all the same, “No, but you’d still lose if it was.” He simply states. 

Chuuya snickers after a moment of trying his best not to. He watches the two of his subordinates with peaked curiosity, before asking “What is it, four-eyes?”

There’s a pregnant pause between the two, which, at first— annoys him, until his gaze stops on an unsettling one the taller man hid behind his glasses.

Something must be off, Chuuya figures. His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything yet. 

Instead, the man with the glasses does, ”A package was delivered to us earlier this morning from the—“ , the words he was about to speak end up left unsaid and messily stumbled over. The man heavily sighs at his own mistake, before clearing his throat to avoid any more stuttering, as he aims to finish the sentence he had started, “—the Port Mafia, Chuuya.”

The redhead’s eyes go wide, his pupils dilated for only a split second, as he lets the words sink inside of his head. It only took a split second for over a million thoughts to rush through to him, yet somehow he still manages to push them all aside in an instant— because anticipation didn’t equal reality. 

Having no time to waste, he pushes past the two men standing before him, making his way out of his office and down the hallway. No words needed to be exchanged, they followed after him soon enough. All three walked calmly, smiled at the passer-by’s, and made no reaction that could suggest there was an undergoing crisis right underneath their roof. The key to handling each situation with success was to keep both yourself and the people around you calm— because reduced panic made for a better chance at surviving and handling a crisis upfront.

That’s why it was always important to choose your leader wisely: because they are the sheer head of every operation, and if they didn’t know how to handle panic the whole organisation would collapse. A stable foundation equals efficient work flow, in other words successful business. Chuuya learnt a thing or two about handling business himself, especially here in the ADA. And at the end of the day, neither of the three that were making their way down the hallway were armatures— they all knew what this delivery had called for.

An emergency meeting. 

“The package was just now transferred into the president's office,” the blond informs as they make a sharp turn and rush downstairs, “The President was made aware of the situation at hand, but he reports back that it would take him much more time to get back to the agency.” He explains, trying to tone down his voice to sound as calm as possible, but the paranoia was notable to the other two.

“In other words,” the shorter one turns to Chuuya, with his eyes still closed, “you're the one in power till he gets back, fancy-hat.” He grins at him.

That grin and those words neither sat well with him. Nor did they pair well. Yet for the first time ever, he doesn’t jump into bickering argument with his senior. It just wasn’t the time for it. However, if he felt it was appropriate to say something, he’d probably have pointed out how ‘four-eyes’ was the Presidents back-up choice. Not him. 

As they make their final turn before reaching the president’s office, passing through a long, dimly lit hallway with shaded windows, the taller one adds, as if on cue, “It’s because you know the mafia far better than all of us combined. The President insists for Yosano not to be involved with it, so you’re the only one we could trust to decode whatever this is.” He explains, tilting his chin up and fixing back his glasses. His face now more determined than before, “So I suggest we stop wasting time and get this thing over with quickly, before President returns from his trip!” The man demands, as he pulls on the door handle roughly, sending the door flying into the wall and harshly hitting it once again. 

Because of their dramatic entrance, all three are met with confused gazes staring at them right from the doorstep, but neither paid them any mind, as they walked inside. Chuuya closes the door behind him, approaching the head of the table silently, while carefully eyeing the package that rested on the president's desk.

There were six of them surrounding the table. Everyone’s eyes set on the mysterious package that laid before them, with both curiosity and fear. Even Ranpo’s emerald green eyes came to view, as sharp as ever, reviewing through this mystery with the lack of clue’s.

Next to him, stood the taller individual— Kunikida Doppo. 

The two of them stood on Chuuya’s right side, while on the left side of the desk stood a boy of fourteen, but with a strength of steel— Kenji Miyazawa. Chuuya took personal liking to that boy, taken aback by both his unlimited kindness and bravery. Next to him, stood a boy not too older— Jun’ichiro Tanizaki. Chuuya could easily notice the trembling in that boy more than in Kenji himself, though they both share immense bravery. 

And finally, behind the desk stood a woman with cold indifference, a woman he both respected and argued with. Yosano Akiko, the doctor of the agency. The two of them share something in common: that both worked for the Mafia before joining the agency. However, back then Chuuya never engaged with her, nor did she with him, from what she’s told him. Neither of them ever talk about those days— it’s not a conversation one can talk about lightly, nor over wine. When he first met her, it baffled him to realise he could’ve met her in much different circumstances. He doesn’t dwell on those thoughts for long: but he’s glad he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been the same. The Angel of Death was just another tool used to shape beasts like himself back together— surely sharing a traumatic past would have been an awkward thing between two people who try to do everything to forget about it. 

All six of them, after briefly exchanging glances, settle their gazes on the package. 

The thing was large. At first glance, it looked like a simple cardboard box— labeled using only stickers that said: “Do not shake— fragile!” , on all four sides of it. 

After another few moments of uncomfortable silence come to pass, Chuuya sighs, drawing attention to himself. He takes a few steps towards it, eyeing it sharply the entire time. As he closes in, he noticed a small note saying: “To ADA, from the Port Mafia.” in narrowly written letters he’d seen somewhere before. 

He pulls it off, with a small, ‘tch’ , sound, crumbling it in his fist afterwards, before tossing it on the desk. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, burning in the back of his head, and he can practically hear them yelling at him to be more careful, but nobody actually spoke. The office was swallowed in anticipating silence.

Slowly, after releasing a deep breath he wasn’t aware he was holding in, Chuuya’s hands land on the box, and after another brief inhale and exhale, he pulls the top off, bringing it towards himself.

Before he can register what’s inside, the office fills itself with gasps and widening stares. In the corner of his eye, he saw Tanizaki pull his hands over Kenji’s eyes, and imminently leading him out of the room. 

That’s when it hit him.

His pupils went pin sharp. He was in a locked eye contact with a corpse, and not even a full one— but with just its decapitated head. It was like a trance he was locked in, unable to look the other way, as it kept him in hold with those cold, lifeless eyeballs. At first, he was so shocked that he didn’t even notice all the blood that was smeared from inside the box, it’s rotten smell, and the blood covered envelope inside that was sealed with the Mafia’s stamp. 

Something felt far too familiar and far too horrifying to look away. 

“Mori Ōgai,” a voice reaches him, pulling him back into reality, into the office he was inside of. The name alone sent a shiver down his spine, but not because of fear— but rather because of disbelief. 

He looks up, with his widened eyes, locking his gaze with Yosano’s. But unlike him, she was completely calm and laid-back. She stood tall, with her arms crossed and gaze unbothered. Her magenta eyes dangerously dull, staring right back at him, as if it was a contest. As if there was nothing here to see. Nothing worth seeing.

“What? It's him, isn’t it?” she asks, but it wasn’t a question. Everyone in this room already knew what the answer was.

Mori Ōgai, the boss of the Port Mafia, lies with his decapitated head sent to the agency inside some cardboard box. What kind of a cruel, deadbeat joke is this?

Was it supposed to be a warning? Some kind of a threat?

Well, it was working— because everyone in this room was now on high alert, and threat or not, it will not be treated lightly. 

“Who did this?” Chuuya asks, pulling his hands away from the box, refusing to look back inside of it. The smell was already taking over the whole room.

It was maddening. 

But he waited anyways. He waited for his question to be answered. Ranpo moved first, pulling the letter out of the pool of rotten blood it laid inside of. As he breaks the seal and opens it, pulling the letter out, blood drips all over the desk. Chuuya felt his veins pulsating.

Ranpo clears his throat, as he begins to read, “ ‘All who work in favour against the Mafia will succumb to the same faith as the one before you. Mori Ōgai has been found guilty of charges against the Mafia’s interests, and as such was convicted for treason. He was beheaded by his successor who now took over all Port Mafia’s affairs. You will be wise to pledge your allegiance to the new boss.’, Wait— there’s no name mentioned— oh!”, he pauses for a moment. 

Everyone looks over at him in confusion, as he puts on his glasses to see better. Ranpo smiles, continuing, “There’s a signature, never mind, it’s—“

”Dazai—“

*

September, seven years and four months before the public execution.

“—Osamu?”

The brunette snaps his head up at the sound of his name being called. He has been waiting for a little over half an hour at this point, in an empty, and equally lifeless as any other, alleyway in Suribachi City.

Most of the streets were like this: left abandoned in complete shambles, covered in dirt and rubble— not such a neighbourly place like it once must’ve been.

A decade ago, this area was entirely different from what it is today. Sadly, after an incident that had occurred seven years ago, its popularity hit a low count of zero. Going from a lively, family-friendly block, to a devastating waste zone only overnight. A night still so bizarrely remembered: not entirely from the lack of evidence, but rather because the whole ‘incident’ fell too close to government radar and got completely shut down. To this day, the tragedy of Suribachi City’s outcome is one of the most talked about conspiracy theories among the locals.  

And as such, coming to a place like this only calls for one thing: trouble. 

Dazai didn’t mind finding himself in this predicament— trouble just couldn’t stay too far away from him, it seemed. It was almost as if there was some magnetic pull between him and all these difficult situations, as he found himself in them more often than not. 

The quietness of the street soon dissipates. 

In what appears to be a second, a group of kids, no older than him, surround him from all sides— executing an ambush. One of them steps forward, coming into view, with a head of striking silver hair, and with a small blade skilfully gliding between his fingers before pointing its sharp end at him.

Still, Dazai doesn’t flinch. 

That must be his very first mistake, he notes, only a second later. Because he, instead of showing fear, or even a twinge of feigning bravery, chose to remain coldly indifferent, with a face of complete calm. It was a split second action that had immediately provoked a reaction. He saw it in their faces first: finding their gazes filled with confusion and irritated scowls, and then afterwards in their, now, more guarded postures. 

“One and only,” he puts on a smile, making sure to present it with enough difficulty, to appeal the part of a socially awkward teenager he needed to play perfectly. The goal here was simple: play the part, look naively intrigued by their little gang of merry men, win them over, and once he’s in do what he’s best at: an ingenious scheme. 

The one holding the tacky blade in his hand narrows his eyes at him. There were a few clear factors that suggested this was a figurehead, and not the actual leader, but he still decided to make the assumption, “And I’m guessing you’re Chuuya Nakahara? King of The Sheep?” the brunette asks. 

As expected, a couple of chuckles and muffled giggles rise from the group, all equally child-like. Though he meant for it, the action still made Dazai’s stomach curl inwards, his eyes slightly sharper than they were a second ago. It never sat right with him to play-pretend stupidity when it did nothing to instantly benefit him. Ironically, he took great joy in playing stupid just to deceive people around him— make them feel so high above him, before sending them all the way back down crashing. 

The silver-haired guy chuckles the most generously, before retrieving the blade back into his jacket’s pocket, and leaving his hands inside of them as well. An ugly smirk spreads across his lips, and without saying anything else, he steps aside— revealing another kid in the distance. A head of bright, glowing in the sun, head of hair, sat up on a wall not too far away from them, high above everyone else which Dazai assumed made for a clear statement. Slung back, with his hands also hidden inside of his jacket’s pockets, eyeing him out like a pest meant to be extracted and properly dealt with. 

The eye contact was held intimidatingly long, another mistake from his part— Dazai notes. He was supposed to be playing the naively stupid kid ready to stab someone out for their cause— not a guy holding a staring contest with their leader. Though, he was too lazy to be the one to look away first. In truth, the brunette was more surprised by this guys appearance instead of everything else he could be noticing. One of the most eye-catching features was the height alone, because this so-called ‘leader’ seems to be much shorter than most kids their age. With bright red hair, and a pair of ocean blue eyes on his toned skin, and with a big amount of freckles spread all across his face.  

“That’s the guy you're looking for,” the silver-haired one says, with that sheepish grin still on his face. After the initial cheer that follows dies down, he smirks, showing teeth, “he’s, what we like to call around here, the big guy.”

Going against the act he is supposed to uphold, Dazai can’t help but let the remark slip past his lips, “Big? Is that supposed to be metaphorical?” He asks.

A round of low snickers and muffled giggles spreads throughout the small crowd of teenagers surrounding him. 

However, the big boss himself didn’t seem to take the comment as lightly as others did. In an instant, he snaps his head towards him, before letting out a loud creak: “EHH?!” It bounced off rubble. With enough force, he pushes himself off the wall and makes his way through the crowd of his followers. They make way for him in an instant, stepping back like attacked flock. As soon as he reaches the brunette, he closes in, grabs roughly at his collar and gets right into Dazai’s face.

When he speaks, the tone is meant to pose as harsh and intimidating— and to most: it is. Dazai notes the shift in the atmosphere with ease. The childish banter was over, and the kids had gone completely silent. The weight of power was single-handedly and entirely handed to this punk. 

But to Dazai, the words sounded mediocre at best. 

“What did you just say to me, you bastard?”, the redhead spits the words at him, his grip steel tight and far harsher than he lets on. But instead of focusing on his words, Dazai’s eyes were preoccupied with eyeing the bracelet around the leader’s wrist. Something about the little act of symbolism made him regain back enough interest to fuel and keep the act going. 

The shimmer of blue made a little thought pop inside his head. 

‘The Sheep’ was the youngest, yet one of the more impressive organisations he’s heard of so far, and it’s already influential enough to make their own labels. For a group of underaged nobody’s, they made quite a large impacts on their rivals. In one hand, it was admirable, but extremely dangerous in the other. This group, of solely underaged kids, owned a lot of artillery. Dazai happens to be looking into some of these rumours: one of them being the claim that they owned an arsenal for all of that illegal machinery. 

As strange as it was at first, for kids around his age— without any guidance— to gain this much improvements at such a rapid pace, Dazai didn’t have trouble figuring out what was the actual reason behind this sudden row of winning streaks. One would think years of experience and the right connections made most of the organisation’s bloom— but that wasn’t the case here. None of these immature brat’s had any idea about running a successful underground mob organisation. 

Because even those who didn’t know how to play card’s had a shot at playing the game if they held a particularly powerful one in their hands. 

After being met with silence and a blank stare from the other, the flash of anger quickly fades from Chuuya’s eyes, now replaced with confusion. Another moment passes before his hand gets smacked away by Shirase, the silver-haired guy, who just now decides to step up between the two, breaking them apart from each other. 

However, Chuuya’s eyes remain set on him. Intimidatingly.

”Settle down, settle down!” The guy pats both of their shoulders, smiling, “I’m sure the guy meant no harm, Chuuya,” he turns towards the redhead, reassuring him, “I mean, look at the guy! He looks like he’s about to piss his pants,” the laughter quickly rises back up again, making the awkward moment dissipate in an instant. Shirase walks over to him, smirking at the brunette while wrapping his hand around Chuuya’s neck. He pulls him closer, before he whispers into his ear, “after all, we do need new recruits, right? Cut the newbie some slack, yeah?” He finalises it with thumbs up, not even asking the other about his opinion.

Like it often was, Shirase made the actual, finalised, call between the two of them. 

Chuuya wasn’t the one to argue with him about these things, after all, he got used to it being this way— Shirase deciding it all by himself without consulting him first— so he mostly just shrugged it off. 

Watching the power imbalance makes the brunette shudder to himself. Nothing went unnoticed, even that little shrug symbolised much more than it had let on— and it made Dazai very intrigued. He smiles, pulling himself out of his thoughts, “Oh, yes! You scared me to death! I almost passed out—“ he rubs the back of his head nervously, melting his smile. Until his eyes narrow at the redhead, sharper under the right light, “Now I understand why they call you the ‘king’ of the sheep.”

Just as Dazai’s eyes locked onto Chuuya’s, the redhead stiffens. At first, baffled by the smirk the brunette had on. It was disgusting. And secondly, by the emitting eerie breeze that passed through him once he had said his last words— and with that look in his eyes.

But nobody else had noticed.

Was it a threat? A mockery?

Other’s laughed along, as if nothing at all seemed strange about it. 

Chuuya did not like him.  

He gritted his teeth, getting even more frustrated when Shirase turns him around, leading him away with his hand still hung over his shoulder, leaving the new guy behind with the rest of them. Chuuya could feel a pair of dull, lifeless eyes burning in the back of his head— making sure to keep the chills running through him. His body more alert than ever before. 

He couldn’t tell what it was about that guy but—

—something wasn’t right. 

It just didn’t sit with him.

Why did he all of a sudden feel threatened? He was just one guy. Pale and awkward— a stack of slim bones he couldn’t even remember the name of. Someone stupid enough to come to Suribachi City— their territory— completely unarmed. Some over-privileged brat most likely. The kind he hated the most. 

Yet he felt a sort of tension he had never felt before. His sense of alertness was screaming at him, as if something bad was about to unfold all because of that one guy.

It made him very certain that something about him was fishy. 

He just didn’t know exactly what.

*

October, three months before the public execution.

Multiple voices were speaking all at once, yet his brain muffled them out completely.

He couldn’t think at all.

The smell of rotting flesh in the midst of decomposing was slowly getting to him. It was everywhere: stuck inside of his nostrils, pressed flatly against his lips, and— worst of all— despite not touching it, he felt it underneath his fingernails too.

He felt dirty. 

As in: no matter how many times he scrubs it off, it would still be there when he looked.

His most natural instincts urged him to puke his guts out— but he managed to tighten his gag reflex the moment he felt it start to rise. However, for a split second of negligence, he felt it almost breach. He swallows it back down like acid.

He was really starting to lose it— both his strength and his composure.

His eyes were still inside that box in front of him, unable to break away from the chokehold of that lifeless gaze. He hopes others can't see the lump that formed inside his throat.

Weakness took over his whole body in an instant, painfully reminding him of the time when gravity itself posed as his biggest enemy.

He clenched his fists tightly, softly parting his lips.

He wanted to say something, but he couldn't find the right words.

Everything felt too meaningless, too stupid, and overly angry. It made his blood boil: how he couldn't think of a single smart thing to say.

Chuuya was supposed to be the voice of reason here, someone the rest of them could turn to: not some kid with temper tantrums. Despite everything that was happening, he should be able to hold it together, and maintain professional. But he couldn't. His emotions were overwhelming him: and he couldn't turn them off.

Afterwards, he wanted to say anything— just to rip them out of this agonizingly long silence— but by that point he could no longer form any words at all.

He was completely silenced. 

From the overwhelming anger he felt at himself, for not being able to handle this better. How nothing could've prepared him for this. Because of the gaping eyes that kept penetrating through him, waiting for him to own up to his position, but he couldn't. And especially from that toxic stench of rotten flesh— that made him even dizzier than he was a moment ago.

The longer he stares at the decapitated head, the longer he feels like he’ll drop dead next. 

There's a ringing inside of his right ear, and a vein pulsating out of his temple. Nobody was noticing— and neither was he. His breathing was getting irregular, but he muffled it out by seizing his throat completely shut. His chest felt heavy, as if a rock had been placed over it, isolating his heart out from every other organ. 

A single though couldn't form clearly to him. Everything was bundled up together, as complete havoc reeked inside of his head. 

Ringing, yelling, panting, heart beating faster and faster, pumping until it wrapped everything inside the chest around itself— ready to pop-

When suddenly, all those panicked voices disappeared. 

He was back inside the President's office, wondering how he even ended up leaving it in the first place.

There was a sound of clock ticking in the background. Strangely creepy. It made a chill run down his spine.

Chuuya's eyes slowly look around the room, trying his best to adjust to the space again.

His colleague's voices were calm. They were softly discussing what to do next: how to handle the situation without drawing too much attention, and to decide what they'll make of the message they got.

Just then does Chuuya realise no one was screaming. That was all just inside of his head. He was the one screaming. Internally.

How pathetic.

“Is this like some sort of a new tradition in the Mafia?” A voice rings out, but Chuuya can’t make out who it belongs to. It’s muffled and all turned inside-out. “Kill your predecessor before taking over?” The voice finishes. A picture flashes before the redhead’s eyes: of a dimly lit office with a skyscraper’ view of the city, a scalpel stabbed in the surface of the mahogany desk. 

He shakes his head, wanting to get the picture out of it. 

Another voice chimes in afterwards, “That’s the Port Mafia for you. Always expect the unexpected from them.” The voice blurs for a second, before catching sound again, “Though, I can’t help but wonder what he’s done to wound up like this. A boss killed by his own people. How tragic.” 

Chuuya clenches his fists. 

Everything flashes before him: memories from years ago he thought he forgot. A single moment made him go so far back he recalls stupidly little things such as: the way he used to stand on his feet, hunched back and with his hands in his jacket pockets, glaring at the world like it owed him. The way he growled when people got a little too close to him. The way the boss used to look at him like he was worth something. Like he was someone worth fighting for.

He’s reminded of the way that man gave him more than he could ever hope to return. 

Back then, he was so angry at the world and at the system they lived in, that he never once even considered thanking the guy for taking him in when he most needed it. In fact, for a long time he was upset about it: for working under a man who ran the underground beast trade industry. 

Only later, when he had left it all behind, did he realise just how much guidance Mori had actually given him. 

When everyone else doubted him, Mori’s hand was the one that kept Chuuya steady. Despite everyone’s efforts to get rid of him for good— Mori was the one who kept him moving up. 

And truthfully: Chuuya wouldn’t be who he is today if it wasn’t for him. 

But none of it mattered anymore— because there’s no way of showing gratitude to a dead man. 

“Something doesn’t add up here,” someone starts talking a bit further away from him, “he was like a father to him, wasn’t he?” 

Wasn’t he?

To most people, yeah, it appeared that way— sure. A kid that always stuck close-by Mori does sound like someone who’d also highly value the man. Maybe even going as far as seeing him as a father figure, even. 

Bullshit. 

Dazai couldn’t stand the man, let alone see him as anything other than their boss. In all their years of being partners, Dazai made it plainly obvious he hated Mori’s guts. Especially later on, when he started full-on ignoring him and his orders. Mori always laughed it off, claiming Dazai was a late bloomer even in puberty— but Chuuya saw through it. It was abundantly clear his partner wanted nothing to do with their boss. Even more so, when the brunette kept pestering him about ditching the mafia together. 

Chuuya couldn’t take him seriously. Sometimes, the way Dazai spoke about it: like it was all just one big joke they’d carry out just to strain Mori’s back— with malicious and petty reasons behind it. However, other times he spoke about it, after late-night missions, or during more intimate moments when they were alone with each other— Dazai would speak of it entirely differently, genuinely, never even once mentioning Mori during it. 

One could never tell with him. He was a cold blooded reptile who owned multiple personalities and yet non possessed any good traits in them. It was always trickery and games with him. Never taking anything seriously if it didn’t benefit him or his entertainment. 

Yet, something about this act alone felt completely wrong.

Chuuya’s thoughts get interrupted by the sudden silence inside the office. He pulls himself out of his trance, tilting his head up. He’s met by everyone’s awaiting eyes, all on him. Just then does he realise that question wasn’t rhetorical at all. It was meant for him to answer. 

After a moment passes, he looks back down at the pale, rotten flesh, staring at it for a few more seconds. Making sure the light he once saw behind those eyes was now entirely gone. Now, it was just a corpse that laid in front of him, and not a man he once knew.

As of this very moment they can’t possibly know anything relating this case: but deep down, Chuuya is sure his hand’s are equally stained with Mori’s blood. Even after four years of complete uninvolvement, a heavy conscious laid on his shoulders that suggested he could’ve somehow prevented it. If he kept some sort of contact, or even monitored the port more often— listened in for rumours— he would’ve found something. 

Maybe there were signs— maybe something indicated this would happen— and he completely ignored it. 

“People change,” he finally says, making the room so much colder than it already was. He lifts his gaze up towards Kunikida, “Call them in. All of them.” He demands, face stiffening in anger and something he couldn’t name. “We’re not touching anything until every bit of this is thoroughly examined. A morse code must be laying around somewhere underneath this shit,” he clenches his teeth, before turning around and storming out of the office, slamming the door on his way out.

The wall cracks underneath the hinges. 

*

October, seven years and three months before the public execution.

It was dark, and cold— in a place that was not meant for him. 

He was escorted inside by heavily armed guards, with the doctor no longer in his sight. They had walked through a strangely long hallway, located on the lowest floor of the main building of the Port Mafia— one that was constructed underground. There was nothing strange about it at first— every inch of the said hallway resembled every other hallway inside the building: with it’s neat proportions, and sharp but elegant decor— it was a lonely and hollow space, just like any other in the Mafia.

However, the deeper inside they got, the stranger it became. 

After a while of walking, the groups ahead of them started disappearing behind a narrow corner. As they approached, Dazai was met with a staircase, descending downwards: into complete darkness. He made a brief stop, before a guard shoved at his shoulder as a warning to keep moving.

The brunette pouted and wanted to recoil, but having read the on-going situation, he decides to keep his mouth shut instead. 

Descending downstairs, he walked into complete darkness with a sense of both unease of the unknown and sheer excitement over it. Truth is: he had never heard of such a place underneath the Mafia’s grounds. The first thing it reminded him of were the catacombs. And having known the previous boss, Dazai could only assume that the chance of this place actually being one was pretty high. A catacomb filled up with dusty old skeletons— who represent the foundation of this cursed organisation. 

Once he reached the bottom of the staircase, he starts following after a silhouette that was walking in front of him. A small twinge of light came from up ahead— torches lit on massive pillars. Though this place is meant to be a highly kept secret within the organisation, the boss had, bluntly, decided that a hand-full of people should be informed about it, and had called upon all of them to attend today’s event.

Why was it a highly kept secret? Because this place resembled the darkest parts of the Mafia’s history— it was some kind of an underground built cellar— that had millions of routes to it. Tunnels that are believed to expand through the entire city of Yokohama. Most still left unexplored.

For the Mafia: this was the most cruel punishment one could get— to be banished, and left to rot away in a place like this. Completely cut off from the world, from reality— left to ones lone self, without any way out. The actual cells are made of steel beams that reach the very top of the tunnels, and are completely ability-proofed. It was one of the many things the previous boss had left them. Though the records have been lost, the bones and cells remain. 

To put it simply: it was the kind of place no one ever spoke about.

The sounds of footsteps splashing against the wet ground echoed throughout the tunnels. Seemingly, these ‘trustful’ people that the boss had chose, all appear to be in a hurry. He decides not to voice his thoughts aloud this time— but he will make sure to rant the mans head off first chance he gets. Following without speaking a word, the brunette carefully watched the group of guards that walked ahead of all of them, lighting their way through the dark halls. Meanwhile, another group was making their way from behind them, heavily armed, and dragging along something that was still alive— unconscious, and bound with chains. 

Finally, the echoing of the footsteps came to a stop.

Before he realised, everyone around him got into their positions, in a formation of an open circle. The guards stood vertically, resting their guns against their hip bones. Two guards pass by him from behind, dragging the unconscious body with effort. They tie it to one of the centered pillars, with heavy chains that wrapped twice along the whole length of the body. 

Once another torch was lit close by, he could finally recognise the unconscious face on the tied-up body. With spilled freckles all across his toned cheeks, and a head of bright auburn hair: it was hard not to recognise him. The punk he had met a month ago, in the streets of Suribachi City. Now tied up in an underground tunnel chain, with an injury on top of his head— where they had struck him into unconsciousess.

Light locks of hair laid against the piller, with his head tilted upwards, and his lips parted. The bleeding seems to have stopped, and from the looks of it— it won’t scar. Though, it's still surprising that something as light as that managed to knock him out. It was to Dazai's great disappointment, considering he had arranged for quite a set of numerous other, much more effective, ways of knocking the King of the Sheep out. 

The brunette didn't have anything personal against him, other than the fact that he was just a cocky, overly confident child. And Dazai truly hated people like that the most. 

He watches as another person walks up to the unconscious body, with a syringe in hand. The person kneels down besides the boy, before quickly injected the dose into his neck. 

A set of brown eyes follow after him, intrigued by his actions. He watches as the man gets up, retrieving back into the shadows from which he came from. 

A second later, Dazai feels someone approach his side, without looking at him. In turn, Dazai doesn't look at him either. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the tied up punk in the distance. The taller man also seems to be quite intrigued by the sight, though, nothing was happening. 

Dazai frowns.

”Mori?" He whispers, without turning towards him, "What did they give him just now?” he asks.

Instead of answering him, the man places his index finger up against his lips, gesturing to him to keep quiet.

In turn, the brunette rolls his eyes, before crossing his arms in annoyance. 

Everything went completely quiet again.

Not a single sound was made— and it felt like nobody was breathing at all.

Up until he heard small, weak grunts. Sounds of panting for air— sounds of internal fighting. And all of it was coming from the previously unconscious body. 

Dazai’s eyes go wide, watching as the body that was previously dragged now jump onto it’s feet with newfound strength it didn't have before. He starts pushing himself forward against the chains with all his body mass, but they don't budge.

They didn’t loosen nor break off.

The chains were made of titanium alloy, one of the strongest metals in the world. It was used in various industries— as a chain that could hold up to eight thousand kilograms all on it’s own. 

Though, Dazai couldn't see the point in them. Despite all their strength they won't be of much use against a gravity manipulator. 

But soon, he realised something was off.

The chains should have broke by now. Yelling should be filling the tunnels, loud enough they’d threaten to collapse. But nothing like that happened.

The boy was grunting like a dog, with sweat trickling down his face, and his bare teeth showing sharp fangs: ones resembling a look of a true beast. 

The brunette’s eyes pull away from him, looking towards the already formed crowd of people who were also entitled to this view, just like he was. Despite not being able to see anyone's face clearly, he didn't have any trouble with feeling the tension shift among them. How unsettling everyone was getting. Pushed over the edge.

Looking back at the boy struggling against the chains, Dazai couldn't help but feel strange about the sight. Watching him dig his bare hands into the chains, pulling against them— it was like watching an animal try to break free.

All of a sudden, the space fills itself with crimson red light, and Dazai’s pupils dilate. The ground starts to shake, rocks around them began floating midair, and the walls of the tunnel start cracking under the pressure. 

A monstrous roar echoes. 

Dazai had to pull his hands over his ears, the screech was so loud it almost tore his earbuds off. 

The people surrounding him backed away, pulling out their weapons and aiming them at the boy who was still chained to the piller. Everyone's eyes were on him, ready to strike him down at the command— but the word never comes. 

The boy's limbs start twitching uncontrollably, as if he was losing complete power over them. Crimson glowing marks spread throughout his body at a rapid pace, until they reached up to his face. It was like watching a body get corrupted from it's source.

Someone yelled for everyone to back away, but Dazai couldn't get his eyes off the malicious monstrosity standing right in front of him.

He watched it roar, without taking a single breath inside. He watched it's pupils fade away, leaving it entirely blind, but it could still see. It was looking directly at them.

It was laughing. Manically laughing. At them.

The brunette’s breath caught in his throat. The sight was so overwhelming that he, for a second, even forgot how to breathe. 

He felt his legs grow weak, as the gravity grew intense. The creature was lowering the density— crushing them down with pressure without even breaking the chains and freeing itself.

The wind blows the lights out— making everything fade back into darkness.

Everything except for the glowing crimson light. Now everyone was immersed in it.

It was… beautiful.

Watching chaos unravel in only a matter of seconds— watching it destroy everything in it's path without a single care. It was just laughing, continuously mocking their mortality, while effortlessly making everyone tremble on their feet before it.

The scene was so overwhelming that, for a moment, he managed to completely forget why he was even ordered to be here. Only when he felt the man beside him grab his shoulder, gently pulling him back to look at him, did the brunnete recall his task.

Without hesitation, he makes his way towards the calamity, hoping to capture every bit of it as close as he possibly could.

However, the creature itself wasn’t too happy about his space getting invaded. It kept growling at the brunette as he approached. Tugging on the chains with his whole, small, body, while blood endlessly spilled down his face.

Once he got face to face with it, Dazai truly felt no fear.

He didn’t back down, nor hesitate at all. The only reason he stopped, was to look at the creature up close one last time: to see that burning fire inside of those lifeless eyes— it filled him with unexplainable excitement. 

His own irisis dilated. 

Gently, he places a hand over the creature's cheek. In an instant, the crimson is swallowed away by a shining wash of blue, falling through the space like shooting stars.

Dazai watches, as the marks on the boy's body begin to disappear from his skin, like a snake slithering away. The brunnete kept his hand on the boys cheek, until he started coughing up more blood. Soon after, the body collapsed forward— and the brunette caught him. He kneels down, lowering the unconscious body back into a sitting position against the piller, as he remained chained to it.

After adjusting him, he brushes an annoying strand of hair out of his face, watching the boy's lips slip out one final, weak grunt.

Looking over him one last time, Dazai notices the blue bracelet around his wrist. The same one he was eyeing that day.

Their silly little group symbol.

Without hesitation, Dazai tugs it off, before standing back up and walking away from the unconscious body.

“It’s too dangerous to even consider taming it,” the woman's protests become more clear as Dazai approached. Her fiery eyes immediately seize up on him.

The man smiles at her in return, before replaying, “It is, right now. However, with the right hand to guide him, he’ll be able to control it.”

She scoffs back in return, behind her fan. She mumbles something else behind it, but Dazai can't read lips he can't see.

The boy turns to the man, looking up at him with anticipation. Mori was looking at him, just smiling verily. Then, he tilts his head like a cat at the boy, which annoys the other.

“Are we done here?” the boy asks feigning disinterest, finally breaking the silence between the two of them.

The man nods, his smile never disappearing, “Yes, we just about wrapped it up for today. You did very well," He spoke, eyes cat-like. "proved yourself worthy to my executives. Just as we intended you to.”

His face goes blank after the praise. For a moment, he doesn't say anything. Mori accepts that empty gaze of his with triumph.

After a moment passes, the brunette expands his hand to him. The man looks at what’s inside his grip curiously, “Oh? And what's this?” he asks. 

When he opens his hand, the blue bracelet he took off the boy appears, “This is the symbol of the Sheep. Every kid within it's organisation wears it.” He explains briefly.

Mori chuckles at this, hands still in the pockets of his white coat, “And what purpose could it serve me, hm?” he asks, with a lingering grin spread over his lips.

The boy rolls his eyes at the man's ignorance, wondering why he chooses to play this stupid game of acting dumb, when both of them knew he was just testing him. He sighs, without any other choice but to play along, “If he agrees to our terms of his friends' release, we can leave them his bracelet behind. To stirr the flame of fear, to make them assume the worst: that their fearlessly, brave leader— betrayed them. Sold them out for us."

The brunette explains, squeezing the bracket inside of his palm. "That way, he won’t have anywhere else to go. Ultimately, making it his best option to stay with the Mafia.” 

After a moment of looking at the boy with a face full of bewilderment, the man once again smiles at him. He picks up the tugged off bracelet from the boy's hand.

Dazai watched him closely, as the man places one of his hands on top of his head, gently stroking it. 

”What incredible work you did with your first mission for the Port Mafia, Dazai. The strategically planned out undercover act with precise execution… Indeed, you make for a perfectly trained spy for my eyes…” 

Letting the man keep rambling on with his empty praises, Dazai can’t help but look back over at the unconscious boy who was now being dragged out of the tunnel, still chained.

The brunette's eyes linger on his face, mainly finding exhaustion behind it. As if what had happened today never happened before. 

The overtake of that monster.

”Do you know who you remind me of, Dazai?” the man suddenly asked, interrupting his thoughts. He looks up at the man with parted lips, without an answer. 

“Of who?” The brunette asks, entertaining him.

His brown eyes find a pair of cold, yet calculated, purple ones. The man is smiling down at him, with the same empty smile he carries around proudly, like a trophy. 

Dazai cringes.

Something curls inwards inside of his stomach. 

“Of myself, of course.” the man had replied.

*

October, three months before the public execution.

Light tapping of fingers against the wooden surface of the mahogany desk echo throughout the bosses office— one now entirely different than what it was like before, only weeks ago.

There had been a sudden shift in the atmosphere in the Port Mafia, ever since the start of the month.

They had undergone a drastic change within their organisation. 

Sitting behind the desk, with piles of paperwork in front of him, was the new boss himself. Currently preoccupied with documentation he had been working on for a while now. It seemed never ending.

He sighs, melodramatically, leaning back into his armrest, and looking over the city’s landscape through the large windows. 

“Giving up already, boss?” A voice calls from the doorway. 

Dazai lazily picks his head up to look at the all too familiar intruder standing in his doorway. A sense of dread curls up his spine once he puts a face to the voice: with a pair of sharp red eyes, and lipstick stained red lips, both aimed mockingly at him. 

In truth, he and Kouyou Ozaki had never seen eye to eye with one another.  

And despite her undying loyalty towards the Mafia, she’d much rather watch him fail, rather than succeed at running this organisation. 

Dazai himself didn’t think much better of her. He’d much rather have her serve her purpose elsewhere, but as it remains: she happens to be one of the most valuable executives left in the Mafia. And he’d much rather have her here, instead of as an enemy. Despite her youthful appearance, the woman was ancient— someone who oversaw the rule of two Mafia bosses, and now a third. By nature, born with a beast-like ability, and trained as a very skilful swordswoman herself, she held the title of the executive proudly. 

Dazai’s list of priorities didn’t include getting on her bad side (unlike how it did before).

“Are you doubting me, big sis?” The brunette asks, returning a calculative grin. They both knew it was a rhetorical question, therefore she doesn’t answer him. 

Instead, she lets herself inside, uninvited. Her eyes examine over the changed interior of the office she was once so familiar with. She walks around, with her hands neatly folded over her lap. Her silence ripping through air.

Dazai doesn’t pay her any mind, keeping his gaze down on the paperwork in front of him. Though, he did hope she’d leave soon, the tension in the room was getting too awkward. 

She wanted something from him, that much was very clear. 

“What are you planning on doing now, regarding the Rebellion?” She asks, finally revealing what she was after, “They could attack us at any given moment. With the sudden change in leadership, one would assume we are… vulnerable.” She straightens her posture further, making a stop right in front of his desk and gazing down at him— as if she was scolding a toddler. 

He expected no less from her ambitious pride. Kouyou didn’t like feeling weak in any way, even if it stemmed from assumptions. 

He leans against his chair, looking directly at her, “You're confident in your beliefs, Ane-san?” He asks, tone filled with sarcasm. 

She holds back a scoff, covering her mouth with her kimono sleeve, “The alliance Mori made is now in shambles, with him gone. How can we be sure they won’t attack us— just like they did three years ago?” Her eyes meet his, settling into a dangerous glare, “What makes you so certain they aren’t already prepared for it?”

Silence overtakes the room. 

After a moment, he leans forward, going back to his paperwork and signing off on it. Pretending like she wasn’t even there.

Her eyes go wide, staring at him in disbelief. Her rage topples over his ignorance.

Kouyou parts her lips to speak again, when suddenly he puts his hand up, interrupting her. She grits her teeth, pressing her lips in a tight line, lowering her hands back over her lap. 

“Your concerns are noted, Ane-san.” He replies, without lifting his gaze to her. His hands skilfully manoeuvring over the papers. “However, even before I took over as this organisation’s leader, I had decided on maintaining the peace Mori had gambled his life for. I have no intentions of openly proclaiming war. It would benefit no one.” He carefully explains, his eye settled on her, watching her every move with quiet indifference, “So no, I won’t be attacking the Rebellion.” He says, before returning back to his work. 

In an instant, she closes in, slamming her hands on the surface of his desk, without even making him flinch, “Stupid boy— don’t you see? We’re the one’s at an advantage! We have all the means of crushing their little ‘uprising’ in a blink of an eye!” Dazai cringes. She continues, “Why wait to be attacked, when we can wipe them all out first!” She exclaims, eyeing him up like a predator. 

A moment passes in silence. 

Once he finally looks at her, a feeling of unease settles somewhere deep from within inside of her. Her lips close, and she subconsciously takes a step back. 

A single, black eye is staring at her. No longer indulging her.

Leaning forward, the man presses his elbows down on the desk and intertwines his fingers. His single eye remains on her, with a look of utter dissatisfaction written all across his face. His head cocks to the side, before speaking up quieter, yet sharper, than before. “We won't be attacking the Rebellion. Do I make myself clear, executive Ozaki?” His eye deprives the whole room of light, “Or has your loyalty perished with the previous boss?”

A chill runs down her spine.

Accusation of treason. 

Quickly, the woman bows her head to him in silent acceptance. Without saying anything else, he dismisses her. She leaves in a hurry, without looking back. The office fills itself with a sense of outrage, one she left behind with her dissatisfaction over his refusal.

Dazai returns back to his paperwork, unbothered in the slightest. 

A couple of moments pass, before he lift his head up towards the window. He stares at the world laid behind the glass, down at the lively city that stretched on for miles. In that moment, a thought washes over him: making him wonder if he had ever had a chance to be a part of that world underneath him— would he have been satisfied with it? The thought only lasts a moment, before he snap’s out of it.

He continues with his paperwork in silence.

*

October, seven years and three months before the public execution.

He woke up with a throbbing headache— letting out a low, painful groan the moment he felt the ground beneath his face.

Concrete.

This wasn’t Chuuya’s first time waking up on a stone-cold, hard concrete ground. Yet this time, it was very different than all those times he did before. 

His thoughts were foggy and half-formed. The picture in front of him blurred and unfocused, as he remains unable to grasp the unfamiliar surroundings around himself.

When suddenly, a realisation hits him like a splash of cold water: there was no sky above him. No wind blowing across his face. 

In an instant, he lifts up his head with, to him, unusual difficulty. A second later, he realises it’s become unnaturally heavy for him.

Did he hit his head or something? He wonders, but can’t remember a single thing. Not even how he wound up here.

“Agh—! Son of a bitch!” He curses, leaning his back against the cold wall, and tilting his head upwards. Slowly, he raises his hand up towards his forehead, gently tracing around it. Finally, he felt a small bump on the upper left corner. He applies slight pressure, making himself yelp again. 

Without cursing, he lowers his hand back down his side, releasing a soft sigh. 

Suddenly, his eyes flash with a glint of light. A small bag of ice is thrown inside the cell from in-between the bars. That’s when he finally registers where he is.

Imprisoned inside a cell.

At least one of his questions was answered. The next one would probably be: “How the hell did I end up in here?”, but that one would take him a little while longer to figure out. Besides, it would require time he currently didn’t have.

He doesn’t need to know the details— what he needs is to get out of here, as soon as possible. To go back to his friends, and hope they didn’t get captured themselves. 

Chuuya reaches forward to take the ice pack, but let’s out another yelp instead of taking it.

“Fuck!-“ he curses, “what the hell?!—“

Once his eyes adjust to the dim lighting inside the cell, he finally notice the chains around his hands— soon realising he was chained to the wall he was leaned against. Again, he tries to pull on it, this time by using his gravity manipulation. The once simple action results in a sudden jolt of electricity that shoots throughout his entire body, zapping him. He grunts in pain, gritting his teeth, and looking down at himself in confusion. 

“I can’t… use my powers?” He whispers to himself.

His hands glide up his chest, until they felt a thick ring of metal around his neck. He wraps his fingers underneath the collar— realising it was the source of his powerlessness. And that fact alone drove him crazy. He starts aggressively pulling on it, with just his raw strength, but it didn't budge. 

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” came a voice, making Chuuya freeze.

The redhead let’s go of the collar, looking back at the bars of the cell. There was a silhouette standing right in front of him. Once he looked at it, it got closer, until it came into complete view, standing on the other side of the bars.

Chuuya shifts, sitting up on his knees, while looking up at the other person. A guy, seemingly no older than him, wearing a long black coat with a suit underneath. The formal attire made Chuuya realise the guy must be working for the Port Mafia punks, which answered another one of his questions regarding his whereabouts.

He sighs in annoyance, picking up the ice pack and placing it against his forehead, before looking away from the guy staring at him.

“Why not? What’s wrong with it?” He asks.

Chuuya can tell the mysterious visitor got closer, once he heard the creaking of the bars underneath the weight of his body. ”I’m no expert, but the collars are created for ability users with dangerously powerful abilities. In a sense, they’re shock collars made using ability-created crystals that strip the wearer of their power.” He explains, before leaning back, “Besides that, it shocks them every time they attempt to break free. So, the outcome would be quite painful if you were to continue tugging on it.”

The redhead places his hand back around the collar. A second later, a memory flashes before him— lasting only briefly. The seemingly familiar picture fades away before completely filling out, leaving many of the puzzle pieces still missing. Leaving himself with a sense of hollow emptiness inside of his guts. 

Put around a collar and a leash.

Again.

”You mean beasts, right?” Chuuya scoffs in retaliation. “Just say beasts. It’s not that hard.” 

The other person stays quiet for the next few moments, before he presses his hand against the bars, “Does it really matter? Anyone could end up with that around their neck. I only said it like that because that’s who they were meant for.”

Chuuya scoffs in annoyance. “Gee, thanks,” he rolls his eyes, “that makes me feel so much better.”

Moments pass, and the two fall into silence. Chuuya starts feeling awkward.

After a while, the guy still hasn’t left. It’s weird and unsettling, but Chuuya figures he might as well try getting some information out of him while he’s still here. He might be a bum for all he knows— ready to spill all the Port Mafia’s secrets, just like that. 

“So," he starts, looking back at him, "where exactly are we?” He asks plainly. 

“Port Mafia’s dungeons,” the other replies almost instantly, taking Chuuya off guard. 

He stares at him, trying to figure out if the guy is messing with him or just plain stupid. Who in their right mind would associates with a prisoner?

After another moment has passed, the redhead decides to try something even bolder, “How’d I end up here?"

Now, Chuuya waits: for whatever answer he could hope to get out of this punk. However, only a second later does he realise how undeniably stupid it is to even ask him this— the guy can’t possibly be that dense to answer whatever he wanted to know. And besides, Chuuya wasn’t exactly in a position to ask questions, let alone demand answers. He couldn’t possibly know what these guys wanted from him, if they already managed to strip him powerless. He shouldn’t be underestimating his enemies. 

A momement passes in tense silence. The redhead doesn’t expect anything else. 

Suddenly, the other speaks up in a flat, disinterested voice, as if he couldn’t care less about the direction their conversation was taking, “Your organisation has been ambushed by the Mafia.” 

Chuuya’s eyes go wide, surprised by the sheer thick-headedness of this loser. Other than that, he was also surprised by the fact he couldn't recall a single thing about this. His lapse in memory must be due to the headache he’s undergone, because he can’t, for the life of him, find even a trace of it left in his mind. He can’t remember a single thing that led up to it. Even small bits of that day remain a blur to him.

Disregarding the fact he’s chained up, he jumps up onto his feet, dropping the ice pack in the process, before grabbing the bars with both of his hands. Glaring into the guy's face, he speaks up sharply, “What about others? My friends. They were with me. Are they—“

But before he could finish his sentence, he cuts himself off.

Something doesn’t feel right.

His pupils dilate, staring at the guy in front of him. Something familiar passes through him, but it coils uncomfortably inside his chest. Unable to sustain it, he lets go of the bars, taking a single step back inside his cell.

“…I know you.” He says, his voice dropping low.

Chuuya’s eyes remain on the other, slowly heating up as the realisation starts unrolling right before him, “You wanted to join us,” he says, his voice dipping even lower than before, “—as a recruit. But then you disappeared, and we never heard from you again.”

The one standing before him remains completely calm. With just one look inside of those dull eyes, every dot connected. Because it wasn’t a look that emitted calmness at all— but quite the opposite: it radiated madness. 

Unable to wait out his grand reveal any longer, Dazai steps forward in suspense. Opening his mouth eagerly, ready to introduce himself and tell the sheep king all about his little undercover mission, “Your right, I was—“, when suddenly, he got cut off before he could.

In a split second, as fast as lightning, the redhead reached through the bars of the cell, grabbed the brunette by the collar, and yanked him forward, smashing his face against the metal bars. The brunette yelped in pain.

”YOU RATTED US OUT!” The redhead yells, keeping a firm grip over him, before gritting his teeth in anger. His eyes were screaming. 

The brunette grunts against the bars, hands coming up to press against them to try and ease the discomfort— but they fail. He couldn’t open his mouth, nor attempt to push himself away. The grip was too tight to move.

Chuuya doesn’t ease up on him for even a second, not give him any time to adjust. He starts thrusting him back and forth, slamming his whole body over and over against the bars, making sure it stung each time. He deserved no less. 

“Fuckin’ rat,” he spat through his teeth, finally coming off his adrenaline rush. However, his anger doesn’t fade. After a moment, his hands grab at the other’s neck, closing them into a chokehold— ready to strangle him right there. He musters just enough self-control to look at his face, watching the brunette’s eyes go wide while staring at him. He soon realises that gaze looks more fascinated than scared.

Freak. Chuuya thinks, feeling the hairs on his arms prickle at the sight. 

In an instant, he lets go of his throat, lowering a single hand back at the collar of his shirt, fisting it there, all the while he kept him pinned against the bars, “Where are they?” He demands, his eyes glaring at him like daggers, “Where are my friends?”

Without answering him, the brunette hung his head low. Instead, replaying with a single eye roll that made Chuuya’s blood run hot in a single flash of white. Something inside him snaps. Instantly, he slams the other into the bars again, before using his free hand to grab his jaw, tilting his head up to him forcefully. His pupils go pin sharp, and voice goes threateningly low, before speaking again, “If you don’t start spilling right this second, I swear to God, I’ll bash your fuckin’ head open, you freak—” 

Suddenly, sharp pain shoots through him— making Chuuya yelp outloud and push the other back. He holds his hand out, and with wide eyes, stares at the painfully visible bite mark that stretched over his hand and penetrated deep into the flesh.

It takes Chuuya a full moment to realise what had happened— that the bastard had bit him— before he became aware again. In a second, he rushed back to the bars, stretching his hand out in an attempt to grab him again, but the brunette had already anticipated it, and he managed to jump back just in time, hitting the opposite cell’s bars with his back, and creating distance between them.

Chuuya stares at him, bewildered. Watching him pant for air, with his shirt all crumbled up with creases he made, and his hair a complete mess. Just now realising his own chest was compressing with laboured breaths due to his adrenaline rush. 

He doesn’t let it show, though. He keeps glaring at him, hoping the bastard would be arrogant enough to test his luck again and step up closer. If he did, Chuuya wouldn’t make the same mistake of letting him go twice. No matter how many times he bit him.

The brunette gets back up on his feet. Chuuya watches him fix up his clothes and hair, before he turns towards him.

“What are you? A dog?” He taunts, “Attacking me out of nowhere like that…” he rolls his eyes again, as if that action alone didn’t almost get him killed moments ago. Frustration coils inside the redhead, cursing himself for not puncturing the punks limb or two.

The brunette turns away, quickly heading down the dark hallway, before saying, "You’ll get your chance to bark all you want, dog. The boss will see you soon.” 

Chuuya's hateful glare follows him until he's out of sight.

*

Mid November, two months before the public execution.

The clock had ticked past midnight. 

He was laid out on a sofa, in the agency's safe room underground. It was the absolute worse time for strategising. They had been here for over four hours now— four full hours of constant planning, heavy discussions, and worse of all: opening up about his past. Nobody had the right to call him unprofessional right now. No, he was drained: it was a basic human response, something Verlaine didn’t seem to understand, given the way he’s been eyeing Chuuya ever since he’d laid down. 

It wasn’t his fault his ex-partner had just randomly decided to send them a threatening message. 

Verlaine, his brother, is the founder and the leader of the Rebellion. Fukuzawa Yukichi, otherwise known as ‘the president’, is the man responsible for organising the gifted into a structured force— the Rebellion’s core unit: ‘The Armed Deliverance Agency’. These two men haven’t always seen eye-to-eye with one another, but when it comes to protecting this city, they are both ready to do whatever it takes— each in their own way. They share the single high authority, and therefore call upon these councils themselves. Rarely do both participate, though, indicating the importance of tonight’s meeting. 

The other four members with high-ranking title— Ranpo, Kunikida, Yosano and Chuuya— also attend these council meetings. The roles of other rebel’s varies depending on their abilities, but most cover the fighting sector. However, even those who don’t fight must if they are ordered to. Chuuya never openly opposed this rule, mainly because Verlaine never took opposition lightly, but he never supported it either. Sending scarred people back into fights they were trying to escape was beyond cruel and completely contradicted the cause they were fighting for. 

Yet all these facts fell on deaf ears against his ‘big brother’s’ beliefs. 

Ever since he knew for himself, there was a system. And what does it specialise in? Creating human weapons.

Back during the old system, people who were born with dangerously powerful abilities were referred to as: the ‘beasts’. For decades, these people were trafficked, sold on the black market, traded, and killed in a connected web of slavery. They were molded into weapons, built for war and ceaseless bloodshed. But in the eyes of that system, they were nothing at all: unworthy of education, of families, of freedom.

Meanwhile other people, those born with less aggressive powers, were granted the right to be a part of the society’s educational system, and therefore: a part of their hierarchy. Their lives were worthier than those of ‘beasts’. During that time, those people were referred to as the ‘superiors’ , or even as ‘the owners’ in cases when they enslaved the lessers themselves.

The largest organisation built by that same system, with its foundation rooted in human trafficking and child labour, is the Port Mafia in Japan, with its main headquarters in Yokohama. 

Nowadays, this system isn’t as cruel as it once was, but it is still active, and people continue to be enslaved. 

Verlaine created the Rebellion a few years ago with the goal of freeing Japan of this system once and for all— starting with the destruction of the Port Mafia. At first, it was a small movement, but after its first victories, it grew into a community. 

The Rebellion and the Port Mafia hadn’t fought each other for over three full years now, and nobody knew why. During that so-called ceasefire, the Rebellion managed to gather more intel, weapons, and recruits for their cause. Their influence grew rapidly, and it was widely known. Meanwhile, no one knew what the Mafia was waiting for. What had they been building and nurturing during those three years of apparent peace?

Whatever it was— it no longer mattered. Mori was dead.

And Verlaine proposed an attack.

His older brother was no fool— he knew how to play the game. When it came to battle, he had a sort of sixth sense. He knew all about their advantages, openings, and the best opportunities to strike. And something everyone knew about Verlaine was that he always preferred being the first to attack, no matter the casualties. He was a firm believer that the first to act held the best odds of winning.

Most found his confidence and decisiveness to be traits every leader should posses, but Chuuya couldn’t help seeing them as both strengths and shortcomings— Verlaine’s weaknesses. His confidence stemmed from inner arrogance and hatred towards ‘their betters’, often resulting in dismissive behaviour and impatience. Meanwhile, his decisiveness frequently led to impulsiveness and a willingness to take extreme risks, not to mention a deep-rooted stubbornness. 

Where everyone saw a fearless leader, Chuuya saw a man who had no fear left— a man he feared he might become. 

“They are vulnerable,” Verlaine spoke. He had been on his feet for the past two and a half hours without a single drop of alcohol. No one doubted his determination: it was clear he wasn’t taking this lightly. “There won’t be a better time to strike than now, while the boss’s seat remains vacant.” 

Fukuzawa nods, “I agree with Verlaine. Now that Mori has been displaced, the Mafia will need time to rearrange their organisation. Choosing a leader is no easy task: it will require time they will hold sacredly, hoping not to waste it on an under-qualified individual. It is well known that any organisation, especially one of this size, would be very selective over such a position.” The man explains.

A loud whine cuts through the room.

“Ugh— hellooo?” Ranpo pulls his feet off the table, waving his hands in annoyance, ”We already know who they’ve chosen! Why are we still on this topic?” He lazily falls back into his chair, pops the lollipop he was holding back into his mouth, and mumbles, “This can’t be the one thing we’re counting on to break their defences.”

Everyone’s attention falls onto him, while Chuuya’s gaze remains distant.

He knows what’s coming, but he still doesn’t want to hear it. 

Ranpo opens his eyes, setting the lollipop aside while taking a wide look around the room. Satisfied with the amount of eyes on him, he starts: “Dazai Osamu.” He slips the name out with ease, narrowing his emerald eyes, “He’s been Mori’s prodigy for years in the Mafia, and he’s the one that passed down the death penalty sentence, which means the inside sources trust his decisions. Also, considering the fact he already has an official stamp, he must already be working.” He plainly points out things they haven’t mentioned before. It’s the type of thing Ranpo was best at: pin pointing it all. 

The room fills itself with loud, exhausted sighs. 

Even with its usefulness, this trait was sometimes hard to face. Humans had a tendency to follow fiction rather than reality. For Ranpo, though, that made no sense at all— and was utterly absurd. 

Yosano is the first one to step in, “I didn’t know the guy personally, but from everything I’ve heard from others, he wasn’t your usual ‘boss type’— completely unreliable, avoiding work, slacking off…” she trails off, before pausing thoughtfully, “Now that I think about it, nobody really liked him. Everyone avoided him, and most people called him uncooperative— a hard nut to crack. And if there’s one thing I know about Mori, it’s that he was a people person. He couldn’t have earned his title without it. So I seriously doubt this guy will get very far with his anti-social tendencies.” 

She places her hands on her hips, gazing around the room, “That’s all I have. Back when I worked there, he went by the nickname: ‘demon prodigy’, but I always assumed it had more to do with the fact that he was part of Mori’s inner circle than anything else. From what I remember, he’s not even gifted.” 

Chuuya scoffs a little too loud than originally intended, drawing everyone’s attention onto himself. Yosano, unbothered, leans back against the sofa. 

“Go on Chuuya, tell us about him.” She nudges, smirking down at him, “You two were partners, right? You know him best, so you should be able to tell if he’s really going to be a threat to us.”

After she said that, the atmosphere in the room shifts. Everyone looked toward Chuuya, awaiting his answer with subtle anticipation. Only Verlaine seemed completely uninterested, standing at the far end of the room with his arms crossed and his cold gaze fixed on Chuuya, radiating untold annoyance— as if waiting for a slip-up on his part— to take back the centre of the stage. 

It doesn’t take a genius to notice. 

Chuuya grits his teeth together, before letting out an annoyed sigh. A hand comes up to cover his eyes, “What’s there to tell? You’ve already said it all: he’s an unreliable, useless, lazy piece of shit. Always was.” He clenches his fist, hating the way his words come out rushed and how they make him sound so angry. “I can tell you what his favourite food is, not his favourite method of colonisation.” He says sarcastically, hoping to drop this topic as soon as possible. 

Kunikida sighs, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, meanwhile Yosano simply rolls her eyes. “Oh please. Are you sure about that? Because to me, it sounds like you’re trying to protect him.”

“I’m not.” The redhead fires back in an instant, snapping himself upwards into a sitting position just to glare at her. She doesn’t look intimidated— nor convinced. 

His outburst was met with an awkward silence that said everything on its own: his colleagues didn’t exactly believe him. Their gazes were filled with doubt.

After another moment spent in that soul-eating silence, he finally speaks up, “He chose his side—” his stomach churns at his own words, “—and I chose mine.” He firmly states, not leaving any room for doubt. 

“Enough.” Verlaine finally cuts in.

Everyone turns to look at him now. “Arguing about this is pointless, and it’s getting us nowhere. We will attack.” The man states firmly, and no one argues this time. Met with no resistance, he continues, more confident now, “It would be better to strike before spring. That’s when they receive new shipments. We’ll have the advantage during winter, when their machines are slowed and deprived of oil. It will give us enough room for a surprise attack.” 

Everyone nods along, watching as Verlaine makes his way over to the strategy board, taking the figurines into the palm of his hand, and moving them against the mapped out layout of the Mafia’s main facility.  

“The objective is to eliminate as many of their skilled users as possible, along with their machinery. The invasion is planned for mid-December, when the freezing temperatures give us the advantage.” Verlaine moves a few figurines towards the west wing, “Explosives will get us inside. According to our sources, this is the breach point— our only way in.” The man explains.

Then, while moving various figures across the map, he speaks up, “As I’ve said, this is an in-and-out mission. We’ll have ten to fifteen minutes at most before the element of surprise wears off and they start fighting back.” He knocks a few pieces down before sliding the figurine in his hand into the building, “Once you're inside, look for hostages.” 

Everyone’s attention shifts to the whiteboard, covered in various photographs. Over the past few years, they had faced multiple Port Mafia members, gathering enough intel each time to finally build profiles on them. Verlaine had made it clear— they were the targets. 

“As I said, do your best within those ten to fifteen minutes. Destroy their artillery, their vehicles, and take out as many of them as you can. But the hostages are the most important part of this plan. The more we capture, the more valuable information we can extract— information that could lead to the Mafia's demise.” He lifts his gaze, scanning the room, his expression even sterner than before, “This is not a chance to waste.” 

Chuuya holds his tongue when no one objects. 

Verlaine circles the table before taking his seat at its head. “Then we have a plan. In December— we attack the Port Mafia.”

*

October, seven years and three months before the public execution.

“Welcome to the Port Mafia, Nakahara Chuuya,” 

The boy sat in a comfortable chair, facing the boss’s desk. The so-called boss sat behind it, clad in a long white medical coat, a scalpel in hand. He idly traced its edge along the desk’s polished surface, all the while watching Chuuya with an unsettling smile curled on his lips. 

The redhead was immediately creeped out by the man, but he returned the smile anyway, unwilling to appear intimidated. “I’m honoured to have been invited,” the boy replied, without a trace of honesty in his voice.

With the collar still locked around his neck, breaking free using his ability was impossible. Ever since they had dragged him out of his cell, he hadn’t been able to move his hands or feet— some kind of geometrical constructs restraining him in place. It hadn’t taken Chuuya long to realise it was an ability, most likely belonging to the man standing closely behind him. Even so, that didn’t unsettle him nearly as much as the so-called doctor sitting across from him.

There was something about the eerie vibe he carried— something that seeped into the room, into his skin. Chuuya could feel it in his bones, a feeling far too familiar to one he had experienced not long ago. It made him want to slam his head against a wall just to get it out. 

The man in front of him smiled back, clearly pleased by the redhead’s confident response. He slowly drags the sharp edge of the scalpel along the desk’s surface, the faint scraping sound cutting through the room’s heavy silence. Chuuya didn’t follow the movement. His gaze remained fixed, sharp and unyielding, on the man himself. 

“You can let go of our guest now, Rando,” the man said lightly, still smiling. “I believe he’s been through enough trouble since arriving here.” He insists, tilting his head to the side.

Chuuya was baffled by the man’s complete lack of caution. He spoke as if Chuuya had come here willingly— like this was some polite visit rather than a capture. 

What was he doing?

Was he trying to unsettle him on purpose?

Make it seem like they were all on friendly terms? 

It irritated Chuuya more than he cared to admit. 

Behind him, the man cleared his throat. “I wouldn't advise that, sir. This boy is far more dangerous than most can comprehend…” he warned. Chuuya glanced over his shoulder at him, eyes narrowing slightly. The taller, pale man didn’t return his gaze.

“Are you quite sure?” He added after a brief, hesitant pause.

Chuuya turns his head back towards the man sitting behind the desk. Nothing about him made any sense to him— what was his deal? Why free him? He must’ve known Chuuya was powerful even before this guy warned him— it explained the collar around his neck— but still, the mafia’s boss shouldn't be taking these chances, right? If he wanted to extract info from him, he could’ve just ordered someone to do it for him.

This guy was a total enigma: considering all the rumours surrounding him inside his own organisation. There was definitely something more to him than what meets the eye. 

The man nods, “I am. Release him.” He orders, before turning his gaze away from the redhead. “I can already tell your feeling cold, Rando. You're excused, you may go.” 

After a moment, the shine that surrounded him fades, freeing his arms and legs in an instant. The first thing he does once he’s again mobile, is adjusting his sitting position. He slums back, turning his head to look at the guy behind him again, who just bows his head and heads out without another word. 

Another weird guy, huh? Chuuya thinks to himself.  

He turned back around, his gaze immediately meeting the man’s, who had already been watching him. The boss sat proudly in his plush armchair, fingers intertwined as he leaned forward onto his elbows against the desk. In response, Chuuya tilted his head back slightly, lifting one foot to rest over the other as he sank further into the chair. His hands slipped into the pockets of his leather jacket, his stare sharp— predatory— as he locked eyes with the man. 

“I must apologise for not seeing you sooner, Chuuya-kun,” the man began, his tone smooth, almost soothing— yet deeply unnerving. “You see, paperwork has been piling up ever since I took over from my predecessor. It’s quite… overwhelming.” He gestured lightly to the stack of documents beside him, brushing his fingers over the pile. Chuuya spared it only a brief glance before returning his attention to the man.

”How has your wound been?” The boss continued. “I could take a look at it, if you’d like. I am a licensed doctor, after all.” He spoke so casually, as if they were old acquaintances catching up. 

Chuuya didn’t buy a single word of it. The act, the tone, the forced ease— it all grated on him.

“No need. It healed on its own,” he replied, a faint scoff lacing his voice. “Can’t say it was the worst injury I’ve had, but I’d be happier if it never happened in the first place.”

The man nodded, as if genuinely acknowledging his words.

“Unfortunately, taking you by surprise was the only way I could get a hold of you,” he said. “It required certain measures as well— you’re quite a difficult thing to reach. You see—”

Before he could continue, the doors slammed open with a deafening crash. Both their heads snapped toward the sudden commotion. 

“Mooooooooooooriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

A voice echoed out from the hallway, growing louder with each step, as it got closer. Chuuya didn’t look away from the doorway that had slammed against the wall, and neither did the man behind him.

He blinks.

At first, Chuuya found it almost amusing. An organisation this powerful, this feared, and yet no one could be bothered with basic discipline? Letting someone barge straight into their boss’s office without so much as a knock— what kind of mafia allowed that?

But the amusement didn’t last long.

As the voice drew closer, something about it made his stomach twist. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of someone… uncomfortably familiar. A brunette boy stepped into view, a long black coat draped loosely over his shoulders, moving toward the boss with an ease that suggested he owned the place. 

Chuuya shot to his feet instantly, turning to face him.

“You—” His voice dropped, low and sharp.

The brunette paused, glancing over.

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them tightened, heavy with something unspoken— like the calm before something violent.

Then, just as quickly, the tension snapped.

The brunette rolled his eyes, any hint of interest gone. “Ah… the shorty’s still here,” he muttered flatly, already turning away as if Chuuya wasn’t worth his time.

A vain throbbed visibly along Chuuya’s neck.

Just like that, his blood ran hot.

Oh, I’m gonna strangle his ass. 

“The hell did you just call me— you bastard?” Chuuya snapped, stepping forward to block his path. Now both of them stood in front of the boss’s desk, the tension thick enough to choke on. 

Seconds passed as they stared each other down, neither willing to back off.

“Take it back,” Chuuya finally said, his voice low— a warning.

“Mm, no,” the other boy replied lazily. “Deal with it… until you grow a few more centimetres.” 

With blinding speed, Chuuya grabbed the brunette by the collar, yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart. His fist rose to eye level, a clear warning that his patience had run out. Yet neither the boy in front of him nor the man behind him so much as flinched. Seeing the complete lack of reaction, Chuuya scoffed. His fist lowered, and instead, he shoved the other harshly, forcing him back a few steps— just enough to put some distance between them. 

“Seems like you two are getting along just fine.” The man behind the desk spoke at last, his voice cutting through the tension. Both boys turned toward him, their attention snapping back. That same unsettling smile lingered on his face, enough to make even them stiffen slightly, more guarded now. 

His gaze settled on the redhead. 

“As I was saying, Chuuya— before we were so rudely interrupted…“ he cast a brief glance at the brunette before returning his focus. “I took certain measures to get you here.”

A pause.

”You see, the Port Mafia would like to recruit you.” 

A moment passes.

The redhead remained completely still, his head slightly tilted down. The other two watch him carefully, waiting for his reaction.

Finally, through gritted teeth—

“Bullshit.” 

Every fiber of his being radiated pure hatred. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his body trembling with barely restrained rage. “Do I look like an idiot to you?” He snapped. “Actually— yeah, I must. Since you’ve got the nerve to even ask me that.”

His eyes burned with anger. 

“Well, in case killing your men didn’t already make it painfully obvious— no. I don’t wanna join your little cult.” He shoved his hands back into his jacket pockets before turning away from them. With a sharp kick, he sent the chair he’d been sitting in crashing to the ground— but it did nothing to ease the storm inside him. He didn’t know whether to laugh at their hypocrisy… or rip his own ears off for having to listen to it. 

The man behind the desk remained perfectly still, watching his every move without the slightest intention of stopping him. “And why refuse my offer, if I may ask?” He said calmly, as if he didn’t already know the answer. 

Chuuya’s fists tightened inside his pockets.

“It’s stupid of you to even assume I’d consider it, old man.” He turned back, glare sharp enough to cut. “Do you honestly think I don’t know what you do to people stronger than you?” He stepped forward, closing the distance, and slammed his hand against the desk. Leaning in, his voice dropped— dangerously low. “First you use them… and then you throw them away once they’re no longer useful.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“If you really think I’d willingly submit to you— let you toy with me like with some animal, expect me to obey your every command and get nothing in return…”

A beat passes.

”Then you’re dead wrong, old man.”

Once he finishes, silence stretches out. 

Hearing no reply, Chuuya scoffed and turned on his heel, toward the door.

”Once again… you’re right, Chuuya-kun.” The boss's voice stopped him mid-step. Chuuya halted, then slowly turned back to face him.

“The Mafia has been everything you described,” the man continued calmly. “In fact, it has been that way ever since I joined, many, many, years ago.”

That alone was enough to draw both boys’ attention to him. 

The man leaned back into his chair, composed as ever. Meanwhile, the brunette drifted toward the window, feigning disinterest— though his eyes flicked between them, quietly observing the two.

Chuuya remained still, watching it all unfold, a faint, wary tension setting in his chest. 

Having secured their attention, the man continued. “Our previous boss was… a traditionalist. To him, people like you were nothing more than beasts— tools to be handled carefully, controlled and discarded.” His voice remained even, almost clinical. “He believed every single one of you was rotten… and deserved nothing more than what you’ve been given for decades. Commands.” 

The words made something twist uncomfortably in Chuuya’s gut. A familiar, sickening feeling crept up his spine— the collar around his neck only made it worse. 

The man didn’t miss it. His gaze lingered, sharp and calculating. 

“He enjoyed the power that came with this position,” he went on, “but he was weak-minded. Narrow. He had no interests beyond eliminating those who didn’t fit his ideals.”

With a smooth motion, he picked up the scalpel from his desk, turning it idly between his fingers.

“He became a liability. And so…”

A pause.

”I killed him.”

Chuuya’s eyes widened, his lips parting slightly in disbelief.

So the rumours were true. The previous boss— killed, murdered in his own bed, by his own personal doctor. 

And this man— this lunatic— was admitting it so casually, as if it meant nothing at all.

To him. 

A complete stranger. 

Chuuya stared at him, something uneasy settling deep inside of his chest. Not fear— no, not quite. But something close. 

The redhead’s eyes snapped toward the other boy, catching the brunette visibly cringe at the revelation. He lifted a hand to cover his face, as if shielding himself from the sheer secondhand embarrassment of it all.

For some reason, that act alone brought Chuuya the much needed comfort over this whole situation.

With his chest feeling a little lighter, he turned his attention back to the man behind the desk. The shift didn’t go unnoticed. The man met his gaze again, this time with a softer, almost approving smile.

Still caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation, Chuuya shook his head slightly, forcing his expression to relax before speaking.

“Why the hell are you telling me all of this?” He asked, genuine confusion slipping into his voice. 

The man only smiled.

“It’s simple.” He said calmly. “I wish to show you our progress… as an organization born from such a devious past.”

”Progress?” The redhead echoes.

Mori nods, “Correct— progress.”

The man sets his scalpel aside before intertwining his fingers. He leans closer to the desk. “You see, Chuuya, ever since I took over, I’ve been working towards bettering the Port Mafia. Cutting its ties to the old, and introducing our organisation to a more diverse and modern side of the world. I really see immense potential and opportunity for growth with this change.”

Right after saying this, his face falls into a dramatic pout. “Although, you wouldn’t be able to imagine the kind of trouble I’ve been going through— especially as of late, with everyone suddenly in conflict.” 

Chuuya can only stare at the man, dumbfounded. Once again, the familiarity in his tone unsettles the teenager. Moreover, the fact that he openly admits he intents to change the mafia and its ways? The redhead isn’t too sure who the real idiot is here. 

Before he can say anything, the boy by the window beats him to it. “Touché,” he says.

The boss looks genuinely hurt by it.

Chuuya can’t make sense of any of this. 

”What do you mean by that?” he speaks up, turning the man’s gaze onto himself. “When you said you started changing things up in this place. Modernising it or something— how?” He leans his weight on his dominant leg, keeping both hands in his jacket pockets. “What? You no longer make slaves of people? You don’t abuse power? What— so you’re suddenly just dealing drugs, not actual people?” His voice does not lack anger, nor hatred. It is clear. But he masks it well with sarcasm and feigned amusement. “It’s really funny you think I’d believe any of this redeeming crap.” 

Mori chuckles in return. The silence that follows is overbearing. “Ah— you misunderstand me, Chuuya-kun. Our organisation was, and always will be, a web of lies, crime and treachery. Not even I could wish to change that. My goal is not to ‘redeem’ us of our crimes, but to actually validate them. Make profit out of them. Build people from it. I am aiming big, after all.” He smiles, tilting his head to the side.

Chuuya’s face hardens as he watches the man.

”I find my goal to be very simple. I intend to help those who will benefit from it: those out on the streets like you, Chuuya-kun.”

After he says it, the redhead’s jaw tightened.

The man continues, “There is no stopping the system that we live in. We’re both well aware of this fact. Instead, I aim to take in as many of these power-abused children and give them half of what they’ve lost,” The man explains.

The redhead keeps looking at him as if Mori is a madman. He glances over at the brunette sitting by the window, hoping to find the same, flabbergasted, expression plastered over his own face too, just to find his head is turned away— lured outside, looking through the glass at the world beyond it. 

“Chuuya-kun,” the man calls him to turn back toward him, “I only ask you to spare me a couple moments of your time.” He says.

After a long moment, with sheer disappointment in himself and with a long sigh, Chuuya turns back towards the man. His jaw set, his eyes piercing. Granting the man just what he wanted: his at-most attention.

So the boss begins.

“Unlike many others out there, I will not lie to you, or sugarcoat my actions. I had ordered my people to find you— to get you here so that I could recruit you for the Port Mafia. That was the aim behind infiltrating The Sheep.” He explains.

The moment he mentions his organisation, the redhead stiffens. The corner by the window is silent.

The man continues, “Every action I decide to take is well thought out, including this one. For example, I took a great deal of my private life to look into your past. A great amount of resources, too.”

Chuuya’s eyes widen. His hands slip from his pockets.

The man’s gaze is now serious. “I have concluded that a child such as yourself has no place running around the streets while on the government’s radar. Not unless you want to be abducted— which, I believe is not the case.” He leans back his head, crossing one leg over the other and resting his intertwined hands over his lap. His eyes narrowing at the shorter child. “Tell me, Chuuya-kun: what good are you to others if you’re a ticking bomb yourself?” 

The teenager backs away from the desk. After a second, he realises he hadn’t released his breathe. His eyes remain on the man in front of him, the pit of his stomach boiling with anger.

“What the hell do you know about it?” He snaps, through gritted teeth. 

The man remains completely calm, “I believe we both know just about everything there is to know. That yo—“

”You’re a liability.” The brunette jumps in, finishing for him. The man’s gaze falls, but he only sighs at the interrupt, instead of scolding him. 

Chuuya snaps his head towards the other, growing even more irritated when the brat keeps his gaze out of the window.

After a brief pause, the man sits upright, “Yes.” He drags out. “In which case its clear you’re only putting others from your organisation at risk. And as a fellow leader: I would like to offer you some wisdom regarding it.”

”..Which is?” The redhead mutters, looking away.

Mori’s smile reappears, “Reconsider my offer, Chuuya. Leave The Sheep in order to keep them from getting hurt. We offer you the at most protection in this organisation as one of our own. No government would be able to touch a single hair from your head.”

Dazai’s eyes narrow at the two of them in silence, not moving at all. He knew exactly what was happening here: the kind of deal Mori had been betting the faith of his whole career on and the wellbeing of this organisation. All of it was coming together just as the doctor had planned it to. Surprisingly, the brunette decided not to interfere with any of it. After all, he knew of Mori’s plan for weeks now— he played a somewhat crucial part in it— and even back then when he was first told of it the man didn’t insist that he’d have to be cooperative. No, Dazai had only one job to do and in return, because for the two of them everything was a transactional deal, he’d be pardoned from any other work on that recruiting business. In fact, he wasn’t even required to be here today.

Only: he had wanted to see how this would play out. 

He was wondering if this was really what The Sheep’s king had been searching for: protection from the higher up's.

When he looks at the man’s reflection in the window, he notes the way Mori’s face had turned completely serious, just like his tone did a moment ago. He was getting ready to make a deal. His eyes remained determined with that clear aim behind them. “You would have a place to grow in. A place where you could surround yourself with subordinates you can rely on: where you wouldn't have to carry the weight of it yourself. You'd be properly educated, alongside other children who have experienced the system's cruelty, just like you have. We would provide you with something similar to the childhood you have lost.” 

Listening to him, even the brunnete felt how flat and untrue all of it felt. Like Mori was just feeding into one big lie.

But Mori’s eyes glowed— and his voice was so convincing— who wouldn’t believe it? 

He then pulls out a sheet of paper, and slowly moves it towards the desks edge, “The only thing you are required to do, in order to become an official member, is to sign this contract. It would last you four years, and once you turn eighteen, you’ll be presented with two choices: to either stay or leave the Port Mafia.” The man finishes up.

Snapping back to reality, Chuuya pushes himself forward, one step at the time. He moves closer, before picking up the delicate paper and eyeing it thoroughly, trying to find a flaw.

Not even a moment passes before the man speaks up again, uncomfortably soon, “Another thing—" he clears his throat, sitting upright, "becoming an officially member will earn you a hefty salary. Not such a big one at first, but the amount is generous and always rising. Enough to have a personal life with besides work." The man smiles while saying this, making Chuuya look up from the paper. "Also, each pay day I would take half of the money you earned, in order to save you a decent sum by the end of your contract. That way, by the time it expires, you’d be able to travel wherever you’d like, and live a peaceful life. Go to college, start anew or move away— anything, that is: if you chose to. Living a life a normal person would at that age.” 

Chuuya doesn't look back at the paper after hearing this. Instead, he stares at the man, “Tis' some sorta' joke?” leaves his lips. The room stiffens. His jaw tightens, "‘Like normal people’? Please. Cut the shit." He slaps the paper back onto the desk, gritting his teeth enough that they clank. "I didn't know Port Mafia was that desperate for newbies they'd even suck ass. Do you think I'm stupid?” He hisses, turning away with more irritation than before. 

“It’s an opportunity,” Mori's voice quickly overpowers the room, making Chuuya’s eyes lock with his own, “an opportunity many would die for." He reminds him with glaring eyes. It makes Chuuya's irritation flare.

"To hell with your opportunity. That's all I have to say about it." He scowls.

Yet, the man is persistent. He stands his ground, keeping his voice even clearer now. "I'm afraid you’re not allowing yourself to hear me, Chuuya. The Mafia is willing to raise you to your feet. Train you, educate you. Keep you off the government's hunting list. We want to give you an opportunity to have your own choice on how you’ll live your life— to not have someone else decide it for you. And with the Mafia, that opportunity would be achieved.”

Chuuya clenches his fists tightly, unable to break eye contact. His anger was flaring up his chest, the only thing keeping him from jumping across that desk was the collar around his neck that painfully reminded him of his unwilling submission. 

The unwilling need to abide by others. Depend on them. Fuss up to them.

It was the bottom Chuuya never wanted to be bound to again. Yet here he is. Again. 

Completely bare.

Silence falls over. The room is tense after the close-call to yelling brawl.

The brunnete is the only one unintimidated. Watching nearby from the window side, like a passive object.

Another moment passes before the redhead scoffs, “..You said something about a monthly income.." he mutters out. "I’ll have to work to get that money, right?” he asks, his eyes still sharply locked with the bosses. 

Mori's face remains straight and unlocking now, “Indeed, for money yes. But your jobs would be simple, if I don’t determine your skills ready for anything more complex. It wouldn’t be a large sum in the beginning, as cadets only make enough to suit their hobbies.. other things they need not worry about.” He says, while waving his hand dismissively. 

Chuuya once again gives him a confused look, so the man elaborates, “What I meant was, every Mafia member gets a selective place to stay in. For new cadets we have dorm rooms. Also, the food is always available in the mafia, and there is a large cafeteria for the cadets mainly. Alongside training rooms, educational activities, and no place is restricted unless it's heavily guarded. That means it's off limits to you.” 

Hearing this, Chuuya nods. It’s tempting, what he’s offered.

His eyes find the contract that’s laying down on the desk again. Consideration creeping through his mind. But he was still hesitant.

Chuuya reaches his hand at the collar, “What about this? Will it be taken off?” he asks. 

Mori’s smile falters, and a small sigh leaves his lips, “Unfortunately, for safety reasons, the shock collars must stay on at all times. Not all cadets are.. cooperative." He explains, before adding: "All new cadets possess one, until their captains consider them trustworthy.” He explains.

Chuuya looks away. He was both considering it yet doubting it at the same time.

The boss notices this, “I understand your hesitance, Chuuya. But believe me, this path is one of only good ones for people with your abilities. We are limited.”

Beasts. Chuuya thinks. It's a cruel, degrading thought. A world he never wanted to return to. But now, seemingly, he had no choice but to. 

Dazai has to hold back his chuckle, pressing his teeth down against his tongue. Only a lazy, cat-like, sneer curls up his lips.

Chuuya notices, and so his gaze sharpens at the man, “I don’t believe you. There's no way in hell your looking out for my best interests. Your just making shit up to lure me in. Then you'd just use me for my power. I'm not stupid.” He grits his teeth sharply.

The man looks over at Dazai with a scolding, more intimidating look, making the brunette turn his face away immediately.

Chuuya couldn’t figure out what the deal with that guy was, but he couldn't care less right now: his biggest issue was with the boss himself. 

After a tense moment, the man turns towards him. His face settles. Mori smiles at him, “It’s good you don’t trust easily, you would fit with the Mafia perfectly." He spoke to him lightly. "I must’ve interpreted it wrong the first time I said it so let me say it again— I wouldn't allow the government to take you away. You'd be under the Mafia's completely protection. That's in your biggest interest right now, Chuuya." He says, his face straightening once again. "And yes, your powers are at most intimidating indeed. The Mafia would greatly benefit from them. However, I believe you cannot control them fully. Correct?”

”What?” Chuuya tones down the pressure in his fists. His jaw loosens. 

The man grins at him, leaning forward, “Gravity manipulation is not the fullest of your ability, is it, Chuuya-kun?” he says, and Chuuya’s blood froze. He doesn’t even get a chance to say anything, before the man starts talking again, “I told you before: I did my research before making any bold decisions.”

Chuuya's blue eyes widen, as he stares ahead of him, at the man who is calmly seated down. The words that are leaving his mouth are familiar, but terrifying to claim— to withstand, to remember at all. It is all so blurry to his own memory, yet, hearing it spoken as if it was analyzed… It was terrifying. 

“Abducted at age seven, taken into the government as a test subject… went missing after an explosion seven years ago that took place in Suribachi City… no more information ever found about what happened to you— but you can’t remember it either, can you?” The man spoke so calmly, as if he didn’t even need an answer. As if it was read out of some file just like that.

Chuuya feels a lump in his throat, so he does his best to swallow it back, as he speaks, barely feeling the words leave his lips, “How do you…”, he cuts himself off, speaking up clearer now, “How do you know all of that? From where?” he asks, as frustration takes over him.

”Sadly, I cannot tell you. It's inside intel, highly secured.” the man replies effortlessly. He smiles at the teenager, “As this organisations boss, I am required to have all of my subroutine backgrounds at hand. To me, this is labeled as sensitive information that only few get the privilege of knowing in the Mafia.” He explains.

The redhead's eyes widened once again after hearing the man, “Wait.. so you mean that you know what happened to me? My whole background? And nobody gets to see it but—“, he was cut off by Mori himself.

”My executives." The man quickly jumps in. "They are my most trusted members, allowed to rule just a step underneath me. They possess great power within our organization. By principle, there should be five executives serving me, but there are currently only four. You could say we have a position open for it.” He smiles, challengingly. 

Chuuya lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding in while listening to this, “An open position..? And what does it take to… become an executive?”, he asks, boldly— his curiosity taking over. 

Mori smirks, drawing Chuuya right into it, “To obtain the executive position, the member has to be very skilled at any line of work, be trusted by me and my other executives, and most importantly: be aware of the line of work they’ll have to face— be ready to lead.” He explains. 

Chuuya stays quiet for a moment. Trying to think. Suddenly, all of the hesitance was being lifted away with such an information thrown at him.

He has been searching for answers for so long. They are right in front of him. In arms reach.

The boss leans back into his armrest chair, “Sadly, we currently don’t possess the entirety of the once existing files regarding your past. And since you are not an official member we don't have an active purpose of finding them. But if you were to become one, I would personally look into reclaiming all of them. There are already some known sources only mafia has intel on, after all the years in the underground trading business.” Mori says.

Chuuya can feel his heart skip the next three beats, and he can feel his pulse throb. He swallows, looking down at the contract. He was now more tempted to sign it.

But suddenly he remembered—

“..What about my friends? Have you been holding them here too?” His eyes narrow at Mori, who looks over at Dazai. The brunette’s eyes locked with the pair of purple ones, before Mori’s eyes met Chuuya’s instead.

”We have, yes,” he says, “But I am willing to let them go. Although… we would need crucial information from you, in order to let them go unharmed.” 

Suddenly alert, Chuuya can feel this won’t end well for him. He sighs, “What is it you want?” he mutters in annoyance.  

Mori smiles, leaning forward, “We need to know if The Sheep possesses an arsenal. If so, we would also like exact coordinates of such, in order for us to disarm them.” he says. 

Chuuya grits his teeth, hesitatingly looking into the man’s eyes, “I can’t tell you that. They worked hard to get their hands on those weapons. I won't betray them like that. Not even for you." He stands firm on it.

Mori nods his head, “I understand you completely, Chuuya. However, as one leader to another, I would encourage you to reconsider. It would be in your best interest to keep your friends away from unnecessarily trouble. And underaged kids with guns are the epitome of trouble. You could only imagine what would happen if authorise were to find them with weapons. If the Mafia gets rid of them instead, the kids would simply walk out freely." 

"After all, without you, I doubt they'd last as an organisation much longer. The last thing we need are unsupervised kids hauling gun fires." The man says calmly, with a mocking hint in his tone that makes the redheads chest tighten and fists curl.

He thinks for a whole moment, but his consciouse beats him down. He tells the man the coordinations of the arsenal. Mori writes it down, before smiling at the boy. 

“Now,” he pushes the paper forward, “would you like to accept my offer, Chuuya-kun?”

He puts a fancy pen beside it. 

Chuuya’s eyes scan over the contract once again. Something gnaws at his throat.

Calmly, he approaches the table, before bending over it, picking up the pen, and in the far right corner of the paper— he writes down his name in messy letters.

Barley practiced.

Both Mori and Dazai watch him do it, with sparks of fading light in their eyes. Dazai doesn’t move at all, while the man is leaning against his chair, smiling the entire time. 

Once Chuuya finishes up, he straightens his posture, watching as Mori pulls the paper back towards himself and stores it away. They stood like that, in silence, before they heard a voice coming from the distance.

”It is a policy to bow to the boss, as a way of showing your respect in the the Mafia," Says the brunette who is standing by the window, with his body now turned to the two of them. An empty look on his face, with a lazy grin spread over his lips.

Chuuya scoffs, bowing down his head as best as he could, cringing at his own self. He turns towards Dazai, with an annoyed expression visible on his face once he's done. Now, he waits a moment, looking at the guy expecting him to do the same.

When he doesn't, Chuuya sees red. 

Beyond annoyed, he scoffs, “Why aren’t you bowing then, genius?” he says through gritted teeth in flammable anger that was still tame.

Instead of answering it himself, the man behind the desk abruptly stands up, gathering some papers and saying, with a smile, “Well, Dazai isn’t an official member of the Port Mafia." He says.

This leaves the redhead speechless for a moment too long. He turns to look at the brunnete, who's smirking at him like some know-it-all.

"It's true." Mori chuckles at the others surprised expression. "Don't look so surprised, Chuuya-kun," he says calmly, smiling at him like it's complelty normal, "Dazai simply refuses to sign the contract.” 

When he hears this, Chuuya looks even more confused than he did before. Was there something wrong inside the contract that Chuuya had missed? Some sick requirement written in the smallest possible font no normal eye would be able to detect?

When he turns back to look at the brunette for answes, he sees him already halfway across the room, walking away, towards the doors. 

Mori passes by him with his hands full of paperwork, “Don't fret over it. Dazai is simply.. wishing to make a statement by doing everything differently around here. You'll get used to it soon enough." The man say, encouragingly. "It's for no particular reason." He adds afterwards.

A dramatic sigh came from the doorway. The brunnete, with an annoyed face, turns back around to face them, "I simply don’t believe in signing yourself away on a piece of paper. It only gets you on a leash.” 

Afterwards, he walks out. Closing the doors shut behind himself.

The redhead is left staring at the shut doors, with something inside his chest left familiarly shaken. There was a faint bit of recognision he couldn't believe he felt towards the guy.

He couldn't shake the feeling off— he was deeply disturbed.

*

Early December, one month before the public execution.

Once the first explosive went off, all hell broke loose.

The Mafia’s west wing, located in the smallest building, caught fire quickly.

Their cover was immediately blown.

Gunfire broke out throughout the streets and from every possible corner. It was Mafia territory after all; it was all accounted for— as were all of the casualties ahead.

Chuuya was on the front lines, giving the mobsters on foot a hard time getting past the flying boulders of concrete. He was their blockade.

The redhead wasn’t holding back even a bit— even though he knew very well that, on the other side of his power, a whole human being got crushed underneath him. Over the years, he could never forget how easily bones break— especially the sound they make when they do.

“Don’t forget what they’ve done to you." A voice chimes through the blowing wind that had been bursting through his ears only moments ago.

The screams start to fade around him.

Silence evaporates through the space, leaving only one familiar voice whispering to him. Something wraps tightly around his neck. Not letting go.

“What they’ve done to all of us—”

He presses his foot down more firmly now. Takes his hands out of his pockets.

He's angry.

Everything's still shaking. Rocks flying everywhere out of control, as if it were a hurricane.

“—and what they’ll do to the rest.”

He doesn't know who he's angry at.

Suddenly, jammed static breaks through his ear canal.

The shaking stops.

Chuuya quickly recognises the voice as Kunikida's. “Verlaine-san, three Port Mafia members have been disarmed and captured. Our surprise attack worked to an extent, but the rest of them are catching up to us. What are your orders, sir?” The voice was deep, yet loud and clear in his ear. Chuuya scoffs in annoyance, turning his gaze back to his own battle.

“Very well." Came another voice, Verlaine's, after a second. “Fall back.”

After words of affirmation from Kunikida’s side, who was leading the whole operation on the field, Chuuya was instructed to hold up as many mafiosos as he could until all of their people were out.

Of course, all of the hard backbone work was laid out on him. As always.

Not that he'd complain.

If the work he got wasn't straining him, it wouldn't be considered “work.” Nor would his coffee break be considered “well-earned.”

Chuuya gritted his teeth, his hands glowing crimson red, as he broke the road in two and raised the broken asphalt to make a solid barricade out of it. Then, with one jerk of his hand, he created an earthquake— one like a powerful wave— which threw the men on the enemy's side ten meters back and flattened some under its pressure.

He growled like a hungry animal, about to raise rubble and make the ground underneath them tremble, when a voice rang inside his ear.

“Little brother.”

The words made his skin crawl.

Chuuya immediately released his ability. The red vanished, and the ground stopped shaking. Only rubble fell off, and a thick fog of dust rose from where the catastrophe had fallen apart.

The man on the other end of the line sighed, his tone scolding. “Your job is done. Hurry up and seal them away.” A command.

The redhead cursed under his breath. “Fucker.” He kicks some of the rocks while putting his hands into his pockets. An annoyed sigh leaves his lips as he jumps down from the ruined road onto the solid ground that once lay underneath it.

He had only taken a few steps when, all of a sudden, guns were raised and aimed at him. He looks up, counting six of them.

All men in slick black suits and tinted glasses. Not beasts: just armed mafiosos. The Mafia was crowded with these.

The first thing he does is look towards their escape route— a strategically undestroyed part of the road that connected to the main one. The Agency's vehicles were already leaving.

Good. His job was done.

Besides it, the streets they had attacked were now all destroyed: walls, concrete, roads— it was all torn to pieces, marked by bullets and splashed with blood.

Fresh bodies were torn across the asphalt, people who belonged to both the Mafia and the Agency.

All of them: beasts.

Even after all those years had passed, and so many things had changed, beasts still fought their battles. As it always was.

Killed while fighting just to survive; to escape what they were fighting for their entire lives.

They paint the streets just like so many did before them.

Why?

Chuuya clenched his fists tightly, his veins pulsating with rage as he stood unguarded, surrounded by corpses all around him.

Where is their justice?

How many must die until justice prevails?

“Chuuya!” A voice snapped him back.

His eyes widened, pupils slowly dilating, and a short breath left his lips. He quickly reached his hand up towards his ear, pressing on the micro-earbud. “I’m here.” He says, his eyes turning away from the corpses he had previously been looking at.

“Hurry up. Our mission is a success. There's no point in jeopardizing it now, little brother. We should be celebrating." Chuuya could practically see the smirk curling up on the older one's lips without even seeing him.

Celebrating what? Worthless deaths— or lives?

“I’m on my way. Get off my case already." he scoffs, tearing the buds angrily out of his ears and shoving them into his jacket.

“Stop right there, you rebel!" Came a yell from ahead of him. He looks up to see those armed men again, seemingly having forgotten about them. “You're caught. Surrender now or we shoot.” One of them cocks the gun at him.

Chuuya didn’t move. He stood very still, staring at them. His hands rested in his pockets.

“I want to see your arms in the air— NOW! Drop your weapons.” the man yells, his voice stern and unjoking.

Chuuya's eyes set on the man who was yelling at him, presumably their commanding officer. A plain-looking man with a bald head and only a few strands of somewhat thick hair in the middle. Must be in his forties.

“You sure as hell look lively after all this.” Chuuya says, staying unmoved.

The man's face scrunches. “The hell does that mean?”

“It means you don't give a single shit that you're standing on someone's remains.” He says, bone-chillingly cold. Eyes piercing.

The man goes silent in return, his gaze only briefly falling to his once-polished black dress shoes, now soaked in blood and dust.

He was standing directly above a torn-off leg. A few organs lay beside it. The man doesn't even flinch, nor does he move away, clearly showing he wasn't intimidated.

“I've seen uglier battlefields than you could ever hope to, kid,” he says, looking back at him now, “and this? This is just a pile of shit. And we're here to take the trash out.”

After he said it, the men began closing in, approaching him from all sides while lowering their weapons. Seemingly, they had noticed Chuuya was disarmed as well.

Surprisingly, he wasn't recognised.

It truly surprised him. After years in the Mafia, even reaching the executive position, some still didn't know of him? Especially someone of this guy's status and age?

Until one of them spoke up quietly.

“Sir... this isn't just one of their usual beasts we've faced before— it’s—“

The ground began to shake, as if struck by a hurricane, throwing most of them off balance and onto their knees or backs. Everyone's face changed in shock, wide eyes glaring in disbelief.

What was left of the “stable” road was cut out in a circular shape. Lines of concrete cracked a few steps behind the armed men's feet, making them stumble even further forward.

“What the hell…?” the commander's now clearly shaken voice whispers, his body suddenly frozen in terror and unable to move.

The ground turned crimson red as rocks and cracked concrete flew up into the air, most covered in freshly spilled blood. And the silhouette in the not-so-far distance remained in the same position— his body glowing red, with his arms still resting inside his pockets.

The scene was terrifying, as if, in the midst of the calamity before them, stood a lifeless entity that had crawled straight from the pits of hell themselves.

“—Nakahara Chuuya: the gravity manipulator.”

*

November, seven years and two months before the public execution.

It’s been a whole month since Chuuya joined the Mafia. There were plenty of things he didn’t like at first, and even more things he absolutely despised.

For starters, all cadets had to wear uniforms. They were made specifically and only for them, so it was necessary— seemingly to help tell them apart from the other mobsters in the Mafia.

In other words, you couldn’t miss a cadet, since everyone wore the same set of clothes. Gray shirts or blouses, a matching pale color palette for the trousers, skirts, and jackets, and the look was completed with a pair of heavy leather boots. They were allowed accessories up to a certain point (so that it didn't feel like a total dictatorship stripping them of their uniqueness), and so Chuuya chose to wear latex gloves.

He wasn’t the only one who found the whole dress code thing immensely stupid— especially considering the majority of them were orphaned beasts in the Mafia. Others shared similar thoughts about it. Some went as far as protesting against the uniforms by intentionally not wearing them, tearing them apart, or altering them.

However, these “temper tantrums,” as others called them, were shut down pretty quickly. Their captains reminded them that the uniforms were meant to instill professionalism and discipline, which Chuuya saw as even more bullshit.

And because of it, their captains didn’t show them any mercy during training. For every protest or form of resistance they showed, the captains made their lives tenfold harder on the training grounds.

Chuuya absolutely hated it there at first. Mafiosi were just like he had expected them to be: selfish and ugly from every angle.

Within that first month, he had already gotten into fifteen different fights with his “teachers.”

However, unlike the others, Chuuya’s rebellious nature didn’t stem from hating the uniforms, although he did, but more from hating the way these so-called instructors treated all of them.

Even though Mori claimed to be bringing the organization into more modern times, the methods of teaching were still ancient and ineffective for Chuuya personally.

He wasn’t growing.

No matter how much work and effort he put into his training, everything was designed to drag him right back to the bottom.

He couldn’t excel. No one could.

Especially with the collars intact: no one could even train their abilities besides on the days specifically meant for ability training, which were the rarest of all. Mostly because the Mafia had to prepare heavily to make sure no one spiraled out of control. In other words, they had to prepare armed men and proper facilities capable of withstanding whatever became necessary.

A whole month had passed, and Chuuya hadn’t been improving. He hadn’t heard a single word from Mori, and even though he had formally spoken to the boss, he wasn’t getting any kind of special treatment.

He preferred it that way.

Because even though he hated being treated like dirt, he hated watching someone get treated better than everyone else for doing less than the others even more.

Like Dazai fucking Osamu did.

That day when he signed the contract and joined the Mafia, he had hoped it would be the last time he ever had anything to do with that freak. Especially considering the guy wasn’t even an official Port Mafia member.

But, as his shitty luck would have it, Dazai just so happened to be a cadet in his course too.

And besides being one of his classmates, Dazai was the only guy who didn’t partake in any physical activities, including training, nor was he required to wear a uniform.

Chuuya quickly learned that even in the Mafia world, pretty privilege existed. And Dazai was the epitome of it there.

One of the things he also didn’t have to account for was always wearing bandages to class like personal accessories that he never had to explain.

And above all else was the very different way the captains treated him compared to the others.

Even though they clearly didn’t like him any more than the rest of them, Dazai was always treated far more lightly and allowed things others couldn’t even dream of doing.

Other than that, Dazai was very aware of his privileges, so he made sure to use them well. He waltzed around doing whatever he wanted, skipped classes, slept in or never showed up, pulled pranks, and made fun of anyone and everyone he could. Yes, including the captains.

And he got away with it. Every single time.

Training was a big thing in the Mafia.

Every day, it was required to practice either martial arts or weapons, and on rare occasions even abilities, for up to four or five hours a day.

Those practices were open for a full twenty-four hours, with multiple training dojos, gyms, and spare rooms available. Each practice was overseen by one or more captains, and they were mostly held after classes or squeezed in between lunch breaks.

Worst of all, some would be scheduled very early in the morning, even before classes. And those were the most heavily monitored training sessions of all, as well as a requirement for passing other classes.

They’d be punished if they skipped these early practices without reason.

And while everyone else was busting their asses fighting each other or just training in general, Dazai had the privilege of simply sitting around during those lessons. And every time, he’d do everything except the actual work assigned to them.

Chuuya grew to hate him with all his guts— more than the Port Mafia itself.

Most of all, he hated how the guy used his “status” to put others down and make fun of people at everyone’s expense. He didn’t stop at anyone. Not even Chuuya.

He poked at all his weak points, which was creepy considering how quickly he could read a person— and annoying, knowing he was just looking for a reaction and would do anything to get one.

And every time he pissed him off and Chuuya got this close to punching him square in the face, someone would conveniently decide to step in and punish Chuuya instead.

It made his blood boil every single time.

The fact that he was the one with a collar around his neck, and not that animal grinning at him.

After a while of the same routine happening over and over again, Chuuya found himself constantly either trying to avoid the guy altogether or looking for a way to corner him, which never worked.

Quite frankly, he didn’t understand why Dazai was considered “so special,” because he wasn’t.

He was just a bratty kid without any special powers.

Abilitless.

The only skill he showed was his academics, which was impressive but not all that useful in the Mafia.

If you didn’t know how to handle a weapon, you were as good as dead.

And despite his incredibly high intellect, the genius still sat all alone in class.

Cuz’ nobody liked him.

He didn’t share a dorm with anyone. Nobody ever saw him around after classes were over. He didn’t take a liking to anyone, and nobody took a liking to him either.

At least Chuuya shared mutual feelings regarding that with the others.

And so he made a fair share of allies within that bunch by putting Dazai down. And because he was the loudest advocate against him, the majority of their class took his side and grew closer to him.

He fit right in.

It was nothing like back with the Sheep. It was different— the kids here understood him more than he had ever hoped the Sheep would. Because surrounding him weren’t kids at all, but people with different yet very similar views of the world.

People who had lost everything and were now here, wanting to rebuild.

And Chuuya respected that.

He grew to want that himself. To rebuild what was lost. To take control over his life and call it his own proudly. To live without regrets.

After a month had passed of being there, what had previously been his only reason to stay and keep chasing— that executive position— was no longer the only thing keeping him so strong-headed and determined to improve.

Now he had a place that was beginning to feel like his own.

*

Late December, one month before the public execution.

They had captured three Port Mafia members in total. And just as planned, all three were being held for ransom.

It was simple. A letter had been sent to the Port, addressed to the organization’s newly appointed boss, stating that the three captured Mafiosi were being held for ransom and that the Agency was willing to negotiate with the boss.

Three weeks had passed since their surprise ‘invasion’, yet they still hadn’t received any word back from the Mafia.

They didn’t respond to this sudden break of treaty with a counterattack, which was surprising but, according to Ranpo, expected. Even as the new head of the organization, Dazai wouldn’t risk revealing all of his advantages right off the bat.

What they didn’t expect whatsoever was the fact that the new boss didn’t seem to be doing anything about it at all.

No response to their message, no threats mailed to them—other than Mori’s head a few months ago— but aside from that, Dazai made no attempt to communicate with them.

Which left only one thing to suspect: the Mafia was preparing to counterattack them. And the more they stretched out the anticipation of it, the more anxious the Agency grew.

The days that followed after the attack passed strangely calmly. Almost eerily. Like the aftermath of some catastrophe. But the truth was obvious to everyone in the Agency: a time bomb was ticking nearby.

The prisoners they had captured and taken hostage felt it in the air too— that calm before the storm. They showed it by never once attempting to escape, while also keeping quiet and refusing to give up any valuable information that could hint at anything other than the chilling unknown surrounding them.

It put everyone on edge.

The days that followed went on just as they had even before all of this: filled with reports, boring assignments, and unavoidable deadlines paired with an even more monstrous number of clients.

Everyone fell back into that quiet routine soon enough, and it felt like the attack on the Port Mafia had never even happened. Because even mentioning it made the passersby’s uncomfortable.

Once the final week of December rolled around, a chilling message finally arrived— a letter from the Port Mafia.

As if on cue, Verlaine summoned all of his most trusted allies and read them the Mafia’s response.

“They demand the immediate release of all captured Mafiosi,” the man read aloud, his well-mannered voice filling the room as polished, clear footsteps echoed through the corridors while he walked around.

After a brief pause, Verlaine stopped and turned toward them all. His eyes were sharp and piercing. Waiting.

Only then did everyone realize— he was done.

“What else?” Chuuya was the first to speak up, breaking the sudden silence.

Verlaine turned his gaze toward him, expression unchanged. “That is it. They demand their release.”

Silence followed.

The room was swallowed by stunned silence. Chuuya cackled.

“Damn. They’re that arrogant? Even that shitty Dazai? No games?” He smirked. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. You sure he wrote that?”

The taller man looked visibly displeased by Chuuya’s enthusiasm over it.

Before he could shut him down, murmurs of agreement spread through the room.

“Indeed,” Fukuzawa spoke up. “Having received our end of the bargain, they must have drawn their own conclusions. These are the clear terms of negotiation.” He pointed it out with the calmness that suited him.

“Plainly demanding things isn’t their style either,” Ranpo added. “So,” he exaggerated, glaring at Verlaine with open eyes, “what else does it say?”

Verlaine, seemingly offended, tightened his jaw. With it, the room took on a colder atmosphere. The gloom grew darker and sharper. Everyone’s senses tensed in an instant.

He stared at them all for a long moment before lowering his gaze back to the paper he lifted once again.

“If the following terms are refused, the Port Mafia will annihilate its offenders.”

Silence fell over the room once more as everyone was left at a loss for words.

“Three days,” he added, finishing.

Meaning: they had three days to respond and hand over the captured Mafiosi. Otherwise, they would be attacked, which would lead to even greater consequences.

Everyone lowered their heads in defeated silence. Chuuya looked over the room, finding the same frustration reflected on others’ faces.

This was a massive risk to take. Who could possibly trust Dazai to stay true to his word?

Chuuya sure as hell wouldn’t.

“We can take them,” a voice suddenly declared, making everyone lift their heads.

Yosano stood up, placing both hands on her hips proudly. Chuuya’s gaze fell onto her. She stood only a few steps ahead of him, yet from his angle she seemed much larger.

The light shining down on her carried a certain energy he had only ever felt around her— that resilience and determination to push through and crush bugs.

He smirked.

“It will be difficult, yes,” she said. “They might have the numbers and their guns, but we have abilities. Strong ones. Hell, we have two gravity manipulators!” she exclaimed sternly.

She looked around the room as she continued.

“Let’s be real: we have the better ability users. Better abilities in general. No amount of zombie slaves could match up to us.”

Mafia’s beasts— she meant.

Chuuya bit his lip, leaning back into the couch, his chest thumping faster with adrenaline. One leg crossed over the other, bouncing excitedly.

He was craving a good fight, just like she was. Especially if it came down to showing some Mafia punks who exactly they were threatening.

Fukuzawa sighed.

“That might be the case, Yosano, but we’re still at a disadvantage,” he explained, making her frown in disappointment. “They have strong ability users too, even if they are mindless soldiers no better than slaves. They are still a mass. An army.”

“And if it’s true they possess materials that can rid a user of their abilities, we will be both outnumbered and powerless. We can’t afford for that to happen.”

Fukuzawa finished by taking a sip of jasmine tea.

Muttering echoed through the room in agreement with the president. Nobody was willing to take those chances.

Powers were the key to their success. They always had been.

Chuuya’s eyes wandered back to Verlaine. This time, he wasn’t the only one who could see the visible rage in his eyes—that well-hidden kind of rage, so cold it froze everything it locked onto.

He was pissed.

And despite liking the sight of it, Chuuya couldn’t help but feel frustrated over it all. He didn’t want to admit defeat, and neither did Verlaine.

It would mean they had sacrificed lives in vain.

“We can’t take them down,” Ranpo said, breaking the awkward silence. “We are on their playing field, so the natural thing to do is respond by playing along with them.” He leaned back with a lollipop hanging loosely from his lips.

“One slip-up and all hell breaks loose. We can’t beat the Mafia where they hold all the advantages. It’s stupid and impulsive.”

Chuuya kept his eyes fixed on Verlaine, watching like a hawk as the man, who had been burning with rage only moments ago, composed himself instantaneously.

It sent chills down his spine, making him sit a little straighter.

“You’re absolutely correct.”

Finally, the blond spoke up, running a hand through his hair and combing it back.

Everyone shared a look of surprise when their leader responded in such a calm, gentle tone. Verlaine’s lips curled upward as he traced two fingers along the surface of his desk before continuing.

“We put ourselves in a position of no return, and at a clear disadvantage. But I would like to think the sacrifices we made did not go in vain.”

Everyone’s eyes were now on him as he leaned against the wooden desk with crossed arms, his face set serious.

“We assumed the Mafia would have a weakness with its leader now gone, but we were wrong. This only proves their stability.”

Chuuya watched the man. Watched him completely transform like liquid— adapting through the worst and finding a way to comfort instead of explode. He watched him do something he had once been certain Verlaine could not do: be empathetic.

It was mind-boggling.

And to him, completely wrong.

Yet still, Verlaine stood before them, flesh and blood, doing exactly that. Understanding. Listening. Being compassionate and encouraging.

“We will not wage war against them unnecessarily,” he said, raising his chin high and folding his hands behind his back, “nor will I condemn our people to any more risk when it can be avoided.”

The redhead’s breath stiffened in his throat, and a lump quickly formed there.

For the first time ever, he saw Verlaine through entirely different eyes.

The kind he had wanted to see through for so long— ever since he joined the Rebellion— and only now finally had the chance to.

It made his chest feel somehow fuller. Proud, even, of the man standing before them.

For once, he felt like the weight of his responsibilities could rest on someone sturdier’s shoulders instead of his own.

Chuuya lowered his gaze for only a second, looking over the room. Everyone was staring at Verlaine with the same admiration on their faces, silently accepting him as the leader he was and placing their trust entirely in him.

Chuuya’s tension completely melted away at the sight.

Until his gaze landed on a single face that remained stone-cold still.

The president’s.

Chuuya’s head tilted to the side as he watched the man in utter confusion while the room erupted into soft cheers and applause led by Kunikida.

There was something deeply unsettling in the way Fukuzawa eyed the other man down. It made every bone in Chuuya’s body stiffen with uncertainty. Like there was something about Verlaine only the president could see.

What was it?

Something so serious that even the president couldn’t voice it.

What did he see?

When Chuuya’s eyes fell back onto the figure standing in the spotlight of the room, narrowing as he searched for anything off about the man— hoping Verlaine would return his gaze— Verlaine’s eyes never found his own.

His smile only grew wider.

*

January, the month of the public execution.

It was freezing cold outside.

The last few days had been marked by sudden shifts in both mood and weather. Only a few days ago it had been sunny and calm, but today it was the complete opposite: the mood was as sour as the weather itself.

Unsettling.

Though, it looked like it was going to snow.

The streets were empty. They had been evacuated days prior to the exchange.

It had been no simple task moving everyone out of the neighborhood, but it had to be done. Better cautious than careless. Even though Verlaine had assured them the exchange would leave no casualties on their side— which was a strange choice of wording.

Their side.

Once the area had been cleared, Verlaine personally sent word for the meeting. The chosen location was the very wall separating Rebellion territory from the Mafia’s.

It was a massive perimeter wall, one of a kind in the city, built by the founders of the Rebellion themselves. It symbolized the first ‘rescued area’ of Yokohama and therefore became the first free zone for the beasts.

It held great significance to the Rebels as the first sign of hope that the world could be changed.

The wall itself stood fifteen meters tall and four meters wide. And three years ago, it had become the site where their organizations established peace through treaty.

To someone who had never seen it before, it was intimidating.

Chuuya still remembered how powerful and proud he had felt the first time he climbed its steps. Watching the Rebellion’s flag of freedom wave at the very top of it had made his heart race every single time.

He relived that moment whenever he climbed up there, including today.

Once he reached the top, he immediately spotted Verlaine standing near the edge, yelling orders at the men below and telling them to get into formation.

Chuuya paid him no attention. That behavior was normal for him. Instead, he turned to look around.

Several guards stood at the ready, hands resting on their weapons of choice, waiting for orders. Chuuya counted twelve of them up there while the rest of the unit remained below. He was surprised by Fukuzawa’s absence.

He had seen Kunikida and the others a while ago, but they must have decided to stay off the wall themselves.

Chuuya’s eyes finally landed on the three hostages they had agreed to return. All three had their legs and arms bound in chains and were kneeling on the ground. Their mouths weren’t sealed, yet none of them spoke or protested.

Chuuya recognized only one of the three: Gin Akutagawa. She was the younger sister of Dazai’s student, Ryūnosuke. The two of them had only been sixteen when Dazai had allegedly taken them out of the slums.

He hadn’t associated much with either sibling. All he knew was that Dazai made for a horrible teacher and often neglected his own student. But that wasn’t Chuuya’s problem.

Despite being part of the operation that led to their capture, Chuuya hadn’t paid attention to who they actually took. This was his first time seeing them properly. And though he wasn’t too surprised, he still hadn’t expected Gin to be among them.

She grew up, he noted.

This was no time to be nostalgic, so he shook the thought away and looked toward the other two.

He didn’t recognize them. The little girl sitting beside Gin had to be a rookie, considering her age. She wore a red kimono and looked no older than Kenji. Yet her face held no liveliness— not that Chuuya would expect it to. No child working for the Port Mafia could truly be considered happy.

Beside her sat a man propped against the edge of the wall, against the concrete blocks, radiating an unsettling calm.

For a second, Chuuya simply stood still and stared him down.

The man looked to be in his thirties, with burnt red hair and unreadable ocean-blue eyes. The lines of his face were sharp, his jaw darkened by a lack of grooming that left visible stubble behind.

His eyes remained fixed on Chuuya.

As though trying to read him.

The redhead scoffed in offense and turned away. He walked back over to Verlaine, taking a place beside him.

His gaze stretched across the land before him, watching as hordes of men marched toward them. His brows stiffened as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

The wind blew his coat back, making it wave from his shoulders, though it never slipped off thanks to his ability. The faintest trace of crimson glowed around him.

The two stood silently, watching as the Mafia approached. Tension began to rise as the approaching columns grew too large to count.

All of them soldiers, ready to spill blood for their organization.

More were still marching when the first troops lined up before the wall. Chuuya immediately recognized the Mafia executives among the front line— Kouyou Ozaki and Ace— staring him down in exactly the same way.

There wasn’t a hint of sincerity in their gazes. All they saw was a traitor.

Chuuya gritted his teeth and held his ground, his eyes burning into theirs with equal fire.

To their disappointment, he couldn’t give less of a damn about what they thought of him.

His gaze quickly caught sight of Yosano, Kunikida, and Ranpo standing on the opposite side of the enemy, right beneath the wall.

Yosano stood with her arms crossed, looking as smug and relaxed as ever, while Kunikida looked on the verge of a complete breakdown, clutching his notebook tightly. Standing in front of both of them, Ranpo waved up at the redhead and gave him a thumbs-up.

Before Chuuya could ask where the president was, all the commotion and noise suddenly stopped.

Silence fell in an instant.

Everything came to a halt.

All the troops had aligned themselves into several lines behind one another. As if on cue, they separated, creating a path through the middle.

Through that opening, a figure approached, draped entirely in black and followed by two armed men walking beside him.

As the dark figure passed, every soldier dropped to one knee, lowering their heads in obedience and respect.

Even from his height, Chuuya couldn’t make out the man’s face. There were too many people obstructing the view.

The only thing he could see clearly was the red scarf waving violently in the wind behind him like a whip.

Chuuya stared a second too long, realizing Dazai wasn’t walking with his head held high.

Why the hell not? he wondered.

Only once Dazai came closer did Chuuya finally get a proper look at him. Immediately, his eyes locked onto the bandages wrapped around the right side of his face.

He sucked in a breath, suddenly unsteady on his feet. As though burned, he averted his gaze to the ground beneath him, feeling a lump form in his throat.

Verlaine, meanwhile, stood calmly, watching as the new boss of the Port Mafia approached the wall.

Once Dazai stopped before it, the first thing he did was stare at the guards stationed before him. Carefully. Methodically. With his single visible eye.

From where he stood, Chuuya could no longer make out his colleagues’ expressions.

Dazai’s, however, he could.

The brunette stood before the enemy organization with the same ease he always had. Knowing that maniac, even death staring him in the face wouldn’t make him flinch. This was child’s play to him.

Playing tricks, manipulating both sides, amusing himself all the while.

And now, as the new boss, he probably had even more freedom than Mori had ever allowed him.

He was practically untouchable with an army at his back.

Chuuya hated admitting it, but seeing Dazai in control like this felt like one of his worst nightmares brought to life.

A second passed before the brunette tilted his head upward. Chuuya’s instincts sparked immediately, but confusion hit him when he realized Dazai wasn’t looking at him at all.

His gaze was fixed on Verlaine.

Chuuya clenched his fist, irritation already boiling inside him like gasoline waiting for a spark.

He bit the inside of his cheek, reminding himself to stay calm. The last thing he wanted was to provoke a reaction out of this bastard and embarrass himself in front of everyone here. Dazai would love that.

The brunette smiled.

Verlaine’s eyes sharpened instantly.

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly one of the soldiers on their side turned around and approached one of the hostages. Chuuya didn’t take his eyes off Dazai, who was still staring up at them, but he was aware of everything happening around him.

The soldier grabbed one of the hostages, hauled him to his feet, and marched him toward Verlaine.

The exchange was about to begin.

They had already gone over this: there would be no fighting, the hostages would walk away freely, and Verlaine would ask for an extension of the treaty.

Simple.

And even though it hadn’t been discussed with the enemy beforehand, there was no harm in trying.

Nobody was foolish enough to start a fight today. Despite the overwhelming number of soldiers Dazai had brought with him, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.

With a shove, a man was pushed between the two brothers. Without even looking properly, Chuuya immediately recognized the red-haired man from earlier.

Suddenly, Chuuya noticed a shift in Dazai’s posture. As though he had been about to say something but decided against it the moment the man was brought forward.

That made Chuuya pause.

Was Dazai not expecting this?

That wasn’t like him. Dazai never came unprepared, nor did he hesitate over whether or not to speak.

Whatever. Dazai didn’t need to say anything. That bastard had already made his demands crystal clear in the messages he’d sent the Agency.

As planned, Verlaine should have been the one to speak next. To offer a renewal of the peace treaty.

But instead of speaking, Verlaine placed a hand on the red-haired man’s shoulder and leaned close to whisper something into his ear.

Only then did Chuuya finally look away from Dazai.

“What’s going on?” he asked under his breath so only the men beside him could hear.

Verlaine’s eyes were cold in return, fixed solely on the hostage.

Piercing.

Now Chuuya was staring too. The tension between the two men felt suffocating, hanging by a thread ready to snap. Sweat slid down his face as he remained painfully aware of Dazai’s gaze from below.

Something wasn’t right.

Chuuya was about to ask again when Verlaine stopped him with a hand.

“Let me handle this, little brother.” He grabbed Chuuya’s wrist harshly and tugged him behind him. “Stand aside.”

“Why?” Chuuya shot back immediately, shoving his hand away and stepping closer.

Verlaine snapped toward him.

“Don’t get in my way.”

Then he pushed past him and walked off.

The redhead watched him move toward the other side of the wall, where several soldiers waited by the stairwell.

A moment later, Chuuya heard Yosano speak up to Dazai. He couldn’t make out the words since she kept her voice low enough for only those nearby to hear.

What’s going on? Chuuya thought.

Was there something else to this that nobody told me about?

He backed away from the edge and walked over to the soldier standing beside the hostage.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, losing whatever patience he still had.

The man immediately saluted him.

“I was ordered to keep hold of him, sir.”

Chuuya clenched his fists.

“I’ll take him off your hands. Go.”

He shoved the soldier aside before turning toward the hostage, arms crossed and thoroughly pissed off.

Why hadn’t they filled him in on this? Was this some last-minute plan? Had everything changed?

Bullshit.

He sighed in annoyance, dragging a gloved hand down his face and pressing his thumb and forefinger against his brows.

“You must be Chuuya.”

A voice cut through the thick tension. The redhead lowered his hand and looked at the man standing before him.

“What’s it to you?” he snapped back, far too irritated for this conversation.

The man simply stared at him, which only annoyed him more.

“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you. I’ve only ever heard stories about you. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” His eyes stayed fixed on Chuuya with strange familiarity. “Kind of ironic that this is how we officially meet.”

Chuuya held back an eye roll, tightening his grip on his own arms. He wasn’t about to listen to some hostage’s sob story.

Before he could shut the conversation down, the man continued.

“Dazai never got the chance to introduce us sooner.”

Chuuya froze.

He really looked at the man this time. As though he were a missing puzzle piece finally snapping into place.

The man smiled in recognition.

“My name’s Oda. I’m a lower-ranking member of the Mafia.”

“Oda…” Chuuya repeated slowly, still processing it.

“Odasaku,” he breathed, eyes widening as realization finally struck.

The man merely nodded.

The wind blowing between them left both silent for a moment.

“You have a good heart, kid,” Oda began. “Following the path you chose… I can tell you’re searching for that light. The kind the Mafia could never have shown you.”

He spoke so calmly that every word made the world around Chuuya suddenly feel distant and unreal.

Everything inside him seemed to shut off.

Chuuya blinked. “What?”

He didn’t understand what the man was trying to say. What light?

“Chuuya,” Oda interrupted softly, drawing his attention back. “Keep your heart open. Don’t let anything close it off.”

Chuuya’s gaze remained uneasy, but fixed on him.

“What does that mean?” he demanded firmly, his eyes burning into the other man. “Say something that actually makes sense.”

Fuck metaphors.

He wanted a real answer, not some stupid, sentimental riddle.

Oda smiled at him, but Chuuya didn’t smile back— for reasons he didn’t want to admit even to himself.

Time couldn’t already be up.

Then suddenly, Verlaine shouted from behind them, ordering the rebels to seize him.

Before Chuuya could react, two rebels approached from behind and grabbed Oda by the arms. Instinctively, Chuuya lunged forward to shove them off him, ready to yell—

—but Oda suddenly headbutted him.

Pain exploded across Chuuya’s forehead as shock washed through him. He looked up just in time to see the man smiling faintly.

“Stay there, kid.”

The rebels dragged him forward while Oda walked willingly with them.

Chuuya remained frozen in place, lips parted, unable to move as he watched them take Oda back to Verlaine, who had returned to the place where they’d stood only minutes earlier.

The soldiers forced Oda onto his knees.

And then it felt as though time slowed.

Chuuya watched his brother accept a sword from one of the guards and raise it high into the air, the blade flashing in the light.

For a single moment, Chuuya could focus only on the tip of that sword. It felt as though nothing he had ever done mattered as much as what would happen next.

What was he doing?

The blade began to fall.

His legs finally moved.

But the instant he lunged forward, time seemed to speed up all at once— and just as he reached out to grab Verlaine’s shoulder and pull him back—

—the sword sliced clean through Oda’s neck.

The moment the blade fell, birds burst from the nearby trees in panic, scattering into the sky.

The head rolled right off the wall.

Everyone heard the moment it hit the ground.

Afterward, not a single sound followed.

Chuuya couldn’t breathe. His body locked in place a single step behind Verlaine.

From where he stood, he could only see Dazai’s face.

The brunette’s head had tilted slightly downward, drained of all color as he stared blankly at the ground. His lips were tightly pressed together, but his visible eye was wide open— his pupil blown so wide Chuuya had never seen anything like it before.

Finally, Chuuya exhaled shakily and walked toward Verlaine, who stood beside the corpse.

Below them was complete chaos.

Chuuya’s gaze landed on Oda’s severed head lying only feet away from Dazai, who remained frozen, staring at it.

His eyes flicked toward Yosano, who had already drawn her weapon, just like every other rebel around them.

Aiming it at the Mafia.

Weapons were drawn from both sides in an instant, everyone waiting silently for the order to attack.

Everyone expected screaming. Blood. War.

Everyone was waiting for Dazai.

Waiting to see how he would decide this ended.

And Chuuya watched him too, waiting for the command that would start the slaughter.

Then suddenly, the man beside him spoke.

Verlaine’s voice cut through the silence sharply enough to make Chuuya stiffen.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Port Mafia boss,” he said coldly. “Do not underestimate your betters.”

“Be afraid.”

Then he sheathed the sword.

The message had been delivered.

A long moment passed.

Then, without saying a word, Dazai turned around.

His army parted for him as he walked away without giving a single order.

And nobody stopped him.

The Mafia, uncertain whether to retaliate or retreat, simply followed after their leader.

Chuuya watched them leave without once looking back.

They had the numbers. They could have wiped everything off the map and left no one alive.

Yet they retreated.

Dazai retreated.

Without thinking, Chuuya lunged forward and grabbed Verlaine by the collar with all his strength, crimson light erupting around him instantly.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!” he screamed.

Verlaine didn’t even budge.

Chuuya’s grip shook violently as he raised his other fist, trembling just as badly, standing over a headless corpse.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YO—”

Before the punch could land, Verlaine caught his fist with matching force, the same crimson glow surrounding his own hand.

“Control yourself,” he said evenly. “There is no point in being upset over a victory.”

“VICTORY?!” Chuuya roared, veins bulging along his wrists. “You call this shit a victory?”

He yanked Verlaine lower by the collar, forcing him to look at the corpse.

Verlaine said nothing.

Which only enraged him more.

Chuuya shoved him away violently before jumping off the wall, landing hard enough to crack the ground beneath him.

“And you—”

He turned on his subordinates, fury blazing.

“—you knew all about this, didn’t you?!”

Nobody answered.

Not one word.

Their silence alone told him everything.

Chuuya had just about reached his limit when a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and pulled him back.

He turned, only to meet Verlaine’s calm gaze once again.

“We defeated our enemy— the monsters who traffic and abuse our kind. What are you so upset about?” he asked.

Chuuya felt his chest tighten painfully.

“You killed a man. An innocent—”

“Innocent?” Verlaine repeated mockingly, smiling through the word. “These people are not innocent, Chuuya. They were trained to annihilate and enslave children. They don’t even see you as human.”

The words cut deeper than Chuuya wanted to admit.

Slowly, the tightness in his chest eased. His shoulders loosened. And in one final act of surrender, he deactivated his ability and shoved his hands back into his pockets.

Verlaine’s hand remained on his shoulder for a second longer before squeezing gently.

“Think of our dead. Their sacrifices were not in vain.”

Once he let go, Verlaine barked an order for the body to be handled properly and returned to the Mafia, all while watching Chuuya for some kind of acknowledgment.

He got none.

Chuuya was still furious internally, and Verlaine couldn’t erase that.

The blond scoffed and joked about Chuuya’s stubbornness with Yosano, who threw in another remark Chuuya barely registered as he walked away.

Using his ability, he lifted himself onto the roof of the Agency’s main building.

From up there, he could see every neighborhood under Rebel control.

And beyond them—

—the Port Mafia headquarters.

His eyes followed the retreating troops making their way back.

Somewhere among them was Dazai.

Walking home defeated, with his tail between his legs.

A long time ago— and honestly, even now— Chuuya would have thought seeing a sight like this would feel satisfying.

Instead, it didn’t.

Chuuya was pulled from his thoughts when something cold landed softly against the tip of his nose.

Snow.

Slowly, he lifted his hand, and another white flake drifted down onto his knuckle.

It had started to snow.

*

Two days later. 

There were many lifelessly dreadful places in this world. Places so dead that even a graveyard seemed peaceful beside them.

The tunnels underneath the Port Mafia certainly accounted for every terrible thing ever said about them.

It was a place abandoned for so long that barely anyone knew of its existence. Massive, endless walls stretched for miles in several directions. No signal reached that deep underground, and whoever wandered too far was doomed to remain lost forever.

The Port Mafia itself had only explored five percent of the entire structure.

And that five percent alone made up the dungeons they reserved for restricted individuals— or secrets better buried here than dead.

After all, it was a place of horror known only to a select few. It made perfect sense to banish someone there, leaving behind no trace and no one to search for them.

The place itself had its demons.

Being underground, the conditions were miserable. Temperatures a few degrees below freezing were enough to make anyone wish for death instead. But beyond that, spending every day and night unable to distinguish between the two slowly destroyed the mind as well.

Food was limited, delivered only once a day by the same two guards who alternated shifts. Other than them, you were entirely alone.

It was enough to drive anyone insane.

Even the sharpest minds were known to have broken down here under those conditions— but above all else, it was the isolation that ruined them.

Time was the true enemy down there. The more of it you had, the further your mind strayed.

Footsteps echoed through the pathway leading to the dungeons.

Someone was approaching the sealed gate known as the only entrance to these catacombs hidden beneath the government’s nose.

Three figures walked closely together. Two carried lamps and wore pistols strapped to their belts, while the one between them walked a few steps ahead, entering the darkness first without fear.

Brave, but careless.

Even those who entered regularly could lose their footing and stray away forever. The darkness itself was said to lure people deeper in.

Perhaps because of that, the two men hurried after the third.

They passed the final warning sign— the last indication to turn back before entering the unexplored sections.

Only further ahead did thick metal bars finally come into view.

The two guards stopped the moment their leader halted. They looked toward him, but he wore the same expressionless look across his pale, cold, almost lifeless face.

He extended a hand, and the guard to his right immediately stepped forward and handed him the lamp he carried.

“Leave,” he said quietly.

The two guards exchanged glances, but chose obedience over caution. Without another word, they turned and left.

The brunette continued onward alone.

He wasn’t leaving until he got what he came for.

He walked slowly, but steadily, chin held high.

Finally, after passing several cells along the way, he arrived at the one he had been searching for.

He didn’t reach for the key.

He had already decided he would not open that door.

Instead, he lifted the lamp toward the bars, pressing the light between them.

The moment the cell illuminated, he saw exactly what he had come for.

A man.

He sat against the freezing wall wearing torn prisoner’s robes stained with dirt. His black hair was slicked back, his head tilted downward.

His hands were chained to the wall behind him with the same material the bars were made from— a special crystalline metal capable of absorbing abilities and stripping them from their user.

The figure before him looked dead. Malnourished. Pale. Hollow.

To think this man had once held such importance within his reign, only to end up abandoned here over one stupid mistake.

Mistake.

Dazai gritted his teeth.

Even thinking about it made him wish the man before him truly was dead.

As dead as he looked.

As dead as he was supposed to be.

Because the entire organization believed he was.

And because this man was supposed to be dead, another man— who wasn’t supposed to be— now was.

Still, the man before him remained alive.

No words were spoken until the prisoner finally acknowledged his visitor by slightly lifting his head, just enough for his dull eyes to become visible beneath the dark strands of hair falling over them.

“Dazai…” he rasped dryly. “What a pleasant surprise. How long has it been, if I may ask?”

The sound of his voice irritated Dazai instantly.

Hearing it directly again felt like venom flooding back into his veins.

Dazai had planned everything carefully. He already knew what the man would say. He knew every tactic Mori would attempt, every manipulation he would reach for, and he had prepared counters for all of them.

He came here to get answers.

And to make the man fear him.

Yet despite all his careful preparation, something inside him snapped the moment Mori spoke so casually.

As though all of this had merely been a misunderstanding.

And as always, the venom spread the moment it bit.

He knew exactly what came next.

Mori would wrap him in silk before suffocating him with it.

Like he was still a child.

“Four months,” Dazai replied coldly.

His single visible eye remained fixed intensely on the older man. There was nothing in it for Mori to latch onto.

Dazai made sure of that.

The older man noticed immediately and made no attempt to soften him. Instead, he simply observed him in silence.

“What do you want, Dazai?” he finally asked.

His voice echoed off the walls.

“We’re not playing these games anymore, Mori-san.”

“Oh?”

Silence stretched between them.

Dazai narrowed his eye.

“Tell me the whole of it.”

There was no force behind the demand. Somehow, that only made it colder.

Mori’s eyes gleamed faintly within the darkness, locked onto him like a leashed wolf eyeing fresh meat.

“Four months have passed since you condemned me, and only now do you wish to hear my side of the story?” Mori mused smoothly, already making Dazai regret stepping foot down there again. “That’s rather immature of you, don’t you think?”

“I think you should be grateful I didn’t kill you instead,” Dazai replied just as smoothly.

Mori’s smile remained.

Tilting his head slightly, he studied the boy standing beyond the bars.

“You’re upset,” he observed with quiet ease. “Something happened. Being boss isn’t as easy as you thought it would be.”

He relaxed against the wall slightly.

“And now you’re here, seeking comfort from the only person who could ever truly understand you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Dazai’s response came sharp enough to cut.

His eye burned into the man.

“Tell me what possessed you to do what you did.”

Mori didn’t answer.

He only smiled.

Holding back his irritation, Dazai rephrased the question.

“Okay. Tell me this instead: what would you have done in my place if you discovered your boss making secret deals with the enemy?”

Mori chuckled softly.

“Oh my… since when did my Dazai start asking hypotheticals?” He sighed dramatically. “Haven’t I taught you? Facts over fiction.”

Then he smiled again.

“But if you insist on asking, I truly couldn’t tell you. After all, I killed my boss for entirely different reasons.”

The lamp shattered violently against the bars.

Darkness swallowed the room instantly.

“Apparently four months down here weren’t enough,” Dazai said coldly as he turned away. “If you’re lucky, you might see me again.”

Silence stretched between them as Dazai prepared to leave, turning toward the pathway he had entered through.

Then suddenly— mud splashed nearby.

Mori had approached the bars.

“You’re not new to this, Dazai,” he said from much closer now. “You know very well that everything I do, I do for a reason. A logical one. One that benefits us.”

Dazai stopped walking.

“All I’ve ever done was for the sake of the organization.”

Dazai said nothing.

Because they both knew it was true.

“I disregarded your feelings, I admit,” Mori continued gently, “but we both know I’ve never been the type to prioritize emotions —especially when they interfere with business.”

His voice turned softer.

“Surely you understand that, Dazai. No harm was intentionally aimed at you.”

Honey-sweet.

Manipulative.

Mori reached through the bars and took Dazai’s hand into his own. Though Dazai couldn’t see him clearly anymore, he could feel Mori leaning against the bars.

“You know I would never hurt you, Osamu.”

“Liar,” Dazai hissed immediately, turning toward the sound of his voice. “If that were true, Odasaku would still be alive.”

Mori let go of his hand.

“Oh,” he murmured flatly. “So that’s what this is about.”

Dazai stood rigidly, turning his face away.

“You placed his life on the line for your own selfish desires. I’ll never understand that.”

Mori sighed softly beside him.

“And why would you say that?”

A heavy silence followed.

“Because he was my friend.”

This time Mori didn’t reply.

Neither did Dazai continue.

He realized quickly enough that he wouldn’t be getting anything useful out of Mori tonight. Not now.

It was time to leave.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the exit in silence, listening only to the sound of his own footsteps echoing through the tunnels.

But just before he reached the entrance, Mori called after him.

“Dazai-san?”

Dazai stopped and turned slightly toward the darkness he had left behind.

For a moment, neither spoke.

“What?” he finally asked.

“Hm? Oh, nothing.” Mori’s cheerful tone echoed faintly through the dark. “Must be the cold. It’s getting to me. Go on now, lad.”

Annoyed, the brunette rolled his eye and walked away.

*

Once he reached the lighter part of the tunnel— the side closer to the Port Mafia’s grounds— he slipped back into the same state he had been in before: dissociating.

He didn’t want to think about any of it.

Not about the fact his own people were indirectly calling him weak for walking away from the battlefield, nor about the fact he had left two hostages behind at the Agency.

The truth was, he hadn’t done anything about it.

People wanted blood. They wanted him to reassert control and put the Rebels back in their place.

But Dazai’s mind wasn’t focused on any of that.

It was still trying to process the fact that Odasaku’s funeral was tomorrow.

And the fact that he was supposed to prepare a speech for it.

He sighed.

He hadn’t slept since it happened.

Everything was falling apart. None of it even felt worth fighting for anymore. Not this position. Not this organization. Nothing.

Part of him wanted to let it all burn down, just like in the good old days.

But he knew that would have been the last thing Odasaku would have wanted right after his stupid funeral.

Pathetic.

Ugh.

Why was grieving so difficult? he wondered.

He had never truly grieved for anyone before. Not someone who couldn’t come back. Someone now permanently buried beneath the ground.

It was hard to understand that he would never hear his voice again.

Even if it was only to be scolded by him.

Grief was such a strange thing.

Dazai finally stepped into the light, exiting the tunnel.

A single black-haired guard stood waiting for him near the staircase, tinted glasses resting on his face.

The brunette walked over slowly, still half-lost in thoughts about the speech he would have to force himself to write tonight.

“Boss, let me clean your shoes,” the man said, slightly off pitch.

Dazai looked down at the trail of dirt he had dragged behind him.

Without second-guessing, he nodded.

“What a mess…” he muttered lightly. “I should consider bringing my assistant with me next time.”

The soldier knelt before him, pulling a cloth from his pocket before beginning to wipe the mud from Dazai’s shoes.

Suddenly, while thinking over what he should write in the speech, Dazai felt a sharp sting rush through him.

It lasted only a second.

He brushed it off as having stepped on something.

But afterward, he couldn’t remember a single thing he had been thinking about moments earlier. A migraine began pounding through his skull— which wasn’t surprising considering how little sleep he’d gotten.

The soldier stood back up, and Dazai barely registered him.

He vaguely remembered looking at the man, but the memory already felt blurred and painful to focus on.

“I should… get to bed,” he muttered, pressing a hand against his temple.

“Yes, sir,” the soldier replied, his voice strangely slurred.

They started walking toward the staircase.

But before long, Dazai completely lost track of where he was, how he had gotten there, and what he had even been doing in the first place.

Soon enough, he stopped caring about the answers altogether.

And not long after that, he lost consciousness too.

*