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Atsushi woke up in an unfamiliar room. The bed beneath him was softer than anything he'd ever slept on, and the sheets were crisp and clean. But it might have been the pounding headache that made it all feel unbearable, as if his brain was about to explode. His heart raced as his eyes adjusted, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The room was dimly lit by warm string lights, casting a soft glow on rich, antique wood furniture. Heavy curtains blocked the world outside. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air, but the peaceful atmosphere did nothing to soothe the growing panic gnawing at him.
His mind was a blur, struggling to piece together what had happened. His last clear memory was of that man —looming over him, promising that everything would end if Atsushi came with him. He'd said he could bring them all back...Atsushi's breath quickened. He tried to calm himself, to cage the rising fear, but his body wouldn't listen, pulling him deeper into dread.
Sitting up, he glanced down at his clothes—soft, silky blue pajamas that felt far too expensive for his detective's salary. He instinctively checked himself for injuries but found none, thanks to his healing ability.
There were no restraints. But something was very wrong. He needed to get out of here.
Pulling himself from the bed, Atsushi swayed as his headache tightened around his skull. He stumbled toward the heavy curtains and yanked them open. Sunlight flooded the room, forcing him to squint. He hissed and retreated from the brightness. Once his eyes adjusted, the sight outside made his panic worse.
Skyscrapers rose against the skyline—buildings he didn't recognize. Nothing looked like Japan.
"Shit," he whispered, voice trembling. I'm not even in Japan anymore ...
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as fear coursed through his veins. His heart pounded in his throat. Frantically, he scanned the room for answers, but everything was too meticulously arranged to offer clues. A basket of toiletries sat on the nightstand as if he were in a luxury hotel. Next to it, a neatly folded letter, a bottle of water, and a single pill.
Approaching cautiously, he picked up the envelope with his name written in elegant calligraphy. Whoever brought me here knows me. He hesitated before sliding the letter out. It read:
I hope you slept well. Please wash up and make your way to the study. We will discuss our arrangement afterward over a meal of your choosing. I've left some medicine for any lingering discomfort.
His skin prickled. I'm being watched . He scanned the room for hidden cameras or listening devices but found nothing obvious. Every instinct screamed for him to run. But where? He didn't even know what country he was in.
Atsushi moved to the door, his hand hovering over the brass handle. He pressed down. It was locked. Frustration surged, mingling with his headache. Fine . He would play along for now if there was no way out yet. He grabbed the basket and headed to the bathroom.
Inside, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His reflection was disheveled, his skin smeared with dirt and soot—the remnants of whatever ordeal had brought him here. Dried blood clung to his fingernails. He sighed. "At least I'm intact." Then, a voice in his mind added, For now.
The water ran down from the shower head. The steam and the heat easing his headache clearing his mind to remember one key detail. He let him take him in exchange for his friends return. This was the start of a new everything. It terrified him. He didn't know if he was strong enough to go through that type of torture again. Atsushi knew he wouldn't come back from this. But it was okay. He was okay with that choice.
After a long, hot shower, he dressed in the clothes left for him—a white button-up shirt over a black turtleneck paired with black trousers. The attire was formal, not his usual style. Atsushi glanced at the nightstand, where the pill still sat. He hovered for a moment, considering it, but left it untouched. Not yet.
When he reached the door again, it creaked open, revealing a hallway lined with paintings of abstract human figures. Their lifelike eyes seemed to follow him as he walked, unnerving in their stillness. The entire place felt like something from another time—grand, old-fashioned, and eerily quiet as if he wasn't truly alone.
Atsushi's anxiety grew with every step. The hallway opened into a series of rooms, all filled with lavish, antique furniture. Everything was pristine, far too perfect. It had to be one of Fyodor's hideouts. The opulence shocked him—luxurious and beyond anything he'd imagined. If Fyodor's here ... what about Dazai? The thought chilled him. Atsushi couldn't picture a world where Dazai had lost. Please, just be safe Dazai .
Eventually, he came upon a door left ajar. Inside, Fyodor sat calmly, typing on a sleek laptop. He looked up, smiling as Atsushi entered. Without a word, Fyodor closed the laptop and gestured for Atsushi to sit.
The room was... cozy.
"You've been out for a while," Fyodor said, motioning to the chair across from him. Atsushi cautiously sat.
"You're hungry, I'm sure. Shall I have the chefs prepare something?"
"Chefs?" Atsushi repeated, confused.
"Yes, we have a full staff here."
"Here being...?"
"Chelsea," Fyodor answered with a smile.
"Chelsea?!" Atsushi's voice cracked, disbelief evident in his harsh accent.
"Indeed. We're only here temporarily, of course. I'm still a wanted man, after all. But while we're here, some of my associates will help you with... your abilities."
Atsushi gazed out the window at the unfamiliar skyline. Billowing clouds crept across the blue, turning the sky into a wash of grey ink. It was like the paintings he had seen, abstract yet precise. "You don't even like me."
"Does it matter?" Fyodor's smile remained.
"You were going to cut my head off," Atsushi's hand fumbled nervously.
"Attempted murder is just part of our business, Atsushi." Fyodor's smile twisted into something darker. "And I'm still considering it."
Atsushi swallowed hard.
"You still haven't told me what you want from me," Atsushi muttered.
"In due time," Fyodor replied, toying with an expensive pen. "But first, dinner."
"A simple Japanese meal, please," Atsushi said, trying to regain some sense of normalcy.
Fyodor picked up an old-fashioned phone on his desk, rattled off their order, and hung up without waiting for confirmation.
His eyes returned to Atsushi. "I will strip away your weakness, forge you into what you were meant to be—beyond what Dazai Dear could ever dream. And when I'm done, you won't even recognize yourself. You'll be far removed from the weak, lost, pathetic thing that was groveling at my feet."
Atsushi's hands trembled again. He didn't want to leave everything behind, but what choice did he have? He had always been distant, isolated from everyone. Sure, there was a brief amount when he dreamed. When he felt the warmth of another, his eyes started to flood. Even if he fled, would anyone take him back? All the chaos, the destruction he'd caused... This was better, wasn't it? It had to be. His eyes flicked to the monster across from him, then to the window. Strangely, the reflection staring back wasn't his own anymore—it was warping, twisting, becoming something unrecognizable.
He felt his face grow wet with tears, warm and uncontrollable.
I really am pathetic.