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The mission had been a success. At least, that’s what they called it. The targets had been eliminated, the evidence destroyed, and the Port Mafia’s power remained unchallenged.
But the blood on Dazai’s hands hadn’t dried yet.
Seventeen-year-old Dazai Osamu walked through the quiet halls of the Port Mafia headquarters, his coat draped over his arm, his shirt still stained with the remnants of the night’s work. His steps were silent, his expression unreadable, but there was something off about the way his shoulders slumped just slightly.
Kouyou Ozaki noticed.
She had been watching from the balcony as he entered, her golden eyes sharp even in the dim light. While many in the Mafia admired Dazai’s efficiency, Kouyou saw more than that—she saw the weight of the role he played.
Most would say he was heartless. A prodigy of death. But Kouyou, who had been in the Mafia since she was younger than him, knew better.
She didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she poured herself a cup of tea in the quiet of her room, letting the steam rise into the cool night air. When Dazai passed by her open door, she spoke casually, as if it were nothing more than an afterthought.
“Come in, Dazai. Have some tea.”
He paused, his dark eyes flickering toward her. There was a moment where she thought he might just keep walking, pretend he hadn’t heard. But then, slowly, he stepped inside.
Kouyou gestured for him to sit, and he did, though with the same casual indifference he wore like armor.
“You were efficient tonight,” she remarked, handing him a cup.
He smirked, bringing the tea to his lips. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not.” She studied him, watching the way his fingers curled around the porcelain. “But you haven’t said a word since you returned.”
Dazai chuckled softly, the sound hollow. “I didn’t realize silence was a crime in the Mafia.”
Kouyou set her cup down with a quiet clink. “It isn’t. But I know what it’s like to finish a mission and return to an empty room, I know I am no Chuuya but I would like if you could be comfortable with me.”
For the first time since he sat down, Dazai hesitated. His smirk faltered, just for a second, before he tilted his head. “And what do you suggest I do to be more comfortable, dear Ane-san?” he asked, voice light but lacking its usual playfulness.
She exhaled, looking toward the window seeing a glimpse of her past through Dazai’s empty eyes. The mafia was no place for a child but darkness always seems to find a way to envelop even childlike innocence. “I suggest that you drink your tea boy.”
Dazai didn’t argue. He simply sipped, the warmth settling in his throat.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something else, something Dazai rarely allowed himself to have.
Rest.
Kouyou didn’t pry, didn’t push, didn’t try to comfort him with empty words. She simply sat with him, the way no one else did.
And for that, Dazai was grateful.