Chapter Text
The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp and sterile, as Fukuzawa Yukichi stepped into the dimly lit study. He had expected nothing less. Mori Ōgai had always surrounded himself with the scent of death disguised as civility. The Port Mafia’s leader sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, his ever-present smirk lingering like a wound that refused to close.
“You’ve aged, Fukuzawa,” Mori observed, his tone light, conversational. But his eyes —those sharp, calculating eyes— gleamed with something heavier. Something unreadable.
Fukuzawa didn’t rise to the bait. “I could say the same about you.”
Mori chuckled, tilting his head. “But I wear it well, don’t you think?”
The silence stretched between them, thick with history. Once, long ago, they had stood side by side, blades drawn in defence of the other. Now, they were enemies, their paths irreversibly severed. And yet, the past had a way of clinging to them both, refusing to let go.
“I assume you’re not here for pleasantries,” Mori finally said, leaning back in his chair. “What does the honourable President of the Armed Detective Agency want with a lowly crime lord such as myself?”
Fukuzawa inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Every interaction with the doctor was a battle —one fought in words, glances, and the lingering ghosts of what had once been. “I have no desire to entertain your theatrics. I’m here for information.”
Mori’s smirk widened. “Ah, of course. And what could I possibly provide you that you couldn’t find through your own righteous means?”
Fukuzawa’s fingers twitched at his side, an old habit from years spent gripping a sword. “The Guild has been making moves again. There’s talk of an alliance, one that involves the Port Mafia.”
Mori sighed, as if disappointed. “And you assume I’d be so careless as to let such things slip into your grasp? Yukichi, you wound me.”
The Director’s gaze darkened at the familiarity of his first name on Mori’s lips. It had been years since he had heard it spoken in that tone — mocking, laced with something that felt too much like memory.
“Enough games.” His voice was steady, but inside, he hated that Mori could still affect him, still pull at the loose threads of the past with a simple smile. “I need to know what you’re planning.”
The man rose from his chair, crossing the room with unhurried steps. The air shifted between them, heavy with something unspoken. “You’ve always been so serious,” Mori mused. “So predictable. That’s what made us such a good team.”
Fukuzawa stiffened, his jaw tightening. “That’s in the past.”
“Is it?” Mori’s voice was almost gentle now, his gaze searching. “Because it seems to me that you wouldn’t be here if you truly believed that.”
Fukuzawa hated that there was truth in Mori’s words. Hated that, despite everything, a part of him still remembered the way they had fought together, the way they had once trusted each other without hesitation. But that was before — before blood stained Mori’s hands in a way that could never be washed clean.
“I won’t ask again,” Fukuzawa said, steel creeping into his tone. “What do you know about the Guild’s movements?”
Mori exhaled dramatically, as if burdened by the weight of the conversation. “Very well, if you insist.” He stepped closer, stopping just within arm’s reach. Too close. “But nothing is free, Yukichi. You should know that better than anyone.”
Fukuzawa held his ground, even as his pulse quickened in ways he refused to acknowledge. “Name your price.”
Mori’s smirk softened — just a little, just enough to make it dangerous. “A dinner. Just you and me. No politics, no bloodshed. Call it nostalgia, if you like.”
Fukuzawa narrowed his eyes. “You expect me to believe you’d settle for something so trivial?”
Mori chuckled. “Oh, Yukichi. There are some things more valuable than information.”
Fukuzawa knew this was a mistake. Knew Mori was playing a game he had no interest in. And yet, as he met Mori’s gaze, something flickered between them — something old, something restless. A ghost neither of them had quite buried.
“…Fine.”
Mori’s smirk widened. “Wonderful. I do hope you haven’t lost your taste for fine wine.”
Fukuzawa turned on his heel before he could second-guess himself, leaving behind the scent of antiseptic and the weight of a past that refused to die.
And behind him, Mori watched, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Oh, Yukichi,” he murmured to the empty room. “You never could resist a challenge.
The morning light streamed through the windows of the Armed Detective Agency, casting long shadows against the floor. Fukuzawa sat at his desk, hands folded before him, his gaze unfocused. The faint hum of conversation among his subordinates barely registered in his ears. His mind was elsewhere.
Mori.
The name alone was enough to unsettle him. The previous night’s conversation replayed in his thoughts, twisting and turning, each word another piece of a puzzle he couldn't yet solve. What was Mori’s true aim? A dinner? It was far too simple. Mori was a man who thrived on layers, on deception hidden beneath charm.
A test, then. A game. He should have refused outright. And yet…
Fukuzawa s i ghed, rubbing his temples. The past had always been a heavy weight, but last night, it had felt tangible, a living thing curling its fingers around his throat. He had seen something in Mori’s eyes—amusement, yes, but also something deeper, something more dangerous.
Regret? Longing? No. He couldn’t afford to think like that.
“Sir?”
Fukuzawa glanced up to find Ranpo peering at him over a stack of case files. The detective’s sharp gaze flickered with curiosity. “You’ve been staring at your desk for a while now. Something wrong?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Fukuzawa replied, but Ranpo only hummed, unconvinced.
“If you say so.”
But as Ranpo walked away, Fukuzawa knew the matter was far from settled. Not with Mori lurking at the edges of his thoughts, a shadow that refused to fade.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Fukuzawa buried himself in paperwork, in case reports, in anything that could keep his mind occupied. But distraction was a fickle thing. No matter how many documents he signed or how many directives he issued, his thoughts continued to circle back to Mori.
What was he truly after?
Fukuzawa leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The past between them was complicated. They had fought together once, shoulder to shoulder, believing in the same cause. He had trusted Mori. He had even —once— considered him a friend. And yet, time had splintered that bond into something else. Something dangerous. Something neither of them had ever truly acknowledged.
A dinner. It was an absurd proposition. They were on opposite sides of an unbridgeable chasm, each leading a faction that could never coexist peacefully. And yet, Mori had made the offer as if it were nothing, as if they could sit across from each other and sip wine like old companions reminiscing about bygone days.
Fukuzawa exhaled sharply. He knew better. Mori never did anything without reason. Every action was a move in a larger scheme, a calculated step toward an unseen goal. If he wanted dinner, it was because he wanted something more.
But what?
A sharp knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He straightened as Kunikida stepped inside, a folder tucked beneath his arm. “Sir, we have new intelligence regarding the Guild’s movements.”
Fukuzawa gestured for him to continue, grateful for something concrete to focus on. “Go on.”
Kunikida placed the folder on the desk, opening it with his usual efficiency. “There have been reports of increased activity near the port. Several key figures from the Guild were spotted in the vicinity last night.”
“Any connection to the Port Mafia?”
Kunikida hesitated. “That’s where things get murky. We suspect some sort of agreement is being negotiated, but nothing concrete has surfaced yet.”
Fukuzawa’s lips pressed into a thin line. Mori. Of course. The timing was too perfect to be coincidence.
He tapped his fingers against the desk. “Keep a close watch on their movements. If anything changes, I want to know immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” Kunikida gave a firm nod before exiting the office, leaving Fukuzawa alone once more.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
The dinner invitation suddenly felt heavier. If Mori was indeed working with the Guild, this meeting could be more than just a mere game—it could be a warning, a prelude to something far more dangerous.
And yet…
Fukuzawa closed his eyes, his mind unbiddenly drifting back to an earlier time, to the days when he and Mori had stood side by side. To moments when Mori had smiled—not with calculation, but with something genuine. To the brief flashes of warmth that had existed before everything had fallen apart.
No. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that.
He was not the man he had been back then. And Mori… Mori had become something else entirely.
Still, as he sat there, surrounded by the quiet hum of the Agency, Fukuzawa found himself wondering if, just for one night, he could set aside the years of bloodshed and deception.
Or if Mori was merely waiting to twist the knife deeper.
The night air carried the scent of rain, fresh and crisp, as Fukuzawa stepped onto the quiet streets. The city was never truly silent, not even at this hour, but the muffled sounds of distant traffic and the occasional rustling of leaves offered a momentary illusion of peace.
He had left the Agency earlier than usual, much to the surprise of his subordinates. Ranpo had given him a knowing look but said nothing. Kunikida had asked if he was feeling unwell, and Fukuzawa had simply reassured him that he needed a quiet night. He wasn't sure if any of them truly believed him.
The truth was, he needed time to think.
Mori’s invitation loomed in his mind like an unanswered question. Every logical instinct told him to ignore it, to let it slip away as one of Mori’s many manipulations. And yet, he couldn't shake the nagging sense that turning it down would be a mistake. He knew Mori. He knew how the man operated. If he wanted a dinner, there was a reason beyond nostalgia.
But the thought that unnerved him the most —the one he kept pushing away— was that part of him wanted to accept.
His feet carried him through the city without a clear destination. He passed familiar alleyways, buildings steeped in history, memories tucked into every corner. It was strange how the past never truly faded. No matter how much time passed, some things remained, lingering like the faintest echo of a voice long silenced.
Fukuzawa found himself outside a small, inconspicuous teahouse. He hadn't planned to stop, but his body moved before his mind could protest. He stepped inside, the warm scent of tea and wood filling his senses. A quiet refuge from the storm inside his head.
Taking a seat in the corner, he ordered a simple green tea and leaned back, allowing the warmth of the room to settle over him. The quiet murmur of conversation around him was a comfort. Here, he was just another weary traveller, not a leader burdened with responsibility, not a man haunted by ghosts of the past.
He closed his eyes for a moment. But, inevitably, Mori's voice intruded.
"A dinner. Just you and me. No politics, no bloodshed. Call it nostalgia, if you like."
Fukuzawa exhaled sharply.
No politics. No bloodshed. As if it could be that simple.
Their history was too tangled, too stained with things left unsaid. And yet, in Mori’s words, he had heard something he had not expected. A sincerity buried beneath the usual charm, a flicker of something real.
Did Mori regret the path he had taken? Did he ever think back to the days before the Port Mafia, before everything had fractured beyond repair?
Or was this just another game?
Fukuzawa opened his eyes, his tea now cooling in his hands. He had always prided himself on his ability to see through Mori’s tricks, to anticipate his every move. But this time, he wasn’t sure. And that uncertainty was what unsettled him the most.
He had a choice to make.
Go to the dinner and risk whatever Mori had planned, or refuse and let the opportunity slip away—an opportunity to understand, to gain insight, to confirm whether the man he once knew was still buried beneath layers of deceit.
He sighed and took a sip of his tea. It was bitter, grounding.
He would make his decision soon.
But deep down, he already knew what it would be.
'Don't make me regret this....'
The streets of Yokohama were alive with their usual nocturnal rhythm. Neon lights flickered along the roadsides, casting fragmented reflections on the damp pavement. The recent drizzle had left behind a thin veil of mist that coiled through the alleyways, as if the city itself exhaled secrets into the night. Fukuzawa walked at an even pace, his haori draped over his shoulders, shielding him from the crisp air.
He had made his decision. And now, there was no turning back.
Mori’s invitation had sat in the back of his mind like an itch, impossible to ignore. He had weighed every possibility, every outcome, and still, here he was, on his way to a restaurant owned by the Port Mafia. A deliberate move on Mori’s part. There was meaning behind the location, just as there was meaning behind everything Mori did.
Fukuzawa exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. He was not walking into a trap; he was not foolish enough to believe that Mori would resort to something so blatant. No, this was something else entirely. This was a test. A calculated move meant to gauge his reactions, his willingness to meet halfway. Or perhaps it was simply another of Mori’s twisted amusements.
He had prepared for both possibilities.
As he walked, the city stretched out around him, its familiar sights and sounds blending into a distant hum. He had once walked these streets alongside Mori, years ago, before their paths had diverged into opposing forces. It had been different then, before the weight of command settled onto his shoulders, before he had understood what it meant to carry lives in his hands. Back then, there had been camaraderie, mutual respect. Perhaps even trust. But that time was long past.
And yet, something in him still lingered on those memories.
A light drizzle began again, gentle at first, then steady enough that Fukuzawa pulled his haori closer around him. He barely noticed the cold. His focus was on the path ahead.
The restaurant was not far now, tucked within the darker corners of the city. It was an unassuming establishment at first glance — traditional wooden sliding doors, a lantern swaying faintly with the wind, casting warm light onto the stone pathway leading inside.
But Fukuzawa knew better.
Every inch of this place was steeped in the presence of the Port Mafia. The scent of power lingered in the air like a second layer of mist. He could feel the quiet eyes watching from the surrounding alleyways, unseen but undeniably there. Mori’s people, ensuring that nothing disrupted their leader’s plans. It was a show of force, subtle yet undeniable, reminding him exactly whose territory he was stepping into.
Fukuzawa did not hesitate. He stepped forward, his movements slow and measured, ignoring the way the world seemed to hush at his presence. The door slid open before he could touch it.
A figure stood in the entryway — a young woman, impeccably dressed in a deep violet kimono, her expression one of well-practiced neutrality. She inclined her head politely. “Fukuzawa-san. We have been expecting you.”
He merely nodded. “I presume everything is in order.”
“Of course.” The woman stepped aside, allowing him to enter. The warmth of the restaurant enveloped him immediately, the scent of freshly brewed tea and something richer —perhaps miso or grilled fish— filling the air. It was an inviting atmosphere, carefully designed to put guests at ease.
It did nothing to dull Fukuzawa’s vigilance.
The hostess led him further inside, each of her steps deliberate and soundless against the tatami flooring. Fukuzawa took in his surroundings, noting the layout, the exits, the handful of other patrons who sat in quiet conversation. None of them so much as glanced in his direction, but he knew better than to assume they were ordinary customers. Every movement in this place had a purpose.
Finally, they reached a private room. The woman slid the door open and stepped aside. “Please make yourself comfortable. Mori-san will be with you shortly.”
Fukuzawa took a slow breath before stepping inside. The room was modestly furnished — a low table, a few cushions, a lacquered tray already prepared with sake and two untouched cups. The air was thick with the faint scent of incense, subtle but unmistakable. He took a seat, carefully positioning himself so that he had a full view of the door.
He would not be caught off guard.
Now, all that remained was to wait.