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The stench of death hangs thick in the air—coppery blood, decaying flesh. It clings to your skin, seeps into your clothes, and lingers like a curse. Warm droplets—fresh—splatter across your cheek and smear your white uniform, now stained with violent reds and muddy browns.
Below your feet, the ground is littered with the mangled remnants of what once were people. Limbs twisted unnaturally. Heads severed. Entrails coiled like grotesque ribbons across shattered tiles.
You stand among the wreckage in silence, gaze cast downward, unreadable. Your face doesn't flinch. Not at the sight. Not at the smell. Not at the distant, ringing silence that follows a massacre. With fingers steady and stained, you retrieve a cigarette from the breast pocket of your jacket. The lighter clicks open. A flame flickers. Orange light briefly dances in your eyes before it vanishes with a quiet inhale.
Smoke curls between your lips and up into the still air, soft and slow, like a lullaby for the dead. The cigarette dangles from your fingers as you exhale. Minutes bleed away, ash accumulating at the tip until the cigarette is nothing more than a glowing ember. It drops from your fingers and falls, extinguished in a dark puddle of crimson.
You turn, sparing the scene one last glance.
Your expression remains impassive, but something flickers in your gaze—fatigue, or apathy masquerading as control. With your back now to the carnage, the air thickens with violet light—dim, heavy, unnatural. The walls melt into shadows, the corpses vanish like illusions, and the room swallows itself into oblivion. Not a single trace remains.
Rural Melancholy. A perfect name for something so haunting. Your ability leaves behind no witnesses. No bodies. No truth.
A pocket dimension. A graveyard without a trace.
When you return to headquarters, the sky outside has dipped into shades of orange and fading blue. The city glows softly in the distance. Inside, the elevator hums as it ascends to the top floor. Your hands are still sticky with dried blood. Unconsciously, you loosen your black tie, the knot slightly crooked now, and sigh—a quiet, exhausted thing that barely escapes your lips.
Ding. The elevator doors slide open.
You step into the dimly lit hallway of the Port Mafia's upper echelon. Silence echoes off the floor beneath your shoes. A few paces later, you pause in front of Mori Ougai's office. Your hand lifts to push the door open, but it swings inward right as you're reaching for it.
Your brow furrows slightly. Standing on the other side is a familiar figure—Dazai Osamu.
He leans lazily against the doorframe, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other dangling at his side. His coat drapes off his shoulders in a way that seems careless. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes remain alert. That single unbandaged eye gleams under the corridor's low light—dark and depthless, like a still lake concealing horrors beneath its surface.
You offer him a small bow out of habit. “Dazai.”
Dazai regards you for a moment, lips quirking into a deceptively innocent smile. He tilts his head, just slightly, as if inspecting you.
“You reek.” he says.
Two words, casual in tone, but sharp. Dripping with disdain. His voice is bright, even amused, yet his eyes betray him—they don't laugh.
You meet his gaze, unimpressed, lips pressed into a thin line. You don't bother replying.
He steps forward, and before you can move, his hand reaches up. His fingers brush your cheek—gentle, feather-light, uncharacteristically soft. Then he pulls away, and you follow the motion of his hand.
Blood. Your blood, or someone else's—does it matter?
Now it stains his palm, already half-wrapped in loose bandages. He doesn't seem to mind.
“The mission is complete,” you tell him, finally breaking the silence, though your voice is flat—detached, as if stating a fact, not a victory.
Dazai hums in response. It's a low sound, noncommittal. With deliberate carelessness, he wipes his bloodied hand on your already stained dress shirt, adding a fresh smear of crimson.
Your jaw tightens.
“You think I care about that, [Name]?”
Your eyes narrow. His hand lingers—palm pressing lightly against your chest. He begins to move it, languidly, fingers dragging up and down in a motion too familiar to be casual, too slow to be innocent.
It's intrusive, calculated. Testing.
You resist the urge to smack it away, every muscle in your body coiled with strain. Instead, you glare. A silent warning.
He smiles again, wider this time. His voice drops, almost a whisper.
“You always return in one piece... but somehow, every time, you look a little more like the ones you kill.”
You flinch—hardly—but it's enough. He notices.
Dazai laughs. Quietly. Almost tenderly.
But it doesn't reach his eyes.
You huff out a breath, curt and impatient. “Where's the boss?”
His eyes flick lazily to you. “Out with Elise-chan.” he replies, voice light, almost sing-song. His hand, however, betrays him. It drifts lower, fingers ghosting across your torso with unspoken intention.
Your breath catches in your throat. Instinct takes over. You seize his wrist with a sudden, vice-like grip, halting the descent of his hand.
But he's faster. Always is.
In calculated aggression, he slams you against the wall. The back of your head cracks hard against cold marble, and for a split second, the world fractures—lights burst behind your eyelids, and a dull ringing hums in your ears.
He's close—too close. His body presses into yours and his hand pins yours beside your head. You feel the heat radiating off him in waves, oppressive and all-consuming.
Dazai's face finds the crook of your neck, and you tense, a muffled groan spilling from your lips despite yourself.
“Does your mission involve whoring around?”
His words come out low and venomous, smothered against your skin.
You inhale sharply. The sting of the words cuts deeper than the aggression. When he pulls back, his face is inches from yours. His breath mingles with yours—warm, uneven. His eyes, half-lidded and inscrutable, scan your face as though trying to decipher a code written in skin.
The hand gripping yours tightens, then slowly shifts—fingers trailing down the length of your palm until they lace with yours.
Your jaw clenches. “What are you saying?” you bite out.
“I don't like it.” he mutters.
He presses in further, the solid weight of him trapping you in place. His knee slips between your legs, parting them just enough to make you aware of the threat in his closeness.
“Dazai—”
“Shush.” He cuts you off with a soft chuckle, the sound dark and infuriatingly fond.
You roll your eyes, though the motion lacks conviction. A thin veil of irritation masks the confusion roiling beneath your skin—because with Dazai, it's never just touch. It's always a test. Always a game.
And you're never sure if you're winning, or already lost.