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It started as a regular post-mission debrief.
The sun spilled lazily through the windows of the Armed Detective Agency. Dust danced in the light, papers shuffled in the breeze from the cracked window, and the scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air. Kunikida sat stiffly at the desk, arms folded, watching the surveillance footage from the last mission. Atsushi leaned over his shoulder, eyes squinting at the grainy footage.
Kenji munched happily on an apple while Yosano twirled a scalpel between her fingers out of sheer boredom.
On screen: a back alley scene. The camera panned shakily as the criminal fled past—only to be intercepted by a long coat and a lazy grin.
“Pause,” Kunikida said sharply.
Atsushi hit the space bar. “Here. That’s when Dazai caught him.”
They all leaned in.
But the figure on-screen... didn’t look right.
The coat was familiar. The hair, messy and dark. The body language, unmistakably Dazai.
But the face—the face was blurred. Not just motion blur or bad quality. It was smeared, as though the universe had scrubbed it out with an invisible brush.
Kenji tilted his head. “That’s strange. Did he move too fast?”
“No,” Kunikida frowned. “We’re watching it frame-by-frame. Everyone else is clear. Even the criminal’s face is crisp.”
Yosano sat up straighter. “Let me see the next frame.”
Atsushi clicked forward.
Still blurred.
The next one.
Still.
Ten more.
Every single one: a blank where his face should be.
“Maybe... the camera was malfunctioning?” Atsushi offered weakly.
Yosano raised a brow. “Then why does everything else look perfect?”
“Zoom in,” Ranpo said suddenly.
They all looked over. He’d been quiet until now, seated on the couch with a lollipop in his mouth and a calculating look in his usually lazy eyes.
Kunikida complied. Zoomed in.
Even closer, the face didn’t resolve. Instead, the pixels seemed to warp more, like the camera was actively refusing to define him.
Ranpo stood and walked over. He stared, dead silent, then asked:
“How many other recordings of him do we have?”
Everyone hesitated.
Kunikida spoke first. “Every mission is logged. He’s been in dozens.”
Ranpo smiled slightly. “Pull them up. All of them.”
---
One hour later.
The evidence was undeniable.
In every piece of footage, from street cameras to body cams, Dazai’s face was never visible.
Never once.
No matter the angle, distance, or lighting—he had no face.
Sometimes it was fuzzed. Sometimes pixelated. Sometimes just… a featureless void.
But it was always wrong.
“I don’t get it,” Atsushi muttered. “This doesn’t make sense. Cameras don’t lie.”
Ranpo narrowed his eyes.
“Exactly.”
Yosano finally asked, slowly:
“Do you think this is... an ability?”
Ranpo didn’t answer right away. He was staring hard at the frozen frame. The coat. The grin. The empty blur where his eyes should be.
“Abilities manipulate reality. But not this way,” he murmured.
“This feels... different. Like reality itself doesn’t want us to see him. As if something’s being censored.”
Kenji blinked. “But why?”
The office fell quiet.
And then the door creaked open.
“Yo~! I brought snacks!”
Dazai stepped in, plastic bags rustling, face bright and cheerful.
All eyes snapped to him.
He blinked at their stares, then tilted his head with a playful smile.
“Aw, you guys missed me already?”
Ranpo’s lollipop cracked in his teeth.
It was a sunny afternoon at the Agency. For once, there were no missions, no explosions, and no existential threats.
Just peace.
Dazai was sprawled dramatically across the couch like a Victorian widow, reading a manga upside down. Kenji sat cross-legged on the floor with colored pencils, tongue poking out in concentration as he sketched. Atsushi had his phone out, quietly scrolling through photos from their last few weeks.
“Everyone looks happy here,” Atsushi said, smiling. “Yosano-san, you’re even smiling in this one.”
“I’m always smiling,” Yosano replied with a wink that made Atsushi a little nervous.
“I wish I had a picture with all of us,” he said thoughtfully, “like... something to remember.”
Dazai perked up. “Want a selfie, Atsushi-kun? Come here, come here~!”
Atsushi lit up. “Really?”
“Of course!” Dazai threw an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close. “Say... impending doom!”
Atsushi laughed and raised his phone. He snapped the photo—click, flash blinking across their faces.
He glanced down at the screen.
And froze.
Dazai’s face was gone.
Not blurred.
Not pixelated.
Just... white. A white hole where his face should’ve been, light bleeding across the screen as if the flash had seared him from the photo entirely.
It wasn’t a technical glitch. Atsushi knew that.
His own face was perfectly captured, eyes bright, smile shy.
But beside him, Dazai looked like a cardboard cutout with its face peeled off.
Atsushi stared.
“Something wrong?” Dazai asked, peeking at the phone with mock curiosity.
Atsushi fumbled. “N-no! Just—bad angle! Haha... I-I’ll try again later.”
Dazai winked. “Photography is an art. Maybe I’m just too radiant to be captured.”
---
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Kenji proudly finished his drawing.
It was a rough, sweet little picture of the Agency family. Yosano’s smile was big. Ranpo was holding a lollipop the size of his face. Kunikida looked stern with a very straight back. Atsushi had cute little tiger ears.
And Dazai?
He was smiling.
But his face was wrong.
Where his eyes should’ve been were empty ovals, like Kenji had tried to draw them and given up.
His mouth was too wide, a crooked grin stretching farther than it should.
“Kenji,” Yosano said gently, peeking over, “why didn’t you draw Dazai’s eyes?”
Kenji blinked. “I did.”
They all looked.
The lines were faint. Scribbled. Then erased. Redrawn. Erased again.
Kenji’s brows furrowed. “Weird. I couldn’t get them right. They kept turning out... not human. So I gave up.”
Ranpo looked over from his seat.
Quiet.
Very quiet.
Then he said softly, “Maybe it’s because you’ve never really seen them.”
The case had been minor. Just a lost dog that turned out to be a lost tiger. Classic Agency things.
The real reward, however, was the peace that followed. Kunikida walked ahead, clipboard in hand, muttering about lost time and wasted paperwork. Atsushi trailed behind him, content. Dazai strolled beside Atsushi with his hands in his pockets and his usual lopsided grin.
They walked through a quiet residential street, cherry blossoms fluttering down like pink snow.
That’s when they passed the little boy.
He couldn’t have been older than five. Dressed in a yellow hoodie, holding his mother’s hand, a toy plane swinging from his other wrist.
The mother offered a polite bow to the Agency members as they passed.
But the child didn’t move.
He stopped.
Stared.
Right at Dazai.
Not the casual glance a child gives a stranger. Not shyness. Not awe.
He was focused. Locked in. Silent.
His head tilted slightly, as if trying to comprehend something his brain didn’t have words for.
Dazai, noticing, offered a cheerful wave. “Hello there, little fellow.”
The boy didn’t wave back.
He just slowly raised one finger.
And pointed.
At Dazai’s face.
Then whispered, in a clear, soft voice:
“He doesn’t have one.”
His mother paused, blinked. “What was that, sweetie?”
The boy clung to her leg now, still watching Dazai with big, uncertain eyes.
“He doesn’t have a face.”
A chill rippled through the spring air. Kunikida turned slightly. Atsushi stared.
Dazai, however, smiled as if nothing had happened.
“Kids, huh? Such vivid imaginations~”
He laughed it off and kept walking.
But Atsushi’s breath had hitched.
Because, in that moment—
—he had felt it too.
Just a flicker.
A blink too long.
Like his brain had skipped a frame while looking at Dazai’s face.
---
Later that night, Ranpo reviewed the boy’s statement like a puzzle piece in his hand.
“They say children see the truth before adults learn to ignore it,” he murmured.
He looked at the still-blurry footage of Dazai again.
And frowned deeper.
It began with a simple question.
“Why can’t we find a single clear image of Dazai?” Ranpo asked.
Everyone paused.
It was late. The Agency office lights buzzed softly overhead. Most had gone home. Only Ranpo, Kunikida, Atsushi, and Yosano remained—ostensibly working, though mostly pretending to.
Atsushi hesitated. “You mean like… online?”
Ranpo nodded. “Try it. Google him. Full name.”
Atsushi opened his laptop. “Osamu Dazai… okay…”
Click.
The search results loaded.
And they all stopped talking.
Rows of black-and-white photos appeared—old, frayed at the edges. A man in a trench coat, eyes dark, mouth thin. Tired. Drained. Sometimes posed beside a woman, sometimes alone by a river or in a small, sparse room.
But it wasn’t their Dazai.
Not exactly.
The man in the pictures looked older—worn out by time and sorrow. But he had the same bone structure. The same slouched posture. Even the same scarf in one of the photographs.
Atsushi whispered, “This guy… he looks like him.”
Yosano leaned closer, reading aloud from a biography summary.
“Osamu Dazai (1909–1948). Real name: Shuji Tsushima. A troubled author known for his semi-autobiographical works, suicidal tendencies, and multiple affairs. His most famous novel is ‘No Longer Human.’”
“No Longer Human…” Kunikida muttered. “Where have I heard that title…”
Ranpo clicked the link.
They scrolled through paragraphs detailing depression, addiction, attempted double suicides—one of which succeeded in 1948 when the author drowned himself in the Tamagawa Canal with a woman named Tomie.
Every word painted a picture of someone who had given up on life completely.
Someone utterly and irreversibly hollow.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Atsushi whispered. “Our Dazai is always smiling. Always joking.”
Kunikida didn’t answer.
Ranpo stared at one particular photo.
It showed Shuji Tsushima at a party—surrounded by laughing people, yet not smiling. His eyes were glassy. He looked like a ghost already.
“It could be a coincidence,” Yosano offered. “Just a shared name. A face similarity.”
Ranpo clicked on another tab. Pulled up the Agency's security feed from earlier that week.
Dazai walking down the hallway. Waving at the camera.
His face?
Still blurred. Still glitching.
---
“No Longer Human.” Suicide. Depression. Tamagawa Canal.
They all sat in silence, staring at the glowing screen.
That is, until—
“BOO!”
Everyone jumped.
Atsushi nearly dropped the laptop. Ranpo blinked.
Dazai leaned over the back of Atsushi’s chair, a ridiculous grin on his face. “Wow, digging into my past already? I thought we were closer than that~”
Yosano chuckled nervously. “You scared us, idiot.”
Kunikida sighed. “What are you doing here? I thought you were buying snacks.”
Dazai tapped his chin. “I was. But I got bored. Then I felt a sudden chill—like a bunch of nerds were reading my tragic backstory. So I hurried back.”
Ranpo didn’t say anything.
Dazai’s eyes landed on the search results. Black-and-white images. Melancholy quotes. Death by drowning.
He smiled wider.
“Oof. Grim stuff.”
Then, gently, he reached around Atsushi and took the mouse.
Click.
Click.
Clickclickclickclick—
Pages closed. New ones opened.
Suddenly the search page filled with new images. Vibrant color. Painted portraits of a youthful Dazai Osamu—no, Shuji Tsushima—in traditional Japanese robes. His hair tied neatly, his expression sly but warm. In one, he held a fan and winked. In another, he sat beneath cherry blossoms, eyes sharp and teasing.
A pop-up message appeared at the top of the screen:
“Don’t trust everything you read, kitten~”
Dazai whispered, “There. Isn’t that much nicer?”
Atsushi looked horrified. “What… did you do to the search results?”
Dazai beamed. “Oh, just a little trick! It’s not polite to pry into someone’s old life without asking. But if you’re going to snoop, I might as well give you a better version.”
He paused.
Leaned in, lips near Atsushi’s ear.
“One they’ll believe.”
Atsushi froze.
Dazai straightened, stretching his arms. “Anyway! Time for tea. Don’t spend too long chasing ghosts. They tend to… chase back.”
He strolled away, humming.
No one said a word.
Ranpo slowly reached toward the laptop. Refreshed the page.
The smiling portraits of the young, regal Shuji were gone.
The real results returned. Black and white. Sad eyes. The canal.
Ranpo narrowed his eyes.
“He rewrote the past,” he said softly.
“No,” Kunikida murmured.
“He’s choosing which one we see.”
Dazai hummed as he turned toward the hallway.
“Wait.”
Ranpo’s voice cut through the room, quiet but sharp.
Dazai paused, then smiled without turning around. “You always were hard to fool, Ranpo-kun.”
Ranpo stood slowly, hands in his coat pockets, eyes unusually serious. “You’re not from this timeline.”
Everyone turned to him in confusion.
But Dazai simply chuckled. “So you noticed.”
“Since the beginning,” Ranpo said. “You’re too perfectly wrong. Everything about you feels right—but it isn’t. Your laugh’s a little too light. Your eyes a little too empty. You don’t belong here.”
Dazai finally turned around. He was still smiling. Always smiling.
He walked to the center of the room and raised his arms slightly, as if revealing a magic trick.
“Ta-da. The grand mystery revealed.”
He placed a hand over his heart.
“My ability—No Longer Human. That’s not just a name, you see. It’s a truth.”
The others stared.
“I died,” he said. “In 1948. You can even Google it. Body found in the canal. That was real. That was me. Shuji Tsushima.”
He tilted his head, voice softening. “But the world... didn’t let me stay dead.”
Yosano blinked. “What do you mean?”
Dazai shrugged. “Something went wrong. Or maybe right. Maybe the universe made a mistake. Maybe it was lonely. But when I died, the world rejected it. Rejected me dying.”
He looked at his hand. Flexed his fingers.
“And so... I returned. Not quite alive. Not quite human.”
Ranpo’s gaze didn’t waver. “So what are you now?”
Dazai gave a small, tragic smile. “Something the world won’t register. Something the cameras can’t see. A rewrite. A contradiction.”
Atsushi’s voice trembled. “Your ability—if you’re not human anymore, then…”
“I’m not limited to one ability,” Dazai said gently. “Not anymore. Nullification was just the beginning. I’ve lived so long, crossed so many timelines, slipped through so many cracks, that the rules stopped applying.”
He tapped the laptop screen, where a painting of a smiling, handsome Shuji Tsushima flickered and glitched, then disappeared.
“I learned to edit things. Realities. Memories. Images. After all…”
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming:
“If the world insists I’m not human, why should I follow human rules?”
Silence.
Then Dazai straightened, smile returning to full brightness. “But don’t worry! I’m still me. Still your lovable, eccentric coworker. Still suicidal, still annoying, still oddly good-looking.”
Kunikida finally spoke, voice low. “So this entire time… you’ve been walking among us as something not even real.”
Dazai raised an eyebrow. “Now, now. Don’t be rude, Kunikida-kun. I’m very real. Just... not like you.”
Ranpo walked over to him, stopped barely a foot away.
“You could rewrite all of us if you wanted.”
Dazai’s smile softened, just a little. “But I didn’t.”
Ranpo nodded slowly. “No. You didn’t.”
A long silence.
Then Dazai clapped his hands together. “Well! I’m starving. All this exposition makes me crave something sweet.”
And just like that, he turned and walked out the door, hands in his coat pockets, humming a cheerful tune.
As though nothing had changed.
But everything had.
It was another morning at the Agency.
The smell of brewing coffee. Papers rustling. Footsteps echoing across the wooden floorboards.
Normal.
But not really.
Atsushi sat at his desk, eyes flicking nervously toward the couch where Dazai sat—legs crossed, book in hand, sipping from a steaming cup of black coffee. His usual, unreadable smile played on his lips.
But Atsushi couldn’t stop remembering.
The flickering images. The blurred face. The moment Dazai said: “I’m not human.”
The coffee in Atsushi’s hand trembled slightly.
Kenji bounded in with a basket of persimmons, placing them on the table. “Morning, everyone!”
Yosano greeted him casually. Kunikida grunted, already deep in paperwork.
Everything felt the same.
Except it wasn’t.
Dazai turned a page in his book and said, almost lazily, “You’re shaking, Atsushi-kun.”
Atsushi froze.
Dazai didn’t look up. He took another sip. “I don’t bite. At least, not anymore.”
That weak joke didn’t ease the tension. Not today.
Atsushi lowered his eyes. “I just… it’s weird. You being…”
“Not human?” Dazai finished helpfully, closing his book with a soft thud.
Atsushi nodded, unsure if he should apologize or run.
Dazai studied him, eyes softer than usual. He set his coffee down and leaned forward slightly.
“I’m still me, you know.”
“But you lied,” Atsushi said before he could stop himself. “To all of us.”
Dazai tilted his head. “Would you have believed me if I told you the truth?”
Silence.
“No,” Atsushi admitted.
Dazai leaned back again. “Exactly.”
The room stayed quiet. Yosano kept reading. Kenji munched happily. Kunikida’s pen scratched the paper with precision.
Yet Dazai’s gaze flicked across them all.
They weren’t treating him differently.
Not yet.
But they would.
Maybe not in how they spoke. But in how they looked at him. In how they paused when he smiled. In the weight behind every word now.
He’d seen it before.
A flicker of something crossed his face. Regret, maybe. Or longing. It was gone too quickly to name.
He picked up his book again and smiled as if nothing ever happened.
Just Dazai Osamu.
Eccentric. Annoying. Impossible.
But no longer human.
The days moved on.
Or pretended to.
No one said it out loud. No one looked at him for too long. Not anymore.
Dazai wasn’t surprised.
He came in later than usual now, usually only when missions required him. No loud entrances. No teasing jokes. No strange suicide notes pinned to the walls.
Just silence.
Sometimes, he sat at his desk, headphones in, pretending to listen to music. Other times, he stared at the sky through the windows as if waiting for something only he could see.
They were afraid.
He saw it in Atsushi’s quick glances. In Kunikida’s hesitations. In the way Kenji smiled, a little too forced now. Even Yosano, usually unfazed by anything, gave him a second too long of a pause before answering.
They didn’t know how to treat someone who wasn’t… human.
Even if he still laughed the same way. Even if he still looked like Dazai.
He wasn’t, not anymore. That’s what they thought.
And maybe they were right.
So he stopped coming to work on normal days.
It was easier.
---
The Agency, a few days later
Ranpo sat cross-legged on the couch, a copy of No Longer Human in his hands. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet for the last hour, flipping through pages he already knew by heart.
“I read this again last night,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
The rest of the detectives looked up. Atsushi blinked. “Isn’t that the book written by—”
“Shūji Tsushima,” Ranpo finished. “But also… Dazai.”
Kenji looked confused. “I thought he said that wasn’t him.”
Ranpo closed the book and tapped the cover. “He was him. Or… someone who became him.”
Kunikida frowned. “What’s your point?”
Ranpo stood up and faced them.
“My point is… you’re all treating him like he’s something else. Like a ghost or a god or a ticking bomb. But you’re forgetting something.”
A pause.
“He still has feelings.”
Atsushi flinched.
Ranpo’s eyes narrowed.
“He loved humans enough to want to be one again. So much that it hurts to watch you walk away from him.”
Yosano lowered her eyes. Even she had felt that quiet, wounded silence in Dazai’s presence lately.
Ranpo tossed the book onto the table.
“I read this, and I remembered something. He wrote that being alone was the most terrifying thing in the world. That being misunderstood, unwanted, unneeded… that’s what kills people before death ever comes.”
Silence.
“He jokes. He smiles. But he hasn’t asked anyone to go drinking. He hasn’t tried to annoy you, Kunikida.”
Kunikida looked down, jaw clenched.
“He hasn’t even brought up suicide in days.”
That got them all.
“He’s not a monster,” Ranpo finished, voice softer now. “He’s just sad.”
---
That night
Rain tapped against the window. The office was nearly empty.
Ranpo stood by the door, coat on. “I’m going to go find him.”
“Now?” Atsushi asked.
Ranpo gave a small grin. “You forgot? I know everything.”
He adjusted his hat. “And I know exactly where someone like Dazai would go when he’s pretending not to be hurt.”
He paused at the door.
“Try to remember who he was to you before you knew what he was.”
Then he left.
It was late by the time Ranpo found him.
The graveyard was just outside the city—old, overgrown, and forgotten by most. But Ranpo knew exactly where to look. He followed the trail of intuition like string, weaving through dark paths until he saw it:
A single grave beneath a sakura tree, petals falling slowly in the breeze.
And beside it—
Dazai.
Sitting cross-legged, coat tossed aside, a bottle of sake resting against the grass. A second bottle stood beside it, unopened. He had even set out two cups. The second cup was full.
As if for someone who could still drink it.
Ranpo stood in the shadow of a tree, silent.
Dazai hadn't noticed him.
“Anyway,” Dazai said cheerfully, swirling the liquid in his cup, “they found out. About me, I mean. Again. Can you believe that? I tried to be subtle this time, Oda.”
He chuckled to himself.
“They even googled me. Atsushi looked like I’d grown horns. Kunikida nearly dropped his clipboard. You’d love that part.”
Ranpo’s eyes flicked to the gravestone.
Oda Sakunosuke
A kind man who wanted to write stories, not fight wars.
Rest in peace.
Dazai took another sip, gazing at the grave with a gentle smile.
“I know, I know. I said I wouldn’t get attached again. And yet…” he shrugged. “You know how I am. Same fool in a different century.”
He leaned back, eyes scanning the cherry blossoms above. “They think I’m something other. And maybe I am. But does that mean I can’t still care about them?”
His voice dipped for the first time.
“…Does that mean I can’t still be lonely?”
Ranpo exhaled softly. The wind shifted. Still, Dazai didn’t turn.
“I told them I’m ‘No Longer Human.’ Thought it’d be clever. Poetic.” His smile stretched again—too wide, too bright. “But maybe it was a warning, huh?”
Silence.
Dazai tilted the full cup toward the grave. “Anyway, cheers, Oda. You’d laugh if you saw me now. You always did when I was like this.”
He downed the drink in one go.
Ranpo stepped forward at last, the sound of his shoes crunching softly on the grass.
Dazai finally turned.
There was no startle in his eyes. No surprise.
“Ranpo-kun,” he said, smiling gently. “You’re late.”
Ranpo walked closer and sat beside him.
“I knew you’d be here,” he replied, eyes on the second cup. “You always come back to him.”
Dazai’s smile didn’t fade. “Of course. He’s the only one who ever truly believed I could be good.”
Ranpo was quiet a moment.
“Maybe you should believe it too.”
Dazai chuckled, soft and tired. “Even when I’m not human?”
Ranpo looked at him fully.
“You still feel, don’t you?”
Dazai paused.
“…Yes.”
“Then it doesn’t matter what you are,” Ranpo said, gaze steady. “You’re still Dazai.”
The two sat in silence as the wind passed through the branches, cherry blossoms fluttering like falling snow.
And beneath the petals, for the first time in days, Dazai let himself believe it—if only a little.
The breeze had stilled now. Only a few late petals clung to the sakura branches.
Ranpo stood up and brushed off his pants, watching Dazai quietly. “It’s getting cold,” he said. “You’re going to catch something sitting here all night like an idiot.”
Dazai smiled, still seated, still pretending the weight in his chest wasn’t real. “Wouldn’t that be poetic? A ghost catching a cold.”
Ranpo reached down and tugged at his coat. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Dazai didn’t move. “They don’t want me there, Ranpo.”
“They do,” Ranpo said. “They’re just… scared. People get like that when they don’t understand something.”
Dazai turned his head toward the gravestone. “I don’t want to scare them.”
“You scare them more by disappearing.”
That earned a pause.
Ranpo crouched again, expression unusually gentle. “You think hiding out here and talking to ghosts is going to make them feel better?”
Dazai gave a soft, humorless laugh. “No. But it makes me feel better.”
Ranpo looked toward Oda’s grave, then back at Dazai. “You always say you’re not human anymore. That you’re something else. But feelings like this… regret, fear, love… that’s as human as it gets.”
Dazai didn’t answer.
Ranpo stood again and turned his back to him, facing the trees.
Then, casually:
“Kenji drew you again. Same as before. Big smile. No eyes.”
Dazai blinked.
Ranpo shrugged. “He said maybe you were smiling too hard for him to see them.”
A soft sound left Dazai’s throat. Almost a chuckle.
“And Atsushi… he left a coffee on your desk today. Your usual. He said it’s stupid, but he hopes you’ll come drink it.”
Dazai glanced up. “Did he?”
“He sat there staring at it for an hour. Like it’d vanish if he blinked.”
Dazai let his fingers trail along the grass. “And Kunikida?”
Ranpo smirked. “Still screaming about paperwork. But he hasn’t thrown out your roll of badages yet.”
That got a real smile from Dazai.
“They’re not running away from you,” Ranpo said. “They’re waiting.”
Dazai didn’t speak for a moment. He looked at the grave, then at the unopened bottle, and then at the sky, now a soft indigo. Slowly, he reached over and poured the second cup of sake onto the soil.
“Guess I’ve had enough of ghosts for one night.”
Ranpo smiled and held out his hand.
This time, Dazai took it.
The Agency’s office door creaked.
Heads turned.
Dazai stepped in with Ranpo behind him, his trench coat swaying slightly, scarf looped neatly, face alight with his usual carefree smile. “Tadaima~!” he chimed, stretching his arms over his head. “Did anyone miss me?”
The silence that followed was brief—but heavy.
Atsushi looked up from his desk, startled. Yosano paused mid-sip of her tea. Kenji sat up straighter in his chair, his drawing of a flower field half-finished on the table. Kunikida, ever the most composed, lowered his pen and closed his notebook.
Dazai gave them all a dazzling grin. “What’s with those long faces? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Yosano was the first to recover. She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “You’re the one who vanished for three days without a word. What were we supposed to think?”
“Three days?” Dazai tilted his head playfully. “Was it really that long? Time flies when you're dead inside~”
No one laughed.
He walked past them, casual, unbothered, and picked up the lukewarm cup of coffee on his desk—the one Atsushi had left. He took a sip, then blinked in surprise. “Hey… this is good.”
Atsushi stood abruptly. “I—um—I thought you might come back…”
Dazai turned to him with a bright smile. “How sweet! You do care.”
Atsushi’s eyes flicked down. “Of course I do…”
“Hmm?” Dazai tilted his head again, smile unwavering.
“Just—” Atsushi’s voice cracked slightly. “Don’t disappear again, please.”
There it was again. That flicker of something in Dazai’s eyes—buried deep behind the smile. But it vanished just as quickly.
He waved a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll haunt you forever.”
Kenji suddenly brightened. “Are you really a ghost, Dazai-san?”
“Who knows?” Dazai winked.
Kunikida finally spoke. “You don’t get to make light of this. Not when you’ve been lying to all of us.”
Dazai’s smile softened, but didn’t fade. “Was it really lying, Kunikida-kun? Or just… existing differently?”
Ranpo, still leaning against the wall, clicked his tongue. “You’re making it worse.”
Dazai chuckled and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I won’t be mysterious. For now.”
There was silence again. But this time, it felt a little warmer.
He sat down at his desk, leaned back in his chair, and sighed like he never left. “Now then, someone catch me up. How many criminals did you all fail to arrest without me?”
Yosano smirked. Kenji giggled. Atsushi looked relieved.
Even Kunikida rolled his eyes and muttered, “Too many.”
And just like that, the Agency breathed again.
Even if they didn’t understand what he was.
Even if the fear hadn’t fully left.
They were willing to try.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥