Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Under different circumstances, Dazai would be happy to see Ryuunosuke.

He knows him from when he and his sister were still starving street kids, sometimes coming by when either the hunger or the sickness got too bad.

They were always too prideful to stay, so Dazai was just happy that they felt comfortable enough to come when there was no other option. An underground clinic isn’t the right place for children anyway. Not that the streets are. Or the Mafia.

But, really, it’s always nice to see the kid. Dazai just wishes he hadn’t brought a bleeding Mafia executive to his clinic. Because while he made a promise to never send anyone away, having Nakahara Chuuya as a patient will surely bring more attention than he wants.

“Really?” Dazai whines as Ryuunosuke sets the man down on his operation table.

For once, Ryuunosuke doesn’t react with annoyance — just gives him those puppy dog eyes Dazai can never say no to.

“Please?”

Dazai sighs. “Well, it’s not as if I had anything better to do at 3 AM on a Tuesday night.”

A smile tugs at Ryuunosuke’s lips. “As if you’d sleep anyway.”

Dazai returns the smile as he pulls on latex gloves.

“But you’re gonna have to play the nurse. My staff’s at home and sleeping — just as you should be.”

Dazai’s staff are Odasaku — a former mafioso who didn’t want to kill anymore — and an amnesiac, recovering addict who forgot her own name. After finding her, he just started calling her Psyduck. He finds it extremely funny. Especially since she still doesn’t get the joke two years later — because she refuses to play Pokémon.

“So, just like old times?” Ryuunosuke asks, referring to all the times he and his sister helped out — wanting to feel like they were doing something, not just being charity cases.

“Just like old times!” Dazai agrees, grinning brightly.

//

Ten years ago

Mori finds Dazai when he’s twelve years old and on the verge of death — and not even by his own hands, but by hunger.

Even at twelve, he thinks it’s an embarrassing way to die. Just being a victim to nature.

Of course, right before he passes out, there’s a little blonde girl in a fancy dress with an annoying voice. Because even an embarrassing death can’t be an easy one for Dazai.

“Papa, this one’s still breathing! And he has really pretty eyes. I want to keep him!”

Dazai really hates that she’s going to be the last thing he hears before dying.

He doesn’t die that day.

Instead, he wakes up in the Port Mafia headquarters, under the sharp eyes of Mori Ougai — who isn’t yet the boss of the Mafia. He only becomes that after Dazai has already left again.

For whatever reason, Mori is fascinated with him and asks Dazai to stay and learn under him. Dazai has no idea what he sees in him — even years later, he still doesn’t know. But he’s an orphan with nowhere to go, so of course he stays.

Mori is nice for a whole week before staying with him becomes Dazai’s own personal hell.

“That’s not the right way to perform a laparotomy, Osamu,” Mori says, standing right behind Dazai, both hands on his shoulders. “If you don’t understand it yet, I could perform it on you first.”

Dazai’s fingers tremble, and the scalpel cut gets even more uneven.

“Boo,” Elise says. “That’s boring. Can’t you teach him some real torture methods?”

For once, Dazai is happy to hear her shrill voice, as Mori’s attention instantly leaves him and shifts to his ability.

“Oh, Elise-chan, didn’t I explain? Torture methods are easier if you already understand human bodies! But if you’re bored, we can cut off a few fingers after this!”

Dazai’s hands tremble even harder, especially as his eyes meet the ones of the man he’s cutting open.
He’s not anesthetized — just paralyzed.

Dazai wonders if the man’s wish to die might even outmatch his own.

As it turns out, Dazai is not the useless waste of space his mother always told him he was.
Instead, he’s highly useful.

He’s almost instantly good at everything Mori shows him. Medical procedures, languages, strategies — even music.
Mori especially loves it when he and Elise perform for him.

The only thing Dazai never seems to be good at is having a will of his own.

He’s just an empty shell — a doll that Mori plays with, one that would collapse if someone ever cut the strings.

At least he thinks so — until his fourteenth birthday.

“Osamu,” Mori wakes him, purring his name into his ear. “I have a present for you.”

Dazai knows he won’t like the present. He never likes anything Mori gives him.

Still, he follows the man down the corridor to one of the unused rooms in the Mafia headquarters.

Normally it’s empty. Not today.

There’s a boy lying on the operating table. Obviously drugged. His arms and legs are cuffed with heavy metal restraints. Beside him stands a tray laid out with all the instruments Dazai would need.

“What did he do?” he asks, voice flat.

“Is it important?” Mori replies. “Shouldn’t it be enough that I tell you to help me with my experiments?”

There’s amusement in his voice, but Dazai hears the threat beneath it.

His eyes drift over the boy: red hair, hazy but furious blue eyes. He’s young — can’t be much older than Dazai himself.

Dazai has helped Mori cut open countless men and women. But never someone this young.

“I’m not sure it is,” he says. “Enough, I mean.”

And, huh. Maybe he actually has a conscience.

“If it’s not him, it’s going to be you,” Mori says. Still no anger. He might as well be talking about the weather.

Dazai nods.

“I know.”

He’s never felt as much pain as he does that day.

Mori injects him with multiple poisons at once, just to see how they interact. He carves words into Dazai’s skin, and in the background Elise is giggling like Christmas came early.

Somehow, it still feels good. Dazai made his own decision.

That night, Dazai jumps into a river, still mostly unable to move and covered in so many bandages that it should be impossible to swim.

When he — despite everything — still wakes up again, he cries. He hasn’t cried once since Mori picked him up, but now he does.

He just wants to die. Is that really too much to ask?

He lies there for what feels like days, but is probably only a few hours.

Then he makes another decision — the second decision he’s made on his own in just as many days.

He’s not going to be a doll anymore.

If he can’t die yet, he can at least stop being a tool.

Dazai spends the next two years drifting between street gangs — sometimes multiple at once — playing them against each other. Mostly for fun.

He doesn’t feel bad about it. They’re all horrible people.

During that time, he steals traits from the people around him, piecing them together into something that looks like a personality.

He learns how easy people are to fool — how far a smile or a well-timed joke can get you.

No one ever suspects that he’s hiding from the Mafia. People think of him as a cute mascot who’s just a bit too clever for his own good.

Sometimes, he’s part of bigger things — helping to steal something, or — one memorable time — breaking some teens out of prison. He doesn’t know if they’re actually as innocent as their friends insist, but he doesn’t really care either.

He just knows that he likes the scheming.
Loves it when a plan works. And they always work.

Still, his life feels pretty futile. There’s nothing — and no one — actually worth staying alive for.

More than once, he jumps off a bridge or steps in front of a train. Somehow, he always lives.

If there’s a higher power, it must really like him.

Or utterly despise him.

He’s sixteen, sitting at a bus stop, stealing wallets from strangers just because he can, when he meets a tall man with red hair.

The man smiles softly and holds out a bento box.

“Hey, kid. You hungry?”

Dazai looks up at him, wide-eyed. Taking food from strangers is a big no-no when you live on the street.

Even though he’s swindled enough money by now to afford his own apartment, the rule still seems advisable.

“No thanks. I’d rather not die, be kidnapped, or get raped today,” he quips, grinning.

The man chuckles. “It’s not drugged — though I guess your worries are understandable.”
He looks Dazai over. “Then let me buy you some food. You can watch the whole time, make sure no one touches it. Easier than stealing.”

Dazai wrinkles his nose — if some random guy can tell he’s stealing, he’s definitely getting rusty.

“Don’t worry,” the man says, with a twinkle in his eye, as if he knows exactly what Dazai’s thinking. “You’re really good. I’m just more in tune with my surroundings than most people... Now, let me buy you some ramen?”

Now it’s Dazai’s turn to inspect the man.
He has no idea what his agenda is — which makes him interesting. More interesting than most people.

“Okay,” he agrees easily, though judging by the way the man dresses, Dazai probably has more money than him.

“Very good,” the man says. “I’m Oda Sakunosuke, by the way.”

“Dazai Osamu,” Dazai grins. “At your service.”

The man chuckles again.

He buys Dazai ramen and tells him to come back to the bus stop at the same time tomorrow if he’s hungry again.

And Dazai does — only to see if Odasaku is actually going to be there.

And he is.

He buys Dazai food, and continues to do so every day.

Dazai’s not sure when he pinpoints it, but eventually, he realizes: Odasaku really doesn’t have an agenda.

He’s just a good person. It baffles Dazai that those actually exist.

On the forty-third day of their weird friendship, Odasaku isn’t at the bus stop.

With anyone else, Dazai would’ve assumed they just didn’t feel like spending money on some insolent teenager anymore.
But not with Odasaku. He knows something is wrong.

So he walks — quickly, purposefully — the route he knows the man takes from his flat to the stop.
He found out where the man lived on the third day of knowing him, back when he still thought Odasaku had an agenda.

He finds him lying in an alley, a stab wound in his side.

Dazai’s never felt this kind of panic. Not when Mori stuck a needle in his eye. Not when he was told to cut open his own arteries just to see how much blood he could lose before passing out.

The thought of Odasaku dying hits him harder than the thought of his own death ever did.

“Hey, Dazai,” the man whispers, eyes half-lidded. “Pretty stupid of me to get mugged by some brat on my way to another brat, huh?”

Dazai ignores him. He’s already inspecting the wound — deep, probably fatal if left untreated.

The ambulance won’t be fast enough.

He watches the blood seep into his bandages as he remembers everything he knows about the human body.

Sure, most of what he learned about the human body was how to hurt people — but doesn’t he know enough to try to save the only friend he’s ever had?

His gaze flicks around the street before he bolts upright and smashes the window of the nearest parked car.

The alarm blares. He doesn’t care.

He digs through the trunk, fingers moving fast, frantic — until they close around what he needs: a first-aid kit.

He’s back at Odasaku’s side in seconds.

“Dazai, what—” the man starts, his voice thin and confused.

“Don’t speak,” Dazai snaps, already tearing through the kit — pulling out antiseptic, suture thread, needles with shaking but precise hands.

On that day, Dazai saves his first life — and finally finds a purpose.

He always thought deciding whether someone lived or died might make him feel alive. He just always assumed it would mean choosing whether to pull the trigger — not saving someone's life.

After he gets out of the hospital, Dazai takes Odasaku home, demanding that the other man not be alone until he’s better.

Odasaku laughs when he finds out the street kid he’s been buying food for over a month has a bigger apartment than him.

He’s the one who has the idea of opening a clinic — one for people like him, or like Dazai, who don’t have anywhere else to go.

Dazai doesn’t feel the same need to help the weak as Odasaku does. But he wants that rush again — the feeling of holding someone else’s life in his hands.

He also hopes that some of Odasaku’s morals — the ones that make him like the man so much — might rub off on him.

Years later, he thinks they actually might have.

So, they rent a run-down bar and set up a dingy clinic in the back. It’s overrun by patients from day one — no one in real need cares that their doctor is a teenager.

When Dazai helps deliver a baby for the first time, he thinks he might have actually found something beautiful in life.

Something that fills a bit of the emptiness he thought could never be filled.

//

Chuuya wakes up with a groan.
He feels like he’s been hit by a freight train. He’s aware of every part of his body—and not in a good way.

By sheer force of will, he manages to twitch his fingers and open his eyes.

He’s surprised to realize he’s not where he’s supposed to be. This isn’t his apartment, nor is he in Mori’s or Kouyou’s care. Instead, he’s lying on a hospital bed that’s clearly seen better days, in a dimly lit room. Faint music plays somewhere in the background, and when he turns his head—moving as little as possible—he sees Akutagawa.

The boy is sleeping in a wooden chair, curled in a position that cannot be good for his neck.

Before Chuuya can say anything, a voice cuts in.

“Don’t wake him.”

It’s coming from a man with shaggy brown hair and dark eyes, who’s just entered the room. He’s holding a rug in his hands, which he carefully lays over Akutagawa’s shoulders.

He adjusts the boy’s posture, making it look a little less painful—completely ignoring Chuuya in the process. Which is so baffling, it takes Chuuya a moment to realize he should be angry.

People don’t just ignore him. He’s a Mafia executive. People fear him enough to try to guess what he wants before he even says it.

“Where am I?” he demands, though his voice comes out too scratchy to sound properly commanding.

“In my clinic,” the man answers, finally turning away from Akutagawa to face him.

Now that he’s closer, Chuuya can see he’s about the same age as him—delicate features, a bit too thin, eyes that look more amused than alarmed.

“You a doctor?”

“Yup,” the man says, keeping his voice low—probably to avoid waking Akutagawa. “Even got a degree and everything. Though I made it online… but a degree is a degree, right?”

Chuuya isn’t sure he agrees.

Still, if the guy’s a doctor, it makes sense Akutagawa brought him here. He must’ve been in pretty bad shape.

“Why am I here and not—”

“With your boss?” the doctor cuts in, wrinkling his nose in faint disgust.

So he doesn’t like Mori. Chuuya files that away for later.

The man shrugs and sits down at the edge of the bed.

“Beats me. You were on the brink of death, so I guess Ryuunosuke figured you wouldn’t survive the trip back to HQ.”

“So, you saved my life?”

The man nods.

“That I did.” Then he adds with a groan, “Even with all the trouble you’re going to bring me.”

Now he sounds more like a petulant child, and Chuuya reconsiders whether they’re really the same age.

“And you are?”

“Dazai Osamu,” the man says with a small, joking bow.

“I’m Nakahara Chuuya,” Chuuya says uselessly — it’s obvious the man already knows who he is.

Dazai grins. “I know, Mr. Mafia Executive — you’re something like a local celebrity in this part of town.”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “I hope not in a good way.”

“No, don’t worry,” Dazai quips. “People are deathly afraid of you.”

“As they should be.”

“Well, I personally think you’re a bit too tiny to be fearsome, but that might just be my opinion.”

If Chuuya were able to move, he’d punch the doctor in the face — as it is, he can only glare. Maybe he wouldn’t have done it anyway — after all, the man did just save his life.

“What did you just fucking say?!”

That’s when Akutagawa groans. Still half asleep, he mumbles, “Don’t aggravate my boss, Dazai. He kills people.”

Dazai snorts.

“Yeah, he’s very frightening — like an angry Pomeranian.”

“When I get out of this bed I’m gonna—”

“Take at least one more week off and three of these every day,” Dazai interrupts, setting a pillbox down on the bedside table. “Thanks to your ability your body heals faster than most, but if you don’t want lasting damage, you should still lay low for a while.”

“I’m not going to—”

“You should listen to him,” Akutagawa cuts in this time. Judging by his shocked expression, even he’s surprised by it — but he keeps talking. “Dazai is the best doctor I know.”

“Aww,” Dazai coos, ruffling the boy’s hair. “That would be a very cute compliment if I thought you knew any other doctors!”

Akutagawa flushes and slaps his hand away. Dazai starts laughing.

Chuuya’s never seen his subordinate like this – showing any emotion other than fury. It’s… nice.

“What do I owe you anyway?”, he asks, “for… helping me. I mean.”

“You don’t owe him anything! Dazai doesn’t take-“

Before he can finish, Dazai slaps a hand over Akutagawa’s mouth.

“Oh no, you didn’t owe me anything — you were a starving street kid. He’s a Mafia Executive. He can pay.”

Before Akutagawa can bite him – which he would totally do – Dazai pulls his hand away again. Chuuya rolls his eyes.

“Then what do you want?”

Dazai tips his chin, humming, then his face turns almost serious.

“Medical-grade ketamine. Or morphine. Honestly, I’m not picky — just something sterile and strong enough to knock a person out.”

Chuuya blinks. “You want drugs?”

“For medical use,” Dazai says, mock-offended. “Not all of us have the luxury of legal supply chains. You know how hard it is to get clean anesthetics underground?”

And no, Chuuya does not actually know this. He can get any drugs he wants, anytime — though not legally, of course.

He nods. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

He even tries to offer a little smile. The man saved his life — a bit of gratitude is probably appropriate.

Dazai pats his head. “Good dog.”

Never mind. He’s going to kill him.

//

It’s six in the morning when Ryuunosuke and Chuuya leave. For a second, Dazai considers lying down in one of his hospital beds — but decides against it. He’ll have to get up again in a few hours anyway.

Instead, he makes coffee in the surprisingly clean kitchen of Oda’s bar, attached to the clinic. The bar’s name is Placebo.

Dazai’s idea. He still finds it hilarious.

Everyone in the underground knows Placebo. And everyone knows Dazai — and either likes him, or wants to stay on his good side. Because no matter who you are — good, bad, rich, poor — eventually, you’ll need a doctor.

He hums some catchy pop song as he rummages through the fridge. They’re out of soy milk again — Psyduck will have a field day.

After dumping five packs of sugar into his coffee, he takes the cup and sits down at the vacant bar.

He really likes what Oda made out of this place. It’s homely and simple — perfect for an after-work sake… or a kidney transplant.

He drops his head down onto the bar and closes his eyes, breathing in the aroma of coffee and the faint scent of whiskey. Maybe he should get some sleep after all.

That’s when the little bell over the bar door rings.

“If you’re not dying, then we’re closed,” Dazai mumbles, not lifting his head to see who’s there.

To his displeasure, the footsteps that follow don’t retreat — they get closer. Then someone clears their throat.

“Good morning, Dazai,” says a woman’s dark voice.

He sighs.

He knows that voice.

“Yosano,” he whines. “Can’t whatever emergency dragged you here wait until I’ve passed out for at least half an hour? I just had a patient.”

“I heard,” Yosano hums. “Nakahara was here — didn’t think you’d help the Mafia.”

There’s no accusation in her voice. Just a hint of genuine curiosity.

“I made an oath,” Dazai mumbles.

The woman laughs. “You didn’t. You’re not state-recognized.”

That’s true. But Dazai really doesn’t feel like explaining that he simply couldn’t let Chuuya die — not when he has the same blue eyes that stared up at him on his fourteenth birthday. The eyes that became his first step toward being his own person.

“Then call it a doctor’s conscience or something,” Dazai yawns, finally sitting up. “Whatever. What brings you here on this wonderful Tuesday morning?”

Looking at her, Dazai realizes she doesn’t look any better than he feels.

“There’s a case,” she says, “and I’m afraid we really need your help on it.”

Chapter Text

Dazai met Yosano when he was seventeen and tried to convince some woman to sell him a defibrillator using not only a fake ID, but also a forged medical license.

It was actually going pretty well — though, in hindsight, Dazai thinks he was laying it on a bit thick with the flirting — until Yosano walked by, laughed, and told the woman there was no way he was of age.

She dragged him to the Agency.

He thought he’d have to plan an entire prison break — which might’ve actually been fun — but instead, she and her colleague Ranpo just talked to him for a few hours. Then they let him go. With a defibrillator, no less.

On one condition: if they ever needed his help, he’d show up.

Since then, he helps with a case every few weeks. He can’t really say he minds. Everyone at the Agency is just so friendly and welcoming — it’s a nice change from his usual clientele.

But today, he really wishes they didn’t need his help.

The body lying in the Agency’s infirmary is grotesque even by Dazai’s standards. The woman looks barely human anymore. Skin a sick, waxy hue; lips cracked and blackened; jaw slack. Her arms are a map of puncture wounds and scabbed-over abscesses, some still oozing. But the worst part is the skin peeling away from the bone like soaked, rotting fabric.

“Have you ever seen something like this before?” Yosano asks while Dazai flips through her autopsy report.

“Hard to say,” Dazai hums. “A lot of those signs are common in prolonged drug abuse, but tissue necrosis this advanced... When did you say she died?”

“Tonight,” Yosano answers.

“And you said you couldn’t save her...?”

Yosano sighs. “No. For some reason, my ability didn’t work. I promised her I would. I was sure. But...”

She shakes her head, looking a bit lost.

She’s a seasoned doctor; not much fazes her. Dazai’s sure it’s not the woman’s death that’s taking a toll on her — it’s that her ability didn’t work.

“That’s never happened before, has it?”

Yosano shakes her head. “No. Pretty sure I could bring even you back — once you were fully dead and your ability stopped blocking mine.”

Dazai gives her a questioning look. “You thought about that before?”

“Obviously I did,” Yosano huffs. “Have you met you? You’re a walking disaster.”

Dazai shrugs. Fair enough.

“So what are we thinking? A new drug? One that also affects abilities? Even after the victim’s death?”

“Would be my best guess, yeah,” Yosano says. “Heard anything about a new drug lately?”

Dazai considers it. There’s a new drug on the streets every other month, and junkies show up at his clinic day and night.

“Nothing that fits these symptoms,” he says. “But I can ask around — maybe someone knows something.”

Dazai has contacts all over the underground, and almost everyone owes him a favor in one way or another.

Yosano nods. “You do that... Just — why would someone manufacture a drug that affects abilities? What’s the goal here?”

Dazai shrugs. “I can honestly and wholeheartedly say that I have no idea.”

The only thing he knows is that this could be really bad. There are a lot of people out there who fear ability users. The existence of this drug might be a hate crime.

If Yosano thinks the same, she doesn’t say it. Instead, she stretches and mutters, “Yeah, okay. Now let’s get the body out of here before the kids arrive. God knows they’re all traumatized enough.”

“True,” Dazai yawns.

“You gonna stay for breakfast?” Yosano asks.

“Sure,” Dazai says after a pause.

Most of his patients don’t show up until noon anyway.

//

“Dazai!” Atsushi greets him with a quick hug as he sits down at the table in the Agency’s staff room.

It’s always flattering how the boy’s whole face lights up when he sees him.

Dazai found Atsushi half a year ago, half-dead by the roadside, and took him in like a stray cat. Which — given his ability — feels oddly fitting.

The boy had wanted to stay with him — and Dazai would’ve totally let him — but then the chance presented itself to work at the Agency, and Dazai knew this was the better place for Atsushi.

He’s not a kid made for the morally grayish world Dazai lives in — not as devious, not as jaded as Dazai had been at that age.

“Ah, my favorite little feline,” Dazai chimes. “How’s office work treating you?”

“Not well!” Kunikida declares, sitting down stiffly across from Dazai. “The boy’s spelling is a nightmare!”

Atsushi flushes. “I only put one comma in the wrong place!”

“And you weren’t instantly terminated?” Dazai turns to Fukuzawa, eyes wide with mock concern. “You’re getting sloppy in your old age.”

Fukuzawa sighs. “Good morning to you too.”

That’s when Junichiro and Naomi enter, both eyeing the tamagoyaki and natto laid out on the table with thinly veiled suspicion.

“You didn’t make the food, did you, Dazai?” Junichirou asks cautiously.

“Why? Worried my cooking's so good you’d fall in love with me?” Dazai asks, winking at him.

The glare he gets from Naomi makes him instantly regret his words — she’s a lot scarier than the mafioso he operated on just a few hours ago.

“The kitchen’s still in one piece and I haven’t lost any teeth yet,” Kenji chirps, happily taking his first bites of fish. “So I think it’s safe to say Dazai wasn’t allowed to cook!”

“You’re all so mean!” Dazai cries, clutching his chest and dramatically collapsing against Atsushi. “Tsushi, tell them to be nicer!”

And Atsushi — bless his heart — actually pats his head. “I like your food.”

“Yeah, because you have no standards,” Kyouka deadpans.

“Mhm,” Yosano mumbles through a mouthful of rice. “Like mentor, like student.”

“Manners!” Kunikida snaps, at the exact same moment Dazai gasps. “I resent that!”

Yosano snorts. “I’ve seen the men you take home, Dazai. The bar is in hell.”

“Yosano’s mean too,” Dazai pouts.

“The cake is too dry,” Ranpo decides. Completely ignoring the rest of the conversation, “someone has to go buy new one.”

“I can do that,” Dazai offers, sniffing exaggeratedly. “Since everyone is only bullying me anyway.”

But Atsushi tugs him back down just as he makes a move to stand.

“Not you,” Ranpo states sharply.

“You’re going to eat a whole meal for once,” Yosano says, almost threateningly, as she starts shoveling food onto Dazai’s plate.

//

When Dazai opens the door to Placebo, the place is already a lot fuller than any bar should be at 9 AM.

Some of the regulars are there — like Harumi, a sweet old woman with a terrible gambling problem, and Kousei and Fujio, siblings with a rough home life who spend most of their free time at Placebo. All three wave at Dazai when he enters.

Then there’s Masaki — a small-time dealer slouched in the corner, getting stoned — who’s promptly booted out by Dazai. It’s not that he has a problem with marijuana or Masaki per se. But out of consideration for Psyduck, there’s a strict no-drug policy at Placebo.

Most of the other patrons aren’t here to relax. They’re here because they need a doctor. Luckily, a quick glance tells Dazai no one’s in critical condition, though a few start faking it the moment they catch his eye.

Behind the counter stands Odasaku, who greets him with a warm smile and lifts his coffee in a silent toast.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry, something came up,” Dazai says, promptly stealing his friend’s coffee. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

Odasaku chuckles as Dazai winks at him.

“Barely just survived.”

Taking a sip of coffee, Dazai once again thanks whatever higher power might be listening that he never told Odasaku about the giant crush he’d had on him for years — it might’ve been so awkward that even he would’ve felt embarrassed.
And Dazai has never, not even once in his life, been embarrassed.

“Where’s Psyduck?” he asks, looking around for the short, pink-haired woman.

“In the back,” Odasaku says, starting a fresh brew. “Probably telling some poor soul they need a lobotomy because they have a toothache.”

“A good doctor would probably go and save them”, Dazai hums.

“A nice one would”, Odasaku retorts, “and no one ever accused you of being nice.”

Dazai grins. “I make up for it by being devastatingly pretty.”

Then he stands up anyway to stop Psyduck before she diagnoses someone with Maple Syrup Urine Disease.

He staggers only slightly from the sudden movement, but Odasaku still notices.

“When did you last sleep? In a real bed?”

Ignoring the worried tone, Dazai gives him an obvious one-over. “Why? Are you offering to tuck me in? Because then I demand a good night kiss.”

Before Odasaku can do more than sigh at the deflection, Dazai turns to the room — and for once, his expression turns serious.

“You all know the rules,” he says, with the authority of someone well aware they’re usually the smartest person in the room. “One person at a time. No cutting. Everyone gets their turn. If someone’s in bad shape or passes out, they go first.”

Everyone nods silently. A few of the regulars even mouth the words along with him. They’re the same every day.

Then Dazai smiles brightly.

“Let’s hope I don’t accidentally kill any of you today!”

//

Dazai finds Psyduck stretched out on his exam table, a little boy beside her giggling while trying to find her heartbeat with a stethoscope.

“So, what’s the doctor’s diagnosis?” Dazai asks, leaning against the doorframe. “Will she live?”

“I think she might turn into a dinosaur,” the boy replies, completely serious as he turns to face Dazai.

It’s Banri — a six-year-old with the worst case of asthma Dazai’s ever seen. Which is especially bad, considering he lives in the slums — always dusty, always dirty — with a mother who never has enough money for medicine.

“Awesome! Being human was getting boring anyway!” Psyduck says, sitting up. “I call dibs on being a stegosaurus. No one ever picks them. It's tragic.”

Banri giggles again as Dazai shoos Psyduck off the cot — not without ruffling her hair first.

She’s only a year younger than him, but ever since he found her half-dead in an abandoned train station, he’s felt especially protective of her — almost as much as he does of Atsushi.

“Alright, Dr. Banri,” Dazai says, taking the seat across from him. “Where’s the trouble today?”

“I couldn’t breathe again last night,” Banri says, swinging his legs. “The inhaler you gave me didn’t really help, so my mom brought me here this morning.”

“Uh-huh,” Dazai hums, taking the stethoscope from the boy. “And where’s your mom now?”

“At work,” Banri murmurs, voice suddenly quieter. “She said I could stay here. That’s okay, right?”

Banri’s mother has two jobs and five kids — all of whom she sporadically leaves at Placebo. Dazai can’t really fault the woman.

“No problem at all,” he says, gently pressing the stethoscope to the boy’s chest. “Just don’t outdo me as a doctor or I might lose my job.”

The day is just as chaotic as any other at Placebo. At 10 AM, a local alcoholic has a seizure; at 2 PM, there’s a last-minute appendix removal; and by 4 PM, the first bar fight of the day leaves Dazai patching up a broken collarbone.

Once the more gruesome cases start rolling in, Banri is exiled to the bar, where Odasaku lets him mix drinks and accidentally break six glasses — he’s even softer on him than Psyduck and Dazai are.

It’s nearly 1 AM the next day when they finally decide to close, and Dazai has been awake for over fifty hours.

At this point, only habit and spite keep him going.

Just as Odasaku moves to lock the door, a man stumbles in — and promptly collapses. Only Odasaku’s quick reflexes save his head, catching the man by the armpits before he hits the ground.

The man’s eyes flicker around aimlessly. He doesn’t speak — only a few helpless groans escape his lips.

He looks like a walking case study in terminal decay. His complexion is a blotchy, waxy yellow; his breathing wet and ragged. Cracked lips stretch over a slack jaw, and both arms are riddled with punctures and angry, inflamed abscesses.

But it’s the skin that confirms Dazai’s dread — peeling off in long, tacky strips, like it’s trying to escape the body it clings to.

“Odasaku, take him to the back. Psyduck, grab some antibiotics and morphine,” Dazai says — his voice sharp, calm, professional in that way that always tells them something is very, very wrong.

Truth be told, he doesn’t think he can help the man if Yosano couldn’t save her patient. He’ll try anyway. It’s what he does.

Odasaku drags the man — barely conscious, barely breathing — onto the operation table, where Dazai snaps on a fresh pair of gloves.

“Hey, can you hear me?” he asks, giving the man a light slap. The only answer he gets is a confused groan.

“Okay, I’m going to examine you now,” Dazai explains. “If anything hurts, try to tell me, yeah?”

Another groan.

The first thing he notices is the dangerously high fever.

“Odasaku, get me a cooling blanket and some saline, yeah?”

Odasaku nods and hurries off — just as Psyduck storms into the room.

The next problem is finding the veins beneath the swelling. There’s necrosis beginning around several of the deeper abscesses.

“What the hell did you take...” Dazai whispers, as he realizes the peeling skin isn’t just inflamed — it’s liquefying.

The man doesn’t answer. Not even with a grunt.

Instead, he starts seizing, making it impossible to inject either the morphine or the saline Odasaku brought back. They can only wrap him in the cooling blanket.

But they all know it’s too late now — foam builds at the man’s lips, and blood spills from his ears and nose.

“Odasaku,” Dazai says. “Try using your ability while touching him.”

“What?”

“Just do it,” Dazai repeats — and, still a bit confused but as trusting as ever, Odasaku does exactly that.

He blinks. “It’s not working.”

Dazai nods. He expected that.

Then he takes the man’s hand, his voice soft. Calmer now.

“Everything’s okay. Everything’s going to be good. Just rest now, okay?”

He has no idea if the man hears him. But their eyes meet — just for a second — before the man goes still.

For a moment, the room falls into silence, the same somber mood settling over them that always does when they can’t save someone.

“Try again,” Dazai finally says, letting go of the stranger’s quickly cooling hand so it’s not his ability canceling out Odasaku’s.

Once more, his friend’s fingers press to the man’s temple.

“Nothing,” Odasaku whispers. “It’s just... blank.”

His eyes find Dazai’s.

“What does that mean?”

Slowly, Dazai shakes his head.

“I have no idea.”

//

He wakes up panicked, with no idea where he is.

Whatever he’s lying on is cold, and he can’t move.

His eyes flicker down over his body — or what must be his body.

Why doesn’t he recognize it?

He shakes his head. Not important. Not now. Because his body — if it’s his — is cuffed to some kind of metal table, and when he tries to speak, he realizes he’s gagged too.

That has to mean he’s here against his will, right? Even if he doesn’t know where he is or why, being gagged and restrained surely means he doesn’t want to be here.

With all the strength he can muster, he strains against the heavy metal restraints holding him down. But they don’t budge. They won’t break.

Which is... strange. He doesn’t know why, but something inside him insists — he should be stronger than this. Stronger than metal.

Panic rises in his chest, unfamiliar and uncontrollable.

Has he ever panicked before?

The more he tries to think, the clearer it becomes: he doesn’t remember anything.

Not his name. Not where he is. Not who he is.

Does he even have a name?

He tries to breathe deeply. Tries to calm down — because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?

But how does he know that if he knows nothing?
Who told him?

If he weren’t gagged, a whimper would escape his throat. Instead, all that comes out is a muffled sound — one that doesn’t even feel human.

But what does he know about being human, really?

He forces himself to look around, to assess the situation — maybe that will help. Maybe clarity will come from somewhere.

The room is white. Too white. Too clean. Not clean like a home — clean like it was scrubbed of meaning.

The only other object is a small metal table on wheels, covered with instruments he doesn’t recognize. He’s not sure he would recognize them, even if he had memories.

Still, they make his stomach twist.

The way they’re laid out — the clean lines, the clinical cloth — mimics a medical setting. But in the shape of the instruments, there’s nothing medical. No hint of healing.

Just as the panic threatens to drown him entirely, the door slides open.

And all he feels is fury.

Whoever’s coming in — they’re the one keeping him here. That, he knows.

Light spills into the room from the hallway, blinding at first. But he squints and makes out two shapes:

A man and a boy.

The man has long dark hair, neatly kept. The boy is wrapped in bandages.

The boy stares at him — finds his eyes immediately. At first, his gaze is blank. But the longer he looks, the more the pain shows through.

Is it worse than his own? He can’t tell.

The man doesn’t even glance at him. His attention is fully on the boy.

They start speaking. It’s hard to make out the words at first — there’s too much white noise in his head.

“What did he do?” the boy asks.
His voice is hollow – devoid of any emotions.

“Is it important?” the man replies, tone syrupy and wrong. “Shouldn’t it be enough that I tell you to help with my experiments?”

The boy doesn’t look away.

Blank meets furious.

And then — something shifts. Just a flicker, but real. A spark of something alive in those dark eyes.

“I’m not sure it is,” the boy says. “Enough, I mean.”

If he could breathe freely, his breath would hitch.

Because right then, lit by sterile white light, the boy’s face is suddenly beautiful.

He’s helping him.

He’s not sure anyone’s ever helped him before.

“If it’s not him,” the man says casually, “it’s going to be you.”

If he weren’t already thrashing against the cuffs, he would start now.

Because while he doesn’t completely understand the situation he knows that the boy, who just spared him, is about to pay for that kindness.

The boy nods.

“I know.”

The boy doesn’t react further and the man only shrugs as they retreat again. The door sliding close behind them as if they were never there. Completely ignoring him.

And he keeps on trashing and turning. He doesn’t know how long he struggles — minutes, hours, maybe days — until the cuffs finally give. And he’s up, starts working on the door – it’s easier to break than the cuffs.

The hallway outside isn’t as sterile — but it’s just as empty. Just as void of personality. Clean hallways, decorated in a slightly dated but elegant style.

First he runs then he seems to… fly?

No — not flying, something in his mind corrects — floating.

He’s not sure what the difference is.

But he doesn’t question it. Doesn’t even question why he can do that – it doesn’t seem like something a normal human can do.

It’s not important at the moment. What is important is finding the boy. Though the longer he keeps going he knows he won’t be able to help.

He feels heavy and slow and just so, so tired.

He’s on the floor again, no longer drifting through the air, and when he rounds a corner, he crashes into someone.

A woman he realizes blinking blearily.

A tall, pretty woman with red hair.

She’s catching him before he can pass out. She’s saying something but he can’t understand her anymore and there’s just one thing he has to say.

“Help.”

When he wakes again the woman is still there. Her name is Kouyou but she wants to be called Ane-san. She’s kind.

She even gives him a name.

Chuuya.

Later he also gets a surname. When people start respecting him – fearing him.

He meets the man again. And every instinct begs him to end him — but he doesn’t. The man becomes his boss instead.

And the Mafia becomes all Chuuya knows. They are his family – some of them at least.

Never Mori.

He doesn’t see the beautiful boy again.

He hopes – against all odds – that he’s alright.

//

Chuuya’s body still aches from last night.
That doctor — Dazai — had been right. He needs rest, even though the medicine is helping more than he expected.

What’s worse than the pain, though, is that he can’t shake his first memories of the Mafia — or really, his first memory at all.

His mind is full of empty brown eyes that hold only the faintest flicker of kindness.

And to top it all off, Mori has called for him — just when the reason he resents the man won’t leave his head.

Still, he only hesitates for a second before opening the door to his boss’s office.

Mori looks up from his desk with that ever-pleasant smile — the one that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Chuuya,” he says, voice smooth. “It’s good to see you up and about. From what I heard, you were really hurt. I was worried.”

Chuuya doesn’t answer immediately. He first steps inside and shuts the door behind him, crosses his arms.

“I’m good. Akutagawa took me to an underground clinic.”

“Oh?” Mori doesn’t sound surprised. “The doctor must have been very competent if you were as hurt as your little protégé seems to think. At least my level, I’d guess.”

Chuuya shrugs.

“Don’t know. I wasn’t conscious during the operation.”

Mori hums thoughtfully.
“Did you, by any chance, get the doctor’s name? Akutagawa couldn’t remember, and I’d really like to thank him for saving my most important subordinate.”

That makes Chuuya pause for a second.
Akutagawa lying to Mori? To any authority figure? That’s unheard of. But Chuuya understands — whatever Dazai is to Akutagawa, it’s not just some obscure doctor. The boy looks at the man with so much adoration it borders on worship.

“No idea,” Chuuya says. “Like I said — I was mostly unconscious.”

He agrees with Akutagawa’s unspoken choice. Dazai is probably better off without Mori knowing about him. Everyone is.

And Chuuya’s not about to throw the man who saved his life under the bus — no matter what a nuisance he is.

“That’s too bad,” Mori says. Chuuya knows he doesn’t believe him. He also doesn’t care.

“Why did you call me here? I doubt it was just to see how I’m doing.”

Mori nods, seemingly accepting that Chuuya won’t tell him anything more. Probably because he expects to find out about the mysterious doctor anyway.
Or maybe he already knows — no matter how hard he tries, Chuuya can never figure Mori out.

“No, that wasn’t the only reason. I have a mission for you,” he says, holding out two photographs.

Chuuya takes them.
They show four bodies. He recognizes them all — he makes a habit of knowing all his men. If they’re putting their lives on the line for him, the least he can do is know their names.

Those four had been lonely men with nothing in their lives but the Mafia. He’d gone drinking with them once or twice, but not often. They depressed him, if he’s being honest.

It still hits him, though, to see their bodies so mangled and ruined — skin peeling from bone, arms full of puncture wounds.

“Drugs?” he asks, trying to shake the familiar emptiness that always comes when someone he knows dies.

Mori nods again. “Yes.”

“What’s the mission?” Chuuya asks, tearing his eyes away from the photos.

Those men didn’t need anyone to drug them — they handled that just fine themselves. There’s no clear reason this should warrant an investigation.

“I want to know more about this drug,” Mori explains. “It has… interesting side effects. And I haven’t seen anything that lethal in a long time.”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “And you want me to investigate?”

He’s hardly the obvious choice — too short-tempered to make a decent detective.

Yet, Mori hums.

“As it seems you’re off the battlefield for a while as your body recovers, I thought a low-stakes mission like this might be perfect.”

Chuuya narrows his eyes at him.
All he sees is that same damn smile — and nothing beneath it.

He doesn’t believe for a second that his injuries are the only reason Mori’s sending him on this mission.

Still, he doesn’t argue. Just shrugs.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Chapter Text

Yokohama’s port isn’t a nice place.

It reeks of old fish and engine oil, and the boats floating in the bay look like they’ve been left to rot with the cargo still on them.

It’s perfect for shady business.

Law enforcement gave up on this part of the city a long time ago. Not that it matters — most of them work for the Mafia anyway.

Dazai would know. He helped pick which officers to bribe. He was good at it too — people are easy to read when you stop assuming they have morals.

He steps around a pile of broken pallets and keeps walking until he sees the warehouse he’s looking for. The lights are on.

That’s a good sign. Means he picked the right night to look for Kurozawa Jin — one of the biggest suppliers in the city. He handles at least a third of Yokohama’s drug trade.

His shipments are timed to look random — so not just anybody can figure out the delivery schedule.

Luckily, Dazai isn’t just anybody.

What he didn’t predict is the smoking figure stepping out of the shadows just before he reaches the warehouse door.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Chuuya Nakahara sounds like he’s the one who just ran into one of Yokohama’s most wanted criminals in the middle of the night — or technically, early morning.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay in bed for at least two more weeks?” Dazai counters, channeling his best disappointed babysitter.

“Yeah, sorry I don’t make a habit of listening to hobby medics,” Chuuya scoffs.

Dazai blinks, mildly offended.

“Hobby medic?” he repeats, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “You really are just a dumb slug with brawn but no brain, huh?”

“Who are you calling a slug?!” Chuuya growls, letting a few pieces of debris around them hover.

Dazai rolls his eyes. “I’m really not scared of you, chibi.”

Even in the dark, he can see Chuuya’s face twist. He decides he likes that moniker.

“Well, maybe you should be!”

“Oh, don’t bore me,” Dazai says, waving a hand. “You’re not going to attack me. So be more interesting and tell me what you’re doing here. As far as I know, Kurozawa isn’t working for the Mafia, is he?”

At that, Chuuya looks taken aback. “How do you know who’s working for the Mafia and who isn’t?”

Dazai sighs. “Are you really this stupid? I’m an underground doctor. No, I’m the underground doctor. People come to me to save their loved ones. I know everything about everyone.”

“Right…” Chuuya says slowly. For once, he looks like he’s thinking. He eyes Dazai up and down, takes one last drag, and flicks the cigarette to the ground.

He grits his teeth like the next words physically pain him.
“You might actually be useful, then. I’m here to find out more about a new drug.”

And that’s… interesting.

“One that makes the skin peel off the user’s bones?” Dazai asks. “With the side effect of nullifying powers on contact?”

Chuuya blinks. “That’s a side effect?”

Now it’s Dazai’s turn to be surprised.

“You didn’t know that? You were given the mission without that crucial piece of information?”
He pauses. Then his voice flattens: “No — wait. If Mori gave you the mission, I’m not surprised.”

He expected more anger at that. But Chuuya just looks resigned. Maybe he’s got more brain than Dazai thought.

He almost feels sorry for him.

“I’m here to find out more about the same drug.”

Chuuya furrows his brow. “Why?”

So… no brain after all.

“Because my patients are dying? And also —”

Dazai halts for a second. He really shouldn’t trust the man as much as he does. But it’s the eyes looking up at him — just as furious and helpless as they were eight years ago.

“The existence of this drug... why would someone manufacture something that affects abilities?”

Chuuya runs a hand down his face. “A hate crime.”

Dazai nods. “That’s the conclusion I came to as well.”

“Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

It’s silent for a moment.

“We have the same goal,” Dazai finally says. “So maybe—”

“Oh, don’t say it,” Chuuya interrupts.

“Come on, we might make a good team. Stranger things have happened, chibi!”

Chuuya groans.

“Let me do the talking, yeah?” Dazai says, nodding toward the warehouse door, from which faint light still spills.

“What? No! You actually think they respect you more than me?!”

Dazai sighs. “You still have so much to learn, my tiny padawan. They might respect you more, but gratefulness is a better motivator than fear.”

“Gratefulness?”

“Yeah,” Dazai hums. “Kurozawa’s daughter had a bad accident a few months ago. He’ll remember I’m the one who saved her.”

Then he turns toward the door — not waiting for an answer.

//

The inside of the warehouse is cleaner than expected — swept floors and a makeshift table in the middle.

A few men linger around it, not nearly as busy as they should be. When the door creaks open, they look up — startled. A couple reach for their guns.

Then they recognize Dazai, who gives them a cheery wave.

“Hellooo.”

The tension breaks — mostly. It’s an unspoken law in the underground: Dazai shows up wherever and whenever he wants, and no one’s surprised anymore. It’s also understood that no one touches him — people either like him, or they need him.

When Chuuya steps in behind him, the tension snaps right back — sharper this time. No one’s dumb enough to draw a weapon, but they all stand a little straighter.

Dazai hums, ignoring the charged silence, and glances around. No containers. No crates. Not even plastic bags.

“Delayed shipment today?” he asks, sounding almost sincerely curious.

“Y-yeah,” one of the guys mumbles, but doesn’t offer more.

“That’s too bad,” Dazai says, clasping his hands behind his back. “Must be boring to wait around all night.”

He gives the man a sympathetic smile.

“But lucky for me — that means your boss might have a moment, right? …Chin, was it?”

He recognizes the guy. He treated him a week ago when he had an STD.

Chin blushes, probably remembering the same meeting. “Sure, doc. I’ll go get him.”

“Thank you,” Dazai chimes.

But before Chin can turn around, the back door swings open and a tall man steps inside — graying hair but handsome for his age.
His face lights up the moment he spots Dazai.

“Doc!” he calls, striding forward and pulling Dazai into a tight hug.

“Good evening to you too, Kurozawa.”

The man gives him a playful slap on the arm. “How many times have I told you to call me Jin?”

“Ah, that would be the height of unprofessionalism,” Dazai says, eyes glinting.

“Oh, come on — you’re practically family!” Kurozawa laughs. “That reminds me, my daughter’s still single. You know, if you really want to join the family…”

“While I’m honored to keep receiving the offer,” Dazai says with a grin, “your daughter is, tragically, a woman. Also — wouldn’t it be a bit unbecoming if your daughter shared a bed partner with her father?”

Kurozawa lets out another laugh. “Don’t make me blush in front of my subordinates, doc.”

That’s when Chuuya clears his throat.

Kurozawa’s gaze shifts — and for the first time, he notices the other man standing just behind Dazai. His expression changes fast. He dips into a respectful bow.

“Executive Nakahara. Apologies — I didn’t see you.”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “I noticed.”

Kurozawa straightens, eyes flicking between the two of them now.
“So I guess you’re not here for entertainment?”

“Unfortunately not,” Dazai says. “It’s all business tonight, I’m afraid.”

“We’re here because we’ve got questions about a new drug,” Chuuya adds, voice level.

Kurozawa runs a hand through his hair, glancing briefly at his men before nodding once.

“Then we should probably discuss this somewhere private.”

//

Kurozawa leads them into a backroom with a folding table, four chairs, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

He gestures to the seats as he lights one up.
“So, what do you have for me?”

Before Dazai can speak, Chuuya pulls a folded envelope from his coat and drops it onto the table.

“Recognize this?” he asks, then slumps into one of the chairs.

Dazai refrains from calling him too lazy to stand when he sees the wince that crosses Chuuya’s face as he sits.
That’s why patients should listen to their doctors — and stay in bed.

Kurozawa exhales a slow stream of smoke as he pulls the photos from the envelope. He grimaces at the images of the bodies.

“Guess I’m lucky I skipped dinner.”
He glances at Chuuya. “Who were they?”

“My subordinates,” Chuuya says flatly. “And I’d really like to know where they got the stuff that did that to them.”

“Well… not from me,” Kurozawa says after a barely-there pause. His tone is even, but his fingers tap once — lightly — against the edge of the table. “Drugs that kill the user are really bad for business.”

Chuuya nods slowly, clearly expecting Kurozawa to continue.

But he doesn’t.

“True words,” Chuuya says at last, voice dry. “…Do you maybe know who’d be interested in something that bad for business?”

Kurozawa shrugs and pushes the photos back across the table. “Can’t say I do.”

Chuuya and Dazai’s eyes meet for a second.

That’s definitely not all of it.

Before Chuuya can press, Dazai cuts in.

“But do you maybe recognize the symptoms? You know I had patients die…”

He lets his voice drop at the end, eyes just slightly too shiny.

Kurozawa’s face softens instantly. Luckily, he’s not looking at Chuuya — who’s rolling his eyes.

It’s quiet another moment, Kurozawa taking a deep drag, eyes wandering over Dazai before he sighs and says:

“Well, it’s not that big of a secret anyway, I guess.” He shrugs. “Just don’t tell my wife, okay?”

“Our lips are sealed,” Dazai promises with a solemn nod.

“A few months ago, I had this partner,” Kurozawa begins. “He liked drugs. And you know me, doc — I’ve never had a problem with that.”

Dazai hums in agreement. Would be pretty hypocritical to judge addicts when you’re the one dealing.

“So I didn’t care. But two weeks ago, he showed me this weird capsule. Looked metallic — filled with some bluish gas. I’ve never seen a drug like that before.”

He pauses, eyes narrowed.

“He said someone just gave it to him. A gift. Total stranger. I told him not to take it — there’s no such thing as a free meal, you know?”

“But he didn’t listen?” Dazai asks gently. His eyes flick to Chuuya, who’s been leaning forward more and more since Kurozawa started talking — and now flinches, just slightly, his hands darting to his ribs.

Dazai squints but lets it slide. Mafiosi with self-destructive tendencies have to wait for now.

Kurozawa takes another drag, then shakes his head — almost regretful.

“No. And the next day, I found him — looking exactly like that.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dazai says, though his mind is already racing through the implications.

“Oh, it’s fine, doc,” Kurozawa shrugs. “Didn’t know him that well anyway.”

Dazai tilts his head slightly. “Do you — by chance — know if your friend was an ability user?”

Kurozawa blinks. “Uh — why…?”

Dazai just smiles sweetly and shakes his head.
“Just answer the question… please?”

It takes Kurozawa a moment to catch himself. He even glances at Chuuya, like he's looking for an explanation.
The mafioso only raises an eyebrow.

“No, I don’t think so… If he was, he never told me.”

“Interesting…” Dazai hums. Then he turns to Chuuya. “Were your men—?”

“No. They weren’t.”

Dazai frowns, leaning back slightly.

So, someone is using ability-cancelling drugs — on people without abilities. If the goal were to eliminate ability users, wouldn’t it make more sense to target them directly?

It’d be a slow, inefficient way to kill gifted individuals anyway — one at a time, through anonymous drug “gifts”? Doesn’t make sense.

So why—

His eyes widen.

“They’re experiments.”

“Excuse me?” Kurozawa asks, confused — just as Chuuya snaps, “What?”

Dazai ignores Kurozawa and turns to Chuuya instead.

“Think about it, chibi. Someone’s handing out drugs for free — not to important people, just to the kind who’ll definitely use them. Why? And why not aim for ability users directly?”

Chuuya’s eyes widen just a fraction.

“To test the drug.”

Then he frowns.

“But what the fuck’s the point if it just keeps killing people?”

Dazai shakes his head.

“I guess that’s what we have to find out.”

Then he stands, brushing imaginary dust off his coat.

“Thank you, Kurozawa. That was very insightful.”

He pauses, then adds with a wink.

“And just a free doctor’s tip — maybe it’s time to talk to your wife about… your preferences in lovers.”

//

When they step outside again, the sun is already rising, and Dazai stretches with a yawn.

“So, what now?” Chuuya asks, seemingly having forgotten how much he hates working with Dazai.

“Now,” Dazai hums, “you’ll get some rest.”

“I don’t—” Chuuya starts with a growl.

“Doctor’s orders,” Dazai simpers, holding up a finger like a strict professor.

“You don’t tell me what to do!”

Dazai shoots him a flat look and flicks him lightly in the side — something he’d never be able to do if Chuuya weren’t still half-dead. He shouldn’t be fast enough to tag the Mafia’s top martial artist.

Chuuya flinches back, clutching his ribs.

“Fuck, that hurt, you—”

“And that’s why you need rest,” Dazai says, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t—”

“You’re swaying on your feet.”

Chuuya blinks, glancing down – as if just realizing the world is tilting beneath his feet.

“No—” he mumbles, but it’s not much more than breath.

And then — before he can protest again — his legs give out.
If Dazai hadn’t caught him, he would’ve slammed straight into the concrete.
And probably torn open all his stitches.

Dazai sighs, looking down at the Mafia executive in his arms — who’s grimacing in pain even though he’s unconscious.

“Such a high-maintenance chibi.”

//

The moment Chuuya opens his eyes, regret hits him. He knows this room. Knows this bed. He never wanted to see either of them again — or the smug bastard they belong to.

“Are you awake?” a voice asks, just before a pink-haired woman leans over him — blinking down, face far too close.

“No, I thought I’d try sleeping with my eyes open for once,” he says dryly as he sits up, then adds when she doesn’t move, “You maybe wanna back the fuck up?”

The woman pouts. “Your bed manners are just as bad as ‘Samu said.”

“’Samu?” Chuuya echoes, confused.

“Mhm,” she hums, turning away without explaining — and shoving a bowl into his hands. “He also said I should get you some soup.”

Chuuya stares down at the sour-smelling liquid in the bowl — it doesn’t look edible — then back at the woman, even more confused than before.

“It’s already cold, but it should still be fine!” she chirps, watching him so intensely it makes Chuuya want to shrink back.

Unfortunately, he’s already pressed against the wall.

“Don’t eat that,” says a calm voice — possibly saving him from being poisoned.

Chuuya glances to the side. A tall man with red hair has entered the room, smiling slightly and holding a different bowl — one that actually smells like broth.

“Awww, not fair!” the woman whines as the redhead gently exchanges bowls.

“You know both you and Osamu are banned from the kitchen,” the man says, flicking her on the forehead.

“Owie,” the woman complains, rubbing the spot.

“Osamu?” Chuuya asks slowly, the name catching. “You mean… Dazai?”

“Mhm. He’s… well, our boss, I guess,” the man replies.

“Or family!” the woman chimes in brightly.

The man nods. “That too.” Then he holds out a hand to Chuuya. “I’m Oda, by the way.”

“Nakahara,” Chuuya replies, though his focus isn’t on Oda anymore — it’s on the soup. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now.

“And I’m Psyduck!” the woman chirps, which makes Chuuya pause, spoon frozen just in front of his mouth.

“That your actual name?”

“Mhm,” Psyduck nods enthusiastically. Chuuya blinks — glances at Oda, who just shrugs — and then decides to accept it.

He takes his first taste of the soup. It’s really good. Though he’s not sure if that’s because it actually is, or because he’s just that hungry.

“How long was I out?” he asks between spoonfuls.

“Almost twenty hours,” Psyduck answers. “You should’ve listened to ‘Samu!”

It takes all of Chuuya’s willpower not to roll his eyes. “Where is that asshole anyway?”

“That asshole,” Oda says — and for the first time, his warm voice turns almost cold — “carried you back here all the way from the port, even though he really didn’t have to. What do you think would’ve happened if he’d just left you passed out in no-man’s-land?”

Chuuya winces. Because Oda has a point. If someone a bit less benevolent had found him — a passed-out Mafia executive — he’d be dead now.

He grits his teeth against the spoon.
So now he owes the bastard twice over for saving his life. Just great.

“But to answer your question,” Oda continues, “he’s just finishing up with his last patient. He’ll probably be here soon.”

Chuuya hums, his focus returning to the soup — preferring chewing over thinking. Two near-death situations in three days are two too many.

Then the door creaks.

“Miss me already?” comes a far-too-familiar voice.

Dazai stands in the doorway, still in scrubs.

Chuuya grimaces as Psyduck and Oda both wave at him.

“Are you hungry?” Psyduck asks brightly, shoving her probably-deadly soup into Dazai’s hands.

He takes it with a chuckle and ruffles her hair.

“Thanks, Ducky. But today is not the day to die, I fear.”

Then his eyes land on Chuuya — and he grins.

“So, Sleeping Beauty’s awake? How are we feeling, huh? Planning to get more piggyback rides out of unassuming doctors?”

Chuuya flushes.

“Don’t say that like I forced you, I’d have been fine on my own!” he snaps.

Dazai’s eyes twinkle but for once he doesn’t quip back. He just waves it off and steps forward.

“Let me look you over, chibi. I want to make sure you’re alright.”

His voice lacks its usual humor — and now that he’s closer, Chuuya notices he looks awful. His hair is even more of a mess than usual, the bandages around his neck are coming loose, and the dark circles under his eyes look like they belong on a corpse, not a living person.

Chuuya’s so taken aback — and annoyed — by his sudden rush of concern that he only nods.

“When did you last sleep, Osamu?” Oda asks as Dazai starts checking Chuuya over.

Dazai ignores him, fingers trailing up Chuuya’s side, pressing gently under his ribs.
“Any stabbing pain? Nausea?”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “Just the kind I get from being near you.”

There’s a quirk to Dazai’s lips — but no retort.

“Osamu,” Oda says again, sharper this time.

“Sleep is for the dead,” Dazai chirps. “And sadly, I’m not one of them yet!”

Oda frowns. “So… over three days?”

Dazai doesn’t answer — just keeps poking Chuuya. Admittedly, very gently.

“And food?” Oda tries.

“This morning,” Dazai mutters.

“This morning — when you carried Nakahara here and immediately had two emergency surgeries?”

Dazai winces. “...Yesterday morning?”

“You’re no use to anyone if you collapse,” Oda sighs.

“I’ll eat later,” Dazai shrugs.

Then he flicks his hands in a loose let-it-go motion just as Oda opens his mouth again.

“You want my soup?” Psyduck offers brightly.

Dazai just shakes his head fondly and gives another light press against the base of Chuuya’s shoulder. “How about here?”

“Nope”, Chuuya says and Dazai lets go with a quiet hum.

“Looks like you’re gonna live, slug.” Dazai claps his hands and grins. “Perfect — because I’ll tragically need your unfortunate assistance tonight!”

And just like that, Chuuya’s worry evaporates — replaced by his usual temper.

“Huh? Unfortunate assistance?!”

Dazai nods solemnly as he leans against the foot of the bed.

“Yeah. Because while you were getting your beauty sleep and I was stuck with dreadfully boring invalids, I thought about our little drug problem.”

“And?” Chuuya asks, still bristling — but deciding to save his fury for after hearing Dazai out.

“Well, we tried talking to a dealer,” Dazai says, rubbing his eyes. “But it turns out none of the typical suppliers are involved — so I thought we’d try the users instead.”

Chuuya nods and stretches his arms, pleased to find he can move again without pain.

“Makes sense. You have someone in mind?”

“Yeah – and he’s the worst!”, Dazai whines, “that’s why I need Chuuya, he’s the worst too!”

And then — before Chuuya can counter — Dazai collapses dramatically onto the bed, right across his legs.

“Ow, fuck! You fucking asshole! Get the fuck off me!”

Dazai snorts, face muffled by the blanket.

“Chibi needs to expend his vocabulary.”

//

As it turns out, Dazai’s next lead takes them down an alley that reeks of piss and burnt rubber, beneath a rusted fire escape that Chuuya’s pretty sure hasn’t been safe since the last century.

“Don’t you have friends in nicer parts of the city?”

Dazai gives him an appalled look.

“Raiki and I aren’t friends.”

Raiki is the leader of a street gang called Mushikui — made up of junkies and the city’s leftovers, at least if Dazai is to be believed.

Chuuya’s never heard of them before. They’re too insignificant to show up on the Mafia’s radar.
But according to Dazai, they practically worship Chuuya — or rather, Executive Nakahara: the embodiment of power and destruction.

Chuuya’s not sure if he’s flattered or insulted. Probably more flattered.

They come to a run-down building — more ruin than residence — and Chuuya grimaces.

“I hope you know I expect all the vaccinations after I go in there.”

Dazai frowns, also eyeing the building.
“It’s not that bad. I’ve lived in worse places.”

That makes Chuuya pause — realizing how little he actually knows about Dazai’s past. Or Dazai at all.
It also lets the unwelcome flicker of concern from earlier flare up again.

“Don’t make that face, chibi,” Dazai says without looking at him. “You haven’t been my dog long enough to be that protective.”

“I’m not—”

But before Chuuya can finish, a woman stumbles out of the building — hair greasy, pupils blown wide, and smoking something that’s definitely not a cigarette.

She bumps into Dazai, who catches her just before she slumps to the ground.

She lets out a giggle — which quickly sours into a groan when her unfocused eyes land on him.

“Doc? What are you doing here?” she mumbles, sounding distinctly unimpressed for someone half-conscious.

“Nene! Good to see you too,” Dazai says brightly, easing her upright and making sure she can stand.

“The boss is gonna be a pain in the ass for days again after seeing you,” she whines.

“I know... but I brought apology gifts?”

From the depths of his coat, Dazai pulls out a bag of sterile, still-sealed syringes.

“This might help you see me a little less — at least for a while?”

Nene pouts. “Not sure that’s enough to make up for all the whining.”

Dazai winces, then steps aside to give her a clear view of Chuuya.
“I also brought someone else.”

The change is instant. Nene’s eyes go wide, and she straightens so fast she almost looks sober. Then she drops into a deep bow.

“Executive Nakahara. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Chuuya blinks, then throws Dazai a smug grin. Maybe now the doctor will finally realize how people should act around him.

Dazai just rolls his eyes.

“Sooo… you’ll take us to your boss now?”

Nene’s eyes stay fixed on Chuuya, but she starts looking annoyed again.
“Well, it’s not like I have a choice, do I?” she mutters. “But don’t be surprised if he shows up at your door trying to propose again — especially if you’re the one breaking no-contact.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Dazai groans.

“Your own fault,” Nene says as she turns and steps aside to let them in.

Chuuya stops Dazai before he can follow.
“He’s your ex?!”

Dazai shrugs.
“I wouldn’t go that far. More of a repeated fling.”

“He thinks the doc is the love of his life,” Nene calls back, still sounding unimpressed.

Chuuya raises an eyebrow.
“First Kurozawa, now some small-time gang boss? Did you sleep with all of Yokohama?”

Dazai winces, looking almost sheepish.
“Not everyone. I’m not that busy.”

Then he grins.
“I’m sure I could pencil chibi in somewhere.”

When he winks, Chuuya’s face flares hot.

//

The building is just as much of a dump inside as it is on the outside. It reeks of sweat, smoke, and neglect — and it's full of people either asleep or too high to care. Some glance up as they pass, staring at Chuuya like they can’t decide whether he’s a god or a hallucination.

“I hope whatever intel we’re getting is worth the highly contagious disease we’re probably catching,” he mutters.

Dazai doesn’t respond. He’s frowning slightly, eyes fixed on two guys in the corner half-heartedly brawling — both of them looking more dead than alive.

“It’s been a while since you all took on a job, huh, Nene?”

The woman sighs. “What can I say? This place’s turned more into a drug den than a gang hideout. We pulled a heist a few weeks ago, but… let’s just say it didn’t end great.”

Then she opens a door at the end of the hall. It’s cleaner than the rest of the house — though still far too filthy for Chuuya’s standards. He’s always preferred order. Cleanliness.

In the middle of the room sits a table surrounded by two men and two women playing cards — all of whom look up when they enter.

Their expressions sour the moment they see Dazai.

He responds with a cheery, infuriating wave.

“What the hell is he doing here, Nene?” one of the women huffs.

Before Nene can answer, a blue-haired man surges to his feet and barrels toward Dazai.

“I told you never to fucking show your face here again, Osa— Dazai!”

Before the man can reach him — and probably punch him — Dazai grabs Chuuya and yanks him forward, ducking behind him like a shield.

Chuuya lets him. Because as much as he’s wanted to strangle the bastard since the day they met… he also doesn’t want anyone else to get a shot in first.

“I can explain, Raiki!” Dazai says, waving his hands in a theatrical panic.

So that’s Raiki, Chuuya thinks. Hot, in a reckless, street-punk kind of way. Not really his type — but he gets the appeal.

“And I brought a present!” Dazai adds brightly, gesturing to Chuuya.

“Who are you calling a present?!” Chuuya snarls, spinning around to glare at him — while everyone else just stares, frozen.

Dazai smiles innocently. Chuuya would’ve punched him if he didn’t sense the shift in the air — the way the room had gone still, expectant. These people were watching him now, and they seemed to expect a bit more grace than fists.

The woman who huffed earlier is the first to move — sitting up straighter, tension rippling through her frame. The others follow suit, backs snapping straight, expressions morphing from irritation to something much closer to awe.

Raiki still has his fists clenched, but his gaze flicks to Chuuya — and falters.

“Wait… is that—?”

“It is,” Nene says dryly, stepping aside. “Executive Nakahara.”

There’s a beat of silence — then all of them bow hastily, almost in unison. One of the men even drops his cards in the rush.

Chuuya shoots Dazai an incredulous look. The doctor only snorts.

“Sir,” Raiki says, “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“We’ve heard so much about you!” the woman who spoke before chimes in. “Is it true you once took down an entire enemy organization on your own?”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow but nods.

No need to mention how incredibly incompetent every single member of that organization had been.

The woman gasps, obviously delighted. “That’s so cool!”

“Holy shit,” the guy next to her mutters. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“Can I take a photo with you?” another asks, already half-reaching for his phone.

“Yeah… no,” Chuuya says slowly, then turns to Dazai, who looks far too amused. “You didn’t tell me they were an actual fucking cult.”

“They’re not,” Dazai giggles. “They’re just firm believers in Darwinism — and you, chibi, are the apex predator.”

Chuuya blinks. He’s not sure if he’s still flattered that he’s an idol to a gang made up of junkies. They are a bit much.

“So, I’m not really here for a fan club,” he says, leveling a look at Raiki. “We need information. You up for a few questions?”

Raiki glances around the room, then jerks his head toward the table. “Sit. You too, Osa- Dazai. Even though I still kinda wanna punch you.”

He makes a point of not looking at Dazai, and now that the man has calmed down, Chuuya realizes there's more longing than anger in his voice. Poor fool.

“Understood,” Dazai says cheerfully, already flopping into a chair.

Chuuya stays standing for a second longer — and the room seems to hold its breath until he finally sits down too.

“Alright,” he says, voice steady. “We’re looking into a new drug. Comes in a metallic capsule, filled with some kind of blue gas. Side effects include your skin peeling off your bones. Ring any bells?”

The former awe fades into a somber quiet. Raiki leans forward, elbows on the table — the easy bravado gone now.

“We’ve seen it. It’s been floating around for a few weeks.”

“Have you seen anyone use it?”

Raiki nods. “Yeah. We lost two people last week. One of them lasted a day. The other was gone in hours. Since then, I’ve forbidden anyone here to take it.”

Chuuya exchanges a look with Dazai. Different durations of survival. That’s new information.

“Did either of them have abilities?” Dazai asks, sharp now.

Raiki shakes his head. “No. Just regular people. Young, too — had their whole lives ahead of them.”

Probably not that long a life if they were part of this gang, Chuuya thinks sardonically — though at least Raiki and his three card-playing partners seem to be mostly sober.

“Did you ever meet the people selling it?” Chuuya asks next.

“Not me,” Raiki says, jerking his chin toward the woman beside him, whose eyes are still glued to Chuuya. “But Chai did.”

“One of them approached me a few days ago,” Chai says, finally dragging her gaze away. “But I didn’t take what they offered. I’m not that stupid.”

“Debatable,” the man beside her snorts — and gets an elbow in the ribs for it.

“Could you describe them for me?” Chuuya asks, and gets an overzealous nod in response.

“It was a man in normal street clothes — but they didn’t look cheap. Probably more expensive than any clothes I’ve ever owned.” She pauses, like she’s searching for the right words. “He was… neat. Obviously didn’t belong to this part of the city.”

“So, no typical dealer,” Dazai hums. “Just as we thought.”

“Anything else you noticed?” Chuuya asks.

Chai shakes her head. “No, sorry — he wasn’t really striking. Just some guy. Upper-middle class, I’d say.”

Chuuya leans back in his chair, the faintest crease between his brows. “Alright.”

He turns to Dazai, who looks deep in thought. “Any more questions?”

“I don’t think so,” Dazai says slowly, his mind clearly somewhere far from this gang’s rundown headquarters.

“Okay.” Chuuya stands. He has no interest in staying on the cheap plastic chair a second longer than necessary.

Dazai follows suit — whether it’s because he shares the sentiment or just isn’t eager to be in the same room as his ex-fling any longer is unclear.

“Thanks for the info,” Chuuya says, nodding to Raiki and the others.

“Take care of yourselves,” Dazai adds, his smile tight.

The smile matches the look he had walking through the halls — quiet concern, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

They turn to leave — but before they reach the door, Raiki steps forward and grabs Dazai’s shoulder, holding him back.

Dazai sighs, casting Raiki a look that’s more amused than annoyed.

“Osamu—” Raiki starts, but Dazai immediately holds up a finger to his lips.

“Let me stop you right there,” he says, sing-song and bright. “Before it gets embarrassing, okay?”

Raiki flushes, jaw tight — but doesn’t let go. He tries again.

“Just—”

“Lalala~,” Dazai interrupts, pressing both hands over his ears. “Chibi and I really have to go now. Have a wonderful day!”

Then he bolts from the room.

Chuuya lingers for a second, watching Raiki — who's left standing there, clearly struggling to hold it together in front of his crew.

He almost feels sorry for him. Almost.

“Eh. Yeah,” Chuuya says, giving a curt nod. “Bye.”

Then he follows Dazai out.

Hopefully he’ll never have to visit this little freak-show again.

//

“Well, that was… something,” Chuuya grumbles as he steps out onto the street, catching up to Dazai.

Dazai flashes a cheeky grin. “Does chibi not like being idolized?”

Chuuya wrinkles his nose and shoves his hands into his pockets.
“They were a bit too fanatic for my liking.”

Dazai chuckles lowly, glancing up at the sky, where the sun is just beginning to rise, flooding the filthy street with light.

For once, his smile doesn’t look fake. The sunrise reflects in his eyes and warms the color of his hair.

Chuuya wonders if it’s as soft as it looks.

“The sunrise is beautiful,” Dazai says.

“Yeah,” Chuuya agrees — without even glancing at the sky. “Yeah, it is.”

That’s when Dazai’s phone rings. With a weary sigh, he pulls it out.

“I really hope this is important, Yosano,” he says as he answers. “I’m still working on the case you gave me and was just about to finally get some sleep.”

The street is quiet and empty at this hour, so Chuuya doesn’t have to strain to hear the voice on the other end.

“You have to come to the Agency, Dazai. I found something I don’t understand and… you need to see this.”

“Now?” Dazai asks, eyes darken with concern as they meet Chuuya’s.

“Now.”

Chapter Text

Chuuya is aware of the Armed Detective Agency — though only in a peripheral way. It’s come up in Mafia meetings once or twice, and he knows Akutagawa has some weird obsession with the tiger boy who works there.

For such a small organization, they’ve accomplished some impressive things. Still, he’s never been there, never been interested enough to find out where it even is — let alone imagined what it might look like.

Though if he had, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have pictured this complete disaster of an office.

As soon as Dazai opens the door, he has to duck a flying book — one that would’ve hit Chuuya straight in the face if he couldn’t control gravity.

“Kenji!” cries a strained voice — coming from a white-haired teenager. “I was working on that!”

“Sorry, Atsushi!” says a kid who must be Kenji, sounding not the least bit apologetic. “I had to show Junichirou I can throw farther than him!”

Another teenager makes a cut-it-out gesture. “There was no competition!”

He glances at a man in glasses who looks ready to strangle someone — but can’t seem to decide who deserves it most.

“Morning, Dazai,” another man waves lazily, chewing on a licorice stick.

Immediately, all eyes are on the doctor.

“Good morning, everyone~!”

The white-haired teenager lights up and barrels into Dazai — who catches him easily, seemingly used to this kind of emotional ambush.

“You’re back!” the boy beams.

“Hey, Atsushi,” Dazai chuckles, patting his head.

As soon as Atsushi lets go, Kenji’s already dragging Dazai toward a nearby table, demanding to show off some “amazing bug” he found.

Which leaves Chuuya — who’s been mostly hidden behind Dazai until now — suddenly standing alone, for everyone to see.

From one moment to the next, the mood shifts. Atsushi jumps back, arms raised and ready for a fight. Junichirou steps in front of two girls Chuuya hadn’t even noticed until now. The guy in glasses charges forward with a notebook open in his hands.

The only unbothered people are Licorice Man — still chewing lazily — and Kenji, who’s too taken in by his bug to notice the tension at all.

“What are you doing here?” the glasses guy demands. “The Port Mafia is not welcome here. I demand you retreat.”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow.

“That’s a really awesome bug, Kenji, and I think Bugikida is a great name,” Dazai chirps, before anyone else can speak. “But I think I need to deal with this first before you can show me more!”

He gestures vaguely to the agency members currently assembling to fight Chuuya. It’s cute that they think they’d stand a chance.

“Don’t attack Chibi, Kunikida!” Dazai waves a hand in mock surrender. “I brought him!”

“Why would you—” Kunikida starts, frowning hard.

“Is he threatening you?” Atsushi cuts in, now somehow standing even straighter.

Dazai gives a dismissive flick of his hand before throwing an arm around Chuuya’s shoulders. “As if someone this tiny could threaten me! No, we’re working together. On a case.”

“On a case?” the glasses guy — Kunikida — asks, clearly doubtful.

“Yeah,” Dazai chimes, poking Chuuya in the cheek like he’s proving a point about how non-threatening he is.

It takes considerable restraint not to bite the damn finger off.

“The one Yosano gave me, actually!” Dazai continues brightly.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” says a woman leaning in the doorway to the next room. “And here I thought saving Nakahara’s life was just one of your weird whims — a one-night thing.”

“Yosano! Just who I wanted to see!”

Dazai grins at the woman while Chuuya’s cheeks heat up and Kunikida gawks.

“One-night thing?” they echo in unison. Chuuya’s eyes meet Kunikida’s — both clearly annoyed to have spoken at the same time.

Dazai shrugs. “What can I say? They always come back to me.”

Chuuya knows he’s talking about having saved his life — again — but also knows no one else in the room is going to catch that.

This time, when Dazai tries to poke him, Chuuya catches his wrist — squeezing just hard enough that it probably won’t bruise.

“You shitty—”

“Let go of him,” Kunikida interrupts, now holding an actual gun — as if a normal bullet would even scratch Chuuya.

As always, completely ignoring the very real threat Chuuya poses, Dazai just bats his lashes. “Don’t be jealous, Kunikida! You’ll always be my one true love.”

Now it’s Kunikida who’s blushing bright red, while everyone else just watches the drama unfold — apparently having decided that Chuuya isn’t worth being scared of. A pretty big insult, actually.

Taking a deep breath, Kunikida puts the gun away and turns. “Oh, whatever. Let yourself get killed. See if I care.”

“Such a generous offer!” Dazai simpers, tugging Chuuya toward the infirmary — somehow having twisted Chuuya’s grip so they’re holding hands now.

Yosano lets them pass with one eyebrow raised, clearly used to Dazai’s chaos.

“Did you sleep with him too?” Chuuya asks flatly, yanking his hand free — not quite sure why he even cares.

“Kunikida?” Dazai repeats, mock-innocent. “No, never. Sadly, he’s terminally straight.”

Then he taps his chin in exaggerated thought. “Though there was this one Christmas party—”

“DAZAI!” comes a voice from outside the infirmary — betraying the fact that everyone’s eavesdropping. Not that Chuuya expected anything else.

//

Yosano’s lab is different from Mori’s — first and foremost because the metallic smell of blood is missing.
Dazai still tries to avoid it when he can, preferring the Agency’s infirmary whenever his help is needed.

Yosano knows this. Today, she still leads him inside — to the far end of the room, where she’s cleared a space for her research.
Several trays of labeled vials and tissue samples surround a microscope. Beside it lie two capsules – one still filled with bluish gas, the other empty.

The drug.

Dazai doesn’t have to search long to spot the gas from the empty capsule — suspended in a liquid, caught in a sample vial now placed beneath the microscope.

“Tanizaki got his hands on it in his last case,” Yosano explains, “you know it has a name now? People call it Fade.”

“Huh,” Dazai hums. “That’s weirdly fitting… So what did you find out about it?”

Cautiously, he picks up the filled capsule and holds it up against the harsh overhead light. It’s smooth and sterile — and with the faintly shimmering mist swirling inside, it’s almost pretty.
He frowns. Something about the pale blue looks… familiar.

“At first, not much,” Yosano says. “It didn’t show anything useful under the microscope, and it breaks down the moment it touches air — which made things tricky with only two capsules to work from. But eventually, I managed to stabilize a sample and take a closer look.”

Dazai nods, signaling he’s following, as he hands the capsule to Chuuya, who takes it with a frown. His eyes — always so startlingly expressive — are a sharp contrast to Yosano’s clinical detachment. Even though he’s looking at a drug — a thing — there’s anger there. And just beneath it, the flicker of fear.

“That’s when it made sense — why I couldn’t fully break it down. I was treating it like a chemical. A synthetic. But it’s not.” Yosano pauses. “Someone embedded actual biological data in the mist.”

Dazai blinks. It’s rare for anything to catch him off guard — but this, he hadn’t considered. Human experimentation on both sides — not just for testing, but for manufacturing too.

“And, Dazai,” Yosano says, her voice tightening, gaining a sharper edge, “I recognized the genetic code. There are sequences in it I’ve only seen once before.”

Somehow, Dazai already knows what she’s about to say — because suddenly, it’s obvious. The drug’s effect. That strange, familiar bluish glow.

“I saw it in your blood. In the way No Longer Human alters your genetic code.”

Dazai’s eyes meet Yosano’s, because they both know. They never talked about their pasts — neither of them is exactly one for heart-to-hearts. But there’s always been a quiet understanding between them.
They both know there’s only one person with enough of Dazai’s DNA to build an entire drug from it.

“Huh”, Dazai hums, “that’s unexpected.”

He almost forgets about Chuuya — who's staring at him in open shock. He looks torn between worry and fury, landing somewhere in the middle: confused, but his words come out sharp.

“Huh?! Unexpected? What the hell is she talking about? Why is your damn DNA code — or whatever — in that drug?”

Dazai nods slowly.

“For once, Chibi’s asking the right questions. But I don’t have the answers for him. For that, we’re going to need your boss.”

Which, of course, doesn’t explain anything — only confuses Chuuya more. And confusion, in his case, always turns into anger.

“What? What the hell does Mori have to do with this?!”

Dazai ignores him, turning instead to Yosano. He gives her a small nod and a tight smile.

“Thanks for your assistance.”

Before he can turn away, Yosano grabs his sleeve. Their eyes meet again — and in hers, he sees the same helpless fury he’s feeling reflected back at him.

“Don’t do anything stupid, yeah?”

Dazai gives a faint smirk.

“When do I ever?”

Yosano scoffs, letting go.

“Give him hell from me.”

Dazai nods once more before turning to Chuuya.

“Come on, Chibi. I’ll explain everything on the way.”

//

Dazai doesn’t explain everything on the way. In fact, he doesn’t explain anything — not even where they’re going.
But given that he mentioned they’d have to talk to Mori, and from the familiar route they’re taking, Chuuya can make an educated guess.

More than once he demands to know what’s going on, but Dazai ignores him, just staring blankly ahead — so different from his usual, carefully crafted cheer.

Chuuya would lie if he said it didn’t scare him. So he just follows Dazai with no idea what’s going on.

Just like a loyal dog should, his mind supplies bitterly — exactly what Dazai would say, if he weren’t acting so fucking strange.

No one questions them when they enter Mafia Headquarters. Why should they? Besides Mori, Chuuya is the most powerful man in the Mafia — no one who wants to live questions him.

Only when they’re standing in front of Mori’s office does Dazai stop and speak.

“You don’t have to come with me,” he says, his hand already on the doorknob.

Chuuya stares at him. He hates how much he doesn’t understand that man.

“What?”

“Well”, Dazai says slowly, “the following conversation won’t exactly be… comfortable and I needed you to get me in here but I don’t need you to confront your boss. In my understanding the working climate might get a bit weird after that.”

The amusement in his words doesn’t reach his eyes. Chuuya ignores the jab about being used as a ticket into HQ, and growls instead:

“You think I’m just going to leave now? Just accept that I don’t get to know what the fuck is going on? Hell no!”

He’s not leaving Dazai alone in the hands of his boss.
There’s no misguided loyalty between him and Mori — and everyone knows that. Kouyou, Akutagawa, his subordinates... even Mori himself.

When Dazai smiles at him, it’s small, soft — and fucking beautiful after that empty stare.

“Such a loyal dog.”

//

Mori’s office is just as Dazai remembers — the same stained glass windows casting specks of color across the expensive interior, the dark red carpet that would hide someone’s blood so well, and even the man behind the ebony desk looks exactly as he did eight years ago.

“Osamu,” Mori says pleasantly. “You’re just in time for tea.”

He nods toward the table, where two cups are already set — one for Dazai, one for Chuuya. Of course he knew. He always knows.

“Osamu?” Chuuya echoes, confused. “You know him?”

Dazai isn’t sure if the question is aimed at Mori or him. Either way, he answers.

“I do. Far too well.”

He takes a seat, eyes never leaving the man whose hands left so many cuts on him — cuts that turned into just as many scars, still hidden beneath his bandages.

Now that he’s closer, he can see Mori has aged, after all. There are the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes — lines that almost make him seem kind. As if there had ever been anything kind about Mori’s smile.

“It’s good to see you again,” Mori hums. “I missed you.”

He gestures for Chuuya to sit and pushes the cups closer to them. Together, they lift their tea as if in a toast.

“I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” Dazai replies conversationally. “I’ve built a pretty good life outside the Mafia.”

Chuuya, just taking a sip, chokes mid-swallow.

“You were in the Mafia?!”

Dazai only gives a faint nod. Mori ignores the outburst.

“I heard,” Mori says smoothly. “They call you the Guardian Angel of the Underworld now.”

Dazai wrinkles his nose. “I know. A bit tacky for my taste.”

“Hm. I agree.”

They sip their tea in unison, while Chuuya watches them both, clearly still trying to piece things together. Dazai feels a pang of sympathy — but how was he supposed to explain something even he hadn’t fully figured out yet?

“Is the tea good?” Mori asks. “You still take three sugars, right?”

Dazai nods. “It’s good.”

Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out the small capsule — the one that started this whole mess.
He sets it gently on the desk.

“Do you know what that is? It’s called Fade.”

Mori picks up the capsule, turning it in his fingers, light catching on the blue mist inside.
Then, for the first time since they entered, his eyes settle on Chuuya.

Dazai finds he likes that even less than when they’re on him.

“So,” Mori says, “your mission was successful?”

Chuuya shrugs, jaw tight. “The hell if I know. I found the drug. And this bastard —” he jabs a thumb at Dazai “— seems to have all the answers but won’t tell me shit.”

Dazai winces slightly. Not the time to get into that. He’ll apologize later.

“You might find it interesting,” he hums, “that Fade was manufactured using my genetic code.” His gaze sharpens. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Why would I?” Mori asks, still turning the capsule in his fingers.

Dazai sets down his teacup with a soft clink, runs a finger along the rim until it squeaks.

“Maybe because you’re the only person in the world who’s carved me open enough times to collect a full genetic profile – you’re just freaky like that.”

He winks and beside him, Chuuya goes still.
Dazai doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t want to see what’s on his face — pity, horror, disgust. None of it matters right now.

“You got me,” Mori says, sounding amused. Proud, even. “What else have you got?”

So, it’s a game now. A test to see what Dazai figured out, how far he followed the trail.
Dazai doesn’t want to play — but he doesn’t see a faster way out either.

“Well,” he begins, voice smooth, “you sent Chuuya after Fade right after he left my clinic. You knew I’d look into it — I’d have to, when my patients started dying. You wanted us to work together. You wanted us to come here, after I found out whose DNA was in the drug.”

He leans back slightly.

“What I don’t know is why. Why you wanted any of it. What I do know is that you didn’t manufacture Fade — you just gave my DNA to the people who did. And now, apparently, you want them gone.”

Mori nods, smiling like a proud parent.

“Very good. You’re just as sharp as I remember. And the answer to everything—”
his eyes drift to Chuuya,
“—is sitting right beside you.”

This time, Dazai’s gaze follows — and he’s relieved to find Chuuya isn’t looking at him with disgust. Or pity.

Instead, Chuuya’s glare is locked on Mori. His hands are clenched into fists, his jaw tight.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Mori tilts his head, calmly studying him.

“When do you think you met Osamu for the first time, Chuuya?”

Chuuya blinks. Clearly hadn’t expected that.

“Three days ago. Why?”

Mori sighs, disappointed.

“Don’t be dull. I know you remember how you met me — it’s written in the hatred in your eyes. So surely, you remember Osamu too. After all…”
A smile.
“He’s the one who saved you.”

When Chuuya turns to Dazai — too fast and too slow at the same time — Dazai doesn’t know how to react. He never planned on telling Chuuya about how they met eight years ago.

Not deciding to hurt Chuuya on Mori’s wish is a sacred memory — the first time Dazai made his own decision. He didn’t want to tell Chuuya and be found lacking.

Chuuya looks at him as if it were the first time he ever saw him, and there’s not a hint of disappointment. Just honest gratefulness. And guilt. So much guilt.

It’s silent for a moment before he chokes out,

“You’re beautiful.”

Dazai blinks. That’s… not what he expected. Not even close.

“What?”

Chuuya blushes, and Dazai almost snorts. They're sitting in front of the boss of the Mafia — a man who just admitted to torturing Dazai and wanting to do the same to Chuuya — and the executive is blushing like a schoolgirl.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you if I ever met you again. That you’re beautiful.”

Dazai tilts his head. “Not… I don’t know. ‘Thanks’?”

Chuuya shakes his head. “No.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds longer, and Dazai knows there’s going to be a lot to talk about later. But that has to be later — not now.

They both turn back to Mori, who looks highly amused.

“What a heartfelt moment.”

For once, it’s Chuuya who recovers first.

“Yeah, great — you’re playing matchmaker. But what the fuck does that have to do with the damn drug?!”

“Well, everything,” Mori hums — then his eyes sharpen. “Tell me, Chuuya. What do you remember of your life before waking up on that examination table? What’s the very first memory you have?”

Chuuya winces. For a moment, he looks almost afraid — like a kid caught in a lie — and Dazai’s mind begins painting a new picture.
A drug made from human DNA. Tested directly on people. Whoever created it has no qualms about human experimentation.

“Eight years ago,” Mori begins, “the Unit 0 contacted me. Back then, they were still part of the Special Ability Department. They were interested in Osamu — specifically his ability to nullify. They wanted to study it.”

“And you let them?” Dazai asks.

Mori looks almost offended.

“As if I’d give you away that easily. You were my most treasured possession.”

“What an honor,” Dazai says flatly.

He keeps his face still, but inside, everything turns to static. Because if his theory is right—
Quietly, he reaches for Chuuya’s clenched fist and pries it open, sliding his hand into his. Chuuya gives him a confused look — but doesn’t pull away.

“They made me an offer,” Mori continues. “Told me about one of their most successful projects — a creation with the power to control gravity.”

//

Chuuya’s mind is blank.

Not even white noise — because he has his answer now. He knows why he doesn’t remember anything before the Mafia. Before Mori. Before Dazai.

Because there isn’t anything to remember.

He’s an experiment. He’s… is he even human?

It’s only Dazai’s hand that anchors him to the world around him, and his voice that pulls him out of the nothing in his head.

“You made an exchange. My DNA for Chuuya. And then you wanted me to experiment on him — because I could nullify him if he turned out to be dangerous.”

But he’s been growing — not much, but still. His hair gets longer. He has to eat. So in some way, Chuuya must be human… right?

“Exactly,” Mori agrees. “But then you had to turn out as annoyingly emotional as everyone else. You disobeyed me and ran away. Luckily, Chuuya met Kouyou and stayed out of loyalty. An even better leash than fear.”

And if he is only an experiment — does that mean he never had a family? Chuuya always imagined there might’ve once been people who loved him unconditionally, just for existing. Even if he never got to meet them.

“You said Unit 0 were part of the Special Ability Department. So they aren’t anymore?”

Or is whoever created him his parent?

God. That would be so fucked up.

“No,” Mori says, as if talking about a mild inconvenience. “They defected. Now they’re on some idiotic mission to erase ability users. Such a drag.”

Chuuya closes his eyes and tries to stop the spiral. Maybe the nothingness had been better.

“And now you want Chuuya and me to clean up your mess?” Dazai asks. “That’s what this was all about?”

Dazai is squeezing his hand gently. It helps.

Chuuya remembers he can feel. Can feel the warmth of that touch. Can feel the horror curling through his chest.

“I knew you’d understand, Osamu,” Mori says.

Dazai hums.

“But there’s one flaw in your plan.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Dazai continues — and Chuuya just knows there’s that sly smile on his face. “What if we kill you right now? I know that as soon as I let go, Chuuya would want nothing more.”

Chuuya’s eyes snap open — because Dazai’s right. He wants Mori dead. Wants him dead for hurting Dazai — his beautiful boy — and for trading Chuuya like a fucking bargaining chip.

Mori chuckles, utterly unbothered.

“Oh, come on. You can do better than empty threats, Osamu. Who do you think would suffer most? What happens to the people you fight so hard to protect when Yokohama descends into chaos after the Mafia’s collapse? You won’t kill me. Because in the end, Osamu — you’re disappointingly human.”

Dazai’s hand tightens around Chuuya’s. And Chuuya knows Mori is right.

Dazai would stop him. And right now… Chuuya would obey everything he said. Not just because of the gratitude flooding him — but because he’s not sure he should even be allowed to make his own decisions.

Not if he isn’t human. Not if he’s just a few lines of manufactured code, like the drug they’d been chasing.

“You can go now,” Mori says, casual again. “It was good seeing you, Osamu. I expect the mission to be complete in a few days. After all — you won’t be able to resist helping Chuuya, will you?”

It’s silent for a moment before Dazai nods. And when he speaks, his voice sounds as numb as Chuuya feels.

“Right.”

He stands, pulling Chuuya up with him.

Neither of them say a word as they walk out the door.

//

They don’t even make it out of the building before Chuuya breaks down.

One moment he’s walking, the next — he’s on his knees.

Dazai drops down beside him instantly.

Distantly, Chuuya hopes none of his subordinates are around to see this.

“Hey, hey, Chibi—Chuuya,” Dazai says softly, reaching for him. “What’s going on?”

Chuuya looks up at him blearily and he looks so concerned. So different from the aloof Dazai he got to know.

“I’m an experiment,” Chuuya chokes out. “I’m not human.”

He’s just saying out loud what’s been looping through his mind again and again. He knows he sounds desperate, and he wants nothing more than for Dazai to tell him he’s wrong.

“Hey, none of this”, Dazai whispers and cups his face with his hands.

His eyes are so beautiful. Chuuya doesn’t know how he didn’t recognize them sooner. They're the same eyes that looked at him eight years ago — only back then, he’d caught just a flicker of kindness.

Now they’re full of it. Overflowing with warmth Chuuya doesn’t deserve.

He’s just… a thing after all.

“Chuuya is human,” Dazai says what Chuuya so desperately wants to hear and it’s so comforting he doesn’t even care if the other man means it. “And it doesn’t matter how he came into existence — he’s human anyway.”

He grins then, but it’s too soft to be truly teasing when he adds, “I mean, how could someone not human be as annoying as Chibi is, huh?”

Chuuya’s eyes are wet, but he doesn’t mind as he blinks the tears away.

“Will you help me find out?”

He doesn’t have to specify what he means because he knows Dazai understands. Understands that Chuuya wants to know everything — to understand what he is. Who he is.

“Obviously I will. Chibi’s my partner, isn’t he?”

Chuuya’s lips twitch.

“...Yeah. I guess I am.”