Archive of Our Own

The Armed Detective Agency office was alive with its usual morning chaos.

“Kenji, please stop putting beetles in the drawer!” Kunikida barked, yanking open a file cabinet and flinching as a grass beetle skittered out. “This is a workplace, not a petting zoo!”

“But he’s my friend,” Kenji said cheerfully, cradling the bug. “He told me his name is Potato.”

Kunikida’s eye twitched. “Bugs. Do. Not. Talk.”

Naomi spun slowly in the office chair, a bored expression on her face. “Technically, neither do you when you're working. You just growl and take deep, disappointed dad breaths.”

Tanizaki snorted. Kunikida gave Naomi a warning glare and returned to his desk, muttering something about professionalism and godforsaken children.

Then the door creaked open.

“Oh no,” Tanizaki whispered, not looking up from his computer. “Incoming.”

“Good morning, my beloved colleagues~!” Dazai practically sang, strolling into the room with a ridiculous amount of energy. He wore a fresh bandage around his neck and was holding two plastic bags. “I brought breakfast!”

Kunikida brightened. “Really?”

“For me.” Dazai grinned and plopped down on the couch, pulling out a bento and eating noisily. “Mmm~ So good. Oh? You guys didn’t eat yet? Tragic.”

Kunikida stood up, fists clenched. “Dazai! You’re late! AGAIN! And the mission report from yesterday—”

“Ah, yes!” Dazai interrupted. “I gave it to the wind. It seemed more reliable than the postal service.”

Kunikida let out an unholy sound.

Tanizaki mumbled, “Oh god. Not again.”

Dazai got up, still chewing, and sauntered toward Atsushi’s desk. “Atsushi-kun~ How’s my favorite tiger cub doing? Struggling with that paperwork I totally didn't dump on you last night?”

Atsushi didn’t look up. His fingers were white around his pen.

“Oh come on~ Don’t be so cold. Here,” Dazai said, grabbing a random folder from Atsushi’s pile and tossing it in the air, scattering pages everywhere. “You don’t need this stress in your life.”

Kunikida let out a scream. “Dazai you absolute—!”

“Oops~!”

“Pick that up. PICK. THAT. UP.” Kunikida’s tone was demonic.

“Sorry, I can’t hear over the sound of my freedom.”

Tanizaki was silently pushing his chair away from the blast zone.

Dazai leaned against Atsushi’s desk, now blocking his view entirely. “So, tell me—do you think I’d look good in a pink coffin? Or would that clash with my eyes?”

Something snapped.

Atsushi stood up so fast his chair screeched back.

“You’re the worst mentor I could’ve possibly had!” he shouted, loud and shaking. “You dump everything on me, Dazai-san! Paperwork, responsibilities, emotional damage—everything! I’m tired of cleaning up after you while you float around acting like a damn ghost!”

Everyone went dead silent.

“Do you even know how exhausting it is trying to live up to your expectations? Or worse—your complete lack of them?” Atsushi’s voice cracked. “You make everything into a joke! You make me feel like a joke!”

Dazai blinked, lips parted slightly.

“You always act like you don’t care about anything, and you don’t even try to help! You treat this like a game—like we’re all just here for your amusement!”

Atsushi's hand trembled at his side.

“You’re supposed to be my mentor!”

And then—SLAP.

The slap echoed.

It was loud. Raw. Violent.

And then — silence.

Dazai didn’t move. Not a flinch. His head stayed tilted to the side, the outline of Atsushi’s palm burning red against his pale skin. His bangs shadowed his face.

He looked… still. Too still.

Atsushi’s chest rose and fell like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then Dazai turned his head. Slowly. No dramatics. No biting comment. Just a slow lift of his gaze, like something inside had shut down.

His eyes were empty.

He crouched — smooth, slow — until he was eye-level with Atsushi. The movement felt wrongly gentle. Too quiet.

His voice was even quieter.

“…You hit me.”

Atsushi said nothing.

Dazai looked at him for a second longer. Then, calmly “That’s okay. I’m used to it.”

The silence twisted. Something dropped in the air like a stone.

“I’ve been hit before,” Dazai murmured. “Yelled at. Hurt. Abandoned. It doesn’t really shock me anymore.”

He blinked once. “So if that helped… if it made you feel a little more in control of things… then it’s fine. You can do it again.”

His voice never raised. It never shook.

It was terrifying in how gentle it was.

“I’m not a good mentor,” he said. “I’m not much of anything, really. But I try. In my own… broken way.”

He tilted his head.

“It’s hard to guide someone when you’re trying so hard not to exist.”

No one moved.

No one spoke.

Then Dazai stood — calmly, like none of it had happened — turned around, and walked to the couch. He collapsed onto it, face-down, motionless.

No groaning. No quips.

Just silence.

Like he wasn’t even there.

Naomi was frozen, fingers clenched around her phone.

“…Did he just say he’s used to being hit?” she whispered.

Tanizaki didn’t answer. His jaw was tight. His eyes were still locked on the couch like Dazai might vanish if he blinked.

Kenji looked down at the floor. “That made my stomach hurt…”

Ranpo’s usual lazy posture was gone. He stood up straighter, eyes narrowed, no lollipop in his mouth. He didn’t speak. But his expression was sharp — unreadable and heavy.

Yosano’s smile was gone. Completely. Her arms were crossed tight, jaw set like she was chewing on the silence itself.

Kunikida…

Kunikida’s hands were clenched so tight around his notebook, the corners bent under his grip. He stared at Dazai’s back, every muscle locked.

“I’ve never seen him like that,” he said at last. His voice was low. Controlled. Too controlled.

The room stayed quiet.

The air felt thick, like grief.

And Atsushi sat, still trembling, staring at his own hand.

He hadn’t meant to break something.

But he had.

The morning sunlight poured into the Armed Detective Agency, glinting off coffee mugs and unfinished paperwork. Kunikida was already red in the face, a pen in one hand and a crumpled mission form in the other.

“Dazai! This is the third report you’ve ruined this week!”

Across the room, Dazai lay dramatically sprawled across the couch with one leg hanging off and the other bent like a triangle against the armrest. He blinked lazily, lifting his head just enough to respond.

“Third? I could’ve sworn it was five.” He grinned, twirling a paperclip between his fingers before flicking it toward the ceiling. “Guess I’m improving.”

“You wrote your suicide note on the back of a police statement!” Kunikida barked, slamming the paper on his desk with an audible slap.

Yosano looked up from her cup of tea, elegantly crossing one leg over the other as she smirked. “That’s kind of poetic, if you think about it.”

Ranpo chuckled faintly, perched on his rolling chair like a lazy bird, spinning slowly in a half-circle. “I liked the part where he added little hearts next to his name.”

Kenji was kneeling next to a potted plant by the window, trying to get it to grow by talking to it. “Dazai-san said plants grow faster when you whisper to them. I’m not sure if he’s right…”

Tanizaki glanced up from his screen, barely dodging the paperclip now ricocheting off a ceiling beam. “Don’t take gardening advice from him, Kenji.”

“Oops,” Dazai murmured, watching the clip bounce onto Naomi’s desk.

She caught it between two fingers and placed it neatly beside her notebook. “Try not to blind someone next time, Dazai-san.”

Everything seemed loud—familiar loud. The usual chaos. Kunikida’s yelling, Ranpo’s spinning, Yosano’s sighs, Naomi humming softly, Tanizaki hunched behind his screen like it was a shield.

But Atsushi didn’t say anything.

He was at his desk, still. His hand scribbled across a form slowly, eyes low. His back was stiff, not slouched like usual, and his fingers tapped every so often against the wood in a rhythm too controlled to be natural.

Dazai hadn’t gone near him all morning.

Not once had he swung over, dumped his paperwork on Atsushi’s desk, or leaned on him with lazy grins and suicidal metaphors. He hadn’t even greeted him.

That space between them felt unnatural—visible, even. Like the air bent around it.

Kunikida noticed. He stared at the untouched stack of paperwork on Dazai’s desk and frowned, lips pressed tightly. Yosano noticed too. She took a slow sip of her tea, her eyes narrowing just a little when she glanced at Atsushi.

Ranpo, from his chair, popped a candy into his mouth and murmured almost too quietly, “Strange… he’s never this quiet.”

Naomi leaned toward Tanizaki and whispered, “They haven’t talked since yesterday.”

He nodded without looking up. “I don’t think they will.”

Kenji paused his plant-whispering, glancing over his shoulder. “was that really a fight yesterday?”

“No,” Yosano said softly, her voice surprisingly serious. “They just cracked.”

The conversation died down quickly after that.

Atsushi stayed still, finishing form after form. His eyes would lift every now and then—brief, darting glances toward the couch—but they never lingered. And every time he looked, Dazai was laughing. Louder than necessary. Louder than normal.

Too loud.

He rolled onto his side, whined about mission reports, made exaggerated gagging noises when Kunikida gave him a new form, and called Yosano “beautiful but terrifying” with a goofy little bow that made her raise an eyebrow.

But the bags under his eyes were darker.

The sleeves of his coat were sloppily rolled, one falling past his wrist. His usual controlled chaos had become just chaos.

When Atsushi stood to refill his water bottle, Dazai flinched. Barely. But enough.

Atsushi caught it. He froze mid-step, mouth opening slightly like he might say something. But he didn’t. He walked past in silence.

Ranpo watched from behind his lollipop, his gaze unusually still. He didn’t say anything this time.

Kunikida glanced at the clock, pretending to check the schedule, but his pen had stopped moving in his notebook.

Everyone was pretending.

The usual routine pressed on, but it was just a script. A scene being acted around a silence no one wanted to break.

Atsushi was sleeping more, showing up on time, even eating lunch without someone reminding him. His eyes looked less tired. His voice less strained. But there was no ease in his posture, no warmth in his movement.

He was getting quieter.

And Dazai—Dazai was getting louder.

No one said it out loud, but they all knew. Two broken boys. One imploding. One retreating.

Neither knowing how to fix anything. Not even themselves.

Atsushi returned to his desk. Dazai flopped back on the couch and sighed theatrically. Kenji kept watering his plant.

Yosano stirred her tea again.

And no one spoke.

The next morning arrived quietly, gray clouds smearing the sky outside the tall windows of the Armed Detective Agency. The usual shuffle of papers and muted chatter filled the room, but something about the air felt… expectant. Still.

Fukuzawa stepped into the office with his usual calm presence, hands folded behind his back, eyes sweeping across the room with the focus of someone who already knew what was happening before it was said aloud.

“Good morning,” he greeted.

Several heads lifted.

“Good morning, President,” Kunikida answered immediately, straightening in his chair.

Yosano offered a nod. Ranpo waved vaguely, a lollipop stick already dangling from his lips. Kenji saluted with a bright smile. Naomi and Tanizaki echoed polite greetings.

Dazai didn’t look up. He lay stretched across the couch again, arms crossed beneath his head, eyes half-lidded.

Atsushi was, once again, quietly working at his desk. No greeting, no glance up. Just the scratch of a pen.

Fukuzawa crossed the room slowly, stopping near the middle of the office. He was silent for a moment, letting the quiet sink in. Only then did he speak.

“I’d like to speak with both Dazai and Atsushi.”

That made Atsushi pause. His pen stilled.

Dazai finally sat up, blinking with exaggerated surprise. “Oh? Did I finally push you too far, President? Are you here to exile me?”

Fukuzawa gave a small sigh, but his tone remained patient. “No. Not yet.”

A few quiet chuckles scattered through the room, mostly from Ranpo and Kenji. But Atsushi still didn’t move. His hands had resumed writing — slower, this time — as though hoping not to be seen.

“Both of you,” Fukuzawa said again, gently now. “Please.”

Dazai got up first, his usual ease present in every movement, but his hands slipped briefly into his coat pockets, fingers twitching. Atsushi followed stiffly, his expression unreadable.

Fukuzawa led them into the conference room and closed the door behind them.

Inside, the silence wrapped tighter.

Dazai leaned casually against the edge of the table, arms crossed again, his mouth already curving into something smug. Atsushi remained near the door, hands folded awkwardly in front of him.

Fukuzawa looked at them both with the weight of a man who’d watched them crumble, separately, in silence.

“I won’t ask what happened between you,” he began quietly, “but I can see the effects. And so can everyone else.”

Atsushi flinched slightly, eyes dropping to the floor.

Dazai’s grin didn’t falter — but his arms tightened just a little.

“This agency doesn’t just rely on strength,” Fukuzawa continued. “It relies on understanding. Trust. You’ve both been through far worse than this, and I believe in your ability to move forward. Together.”

He paused.

“I’m assigning you to a mission. The two of you. Alone.”

The words landed heavy. Atsushi’s jaw clenched.

Dazai gave a low whistle. “How romantic. Just the two of us. Are we sharing a hotel room, too?”

“Dazai,” Fukuzawa said, not unkindly. “Don’t deflect.”

Dazai raised both hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine.”

He turned his head, finally looking at Atsushi — not with teasing, not fully — but with something unreadable beneath his usual mask. Atsushi didn’t meet his eyes. His lips pressed into a tight line.

“…Understood,” Atsushi said at last.

That was all.

Fukuzawa gave a soft nod. “You leave tomorrow morning. Details will be on your desks.”

He turned to leave, pausing just before opening the door. “And one more thing.”

Both heads lifted.

“I didn’t pair you because I expect you to fix everything. I paired you because I trust you both. And I think… it’s time.”

With that, he left.

The door clicked shut.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Dazai tapped his knuckles lightly on the table. Atsushi shifted, arms crossing again.

Then Dazai said, with a crooked smile, “So… how mad are you on a scale from ‘mildly irritated’ to ‘planning my murder with a spoon’?”

Atsushi rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. He walked past Dazai without a word and left the room.

Dazai didn’t follow.

The train glided smoothly across the tracks, humming like a lullaby only the restless could hear. Outside, dull light from an overcast sky bled across distant rooftops, casting the cityscape in a muted gray. Inside the quiet train car, two young men sat opposite each other—silent, unmoving, and oceans apart.

Dazai Osamu leaned into the corner of the seat, one leg crossed over the other, his back relaxed against the wall. He wore a long, sand-colored coat, the hem pooling around his ankles, and underneath it, a black turtleneck tucked neatly into slender trousers. His belt was minimal, his shoes polished, and his posture unnaturally calm for someone with a thousand scars. One arm rested lazily along the back of the seat, while the other held a paperback novel at eye level. His expression didn’t change. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t smirking. He just... read.

Atsushi sat across from him, his head tilted against the window, eyes vacant. His hoodie was a light gray, hood down, and his windbreaker—a dark forest green—sat slightly wrinkled. He looked young in it, painfully young. Jeans a bit too loose, sneakers scuffed. He didn’t look at Dazai. Not once.

They hadn’t spoken since the Agency briefing that morning.

The car was moderately full—an elderly couple napping two rows ahead, a group of uniformed office workers murmuring near the front. A mother held a small, fussy baby, rocking it gently in her arms. For a moment, it felt like a normal ride.

Until Dazai turned a page and, without lifting his gaze, spoke.

“Bend down a little.”

Atsushi blinked. He turned his head slowly, confused. “What?”

“Now,” Dazai said again, his tone low, barely audible. “Bend your head down.”

Atsushi narrowed his eyes, starting to speak—but Dazai’s hand snapped out and grabbed the back of his neck, yanking him down just in time.

A faint metallic click—

Then the sharp hiss of a suppressed bullet slicing through air.

The seat behind Atsushi’s head burst in a puff of shredded fabric.

Chaos followed.

Passengers screamed. The baby shrieked. People ducked, dived, scattered. The mother dropped to the floor, shielding her child.

Atsushi’s eyes glowed gold. His limbs shifted, bones cracking with transformation as he dove across the aisle and tackled one of the gunmen. The man was disguised in civilian clothes—nothing distinct except the steel in his eyes and the gun in his hand.

Dazai was already moving. Jacket flaring, he slid behind a row of seats, vanishing from view.

“Three total,” he called softly. “Back row. Second’s moving in. Cover the mother.”

Atsushi spun, claws raking across the floor. The second attacker rushed up the aisle—but Dazai intercepted him with terrifying grace. He emerged from the shadows, placed a hand gently on the man’s wrist—

—and just like that, the gun stopped working.

The man blinked. Dazai smiled thinly.

“What a shame,” he murmured.

He kneed the attacker in the gut with precision that bordered on cruel. The man choked. Before he could recover, Dazai had already shoved him to the floor and pressed a boot lightly against his shoulder.

The third assailant tried to flee.

Atsushi was faster.

The were-tiger’s body slammed him into the luggage rack, claws digging into his jacket.

“Wait,” Dazai said from behind. “Let me talk to that one.”

Atsushi hesitated. His breathing was ragged, his pupils still narrowed. But he stepped aside.

Dazai crouched low in front of the bleeding man.

“You were paid,” he said gently. “That’s all this is, right?”

The man glared.

Dazai leaned in closer, voice like silk. “If I asked you how many of you there are, what you’re carrying, and who hired you... what part of you would I need to twist to make the answer come out?”

The man didn’t speak.

Dazai’s eyes turned cold. Empty.

His smile stayed the same.

He reached forward—not violently—but with the precise curiosity of someone who had studied pain like it was a language. His fingers moved to the man’s shoulder, pressing into a nerve point.

“Because if I break this, you won’t be able to move your arm for months. If I dislocate it while your ribs are bruised, breathing gets hard. And if your breathing gets hard... well. Who would notice?”

“Dazai,” Atsushi said, his voice sharp.

The man whimpered. Just slightly.

“There we go,” Dazai said softly.

He got his answers. Names. Orders. Timing.

Then he stood and walked away.

Atsushi stared at him like he didn’t recognize him.

“That was... unnecessary,” he muttered.

Dazai didn’t reply.

“You didn’t even look angry. You were calm. Like you were enjoying it.”

Dazai bent down to pick up the discarded book.

“I’m not like you,” Atsushi whispered, horror in his voice. “I don’t want to be. I don’t want you to be my mentor.”

There was a long pause.

Dazai looked at him. This time, really looked.

And something in his face cracked. He didn’t hide it fast enough.

Sadness flickered there. Not self-pity—something heavier. Something older.

Then he smiled. Just barely. This smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to be like me.”

The baby was still crying.

Dazai walked over quietly and crouched beside the terrified child. He lifted it into his arms with a gentleness that felt out of place after everything else. He adjusted the baby’s blanket, cooed softly.

He rocked it side to side.

His hands, the same ones that had threatened to break bones just minutes earlier, were now soft as feathers. His voice—low and warm—was the closest thing to a lullaby the baby would hear today.

Atsushi, stunned, looked around.

The mother was unconscious.

He stepped forward, gathered her carefully into his arms, making sure not to bump her head. Her breathing was faint but steady.

They stood together in the wrecked train car—one holding life, the other holding the damage left behind.

Neither of them spoke.

But something had changed.

The train hummed along the tracks, rhythm steady, like the breath of something too big to stop. The world outside blurred into motion—trees, buildings, mountains fading behind a glass window smudged with fingerprints.

Inside the car, Dazai sat with his legs comfortably crossed, the baby nestled in his lap. She had her small fingers tangled in the edge of his coat and was giggling softly as he wiggled his fingers in front of her like a magician. His bandaged hand carefully supported her back. He looked... content. Peaceful, even. He whispered something to the baby, quiet and sweet, and she laughed again—one of those tiny, bubbling baby laughs that made the whole world feel softer for a moment.

Across from him, Atsushi sat stiffly by the window, his eyes fixed on the passing blur outside.

Dazai tilted his head slightly. “Atsushi,” he said in a low, sing-song voice, careful not to startle the child in his arms. “Look. Look how cute she is.”

He gently bounced the baby girl, holding her up a little as if showing off a prize. “I think she likes me,” he said with a grin. “She has excellent taste.”

Atsushi gave a brief, awkward smile. Not the warm kind he used to give—just a flash of politeness that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s... nice.”

He didn’t look at Dazai. Not really. His gaze slid just past him, toward the baby or the seat or the floor, anywhere but his former mentor’s face.

Dazai noticed. But he didn’t press.

The baby reached out and tugged on a strand of his hair, and he winced exaggeratedly, whispering “ow ow ow” before making a silly face. She burst into giggles again. He smiled back—genuine this time, soft and light.

But Atsushi wasn’t watching.

In Atsushi’s eyes, Dazai was no longer the clever, reliable mentor who guided him through impossible missions or pushed him to become stronger.

No.

Now he was the man who let Atsushi do all the heavy lifting, who watched like a ghost behind glass, lazy and untouchable. He was the man who laughed too loudly and joked too easily. The man who twisted people with words so sharp they didn’t even feel the blade going in. He was the man who whispered kindly to a baby with the same mouth he used to break an enemy's mind.

Something inside Atsushi had cracked when he saw that. That terrifying calm. The way Dazai had smiled gently while manipulating a man to give up information. Like he’d done it a thousand times. Like it was second nature. No hesitation, no guilt. Just strategy wrapped in silk.

He couldn’t admire that. Not anymore.

And worse—he couldn’t forgive himself for ever admiring it.

The baby squealed and reached for Dazai’s collar, trying to eat it. Dazai let out a soft chuckle and turned his face slightly so she couldn’t reach the buttons. “Nope, that’s not food, little bean,” he murmured.

A groan came from the corner seat.

The baby’s mother stirred slowly, brow furrowed, mouth dry as she blinked herself back into consciousness. Her head turned, sluggish and confused, her eyes widening when she saw Dazai and Atsushi—the two strangers who had been fighting like demons not long ago—now calmly watching over her child.

She sat up too quickly and winced, panic rising fast in her throat. “Where—my baby—?!”

Atsushi was on his feet in a second. “It’s okay,” he said quickly, hands held out in a calming gesture. “She’s safe. You’re both safe now. We’re with the Armed Detective Agency. You fainted, but you’re okay.”

Dazai didn’t speak. He just gently turned the baby around in his lap and let her reach toward her mother with a bright, cheerful giggle.

The woman blinked rapidly, stunned. Her breathing slowed as she saw how carefully the bandaged man was holding her daughter. As if she were something precious. Dazai whispered something to the child again, and she laughed, leaning against him like she trusted him completely.

“She’s beautiful,” he said softly, eyes still on the baby. “Innocent. It’d be nice if the world stayed that way for her.”

The mother hesitated, watching him carefully now. Up close, Dazai looked... tired. There were faint purple shadows under his eyes that looked too permanent to be from just one sleepless night. His skin was pale—not in the way some people were fair-skinned, but in a way that looked almost paper-thin. Sickly. Hollow. Like he hadn’t eaten well in days. Maybe weeks.

She glanced at Atsushi as if silently asking if something was wrong with him. But Atsushi didn’t react. His expression didn’t change. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he thought Dazai always looked like that.

“Thank you,” the woman finally said, her voice hoarse. “For helping her. For... letting me rest. I didn’t think I’d wake up safe.”

Dazai waved a hand lightly, smiling as if brushing it off. “It’s all part of the job. Besides—she’s excellent company.”

The woman gave a small, tired laugh. But her eyes flicked between the two detectives again. There was tension in the air, even if they weren’t speaking directly. The silver-haired boy—Atsushi—seemed cold, distant. He hadn’t even looked at Dazai the whole time. And Dazai... kept smiling. But the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The baby reached up to grab Dazai’s hair again. He laughed softly and kissed the top of her head. Then, quieter, as if only the child could hear:

“You’re lucky, you know. You don’t have to understand any of this yet.”

He rocked her gently, eyes distant now, voice lower still.

“Stay soft, little one. The world doesn’t need more people like me.”

The train rattled along the tracks as Dazai continued to cradle the baby girl, gently bouncing her in his arms with a light sway. His smile never wavered, but now that the urgency had passed and the mother was fully awake, it was easier to notice the cracks around the edges.

The woman watched him, her brow faintly furrowed. She took in the pale stretch of his skin—almost waxy in tone—and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. His wrists, exposed under the rolled sleeves of the undercover shirt, looked far too thin, almost fragile. He was sharp angles and hollow light. It was hard to believe someone who looked so breakable had fought so effortlessly just an hour ago.

“You’re... really with the Agency?” she asked quietly, unsure if it was out of disbelief or concern.

Dazai glanced at her, then grinned, tilting his head. “Yup. Don’t I just radiate strength and responsibility?”

The woman blinked. “Honestly… you look like you should be in bed. Maybe with an IV drip.”

He let out a soft laugh. “Ah, that’s why I always wear long coats. Makes me look less like a Victorian ghost.” He gestured to his casual outfit—just a thin dress shirt tucked into slender black pants. “These undercover clothes show too much. No mystery. No dramatic coat flares.”

Atsushi looked up suddenly, startled by the comment. He hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that it was pointed out… yeah. Dazai did look thinner than usual. And the way the fabric of his shirt clung to his shoulders, the outline of his collarbone a little too sharp—it all looked... wrong.

He realized, with a strange twist in his chest, that he’d never really paid attention to any of that. Dazai had always looked a little off, but he figured that was just how Dazai was—lazy, theatrical, dramatic. But now, sitting there in the sunlight filtering through the train window, Dazai didn’t look like a man putting on an act. He looked like someone barely holding himself together with jokes and a crooked smile.

The baby gurgled happily in Dazai’s lap, oblivious to everything, reaching for his nose. He let her, laughing softly.

The mother was still watching him, eyes warm with worry. “Thank you,” she said again, this time more softly. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t been there.”

Dazai gave a dismissive little wave, still smiling. “Don’t worry about it. I had backup, after all.” He glanced at Atsushi with an easy, teasing smile.

Atsushi shifted in his seat but didn’t say anything.

“And you,” she turned toward Atsushi, bowing her head lightly. “You were the one who carried me, weren’t you? Thank you. Truly. I owe you both more than I can say.”

She meant it. Her voice trembled a little as she said it. And she kept repeating it, thanking them, again and again—maybe because she had nothing else to offer but her words.

Atsushi’s jaw tightened.

Each time she thanked them, it echoed strangely in his chest. She was thanking Dazai. She was thanking him for helping. For being gentle. For being safe.

But all Atsushi could think about was how Dazai had looked just before the fight ended—his calm, cutting voice manipulating the man into confessing. The way he’d smiled afterward like it was nothing. Like breaking people was just another part of the job.

Dazai didn’t deserve her thanks.

At least, that’s what Atsushi thought.

He almost said something—almost snapped enough, or don’t thank him, or you don’t know what he’s really like—but the words caught in his throat.

Instead, he lowered his eyes and kept his mouth shut.

Dazai rocked the baby again, his movements tender. She had begun to fall asleep, her small cheek resting against his shoulder. His hand gently rubbed circles against her back, soothing her without a word.

The mother leaned back, one hand pressed over her heart, watching her daughter slowly settle into sleep.

For a moment, the train was quiet again—just the low rumble of motion and the soft breaths of the baby, the three of them suspended in that strange, quiet in-between space where danger was behind them but the journey wasn’t yet over.

Dazai glanced down at the baby girl, his smile gentling even more.

“Don’t grow up too fast,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Then, even softer—just a breath of a voice:

“It’s easier to laugh when you don’t know what things mean yet.”

Neither Atsushi nor the mother replied.

They just watched him.

And for a moment, no one said anything at all.

The train screeched softly as it pulled into the station, the brakes sighing like a long exhale. The announcement echoed through the car as the doors slid open.

Dazai stood, gently adjusting the baby in his arms before handing her back to her mother with care.

“She’s a good kid,” he said, his voice warm but distant now, like he was already stepping back into the space behind his mask. “Keep her safe.”

The woman bowed deeply. “Thank you again. I mean it. Both of you.”

The baby cooed and waved a tiny hand at him. Dazai waved back with a playful smile, his fingers wiggling goofily to make her giggle one last time.

Atsushi stood beside him, stiff and quiet, eyes trained on the floor.

They exited the train, stepping out into the cool, golden evening air. The mother gave them a final grateful look before turning and walking away, her baby’s tiny laughter still echoing behind her.

The platform grew quieter, the commuters thinned, and finally, the two of them were alone at the far edge of the station.

Dazai slipped his hands into his pockets, exhaling slowly. “I’m going home,” he said simply.

Atsushi blinked. “What? It’s not even six—”

“Yup,” Dazai interrupted lightly, turning away. “Which means I can still catch the sunset.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Atsushi snapped.

Dazai kept walking.

“You’re always like this,” Atsushi muttered, his voice rising, chasing after him. “Always skipping work. Always pushing it onto me. Always playing around.”

Dazai didn’t stop. His shoes tapped against the tiled floor as he made his way toward the exit stairs.

“Do you even care about anything you do?” Atsushi said louder now, ignoring the few heads turning their way. “That woman thought you were some kind of hero! You had that baby laughing like she’d known you forever, and all you’re going to do is go home and sleep?”

Dazai paused at the stairs but didn’t look back.

Atsushi’s voice cracked. “You’re supposed to be my mentor, you know that? You’re supposed to teach me. Not treat every mission like a game or vanish the second it’s over!”

Dazai descended the first few steps without a word. Then stopped halfway down. His back was to Atsushi, his shoulders faintly slouched—but not in laziness this time. It looked like something heavier.

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then he tilted his head to the side, just enough for his voice to carry back up.

“Today…” he said, lightly—too lightly—“someone didn’t look at me like I was a monster.”

A pause. The sound of a train pulling away in the distance.

“She looked at me like she was safe. That’s rare, you know? For someone like me.”

He glanced over his shoulder, not quite smiling—his expression unreadable, caught between melancholy and humor.

“Let me cherish that for a little while,” he added, almost softly. “Before I go back to being the villain in your story.”

And then he turned and walked down the rest of the stairs, fading into the shadowy light of the station below, leaving Atsushi standing on the platform—alone, confused, and unsure whether he’d been right... or just cruel.

The agency office was unusually quiet.

Atsushi stepped through the front door, the familiar creak echoing behind him. The soft smell of old coffee and polished wood lingered in the air. It was already past five, the sun just beginning to dip behind Yokohama’s skyline, casting gold across the office windows.

To his surprise, Fukuzawa was still in.

He sat behind his desk, a calm presence as always, flipping through a folder. His silver hair caught the last light of the day like a blade.

Atsushi gave a polite bow, still distracted, his thoughts a whirlwind from earlier. Before he could speak, Kunikida looked up from his desk, adjusting his glasses.

“You’re back,” he said. “Where’s Dazai?”

Atsushi rubbed the back of his neck. “He… said he was going home.”

The room paused for a second.

Then the air shifted — like someone had hit a note only dogs could hear. Yosano, who was leaning on the back of the couch with her usual smirk, blinked once. Her smile dropped just a little. She glanced at Ranpo, who was sitting cross-legged on the couch, eating snacks like always — but even he slowed, his fingers lingering on the chip bag.

Yosano said quietly, “Oh. I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it.”

Atsushi froze. “Go through with what?”

No one answered right away. Kunikida looked down at his notes again, but didn’t write anything. Tanizaki shifted in his seat. Naomi glanced between everyone.

The silence was heavy.

And Atsushi, already on edge from what had happened on the train — from the child’s laughter to Dazai’s hollow smile — couldn’t take it anymore.

He stepped forward, standing near the center of the room, shoulders tense.

“I…” His voice cracked slightly. “Is Dazai really a good person? Is he even fit to be a detective?”

Everyone looked at him.

He swallowed, his hands clenched at his sides. “On the train, he manipulated someone into talking… it was cold. Calculated. And then—he just smiled at the baby like nothing happened. He acts like nothing ever gets to him. Like everything is a game. I—”

He stopped, his throat tight. “He’s lazy, he pushes work on me, he disappears—he acts like he doesn’t care about anything. I don’t understand him. I don’t know if I ever did.”

There was another pause.

Then, Fukuzawa closed his folder with a soft thud.

He looked up at Atsushi, his expression unreadable. “Come sit.”

Atsushi hesitated, then slowly moved to the couch. Ranpo shifted to make room. The rest gathered around — Tanizaki leaning against the wall, Naomi perched on the armrest, Yosano sitting across from him, legs crossed elegantly. Kunikida stayed at his desk but turned fully to face them.

Fukuzawa’s voice was calm.

“Dazai is twenty-two.”

That alone made Atsushi blink.

“He should be in college,” Fukuzawa continued. “Walking to class, worrying about tests, complaining about cafeteria food. Not in this line of work.”

Yosano glanced away.

Ranpo tossed a chip into his mouth but didn’t chew right away.

Fukuzawa rested his elbows on his knees. “But Dazai doesn’t get to have a normal life. Not after where he came from. He was raised in the Port Mafia. Groomed by the worst of them. Trained not just to survive—but to kill, to manipulate, to outsmart entire organizations. And he did.”

Atsushi’s eyes widened. “He…”

Kunikida’s voice was low. “He’s done things none of us can speak of lightly. Torture. Assassinations. Not because he wanted to — but because it was all he knew. That’s the kind of person he used to be.”

A heavy weight dropped in Atsushi’s stomach.

Yosano looked at him now, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “And yet... even with all that, he left. He came here. He chose to try.”

Ranpo, reclining with his feet on a chair, sucked on a lollipop before speaking up, voice casual but sharp.

“And remember,” he said, “Dazai was an executive at eighteen. Eighteen.”

Atsushi’s eyes widened.

“Eighteen,” Ranpo repeated. “By that age, he was already running missions that would break most people. But he didn’t just survive — he excelled.”

Ranpo glanced at Atsushi, grinning slightly.

“Now think about you — who saved you? Who saw potential when you didn’t even know you had an ability? Who patiently helped you learn the ropes — paperwork, missions, detective work — even when you were struggling?”

Atsushi hesitated.

Ranpo smirked. “And who took you around Yokohama, made sure you weren’t alone, even when no one else cared? Cause he wanted to gave you the childhood you didn't have cause of the orphanage”

Atsushi looked away, his throat tightening.

Yosano shifted in her seat, her tone softer.

“There’s something else you should know.”

Atsushi looked up, curiosity mixed with uncertainty.

“Before the fights, before the mission,” Yosano began, “Dazai noticed you were tired. More exhausted than usual. Sleeping late. Distracted.”

Atsushi’s breath hitched.

“She told me he started doing something quietly. Taking on your missions and his own — without telling anyone.”

Atsushi’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Why?”

Yosano gave a small, knowing smile. “Because he didn’t want you to notice when he disappeared. He wanted you to keep focused on your work, not worry about him or the missions he was doing in secret.”

Atsushi’s jaw tightened.

“His way of caring,” Yosano added, “was to offload his paperwork onto you. So you’d be too busy to question his absences.”

Atsushi’s hands clenched harder.

“He never said anything. He made it seem like he was lazy or shirking responsibility.”

“And that’s Dazai,” Yosano said quietly. “Terrible at showing care, but somehow, always trying in his own strange way.”

Fukuzawa nodded. “More than anyone, he wants to change. To be something better. And for someone who started as he did, that’s no small feat.”

Atsushi closed his eyes, heart pounding.

He remembered Dazai’s soft smile as he held the baby on the train.

“Today someone didn’t look at me like I’m a monster… let me cherish this for a little bit.”

He thought of Dazai’s thin wrists, the shadows under his eyes, the quiet sadness behind his playful facade.

Maybe he wasn’t the monster Atsushi thought he was.

Maybe… he was just trying to find his way.

The clock read 10:46 a.m.

Kunikida was twitching.

“He’s late,” he growled, tapping his pen like a machine gun on the desk. “He’s always late. But today. Today, I swear—”

SLAM.

The door burst open dramatically, nearly coming off the hinges.

“Good moooorning, my radiant rays of justice!” sang Dazai as he strolled in like he was walking onto a stage. “Did you miss me? I missed me.”

Kunikida was on his feet instantly. “Dazai!”

“Whoa, whoa, I’m here now, aren’t I?” Dazai said, holding up both hands like he was surrendering to the fashion police. “Isn’t that what matters most?”

“It’s not even that you’re late,” Kunikida snapped, flipping open his notebook to a page labeled ‘Dazai Crimes: Weekly Log’. “It’s that you somehow make it feel like you planned to be late just to ruin my morning.”

“Oh, Kunikida-kun. That’s unfair.” Dazai pouted dramatically. “I ruin your mornings without even trying!”

Before Kunikida could throw something at him, Dazai casually floated past and flopped down onto the couch next to Ranpo, who was nibbling on chocolate-covered pocky sticks while solving three puzzles at once.

“Hey, Ranpo-san~,” Dazai sing-songed, already reaching for the snack box.

“Touch my snacks and I’ll staple your hands to the couch,” Ranpo replied instantly, without looking.

Dazai gasped. “What a violent household this is! I’m going to file a report with Human Resources!”

“You are Human Resources,” Kunikida muttered from across the room.

Atsushi sat stiffly at his desk, watching it all. Everyone else was rolling their eyes like this was just another Tuesday. But to him — after yesterday, after what he’d learned…

Dazai wasn’t just lazy.

He was tired. He was young. And he was doing his best in a way only someone like Dazai could.

So, before he could lose his nerve, Atsushi stood up, marched toward the couch, and—

“I’M SORRY!!”

The words echoed through the Agency like a gunshot.

Yosano, mid-sip, choked on her coffee. “Pffft—!”

Tanizaki dropped a stack of papers.

Naomi gasped. “Oh my god.”

Ranpo blinked and looked over his shoulder. “Did the new kid just explode?”

Atsushi bowed so hard and fast, he nearly headbutted the floor.

“I misunderstood you, Dazai-san!” he yelled, bright red. “You’re not just being lazy or selfish or weird— I mean you are weird, but you were trying to help! And I was wrong, and I yelled, and I’m sorry!”

Silence.

Even Dazai froze, popcorn mid-air.

“…Is this a prank?” he asked, cautiously, squinting around the room. “Am I being punked?”

Atsushi slowly straightened up, flustered beyond belief. “N-No! I just… I mean it. That’s all.”

Dazai blinked. Then blinked again.

And then—he laughed. Not a loud, fake, goofy one. A quieter, surprised kind of laugh, like he wasn’t expecting to actually feel something.

“Well,” Dazai said softly, “someone does care.”

“Of course I care!” Atsushi blurted, flailing a little. “You're—you're annoying, and confusing, and I don’t understand half the things you do, but—! You try! And I see that now!”

Ranpo popped another pocky stick into his mouth. “Are you guys dating or something?”

“Wha—!? NO!!”

“You’d make a cute couple,” Yosano added casually.

“Yosano-san, please—!”

Dazai grinned, completely ignoring the chaos. Instead, he patted the empty space on the couch beside him.

“Well then,” he said cheerfully, “since you’ve screamed an apology and humiliated yourself in front of everyone, I suppose you’ve earned a seat beside me.”

Atsushi blinked. “Wait… seriously?”

“No take-backs,” Dazai said, patting the spot again. “Come sit. I promise not to emotionally scar you. Today.”

Still red, Atsushi hesitantly sat down.

“…You’re not gonna push me off, are you?”

“Of course not!” Dazai said, offended. Then he reached into the snack box he’d stolen from Ranpo and—shockingly—held it out.

“…Want some?”

Atsushi blinked like he’d just been handed the key to the universe. “You’re… sharing?”

“Just don’t eat all the caramel ones,” Dazai warned. “I fight wars over those.”

“I’m not sure what’s happening anymore,” Kunikida muttered in the background.

“Shhh,” Ranpo said. “Let the idiots bond.”

And just like that, things went back to normal — chaotic, loud, loving in its own strange way. The Armed Detective Agency at its best.

And this time, Atsushi didn't feel so alone.

And this time, Dazai didn’t feel like monster.

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