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The Port Mafia conference room smelled like old steel, polished leather, and resentment.
The usual scent.
Chuuya sat nearest the head of the table, arms crossed, boot tapping furiously against the tile. His hat—never removed indoors—was perched backwards on his head today. A statement. No one knew of what.
Across from him, Kouyou stirred her tea, eyes half-lidded, drifting into a thousand-yard stare only achievable by women forced to listen to men talk.
Hirotsu sat beside her with the expression of a man whose last nerve had been frayed, chewed, and then burned.
Gin scrolled silently on her phone. No one knew if she was playing Sudoku or submitting applications to host cafés.
Higuchi was scribbling down notes like her life depended on it—which, to be fair, it probably did.
Akutagawa was seated with absolute rigidity, straight as a dagger, every breath strained like he was holding back the urge to either stab someone or cry.
And then there was Mori.
Smiling.
“I do think,” Mori said, folding his hands, “that Osamu would have handled this much more efficiently.”
It was the third time he’d said it in twenty minutes.
Chuuya's boot stopped tapping. “I swear to god, if you bring up Dazai one more f—”
“Strategically, of course,” Mori interrupted cheerfully. “Not emotionally. He’s always had a certain… finesse with deception. Don’t you think?”
He looked around the table. No one answered.
“I do miss his creative cruelty,” he added, as if discussing the weather. “So unpredictable. So elegant.”
Chuuya groaned and smacked his forehead against the table. “I can’t keep doing this.”
Akutagawa's fingers twitched. He stared down at his own hands as if praying they wouldn’t betray him.
Mori's eyes twinkled. “You miss him too, don’t you, Ryunosuke?”
Akutagawa’s jaw clenched so tightly the sound might as well have echoed off the walls. He didn’t answer.
“He’s been gone four years,” Kouyou muttered, stirring her tea with more force than necessary. “Let the ghost rest, Mori.”
“He’s not dead,” Mori replied, smiling wider. “Not yet.”
Gin paused her phone scrolling. “I wish he were.”
“W-What?” Higuchi blinked rapidly. “You—Gin-san, that’s—!”
Gin shrugged. “Might finally stop the meetings.”
Hirotsu sipped his tea. “The last time he returned, the weapons budget doubled and the casualties tripled. I’m still processing that fiscal quarter.”
“Oh, come now,” Mori said, with fond exasperation, “He was efficient.”
“He stole my cane and used it to beat a foreign ambassador,” Hirotsu snapped.
“It was a message,” Mori said, delighted. “A poetic one.”
Chuuya lifted his head and stared, dead-eyed. “I will throw myself out the window. I will.”
Mori leaned back, sighing wistfully. “He had such style.”
Akutagawa finally broke.
“Do you have any—any recent photographs of him?”
The entire room fell silent.
Even Chuuya blinked.
Akutagawa’s face flushed red, then paled again. “For intel. For security. Of course. N-not for—”
“I do, actually,” Mori said calmly, reaching into his inner coat pocket. “Would you like to see?”
“NO!” Kouyou snapped. “For the love of Amaterasu, don’t encourage this—”
But Mori was already pulling out a small envelope. He laid it gently on the table, sliding it across to Akutagawa like it contained war plans and not, presumably, candid shots of a war criminal.
Akutagawa opened it with shaking fingers.
Inside were several crisp photos: Dazai at a train station. Dazai feeding a pigeon. Dazai asleep under a tree, hat over his face.
One was a selfie—Dazai had taken it, peace sign in the frame, eyes half-lidded with that familiar “I’m a disaster and I know it” smile.
Akutagawa looked like he’d been shot in the heart.
“...He’s grown his hair out,” he whispered reverently.
“He’s been growing feral,” Chuuya corrected, slamming his hands on the table. “He’s a menace to society and he left meto pick up the pieces!”
“He’s finding himself,” Mori said.
“He’s finding more ways to ruin my life,” Chuuya snapped. “I still get calls from foreign organizations asking if he’s legally allowed to operate a medical helicopter.”
“He’s not,” Kouyou said dryly. “That was a massacre.”
Gin sighed. “I need a raise.”
Mori was undeterred.
“He’ll return, eventually,” he said, dreamily. “They always do. That’s the beauty of monsters—you can let them pretend they’re tame, but the leash never really leaves their neck.”
Everyone stared at him.
“You’re terrifying,” said Higuchi quietly.
“I’m caring,” Mori corrected. “In my own way.”
“Caringlike a bear trap,” Hirotsu muttered.
Mori clapped his hands. “Meeting adjourned!”
Everyone immediately stood to leave—except Akutagawa, who was still clutching the photo envelope like it held the meaning of life, and Chuuya, who was busy banging his head back against the chair in a silent scream.
“I hate him,” Chuuya said.
“He’s not here,” Kouyou muttered, gathering her coat. “He wins.”
Outside the meeting room, rain still poured. Dazai, somewhere across the city, probably sneezed.
Chuuya, rubbing his temples, muttered,
“I swear, if he shows up wearing a lab coat and asking if we missed him, I’m throwing him off a bridge.”