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The rain fell in sheets that swallowed sound.
It slicked the streets of Yokohama in mercury light, reflecting the glint of neon and blood.
Chuuya kicked through a puddle as he landed, gravity bending and snapping beneath him like a living pulse. Water arced around his boots, steam hissing where his energy struck the ground. He didn’t even flinch.
“Akutagawa!” he barked through the static of his earpiece. “How many left?”
Rashomon sliced through the night in answer a black tendril of shadow tearing through the mist. A man screamed, then fell silent.
“Three,” Akutagawa’s voice came back, rough and clipped. “Maybe four. They’re scattering.”
"Then finish it!”
The fight had started clean. A routine raid on a black-market weapons deal—non-ability smugglers, the kind that weren't too much trouble but still caused enough trouble that the Port Mafia had to have them handled. But something about the air had felt wrong from the start.
Too quiet. Which wasn't uncommon when fighting non ability users but still.
And now, as Chuuya wiped rain from his eyes and scanned the alley, that wrongness coiled like smoke in his gut.
He caught sight of Akutagawa then, the younger man cutting through the fog like a ghost. Rashomon flared behind him, whipping in elegant arcs that made even destruction look choreographed. Every motion was precise, restrained, as if he feared letting an ounce too much of himself slip free.
Chuuya had seen him fight a hundred times, but he still hated watching the way Akutagawa held back. Like even his own strength scared him.
“Stop thinking and move!” Chuuya muttered to himself, launching upward again.
He crashed down on the next rooftop with a metallic thud, sending ripples through the puddles at his feet. Lightning flashed above and for a heartbeat, he saw everything in white: the splintered crates below, the sprawled bodies of the smugglers, the faint shimmer of a blade.
Then, movement.
A shadow broke from the corner, sprinting straight for Akutagawa.
“Ryuunosuke, behind you!”
Akutagawa turned too slow. The figure thrust out a hand and the air split.
There was a sound like glass shattering in the rain.
A burst of light flared, searing white, swallowing Akutagawa’s form completely.
“AKUTAGAWA!”
Chuuya dove, gravity exploding beneath him as he shot forward. The light hit him like a wall—hot, electric, full of something that crawled under the skin and made the world tilt. For half a second, all he saw was Akutagawa’s silhouette, twisting against the glow, Rashomon snapping wildly like it was trying to protect him.
Then the light died.
Silence.
Only the rain.
Chuuya’s boots splashed against the soaked pavement as he reached him. Akutagawa was on his knees, head bowed, shoulders trembling. His coat hung limp and heavy with water. Rashomon flickered weakly around him like dying smoke.
“Hey,” Chuuya said, kneeling. “Talk to me, kid. You good?”
Akutagawa looked up. His eyes were unfocused, hazy, pupils blown wide like he was drunk on something invisible.
“...Chuuya-san?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
For a moment, Akutagawa only blinked at him—dazed, disoriented—then, inexplicably, his mouth curved into the faintest, strangest smile.
“You’re so short.”
Chuuya froze. “...What?”
“In person. It’s kind of cute.”
Chuuya’s brain stopped working for a solid five seconds. What the actual fuck?
Rain dripped from his hat brim. “I’m sorry, what did you just—?”
Akutagawa tilted his head, eyes bright with the kind of innocence that made Chuuya’s stomach twist. “Oh no, did I say that out loud?”
Chuuya stared. “Yeah, you did.”
He looked around for the enemy, but the light had burned everything, scorch marks on the walls, the ground cracked, no trace of the ability user left.
Whatever that attack had been, it wasn’t normal.
And judging by the way Akutagawa was now staring at his own hands like they were the most fascinating thing in the world, something was definitely wrong.
“Alright,” Chuuya muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You got hit with something, and it’s messing with your head. Let’s get you back before—”
“You have really nice hands,” Akutagawa said cheerfully. “I bet you could crush someone’s skull with them.”
Chuuya blinked twice. “...Thanks?”
“That was a compliment.”
“Oh, I gathered.”
He grabbed Akutagawa by the shoulder, hauling him upright. “You’re definitely not going back home like this, that’s for damn sure. And I'm absolutely not taking you back to the office.”
Akutagawa just smiled at him—smiled—like he hadn’t just been hit by a mystery ability in the middle of a storm.
And as Chuuya half-dragged him through the rain, muttering curses under his breath, one thought looped endlessly in his mind:
There was only one person who could fix this.
Dazai
The rain hadn’t stopped.
It followed them all the way to the Agency—a cold, steady percussion that clung to Chuuya’s coat as he shoved the doors open with his shoulder.
The usual hum of chatter died instantly.
A dozen heads turned.
Atsushi froze mid-sentence, Yosano lowered her teacup, and even Ranpo looked up from his snacks.
Akutagawa stood beside Chuuya, dripping wet, his coat heavy with rain and blood. But it was the fact that there were two Mafia Executives standing in the agency that struck everyone, that had become a normal occurrence especially after the truce that was established between the two organization, it wasn’t even the blood that painted them—it was the expression.
Akutagawa was smiling.
Wide-eyed, soft, almost childlike. He looked around the office like he’d never seen it before — like every lamp and chair was a new discovery.
“Chuuya-san,” he whispered, tugging lightly on Chuuya’s sleeve, “are these your friends?”
The room froze.
Chuuya didn’t answer. He marched straight across the floor, boots heavy on the tile, and planted himself in front of Dazai’s desk.
Dazai didn’t even look up from his paperwork until the shadow of Chuuya’s hat fell across it.
“Well,” Dazai drawled, pen still in hand, “if it isn’t my favorite gravitational migraine. To what do I owe the—”
“Cut it,” Chuuya snapped, slamming his palm down on the desk. The mug beside Dazai rattled. “He got hit with some damned ability. Light-based, psychological—don’t know. All I know is, he’s acting weird, and I need you to nullify it.”
Dazai blinked once. “Weird how?”
“Like this.”
Behind him, Akutagawa was poking at Ranpo’s candy wrappers, mumbling something about how “colorful they were for food.”
Dazai tilted his head. “Well, that’s new.”
“Just fix it.”
Dazai smirked faintly. “You sure? What if you like this version better?”
“Dazai,” Chuuya growled. No, he did not like this version better. “I’m not asking.”
Atsushi looked between them nervously. “What... kind of ability was it again?”
Chuuya exhaled sharply. “Makes him lose restraint. Everything he feels or thinks, he just says it.”
“Oh,” Ranpo said cheerfully. “So he’s brutally honest now. Fun.”
"But hasn't he always been brutally honest," Kenji asked. "Like really brutal,"
“He's honest in a nice,” Chuuya spat out the words like it was venom, “way. And it's not fun, It’s dangerous.”
Dazai stood finally, brushing off his coat. “Well then, let’s get this over with.”
The moment he stepped forward, the air changed.
Akutagawa’s gaze snapped up, locking on Dazai like a deer spotting a wolf.
His smile twitched, faded.
Then he screamed.
The chair clattered over as he stumbled back, crashing into Kunikida’s desk and sending papers flying. He was shaking — not angry shaking, but terrified.
“Hey!” Chuuya reached out, but Akutagawa was already backing away, eyes wild. “Ryuunosuke—!”
He didn’t stop until his back hit the desk, clutching it like a shield.
Dazai froze mid-step, his voice calm. “Hey. It’s okay—”
“Why—” Akutagawa’s voice broke — “why are you here?”
The room went silent.
Then, like something cracking open, the words began to pour out.
"You just shot me last week,” he said brightly, like it was normal. “Through the leg. Because I was late for training. Remember, Dazai-san? You said it would teach me to value time.” But then he blinked, as if remembering something. "Oh, that was years ago. It's still hurts a lot though."
Chuuya’s blood ran cold.
“You told me not to cry. Said pain builds character. But it hurt so much, I couldn’t stop.”
The Agency members stared, motionless.
“I tried to take the bullet out myself,” Akutagawa continued softly, looking down at his hands. “But my fingers were too small. I couldn’t get it out. So you said I should leave it in. As a reminder not to disappoint you.”
The tremor in his voice was barely noticeable at first, masked under the brightness.
“And the collar.” He blinked up at Dazai, frowning slightly, as though he didn’t understand why anyone was silent. “You said I was a dog. You said it was funny to make me wear one. You used the remote whenever I talked back.”
Yosano’s hand tightened around her cup until the porcelain cracked.
“You said I barked too loud once, and you shocked me until I stopped moving. But it worked. I didn’t bark again.”
Ranpo’s usual smirk vanished. Atsushi had gone pale. Kunikida’s fists were trembling on the desk.
“Oh, and when I failed that mission—you remember, Dazai-san? The one with the warehouse? You said no food until I earned it. Three days. You left me outside. It rained then too.”
He giggled—high-pitched and unsteady. “I used to think the rain was your way of forgiving me. Silly, right?”
No one could speak.
The laughter stopped abruptly. Akutagawa’s voice fell to a whisper.
“I didn’t know it wasn’t normal. You were my only example. When I saw people hit, screamed at, punished, I thought that’s how you make them strong.”
He turned, slowly, toward Kyouka — eyes wide, confused, almost apologetic.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “For the things I did. I thought... I thought that’s what caring looked like. I thought that’s what you were supposed to do when someone was weaker.”
Kyouka’s eyes filled with tears before she could stop them.
Then Akutagawa looked at Atsushi.
“You’re lucky,” he said suddenly, beaming. “You got the nice Dazai.”
Atsushi flinched.
“He doesn’t hit you, does he?” Akutagawa asked innocently. “He probably tells you you’re doing well. That you’re learning. I used to wait for that too. But he never said it. I must’ve been really bad.”
His smile wavered, then broke. “But you’re good. You’re so lucky, Atsushi. I’m happy for you.”
Tears streamed down his face now, but he kept smiling through them. A huge, bright smile.
Dazai hadn’t moved once. His expression was unreadable, but his hands—resting on the desk—had gone white-knuckled.
Akutagawa’s breath hitched and he wrapped his hands around himself. “Please don’t let him touch me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please, Chuuya-san. Don’t let him touch me again.”
Chuuya crouched in front of him, taking his face gently in both hands. “Look at me,” he said, voice trembling but steady.
Akutagawa met his eyes, tears pooling.
“I won’t let him touch you,” Chuuya said quietly. “I promise. Not ever again.”
Akutagawa nodded, pressing his forehead against Chuuya’s shoulder, sobbing quietly.
Chuuya stood slowly, one arm still around him, his eyes locked on Dazai. “I'll take it from here,” he said softly.
Dazai didn’t reply.
Chuuya’s voice turned sharp. “Forget I came here. Forget I asked for help. I’ll handle this myself. I’ll find that bastard and fix him myself.”
He guided Akutagawa toward the door, ignoring everyone’s stares.
“Chuuya—” Kunikida started.
“Don’t.”
One word. Final.
The doors slammed behind them, leaving the room drowned in the sound of rain and silence.
Dazai sank slowly back into his chair. The paper in front of him was blank, but his eyes were fixed on it like it held every sin he’d ever written.
For the first time in a long while, in the Armed Detective Agency, Dazai didn't have a single clever thing to say.