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Akutagawa Ryuunosuke had never thought of himself as a saviour.
To save implied softness, mercy — a kind of goodness he was never taught to believe in. And yet, somewhere between blood and smoke, he found himself doing it anyway.
I. Gin
The first time was Gin.
He was fourteen. Gin was eleven.
The smell of iron filled the cramped one-room apartment, a place that barely deserved the word home. Their mother was gone again, and their father—well, he was only ever there to leave bruises.
When the door slammed open that night, Gin had flinched so violently she dropped her cup. Akutagawa moved without thinking, standing in front of her before the shadow in the doorway could raise its hand.
The man spat curses — useless brats, mouths to feed, worthless rats.
Then he lunged.
Rashōmon answered before Akutagawa’s mind did. Black fabric bloomed like fury itself, slicing through the air and pinning the man to the wall. Akutagawa’s chest heaved. His ears rang. Gin was trembling behind him, clutching the hem of his sleeve.
When the man slumped to the floor, silent and unmoving, Akutagawa didn’t feel triumphant. He only turned, eyes cold and voice hoarse.
“Don’t look.”
But Gin had already seen.
That night, they ran.
That was the first time Akutagawa saved someone — and the first time it felt like losing everything.
II. Higuchi
The second time, it was Higuchi.
Port Mafia’s shooting range smelled of cordite and oil. Akutagawa stood behind her, expression unreadable as she adjusted her aim. Her hands shook — she hated when he noticed that.
The mission had gone badly. She’d taken a bullet meant for him. The scar was still fresh on her shoulder, and the fact that she was there at all made him angry. Angry that she’d risked herself for him. Angry that she looked at him like that — like he was worth saving.
Weeks later, when a raid caught them both in crossfire, Higuchi slipped on the wet floor. A flashbang exploded nearby. Akutagawa turned in time to see a sniper taking aim.
Without hesitation, Rashōmon shielded her, the cloth swallowing the bullet that would’ve ended her life.
When the gunfire stopped, she was kneeling beside him, trembling.
“You… you saved me.”
“Don’t misunderstand,” he muttered, brushing the dust from his coat. “You’re still my subordinate. Losing you would be inconvenient.”
She smiled, small and knowing. He turned away before she could see the faint colour rising in his cheeks.
III. Atsushi Nakajima
The third time was Atsushi.
The tiger boy had been reckless again — nothing new. What was new was the ambush. A dozen gifted soldiers cornering Atsushi by the docks, their leader holding a blade slick with poison.
Akutagawa didn’t plan to intervene. He’d been watching from the shadows, as he often did, more out of rivalry than concern. But when the blade pierced Atsushi’s side — when Akutagawa saw that sudden look of helpless pain — something in him broke open.
Rashōmon tore through the scene like an executioner. Screams split the air, bodies hit the ground, and blood pooled black in the moonlight.
When it was over, Akutagawa knelt beside Atsushi, panting.
“You’re… bleeding.”
Atsushi tried to smile, dizzy and pale. “Guess… you saved me again, huh?”
Akutagawa scowled, pressing his scarf against the wound. “Don’t talk. You’ll only waste air.”
But his hands were shaking.
And when Atsushi passed out, Akutagawa whispered something he’d never admit later:
“Don’t die. Not before I defeat you.”
IV. Mori Ōugai
The fourth time, unexpectedly, was Mori.
A coup within the Port Mafia — a rare and suicidal move.
Someone had planted a bomb beneath the executive floor, timed for Mori’s meeting with the Council.
Akutagawa found it first. He could’ve left it. Could’ve let fate remove the man who had moulded him into a weapon. But as he stared at the blinking light, he thought of Gin, of the orphans who’d suffer in the chaos. Of the organisation that, in its twisted way, had given him purpose.
He diffused it seconds before detonation, his fingers bleeding where the wires had bitten him.
When Mori found out, he only smiled that clinical, terrifying smile.
“You’re quite loyal after all, Akutagawa-kun.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Akutagawa said through gritted teeth. “I only protected what’s mine.”
But the truth lingered like smoke — he had saved Mori.
And some part of him hated himself for it.
V. Kyouka Izumi
The fifth time, it was Kyouka.
She reminded him of himself — too quiet, too young, too easily swallowed by the darkness.
When he found her standing on the bridge, ready to let herself fall, he didn’t shout. Didn’t reach out right away. He only stood beside her, looking down at the black water.
“It’s cold tonight,” he said.
She blinked, startled. “Why are you here?”
“Because I know what it’s like,” he said softly. “To think you’re better off gone.”
Her lip trembled. “Then why didn’t you do it?”
He thought of Gin, of Dazai’s cold smirk, of Atsushi’s stubborn kindness.
Then he met her gaze.
“Because I realized… no one else will fight for me. So I have to.”
Kyouka cried then, quietly, and when she stumbled back from the edge, he caught her wrist.
That night, he escorted her to the Agency. He didn’t stay long enough to see her accepted, but he didn’t need to.
Saving her had been enough.
VI. Dazai & Chuuya
It happened during a joint operation gone catastrophically wrong — the Agency, the Mafia, and the Special Division temporarily allied against a terrorist organization that had stolen ability-enhancing drugs.
The building was collapsing. Fire crawled up the walls. Dazai and Chuuya were trapped under steel debris, coughing through the smoke.
Chuuya struggled against the weight, blood running down his temple. Dazai, half-conscious, gave a weak laugh.
“Looks like we’re going down together, partner.”
“Shut up,” Chuuya growled, kicking futilely. “You’re not dying on me, bastard.”
That’s when Rashōmon sliced through the smoke.
Chuuya blinked, barely recognising the silhouette until the black fabric wrapped around the wreckage, lifting it effortlessly.
Akutagawa stepped forward, eyes narrow, coat torn, blood on his lip.
“You two are disgraceful. Executives, reduced to rubble.”
Chuuya scowled. “You try holding a ceiling by yourself!”
Dazai chuckled weakly. “Oh? My adorable subordinate actually came to save us? I’m touched.”
Akutagawa’s eye twitched. “Say another word, and I’ll drop the beam back on your head.”
Still, he pulled them both out. He carried Dazai over his shoulder and half-dragged Chuuya to the exit as the building groaned and caved behind them.
Once outside, they collapsed onto the asphalt, gasping in the open air.
Dazai propped himself up, grinning faintly.
“You really have grown, Akutagawa-kun.”
Akutagawa turned away. “Don’t mistake necessity for sentiment.”
Chuuya snorted. “You’re full of it. You could’ve left us.”
“I could’ve,” Akutagawa replied. “But I didn’t.”
And for once, there was no hatred in his tone — only quiet exhaustion.
VII. Akutagawa Ryuunosuke
The seventh time — the only time they saved him — was when the tables turned.
He was bleeding out in an alleyway, Rashōmon fading like smoke in the rain.
An ambush. He’d shielded Gin, killed three, but the fourth got him in the ribs.
His vision blurred. He sank to his knees.
Footsteps. Two figures through the haze.
Atsushi. And Chuuya.
“Akutagawa!”
Atsushi dropped beside him, pressing his hands against the wound. His tiger ability glowed faintly, knitting torn flesh.
“You always save everyone else,” Atsushi said through gritted teeth. “Just once — let us save you.”
Akutagawa wanted to protest, to tell him to shut up. But Chuuya crouched on his other side, steadying his head.
“Don’t fight it, kid. You’ve done enough.”
For once, he let them. He let them fight for him.
When his heartbeat steadied, his throat worked around a whisper.
“Why…?”
Atsushi smiled faintly.
“Because you would’ve done the same.”
Akutagawa looked between them — the tiger who was once his rival, and the gravity manipulator who once mocked him for his arrogance.
And he realized that somewhere along the way, saving others had stopped being about duty.
It was love. The quiet kind that didn’t need to be named.
For the first time in years, he allowed his head to rest against Chuuya’s shoulder. The rain washed the blood from his face.
And when he closed his eyes, he thought — so this is what it feels like to be saved.
Epilogue
People would never remember him as a hero.
He was too sharp for that, too scarred, too much of a weapon carved by someone else’s hand.
But Gin would never forget her brother’s trembling arms shielding her.
Higuchi would never forget the shadow that saved her life.
Atsushi would never forget the rival who became his mirror.
Kyouka would never forget the voice that pulled her from the edge.
Dazai and Chuuya would never forget the man who walked through fire for them.
And they all, in their own ways, saved him in return — piece by piece, until what was left was no longer just the Mafia’s hound.
But Akutagawa Ryuunosuke:
The boy who could save, and be saved.