Chapter Text
Echoes traveled through the deserted hallways, fragments of forgotten sounds old buildings tend to whisper into the stillness of the night. The shadows almost seemed to move, creeping from their corners between the exhibits like the souls of their artists, forever trapped by varnish and protective coatings. The air was filled with the smell of polished wood, old paper, and the dust of centuries, building the cage for those memories.
Chuuya Nakahara strolled alongside the barely broken silence, his near-soundless steps proof of years of practice. Accustomed to the dry air, the solitude, and the eerie lighting of the Louvre at night, he much preferred it to his day shifts, when noisy tourists flooded the halls with their ceaseless chatter. In contrast, he cherished the tranquility and had subconsciously adapted to it through endless solitary rounds.
Following the geometric lines of green marble, he approached his favorite piece in the Denon wing. The white marble seemed to glow even in the dim security light, gracefully reaching across the space. The smoothness of the wings contrasted with the rougher base of the statue, casting shadows on the floor and wall behind it.
Positioned on a massive stone cube, Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss managed to pause Chuuya in his step every time. By now, he knew every twist and curve of the stone forming the exact moment a fainted Psyche was brought back by her enamored Eros.
He studied the devotion in their faces, their passion forever engraved, and something stirred in his chest.
Such ardor was only found in old stories and myths, he mused, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small sketchbook. He flipped open the grey, leathery cover and began sketching with a pencil stub, worn down to barely fit between his fingers. Although he could’ve drawn the sculpture from memory (as he could with most of his favorite pieces, to be honest), Chuuya let his eyes drift softly over the marble, as if it could fracture under a harsher gaze. With practiced ease, his hand glided across the page, pausing only now and then to push back a stray strand of hair.
As on most nights now, he was alone in the grandest, most famous wing of the museum. Budget cuts and a rising sickness quota had thinned the ranks of security, a slow-burning problem. That meant covering colleagues’ shifts, no more bank holidays except the three Louvre-closed days per year, and even more boredom than his life already offered. The only person he was still somewhat close to was Tachihara, working in the surveillance room. He was also the reason Chuuya could afford a little freedom on the job - and the one who’d gotten him the job in the first place. The only Japanese person Chuuya knew in Paris.
Sighing, Chuuya closed the sketchbook and continued down the corridor, accompanied only by statues bathed in a reddish hue and the whispers of their long-dead creators.
“They moved the target up; you’ll have to be fast.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“Ugh, keep your bed stories to yourself, Dazai!” a third voice cut in through the intercom.
“Your mother didn’t complain last time, Albatross,” Dazai retorted.
“Why do you always have to bring my mother into this?”
“Because she’s—”
“Can you two please keep the intercom free of your nonsense, or I swear I’ll mute you both remotely!”
“Fine, fine, calm down, Kunikida-kun,” Dazai muttered into his earpiece, eyeing himself in the bathroom mirror. In a parody of someone making themselves presentable, he did the opposite: Tousling his dark hair from organized chaos into tousled disarray and loosening the cords of his Haori. He put on his best drunk impression, careful not to overdo it. A little champagne dabbed onto his neck and wrist bandages completed the picture, though the wet cloth against his skin made him cringe.
“Ready,” he said to no one in particular, and shoved open the bathroom door with theatrical momentum.
“Oh, pardon me, I was just looking for the auction!” he said to a startled butler, nearly knocking him out with the door.
“It’s right down the hallway to your left,” the older man replied stiffly, barely concealing his contempt for Dazai’s manners.
“Why, thank you!” Dazai bowed deeply, nearly spilling his champagne. He watched the staffer disappear down the corridor, then confidently turned the opposite way.
“It’s the third door on the right.”
“I know,” Dazai murmured, slipping a lockpick from his sleeve; only to find the sliding door unlocked. He spun smoothly, feigning rapt attention toward a nearby painting, just in case someone stepped into the hall.
“Isn't there supposed to be a security post? I told you we needed visuals inside. Damn it!”
“Shall we send in Naomi?”
“No,” Dazai cut off Kunikida and Tanizaki’s debate.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Dazai, you don’t even know what you’re walking into…”
He pulled out the earpiece and tucked it into a hidden sleeve pocket. Then, without hesitation, he opened the door like he owned the place.
And froze.
Leaning against a display of what looked like a 5 to 6-million-yen Persian rug, the missing security guard was passionately making out with none other than the hostess of the private gallery and auction house.
The guard jumped back from the mortified hostess at once, his face rivalling the red of her silken dress.
“My, my. What have we here?”
While the hostess quickly adjusted her hair and lipstick, the guard stepped forward, trying for authority.
“I’m sorry, sir, this area is off-limits to guests.”
“I was just on my way to the bathroom,” Dazai said, glancing meaningfully over the guard’s shoulder at the woman, “when one of your waiters managed to spill half his tray on me.”
Still smoothing stray hairs from her updo, Kagami Ayako approached.
“I am so terribly sorry for this display, this is truly a failure of hospitality…”
“Arato Saitō.”
“Saitō-sama,” she echoed, bowing. “Please rest assured, this does not reflect the soul of our establishment.”
“Please, there is no need to apologize.”
Dazai gave her his most disarming smile and extended a hand.
She hesitated, then placed her slim fingers in his. Her blush deepened as he brushed his lips across her knuckles.
“We’re all only human,” he said smoothly. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”
His lashes dipped, holding her gaze and hand. He didn’t miss the guard shifting nervously nearby.
“Well… thank you for your understanding, Saitō-sama.” She withdrew her hand and glanced at her watch, still flustered. “The auction’s about to begin. Is there anything I can do to make this up to you?”
Dazai tilted his head slightly.
“You know, it is fascinating to see all these treasures up close. Being surrounded by such immeasurable value… in such privacy… is truly an experience you can’t buy.”
His eyes locked with Ayako’s on the word privacy. She wavered, unsure, glancing at the guard.
“…This is highly untraditional, and it’s my understanding that you won’t be telling anyone about it, but… you can have ten minutes. With Haruto-san here accompanying you, of course.”
Dazai’s eyes gleamed.
Ten minutes… he could rob the Louvre in ten minutes.
And a new idea was already forming.
With a charming smile and a few parting words, he watched Ayako disappear through the back door, balancing a Ming vase.
Now alone with the merchandise and a single guard, Dazai wandered slowly. He scanned oil paintings, calligraphy scrolls, jewelry, putting on a show of being fascinated . After so many years in the game, it was like looking at a Fast Food menu. Only that this here was overpriced junk for people who’d never look at it again.
Eventually, he stopped before a particularly hideous painting.
“Aren’t those colours immaculate?”
Haruto startled and stepped beside him, squinting.
“The blue birds,” Dazai said, sleeve close to his mouth. “See?”
“…You mean the peacocks?”
“Yes, of course. Majestic, aren’t they?”
“Very… elegant,” Haruto agreed, confused but trying to play along.
Dazai hummed and drifted casually to the next display.
There you are.
Even he couldn’t deny the beauty of the Inrō.
It sat on a red velvet cushion. A lacquered case once worn at the sash of a kimono in place of pockets. Delicate compartments, stacked like puzzle boxes, held together by silk cord and a carved ivory bead. Under soft light, the gold Maki-e shimmered with cranes and reeds painted onto something scarcely larger than a man’s palm.
Right then, a third person stumbled into the room.
Both men turned at the same time to see a young woman in a blue sheath dress, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She clutched the doorframe, visibly unsteady.
“Oops,” she giggled. “Am I interrupting something?”
“I’m sorry, miss, this room is private,” Haruto said, stepping forward.
Apparently the waiters tonight weren’t just spilling drinks, they also couldn't tell which guest had had one too many. Haruto sighed and made a mental note to recommend a different catering firm.
Before he could finish the thought, the woman lost her balance and toppled into his arms. He caught her and awkwardly tried to steady her without getting too handsy. Not that she made it easy.
“Ohh, aren’t you a strong one?” she cooed, hands on his face. “Not many real men like you around these days…”
Did she just throw Dazai a look?
“Sorry - hic - could you escort me outside for a quick smoke? Always helps me sober up a little.”
“I… miss, I really can’t leave this room…”
“Don’t worry, Haruto-san,” Dazai interrupted, smooth as ever. “I’ll watch the treasure chamber. Five minutes. It’ll be our little secret.”
Dazai practically saw the gears behind Harukos eyes turning. The woman pouted just enough to make the decision for him. Gently, he took her by the arm and guided her towards the door.
“If anything out of the ordinary happens, please call me.”
“Of course,” Dazai said with a warm smile. “Not a soul will enter. Promise.”
The moment the door clicked shut, Dazai’s expression dropped. The softness in his features vanished, replaced by surgical precision.
Bluebird.
The code for Naomi.
Dazai my have removed the earpiece, but he’d never turned it off.
His fingers moved so fast that even someone standing beside him would’ve struggled to follow.
A minute and seven seconds later, the sliding door of a catering van, identical to those stationed at the staff entrance, slid open.
Dazai climbed in and collapsed beside Naomi, who had the guard’s jacket slung over her blue dress.
“That was fast.”
“Nah. That was nothing,” Dazai said to Kunikida.
Albatross hit the gas, and the van rolled into the night.
Dazai let the Inrō swing from its silk cord in his fingers. He raised his half-full champagne glass, still somehow in his other hand.
“Our next target will be…”